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110. NAPOLI. Panorama preso dalla Tomba di Virg 
 
THE LAST DAYS 
 
 OF 
 
 BY 
 
 EDWARD BULWER, LORD LYTTON. 
 
 SECOND COPYRIGHT EDITION. 
 
 LEIPZIG 
 
 BERNHARD TAUCHNITZ 
 1879. 
 
“Such is Vesuvius! and these things take place in it every year. 
 But all eruptions which have happened since would be trifling, even 
 if all summed into one, compared to what occurred at the period 
 we refer to.. 
 
 “Day was turned into night, and light into darkness; an inex¬ 
 pressible quantity of dust and ashes was poured out, deluging 
 land, sea, and air, and burying two entire cities, Herculaneum and 
 Pompeii, while the people were sitting in the theatre!” 
 
 Dion Cassius, lib. lxvi. 
 
PREFACE TO THE EDITION OF 1834. 
 
 On visiting those disinterred remains of an ancient City, 
 which, more perhaps than either the delicious breeze or the 
 cloudless sun, the violet valleys and orange-groves of the 
 South, attract the traveller to the neighbourhood of Naples; 
 on viewing, still fresh and vivid, the houses, the streets, the 
 temples, the theatres of a place existing in the haughtiest age 
 of the Roman empire—it was not unnatural, perhaps, that a 
 writer who had before laboured, however unworthily, in the 
 art to revive and to create, should feel a keen desire to people 
 once more those deserted streets, to repair those graceful 
 ruins, to reanimate the bones which were yet spared to his 
 survey; to traverse the gulf of eighteen centuries, and to wake 
 to a second existence—the City of the Dead! 
 
 And the reader will easily imagine how sensibly this desire 
 grew upon one whose task was undertaken in the immediate 
 neighbourhood of Pompeii—the sea that once bore her com¬ 
 merce, and received her fugitives, at his feet—and the fatal 
 mountain of Vesuvius, still breathing forth smoke and fire, 
 constantly before his eyes! * 
 
 I was aware from the first, however, of the great difficulties 
 with which I had to contend. To paint the manners, and ex¬ 
 hibit the life, of the Middle Ages, required the hand of a 
 master genius; yet, perhaps, that task was slight and easy in 
 comparison with the attempt to portray a far earlier and more 
 unfamiliar period. With the men and customs of the feudal 
 time we have a natural sympathy and bond of alliance; those 
 men were our own ancestors—from those customs we received 
 our own—the creed of our chivalric fathers is still ours— their 
 
 Nearly the whole of this work was written at Naples last winter (1832-3). 
 
VI 
 
 PREFACE TO THE EDITION OF 1834. 
 
 tombs yet consecrate our churches—the ruins of their castles 
 yet frown over our valleys. We trace in their struggles for 
 liberty and for justice our present institutions; and in the 
 elements of their social state we behold the origin of our own. 
 
 But with the classical age we have no household and 
 familiar associations. The creed of that departed religion, 
 the customs of that past civilisation, present little that is 
 sacred or attractive to our northern imaginations; they are 
 rendered yet more trite to us by the scholastic pedantries 
 which first acquainted us with their nature, and are linked 
 with the recollection of studies which were imposed as a 
 labour, and not cultivated as a delight. 
 
 Yet the enterprise, though arduous, seemed to me worth 
 attempting; and in the time and the scene I have chosen, 
 much may be found to arouse the curiosity of the reader, and 
 enlist his interest in the descriptions of the author. It was the 
 first century of our religion; it was the most civilised period 
 of Rome; the conduct of the story lies amidst places whose 
 relics we yet trace; the catastrophe is among the most 
 awful which the tragedies of Ancient History present to our 
 survey. 
 
 From the ample materials before me, my endeavour has 
 been to select those which would be most attractive to a 
 modern reader;—the customs and superstitions least un¬ 
 familiar to him—the shadows that, when reanimated, would 
 present to him such images as, while they represented the 
 past, might be least uninteresting to the speculations of the 
 present. It did, indeed, require a greater self-control than 
 the reader may at first imagine, to reject much that was most 
 inviting in itself; but which, while it might have added attrac¬ 
 tion to parts of the work, would have been injurious to the 
 symmetry of the whole. Thus, for instance, the date of my 
 story is that of the short reign of Titus, when Rome was at its 
 proudest and most gigantic eminence of luxury and power. It 
 was, therefore, a most inviting temptation to the Author to 
 conduct the characters of his tale, during the progress of its 
 incidents, from Pompeii to Rome. What could afford such 
 materials for description, or such field for the vanity of dis- 
 
VII 
 
 PREFACE TO THE EDITION OF 1834. 
 
 play, as that gorgeous city of the world, whose grandeur 
 could lend so bright an inspiration to fancy—so favourable 
 and so solemn a dignity to research? But, in choosing for my 
 subject—my catastrophe, the Destruction of Pompeii, it 
 required but little insight into the higher principles of art 
 to perceive that to Pompeii the story should be rigidly con¬ 
 fined. 
 
 Placed in contrast with the mighty pomp of Rome, the 
 luxuries and gaud of the vivid Campanian city would have 
 sunk into insignificance. Her awful fate would have seemed 
 but a petty and isolated wreck in the vast seas of the imperial 
 sway; and the auxiliary I should have summoned to the in¬ 
 terest of my story, would only have destroyed and over¬ 
 powered the cause it was invoked to support. I was therefore 
 compelled to relinquish an episodical excursion so alluring in 
 itself, and, confining my story strictly to Pompeii, to leave to 
 others the honour of delineating the hollow but majestic 
 civilisation of Rome. 
 
 The city, whose fate supplied me with so superb and 
 awful a catastrophe, supplied easily, from the first survey of 
 its remains, the characters most suited to the subject and the 
 scene: the half-Grecian colony of Hercules, mingling with the 
 manners of Italy so much of the costumes of Hellas, sug¬ 
 gested of itself the characters of Glaucus and lone. The 
 worship of Isis, its existent fane, with its false oracles unveiled 
 —the trade of Pompeii with Alexandria—the associations of 
 the Sarnus with the Nile,—called forth the Egyptian Arbaces, 
 the base Calenus, and the fervent Apaecides. The early 
 struggles of Christianity with the heathen superstition sug¬ 
 gested the creation of Olinthus: and the burnt fields of Cam¬ 
 pania, long celebrated for the spells of the sorceress, naturally 
 produced the Saga of Vesuvius. For the existence of the 
 Blind Girl, I am indebted to a casual conversation with a gen¬ 
 tleman, well known amongst the English at Naples for his 
 general knowledge of the many paths of life. Speaking of 
 the utter darkness which accompanied the first recorded 
 eruption of Vesuvius, and the additional obstacle it presented 
 to the escape of the inhabitants, he observed that the blind 
 
VIII 
 
 PREFACE TO THE EDITION OF 1834. 
 
 would be the most favoured in such a moment, and find the 
 easiest deliverance. In this remark originated the creation of 
 Nydia. 
 
 The characters, therefore, are the natural offspring of the 
 scene and time. The incidents of the tale are equally con¬ 
 sonant, perhaps, to the then existent society; for it is not only 
 the ordinary habits of life, the feasts and the forum, the 
 baths and the amphitheatre, the common-place routine of the 
 classic luxury, which we recall the past to behold;—equally 
 important, and more deeply interesting, are the passions, the 
 crimes, the misfortunes, and reverses that might have chanced 
 to the shades we thus summon to life! We understand any 
 epoch of the world but ill if we do not examine its romance. 
 There is as much truth in the poetry of life as in its prose. 
 
 As the greatest difficulty in treating of an unfamiliar and 
 distant period is to make the characters introduced “live 
 and move” before the eye of the reader, so such should 
 doubtless be the first object of a work of the present descrip¬ 
 tion; and all attempts at the display of learning should be 
 considered but as means subservient to this, the main requisite 
 of fiction. The first art of the Poet (the creator) is to breathe 
 the breath of life into his creatures—the next is to make their 
 words and actions appropriate to the era in which they are to 
 speak and act. This last art is, perhaps, the better effected 
 by not bringing the art itself constantly before the reader—by 
 not crowding the page with quotations, and the margin with 
 notes. The intuitive spirit which infuses antiquity into ancient 
 images, is, perhaps, the true learning which a work of this 
 nature requires; without it, pedantry is offensive—with it, 
 useless. No man who is thoroughly aware of what Prose Fic¬ 
 tion has now become—of its dignity, of its influence, of the 
 manner in which it has gradually absorbed all similar depart¬ 
 ments of literature, of its power in teaching as well as amusing 
 —can so far forget its connection with History, with Philo¬ 
 sophy, with Politics — its utter harmony with Poetry and 
 obedience to Truth—as to debase its nature to the level of 
 scholastic frivolities: he raises scholarship to the creative, and 
 does not bow the creative to the scholastic. 
 
IX 
 
 PREFACE TO THE EDITION OF 1834. 
 
 With respect to the language used by the characters in¬ 
 troduced, I have studied carefully to avoid what has always 
 seemed to me a fatal error in those who have attempted, in 
 modern times, to introduce the beings of a classical age.* 
 Authors have mostly given to them the stilted sentences, the 
 cold and dialectic solemnities of language which they find in 
 the more admired of the classical writers. It is an error as 
 absurd to make Romans in common life talk in the periods of 
 Cicero, as it would be in a novelist to endow his English 
 personages with the long-drawn sentences of Johnson or 
 Burke. The fault is the greater, because, while it pretends to 
 learning, it betrays in reality the ignorance of just criticism— 
 it fatigues, it wearies, it revolts—and we have not the satis¬ 
 faction, in yawning, to think that we yawn eruditely. To im- 
 
 * What the strong common sense of Sir Walter Scott has expressed so well 
 in his Preface to “Ivanhoe” (1st edition), appears to me at least as applicable to 
 a writer who draws from classical as to one who borrows from feudal antiquity. 
 Let me avail myself of the words I refer to, and humbly and reverently appro¬ 
 priate them for the moment:—“It is true that I neither can, nor do pretend, to 
 the observation [observance?] of complete accuracy even in matters of outward 
 costume, much less in the more important points of language and manners. But 
 the same motive which prevents my writing the dialogue of the piece in Anglo- 
 Saxon, or in Norman-French [in Latin or in Greek], and which prohibits my 
 sending forth this essay printed with the types of Caxton or Wynken de Worde 
 [written with a reed upon five rolls of parchment, fastened to a cylinder, and 
 adorned with a boss ], prevents my attempting to confine myself within the limits 
 of the period to which my story is laid. It is necessary, for exciting interest of 
 any kind, that the subject assumed should be, as it were, translated into the 
 manners as well as the language of the age we live in. 
 
 ******** 
 
 “In point of justice, therefore, to the multitudes who will, I trust, devour this 
 book with avidity [hem /], I have so far explained ancient manners in modern 
 language, and so far detailed the characters and sentiments of my persons, that 
 the modern reader will not find himself, I should hope, much trammelled by the 
 repulsive dryness of mere antiquity. In this, I respectfully contend, I have in no 
 respect exceeded the fair license due to the author of a fictitious composition. 
 ******** 
 
 “It is true,” proceeds my authority, “that this license is confined within 
 legitimate bounds; the author must introduce nothing inconsistent with the 
 manners of the age.”— Preface to “ Ivanhoe .” 
 
 I can add nothing to these judicious and discriminating remarks; they form 
 the canons of true criticism, by which all fiction that portrays the past should be 
 judged. 
 
X 
 
 PREFACE TO THE EDITION OF 1834, 
 
 part anything like fidelity to the dialogues of classic actors, 
 we must beware (to use a university phrase) how we “cram” 
 for the occasion! Nothing can give to a writer a more stiff 
 and uneasy gait than the sudden and hasty adoption of the 
 toga. We must bring to our task the familiarised knowledge 
 of many years; the allusions, the phraseology, the language 
 generally, must flow from a stream that has long been full; 
 the flowers must be transplanted from a living soil, and not 
 bought second-hand at the nearest market-place. This ad¬ 
 vantage—which is, in fact, only that of familiarity with our 
 subject—is one derived rather from accident than merit, and 
 depends upon the degree in which the classics have entered 
 into the education of our youth and the studies of our 
 maturity. Yet, even did a writer possess the utmost ad¬ 
 vantage of this nature which education and study can bestow, 
 it might be scarcely possible so entirely to transport himself to 
 an age so different from his own, but that he would incur 
 some inaccuracies, some errors of inadvertence or forgetful¬ 
 ness. And when, in works upon the manners of the Ancients 
 —works even of the gravest character, composed by the pro- 
 foundest scholars—some such imperfections will often be dis¬ 
 covered, even by a critic in comparison but superficially in¬ 
 formed, it would be far too presumptuous in me to hope that 
 I have been more fortunate than men infinitely more learned, 
 in a work in which learning is infinitely less required. It is 
 for this reason that I venture to believe that scholars them¬ 
 selves will be the most lenient of my judges. Enough if this 
 book, whatever its imperfections, should be found a portrait 
 —unskilful, perhaps, in colouring, faulty in drawing, but not 
 altogether unfaithful to the features and the costume of the 
 age which I have attempted to paint. May it be (what is far 
 more important) a just representation of the human passions 
 and the human heart, whose elements in all ages are the 
 same! 
 
PREFACE TO THE EDITION OF 1850. 
 
 This work has had the good fortune to be so general a 
 favourite with the Public, that the Author is spared the task 
 of obtruding any comments in its vindication from adverse 
 criticism. The profound scholarship of German criticism, 
 which has given so minute an attention to the domestic life 
 of the ancients, has sufficiently testified to the general fidelity 
 with which the manners, habits, and customs, of the in¬ 
 habitants of Pompeii have been described in these pages. 
 And writing the work almost on the spot, and amidst a 
 population that still preserve a strong family likeness to their 
 classic forefathers, I could scarcely fail to catch something of 
 those living colours which mere book-study alone would not 
 have sufficed to bestow; it is, I suspect, to this accidental 
 advantage that this work is principally indebted for a greater 
 popularity than has hitherto attended the attempts of scholars 
 to create an interest, by fictitious narrative, in the manners 
 and persons of a classic age. Perhaps, too, the writers I 
 allude to, and of whose labours I would speak with the 
 highest respect, did not sufficiently remember, that in works 
 of imagination, the description of manners, however important 
 as an accessary, must still be subordinate to the vital elements 
 of interest, viz., plot, character, and passion. And, in reviving 
 the ancient shadows, they have rather sought occasion to dis¬ 
 play erudition, than to show how the human heart beats the 
 same, whether under the Grecian tunic or the Roman toga. It 
 is this, indeed, which distinguishes the imitators of classic 
 learning from the classic literature itself. For, in classic 
 literature, there is no want of movement and passion—of all 
 
XII 
 
 PREFACE TO THE EDITION OF 1850. 
 
 the more animated elements of what we now call Romance, 
 Indeed, romance itself, as we take it from the Middle Ages, 
 owes much to Grecian fable. Many. of the adventures of 
 knight-errantry are borrowed either from the trials of Ulysses, 
 or the achievements of Theseus. And while Homer, yet un¬ 
 restored to his throne among the poets, was only known to 
 the literature of early chivalry, in a spurious or grotesque 
 form—the genius of Gothic fiction was constructing many a 
 tale for Northern wonder from the mutilated fragments of the 
 divine old tale-teller. 
 
 Amongst those losses of the past which we have most to 
 deplore are the old novels or romances for which Miletus was 
 famous. But, judging from all else of Greek literature that is 
 left to us, there can be little doubt that they were well fitted 
 to sustain the attention of lively and impatient audiences by 
 the same arts which are necessary to the modern tale-teller: 
 that they could not have failed in variety of incident and sur¬ 
 prises of ingenious fancy; in the contrasts of character; and, 
 least of all, in the delineations of the tender passion, which, 
 however, modified in its expression by differences of national 
 habits, forms the main subject of human interest, in all the 
 multiform varieties of fictitious narrative—from the Chinese to 
 the Arab—from the Arab to the Scandinavian—and which, at 
 this day, animates the tale of many an itinerant Boccaccio, 
 gathering his spell-bound listeners round him, on sunny even¬ 
 ings, by Sicilian seas. 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 BOOK I. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 The two Gentlemen of Pompeii. 
 
 “Ho, Diomed, well met! Do you sup with Glaucus to¬ 
 night?” said a young man of small stature, who wore his tunic 
 in those loose and effeminate folds which proved him to be a 
 gentleman and a coxcomb. 
 
 “Alas, no! dear Clodius; he has not invited me,” replied 
 Diomed, a man of portly frame and of middle age. “By Pol¬ 
 lux, a scurvy trick! for they say his suppers are the best in 
 Pompeii.” 
 
 “Pretty well—though there is never enough of wine for me. 
 It is not the old Greek blood that flows in his veins, for he pre¬ 
 tends that wine makes him dull the next morning.” 
 
 “There may be another reason for that thrift,” said Diomed, 
 raising his brows. “ With all his conceit and extravagance he 
 is not so rich, I fancy, as he affects to be, and perhaps loves to 
 save his amphorae better than his wit.” 
 
 “An additional reason for supping with him while the 
 sesterces last. Next year, Diomed, we must find another 
 Glaucus.” 
 
 “He is fond of the dice, too, I hear.” 
 
 “He is fond of every pleasure; and while he likes the plea¬ 
 sure of giving suppers, we are all fond of him,” 
 
 Pompeii, I 
 
2 
 
 TEE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 “Ha, ha, Clodius, that is well said! Have you ever seen 
 my wine-cellars, by-the-by?” 
 
 “I think not, my good Diomed.” 
 
 “Well, you must sup with me some evening; I have toler¬ 
 able muraenas* in my reservoir, and I will ask Pansa the aedile 
 to meet you” 
 
 “Oh, no state with me !—Persicos odi apparatus , I am 
 easily contented. Well, the day wanes; I am for the baths— 
 and you-?” 
 
 “To the quaestor—business of state—afterwards to the 
 temple of Isis. Vale!” 
 
 “An ostentatious, bustling, ill-bred fellow,” muttered Clo¬ 
 dius to himself, as he sauntered slowly away. “He thinks 
 with his feasts and his wine-cellars to make us forget that he 
 is the son of a freedman:—and so we will, when we do him the 
 honour of winning his money; these rich plebeians are a harvest 
 for us spendthrift nobles.” 
 
 Thus soliloquising, Clodius arrived in the Via Domitiana, 
 which was crowded with passengers and chariots, and ex¬ 
 hibited all that gay and animated exuberance of life and mo¬ 
 tion which we find at this day in the streets of Naples. 
 
 The bells of the cars as they rapidly glided by each other 
 jingled merrily on the ear, and Clodius with smiles or nods 
 claimed familiar acquaintance with whatever equipage was 
 most elegant or fantastic: in fact, no idler was better known 
 in Pompeii. 
 
 “What, Clodius! and how have you slept on your good for¬ 
 tune?” cried, in a pleasant and musical voice, a young man, in 
 a chariot of the most fastidious and graceful fashion. Upon its 
 surface of bronze were elaborately wrought, in the still ex¬ 
 quisite workmanship of Greece, reliefs of the Olympian games: 
 the two horses that drew the car were of the rarest breed of 
 Parthia; their slender limbs seemed to disdain the ground and 
 court the air, and yet at the slightest touch of the charioteer, 
 who stood behind the young owner of the equipage, they 
 paused motionless, as if suddenly transformed into stone—life- 
 
 * Murccncc; lampreys. 
 
3779. ROMA (Vaticano; La Biga. 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 3 
 
 less, but lifelike, as one of the breathing wonders of Praxiteles. 
 The owner himself was of that slender and beautiful symmetry 
 from which the sculptors of Athens drew their models; his 
 Grecian origin betrayed itself in his light but clustering locks, 
 and the perfect harmony of his features. He wore no toga, 
 which in the time of the emperors had indeed ceased to be the 
 general distinction of the Romans, and was especially ridiculed 
 by the pretenders to fashion; but his tunic glowed in the richest 
 hues of the Tyrian dye, and the fibulae, or buckles, by which it 
 was fastened, sparkled with emeralds: around, his neck was a 
 chain of gold, which in the middle of his breast twisted itself 
 into the form of a serpent's head, from the mouth of which 
 hung pendent a large signet ring of elaborate and most ex¬ 
 quisite workmanship; the sleeves of the tunic were loose, and 
 fringed at the hand with gold: and across the waist a girdle 
 wrought in arabesque designs, and of the same material as the 
 fringe, served in lieu of pockets for the receptacle of the hand¬ 
 kerchief and the purse, the stilus and the tablets. 
 
 “My dear Glaucus!" said Clodius, “I rejoice to see that 
 your losses have so little affected your mien. Why, you seem 
 as if you had been inspired by Apollo, and your face shines 
 with happiness like a glory; any one might take you for the 
 winner and me for the loser." 
 
 “And what is there in the loss or gain of those dull pieces 
 of metal that should change our spirit, my Clodius? By Venus, 
 while yet young, we can cover our full locks with chaplets— 
 while yet the cithara sounds on unsated ears—while yet the 
 smile of Lydia or of Chloe flashes over our veins in which the 
 blood runs so swiftly, so long shall we find delight in the sunny 
 air, and make bald Time itself but the treasurer of our joys. 
 You sup with me to-night, you know." 
 
 “Who ever forgets the invitation of Glaucus!" 
 
 “But which way go you now?" 
 
 “Why, I thought of visiting the baths: but it wants yet an 
 hour to the usual time.” 
 
 “Well, I will dismiss my chariot, and go with you. So, so, 
 my Phylias," stroking the horse nearest to him, which by a 
 
 i* 
 
4 
 
 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 low neigh and with backward ears playfully acknowledged the 
 courtesy: “a holiday for you to-day. Is he not handsome, 
 Clodius?” 
 
 “Worthy of Phcebus,” returned the noble parasite,—“or of 
 Glaucus.” 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 The blind Flower-girl, and the Beauty of Fashion.—The Athenian’s Confession.— 
 The Reader’s Introduction to Arbaces of Egypt. 
 
 Talking lightly on a thousand matters, the two young men 
 sauntered through the streets: they were now in that quarter 
 which was filled with the gayest shops, their open interiors all 
 and each radiant with the gaudy yet harmonious colours of 
 frescoes, inconceivably varied in fancy and design. The spark¬ 
 ling fountains, that at every vista threw upwards their grate¬ 
 ful spray in the summer air: the crowd of passengers, or rather 
 loiterers, mostly clad in robes of the Tyrian dye; the gay 
 groups collected round each more attractive shop; the slaves 
 passing to and fro with buckets of bronze, cast in the most 
 graceful shapes, and borne upon their heads; the country girls 
 stationed at frequent intervals with baskets of blushing fruit, 
 and flowers more alluring to the ancient Italians than to their 
 descendants (with whom, indeed, “latet anguis in herba /’ a dis¬ 
 ease seems lurking in every violet and rose),* the numerous 
 haunts which fulfilled with that idle people the office of cafes 
 and clubs at this day; the shops, where on shelves of marble 
 were ranged the vases of wine and oil, and before whose 
 thresholds, seats, protected from the sun by a purple awning, 
 invited the weary to rest and the indolent to lounge—made a 
 scene of such glowing and vivacious excitement, as might well 
 give the Athenian spirit of Glaucus an excuse for its suscepti¬ 
 bility to joy. 
 
 “Talk to me no more of Rome,” said he to Clodius. “Plea¬ 
 sure is too stately and ponderous in those mighty walls: even 
 
 * See note (a) at the end. 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 5 
 
 in the precincts of the court—even in the Golden House of 
 Nero, and the incipient glories of the palace of Titus, there is 
 a certain dulness of magnificence—the eye aches—the spirit is 
 wearied; besides, my Clodius, we are discontented when we 
 compare the enormous luxury and wealth of others with the 
 mediocrity of our own state. But here we surrender ourselves 
 easily to pleasure, and we have the brilliancy of luxury with¬ 
 out the lassitude of its pomp.” 
 
 “It was from that feeling that you chose your summer retreat 
 at Pompeii?” 
 
 “It was. I prefer it to Baiae: I grant the charms of the 
 latter, but I love not the pedants who resort there, and who 
 seem to weigh out their pleasures by the drachm.” 
 
 “Yet you are fond of the learned, too; and as for poetry, 
 why your house is literally eloquent with yEschylus and Homer, 
 the epic and the drama.” 
 
 “Yes, but those Romans who mimic my Athenian ancestors 
 do everything so heavily. Even in the chase they make their 
 slaves carry Plato with them; and whenever the boar is lost, 
 out they take their books and their papyrus, in order not to 
 lose their time too. When the dancing-girls swim before them 
 in all the blandishment of Persian manners, some drone of a 
 freedman, with a face of stone, reads them a section of Cicero 
 ‘De Officiis.’ Unskilful pharmacists! pleasure and study are 
 not elements to be thus mixed together—they must be enjoyed 
 separately: the Romans lose both by this pragmatical affecta¬ 
 tion of refinement, and prove that they have no souls for either. 
 Oh, my Clodius, how little your countrymen know of the true 
 versatility of a Pericles, of the true witcheries of an Aspasia!— 
 It was but the other day that I paid a visit to Pliny: he was 
 sitting in his summer-house writing, while an unfortunate slave 
 played on the tibia. His nephew (oh! whip me such philo¬ 
 sophical coxcombs!) was reading Thucydides’ description of 
 the plague, and nodding his conceited little head in time to 
 the music, while his lips were repeating all the loathsome 
 details of that terrible delineation. The puppy saw nothing 
 incongruous in learning at the same time a ditty of love and a 
 description of the plague.” 
 
6 
 
 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 “Why they are much the same thing,” said Clodius. 
 
 “So I told him, in excuse for his coxcombry;—but my youth 
 stared me rebukingly in the face, without taking the jest, and 
 answered, that it was only the insensate ear that the music 
 pleased, whereas the book (the description of the plague, mind 
 you!) elevated the heart. ‘Ah!* quoth the fat uncle, wheezing, 
 ‘my boy is quite an Athenian, always mixing the utile with 
 the dulce.’ O Minerva, how I laughed in my sleeve! While 
 I was there, they came to tell the boy-sophist that his favourite 
 freedman was just dead of a fever.—‘Inexorable death!’ cried 
 he; — ‘get me my Horace. How beautifully the sweet poet 
 consoles us for these misfortunes!’ Oh! can these men love, 
 my Clodius? Scarcely even with the senses. How rarely a 
 Roman has a heart! — He is but the mechanism of genius—he 
 wants its bones and flesh.” 
 
 Though Clodius was secretly a little sore at these remarks 
 on his countrymen, he affected to sympathise with his friend 
 partly because he was by nature a parasite, and partly because 
 it was the fashion among the dissolute young Romans to affect 
 a little contempt for the very birth which, in reality, made them 
 so arrogant; it was the mode to imitate the Greeks, and yet to 
 laugh at their own clumsy imitation. 
 
 Thus conversing, their steps were arrested by a crowd 
 gathered round an open space where three streets met; and, 
 just where the porticoes of a light and graceful temple threw 
 their shade, there stood a young girl, with a flower-basket on 
 ^^er right arm, and a small three-stringed instrument of music 
 in the left hand, to whose low and soft tones she was modulat¬ 
 ing a wild and half-barbaric air. At every pause in the music 
 she gracefully waved her flower-basket round, inviting the 
 loiterers to buy; and many a sesterce was showered into the 
 basket, either in compliment to the music or in compassion to 
 the songstress—for she was blind. 
 
 “It is my poor Thessalian,” said Glaucus, stopping; “I have 
 not seen her since my return to Pompeii. Hush! her voice is 
 sweet; let us listen.” 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 7 
 
 THE BLIND FLOWER-GIRL’S SONG. 
 
 I. 
 
 “ Buy my flowers—O buy—I pray. 
 
 The blind girl comes from afar; 
 
 If the earth be as fair as I hear them say. 
 
 These flowers her children are 1 
 Do they her beauty keep? 
 
 They are fresh from her lap, I know; 
 
 For I caught them fast asleep 
 In her arms an hour ago. 
 
 With the air which is her breath— 
 
 Her soft and delicate breath— 
 
 Over them murmuring low I 
 
 On their lips her sweet kiss lingers yet, 
 
 And their cheeks with her tender tears are wet» ' 1 
 For she weeps,—that gentle mother weeps,— 
 
 (As morn and night her watch she keeps. 
 
 With a yearning heart and a passionate care) 
 
 To see the young things grow so fair; 
 
 She weeps—for love she weeps; 
 
 And the dews are the tears she weeps 
 From the well of a mother's love I 
 
 II. 
 
 Ye have a world of light. 
 
 Where love in the loved rejoices; 
 
 But the blind girl’s home is the House of Night, 
 And its beings are empty voices. 
 
 As one in the realm below, 
 
 I stand by the streams of woe! 
 
 I hear the vain shadows glide, 
 
 I feel their soft breath at my side. 
 
 And I thirst the loved forms to see. 
 
 And I stretch my fond arms around. 
 
 And I catch but a shapeless sound. 
 
 For the living are ghosts to me. 
 
 Come buy—come buy ?— 
 
 Hark 1 how the sweet things sigh, 
 
 (For they have a voice like ours,) 
 
 * The breath of the blind girl closes 
 The leaves of the saddening roses— 
 
 We are tender, we sons of light. 
 
 We shrink from this child of night; 
 
 From the grasp of the blind girl free us; 
 
8 
 
 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 We yearn for the eyes that see us— 
 
 We are for night too gay. 
 
 In your eyes we behold the day— 
 
 O buy—O buy the flowers! ’ ” 
 
 “I must have yon bunch of violets, sweet Nydia,” said Ghu- 
 cus, pressing through the crowd, and dropping a handful of 
 small coins into the basket; “your voice is more charming tljan 
 ever.” 
 
 The blind girl started forward as she heard the Athenians 
 voice; then as suddenly paused, while the blood ruslied 
 violently over neck, cheek, and temples. 
 
 “So you are returned!” said she, in a low voice; and tten 
 repeated half to herself, “Glaucus is returned!” 
 
 “Yes, child, I have not been at Pompeii above a few days. 
 My garden wants your care as before; you will visit it, I trxst, 
 to-morrow. And mind, no garlands at my house shall be woren 
 by any hands but those of the pretty Nydia.” 
 
 Nydia smiled joyously, but did not answer; and Glaucus, 
 placing in his breast the violets he had selected, turned gaily 
 and carelessly from the crowd. 
 
 “So, she is a sort of client of yours, this child?” said 
 Clodius. 
 
 “Ay—does she not sing prettily? She interests me, the 
 poor slave!—Besides, she is from the land of the Gods’ Hll— 
 Olympus frowned upon her cradle—she is of Thessaly.” 
 
 “The witches’ country.” 
 
 “True: but for my part I find every woman a witch; aid at 
 Pompeii, by Venus! the very air seems to have taken alove- 
 philtre, so handsome does every face without a beard seem in 
 my eyes.” 
 
 “And lo! one of the handsomest.in Pompeii, old Didned’s 
 daughter, the rich Julia,” said Clodius, as a young lack, her 
 face covered by her veil, and attended by two female llaves, 
 approached them, in her way to the baths. 
 
 “Fair Julia, we salute thee!” said Clodius. 
 
 Julia partly raised her veil, so as with some coqiptry to 
 display a bold Roman profile, a full dark bright eye, and a 
 cheek over whose natural olive art shed a fairer and softer rose. 
 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 9 
 
 “And Glaucus, too, is returned!” said she, glancing mean¬ 
 ingly at the Athenian. “Has he forgotten,” she added, in a 
 half-whisper, “his friends of the last year?” 
 
 “Beautiful Julia! even Lethe itself, if it disappear in one 
 part of the earth, rises again in another. Jupiter does not 
 allow us ever to forget for more than a moment; but Venus, 
 more harsh still, vouchsafes not even a moment’s oblivion.” 
 
 “Glaucus is never at a loss for fair words.” 
 
 “Who is, when the object of them is so fair?” 
 
 “We shall see you both at my father’s villa soon,” said 
 Julia turning to Clodius. 
 
 “ We will mark the day in which we visit you with a white 
 stone,” answered the gamester. 
 
 Julia dropped her veil, but slowly, so that her last glance 
 rested on the Athenian with affected timidity and real bold¬ 
 ness ; the glance bespoke tenderness and reproach. 
 
 The friends passed on. 
 
 “Julia is certainly handsome,” said Glaucus. 
 
 “And last year you would have made that confession in a 
 warmer tone.” 
 
 “True; I was dazzled at the first sight, and mistook for a 
 gem that which was but an artful imitation.” 
 
 “Nay,” returned Clodius, “all women are the same at 
 heart. Happy he who weds a handsome face and a large 
 dower. What more can he desire?” 
 
 Glaucus sighed. 
 
 They were now in a street less crowded than the rest, at 
 the end of which they beheld that broad and most lovely sea, 
 which upon those delicious coasts seems to have renounced 
 its prerogative of terror,—so soft are the crisping winds that 
 hover around its bosom, so glowing and so various are the 
 hues which it takes from the rosy clouds, so fragrant are the 
 perfumes which the breezes from the land scatter over its 
 depths. From such a sea might you well believe that Aphro¬ 
 dite rose to take the empire of the earth. 
 
 “It is still early for the bath,” said the Greek, who was the 
 creature of every poetical impulse; “let us wander from the 
 
IO 
 
 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 crowded city, and look upon the sea while the noon yet laughs 
 along its billows.” 
 
 “With all my heart,” said Clodius; “and the bay, too, is 
 always the most animated part of the city.” 
 
 Pompeii was the miniature of the civilisation of that age. 
 Within the narrow compass of its walls was contained, as it 
 were, a specimen of every gift which luxury offered to power. 
 In its minute but glittering shops, its tiny palaces, its baths, its 
 forum, its theatre, its circus—in the energy yet corruption, in 
 the refinement yet the vice, of its people, you beheld a model 
 of the whole empire. It was a toy, a plaything, a showbox, in 
 which the gods seemed pleased to keep the representation of 
 the great monarchy of earth, and which they afterwards hid 
 from time, to give to the wonder of posterity;—the moral of 
 the maxim, that under the sun there is nothing new. 
 
 Crowded in the glassy bay were the vessels of commerce 
 and the gilded galleys for the pleasures of the rich citizens. 
 The boats of the fishermen glided rapidly to and fro; and afar 
 off you saw the tall masts of the fleet under the command of 
 Pliny. Upon the shore sat a Sicilian, who, with vehement 
 gestures and flexile features, was narrating to a group of fisher¬ 
 men and peasants a strange tale of shipwrecked mariners and 
 friendly dolphins:—just as at this day, in the modern neigh¬ 
 bourhood, you may hear upon the Mole of Naples. 
 
 Drawing his comrade from the crowd, the Greek bent his 
 steps towards a solitary part of the beach, and the two friends, 
 seated on a small crag which rose amidst the smooth pebbles, 
 inhaled the voluptuous and cooling breeze, which, dancing 
 over the waters, kept music with its invisible feet. There was, 
 perhaps, something in the scene that invited them to silence 
 and reverie. Clodius, shading his eyes from the burning sky, 
 was calculating the gains of the last week; and the Greek, 
 leaning upon his hand, and shrinking not from that sun,—his 
 nation’s tutelary deity,—with whose fluent light of poesy, and 
 joy, and love, his own veins were filled, gazed upon the broad 
 expanse, and envied, perhaps, every wind that bent its pinions 
 towards the shores of Greece. 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 11 
 
 “Tell me, Clodius,” said the Greek at last, “hast thou ever 
 been in love?” 
 
 “Yes, very often.” 
 
 “He who has loved often,” answered Glaucus, “has loved 
 never. There is but one Eros, though there are many counter¬ 
 feits of him.” 
 
 “The counterfeits are not bad little gods, upon the whole,” 
 answered Clodius. 
 
 “I agree with you,” returned the Greek. “I adore even the 
 shadow of Love; but I adore himself yet more.” 
 
 “Art thou, then, soberly and honestly in love? Hast thou 
 that feeling which the poets describe—a feeling that makes us 
 neglect our suppers, forswear the theatre, and write elegies? 
 I should never have thought it. You dissemble well.” 
 
 “I am not far gone enough for that,” returned Glaucus, 
 smiling; “or rather I say with Tibullus,— 
 
 * He whom love rules, where’er his path may be. 
 
 Walks safe and sacred.’ 
 
 In fact, I am not in love; but I could be if there were but occa¬ 
 sion to see the object. Eros would light his torch, but the 
 priests have given him no oil.” 
 
 “Shall I guess the object?—Is it not Diomed’s daughter? 
 She adores you, and does not affect to conceal it; and, by Her¬ 
 cules, I say again and again, she is both handsome and rich. 
 She will bind the door-posts of her husband with golden fillets.” 
 
 “No, I do not desire to sell myself. Diomed’s daughter is 
 handsome, I grant: and at one time, had she not been the 
 
 grandchild of a freed man, I might have-Yet no—she carries 
 
 all her beauty in her face; her manners are not maidenlike, and 
 her mind knows no culture save that of pleasure.” 
 
 “You are ungrateful. Tell me, then, who is the fortunate 
 virgin?” 
 
 “You shall hear, my Clodius. Several months ago I was 
 sojourning at Neapolis,* a city utterly to my own heart, for it 
 still retains the manners and stamp of its Grecian origin,—and 
 it yet merits the name of Parthenope, from its delicious air and 
 its beautiful shores. One day I entered the temple of Minerva, 
 
 * Naples. 
 
12 
 
 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 to offer up my prayers, not for myself more than for the city 
 on which Pallas smiles no longer. The temple was empty and 
 deserted. The recollections of Athens crowded fast and melt- 
 ingly upon me: imagining myself still alone ( in the temple, and 
 absorbed in the earnestness of my devotion, my prayer gushed 
 from my heart to my lips, and I wept as I prayed. I was 
 startled in the midst of my devotions, however, by a deep sigh; 
 I turned suddenly round, and just behind me was a female. 
 She had raised her veil also in prayer: and when our eyes met, 
 methought a celestial ray shot from those dark and smiling 
 orbs at once into my soul. Never, my Clodius, have I seen 
 mortal face more exquisitely moulded: a certain melancholy 
 softened and yet elevated its expression: that unutterable 
 something which springs from the soul, and which our sculptors 
 have imparted to the aspect of Psyche, gave her beauty I know 
 not what of divine and noble: tears were rolling down her 
 eyes. I guessed at once that she was also of Athenian lineage; 
 and that in my prayer for Athens her heart had responded to 
 mine. I spoke to her, though with a faltering voice— 4 Art thou 
 not, too, Athenian?’ said I, 4 0 beautiful virgin !’ At the sound 
 of my voice she blushed, and half drew her veil across her face. 
 — 4 My forefathers’ ashes,’ said she, ‘repose by the waters of 
 Ilissus: my birth is of Neapolis; but my heart, as my lineage, 
 is Athenian.’— 4 Let us, then,’ said I, ‘make our offerings to¬ 
 gether:’ and, as the priest now appeared, we stood side by 
 side, while we followed the priest in his ceremonial prayer; 
 together we touched the knees of the goddess—together we 
 laid our olive garlands on the altar. I felt a strange emotion 
 of almost sacred tenderness at this companionship. We, 
 strangers from a far and fallen land, stood together and alone 
 in that temple of our country’s deity: was it not natural that 
 my heart should yearn to my countrywoman, for so I might 
 surely call her? I felt as if I had known her for years; and that 
 simple rite seemed, as by a miracle, to operate on the sym¬ 
 pathies and ties of time. Silently we left the temple, and I was 
 about to ask her where she dwelt, and if I might be permitted 
 to visit her, when a youth, in whose features there was some 
 kindred resemblance to her own, and who stood upon the steps 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 13 
 
 of the fane, took her by the hand. She turned round and bade 
 me farewell. The crowd separated us: I saw her no more. On 
 reaching my home I found letters, which obliged me to set out 
 for Athens, for my relations threatened me with litigation con¬ 
 cerning my inheritance. When that suit was happily over, I re¬ 
 paired once more to Neapolis; I instituted inquiries throughout 
 the whole city, I could discover no clue of my lost country¬ 
 woman, and, hoping to lose in gaiety all remembrance of that 
 beautiful apparition, I hastened to plunge myself amidst the 
 luxuries of Pompeii. This is all my history. I do not love; 
 but I remember and regret.” 
 
 As Clodius was about to reply, a slow and stately step ap¬ 
 proached them, and at the sound it made amongst the pebbles, 
 each turned, and each recognised the new-comer. 
 
 It was a man who had scarcely reached his fortieth year, of 
 tall stature, and of a thin but nervous and sinewy frame. His 
 skin, dark and bronzed, betrayed his Eastern origin; and his 
 features had something Greek in their outline (especially 
 in the chin, the lip, and the brow), save that the nose 
 was somewhat raised and aquiline; and the bones, hard and 
 visible, forbade that fleshy and waving contour which on the 
 Grecian physiognomy preserved even in manhood the round 
 and beautiful curves of youth. His eyes, large and black as 
 the deepest night, shone with no varying and uncertain lustre. 
 A deep, thoughtful, and half melancholy calm, seemed unalter¬ 
 ably fixed in their majestic and commanding gaze. His step 
 and mien were peculiarly sedate and lofty, and something 
 foreign in the fashion and the sober hues of his sweeping gar¬ 
 ments added to the impressive effect of his quiet countenance 
 and stately form. Each of the young men, in saluting the new¬ 
 comer, made mechanically, and with care to conceal it from 
 him, a slight gesture or sign with their fingers; for Arbaces, 
 the Egyptian, was supposed to possess the fatal gift of the 
 evil eye. 
 
 “The scene must, indeed, be beautiful,” said Arbaces, with 
 a cold though courteous smile, “which draws the gay Clodius, 
 and Glaucus the all-admired, from the crowded thoroughfares 
 of the city.” 
 
14 
 
 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 “ Is Nature ordinarily so unattractive?” asked the Greek. 
 
 “To the dissipated—yes.” 
 
 “An austere reply, but scarcely a wise one. Pleasure de¬ 
 lights in contrasts; it is from dissipation that we learn to enjoy 
 solitude, and from solitude dissipation.” 
 
 “So think the young philosophers of the Garden,” replied 
 the Egyptian; “they mistake lassitude for meditation, and 
 imagine that, because they are sated with others, they know 
 the delight of loneliness. But not in such jaded bosoms can 
 Nature awaken that enthusiasm which alone draws from her 
 chaste reserve all her unspeakable beauty: she demands from 
 you, not the exhaustion of passion, but all that fervour, from 
 which you only seek, in adoring her, a release. When, young 
 Athenian, the moon revealed herself in visions of light to En- 
 dymion, it was after a day passed, not amongst the feverish 
 haunts of men, but on the still mountains and in the solitary 
 valleys of the hunter.” 
 
 “Beautiful simile!” cried Glaucus; “most unjust applica¬ 
 tion! Exhaustion! that word is for age, not youth. By me, at 
 least, one moment of satiety has never been known! ” 
 
 Again the Egyptian smiled, but his smile was cold and 
 blighting, and even the unimaginative Clodius froze beneath its 
 light. He did not, however, reply to the passionate exclama¬ 
 tion of Glaucus; but, after a pause, he said, in a soft and me¬ 
 lancholy voice,— 
 
 “After all, you do right to enjoy the hour while it smiles for 
 you; the rose soon withers, the perfume soon exhales. And we, 
 O Glaucus! strangers in the land and far from our fathers* 
 ashes, what is there left for us but pleasure or regret!—for you 
 the first, perhaps for me the last.** 
 
 The bright eyes of the Greek were suddenly suffused with 
 tears. “Ah, speak not, Arbaces,” he cried—“speak not of our 
 ancestors. Let us forget that there were ever other liberties 
 than those of Rome! And Glory!—oh, vainly would we call her 
 ghost from the fields of Marathon and Thermopylae!” 
 
 “Thy heart rebukes thee while thou speakest,” said the 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 15 
 
 Egyptian; “and in thy gaieties this night, thou wilt be more 
 mindful of Leoena* than of Lais. Vale l” 
 
 Thus saying, he gathered his robe around him, and slowly 
 swept away. 
 
 “I breathe more freely,” said Clodius. “Imitating the 
 Egyptians, we sometimes introduce a skeleton at our feasts. 
 In truth, the presence of such an Egyptian as yon gliding 
 shadow were spectre enough to sour the richest grape of the 
 Falemian.” 
 
 “Strange man!” said Glaucus, musingly: “yet dead though 
 he seem to pleasure, and cold to the objects of the world, 
 scandal belies him, or his house and his heart could tell a dif¬ 
 ferent tale.” 
 
 “Ah! there are whispers of other orgies than those of Osiris 
 in his gloomy mansion. He is rich, too, they say. Can we not 
 get him amongst us, and teach him the charms of dice? Plea¬ 
 sure of pleasures! hot fever of hope and fear! inexpressible 
 unjaded passion! how fiercely beautiful thou art, O Gaming!” 
 
 “Inspired—inspired!” cried Glaucus, laughing; “the oracle 
 speaks poetry in Clodius. What miracle next!” 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 Parentage of Glaucus.—Description of the Houses of Pompeii.—A classic Revel. 
 
 Heaven had given to Glaucus every blessing but one; it had 
 given him beauty, health, fortune, genius, illustrious descent, a 
 heart of fire, a mind of poetry; but it had denied him the herit¬ 
 age of freedom. He was born in Athens, the subject of Rome. 
 Succeeding early to an ample inheritance, he had indulged that 
 inclination for travel so natural to the young, and had drunk 
 deep of the intoxicating draught of pleasure amidst the gor¬ 
 geous luxuries of the imperial court. 
 
 He was an Alcibiades without ambition. He was what a 
 
 * Leoena, the heroic mistress of Aristogiton, when put to the torture, bit 
 out her tongue, that the pain might not induce her to betray the conspiracy 
 against the sons of Pisistratus. The statue of a lioness, erected in her honour, 
 was to be seen at Athens in the time of Pausanias. 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 16 
 
 man of imagination, youth, fortune, and talents, readily be¬ 
 comes when you deprive him of the inspiration of glory. His 
 house at Rome was the theme of the debauchees, but also of 
 the lovers of art; and the sculptors of Greece delighted to task 
 their skill in adorning the porticoes and exedrce of an Athenian. 
 His retreat in Pompeii—alas! the colours are faded now, the 
 walls stripped of their paintings!—-its main beauty, its elaborate 
 finish of grace and ornament, is gone; yet when first given 
 once more to the day, what eulogies, what wonder, did its 
 minute and glowing decorations create—its paintings — its 
 mosaics! Passionately enamoured of poetry and the drama, 
 which recalled to Glaucus the wit and the heroism of his race, 
 that fairy mansion was adorned with representations of JEschy- 
 lus and Homer. And antiquaries, who resolve taste to a trade, 
 have turned the patron to the professor, and still (though the 
 error is now acknowledged) they style in custom, as they first 
 named in mistake, the disburied house of the Athenian Glau¬ 
 cus, “THE HOUSE OF THE DRAMATIC POET.” 
 
 Previous to our description of this house, it may be as well 
 to convey to the reader a general notion of the houses of 
 Pompeii, which he will find to resemble strongly the plans of 
 Vitruvius; but with all those differences in detail, of caprice 
 and taste, which being natural to mankind, have always puzzled 
 antiquaries. We shall endeavour to make this description as 
 clear and unpedantic as possible. 
 
 You enter then, usually, by a small entrance-passage (called 
 vestibulum), into a hall, sometimes with (but more frequently 
 without) the ornament of columns; around three sides of this 
 hall are doors communicating with several bedchambers 
 (among which is the porter’s), the best of these being usually 
 appropriated to country visitors. At the extremity of the hall, 
 on either side to the right and left, if the house is large, there 
 are two small recesses, rather than chambers, generally de¬ 
 voted to the ladies of the mansion; and in the centre of the 
 tesselated pavement of the hall is invariably a square shallow 
 reservoir for rain water (classically termed impluvium ), which 
 was admitted by an aperture in the roof above; the said aper¬ 
 ture being covered at will by an awning. Near this impluvium, 
 
.,\K% *V*J*?, 
 
 del Poe 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. I j 
 
 which had a peculiar sanctity in the eyes of the ancients, were 
 sometimes (but at Pompeii more rarely than at Rome) placed 
 images of the household godsthe hospitable hearth, often 
 mentioned by the Roman poets, and consecrated to the Lares, 
 was at Pompeii almost invariably formed by a movable brazier; 
 while in some corner, often the most ostentatious place, was 
 deposited a huge wooden chest, ornamented and strengthened 
 by bands of bronze or iron, and secured by strong hooks upon 
 a stone pedestal so firmly as to defy the attempts of any robber 
 to detach it from its position. It is supposed that this chest was 
 the money-box, or coffer, of the master of the house; though, 
 as no money has been found in any of the chests discovered at 
 Pompeii, it is probable that it was sometimes rather designed 
 for ornament than use. 
 
 In this hall (or atrium, to speak classically) the clients and 
 visitors of inferior rank were usually received. In the houses 
 of the more “respectable,” an atriensis, or slave peculiarly 
 devoted to the service of the hall, was invariably retained, and 
 his rank among his fellow-slaves was high and important. The 
 reservoir in the centre must have been rather a dangerous 
 ornament, but the centre of the hall was like the grass-plot of 
 a college, and interdicted to the passers to and fro, who found 
 ample space in the margin. Right opposite the entrance, at 
 the other end of the hall, was an apartment ( tablinum), in 
 which the pavement was usually adorned with rich mosaics, 
 and the walls covered with elaborate paintings. Here were 
 usually kept the records of the family, or those of any public 
 office that had been filled by .the owner: on one side of this 
 saloon, if we may so call it, was often a dining-room, or tri¬ 
 clinium; on the other side, perhaps, what we should now 
 term a cabinet of gems, containing whatever curiosities were 
 deemed most rare and costly; and invariably a small passage 
 for the slaves to cross to the further parts of the house, with¬ 
 out passing the apartments thus mentioned. These rooms all 
 opened on a square or oblong colonnade, technically termed 
 peristyle. If the house was small, its boundary ceased with 
 this colonnade; and in that case its centre, however diminu¬ 
 tive, was ordinarily appropriated to the purpose of a garden, 
 
 Pompeii . 2 
 
i8 
 
 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 and adorned with vases of flowers, placed upon pedestals: 
 while, under the colonnade, to the right and left, were doors 
 admitting to bed-rooms,*, to a second triclinium, or eating- 
 room (for the ancients generally appropriated two rooms at 
 least to that purpose, one for summer, and one for winter—or, 
 perhaps, one for ordinary, the other for festive, occasions); 
 and if the owner affected letters, a cabinet, dignified by the 
 name of library,—for a very small room was sufficient to con¬ 
 tain the few rolls of papyrus which the ancients deemed a 
 notable collection of books. 
 
 At the end of the peristyle was generally the kitchen. Sup¬ 
 posing the house was large, it did not end with the peristyle, 
 and the centre thereof was not in that case a garden, but might 
 be, perhaps, adorned with a fountain, or basin for fish; and at 
 its end, exactly opposite to the tablinum, was generally another 
 eating-room, on either side of which were bed-rooms, and, per¬ 
 haps, a picture-saloon, or pinacotheca. ** These apartments 
 communicated again with a square or oblong space, usually 
 adorned on three sides with a colonnade like the peristyle, 
 and very much resembling the peristyle, only usually longer. 
 This was the proper viridarium , or garden, being commonly 
 adorned with a fountain, or statues, and a profusion of gay 
 flowers: at its extreme end was the gardener’s house; on either 
 side, beneath the colonnade, were sometimes, if the size of the 
 family required it, additional rooms. 
 
 At Pompeii, a second or third story was rarely of import¬ 
 ance, being built only above a small part of the house, and 
 containing rooms for the slaves; differing in this respect from 
 the more magnificent edifices of Rome, which generally con¬ 
 tained the principal eating-room (or ccenaculum ) on the second 
 floor. The apartments themselves were ordinarily of small 
 size; for in those delightful climes they received any extra¬ 
 ordinary number of visitors in the peristyle (or portico), the 
 hall, or the garden; and even their banquet-rooms, however 
 
 * The Romans had bed-rooms appropriated not only to the sleep of night, 
 but also to the day siesta (cubicula diuma). 
 
 ** In the stately palaces pf Romp, this picture-room generally communicated 
 with the atrium. 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 19 
 
 elaborately adorned and carefully selected in point of aspect, 
 were of diminutive proportions; for the intellectual ancients, 
 being fond of society, not of crowds, rarely feasted more than 
 nine at a time, so that large dinner-rooms were not so neces- 
 • sary with them as with us.* But the suite of rooms seen at 
 once from the entrance, must have had a very imposing effect: 
 you beheld at once the hall richly paved and painted—the 
 tablinum—the graceful peristyle, and (if the house extended 
 farther) the opposite banquet-room and the garden, which 
 closed the view with some gushing fount or marble statue. 
 
 The reader will now have a tolerable notion of the Pom¬ 
 peian houses, which resembled in some respects the Grecian, 
 but mostly the Roman fashion of domestic architecture. In 
 almost every house there is some difference in detail from the 
 rest, but the principal outline is the same in all. In all you 
 find the hall, the tablinum, and the peristyle, communicating 
 with each other; in all you find the walls richly painted; and 
 in all the evidence of a people fond of the refining elegances 
 of life. The purity of the taste of the Pompeians in decoration 
 is, however, questionable: they were fond of the gaudiest 
 colours, of fantastic designs; they often painted the lower half 
 of their columns a bright red, leaving the rest uncoloured; and 
 where the garden was small, its wall was frequently tinted to 
 deceive the eye as to its extent, imitating trees, birds, tern- j 
 
 pies, &c., in perspective—a meretricious delusion which the 
 graceful pedantry of Pliny himself adopted, with a complacent 
 pride in its ingenuity. 
 
 But the house of Glaucus was at once one of the smallest, 
 and yet one of the most adorned and finished of all the private 
 mansions of Pompeii: it would be a model at this day for the 
 house of “a single man in Mayfair”—the envy and despair of 
 the coelibian purchasers of buhl and marquetry. 
 
 You enter by a long and narrow vestibule, on the floor of 
 which is the image of a dog in mosaic, with the well-known 
 “Cave canem,”—or “Beware the dog.” On either side is a 
 chamber of some size; for the interior part of the house not 
 
 * When they entertained very large parties, the feast was usually served in 
 the hall. 
 
 2 
 
20 
 
 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII, 
 
 being large enough to contain the two great divisions of private 
 and public apartments, these two rooms were set apart for the 
 reception of visitors who neither by rank nor familiarity were 
 entitled to admission in the penetralia of the mansion. 
 
 Advancing up the vestibule you enter an atrium, that when 
 first discovered was rich in paintings, which in point of expres¬ 
 sion would scarcely disgrace a Rafaele. You may see them 
 now transplanted to the Neapolitan Museum; they are still the 
 admiration of connoisseurs—they depict the parting of Achilles 
 and Briseis. Who does not acknowledge the force, the vigour, 
 the beauty, employed in delineating the forms and faces of 
 Achilles and the immortal slave! 
 
 On one side the atrium, a small staircase admitted to the 
 apartments for the slaves on the second floor; there also were 
 two or three small bed-rooms, the walls of which pourtrayed 
 the rape of Europa, the battle of the Amazons, &c. 
 
 You now enter the tablinum, across which, at either end, 
 hung rich draperies of Tyrian purple, half withdrawn.* On 
 the walls was depicted a poet reading his verses to his friends; 
 and in the pavement was inserted a small and most exquisite 
 mosaic, typical of the instructions given by the director of the 
 stage to his comedians. 
 
 You passed through this saloon and entered the peristyle; 
 and here (as I have said before was usually the case with the 
 smaller houses of Pompeii) the mansion ended. From each of 
 the seven columns that adorned this court hung festoons of gar¬ 
 lands: the centre, supplying the place of a garden, bloomed 
 with the rarest flowers placed in vases of white marble, that 
 were supported on pedestals. At the left hand of this small 
 garden was a diminutive fane, resembling one of those small 
 chapels placed at the side of roads in Catholic countries, and 
 dedicated to the Penates; before it stood a bronzed tripod: to 
 the left of the colonnade were two small cubicula, or bed¬ 
 rooms; to the right was the triclinium, in which the guests 
 were now assembled. 
 
 This room is usually termed by the antiquaries of Naples 
 s< The Chamber of Leda;” and in the beautiful work of Sir 
 
 * The tablinum was also secured at pleasure by sliding-doors. . 
 
Museo N; 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEH. 
 
 21 
 
 William Gell, the reader will find an engraving from that most 
 delicate and graceful painting of Leda presenting her new-born 
 to her husband, from which the room derives its name. This 
 charming apartment opened upon the fragrant garden. Round 
 the table of citrean* wood, highly polished and delicately 
 wrought with silver arabesques, were placed the three couches, 
 which were yet more common at Pompeii than the semicircular 
 seat that had grown lately into fashion at Rome: and on these 
 couches of bronze, studded with richer metals, were laid thick 
 quiltings covered with elaborate broidery, and yielding luxuri¬ 
 ously to the pressure. 
 
 “Well, I must own,” said the aedile Pansa, “that your 
 house, though scarcely larger than a case for one’s fibulas, is a 
 gem of its kind. How beautifully painted is that parting of 
 Achilles and Briseis!—what a style!—what heads!—what a— 
 hem!” 
 
 “Praise from Pansa is indeed valuable on such subjects,” 
 said Glodius, gravely. “Why, the paintings on his walls!— 
 Ah! there is, indeed, the hand of a Zeuxis!” 
 
 “You flatter me, my Clodius; indeed you do;” quoth the 
 aedile, who was celebrated through Pompeii for having the 
 worst paintings in the world; for he was patriotic, and patron¬ 
 ised none but Pompeians. “You flatter me: but there is 
 something pretty—.ZEdepol, yes—in the colours, to say nothing 
 of the design;—and then for the kitchen, my friends—ah! that 
 was all my fancy.” 
 
 “What is the design?” said Glaucus. “I have not yet seen 
 your kitchen, though I have often witnessed the excellence of 
 its cheer.” 
 
 “A cook, my Athenian—a cook sacrificing the trophies of 
 his skill on the altar of Vesta, with a beautiful muraena (taken 
 from the life) on a spit at a distance;—there is some invention 
 there!” 
 
 At that instant the slaves appeared, bearing a tray covered 
 with the first preparative initia of the feast. Amidst delicious 
 
 * The most valued wood—not the modern citron-tree. My learned friend, 
 Mr. W. S. Landor, conjectures it with much plausibility to have been ma¬ 
 hogany. 
 
22 
 
 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 figs, fresh herbs strewed with snow, anchovies, and eggs, were 
 ranged small cups of diluted wine sparingly mixed with honey. 
 As these were placed on the table, young slaves bore round to 
 each of the five guests (for there were no more) the silver 
 basin of perfumed water, and napkins edged with a purple 
 fringe. But the asdile ostentatiously drew forth his own nap¬ 
 kin, which was not, indeed, of so fine a linen, but in which the 
 fringe was twice as broad, and wiped his hands with the parade 
 of a man who felt he was calling for admiration. 
 
 “A splendid mappa that of yours,” said Clodius; “why, the 
 fringe is as broad as a girdle!” 
 
 “A trifle, my Clodius: a trifle! They tell me this stripe is 
 the latest fashion at Rome; but Glaucus attends to these things 
 more than I.” 
 
 “Be propitious, O Bacchus!” said Glaucus, inclining re¬ 
 verentially to a beautiful image of the god placed in the centre 
 of the table, at the corners of which stood the Lares and the 
 salt-holders. The guests followed the prayer, and then, 
 sprinkling the wine on the table, they performed the wonted 
 libation. 
 
 This over, the convivialists reclined themselves on the 
 couches, and the business of the hour commenced. 
 
 “May this cup be my last!” said the young Sallust, as the 
 table, cleared of its first stimulants, was now loaded with the 
 substantial part of the entertainment, and the ministering 
 slave poured forth to him a brimming cyathus—“May this 
 cup be my last, but it is the best wine I have drunk at Pom¬ 
 peii!” 
 
 “Bring hither the amphora,” said Glaucus, “and read its 
 date and its character.” 
 
 The slave hastened to inform the party that the scroll 
 fastened to the cork betokened its birth from Chios, and its 
 age a ripe fifty years. 
 
 “How deliciously the snow has cooled it!” saidPansa. “It 
 is just enough.” 
 
 “It is like the experience of a man who has cooled his 
 pleasures sufficiently to give them a double zest,” exclaimed 
 Sallust. 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 23 
 
 “It is like a woman’s ‘No,’” added Glaucus: “it cools, but 
 to inflame the more.” 
 
 “When is our next wild-beast fight?” said Clodius to 
 Pansa. 
 
 “It stands fixed for the ninth ide of August,” answered 
 Pansa: “on the day after the Vulcanalia;— we have a most 
 lovely young lion for the occasion.” 
 
 “Whom shall we get for him to eat?” asked Clodius. 
 “ Alas! there is a great scarcity of criminals. You must posi¬ 
 tively find some innocent or other to condemn to the lion, 
 Pansa!” 
 
 “Indeed I have thought very seriously about it of late,” re¬ 
 plied the sedile, gravely. “It was a most infamous law that 
 which forbade us to send our own slaves to the wild beasts. 
 Not to let us do what we like with our own, that’s what I call 
 an infringement on property itself.” 
 
 “Not so in the good old days of the Republic,” sighed 
 Sallust. 
 
 “And then this pretended mercy to the slaves is such a dis¬ 
 appointment to the poor people. How they do love to see a 
 good tough battle between a man and a lion; and all this inno¬ 
 cent pleasure they may lose (if the gods don’t send us a good 
 criminal soon) from this cursed law!” 
 
 “What can be worse policy,” said Clodius, sententiously, 
 “than to interfere with the manly amusements of the people?” 
 
 “Well, thank Jupiter and the Fates! we have no Nero at 
 present,” said Sallust. 
 
 “He was, indeed, a tyrant; he shut up our amphitheatre 
 for ten years.” 
 
 “I wonder it did not create a rebellion,” said Sallust. 
 
 “It very nearly did,” returned Pansa, with his mouth full of 
 wild boar. 
 
 Here the conversation was interrupted for a moment by a 
 flourish of flutes, and two slaves entered with a single dish. 
 
 “Ah! what delicacy hast thou in store for us now, my 
 Glaucus?” cried the young Sallust, with sparkling eyes. 
 
 Sallust was only twenty-four, but he had no pleasure in life 
 
24 
 
 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 like eating—perhaps he had exhausted all the others: yet had 
 he some talent, and an excellent heart—as far as it went. 
 
 “I know its face, by Pollux!” cried Pansa. “It is an Am- 
 bracian Kid. Ho! [snapping his fingers, a usual signal to the 
 slaves,] we must prepare a new libation in honour to the new¬ 
 comer.” 
 
 “I had hoped,” said Glaucus, in a melancholy tone, “to 
 have procured you some oysters from Britain; but the winds 
 that were so cruel to Csesar have forbid us the oysters.” 
 
 “Are they in truth so delicious?” asked Lepidus, loosening 
 to a yet more luxurious ease his ungirdled tunic. 
 
 “Why, in truth, I suspect it is the distance that gives the 
 flavour; they want the richness of the Brundusium oyster. But 
 at Rome, no supper is complete without them.” 
 
 “The poor Britons! There is some good in them after all,” 
 said Sallust. “They produce an oyster!” 
 
 “I wish they would produce us a gladiator,” said the aedile, 
 whose provident mind was musing over the wants of the am¬ 
 phitheatre. 
 
 “By Pallas!” cried Glaucus, as his favourite slave crowned 
 his streaming locks with a new chaplet, “I love these wild spec¬ 
 tacles well enough when beast fights beast; but when a man, 
 one with bones and blood like ours, is coldly put on the arena, 
 and torn limb from limb, the interest is too horrid: I sicken—I 
 gasp for breath—I long to rush and defend him. The yells of 
 the populace seem to me more dire than the voices of the 
 Furies chasing Orestes. I rejoice that there is so little chance 
 of that bloody exhibition for our next show!” 
 
 The sedile shrugged his shoulders. The young Sallust, who 
 was thought the best-natured man in Pompeii, stared in sur¬ 
 prise. The graceful Lepidus, who rarely spoke for fear of dis¬ 
 turbing his features, ejaculated “ Hercle!” The parasite Clodius 
 muttered “JEdepol!” and the sixth banqueter, who was the 
 umbra of Clodius,* and whose duty it was to echo his richer 
 friend, when he could not praise him,—the parasite of a para¬ 
 site,—muttered also “.iEdepol!” 
 
 “Well, you Italians are used to these spectacles; we Greeks 
 
 * See note (<5) at the end. 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 25 
 
 are more merciful. Ah, shade of Pindar!—the rapture of a 
 true Grecian game—the emulation of man against man—the 
 generous strife—the half-mournful triumph—so proud to con¬ 
 tend with a noble foe, so sad to see him overcome! But ye un¬ 
 derstand me not.” 
 
 “The kid is excellent,” said Sallust. The slave, whose duty 
 it was to carve, and who valued himself on his science, had just 
 performed that office on the kid to the sound of music, his 
 knife keeping time, beginning with a low tenor, and accom¬ 
 plishing the arduous feat amidst a magnificent diapason. 
 
 “Your cook is, of course, from Sicily?” said Pansa. 
 
 “Yes, of Syracuse.” 
 
 “I will play you for him,” said Clodius. “We will have a 
 game between the courses.” 
 
 “Better that sort of game, certainly, than a beast fight; but 
 I cannot stake my Sicilian — you have nothing so precious to 
 stake me in return.” 
 
 “My Phillida—my beautiful dancing-girl!” 
 
 “I never buy women,” said the Greek, carelessly re-ar¬ 
 ranging his chaplet. 
 
 The musicians, who were stationed in the portico without, 
 had commenced their office with the kid; they now directed 
 the melody into a more soft, a more gay, yet it may be a more 
 intellectual strain; and they chanted that song of Horace be¬ 
 ginning “Persicos odi,” &c., so impossible to translate, and 
 which they imagined applicable to a feast that, effeminate as it 
 seems to us, was simple enough for the gorgeous revelry of the 
 time. We are witnessing the domestic, and not the princely 
 feast—the entertainment of a gentleman, not an emperor or a 
 senator. 
 
 “Ah, good old Horace!” said Sallust, compassionately; “he 
 sang well of feasts and girls, but not like our modern poets.” 
 
 “The immortal Fulvius, for instance,” said Clodius. 
 
 “Ah, Fulvius, the immortal!” said the umbra. 
 
 “And Spursena, and Caius Mutius, who wrote three epics in 
 a year—could Horace do that, or Virgil either?” said Lepidus. 
 “Those old poets all fell into the mistake of copying sculpture 
 instead of painting. Simplicity and repose — that was their 
 
26 
 
 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 notion; but we moderns have fire; and passion, and energy— 
 we never sleep, we imitate the colours of painting, its life, and 
 its action. Immortal Fulvius !” 
 
 “By the way,” said Sallust, “have you seen the new ode by 
 Spuraena, in honour of our Egyptian Isis? It is magnificent— 
 the true religious fervour.” 
 
 “Isis seems a favourite divinity at Pompeii,” said Glaucus. 
 
 “Yes!” said Pansa, “she is exceedingly in repute just at 
 this moment; her statue has been uttering the most remark¬ 
 able oracles. I am not superstitious, but I must confess that 
 she has more than once assisted me materially in my magistracy 
 with her advice. Her priests are so pious, too! none of your 
 gay, none of your proud, ministers of Jupiter and Fortune: they 
 walk barefoot, eat no meat, and pass the greater part of the 
 night in solitary devotion!” 
 
 “ An example to our other priesthoods, indeed! — Jupiter’s 
 temple wants reforming sadly,” said Lepidus, who was a great 
 reformer for all but himself. 
 
 “They say that Arbaces the Egyptian has imparted some 
 most solemn mysteries to the priests of Isis,” observed Sallust. 
 “He boasts his descent from the race of Rameses, and de¬ 
 clares that in his family the secrets of remotest antiquity are 
 treasured.” 
 
 “He certainly possesses the gift of the evil eye,” said Clo- 
 dius. “If I ever come upon that Medusa front without the 
 previous charm, I am sure to lose a favourite horse, or throw 
 the canes * nine times running.” 
 
 “The last would be indeed a miracle!” said Sallust, gravely. 
 
 “How mean you, Sallust?” returned the gamester, with a 
 flushed brow. 
 
 “I mean, what you would leave me if I played often with 
 you; and that is—nothing.” 
 
 Clodius answered only by a smile of disdain. 
 
 “If Arbaces were not so rich,” said Pansa, with a stately air, 
 “I should stretch my authority a little, and inquire into the 
 truth of the report which calls him an astrologer and a sor¬ 
 cerer. Agrippa, when sedile of Rome, banished all such terrible 
 
 * Canes, or Caniculae, the lowest throw at dice. 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 2*J 
 
 citizens. But a rich man—it is the duty of an aedile to protect 
 the rich!” 
 
 “What think you of this new sect, which I am told has even 
 a few proselytes in Pompeii, these followers of the Hebrew 
 God—Christus?” 
 
 “Oh, mere speculative visionaries,” said Clodius; “they 
 have not a single gentleman amongst them; their proselytes 
 are poor, insignificant, ignorant people!” 
 
 “ Who ought, however, to be crucified for their blasphemy,” 
 said Pansa, with vehemence; “they deny Venus and Jove! Na- 
 zarene is but another name for atheist. Let me catch them, 
 that’s all.” 
 
 The second course was gone—the feasters fell back on their 
 couches—there was apausewliile they listened to the softvoices 
 of the South, and the music of the Arcadian reed. Glaucus 
 was the most rapt and the least inclined to break the silence, 
 but Clodius began already to think that they wasted time. 
 
 “Bene vobis! (your health!) my Glaucus,” said he, quaff¬ 
 ing a cup to each letter of the Greek’s name, with the ease of 
 the practised drinker. “Will you not be avenged on your ill- 
 fortune of yesterday? See, the dice court us.” 
 
 “As you will,” said Glaucus. 
 
 “The dice in summer, and I am aedile!”* said Pansa, ma¬ 
 gisterially; “it is against all law.” 
 
 “Not in your presence, grave Pansa,” returned Clodius, 
 rattling the dice in a long box; “your presence restrains all 
 license: it is not the thing, but the excess of the thing, that hurts.” 
 
 “What wisdom!” muttered the umbra. 
 
 “Well, I will look another way,” said the aedile. 
 
 “Not yet, good Pansa; let us wait till we have supped,” said 
 Glaucus. 
 
 Clodius reluctantly yielded, concealing his vexation with a 
 yawn. 
 
 “He gapes to devour the gold,” whispered Lepidus to 
 Sallust, in a quotation from the Aulularia of Plautus. 
 
 “Ah! how well I know these polypi, who hold all they touch,” 
 answered Sallust, in the same tone, and out of the same play. 
 
 * See note ( c ) at the end. 
 
28 
 
 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 The third course, consisting of a variety of fruits, pistachio 
 nuts, sweetmeats, tarts, and confectionery tortured into a thou¬ 
 sand fantastic and airy shapes, was now placed upon the table: 
 and the ministri, or attendants, also set there the wine (which 
 had hitherto been handed round to the guests) in large jugs of 
 glass, each bearing upon it the schedule of its age and quality. 
 
 “Taste this Lesbian, my Pansa,” said Sallust; “it is ex¬ 
 cellent.” 
 
 “It is not very old,” said Glaucus, “but it has been made 
 precocious, like ourselves, by being put to the fire:—the wine 
 to the flames of Vulcan—we to those of his wife—to whose 
 honour I pour this cup.” 
 
 “It is delicate,” said Pansa, “but there is perhaps the least 
 particle too much of rosin in its flavour.” 
 
 “What a beautiful cup!” cried Clodius, taking up one of 
 transparent crystal, the handles of which were wrought with 
 gems, and twisted in the shape of serpents, the favourite fashion 
 at Pompeii. 
 
 “This ring,” said Glaucus, taking a costly jewel from the 
 first joint of his finger and hanging it on the handle, “gives it 
 a richer show, and renders it less unworthy of thy acceptance, 
 my Clodius, on whom may the Gods bestow health and fortune, 
 long and oft to crown it to the brim!” 
 
 “You are too generous, Glaucus,” said the gamester, hand¬ 
 ing the cup to his slave; “but your love gives it a double value.” 
 
 “This cup to the Graces!” said Pansa, and he thrice emptied 
 his calix. The guests followed his example. 
 
 “We have appointed no director to the feast,” cried Sallust. 
 
 “Let us throw for him, then,” said Clodius, rattling the 
 dice-box. 
 
 “Nay,” cried Glaucus, “no cold and trite director for us: 
 no dictator of the banquet; no rex convivii. Have not the Ro¬ 
 mans sworn never to obey a king? Shall we be less free than 
 your ancestors? Ho! musicians, let us have the song I com¬ 
 posed the other night: it has a verse on this subject, ‘The 
 Bacchic hymn of the Hours/ ” 
 
 The musicians struck their instruments to a wild Ionic air. 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 2 Q 
 
 while the youngest voices in the band chanted forth In Greek 
 words, as numbers, the following strain:— 
 
 THE EVENING HYMN OF THE HOURS. 
 
 i. 
 
 “Through the summer day, through the weary day. 
 
 We have glided long; 
 
 Ere we speed to the Night through her portals grey. 
 
 Hail us with song 1— 
 
 With song, with song. 
 
 With a bright and joyous song; 
 
 Such as the Cretan maid. 
 
 While the twilight made her bolder. 
 
 Woke, high through the ivy shade. 
 
 When the wine-god first consoled her. 
 
 From the hush’d, low-breathing skies. 
 
 Half-shut look’d their starry eyes. 
 
 And all around. 
 
 With a loving sound. 
 
 The iEgean waves were creeping; 
 
 On her lap lay the lynx’s head; 
 
 Wild thyme was her bridal bed; 
 
 And aye through each tiny space. 
 
 In the green vine’s green embrace 
 The Fauns were slily peeping;— 
 
 The Fauns, the prying Fauns— 
 
 The arch, the laughing Fauns— 
 
 The Fauns were slily peeping 1 
 
 II. 
 
 Flagging and faint are we 
 With our ceaseless flight. 
 
 And dull shall our journey be 
 Through the realm of night. 
 
 Bathe us, O bathe our weary wings 
 In the purple wave, as it freshly springs 
 To your cups from the fount of light— 
 
 From the fount of light—from the fount of light; 
 
 For there, when the sun has gone down in night. 
 
 There in the bowl we find him. 
 
 The grape is the well of that summer sun, 
 
 Or rather the stream that he gazed upon. 
 
 Till he left in truth, like the Thespian youth, * 
 
 His soul, as he gazed, behind him. «* 
 
 * Narcissus. 
 
30 
 
 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 iii. 
 
 A cup to Jove, and a cup to Love, 
 
 And a cup to the son of Maia, 
 
 And honour with three, the band zone-free. 
 
 The band of the bright Aglaia. 
 
 But since every bud in the wreath of pleasure 
 Ye owe to the sister Hours, 
 
 No stinted cups, in a formal measure. 
 
 The Bromian law makes ours. 
 
 He honours us most who gives us most, 
 
 And boasts, with a Bacchanal’s honest boast. 
 
 He never will count the treasure. 
 
 Fastly we fleet, then seize our wings. 
 
 And plunge us deep in the sparkling springs ; 
 
 And aye, as we rise with a dripping plume. 
 
 We’ll scatter the spray round the garland’s bloom. 
 
 We glow—we glow. 
 
 Behold, as the girls of the Eastern wave 
 Bore once with a shout to their crystal cave 
 The prize of the Mysian Hylas, 
 
 Even so—even so. 
 
 We have caught the young god in our warm embrace, 
 
 We hurry him on in our laughing race; 
 
 We hurry him on, with a whoop and song. 
 
 The cloudy rivers of night along— 
 
 Ho, hoi—we have caught thee, PsilasI” 
 
 The guests applauded loudly. When the poet is your host, 
 his verses are sure to charm. 
 
 “Thoroughly Greek,” said Lepidus: “the wildness, force, 
 and energy of that tongue, it is impossible to imitate in the 
 Roman poetry.” 
 
 “It is, indeed, a great contrast,” said Clodius, ironically at 
 heart, though not in appearance, “to the old-fashioned and 
 tame simplicity of that ode of Horace which we heard before. 
 The air is beautifully Ionic: the word puts me in mind of a 
 toast—Companions, I give you the beautiful lone.” 
 
 “lone!—the name is Greek,” said Glaucus, in a soft voice. 
 “I drink the health with delight. But who is lone?” 
 
 “Ah! you have but just come to Pompeii, or you would de¬ 
 serve ostracism for your ignorance,” said Lepidus, conceitedly: 
 “not to know lone, is not to know the chief charm of our city.” 
 
 “She is of the most rare beauty,” said Pansa; “and what a 
 voice!” 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 3* 
 
 “She can feed only on nightingales’ tongues,” said Clodius. 
 
 “Nightingales’ tongues 1 — beautiful thought!” sighed the 
 umbra. 
 
 “Enlighten me, I beseech you,” said Glaucus. 
 
 “Know then-” began Lepidus. 
 
 “Let me speak,” cried Clodius; “you drawl out your words 
 as if you spoke tortoises.” 
 
 “And you speak stones,” muttered the coxcomb to himself, 
 as he fell back disdainfully on his couch. 
 
 “Know then, my Glaucus,” said Clodius, “that lone is a 
 stranger who has but lately come to Pompeii. She sings like 
 Sappho, and her songs are her own composing; and as for the 
 tibia, and the cithara, and the lyre, I know not in which she most 
 outdoes the Muses. Her beauty is most dazzling. Her house is 
 perfect; such taste—such gems—such bronzes! She is rich, 
 and generous as she is rich.” 
 
 “Her lovers, of course,” said Glaucus, “take care that 
 she does not starve; and money lightly won is always lavishly 
 spent.” 
 
 “Her lovers—ah, there is the enigma! lone has but one 
 vice—she is chaste. She has all Pompeii at her feet, and she has 
 no lovers: she will not even marry.” 
 
 “No lovers!” echoed Glaucus. 
 
 “No; she has the soul of Vesta, with the girdle of Venus.” 
 
 “What refined expressions!” said the umbra. 
 
 “A miracle!” cried Glaucus. “Can we not see her?” 
 
 “I will take you there this evening,” said Clodius; “mean¬ 
 while-,” added he, once more rattling the dice. 
 
 “I am yours!” said the complaisant Glaucus. “Pansa, turn 
 your face! ” 
 
 Lepidus and Sallust played at odd and even, and the umbra 
 looked on, while Glaucus and Clodius became gradually ab¬ 
 sorbed in the chances of the dice. 
 
 “By Pollux!” cried Glaucus, “this is the second time I 
 have thrown the canicuke” (the lowest throw). 
 
 “Now Venus befriend me!” said Clodius, rattling the box 
 for several moments. “O Alma Venus—it is Venus herself!” 
 
32 
 
 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 as he threw the highest cast, named from that goddess,—whom 
 he who wins money, indeed, usually propitiates! 
 
 “Venus is ungrateful to me,” said Glaucus, gaily; “I have 
 always sacrificed on her altar.” 
 
 “He who plays with Clodius,” whispered Lepidus, “will 
 soon, like Plautus’s Curculio, put his pallium for the stakes.” 
 
 “Poor Glaucus!—he is as blind as Fortune herself,” replied 
 Sallust, in the same tone. 
 
 “I will play no more,” said Glaucus; “I have lost thirty ses- 
 tertia.” 
 
 “I am sorry—,” began Clodius. 
 
 “Amiable man!” groaned the umbra. 
 
 “Not at all!” exclaimed Glaucus; “the pleasure I take in 
 your gain compensates the pain of my loss.” 
 
 The conversation now grew general and animated; the 
 wine circulated more freely; and lone once more became the 
 subject of eulogy to the guests of Glaucus. 
 
 “Instead of outwatching the stars, let us visit one at whose 
 beauty the stars grow pale,” said Lepidus. 
 
 Clodius, who saw no chance of renewing the dice, seconded 
 the proposal; and Glaucus, though he civilly pressed his guests 
 to continue the banquet, could not but let them see that his 
 curiosity had been excited by the praises of lone: they there¬ 
 fore resolved to adjourn (all at least, but Pansa and the umbra) 
 to the house of the fair Greek. They drank, therefore, to the 
 health of Glaucus and of Titus—they performed their last 
 libation—they resumed their slippers — they descended the 
 stairs—passed the illumined atrium—and walking unbitten 
 over the fierce dog painted on the threshold, found themselves 
 beneath the light of the moon just risen, in the lively and still 
 crowded streets of Pompeii. 
 
 They passed the jewellers’ quarter, sparkling with lights, 
 caught and reflected by the gems displayed in the shops, and 
 arrived at last at the door of lone. The vestibule blazed with 
 rows of lamps; curtains of embroidered purple hung on either 
 aperture of the tablinum, whose walls and mosaic pavement 
 glowed with the richest colours of the artist; and under the 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 33 
 
 portico which surrounded the odorous viridarium they found 
 lone, already surrounded by adoring and applauding guests! 
 
 “Did you say she was Athenian?” whispered Glaucus, ere 
 he passed into the peristyle. 
 
 “No, she is from Neapolis.” 
 
 “Neapolis!” echoed Glaucus; and at thatmoment the group, 
 dividing on either side of lone, gave to his view that bright, 
 that nymph-like beauty, which for months had shone down 
 upon the waters of his memory. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 The Temple of Isis.—Its Priest.—The Character of Arbaces developes itself. 
 
 The story returns to the Egyptian. We left Arbaces upon 
 the shores of the noonday sea, after he had parted from Glaucus 
 and his companion. As he approached to the more crowded 
 part of the bay, he paused and gazed upon that animated scene 
 with folded arms, and a bitter smile upon his dark features. 
 
 “Gulls, dupes, fools that ye are!” muttered he to himself; 
 “whether business or pleasure, trade or religion, be your pur¬ 
 suit, you are equally cheated by the passions that ye should 
 rule! How I could loathe you, if I did not hate—yes, hate! 
 Greek or Roman, it is from us, from the dark lore of Egypt, 
 that ye have stolen the fire that gives you souls. Your know¬ 
 ledge—your poesy—your laws—your arts—your barbarous 
 mastery of war (all how tame and mutilated, when compared 
 with the vast original!)—ye have filched, as a slave filches the 
 fragments of the feast, from us! And now, ye mimics of a 
 mimic!—Romans, forsooth! the mushroom herd of robbers! 
 ye are our masters! the pyramids look down no more on the 
 race of Rameses—the eagle cowers over the serpent of the 
 Nile. Our masters—no, not mine. My soul, by the power of 
 its wisdom, controls and chains you, though the fetters are un¬ 
 seen. So long as craft can master force, so long as religion 
 has a cave from which oracles can dupe mankind, the wise 
 hold an empire over earth. Even from your vices Arbaces 
 distils his pleasures;—pleasures unprofaned by vulgar eyes— 
 Pompeii, 3 
 
34 
 
 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 pleasures vast, wealthy, inexhaustible, of which your enervate 
 minds, in their unimaginative sensuality, cannot conceive or 
 dream! Plod on, plod on, fools of ambition and of avarice! 
 your petty thirst for fasces and qusestorships, and all the mum¬ 
 mery of servile power, provokes my laughter and my scorn. 
 My power can extend wherever man believes. I ride over the 
 souls that the purple veils. Thebes may fall, Egypt be a 
 name; the world itself furnishes the subjects of Arbaces.” 
 
 Thus saying, the Egyptian moved slowly on; and, entering 
 the town, his tall figure towered above the crowded throng of 
 the forum, and swept towards the small but graceful temple 
 consecrated to Isis.* 
 
 That edifice was then but of recent erection; the ancient 
 temple had been thrown down in the earthquake sixteen years 
 before, and the new building had become as much in vogue 
 with the versatile Pompeians as a new church or a new preacher 
 may be with us. The oracles of the goddess at Pompeii were 
 indeed remarkable, not more for the mysterious language in 
 which they were clothed, than for the credit which was attached 
 to their mandates and predictions. If they were not dictated 
 by a divinity, they were framed at least by a profound know¬ 
 ledge of mankind; they applied themselves exactly to the cir¬ 
 cumstances of individuals, and made a notable contrast to the 
 vague and loose generalities of their rival temples. As Arbaces 
 now arrived at the rails which separated the profane from the 
 sacred place, a crowd, composed of all classes, but especially 
 of the commercial, collected, breathless and reverential, before 
 the many altars which rose in the open court. In the walls of 
 the cella, elevated on seven steps of Parian marble, various 
 statues stood in niches, and those walls were ornamented with 
 the pomegranate consecrated to Isis. An oblong pedestal 
 occupied the interior building, on which stood two statues, one 
 of Isis, and its companion represented the silent and mystic 
 Orus. But the building contained many other deities to grace 
 the court of the Egyptian deity: her kindred and many-titled 
 Bacchus, and the Cyprian Venus, a Grecian disguise for her¬ 
 self, rising from her bath, and the dog-headed Anubis, and the 
 
 * See note (d) at the end. 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 35 
 
 ox Apis, and various Egyptian idols of uncouth form and un¬ 
 known appellations. 
 
 But we must not suppose that, among the cities of Magna 
 Graecia, Isis was worshipped with those forms and ceremonies 
 which were of right her own. The mongrel and modem nations 
 of the South, with a mingled arrogance and ignorance, con¬ 
 founded the worships of all climes and ages. And the profound 
 mysteries of the Nile were degraded by a hundred meretricious 
 and frivolous admixtures from the creeds of Cephisus and of 
 Tibur. The temple of Isis in Pompeii was served by Roman 
 and Greek priests, ignorant alike of the language and the 
 customs of her ancient votaries; and the descendant of the 
 dread Egyptian kings, beneath the appearance of reverential 
 awe, secretly laughed to scorn the puny mummeries which 
 imitated the solemn and typical worship of his burning clime. 
 
 Ranged now on either side the steps was the sacrificial 
 crowd, arrayed in white garments, while at the summit stood 
 two of the inferior priests, the one holding a palm-branch, the 
 other a slender sheaf of corn. In the narrow passage in front 
 thronged the bystanders. 
 
 “And what,” whispered Arbaces to one of the bystanders, 
 who was a merchant engaged in the Alexandrian trade, which 
 trade had probably first introduced in Pompeii the worship of 
 the Egyptian goddess—“What occasion now assembles you 
 before the altars of the venerable Isis? It seems, by the white 
 robes of the group before me, that a sacrifice is to be rendered; 
 and by the assembly of the priests, that ye are prepared for 
 some oracle. To what question is it to vouchsafe a reply?” 
 
 “We are merchants,” replied the bystander (who was no 
 other than Diomed) in the same voice, “who seek to know the 
 fate of our vessels, which sail for Alexandria to-morrow. We 
 are about to offer up a sacrifice and implore an answer from the 
 goddess. I am not one of those who have petitioned the priest 
 to sacrifice, as you may see by my dress, but I have some in¬ 
 terest in the success of the fleet;—by Jupiter! yes. I have a 
 pretty trade, else how could I live in these hard times?” 
 
 The Egyptian replied gravely, “That though Isis was pro¬ 
 perly the goddess of agriculture, she was no less the patron of 
 
 3 * 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 36 
 
 commerce.” Then turning his head towards the east, Arbaces 
 seemed absorbed in silent prayer. 
 
 And now in the centre of the steps appeared a priest robed 
 in white from head to foot, the veil parting over the crown; two 
 new priests relieved those hitherto stationed at either corner, 
 being naked half-way down to the breast, and covered, for the 
 rest, in white and loose robes. At the same time, seated at the 
 bottom of the steps, a priest commenced a solemn air upon a 
 long wind-instrument of music. Half-way down the steps stood 
 another flamen, holding in one hand the votive wreath, in the 
 other a white wand; while, adding to the picturesque scene of 
 that eastern ceremony, the stately ibis (bird sacred to the Egyp¬ 
 tian worship) looked mutely down from the wall upon the rite, 
 or stalked beside the altar at the base of the steps. 
 
 At that altar now stood the sacrificial flamen.* 
 
 The countenance of Arbaces seemed to lose all its rigid 
 calm while the aruspices inspected the entrails, and to be in¬ 
 tent in pious anxiety—to rejoice and brighten as the signs were 
 declared favourable, and the fire began bright and clearly to 
 consume the sacred portion of the victim amidst odours of 
 myrrh and frankincense. It was then that a dead silence fell 
 over the whispering crowd, and the priests gathering round the 
 cella, another priest, naked save by a cincture round the middle, 
 rushed forward, and dancing with wild gestures, implored an 
 answer from the goddess. He ceased at last in exhaustion, and 
 a low murmuring noise was heard within the body of the statue: 
 thrice the head moved, and the lips parted, and then a hollow 
 voice uttered these mystic words:— 
 
 “ There are waves like chargers that meet and glow. 
 
 There are graves ready wrought in the rocks below: 
 
 On the brow of the future the dangers lour. 
 
 But blest are your barks in the fearful hour.” 
 
 The voice ceased—-the crowd breathed more freely—the 
 merchants looked at each other. “Nothing can be more plain,” 
 murmured Diomed; “there is to be a storm at sea, as there 
 very often is at the beginning of autumn, but our vessels are 
 to be saved. O beneficent Isis!” 
 
 * See a singular picture, in the Museum of Naples, of an Egyptian sacrifice, 
 
: 
 
 
 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 37 
 
 “Lauded eternally be the goddess!” said the merchants; 
 “what can be less equivocal than her prediction?” 
 
 Raising one hand in sign of silence to the people, for the 
 rites of Isis enjoined what to the lively Pompeians was an im¬ 
 possible suspense from the use of the vocal organs, the chief 
 priest poured his libation on the altar, and after a short con¬ 
 cluding prayer the ceremony was over, and the congregation 
 dismissed. Still, however, as the crowd dispersed themselves 
 here and there, the Egyptian lingered by the railing, and when 
 the space became tolerably cleared, one of the priests, ap¬ 
 proaching it, saluted him with great appearance of friendly 
 familiarity. 
 
 The countenance of the priest was remarkably unprepos¬ 
 sessing—his shaven skull was so low and narrow in the front 
 as nearly to approach to the conformation of that of an African 
 savage, save only towards the temples, where, in that organ 
 styled acquisitiveness by the pupils of a science modern in 
 name, but best practically known (as their sculpture teaches us) 
 amongst the ancients, two huge and almost preternatural pro¬ 
 tuberances yet more distorted the unshapely head;—around 
 the brows the skin was puckered into a web of deep and in¬ 
 tricate wrinkles—the eyes, dark and small, rolled in a muddy 
 and yellow orbit—the nose, short yet coarse, was distended at 
 the nostrils like a satyr’s—and the thick but pallid lips, the 
 high cheek-bones, the livid and motley hues that struggled 
 through the parchment skin, completed a countenance which 
 none could behold without repugnance, and few without terror 
 and distrust: whatever the wishes of the mind, the animal 
 frame was well fitted to execute them; the wiry muscles of the 
 throat, the broad chest, the nervous hands and lean gaunt 
 arms, which were bared above the elbow, betokened a form 
 capable alike of great active exertion and passive endurance. 
 
 “Calenus,” said the Egyptian to this fascinating flamen, 
 “you have improved the voice of the statue much by attending 
 to my suggestion; and your verses are excellent. Always pro¬ 
 phesy good fortune, unless there is an absolute impossibility 
 of its fulfilment.” 
 
 “Besides,” added Calenus, “if the storm does come, and if 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 38 
 
 ) 
 
 it does overwhelm the accursed ships, have we not prophesied 
 it? and are the barks not blest to be at rest?—for rest prays 
 the mariner in the JEge an sea, or at least so says Horace;— 
 can the mariner be more at rest in the sea than when he is at 
 the bottom of it?” 
 
 “Right, my Calenus; I wish Apaecides would take a lesson 
 from your wisdom. But I desire to confer with you relative to 
 him and to other matters: you can admit me into one of your 
 less sacred apartments?” 
 
 “Assuredly,” replied the priest, leading the way to one of 
 the small chambers which surrounded the open gate. Here 
 they seated themselves before a small table spread with dishes 
 containing fruit and eggs, and various cold meats, with vases 
 of excellent wine, of which while the companions partook, a 
 curtain, drawn across the entrance opening to the court, con¬ 
 cealed them from view, but admonished them by the thinness 
 of the partition to speak low, or to speak no secrets: they chose 
 the former alternative. 
 
 “Thou knowest,” said Arbaces, in a voice that scarcely 
 stirred the air, so soft and inward was its sound, “that it has 
 ever been my maxim to attach myself to the young. From 
 their flexile and unformed minds I can carve out my fittest 
 tools. I weave—I warp—I mould them at my will. Of the men 
 I make merely followers or servants; of the women-” 
 
 “Mistresses,” said Calenus, as a livid grin distorted his un¬ 
 gainly features. 
 
 “Yes, I do not disguise it; woman is the main object, the 
 great appetite of my soul. As you feed the victim for the 
 slaughter, I love to rear the votaries of my pleasure. I love to 
 train, to ripen their minds—to unfold the sweet blossom of 
 their hidden passions, in order to prepare the fruit to my taste. 
 I loathe your ready-made and ripened courtesans; it is in the 
 soft and unconscious progress of innocence to desire that I find 
 the true charm of love; it is thus that I defy satiety; and by 
 contemplating the freshness of others, I sustain the freshness 
 of my own sensations. From the young hearts of my victims 
 I draw the ingredients of the caldron in which I re-youth my¬ 
 self. But enough of this; to the subject before us. You know, 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 39 
 
 then, that in Neapolis some time since I encountered lone and 
 Apaecides, brother and sister, the children of Athenians who 
 had settled at Neapolis. The death of their parents, who knew 
 and esteemed me, constituted me their guardian. I was not 
 unmindful of the trust. The youth, docile and mild, yielded 
 readily to the impression I sought to stamp upon him. Next 
 to woman, I love the old recollections of my ancestral land; I 
 love to keep alive—to propagate on distant shores (which her 
 colonies perchance yet people), her dark and mystic creeds. It 
 may be, that it pleases me to delude mankind, while I thus serve 
 the deities. To Apaecides I taught the solemn faith of Isis. I 
 unfolded to him something of those sublime allegories which 
 are couched beneath her worship. I excited in a soul peculiarly 
 alive to religious fervour that enthusiasm which imagination 
 begets on faith. I have placed him amongst you: he is one 
 qf you.” 
 
 “He is so,” saidCalenus: “but in thus stimulating his faith, 
 you have robbed him of wisdom. He is horror-struck that he 
 is no longer duped: our sage delusions, our speaking statues 
 and secret staircases, dismay and revolt him; he pines; he 
 wastes away; he mutters to himself; he refuses to share our 
 ceremonies. He has been known to frequent the company of 
 men suspected of adherence to that new and atheistical creed 
 which denies all our gods, and terms our oracles the inspira¬ 
 tions of that malevolent spirit of which eastern tradition speaks. 
 Our oracles—alas! we know well whose inspirations they are! ” 
 
 “This is what I feared,” said Arbaces, musingly, “from 
 various reproaches he made me when I last saw him. Of late 
 he hath shunned my steps: I must find him: I must continue 
 my lessons; I must lead him into the adytum of Wisdom. I 
 must teach him that there are two stages of sanctity—the first, 
 faith— the next, delusion; the one for the vulgar, the second 
 for the sage.” 
 
 “I never passed through the first,” said Calenus; “nor you 
 either, I think, my Arbaces.” 
 
 “You err,” replied the Egyptian, gravely. “I believe at 
 this day (not indeed that which I teach, but that which I teach 
 not), Nature has a sanctity against which I cannot—(nor would 
 
40 
 
 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 I) steel conviction. I believe in mine own knowledge, and that 
 has revealed to me,—but no matter. Now to earthlier and 
 more inviting themes. If I thus fulfilled my object with Apae- 
 cides, what was my design for lone? Thou knowest already I 
 intend her for my queen—my bride—my heart’s Isis. Never 
 till I saw her knew I all the love of which my nature is 
 capable.” 
 
 “I hear from a thousand lips that she is a second Helen,” 
 said Calenus; and he smacked his own lips, but whether at the 
 wine or at the notion, it is not easy to decide. 
 
 “Yes, she has a beauty that Greece itself never excelled,” 
 resumed Arbaces. “But that is not all: she has a soul worthy 
 to match with mine. She has a genius beyond that of woman 
 —keen—dazzling—bold. Poetry flows spontaneous to her lips: 
 utter but a truth, and, however intricate and profound, her 
 mind seizes and commands it. Her imagination and her reason 
 are not at war with each other; they harmonise and direct her 
 course as the winds and the waves direct some lofty bark. 
 With this she unites a daring independence of thought: she 
 can stand alone in the world; she can be brave as she is gentle; 
 this is the nature I have sought all my life in woman, and never 
 found till now. lone must be mine! In her I have a double 
 passion; I wish to enjoy a beauty of spirit as of form.” 
 
 “She is not yours yet, then?” said the priest. 
 
 “No: she loves me—but as a friend:—she loves me with 
 her mind only. She fancies in me the paltry virtues which I 
 have only the profounder virtue to disdain. But you must 
 pursue with me her history. The brother and sister were young 
 and rich: lone is proud and ambitious—proud of her genius— 
 the magic of her poetry—the charm of her conversation. When 
 her brother left me, and entered your temple, in order to be 
 near him she removed also to Pompeii. She has suffered her 
 talents to be known. She summons crowds to her feasts; her 
 voice enchants them; her poetry subdues. She delights in 
 being thought the successor of Erinna.” 
 
 “Or of Sappho?” 
 
 “But Sappho without love! I encouraged her in this bold¬ 
 ness of career—in this indulgence of vanity and of pleasure. 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 41 
 
 I loved to steep her amidst the dissipations and luxury of this 
 abandoned city. Mark me, Calenus! I desired to enervate her 
 mind!—it has been too pure to receive yet the breath which 
 I wish not to pass, but burningly to eat into, the mirror. 
 I wished her to be surrounded by lovers, hollow, vain, and 
 frivolous (lovers that her nature must despise), in order to feel 
 the want of love. Then, in those soft intervals of lassitude 
 that succeed to excitement, I can weave my spells—excite her 
 interest—attract her passions—possess myself of her heart. 
 For it is not the young, nor the beautiful, nor the gay, that 
 should fascinate lone; her imagination must be won, and 
 the life of Arbaces has been one scene of triumph over the 
 imaginations of his kind.” 
 
 “And hast thou no fear, then, of thy rivals? The gallants 
 of Italy are skilled in the art to please.” 
 
 “None! Her Greek soul despises the barbarian Romans, 
 and would scorn itself if it admitted a thought of love for one 
 of that upstart race.” 
 
 “But thou art an Egyptian, not a Greek!” 
 
 “Egypt,” replied Arbaces, “is the mother of Athens. Her 
 tutelary Minerva is our deity; and her founder, Cecrops, was 
 the fugitive of Egyptian Sais. This have I already taught to 
 her: and in my blood she venerates the eldest dynasties of 
 earth. But yet I will own that of late some uneasy suspicions 
 have crossed my mind. She is more silent than she used to 
 be; she loves melancholy and subduing music; she sighs with¬ 
 out an outward cause. This may be the beginning of love— 
 it may be the want of love. In either case it is time for me to 
 begin my operations on her fancies and her heart: in the one 
 case, to divert the source of love to me; in the other, in me to 
 awaken it. It is for this that I have sought you.” 
 
 “And how can I assist you?” 
 
 “I am about to invite her to a feast in my house: I wish to 
 dazzle—to bewilder—to inflame her senses. Our arts—the 
 arts by which Egypt trained her young novitiates—must be 
 employed; and, under veil of the mysteries of religion, I will 
 open to her the secrets of love.” 
 
 “Ah! now I understand:—one of those voluptuous banquets 
 
42 
 
 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 that, despite our dull vows of mortified coldness, we, thy priests 
 of Isis, have shared at thy house.” 
 
 “No, no! Thinkest thou her chaste eyes are ripe for such 
 scenes? No; but first we must ensnare the brother—an easier 
 task. Listen to me, while I give you my instructions.” 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 More of the Flower-girl.—The Progress of Love. 
 
 The sun shone gaily into that beautiful chamber in the 
 house of Glaucus, which I have before said is now called “the 
 room of Leda.” The morning rays entered through rows of 
 small casements at the higher part of the room, and through 
 the door which opened on the garden, that answered to the 
 inhabitants of the southern cities the same purpose that a 
 greenhouse or conservatory does to us. The size of the garden 
 did not adapt it for exercise, but the various and fragrant plants 
 with which it was filled gave a luxury to that indolence so dear 
 to the dwellers in a sunny clime. And now the odours, fanned 
 by a gentle wind creeping from the adjacent sea, scattered 
 themselves over that chamber, whose walls vied with the 
 richest colours of the most glowing flowers. Besides the gem 
 of the room—the painting ofLedaandTyndarus—in the centre 
 of each compartment of the walls were set other pictures of 
 exquisite beauty. In one you saw Cupid leaning on the knees 
 of Venus; in another Ariadne sleeping on the beach, uncon¬ 
 scious of the perfidy of Theseus. Merrily the sunbeams played 
 to and fro on the tesselated floor and the brilliant walls—far 
 more happily came the rays of joy to the heart of the young 
 Glaucus. 
 
 “I have seen her, then,” said he, as he paced that narrow 
 chamber—“I have heard her—nay, I have spoken to her again 
 —I have listened to the music of her song, and she sung of 
 glory and of Greece. I have discovered the long-sought idol 
 of my dreams; and like the Cyprian sculptor, I have breathed 
 life into my own imaginings.” 
 
 Longer, perhaps, had been the enamoured soliloquy of 
 Glaucus, but at that moment a shadow darkened the threshold 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 43 
 
 of the chamber, and a young female, still half a child in years, 
 broke upon his solitude. She was dressed simply in a white 
 tunic, which reached from the neck to the ankles; under her 
 arm she bore a basket of flowers, and in the other hand she 
 held a bronze water-vase; her features were more formed than 
 exactly became her years, yet they were soft and feminine in 
 their outline, and, without being beautiful in themselves, they 
 were almost made so by their beauty of expression; there was 
 something ineffably gentle, and you would say patient, in her 
 aspect. A look of resigned sorrow, of tranquil endurance, had 
 banished the smile, but not the sweetness, from her lips; some¬ 
 thing timid and cautious in her step—something wandering in 
 her eyes, led you to suspect the affliction which she had suf¬ 
 fered from her birth:—she was blind; but in the orbs them¬ 
 selves there was no visible defect—their melancholy and sub¬ 
 dued light was clear, cloudless, and serene. “They tell me 
 that Glaucus is here,” said she; “may I come in?” 
 
 “Ah, my Nydia,” said the Greek, “is that you? I knew you 
 would not neglect my invitation.” 
 
 “Glaucus did but justice to himself,” answered Nydia, with 
 a blush; “for he has always been kind to the poor blind girl.” 
 
 “Who could be otherwise?” said Glaucus, tenderly, and in 
 the voice of a compassionate brother. 
 
 Nydia sighed and paused before she resumed, without 
 replying to his remark. “You have but lately returned?” 
 
 “This is the sixth sun that hath shone upon me at Pompeii.” 
 
 “And you are well? Ah, I need not ask—for who that sees 
 the earth, which they tell me is so beautiful, can be ill?” 
 
 “I am well. And you, Nydia?—how you have grown! 
 Next year you will be thinking what answer to make your 
 lovers.” 
 
 A second blush passed over the cheek of Nydia, but this 
 time she frowned as she blushed. “I have brought you some 
 flowers,” said she, without replying to a remark that she 
 seemed to resent; and feeling about the room till she found 
 the table that stood by Glaucus, she laid the basket upon it: 
 “they are poor, but they are fresh-gathered.” 
 
 “They might come from Flora herself,” said he, kindly; 
 
44 
 
 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 “and I renew again my vow to the Graces, that I will wear no 
 other garlands while thy hands can weave me such as these.” 
 
 “And how find you the flowers in your viridarium?—are 
 they thriving?” 
 
 “Wonderfully so—the Lares themselves must have tended 
 them.” 
 
 “Ah, now you give me pleasure: for I came, as often as I 
 could steal the leisure, to water and tend them inyour absence.” 
 
 “How shall I thank thee, fair Nydia?” said the Greek. 
 “Glaucus little dreamed that he left one memory so watchful 
 oyer his favourites at Pompeii.” 
 
 The hand of the child trembled, and her breast heaved be¬ 
 neath her tunic. She turned round in embarrassment. “The 
 sun is hot for the poor flowers,” said she, “to-day, and they 
 will miss me; for I have been ill lately, and it is nine days since 
 I visited them.” 
 
 “Ill, Nydia! yet your cheek has more colour than it had 
 last year.” 
 
 “I am often ailing,” said the blind girl, touchingly, “and as 
 I grow up I grieve more that I am blind. But now to the 
 flowers!” So saying, she made a slight reverence with her 
 head, and parsing into the viridarium, busied herself with 
 watering the flowers. 
 
 “Poor Nydia,” thought Glaucus, gazing on her: “thine is a 
 hard doom! Thou seest not the earth—nor the sun—nor the 
 ocean—nor the stars;—above all, thou canst not behold lone.” 
 
 At that last thought his mind flew back to the past evening, 
 ’and was a second time disturbed in its reveries by the entrance 
 of Clodius. It was a proof how much a single evening had 
 sufficed to increase and to refine the love of the Athenian 
 for lone, that whereas he had confided to Clodius the secret 
 of his first interview with her, and the effect it had produced 
 on him, he now felt an invisible aversion even to mention 
 to him her name. He had seen lone, bright, pure, unsullied, 
 in the midst of the gayest and most profligate gallants 
 of Pompeii, charming rather than awing the boldest into re¬ 
 spect, and changing the very nature of the most sensual and 
 the least ideal:—as by her intellectual and refining spells she 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 45 
 
 reversed the fable of Circe, and converted the animals into 
 men. They who could not understand her soul were made 
 spiritual, as it were, by the magic of her beauty;—they who had 
 no heart for poetry had ears, at least, for the melody of her 
 voice. Seeing her thus surrounded, purifying and brighten¬ 
 ing all things with her presence, Glaucus almost for the 
 first time felt the nobleness of his own nature,—he felt how 
 unworthy of the goddess of his dreams had been his com¬ 
 panions and his pursuits. A veil seemed lifted from his eyes; 
 he saw that immeasurable distance between himself and his 
 associates which the deceiving mists of pleasure had hitherto 
 concealed; he was refined by a sense of his courage in aspir¬ 
 ing to lone. He felt that henceforth it was his destiny to look 
 upward and to soar. He could no longer breathe that name, 
 which sounded to the sense of his ardent fancy as something 
 sacred and divine, to lewd and vulgar ears. She was no longer 
 the beautiful girl once seen and passionately remembered,— 
 she was already the mistress, the divinity of his soul. This 
 feeling who has not experienced?—If thou hast not, then thou 
 hast never loved! 
 
 When Clodius therefore spoke to him in affected transports 
 of the beauty of lone, Glaucus felt only resentment and disgust 
 that such lips should dare to praise her; he answered coldly, 
 and the Roman imagined that his passion was cured instead of 
 heightened. Clodius scarcely regretted it, for he was anxious 
 that Glaucus should marry an heiress yet more richly endowed 
 -—Julia, the daughter of the wealthy Diomed, whose gold the 
 gamester imagined he could readily divert into his own coffers. 
 Their conversation did not flow with its usual ease; and no 
 sooner had Clodius left him than Glaucus bent his way to the 
 house of lone. In passing by the threshold he again encoun¬ 
 tered Nydia, who had finished her graceful task. She knew 
 his step on the instant. 
 
 “You are early abroad?” said she. 
 
 “Yes; for the skies of Campania rebuke the sluggard who 
 neglects them.” 
 
 “Ah, would I could see them!” murmured the blind girl, 
 but so low that Glaucus did not overhear the complaint. 
 
46 
 
 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 The Thessalian lingered on the threshold a few moments, 
 and then guiding her steps by a long staff, which she used 
 with great dexterity, she took her way homeward. She soon 
 turned from the more gaudy streets, and entered a quarter of 
 the town but little loved by the decorous and the sober. But 
 from the low and rude evidences of vice around her she was 
 saved by her misfortune. And at that hour the streets were 
 quiet and silent, nor was her youthful ear shocked by the 
 sounds which too often broke along the obscene and obscure 
 haunts she patiently and sadly traversed. 
 
 She knocked at the back-door of a sort of tavern; it opened, 
 and a rude voice bade her give an account of the sesterces. 
 Ere she could reply, another voice, less vulgarly accented, 
 said— 
 
 “Never mind those petty profits, my Burbo. The girl’s 
 voice will be wanted again soon at our rich friend’s revels; and 
 he pays, as thou knowest, pretty high for his nightingales’ 
 tongues.” 
 
 “Oh, I hope not—I trust not,” cried Nydia, trembling; “I 
 will beg from sunrise to sunset, but send me not there.” 
 
 “And why?” asked the same voice. 
 
 “Because—because I am young, and delicately born, and 
 the female companions I meet there are not fit associates for 
 one who—who ” 
 
 “Is a slave in the house of Burbo,” returned the voice ironi¬ 
 cally, and with a coarse laugh. 
 
 The Thessalian put down the flowers, and, leaning her face 
 on her hands, wept silently. 
 
 Meanwhile, Glaucus sought the house of the beautiful Nea¬ 
 politan. He found lone sitting amidst her attendants, who 
 were at work around her. Her harp stood at her side, for lone 
 herself was unusually idle, perhaps unusually thoughtful, that 
 day. He thought her even more beautiful by the morning 
 light, and in her simple robe, than amidst the blazing lamps, 
 and decorated with the costly jewels of the previous night; not 
 the less so from a certain paleness that overspread her trans¬ 
 parent hues,—not the less so from the blush that mounted 
 over them when he approached. Accustomed to flatter, flat- 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 47 
 
 tery died upon his lips when he addressed lone. He felt it 
 beneath her to utter the homage which every look conveyed. 
 They spoke of Greece; this was a theme on which lone loved 
 rather to listen than to converse: it was a theme on which the 
 Greek could have been eloquent for ever. He described to her 
 the silver olive groves that yet clad the banks of Ilissus, and 
 the temples, already despoiled of half their glories—but how 
 beautiful in decay! He looked back on the melancholy city of 
 Harmodius the free, and Pericles the magnificent, from the 
 height of that distant memory, which mellowed into one hazy 
 light all the ruder and darker shades. He had seen the land 
 of poetry chiefly in the poetical age of early youth; and the 
 associations of patriotism were blended with those of the flush 
 and spring of life. And lone listened to him, absorbed and 
 mute; dearer were those accents, and those descriptions, than 
 all the prodigal adulation of her numberless adorers. Was it 
 a sin to love her countryman? she loved Athens in him—the 
 gods of her race, the land of her dreams, spoke to her in his 
 voice! From that time they daily saw each other. At the cool 
 of the evening they made excursions on the placid sea. By 
 night they met again in lone’s porticoes and halls. Their love 
 was sudden, but it was strong; it filled all the sources of their 
 life. Heart—brain—sense—imagination, all were its ministers 
 and priests. As you take some obstacle from two objects that 
 have a mutual attraction, they met, and united at once; their 
 wonder was, that they had lived separate so long. And it was 
 natural that they should so love. Young, beautiful, and gifted, 
 —of the same birth, and the same souls;—there was poetry in 
 their very union. They imagined the heavens smiled upon 
 their affection. As the persecuted seek refuge at the shrine, 
 so they recognised in the altar of their love an asylum from 
 the sorrows of earth; they covered it with flowers,—they knew 
 not of the serpents that lay coiled behind. 
 
 One evening, the fifth after their first meeting at Pompeii, 
 GlaucuS and lone, with a small party of chosen friends, were 
 returning from an excursion round the bay; their vessel 
 skimmed lightly over the twilight waters, whose lucid mirror 
 was only broken by the dripping oars. As the rest of the party 
 
48 
 
 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 conversed gaily with each other, Glaucus lay at the feet of 
 lone, and he would have looked up in her face, but he did not 
 dare. lone broke the pause between them. 
 
 “My poor brother,” said she, sighing, “how once he would 
 have enjoyed this hour!” 
 
 “Your brother!” said Glaucus; “I have not seen him. Oc¬ 
 cupied with you, I have thought of nothing else, or I should 
 have asked if that was not your brother for whose companion¬ 
 ship you left me at the Temple of Minerva, inNeapolis?” 
 
 “It was.” 
 
 “And is he here?” 
 
 “He is.” 
 
 “At Pompeii! and not constantly with you? Impossible!” 
 
 “He has other duties,” answered lone, sadly; “he is a priest 
 of Isis.” 
 
 “So young, too; and that priesthood, in its laws at least, so 
 severe!” said the warm and bright-hearted Greek, in surprise 
 and pity. “What could have been his inducement?” 
 
 “He was always enthusiastic and fervent in religious devo¬ 
 tion ; and the eloquence of an Egyptian—our friend and guard¬ 
 ian—kindled in him the pious desire to consecrate his life to 
 the most mystic of our deities. Perhaps in the intenseness of 
 his zeal, he found in the severity of that peculiar priesthood its 
 peculiar attraction.” 
 
 “And he does not repent his choice?—I trust he is happy.” 
 
 lone sighed deeply, and lowered her veil over her eyes. 
 
 “I wish,” said she, after a pause, “that he had not been so 
 hasty. Perhaps, like all who expect too much, he is revolted 
 too easily!” 
 
 “Then he is not happy in his new condition. And this 
 Egyptian, was he a priest himself? was he interested in recruits 
 to the sacred band?” 
 
 “No. His main interest was in our happiness. He thought 
 he promoted that of my brother. We were left orphans.” 
 
 “Like myself,” said Glaucus, with a deep meaning in his 
 voice. 
 
 lone cast down her eyes as she resumed,—- 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 49 
 
 “And Arbaces sought to supply the place of our parent. 
 You must know him. He loves genius.” 
 
 “Arbaces! I know him already; at least, we speak when 
 we meet. But for your praise I would not seek to know more 
 of him. My heart inclines readily to most of my kind. But 
 that dark Egyptian, with his gloomy brow and icy smile, seems 
 to me to sadden the very sun. One would think that, like 
 Epimenides, the Cretan, he had spent forty years in a cave, 
 and had found something unnatural in the daylight ever after¬ 
 wards.” 
 
 “Yet, like Epimenides, he is kind, and wise, and gentle,” 
 answered lone. 
 
 “Oh, happy that he has thy praise! He needs no other 
 virtues to make him dear to me.” 
 
 “His calm, his coldness,” said lone, evasively pursuing the 
 subject, “are perhaps but the exhaustion of past sufferings; as 
 yonder mountain (and she pointed to Vesuvius), which we see 
 dark and tranquil in the distance, once nursed the fires for 
 ever quenched.” 
 
 They both gazed on the mountain as lone said these words; 
 the rest of the sky was bathed in rosy and tender hues, but 
 over that grey summit, rising amidst the woods and vineyards 
 that then clomb half-way up the ascent, there hung a black and 
 ominous cloud, the single frown of the landscape. A sudden 
 and unaccountable gloom came over each as they thus gazed ; 
 and in that sympathy which love had already taught them, 
 and which bade them, in the slightest shadows of emotion, 
 the faintest presentiment of evil, turn for refuge to each other, 
 their gaze at the same moment left the mountain, and full of 
 unimaginable tenderness met. What need had they of words 
 to say they loved? 
 
 Pompeii . 
 
 4 
 
50 
 
 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 The Fowler snares again the Bird that had just escaped, and sets his Nets 
 for a new Victim. 
 
 IN the history I relate, the events are crowded and rapid as 
 those of the drama. I write of an epoch in which days sufficed 
 to ripen the ordinary fruits of years. 
 
 Meanwhile, Arbaces had not of late much frequented the 
 house of lone; and when he had visited her he had not en¬ 
 countered Glaucus, nor knew he, as yet, of that love which 
 had so suddenly sprung up between himself and his designs. 
 In his interest for the brother of lone, he had been forced, too, 
 a little while, to suspend his interest in lone herself. His 
 pride and his selfishness were aroused and alarmed at the sud¬ 
 den change which had come over the spirit of the youth. He 
 trembled lest he himself should lose a docile pupil and Isis an 
 enthusiastic servant. Apsecides had ceased to seek or to consult 
 him. He was rarely to be found; he turned sullenly from the 
 Egyptian,—nay, he fled when he perceived him in the distance. 
 Arbaces was one of those haughty and powerful spirits accus¬ 
 tomed to master others; he chafed at the notion that one once 
 his own should ever elude his grasp. He swore inly that Apse¬ 
 cides should not escape him. 
 
 It was with this resolution that he passed through a thick 
 grove in the city, which lay between his house and that of lone, 
 in his way to the latter; and there, leaning against a tree, and 
 gazing on the ground, he came unawares on the young priest 
 of Isis. 
 
 “Apsecides!” said he,—and he laid his hand affectionately 
 on the young man’s shoulder. 
 
 The priest started; and his first instinct seemed to be that 
 of flight. “My son,” said the Egyptian, “what has chanced that 
 you desire to shun me?” 
 
 Apsecides remained silent and sullen, looking down on 
 the earth, as his lips quivered, and his breast heaved with 
 emotion. 
 
 “Speak to me, my friend,” continued the Egyptian. “Speak. 
 Something burdens thy spirit. What hast thou to reveal?” 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 5i 
 
 “To thee—nothing.” 
 
 “And why is it to me thou art thus unconfidential?” 
 
 “Because thou hast been my enemy.” 
 
 “Let us confer,” said Arbaces, in a low voice; and drawing 
 the reluctant arm of the priest in his own, he led him to one of 
 the seats which were scattered within the grove. They sat 
 down,—and in those gloomy forms there was something con¬ 
 genial to the shade and solitude of the place. 
 
 Apaecides was in the spring of his years, yet he seemed to 
 have exhausted even more of life than the Egyptian; his 
 delicate and regular features were worn and colourless; his 
 eyes were hollow, and shone with a brilliant and feverish glare; 
 his frame bowed prematurely, and in his hands, which were 
 small to effeminacy, the blue and swollen veins indicated the 
 lassitude and weakness of the relaxed fibres. You saw in his 
 face a strong resemblance to lone, but the expression was al¬ 
 together different from that majestic and spiritual calm which 
 breathed so divine and classical a repose over his sister’s 
 beauty. In her, enthusiasm was visible, but it seemed always 
 suppressed and restrained; this made the charm and sentiment 
 of her countenance; you longed to awaken a spirit which re¬ 
 posed, but evidently did not sleep. In Apaecides the whole 
 aspect betokened the fervour and passion of his temperament, 
 and the intellectual portion of his nature seemed, by the wild 
 fire of the eyes, the great breadth of the temples when com¬ 
 pared with the height of the brow, the trembling restlessness 
 of the lips, to be swayed and tyrannised over by the imaginative 
 and ideal. Fancy, with the sister, had stopped short at the 
 golden goal of poetry; with the brother, less happy, and less 
 restrained, it had wandered into visions more intangible and 
 unembodied; and the faculties which gave genius to the one 
 threatened madness to the other. 
 
 “You say I have been your enemy,” said Arbaces. “I 
 know the cause of that unjust accusation: I have placed you 
 amidst the priests of Isis—you are revolted at their trickeries 
 and imposture—you think that I too have deceived you—the 
 purity of your mind is offended—you imagine that I am one of 
 the deceitful-” 
 
 4 
 
52 
 
 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 “You knew the jugglings of that impious craft,” answered 
 Apaecides; “why did you disguise them from me?—When you 
 excited my desire to devote myself to the office whose garb I 
 bear, you spoke to me of the holy life of men resigning them¬ 
 selves to knowledge—you have given me for companions an 
 ignorant and sensual herd who have no knowledge, but that of 
 the grossest frauds;—you spoke to me of men sacrificing the 
 earthlier pleasures to the sublime cultivation of virtue—you 
 place me amongst men reeking with all the filthiness of vice; 
 —you spoke to me of the friends, the enlighteners of our 
 common kind—I see but their cheats and deluders! Oh, it was 
 basely done!—you have robbed me of the glory of youth, of 
 the convictions of virtue, of the sanctifying thirst after wisdom. 
 Young as I was, rich, fervent, the sunny pleasures of earth 
 before me, I resigned all without a sigh, nay, with happiness 
 and exultation, in the thought that I resigned them for the 
 abstruse mysteries of diviner wisdom, for the companion¬ 
 ship of gods — for the revelations of Heaven—and now— 
 now-■” 
 
 Convulsive sobs checked the priest’s voice; he covered 
 his face with his hands, and large tears forced themselves 
 through the wasted fingers, and ran profusely down his 
 vest. 
 
 “What I promised to thee, that will I give, my friend, my 
 pupil: these have been but trials to thy virtue—it comes forth 
 the brighter for thy noviciate,—think no more of those dull 
 cheats—assort no more with those menials of the goddess, 
 the atrienses* of her hall — you are worthy to enter into 
 the penetralia. I henceforth will be your priest, your guide, 
 and you who now curse my friendship shall live to bless 
 it.” 
 
 The young man lifted up his head and gazed with a vacant 
 and wondering stare upon the Egyptian. 
 
 “Listen to me,” continued Arbaces, in an earnest and so¬ 
 lemn voice, casting first his searching eyes around to see that 
 they were still alone. “From Egypt came all the knowledge 
 
 # The slaves who had the care of the atrium. 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 53 
 
 of the world; from Egypt came the lore of Athens, and the 
 profound policy of Crete; from Egypt came those early and 
 mysterious tribes which (long before the hordes of Romulus 
 swept over the plains of Italy, and in the eternal cycle of events 
 drove back civilisation into barbarism and darkness,) pos¬ 
 sessed all the arts of wisdom and the graces of intellectual life. 
 From Egypt came the rites and the grandeur of that solemn 
 Caere, whose inhabitants taught their iron vanquishers of Rome 
 all that they yet know of elevated in religion and sublime in 
 worship. And how deemest thou, young man, that that dread 
 Egypt, the mother of countless nations, achieved her great¬ 
 ness, and soared to her cloud-capt eminence of wisdom?—It 
 was the result of a profound and holy policy. Your modern 
 nations owe their greatness to Egypt—Egypt her greatness to 
 her priests. Rapt in themselves, coveting a sway over the 
 nobler part of man, his soul and his belief, these ancient mi¬ 
 nisters of God were inspired with the grandest thought that 
 ever exalted mortals. From the revolutions of the stars, 
 from the seasons of the earth, from the round and unvarying 
 circle of human destinies, they devised an august allegory; 
 they made it gross and palpable to the vulgar by the signs of 
 gods and goddesses, and that which in reality was Government 
 they named Religion. Isis is a fable—start not!—that for which 
 Isis is a type is a reality, an immortal being; Isis is nothing. 
 Nature, which she represents, is the mother of all things—• 
 dark, ancient, inscrutable, save to the gifted few. ‘None 
 among mortals hath ever taken off my veil/ so saith the Isis 
 that you adore; but to the wise that veil hath been removed, 
 and we have stood face to face with the solemn loveliness of 
 Nature. The priests then were the benefactors, the civilisers 
 of mankind; true, they were also cheats, impostors if you will. 
 But think you, young man, that if they had not deceived their 
 kind they could have served them? The ignorant and servile 
 vulgar must be blinded to attain to their proper good; they 
 would not believe a maxim—they revere an oracle. The Em¬ 
 peror of Rome sways the vast and various tribes of earth, and 
 harmonises the conflicting and disunited elements; thence 
 come peace order, law, the blessings of life. Think you it is 
 
54 
 
 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 the man, the emperor, that thus sways?—no, it is the pomp, 
 the awe, the majesty that surrounds him —these are his impos¬ 
 tures, his delusions; our oracles and our divinations, our rites 
 and our ceremonies, are the means of our sovereignty and the 
 engines of our power. They are the same means to the 
 same end, the welfare and harmony of mankind. You 
 listen to me rapt and intent — the light begins to dawn upon 
 you.” 
 
 Apsecides remained silent, but the changes rapidly passing 
 over his speaking countenance betrayed the effect produced 
 upon him by the words of the Egyptian—words made tenfold 
 more eloquent by the voice, the aspect, and the manner of the 
 man. 
 
 “While, then,” resumed Arbaces, “our fathers of the Nile 
 thus achieved the first elements by whose life chaos is des¬ 
 troyed, namely, the obedience and reverence of the multitude 
 for the few, they drew from their majestic and starred medita¬ 
 tions that wisdom which was no delusion: they invented the 
 codes and regularities of law—the arts and glories of existence. 
 They asked belief; they returned the gift by civilisation. Were 
 not their very cheats a virtue? Trust me, whosoever in yon 
 far heavens of a diviner and more beneficent nature look down 
 upon our world, smile approvingly on the wisdom which 
 has worked such ends. But you wish me to apply these gene¬ 
 ralities to yourself; I hasten to obey the wish. The altars of 
 the goddess of our ancient faith must be served, and served 
 too by others than the stolid and soulless things that are but 
 as pegs and hooks whereon to hang the fillet and the robe. 
 Remember two sayings of Sextus the Pythagorean, sayings 
 borrowed from the lore of Egypt. The first is, ‘Speak not of 
 God to the multitude;’ the second is, ‘The man worthy of God 
 is a god among men.’ As Genius gave to the ministers of 
 Egypt worship, that empire in late ages so fearfully decayed, 
 thus by Genius only can the dominion be restored. I saw in 
 you, Apsecides, a pupil worthy of my lessons — a minister 
 worthy of the great ends which may yet be wrought: your 
 energy, your talents, your purity of faith, your earnestness of 
 enthusiasm, all fitted you for that calling which demands so 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 55 
 
 imperiously high and ardent qualities: I fanned, therefore, 
 your sacred desires; I stimulated you to the step you have 
 taken. But you blame me that I did not reveal to you the little 
 souls and the juggling tricks of your companions. Had I done 
 so, Apaecides, I had defeated my own object: your noble 
 nature would have at once revolted, and Isis would have lost 
 her priest.” 
 
 Apaecides groaned aloud. The Egyptian continued, without 
 heeding the interruption. 
 
 “I placed you, therefore, without preparation, in the temple; 
 I left you suddenly to discover and to be sickened by all those 
 mummeries which dazzle the herd. I desired that you should 
 perceive how those engines are moved by which the fountain 
 that refreshes the world casts its waters in the air. It was the 
 trial ordained of old to all our priests. They who accustom 
 themselves to the impostures of the vulgar, are left to prac¬ 
 tise them;—for those like you, whose higher natures demand 
 higher pursuit, religion opens more godlike secrets. I am 
 pleased to find in you the character I had expected. You have 
 taken the vows; you cannot recede. Advance—I will be your 
 guide.” 
 
 “And what wilt thou teach me, O singular and fearful man? 
 New cheats—new-” 
 
 “No—I have thrown thee into the abyss of disbelief; I will 
 lead thee now to the eminence of faith. Thou hast seen the 
 false types: thou shalt learn now the realities they represent. 
 There is no shadow, Apaecides, without its substance. Come 
 to me this night. Your hand.” 
 
 Impressed, excited, bewildered by the language of the 
 Egyptian, Apaecides gave him his hand, and master and pupil 
 parted. 
 
 It was true that for Apaecides there was no retreat. He had 
 taken the vows of celibacy: he had devoted himself to a life 
 that at present seemed to possess all the austerities of fanati¬ 
 cism, without any of the consolations of belief. It was natural 
 that he should yet cling to a yearning desire to reconcile him¬ 
 self to an irrevocable career. The powerful and profound mind 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 56 
 
 of the Egyptian yet claimed an empire over his young imagina¬ 
 tion; excited him with vague conjecture, and kept him alter¬ 
 nately vibrating between hope and fear. 
 
 Meanwhile Arbaces pursued his slow and stately way to the 
 house of lone. As he entered the tablinum, he heard a voice 
 from the porticoes of the peristyle beyond, which, musical as 
 it was, sounded displeasingly on his ear—it was the voice of the 
 young and beautiful Glaucus, and for the first time an involun¬ 
 tary thrill of jealousy shot through the breast of the Egyptian. 
 On entering the peristyle, he found Glaucus seated by the side 
 of lone. The fountain in the odorous garden cast up its silver 
 spray in the air, and kept a delicious coolness in the midst of 
 the sultry noon. The handmaids, almost invariably attendant 
 on lone, who with her freedom of life preserved the most deli¬ 
 cate modesty, sat at a little distance; by the feet of Glaucus 
 lay the lyre on which he had been playing to lone one of the 
 Lesbian airs. The scene—the group before Arbaces, was 
 stamped by that peculiar and refined ideality of poesy which 
 we yet, not erroneously, imagine to be the distinction of the 
 ancients,—the marble columns, the vases of flowers, the statue, 
 white and tranquil, closing every vista; and above all, the two 
 living forms, from which a sculptor might have caught either 
 inspiration or despair! 
 
 Arbaces, pausing for a moment, gazed on the pair with a 
 brow from which all the usual stern serenity had fled; he re¬ 
 covered himself by an effort, and slowly approached them, but 
 with a step so soft and echoless, that even the attendants 
 heard him not; much less lone and her lover. 
 
 “And yet/’ said Glaucus, “it is only before we love that 
 we imagine that our poets have truly described the passion; 
 the instant the sun rises, all the stars that had shone in his 
 absence vanish into air. The poets exist only in the night of 
 the heart; they are nothing to us when we feel the full glory of 
 the god.” 
 
 “A gentle and most glowing image, noble Glaucus.” 
 
 Both started, and recognised behind the seat of lone the 
 cold and sarcastic face of the Egyptian. 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 57 
 
 “You are a sudden guest,” said Glaucus rising, and with a 
 forced smile. 
 
 “So ought all to be who know they are welcome,” returned 
 Arbaces, seating himself, and motioning to Glaucus to do the 
 same. 
 
 “I am glad,” said lone, “to see you at length together; 
 for you are suited to each other, and you are formed to be 
 friends.” 
 
 “Give me back some fifteen years of life,” replied the 
 Egyptian, “before you can place me on an equality with 
 Glaucus. Happy should I be to receive his friendship; but 
 what can I give him in return? Can I make to him the same 
 confidences that he would repose in me — of banquets and 
 garlands—of Parthian steeds, and the chances of the dice? 
 these pleasures suit his age, his nature, his career: they are 
 not for mine.” 
 
 So saying, the artful Egyptian looked down and sighed; 
 but from the comer of his eye he stole a glance towards lone, 
 to see how she received these insinuations of the pursuits 
 of her visitor. Her countenance did not satisfy him. Glaucus, 
 slightly colouring, hastened gaily to reply. Nor was he, 
 perhaps, without the same wish to disconcert and abash the 
 Egyptian. 
 
 “You are right, wise Arbaces,” said he; “we can esteem 
 each other, but we cannot be friends. My banquets lack the 
 secret salt, which, according to rumour, gives such zest to your 
 own. And, by Hercules! when I have reached your age, if I, 
 like you, may think it wise to pursue the pleasures of man¬ 
 hood, like you, I shall be doubtless sarcastic on the gallantries 
 of youth.” 
 
 The Egyptian raised his eyes to Glaucus with a sudden and 
 piercing glance. 
 
 “I do not understand you,” said he coldly; “but it is the 
 custom to consider that wit lies in obscurity.” He turned from 
 Glaucus as he spoke, with a scarcely perceptible sneer of con¬ 
 tempt, and after a moment’s pause, addressed himself to lone. 
 “I have not, beautiful lone,” said he, “been fortunate enough 
 
58 
 
 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 to find you within doors the last two or three times that I have 
 visited your vestibule.” 
 
 “The smoothness of the sea has tempted me much from 
 home,” replied lone, with a little embarrassment. 
 
 The embarrassment did not escape Arbaces; but, without 
 seeming to heed it, he replied with a smile: “You know the 
 old poet says, that ‘Women should keep within doors, and 
 there converse/ ”* 
 
 “The poet was a cynic,” said Glaucus, “and hated women.” 
 
 “He spake according to the customs of his country, and that 
 country is your boasted Greece.” 
 
 “To different periods different customs. Had our forefathers 
 known lone, they had made a different law.” 
 
 “Did you learn these pretty gallantries at Rome?” said Ar¬ 
 baces, with ill-suppressed emotion. 
 
 “One certainly would not go for gallantries to Egypt,” re¬ 
 torted Glaucus, playing carelessly with his chain. 
 
 “Come, come,” said lone, hastening to interrupt a conver¬ 
 sation which she saw, to her great distress, was so little likely 
 to cement the intimacy she had desired to effect between 
 Glaucus and her friend, “Arbaces must not to be so hard upon 
 his poor pupil. An orphan, and without a mother’s care—I may 
 be to blame for the independent and almost masculine liberty 
 of life that I have chosen: yet it is not greater than the Roman 
 women are accustomed to—it is not greater than the Grecian 
 ought to be. Alas! is it only to be among men that freedom 
 and virtue are to be deemed united? Why should the slavery 
 that destroys you be considered the only method to preserve 
 us? Ah! believe me, it has been the great error of men—and 
 one that has worked bitterly on their destinies, to imagine that 
 the nature of women is (I will not say inferior, that may be so, 
 but) so different from their own, in making laws unfavourable 
 to the intellectual advancement of women. Have they not, in 
 so doing, made laws against their children whom women are 
 to rear?—against the husbands, of whom women are to be the 
 friends, nay, sometimes the advisers?” lone stopped short 
 suddenly, and her face was suffused with the most enchanting 
 # Euripides. 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 59 
 
 blushes. She feared lest her enthusiasm had led her too far; 
 yet she feared the austere Arbaces less than the courteous 
 Glaucus, for she loved the last; and it was not the custom of 
 the Greeks to allow their women (at least such of their women 
 as they most honoured) the same liberty and the same station 
 as those of Italy enjoyed. She felt, therefore, a thrill of delight 
 as Glaucus earnestly replied,— 
 
 “Ever mayst thou think thus, lone—ever be your pure 
 heart your unerring guide! Happy it had been for Greece if 
 she had given to the chaste the same intellectual charms that 
 are so celebrated amongst the less worthy of her women. No 
 state falls from freedom — from knowledge, while your sex 
 smile only on the free, and by appreciating, encourage the 
 wise.” 
 
 Arbaces was silent, for it was neither his part to sanction 
 the sentiment of Glaucus, nor to condemn that of lone; and, 
 after a short and embarrassed conversation, Glaucus took his 
 leave of lone. 
 
 When he was gone, Arbaces, drawing his seat nearer to the 
 fair Neapolitan’s, said in those bland and subdued tones, in 
 which he knew so well how to veil the mingled art and fierce¬ 
 ness of his character,— 
 
 “Think not, my sweet pupil, if so I may call you, that I wish 
 to shackle that liberty you adorn while you assume: but which, 
 if not greater, as you rightly observe, than that possessed by 
 the Roman women, must at least be accompanied by great cir¬ 
 cumspection, when arrogated by one unmarried. Continue to 
 draw crowds of the gay, the brilliant, the wise themselves, to 
 your feet—continue to charm them with the conversation of an 
 Aspasia, the music of an Erinna—but reflect, at least, on those 
 censorious tongues which can so easily blight the tender repu¬ 
 tation of a maiden; and while you provoke admiration, give, I 
 beseech you, no victory to envy.” 
 
 “What mean you, Arbaces?” said lone, in an alarmed and 
 trembling voice: “I know you are my friend, that you desire 
 only my honour and my welfare. What is it you would say?” 
 
 “Your friend—ah, how sincerely! May I speak then as a 
 friend, without reserve and without offence?” 
 
6o 
 
 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 “I beseech you, do so.” 
 
 “This young profligate, this Glaucus, how didst thou know 
 him? Hast thou seen him often?” And as Arbaces spoke, he 
 fixed his gaze steadfastly upon lone, as if he sought to pene¬ 
 trate into her soul. 
 
 Recoiling before that gaze, with a strange fear which she 
 could not explain, the Neapolitan answered with confusion and 
 hesitation,—“He was brought to my house as a countryman of 
 my father’s, and I may say of mine. I have known him only 
 within this last week or so: but why these questions?” 
 
 “Forgive me,” said Arbaces; “I thought you might have 
 known him longer. Base insinuator that he is!” 
 
 “How! what mean you? Why that term?” 
 
 “It matters not: let me not rouse your indignation against 
 one who does not deserve so grave an honour.” 
 
 “I implore you speak. What has Glaucus insinuated? or 
 rather, in what do you suppose he has offended?” 
 
 Smothering his resentment at the last part of lone’s ques¬ 
 tion, Arbaces continued,—“You know his pursuits, his com¬ 
 panions, his habits; the comissatio and the alea (the revel and 
 the dice), make his occupation;—and amongst the associates 
 of vice how can he dream of virtue?” 
 
 “Still you speak riddles. By the Gods! I entreat you, say 
 the worst at once.” 
 
 “Well, then, it must be so. Know, my lone, that it was 
 but yesterday that Glaucus boasted openly—yes, in the public 
 baths —of your love to him. He said it amused him to take 
 advantage of it. Nay, I will do him justice, he praised your 
 beauty. Who could deny it? But he laughed scornfully when 
 his Clodius, or his Lepidus, asked him if he loved you enough 
 for marriage, and when he purposed to adorn his door-posts 
 with flowers?” 
 
 “Impossible! How heard you this base slander?” 
 
 “Nay, would you have me relate to you all the comments 
 of the insolent coxcombs with which the story has circled 
 through the town? Be assured that I myself disbelieved at 
 first, and that I have now painfully been convinced by several 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 6l 
 
 ear-witnesses of the truth of what I have reluctantly told 
 thee.” 
 
 lone sank back, and her face was whiter than the pillar 
 against which she leaned for support. 
 
 “I own it vexed—it irritated me, to hear your name thus 
 lightly pitched from lip to lip, like some mere dancing girl’s 
 fame. I hastened this morning to seek and to warn you. I 
 found Glaucus here. I was stung from my self-possession. I 
 could not conceal my feelings; nay, I was uncourteous in thy 
 presence. Canst thou forgive thy friend, lone?” 
 
 lone placed her hand in his, but replied not. 
 
 “Think no more of this,” said he; “but let it be a warning 
 voice, to tell thee how much prudence thy lot requires. It can¬ 
 not hurt thee, lone, for a moment; for a gay thing like this 
 could never have been honoured by even a serious thought 
 from lone. These insults only wound when they come from 
 one we love; far different indeed is he whom the lofty lone 
 shall stoop to love.” 
 
 “Love,” muttered lone, with an hysterical laugh. “Ay, in¬ 
 deed.” 
 
 It is not without interest to observe in those remote times, 
 and under a social system so widely different from the modern, 
 the same small causes that ruffle and interrupt the “course of 
 love,” which operate so commonly at this day;—the same in¬ 
 ventive jealousy, the same cunning slander, the same crafty 
 and fabricated retailings of petty gossip, which so often now 
 suffice to break the ties of the truest love, and counteract the 
 tenor of circumstances most apparently propitious. When 
 the bark sails on over the smoothest wave, the fable tells us of 
 the diminutive fish that can cling to the keel and arrest its 
 progress: so is it ever with the great passions of mankind; 
 and we should paint life but ill if, even in times the most 
 prodigal of romance, and of the romance of which we most 
 largely avail ourselves, we did not also describe the mechanism 
 of those trivial and household springs of mischief which we 
 see every day at work in our chambers and at our hearths. It 
 is in these, the lesser intrigues of life, that we mostly find our¬ 
 selves at home with the past. 
 
6 2 
 
 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 Most cunningly had the Egyptian appealed to lone’s ruling 
 foible—most dexterously had he applied the poisoned dart to 
 her pride. He fancied he had arrested what he hoped, from the 
 shortness of the time she had known Glaucus, was, at most, 
 but an incipient fancy; and hastening to change the subject, he 
 now led her to talk of her brother. Their conversation did not 
 last long. He left her, resolved not again to trust so much to 
 absence, but to visit—to watch her—every day. 
 
 No sooner had his shadow glided from her presence, than 
 woman’s pride—her sex’s dissimulation—deserted his intended 
 victim, and the haughty lone burst into passionate tears. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 The Gay Life of the Pompeian Lounger.—A Miniature Likeness of the Roman 
 Baths. 
 
 When Glaucus left lone, he felt as if he trod upon air. In 
 the interview with which he had just been blessed, he had for 
 the first time gathered from her distinctly that his love was not 
 unwelcome to, and would not be unrewarded by, her. This 
 hope filled him with a rapture for which earth and heaven 
 seemed too narrow to afford a vent. Unconscious of the sud¬ 
 den enemy he had left behind, and forgetting not only his 
 taunts but his very existence, Glaucus passed through the gay 
 streets, repeating to himself, in the wantonness of joy, the 
 music of the soft air to which lone had listened with such in¬ 
 tentness; and now he entered the Street of Fortune, with its 
 raised footpath—its houses painted without, and the open 
 doors admitting the view of the glowing frescoes within. Each 
 end of the street was adorned with a triumphal arch: and as 
 Glaucus now came before the Temple of Fortune, the jutting 
 portico of that beautiful fane (which is supposed to have been 
 built by one of the family of Cicero, perhaps by the orator 
 himself) imparted a dignified and venerable feature to a scene 
 otherwise more brilliant than lofty in its character. That 
 temple was one of the most graceful specimens of Roman 
 
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THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 63 
 
 architecture. It was raised on a somewhat lofty podium; and 
 between two flights of steps ascending to a platform stood the 
 altar of the goddess. From this platform another flight of 
 broad stairs led to the portico, from the height of whose fluted 
 columns hung festoons of the richest flowers. On either side 
 the extremities of the temple were placed statues of Grecian 
 workmanship; and at a little distance from the temple rose the 
 triumphal arch crowned with an equestrian statue of Caligula, 
 which was flanked by trophies of bronze. In the space before 
 the temple a lively throng were assembled—some seated on 
 benches and discussing the politics of the empire, some con¬ 
 versing on the approaching spectacle of the amphitheatre. 
 One knot of young men were lauding a new beauty, another 
 discussing the merits of the last play; a third group, more 
 stricken in age, were speculating on the chance of the trade 
 with Alexandria, and amidst these were many merchants in the 
 Eastern costume, whose loose and peculiar robes, painted and 
 gemmed slippers, and composed and serious countenances, 
 formed a striking contrast to the tunicked forms and animated 
 gestures of the Italians. For that impatient and lively people 
 had, as now, a language distinct from speech—a language of 
 signs and motions,inexpressibly significant and vivacious: their 
 descendants retain it, and the learned Jorio hath written a 
 most entertaining work upon that species of hieroglyphical 
 gesticulation. 
 
 Sauntering through the crowd, Glaucus soon found himself 
 amidst a group of his merry and dissipated friends. 
 
 “Ah!” said Sallust, “it is a lustrum since I saw you.” 
 
 “And how have you spent the lustrum? What new dishes 
 have you discovered?” 
 
 “I have been scientific,” returned Sallust, “and have made 
 some experiments in the feeding of lampreys: I confess I de¬ 
 spair of bringing them to the perfection which our Roman an¬ 
 cestors attained.” 
 
 “Miserable man! and why?” 
 
 “Because,” returned Sallust, with a sigh, “it is no longer 
 lawful to give them a slave to eat. I am very often tempted to 
 make away with a very fat carptor (butler) that I possess, and 
 
6 4 
 
 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII, 
 
 pop him slily into the reservoir. He would give the fish a most 
 oleaginous flavour! But slaves are not slaves now-a-days, and 
 have no sympathy with their masters’ interest—orDavus would 
 destroy himself to oblige me!” 
 
 “What news from Rome?” said Lepidus, as he languidly 
 joined the group. 
 
 “The emperor has been giving a splendid supper to the 
 senators,” answered Sallust. 
 
 “He is a good creature,” quothLepidus; “they say he never 
 sends a man away without granting his request.” 
 
 “ Perhaps he would let me kill a slave for my reservoir,” re¬ 
 turned Sallust, eagerly. 
 
 “Not unlikely,” said Glaucus; “for he who grants a favour 
 to one Roman, must always do it at the expense of another. 
 Be sure, that for every smile Titus has caused, a hundred eyes 
 have wept.” 
 
 “Long live Titus!” cried Pansa, overhearing the emperor’s 
 name, as he swept patronisingly through the crowd; “he has 
 promised my brother a quaestorship, because he hadrun through 
 his fortune.” 
 
 “And wishes now to enrich himself among the people, my 
 Pansa,” said Glaucus. 
 
 “Exactly so,” said Pansa. 
 
 “ That is putting the people to some use,” said Glaucus. 
 
 “To be sure,” returned Pansa. “Well, I must go and look 
 after the aerarium—it is a little out of repair;” and followed by 
 a long train of clients, distinguished from the rest of the throng 
 by the togas they wore (for togas, once the sign of freedom in 
 a citizen, were now the badge of servility to a patron), the 
 aedile fidgeted fussily away. 
 
 “Poor Pansa!” said Lepidus: “he never has time for plea¬ 
 sure. Thank Heaven I am not an asdile!” 
 
 “Ah, Glaucus! how are you? gay as ever!” said Clodius, 
 joining the group. 
 
 “Are you come to sacrifice to Fortune?” said Sallust. 
 
 “I sacrifice to her every night,” returned the gamester. 
 
 “I do not doubt it. No man has made more victims!” 
 
 “By Plercules, a biting speech!” cried Glaucus, laughing. 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 65 
 
 “The dog’s letter is never out of your mouth, Sallust,” said 
 Clodius, angrily; “you are always snarling.” 
 
 “I may well have the dog’s letter in my mouth, since, when¬ 
 ever I play with you, I have the dog’s throw in my hand,” re¬ 
 turned Sallust. 
 
 “Hist!” said Glaucus, taking a rose from a flower-girl, who 
 stood beside. 
 
 “The rose is the token of silence,” replied Sallust; “but I 
 love only to see it at the supper-table.” 
 
 “Talking of that, Diomed gives a grand feast next week,” 
 said Sallust: “are you invited, Glaucus?” 
 
 “Yes; I received an invitation this morning.” 
 
 “And I, too,” said Sallust, drawing a square piece of papyrus 
 from his girdle: “I see that he asks us an hour earlier than 
 usual; an earnest of something sumptuous.”* 
 
 “Oh! he is rich as Croesus,” said Clodius; “and his bill of 
 fare is as long as an epic.” 
 
 “Well, let us to the baths,” said Glaucus: “this is the time 
 when all the world is there; and Fulvius, whom you admire so 
 much, is going to read us his last ode.” 
 
 The young men assented readily to the proposal, and they 
 strolled to the baths. 
 
 Although the public thermae, or baths, were instituted rather 
 for the poorer citizens than the wealthy (for the last had baths in 
 their own houses), yet, to the crowds of all ranks who resorted to 
 them, it was a favourite place for conversation, and for that in¬ 
 dolent lounging so dear to a gay and thoughtless people. The 
 baths at Pompeii differed, of course, in plan and construction 
 from the vast and complicated thermae of Rome; and, indeed, it 
 seems that in each city of the empire there was always some 
 slight modification of arrangement in the general architecture 
 of the public baths. This mightily puzzles the learned,—as if 
 architects and fashion were not capricious before the nineteenth 
 century! Our party entered by the principal porch in the Street 
 of Fortune. At the wing of the portico sat the keeper of the 
 
 * The Romans sent tickets of invitation, like the moderns, specifying the hour 
 of the repast; which, if the intended feast was to be sumptuous, was earlier than 
 usual. 
 
 Pompeii. 5 
 
66 
 
 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 baths, with his two boxes before him, one for the money he 
 received, one for the tickets he dispensed. Round the walls 
 of the portico were seats crowded with persons of all ranks; 
 while others, as the regimen of the physicians prescribed, were 
 walking briskly to and fro the portico, stopping every now and 
 then to gaze on the innumerable notices of shows, games, sales, 
 exhibitions, which were painted or inscribed upon the walls. 
 The general subject of conversation was,however, the spectacle 
 announced in the amphitheatre; and each new-comer was 
 fastened upon by a group eager to know if Pompeii had been 
 so fortunate as to produce some monstrous criminal, some 
 happy case of sacrilege or of murder, which would allow the 
 sediles to provide a man for the jaws of the lion: all other more 
 common exhibitions seemed dull and tame, when compared 
 with the possibility of this fortunate occurrence. 
 
 “For my part,” said one jolly-looking man, who was a gold¬ 
 smith, “I think the emperor, if he is as good as they say, might 
 have sent us a Jew.” 
 
 “Why not take one of the new sect of Nazarenes?” said a 
 philosopher. “I am not cruel: but an atheist, one who denies 
 Jupiter himself, deserves no mercy.” 
 
 “I care not how many gods a man likes to believe in,” said 
 the jeweller; “but to deny all gods is something monstrous.” 
 
 “Yet I fancy,” said Glaucus, “that these people are not ab¬ 
 solutely atheists. I am told that they believe in a God—nay, 
 in a future state.” 
 
 “ Quite a mistake, my dear Glaucus,” said the philosopher. 
 “I have conferred with them—they laughed in my face when I 
 talked of Pluto and Hades.” 
 
 “O ye Gods!” exclaimed the goldsmith, in horror; “are 
 there any of these wretches in Pompeii?” 
 
 “I know there are a few—but they meet so privately, that 
 it is impossible to discover who they are.” 
 
 As Glaucus turned away, a sculptor, who was a great enthu¬ 
 siast in his art, looked after him admiringly. 
 
 “Ah!” said he, “if we could get him on the arena—there 
 would be a model for you! What limbs! what a head! he ought 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 67 
 
 to have been a gladiator! A subject—a subject—worthy of our 
 art! Why don’t they give him to the lion?” 
 
 Meanwhile Fulvius, the Roman poet, whom his contempora¬ 
 ries declared immortal, and who, but for this history, would 
 never have been heard of in our neglectful age, came eagerly 
 up to Glaucus: “Oh, my Athenian, my Glaucus, you have come 
 to hear my ode! That is indeed an honour; you, a Greek—to 
 whom the very language of common life is poetry. How I 
 thank you! It is but a trifle; but if I secure your approbation, 
 perhaps I may get an introduction to Titus. Oh, Glaucus! a 
 poet without a patron is an amphora without a label; the wine 
 may be good, but nobody will laud it! And what says Pytha¬ 
 goras?—‘Frankincense to the gods, but praise to man/ A 
 patron, then, is the poet’s priest; he procures him the incense, 
 and obtains him his believers.” 
 
 “But all Pompeii is your patron, and every portico an altar 
 in your praise.” 
 
 “Ah! thepoorPompeians are very civil—they love to honour 
 merit. But they are only the inhabitants of a petty town— 
 spero meliora\ Shall we within?” 
 
 “Certainly; we lose time till we hear your poem.” 
 
 At this instant there was a rush of some twenty persons 
 from the baths into the portico; and a slave stationed at the 
 door of a small corridor now admitted the poet, Glaucus, Clo- 
 dius, and a troop of the bard’s other friends, into the passage. 
 
 “A poor place this compared with the Roman thermae!” said 
 Lepidus, disdainfully. 
 
 “Yet is there some taste in the ceiling,” said Glaucus, who 
 was in a mood to be pleased with everything; pointing to the 
 stars which studded the roof. 
 
 Lepidus shrugged his shoulders, but was too languid to 
 reply. 
 
 They now entered a somewhat spacious chamber, which 
 served for the purposes of the apodyterium (that is, a place 
 where the bathers prepared themselves for their luxurious ab¬ 
 lutions). The vaulted ceiling was raised from a cornice, glow¬ 
 ingly coloured with motley and grotesque paintings; the 
 ceiling itself was panelled in white compartments bordered 
 
 5 * 
 
68 
 
 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 with rich crimson; the unsullied and shining floor was paved 
 with white mosaics, and along the walls were ranged benches 
 for the accommodation of the loiterers. This chamber did not 
 possess the numerous and spacious windows which Vitruvius 
 attributes to his more magnificent frigidarium. The Pompeians, 
 as all the southern Italians, were fond of banishing the light of 
 their sultry skies, and combined in their voluptuous associa¬ 
 tions the idea of luxury with darkness. Two windows of glass * 
 alone admitted the soft and shaded ray; and the compartment 
 in which one of these casements was placed was adorned with 
 a large relief of the destruction of the Titans. 
 
 In this apartment Fulvius seated himself with a magisterial 
 air, and his audience gathering round him, encouraged him to 
 commence his recital. 
 
 The poet did not require much pressing. He drew forth 
 from his vest a roll of papyrus, and after hemming three times, 
 as much to command silence as to clear his voice, he began 
 that wonderful ode, of which, to the great mortification of the 
 author of this history, no single verse can be discovered. 
 
 By the plaudits he received, it was doubtless worthy of his 
 fame; and Glaucus was the only listener who did not find it 
 excel the best odes of Horace. 
 
 The poem concluded, those who took only the cold bath 
 began to undress; they suspended their garments on hooks 
 fastened in the wall, and receiving, according to their condition, 
 either from their own slaves or those of the thermae, loose robes 
 in exchange, withdrew into that graceful and circular building 
 which yet exists, to shame the unlaving posterity of the south. 
 
 The more luxurious departed by another door to the tepi- 
 darium, a place which was heated to a voluptuous warmth, 
 partly by a movable fireplace, principally by a suspended pave¬ 
 ment, beneath which was conducted the caloric of the laco- 
 nicum. 
 
 Here this portion of the intended bathers, after unrobing 
 
 * The discoveries at Pompeii have controverted the long-established error of 
 the antiquaries, that glass windows were unknown to the Romans—the use of 
 them was not, however, common among the middle and inferior classes in their 
 private dwellings. 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEIL 
 
 69 
 
 themselves, remained for some time enjoying the artificial 
 warmth of the luxurious air. And this room, as befitted its im¬ 
 portant rank in the long process of ablution, was more richly 
 and elaborately decorated than the rest; the arched roof was 
 beautifully carved and painted; the windows above, of ground 
 glass, admitted but wandering and uncertain rays; below the 
 massive cornices were rows of figures in massive and bold 
 relief; the walls glowed with crimson, the pavement was skil¬ 
 fully tessellated in white mosaics. Here the habituated bathers, 
 men who bathed seven times a day, would remain in a state of 
 enervate and speechless lassitude, either before or (mostly) 
 after the water-bath; and many of these victims of the pursuit 
 of health turned their listless eyes on the newcomers, recognis¬ 
 ing their friends with a nod, but dreading the fatigue of con¬ 
 versation. 
 
 From this place the party again diverged, according to their 
 several fancies, some to the sudatorium, which answered the 
 purpose of our vapour-baths, and thence to the warm-bath 
 itself; those more accustomed to exercise, and capable of 
 dispensing with so cheap a purchase of fatigue, resorted at 
 once to the calidarium, or water-bath. 
 
 In order to complete this sketch, and give to the reader an 
 adequate notion of this, the main luxury of the ancients, we will 
 accompany Lepidus, who regularly underwent the whole pro¬ 
 cess, save only the cold-bath, which had gone lately out of 
 fashion. Being then gradually warmed in the tepidarium, 
 which has just been described, the delicate steps of the Pom¬ 
 peian elegant were conducted to the sudatorium. Here let the 
 reader depict to himself the gradual process of the vapour- 
 bath, accompanied by an exhalation of spicy perfumes. After 
 our bather had undergone this operation, he was seized by his 
 slaves, who always awaited him at the baths, and the dews of 
 heat were removed by a kind of scraper, which (by the way) a 
 modern traveller has gravely declared to be used only to re¬ 
 move the dirt, not one particle of which could ever settle on 
 the polished skin of the practised bather. Thence, somewhat 
 cooled, he passed into the water-bath, over which fresh per¬ 
 fumes were profusely scattered, and on emerging from the 
 
70 
 
 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 opposite part of the room, a cooling shower played over his 
 head and form. Then wrapping himself in a light robe, he re¬ 
 turned once more to the tepidarium, where he found Glaucus, 
 who had not encountered the sudatorium; and now, the main 
 delight and extravagance of the bath commenced. Their slaves 
 anointed the bathers from vials of gold, of alabaster, or of 
 crystal, studded with profusest gems, and containing the rarest 
 unguents gathered from all quarters of the world. The num¬ 
 ber of these smegmata used by the wealthy would fill a mo¬ 
 dern volume—especially if the volume were printed by a 
 fashionable publisher; Amaracinum , Megalium , Nardum,—omne 
 quod exit in urn: —while soft music played in an adjacent cham¬ 
 ber, and such as used the bath in moderation, refreshed and 
 restored by the grateful ceremony, conversed with all the zest 
 and freshness of rejuvenated life. 
 
 “Blest be he who invented baths!” said Glaucus, stretching 
 himself along one of those bronze seats (then covered with soft 
 cushions) which the visitor to Pompeii sees at this day in that 
 same tepidarium. “Whether he were Hercules or Bacchus, 
 he deserved deification.” 
 
 “But tell me,” said a corpulent citizen, who was groaning 
 and wheezing under the operation of being rubbed down, “tell 
 me, O Glaucus—evil chance to thy hands, O slave! why so 
 rough?—tell me—ugh—ugh!—are the baths at Rome really so 
 magnificent?” Glaucus turned, and recognisedDiomed, though 
 not without some difficulty, so red and so inflamed were the 
 good man’s cheeks by the sudatory and the scraping he had so 
 lately undergone. “I fancy they must be a great deal finer 
 than these. Eh?” Suppressing a smile, Glaucus replied,— 
 
 “Imagine all Pompeii converted into baths, and you will 
 then form a notion of the size of the imperial thermae of Rome. 
 But a notion of the size only. Imagine every entertainment for 
 mind and body—enumerate all the gymnastic games our 
 fathers invented—repeat all the books Italy and Greece have 
 produced—suppose places for all these games, admirers for all 
 these works—add to this, baths of the vastest size, the most 
 complicated construction—intersperse the whole with gardens, 
 with theatres, with porticoes, with schools—suppose, in one 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 71 
 
 word, a city of the gods, composed but of palaces and public 
 edifices, and you may form some faint idea of the glories of 
 the great baths of Rome.” 
 
 “By Hercules!” said Diomed, opening his eyes. “Why, it 
 would take a man’s whole life to bathe.” 
 
 “At Rome, it often does so,” replied Glaucus, gravely. 
 “ There are many who live only at the baths. They repair there 
 the first hour in which the doors are opened, and remain till 
 that in which the doors are closed. They seem as if they knew 
 nothing of the rest of Rome, as if they despised all other 
 existence.” 
 
 “By Pollux! you amaze me.” 
 
 “Even those who bathe only thrice a day contrive to con¬ 
 sume their lives in this occupation. They take their exercise 
 in the tennis-court or the porticoes, to prepare them for the 
 first bath; they lounge into the theatre to refresh themselves 
 after it. They take their prandium under the trees, and think 
 over their second bath. By the time it is prepared, the 
 prandium is digested. From the second bath, they stroll into 
 one of the peristyles to hear some new poet recite; or into the 
 library to sleep over an old one. Then comes the supper, 
 which they still consider but a part of the bath; and then a 
 third time they bathe again, as the best place to converse with 
 their friends.” 
 
 “Per Hercle! but we have their imitators at Pompeii.” 
 
 “Yes, and without their excuse. The magnificent volup¬ 
 tuaries at the Roman baths are happy; they see nothing but 
 gorgeousness and splendour; they visit not the squalid parts 
 of the city, they know not that there is poverty in the world. 
 All Nature smiles for them, and her only frown is the last one 
 which sends them to bathe in Cocytus. Believe me, they are 
 your only true philosophers.” 
 
 While Glaucus was thus conversing, Lepidus, with closed 
 eyes and scarce perceptible breath, was undergoing all the 
 mystic operations, not one of which he ever suffered his at¬ 
 tendants to omit. After the perfumes and the unguents, they 
 scattered over him the luxurious powder which prevented any 
 further accession of heat: and this being rubbed away by the 
 
72 
 
 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 smooth surface of the pumice, he began to indue, not the gar¬ 
 ments he had put off, but those more festive ones termed “the 
 synthesis,” with which the Romans marked their respect for 
 the coming ceremony of supper, if rather, from its hour (three 
 o’clock in our measurement of time), it might not be more fitly 
 denominated dinner. This done, he at length opened his eyes 
 and gave signs of returning life. 
 
 At the same time, too, Sallust betokened by a long yawn 
 the evidence of existence. 
 
 “It is supper time,” said the epicure; “you, Glaucus and 
 Lepidus, come and sup with me.” 
 
 “Recollect you are all three engaged to my house next 
 week,” cried Diomed, who was mightily proud of the acquaint¬ 
 ance of men of fashion. 
 
 “Ah, ah! we recollect,” said Sallust: “the seat of memory, 
 my Diomed, is certainly in the stomach.” 
 
 Passing now once again into the cooler air, and so into the 
 street, our gallants of that day concluded the ceremony of a 
 Pompeian bath. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 Arbaces cogs his Dice with pleasure, and wins the Game. 
 
 The evening darkened over the restless city as Apascides 
 took his way to the house of the Egyptian. He avoided the 
 more lighted and populous streets; and as he strode onward 
 with his head buried in his bosom, and his arms folded within 
 his robe, there was something startling in the contrast, which 
 his solemn mien and wasted form presented to the thoughtless 
 brows and animated air of those who occasionally crossed his 
 path. 
 
 At length, however, a man of a more sober and staid de¬ 
 meanour, and who had twice passed him with a curious but 
 doubting look, touched him on the shoulder. 
 
 “Apsecides!” said he, and he made a rapid sign with his 
 hands: it was the sign of the cross. 
 
 “Well, Nazarene,” replied the priest, and his pale face grew 
 paler: “what wouldst thou?” 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 73 
 
 “Nay,” returned the stranger, “I would not interrupt thy 
 meditations; but the last time we met, I seemed not to be so 
 unwelcome.” 
 
 “You are not unwelcome, Olinthus; but I am sad and 
 weary: nor am I able this evening to discuss with you those 
 themes which are most acceptable to you.” 
 
 “O backward of heart!” said Olinthus, with bitter fervour; 
 “and art thou sad and weary, and wilt thou turn from the very 
 springs that refresh and heal?” 
 
 “O earth!” cried the young priest, striking his breast pas¬ 
 sionately, “from what regions shall my eyes open to the true 
 Olympus, where thy gods really dwell? Am I to believe with 
 this man, that none whom for so many centuries my fathers 
 worshipped have a being or a name? Am I to break down, as 
 something blasphemous and profane, the very altars which 
 I have deemed most sacred; or I am to think with Arbaces— 
 what—?” 
 
 He paused, and strode rapidly away in the impatience of a 
 man who strives to get rid of himself. But the Nazarene was 
 one of those hardy, vigorous, and enthusiastic men, by whom 
 God in all times has worked the revolutions of earth, and those, 
 above all, in the establishment and in the reformation of His 
 own religion;—men who were formed to convert, because 
 formed to endure. It is men of this mould whom nothing dis¬ 
 courages, nothing dismays; in the fervour of belief they are 
 inspired and they inspire. Their reason first kindles their 
 passion, but the passion is the instrument they use; they force 
 themselves into men’s hearts, while they appear only to appeal 
 to their judgment. Nothing is so contagious as enthusiasm; 
 it is the real allegory of the tale of Orpheus—it moves stones, 
 it charms brutes. Enthusiasm is the genius of sincerity, and 
 truth accomplishes no victories without it. 
 
 Olinthus did not then suffer Apaecides thus easily to escape 
 him. He overtook and addressed him thus:— 
 
 “I do not wonder, Apaecides, that I distress you; that I 
 shake all the elements of your mind: that you are lost in 
 doubt; that you drift here and there in the vast ocean of un¬ 
 certain and benighted thought. I wonder not at this, but bear 
 
74 
 
 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 with me a little; watch and pray,—the darkness shall vanish, 
 the storm sleep, and God himself, as He came of yore on the 
 seas of Galilee, shall walk over the lulled billows, to the 
 delivery of your soul. Ours is a religion jealous in its demands, 
 but how infinitely prodigal in its gifts! It troubles you for an 
 hour, it repays you by immortality.” 
 
 “Such promises,” said Apsecides, sullenly, “are the tricks 
 by which man is ever gulled. Oh, glorious were the promises 
 which led me to the shrine of Isis! ” 
 
 “But,” answered the Nazarene, “ask thy reason, can that 
 religion be sound which outrages all morality? You are told 
 to worship your gods. What are those gods, even according 
 to yourselves? What their actions, what their attributes? 
 Are they not all represented to you as the blackest of 
 criminals? yet you are asked to serve them as the holiest of 
 divinities. Jupiter himself is a parricide and an adulterer. 
 What are the meaner deities but imitators of his vices? You 
 are told not to murder, but you worship murderers; you are 
 told not to commit adultery, and you make your prayers to an 
 adulterer. Oh! what is this but a mockery of the holiest part 
 of man’s nature, which is faith? Turn now to the God, the 
 one, the true God, to whose shrine I would lead you. If He 
 seem to you too sublime, too shadowy, for those human associa¬ 
 tions, those touching connexions between Creator and creature, 
 to which the weak heart clings—contemplate Him in his Son, 
 who put on mortality like ourselves. His mortality is not in¬ 
 deed declared, like that of your fabled gods, by the vices of 
 our nature, but by the practice of all its virtues. In Him are 
 united the austerest morals with the tenderest affections. If 
 He were but a mere man, He had been worthy to become a 
 god. You honour Socrates—he has his sect, his disciples, his 
 schools. But what are the doubtful virtues of the Athenian, to 
 the bright, the undisputed, the active, the unceasing, the de¬ 
 voted holiness of Christ? I speak to you now only of His 
 human character. He came in that as the pattern of future 
 ages, to show us the form of virtue which Plato thirsted to see 
 embodied. This was the true sacrifice that He made for man; 
 but the halo that encircled his dying hour not only brightened 
 

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THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 75 
 
 earth, but opened to us the sight of heaven! You are touched— 
 you are moved. God works in your heart. His Spirit is with 
 you. Come, resist not the holy impulse: come at once—un¬ 
 hesitatingly. A few of us are now assembled to expound the 
 word of God. Come, let me guide you to them. You are sad, 
 you are weary. Listen, then, to the words of God:— £ Come to 
 me/ saith He, ‘all ye that are heavy laden, and I will give you 
 rest!* ” 
 
 “I cannot now,” said Apaecides; “another time.” 
 
 “Now—now!” exclaimed Olinthus, earnestly, and clasping 
 him by the arm. 
 
 But Apaecides, yet unprepared for the renunciation of that 
 faith—that life, for which he had sacrificed so much, and still 
 haunted by the promises of the Egyptian, extricated himself 
 forcibly from the grasp; and feeling an effort necessary to 
 conquer the irresolution which the eloquence of the Christian 
 had begun to effect in his heated and feverish mind, he 
 gathered up his robes, and fled away with a speed that defied 
 pursuit. 
 
 Breathless and exhausted, he arrived at last in a remote 
 and sequestered part of the city, and the lone house of the 
 Egyptian stood before him. As he paused to recover himself, 
 the moon emerged from a silver cloud, and shone full upon 
 the walls of that mysterious habitation. 
 
 No other house was near—the darksome vines clustered far 
 and wide in front of the building, and behind it rose a copse of 
 lofty forest trees, sleeping in the melancholy moonlight; be¬ 
 yond stretched the dim outline of the distant hills, and amongst 
 them the quiet crest of Vesuvius, not then so lofty as the 
 traveller beholds it now. 
 
 Apaecides passed through the arching vines, and arrived at 
 the broad and spacious portico. Before it, on either side of 
 the steps, reposed the image of the Egyptian sphinx, and the 
 moonlight gave an additional and yet more solemn calm to 
 those large, and harmonious, and passionless features, in which 
 the sculptors of that type of wisdom united so much of love¬ 
 liness with awe; half way up the extremities of the steps 
 darkened the green and massive foliage of the aloe, and the 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 76 
 
 shadow of the eastern palm cast its long and unwaving boughs 
 partially over the marble surface of the stairs. 
 
 Something there was in the stillness of the place, and the 
 strange aspect of the sculptured sphinxes, which thrilled the 
 blood of the priest with a nameless and ghostly fear, and he 
 longed even for an echo to his noiseless steps as he ascended 
 to the threshold. 
 
 He knocked at the door, over which was wrought an in¬ 
 scription in characters unfamiliar to his eyes; it opened with¬ 
 out a sound, and a tall Ethiopian slave, without question or 
 salutation, motioned to him to proceed. 
 
 The wide hall was lighted by lofty candelabra of elaborate 
 bronze, and round the walls were wrought vast hieroglyphics, 
 in dark and solemn colours, which contrasted strangely with 
 the bright hues and graceful shapes with which the inhabitants 
 of Italy decorated their abodes. At the extremity of the hall, 
 a slave, whose countenance, though not African, was darker by 
 many shades than the usual colour of the south, advanced to 
 meet him. 
 
 “I seek Arbaces,” said the priest; but his voice trembled 
 even in his own ear. The slave bowed his head in silence, 
 and leading Apaecides to a wing without the hall, conducted 
 him up a narrow staircase, and then traversing several rooms, 
 in which the stern and thoughtful beauty of the sphinx still 
 made the chief and most impressive object of the priest's 
 notice, Apaecides found himself in a dim and half-lighted 
 chamber, in the presence of the Egyptian. 
 
 Arbaces was seated before a small table, on which lay un¬ 
 folded several scrolls of papyrus, impressed with the same 
 character as that on the threshold of the mansion. A small 
 tripod stood at a little distance, from the incense in which the 
 smoke slowly rose. Near this was a vast globe, depicting the 
 signs of heaven; and upon another table lay several instru¬ 
 ments, of curious and quaint shape, whose uses were unknown 
 to Apaecides. The farther extremity of the room was con¬ 
 cealed by a curtain, and the oblong window in the roof ad¬ 
 mitted the rays of the moon, mingling sadly with the single 
 lamp which burned in the apartment. 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII, 77 
 
 “Seat yourself, Apascides,” said the Egyptian, without rising. 
 
 The young man obeyed. 
 
 “You ask me,” resumed Arbaces, after a short pause in 
 which he seemed absorbed in thought,—“You ask me,or would 
 do so, the mightiest secrets which the soul of man is fitted to 
 receive; it is the enigma of life that you desire me to solve. 
 Placed like children in the dark, and but for a little while, in 
 this dim and confined existence, we shape our spectres in the 
 obscurity; our thoughts now sink back into ourselves in ter¬ 
 ror, now wildly plunge themselves into the guideless gloom, 
 guessing what it may contain;—stretching our helpless hands 
 here and there, lest, blindly, we stumble upon some hidden 
 danger; not knowing the limits of our boundary, now feeling 
 them suffocate us with compression, now seeing them extend 
 far away till they vanish into eternity. In this state all wisdom 
 consists necessarily in the solution of two questions—‘What 
 are we to believe? and What are we to reject ?* These ques¬ 
 tions you desire me to decide?” 
 
 Apsecides bowed his head in assent. 
 
 “Man must have some belief,” continued the Egyptian, in 
 a tone of sadness. “He must fasten his hope to something: 
 it is our common nature that you inherit when, aghast and ter¬ 
 rified to see that in which you have been taught to place your 
 faith swept away, you float over a dreary and shoreless sea of 
 incertitude, you cry for help, you ask for some plank to cling 
 to, some land, however dim and distant, to attain. Well, then, 
 listen. You have not forgotten our conversation of to-day?” 
 
 “Forgotten!” 
 
 “I confessed to you that those deities for whom smoke so 
 many altars, were but inventions. I confessed to you that our 
 rites and ceremonies were but mummeries, todeludeand lure the 
 herd to their proper good. I explained to you that from those de¬ 
 lusions came the bonds of society, the harmony of the world, the 
 power of the wise; that power is in the obedience of the vulgar. 
 Continue we then these salutary delusions—if man must have 
 some belief, continue to him that which his fathers have made 
 I dear to him, and which custom sanctifies and strengthens. In 
 seeking a subtler faith for us, whose senses are too spiritual 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 7 8 
 
 for the gross one, let us leave others that support which 
 crumbles from ourselves. This is wise—it is benevolent.” 
 
 “Proceed.” 
 
 “This being settled,” resumed the Egyptian, “the old land¬ 
 marks being left uninjured for those whom we are about to de¬ 
 sert, we gird up our loins and depart to new climes of faith. 
 Dismiss at once from your recollection, from your thought, all 
 that you have believed before. Suppose the mind a blank, 
 an unwritten scroll, fit to receive impressions for the first time. 
 Look round the world—observe its order—its regularity—its 
 design. Something must have created it—the design speaks 
 a designer: in that certainty we first touch land. But what is 
 that something?—A god, you cry. Stay—no confused and con¬ 
 fusing names. Of that which created the world, we know, we 
 can know, nothing, save these attributes—power and unvary¬ 
 ing regularity;—stern, crushing, relentless regularity—heeding 
 no individual cases—rolling—sweeping—burning on;—no mat¬ 
 ter what scattered hearts, severed from the general mass, fall 
 ground and scorched beneath its wheels. The mixture of evil 
 with good—the existence of suffering and of crime—in all 
 times have perplexed the wise. They created a god—they 
 supposed him benevolent. How then came this evil? why did 
 he permit—nay, why invent, why perpetuate it? To account 
 for this, the Persian creates a second spirit, whose nature is 
 evil, and supposes a continual war between that and the god 
 of good. In our own shadowy and tremendous Typhon, the 
 Egyptians image a similar demon. Perplexing blunder that 
 yet more bewilders us!—folly that arose from the vain delu¬ 
 sion that makes a palpable, a corporeal, a human being, of 
 this unknown power—that clothes the Invisible with attributes 
 and a nature similar to the Seen. No: to this designer let us 
 give a name that does not command our bewildering associa¬ 
 tions, and the mystery becomes more clear—that name is 
 Necessity. Necessity, say the Greeks, compels the gods. 
 Then why the gods?—their agency becomes unnecessary— 
 dismiss them at once. Necessity is the ruler of all we see;— 
 power, regularity—these two qualities make its nature. Would 
 you ask more?—you can learn nothing: whether it be eternal 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 79 
 
 —whether it compel us, its creatures, to new careers after that 
 darkness which we call death—we cannot tell. There leave 
 we this ancient, unseen, unfathomable power, and come to 
 that which, to our eyes, is the great minister of its functions. 
 This we can task more, from this we can learn more: its 
 evidence is around us—its name is Nature. The error of 
 the sages has been to direct their researches to the attributes 
 of necessity, where all is gloom and blindness. Had they con¬ 
 fined their researches to Nature—what of knowledge might we 
 not already have achieved? Here patience, examination, are 
 never directed in vain. We see what we explore; our minds 
 ascend a palpable ladder of causes and effects. Nature is the 
 great agent of the external universe, and Necessity imposes 
 upon it the laws by which it acts, and imparts to us the powers 
 by which we examine; those powers are curiosity and memory 
 —their union is reason, their perfection is wisdom. Well, 
 then, I examine by the help of these powers this inexhaustible 
 Nature. I examine the earth, the air, the ocean, the heaven: 
 I find that all have a mystic sympathy with each other—that 
 the moon sways the tides—that the air maintains the earth, 
 and is the medium of the life and sense of things—that by the 
 knowledge of the stars we measure the limits of the earth— 
 that we portion out the epochs of time—that by their pale light 
 we are guided into the abyss of the past—that in their solemn 
 lore we discern the destinies of the future. And thus, while 
 we know not that which Necessity is, we learn, at least, her 
 decrees. And now, what morality do we glean from this re¬ 
 ligion?—for religion it is. I believe in two deities, Nature and 
 Necessity; I worship the last by reverence, the first by investiga¬ 
 tion. What is the morality my religion teaches? This—all things 
 are subject but to general rules; the sun shines for the joy of 
 the many—it may bring sorrow to the few; the night sheds 
 sleep on the multitude—but it harbours murder as well as 
 rest; the forests adorn the earth—but shelter the serpent and 
 the lion; the ocean supports a thousand barks—but it engulfs 
 the one. It is only thus for the general, and not for the 
 universal benefit, that Nature acts, and Necessity speeds on her 
 awful course. This is the morality of the dread agents of the 
 
8o 
 
 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 world—it is mine, who am their creature. I would preserve 
 the delusions of priestcraft, for they are serviceable to the 
 multitude; I would impart to man the arts I discover, the 
 sciences I perfect; I would speed the vast career of civilizing 
 lore:—in this I serve the mass, I fulfil the general law, I execute 
 the great moral that Nature preaches. For myself I claim the 
 individual exception; I claim it for the wise—satisfied that my 
 individual actions are nothing in the great balance of good 
 and evil: satisfied that the product of my knowledge can give 
 greater blessings to the mass than my desires can operate evil 
 on the few (for the first can extend to remotest regions and 
 humanize nations yet unborn), I give to the world wisdom, to 
 myself freedom. I enlighten the lives of others, and I enjoy 
 my own. Yes; our wisdom is eternal, but our life is short, 
 make the most of it while it lasts. Surrender thy youth to 
 pleasure, and thy senses to delight. Soon comes the hour 
 when the wine-cup is shattered, and the garlands shall cease 
 to bloom. Enjoy while you may. Be still, O Apaecides, my 
 pupil and my follower! I will teach thee the mechanism of 
 Nature, her darkest and her wildest secrets—the lore which 
 fools call magic—and the mighty mysteries of the stars. By 
 this shalt thou discharge thy duty to the mass; by this shalt 
 thou enlighten thy race. But I will lead thee also to pleasures 
 of which the vulgar do not dream; and the day which thou 
 givest to men shall be followed by the sweet night which thou 
 surrenderest to thyself.” 
 
 As the Egyptian ceased there rose about, around, beneath, 
 the softest music that Lydia ever taught, or Ionia ever per¬ 
 fected. It came like a stream of sound, bathing the senses 
 unawares; enervating, subduing with delight. It seemed the 
 melodies of invisible spirits, such as the shepherd might have 
 heard in the golden age, floating through the vales of Thes¬ 
 saly, or in the noontide glades of Paphos. The words which 
 had rushed to the lip of Apascides, in answer to the sophistries 
 of the Egyptian, died tremblingly away. He felt it as a pro¬ 
 fanation to break upon that enchanted strain—the suscepti¬ 
 bility of his excited nature, the Greek softness and ardour of 
 his secret soul, were swayed and captured by surprise. He 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 8,1 
 
 sank on the seat with parted lips and thirsting ear; while in a 
 chorus of voices, bland and melting as those which waked 
 Psyche in the halls of love, rose the following song:— 
 
 THE HYMN OF EROS. 
 
 “ By the cool banks where soft Cephisus flows, 
 
 A voice sail’d trembling down the waves of air; 
 
 The leaves blushed brighter in the Teian’s rose. 
 
 The doves couch’d breathless in their summer lair. 
 
 While from their hands the purple flowerets fell. 
 
 The laughing Hours stood listening in the sky;— 
 
 From Pan’s green cave to yEgle’s* haunted cell. 
 
 Heaved the charm’d earth in one delicious sigh. 
 
 * Love, sons of earth 1 I am the Power of Love I 
 
 Eldest of all the gods with Chaos** born; 
 
 My smile sheds light along the courts above. 
 
 My kisses wake the eyelids of the Morn. 
 
 * Mine are the stars—there, ever as ye gaze. 
 
 Ye meet the deep spell of my haunting eyes; 
 
 Mine is the moon—and, mournful if her rays, 
 
 ’Tis that she lingers where her Carian lies. 
 
 ‘The flowers are mine—the blushes of the rose. 
 
 The violet-charming Zephyr to the shade; 
 
 Mine the quick light that in the Maybeam glows. 
 
 And mine the day-dream in the lonely glade. 
 
 ‘Love, sons of earth—for love is earth’s soft lore. 
 
 Look where ye will—earth overflows with ME; 
 
 Learn from the waves that ever kiss the shore. 
 
 And the winds nestling on the heaving sea. 
 
 ‘All teaches love! ’—The sweet voice, like a dream. 
 
 Melted in light; yet still the airs above. 
 
 The waving sedges, and the whispering stream, 
 
 And the green forest rustling, murmured ‘LOVEI’” 
 
 As the voices died away, the Egyptian seized the hand of 
 Apaecides, and led him, wandering, intoxicated, yet half- 
 reluctant, across the chamber towards the curtain at the far 
 end; and now, from behind that curtain, there seemed to burst 
 a thousand sparkling stars; the veil itself, hitherto dark, was 
 
 * The fairest of the Naiads. ** Hesiod, 
 
 Pompeii, 6 
 
8 2 
 
 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 now lighted by these fires behind into the tenderest blue of 
 heaven. It represented heaven itself—such a heaven, as in 
 the nights of June might have shone down over the streams of 
 Castaly. Here and there were painted rosy and aerial clouds, 
 from which smiled, by the limner’s art, faces of divinest 
 beauty, and on which reposed the shapes of which Phidias 
 and Apelles dreamed. And the stars which studded the trans¬ 
 parent azure rolled rapidly as they shone, while the music that 
 again woke with a livelier and lighter sound, seemed to imitate 
 the melody of the joyous spheres. 
 
 “Oh! what miracle is this, Arbaces?” said Apascides, in 
 faltering accents. “After having denied the gods, art thou 
 about to reveal to me-” 
 
 “Their pleasures!” interrupted Arbaces, in a tone so dif¬ 
 ferent from its usual cold and tranquil harmony that Apaecides 
 started, and thought the Egyptian himself transformed; 
 and now, as they neared the curtain, a wild—a loud—■ 
 an exulting melody burst from behind its concealment. 
 With that sound the veil was rent in twain—it parted—it 
 seemed to vanish into air: and a scene, which no Sybarite ever 
 more than rivalled, broke upon the dazzled gaze of the youth¬ 
 ful priest. A vast banquet-room stretched beyond, blazing 
 with countless lights, which filled the warm air with the scents 
 of frankincense, of jasmine, of violets, of myrrh; all that the 
 most odorous flowers, all that the most costly spices could 
 distil, seemed gathered into one ineffable and ambrosial 
 essence: from the light columns that sprang upwards to the 
 airy roof, hung draperies of white, studded with golden stars. 
 At the extremities of the room two fountains cast up a spray, 
 which, catching the rays of the roseate light, glittered like 
 countless diamonds. In the centre of the room as they entered 
 there rose slowly from the floor, to the sound of unseen 
 minstrelsy, a table spread with all the viands which sense ever 
 devoted to fancy, and vases of that lost Myrrhine fabric,* so 
 glowing in its colours, so transparent in its material, were 
 crowned with the exotics of the East. The couches, to which 
 
 * Which, however, was probably the porcelain of China,—though this is a 
 matter which admits of considerable dispute. 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 83 
 
 this table was the centre, were covered with tapestries of 
 azure and gold; and from invisible tubes in the vaulted roof 
 descended showers of fragrant waters, that cooled the de¬ 
 licious air, and contended with the lamps, as if the spirits of 
 wave and fire disputed which element could furnish forth the 
 most delicious odours. And now, from behind the snowy 
 draperies , trooped such forms as Adonis beheld when he lay 
 on the lap of Venus. They came, some with garlands, others 
 with lyres; they surrounded the youth, they led his steps to 
 the banquet. They flung the chaplets round him in rosy 
 chains. The earth—the thought of earth, vanished from his 
 soul. He imagined himself in a dream, and suppressed his 
 breath lest he should wake too soon; the senses, to which he 
 had never yielded as yet, beat in his burning pulse, and con¬ 
 fused his dizzy and reeling sight. And while thus amazed and 
 lost, once again, but in brisk and Bacchic measures, rose the 
 magic strain;— 
 
 ANACREONTIC. 
 
 “ In the veins of the calix foams and glows 
 The blood of the mantling vine. 
 
 But oh 1 in the bowl of Youth there glows 
 A Lesbian, more divine! 
 
 Bright, bright. 
 
 As the liquid light 
 
 Its waves through thine eyelids shine I 
 
 Fill up, fill up, to the sparkling brim. 
 
 The juice of the young Lyaeus; * 
 
 The grape is the key that we owe to him. 
 
 From the gaol of the world to free us. 
 
 Drink, drink! 
 
 What need to shrink. 
 
 When the lamps alone can see us ? 
 
 Drink, drink, as I quaff from thine eyes. 
 
 The wine of a softer tree; 
 
 Give the smiles to the god of the grape—thy sighs, 
 
 Beloved one, give to me. 
 
 Turn, turn. 
 
 My glances burn, 
 
 And thirst for a look from thee I ” 
 
 # Name of Bacchus, from Avu), to unbind, to release. 
 
 6 * 
 
8 4 
 
 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 As the song ended, a group of three maidens, entwined 
 with a chain of starred flowers, and who, while they imitated, 
 might have shamed the Graces, advanced towards him. in the 
 gliding measures of the Ionian dance; such as the Nereids 
 wreathed in moonlight on the yellow sands of the -<®gean 
 wave—such as Cytherea taught her handmaids in the mar¬ 
 riage-feast of Psyche and her son. 
 
 Now approaching, they wreathed their chaplet round his 
 head; now kneeling, the youngest of the three proffered him 
 the bowl, from which the wine of Lesbos foamed and sparkled. 
 The youth resisted no more, he grasped the intoxicating cup, 
 the blood mantled fiercely through his veins. He sank upon 
 the breast of the nymph who sat beside him, and turning with 
 swimming eyes to seek for Arbaces, whom he had lost in the 
 whirl of his emotions, he beheld him seated beneath a canopy at 
 the upper end of the table, and gazing upon him with a smile 
 that encouraged him to pleasure. He beheld him, but not 
 as he had hitherto seen, with dark and sable garments, with a 
 brooding and solemn brow: a robe that dazzled the sight, so 
 studded was its whitest surface with gold and gems, blazed 
 upon his majestic form; white roses, alternated with the 
 emerald and the ruby, and shaped tiara-like, crowned his 
 raven locks. He appeared, like Ulysses, to have gained the 
 glory of a second youth—his features seemed to have ex¬ 
 changed thought for beauty, and he towered amidst the love¬ 
 liness that surrounded him, in all the beaming and relaxing 
 benignity of the Olympian god. 
 
 “Drink, feast, love, my pupil 1” said he; “blush not that 
 thou art passionate and young. That which thou art, thou 
 feelest in thy veins: that which thou shalt be, survey!” 
 
 With this he pointed to a recess, and the eyes of Apsecides, 
 following the gesture, beheld on a pedestal, placed between 
 the statues of Bacchus and Idalia, the form of a skeleton. 
 
 “Start not,” resumed the Egyptian; “that friendly guest 
 admonishes us but of the shortness of life. From its jaws I 
 hear a voice that summons us to enjoy.” 
 
 As he spoke, a group of nymphs surrounded the statue; 
 they laid chaplets on its pedestal, and, while the cups were 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEIL 
 
 85 
 
 emptied and refilled at that glowing board, they sang the fol¬ 
 lowing strain:— & 
 
 BACCHIC HYMNS TO THE IMAGE OF DEATH. 
 
 1. 
 
 “Thou art in the land of the shadowy Host, 
 
 Thou that didst drink and love: 
 
 By the Solemn River, a gliding ghost. 
 
 But thy thought is ours above! 
 
 If memory yet can fly. 
 
 Back to the golden sky. 
 
 And mourn the pleasures lost! 
 
 By the ruin’d hall these flowers we lay. 
 
 Where thy soul once held its palace; 
 
 When the rose to thy scent and sight was gay. 
 
 And the smile was in the chalice. 
 
 And the cithara’s silver voice 
 Could bid thy heart rejoice 
 When night eclipsed the day.” 
 
 . Here f , new S rou P advancing, turned the tide of the music 
 into a quicker and more joyous strain:— 
 
 n. 
 
 Death, death, is the gloomy shore, 
 Where we all sail— 
 
 Soft, soft, thou gliding oar; 
 
 Blow soft, sweet gale 1 
 Chain with' bright wreaths the Hours, 
 Victims if all 
 
 Ever, ’mid song and flowers. 
 
 Victims should fall 1 ” 
 
 Pausing for a moment, yet quicker and quicker danced the 
 snver-iooted music:— 
 
 “Since Life’s so short, we’ll live to laugh; 
 Ah I wherefore waste a minute 1 
 If youth’s the cup we yet can quaff. 
 
 Be love the pearl within it 1 ” 
 
 A third band now approached with brimming cups, which 
 they poured in libation upon that strange altar; L d once 
 | more, slow and solemn, rose the changeful melody • _ 
 
86 
 
 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 in. 
 
 ** Thou art welcome, Guest of gloom. 
 
 From the far and fearful sea! 
 
 When the last rose sheds its bloom. 
 
 Our board shall be spread with thee I 
 All hail, dark Guestl 
 Who hath so fair a plea 
 Our welcome Guest to be. 
 
 As thou, whose solemn hall 
 At last shall feast us all 
 In the dim and dismal coast ? 
 
 Long yet be me the Hostl 
 And thou. Dead Shadow, thou. 
 
 All joyless though thy brow. 
 
 Thou—but our passing Guestl ” 
 
 At this moment, she who sat beside Apaecides suddenly 
 took up the song:— 
 
 IV. 
 
 " Happy is yet our doom. 
 
 The earth and the sun are otirs 1 
 And far from the dreary tomb 
 
 Speed the wings of the rosy Hours 
 Sweet is for thee the bowl. 
 
 Sweet are thy looks, my love; 
 
 I fly to thy tender soul. 
 
 As the bird to its mated dove! 
 
 Take me, ah, take 1 
 Clasp’d to thy guardian breast. 
 
 Soft let me sink to rest: 
 
 But wake me—ah, wake 1 
 And tell me with words and sighs. 
 
 But more with thy melting eyes. 
 
 That my sun is not set— 
 
 That the Torch is not quench’d at the Urn, 
 
 That we love, and we breathe, and burn, 
 
 Tell me—thou lov’st me yeti” 
 
5260, POMPEI. Bottega del Mercante d’ olio. 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 87 
 
 BOOK II. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 A Flash House in Pompeii, and the Gentlemen of the Classic Ring. 
 
 To one of those parts of Pompeii, which were tenanted not 
 by the lords of pleasure, but by its minions and its victims; 
 the haunt of gladiators and prize-fighters; of the vicious and 
 the penniless; of the savage and the obscene; the Alsatia of 
 an ancient city—we are now transported. 
 
 It was a large room, that opened at once on the confined 
 and crowded lane. Before the threshold were a group of 
 men, whose iron and well-strung muscles, whose short and 
 Herculean necks, whose hardy and reckless countenances, in¬ 
 dicated the champions of the arena. On a shelf, without the 
 shop, were ranged jars of wine and oil; and right over this 
 was inserted in the wall a coarse painting, which exhibited 
 gladiators drinking—so ancient and so venerable is the custom 
 of signs! Within the room were placed several small tables, 
 arranged somewhat in the modern fashion of “boxes,” and 
 round these were seated several knots of men, some drinking, 
 some playing at dice, some at that more skilful game called 
 “duodecim scripta ” which certain of the blundering learned 
 have mistaken for chess, though it rather , perhaps, resembled 
 backgammon of the two, and was usually, though not always, 
 played by the assistance of dice. The hour was in the early 
 forenoon, and nothing better, perhaps, than that unseasonable 
 time itself denoted the habitual indolence of these tavern 
 loungers. Yet, despite the situation of the house and the 
 character of its inmates, it indicated none of that sordid 
 
88 
 
 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII, 
 
 squalor which would have characterized a similar haunt in a 
 modern city. The gay disposition of all the Pompeians, who 
 sought, at least, to gratify the sense even where they neglected 
 the mind, was typified by the gaudy colours which decorated 
 the walls, and the shapes, fantastic but not inelegant, in which 
 the lamps, the drinking-cups, the commonest household uten¬ 
 sils, were wrought. 
 
 “By Pollux!” said one of the gladiators, as he leaned 
 against the wall of the threshold, “the wine thou sellest us, 
 old Silenus,”—and as he spoke he slapped a portly personage 
 on the back,—“is enough to thin the best blood in one’s 
 veins.” 
 
 The man thus caressingly saluted, and whose bared arms, 
 white apron, and keys and napkin tucked carelessly within his 
 girdle, indicated him to be the host of the tavern, was already 
 passed into the autumn of his years; but his form was still so 
 robust and athletic, that he might have shamed even the 
 sinewy shapes beside him, save that the muscles had seeded, 
 as it were, into flesh, that the cheeks were swelled and 
 bloated, and the increasing stomach threw into shade the vast 
 and massive chest which rose above it. 
 
 “None of thy scurrilous blusterings with me,” growled the 
 gigantic landlord, in the gentle semi-roar of an insulted tiger; 
 “my wine is good enough for a carcass which shall so soon 
 soak the dust of the spoliarium.”* 
 
 “Croakest thou thus, old raven!” returned the gladiator, 
 laughing scornfully; “thou shalt live to hang thyself with 
 despite when thou seest me win the palm crown; and when I 
 get the purse at the amphitheatre, as I certainly shall, my first 
 vow to Hercules shall be to forswear thee and thy vile pota¬ 
 tions evermore.” 
 
 “Hear to him—hear to this modest Pyrgopolinices! He has 
 certainly served under Bombomachides Cluninstaridysar- 
 chides,”** cried the host. “Sporus, Niger, Tetraides, he de- 
 
 * The place to which the killed or mortally wounded were dragged from the 
 arena. 
 
 ** Miles Gloriosus , Act I.; as much as to say, in modern phrase, “He has 
 served under Bombastes Furioso.” 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 39 
 
 dares he shall win the purse from you. Why, by the gods! 
 each of your muscles is strong enough to stifle all his body, 
 or / know nothing of the arena!” 
 
 “Ha!” said the gladiator, colouring with rising fury, “our 
 lanista would tell a different story.” 
 
 “What story could he tell against me, vain Lydon?” said 
 Tetraides, frowning. 
 
 “Or me, who have conquered in fifteen fights?” said the 
 gigantic Niger, stalking up to the gladiator. 
 
 “Or me?” grunted Sporus, with eyes of fire. 
 
 “Tush!” said Lydon, folding his arms, and regarding his 
 rivals with a reckless air of defiance. “The time of trial will 
 soon come; keep your valour till then.” 
 
 “Ay, do,” said the surly host; “and if I press down my 
 thumb to save you, may the Fates cut my thread!” 
 
 “Your rope, you mean,” said Lydon, sneeringly: “here is 
 a sesterce to buy one.” 
 
 The Titan wine-vender seized the hand extended to him, 
 and griped it in so stern a vice that the blood spirted from the 
 fingers’ ends over the garments of the bystanders. 
 
 They set up a savage laugh. 
 
 “I will teach thee, young braggart, to play the Macedonian 
 with me! I am no puny Persian, I warrant thee! What, man! 
 have I not fought twenty years in the ring, and never lowered 
 my arms once? And have I not received the rod from the 
 editor’s own hand as a sign of victory, and as a grace to retire¬ 
 ment on my laurels? And am I now to be lectured by a boy?” 
 So saying, he flung the hand from him in scorn. 
 
 Without changing a muscle, but with the same smiling face 
 with which he had previously taunted mine host, did the 
 gladiator brave the painful grasp he had undergone. But no 
 sooner was his hand released, than, crouching for one moment 
 as a wild cat crouches, you might see his hair bristle on his 
 head and beard, and with a fierce and shrill yell he sprang on 
 the throat of the giant, with an impetus that threw him, vast 
 and sturdy as he was, from his balance;—and down, with the 
 crash of a falling rock, he fell;—while over him fell also his 
 ferocious foe. 
 
9 o 
 
 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 Our host, perhaps, had had no need of the rope so kindly 
 recommended to him by Lydon, had he remained three 
 minutes longer in that position. But, summoned to his assist¬ 
 ance by the noise of his fall, a woman, who had hitherto kept 
 in an inner apartment, rushed to the scene of battle. This 
 new ally was in herself a match for the gladiator; she was tall, 
 lean, and with arms that could give other than soft embraces. 
 In fact, the gentle helpmate of Burbo, the wine-seller, had, like 
 himself fought in the lists*—nay, under the emperor’s eye. 
 And Burbo himself—Burbo, the unconquered in the field, 
 according to report, now and then yielded the palm to his soft 
 Stratonice. This sweet creature no sooner saw the imminent 
 peril that awaited her worse half, than without other weapons 
 than those with which Nature had provided her, she darted 
 upon the incumbent gladiator, and, clasping him round the 
 waist with her long and snakelike arms, lifted him by a 
 sudden wrench from the body of her husband, leaving only 
 his hands still clinging to the throat of his foe. So have we 
 seen a dog snatched by the hind legs from the strife with a 
 fallen rival in the arms of some envious groom; so have we 
 seen one half of him high in air—passive and offenceless— 
 while the other half, head, teeth, eyes, claws, seemed buried 
 and engulfed in the mangled and prostrate enemy. Mean¬ 
 while, the gladiators, lapped, and pampered, and glutted upon 
 blood, crowded delightedly round the combatants — their 
 nostrils distended—their lips grinning—their eyes gloatingly 
 fixed on the bloody throat of the one, and the indented talons 
 of the other. 
 
 “Habet! (he has got it!) habet!” cried they, with a sort of 
 yell, rubbing their nervous hands. 
 
 “Non habeo, ye liars, I have not got it!” shouted the host, 
 as with a mighty effort he wrenched himself from those deadly 
 hands, and rose to his feet, breathless, panting, lacerated, 
 bloody; and fronting, with reeling eyes, the glaring look and 
 grinning teeth of his baffled foe, now struggling (but struggling 
 with disdain) in the gripe of the sturdy amazon. 
 
 * Not only did women sometimes fight in the amphitheatres, but even those 
 of noble birth participated in that meek ambition. 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 91 
 
 “Fair play!” cried the gladiators, “one to one;” and 
 crowding round Lydon and the woman, they separated our 
 pleasing host from his courteous guest. 
 
 But Lydon, feeling ashamed at his present position, and 
 endeavouring in vain to shake off the grasp of the virago, 
 slipped his hand into his girdle, and drew forth a short knife. 
 So menacing was his look, so brightly gleamed the blade, that 
 Stratonice, who was used only to that fashion of battle which 
 we moderns call the pugilistic, started back in alarm. 
 
 “O gods!” cried she; “the ruffian!—he has concealed 
 weapons! Is that fair? Is that like a gentleman and a gladiator? 
 No, indeed, I scorn such fellows!” With that she contemp¬ 
 tuously turned her back on the gladiator, and hastened to 
 examine the condition of her husband. 
 
 But he, as much inured to the constitutional exercises as an 
 English bull-dog is to a contest with a more gentle antagonist, 
 had already recovered himself. The purple hues receded from 
 the crimson surface of his cheek, the veins of the forehead re¬ 
 tired into their wonted size. He shook himself with a com¬ 
 placent grunt, satisfied that he was still alive, and then look¬ 
 ing at his foe from head to foot with an air of more approbation 
 than he had ever bestowed upon him before— 
 
 “By Castor!” said he, “thou art a stronger fellow than I 
 took thee for! I see thou art a man of merit and virtue; give 
 me thy hand, my hero! ” 
 
 “Jolly old Burbo!” cried the gladiators, applauding; “stanch 
 to the backbone. Give him thy hand, Lydon.” 
 
 “Oh, to be sure,” said the gladiator: “but now I have 
 tasted his blood, I long to lap the whole.” 
 
 “By Hercules!” returned the host, quite unmoved, “that is 
 the true gladiator feeling. Pollux! to think what good train¬ 
 ing may make a man; why, a beast could not be fiercer!” 
 
 “A beast! O dullard! we beat the beasts hollow!” cried 
 Tetraides. 
 
 “Well, well,” said Stratonice, who was now employed in 
 smoothing her hair and adjusting her dress, “if ye are all good 
 friends again, I recommend you to be quiet and orderly; for 
 some young noblemen, your patrons and backers, have sent to 
 
92 
 
 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII* 
 
 say they will come here to pay you a visit: they wish to see 
 you more at their ease than at the schools, before they make 
 up their bets on the great fight at the amphitheatre. So they 
 always come to my house for that purpose: they know we only 
 receive the best gladiators in Pompeii—our society is very 
 select—praised be the gods!” 
 
 “Yes,” continued Burbo, drinking off a bowl, or rather a 
 pail of wine, “a man who has won my laurels can only encourage 
 the brave. Lydon, drink, my boy; may you have an honourable 
 old age like mine!” 
 
 “ Come here,” said Stratonice, drawing her husband to her 
 affectionately by the ears, in that caress which Tibullus has so 
 prettily described—“Come here!” 
 
 “Not so hard, she-wolf! thou art worse than the gladiator,” 
 murmured the huge jaws of Burbo. 
 
 “Hist!” said she, whispering him: “Calenus has just stole 
 in, disguised, by the back way; I hope he has brought the ses¬ 
 terces.” 
 
 “Ho! ho! I will join him,” said Burbo; “meanwhile, Isay, 
 keep a sharp eye on the cups—attend to the score. Let them 
 not cheat thee, wife; they are heroes to be sure, but then they 
 are arrant rogues: Cacus was nothing to them.” 
 
 “Never fear me, fool!” was the conjugal reply; and Burbo, 
 satisfied with the dear assurance, strode through the apart¬ 
 ment, and sought the penetralia of his house. 
 
 “So those soft patrons are coming to look at our muscles,” 
 said Niger. “Who sent to previse thee of it, my mistress?” 
 
 “Lepidus. He brings with him Clodius, the surest better 
 in Pompeii, and the young Greek, Glaucus.” 
 
 “A wager on a wager,” cried Tetraides: “Clodius bets on 
 me, for twenty sesterces! What say you, Lydon?” 
 
 “He bets on me!” said Lydon. 
 
 “No, on me!” grunted Sporus. 
 
 “Dolts! do you think he would prefer any of you to 
 Niger?” said the athletic, thus modestly naming himself. 
 
 “Well, well,” said Stratonice, as she pierced a huge amphora 
 for her guests, who had now seated themselves before one of 
 the tables, “great men and brave, as ye all think yourselves, 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 93 
 
 which of you will fight the Numidian lion in case no malefactor 
 should be found to deprive you of the option?” 
 
 “I who have escaped your arms, stout Stratonice,” said 
 Lydon, “might safely, I think, encounter the lion.” 
 
 “But tell me,” said Tetraides, “where is that pretty young 
 slave of yours—the blind girl, with bright eyes? I have not 
 seen her a long time.” 
 
 “Oh! she is too delicate for you, my son of Neptune,”* said 
 the hostess, “and too nice even for us, I think. We send her 
 into the town to sell flowers and sing to the ladies: she makes 
 us more money so than she would by waiting on you. Be¬ 
 sides, she has often other employments which lie under the 
 rose.” 
 
 “Other employments!” said Niger; “why, she is too young 
 for them.” 
 
 “Silence, beast!” said Stratonice; “you think there is no 
 play but the Corinthian. If Nydia were twice the age she is at 
 present, she would be equally fit for Vesta—poor girl!” 
 
 “But, hark ye, Stratonice,” said Lydon; “how didst thou 
 come by so gentle and delicate a slave? She were more meet 
 for the handmaid of some rich matron of Rome than for thee.” 
 
 “That is true,” returned Stratonice; “and some day or 
 other I shall make my fortune by selling her. How came I by 
 Nydia, thou askest?” 
 
 “Ay.” 
 
 “Why, thou seest, my slave Staphyla—thou rememberest 
 Staphyla, Niger?” 
 
 “Ay, a large-handed wench, with a face like a comic mask. 
 How should I forget her, by Pluto, whose handmaid she doubt¬ 
 less is at this moment!” 
 
 “Tush, brute!—Well, Staphyla died one day, and a great 
 loss she was to me, and I went into the market to buy me another 
 slave. But, by the gods! they were all grown so dear since I had 
 bought poorStaphyla, and money was so scarce, thatlwas about 
 to leave the place in despair, when a merchant plucked me by 
 the robe: ‘Mistress/ said he, ‘dost thou want a slave cheap? I 
 
 Son of Neptune, a Latin phrase for a boisterous, ferocious fellow. 
 
94 
 
 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 have a child to sell—a bargain. She is but little, and almost 
 an infant, it is true; but she is quick and quiet, docile and 
 clever, sings well, and is of good blood, I assure you/ 
 ‘Of what country V said I. ‘Thessalian/ Now I knew the Thes¬ 
 salians were acute and gentle. So I said I would see the girl. I 
 found her just as you see her now, scarcely smaller and scarcely 
 younger in appearance. She looked patient and resigned 
 enough, with her hands crossed on her bosom, and her eyes 
 downcast. I asked the merchant his price: it was moderate, 
 and I bought her at once. The merchant brought her to my 
 house, and disappeared in an instant. Well, my friends, guess 
 my astonishment when I found she was blind! Ha! ha! a clever 
 fellow that merchant! I ran at once to the magistrates, but the 
 rogue was already gone from Pompeii. So I was forced to go 
 home in a very ill humour, I assure you; and the poor girl felt 
 the effects of it too. But it was not her fault that she was 
 blind, for she had been so from her birth. By degrees, we got 
 reconciled to our purchase. True, she had not the strength of 
 Staphyla, and was of very little use in the house, but she could 
 soon find her way about the town, as well as if she had the 
 eyes of Argus: and when one morning she brought us home a 
 handful of sesterces, which she said she had got from selling 
 some flowers she had gathered in our poor little garden, we 
 thought the gods had sent her to us. So from that time we let 
 her go out as she likes, filling her basket with flowers, which 
 she wreathes into garlands after the Thessalian fashion, which 
 pleases the gallants; and the great people seem to take a fancy 
 to her, for they always pay her more than they do any other 
 flower-girl, and she brings all of it home to us, which is more 
 than any other slave would do. So I work for myself, but I 
 shall soon afford from her earnings to buy me a second Staphyla; 
 doubtless, the Thessalian kidnapper had stolen the blind 
 girl from gentle parents.* Besides her skill in the garlands, 
 
 * The Thessalian slave-merchants were celebrated for purloining persons of 
 birth and education; they did not always spare those of their own country. 
 Aristophanes sneers bitterly at that people (proverbially treacherous) for their un¬ 
 quenchable desire of gain by this barter of flesh. 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. Q5 
 
 she sings and plays on the cithara, which also brings money, 
 and lately—but that is a secret.” 
 
 “ That is a secret—what!” cried Lydon, “art thou turned 
 sphinx?” 
 
 “Sphinx, no!—why sphinx?” 
 
 “Cease thy gabble, good mistress, and bring us our meat— 
 I am hungry,” said Sporus, impatiently. 
 
 “ And I, too,” echoed the grim Niger, whetting his knife on 
 the palm of his hand. 
 
 The amazon stalked away to the kitchen, and soon returned 
 with a tray laden with large pieces of meat half-raw: for so, as 
 now, did the heroes of the prize-fight imagine they best sus¬ 
 tained their hardihood and ferocity; they drew round the table 
 with the eyes of famished wolves—the meat vanished, the wine 
 flowed. So leave we those important personages of classic life 
 to follow the steps of Burbo. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 Two Worthies. 
 
 In the earlier times ofRome the priesthood was a profession, 
 not of lucre, but of honour. It was embraced by the noblest 
 citizens—it was forbidden to the plebeians. Afterwards, and 
 long previous to the present date, it was equally open to all 
 ranks; at least, that part of the profession which embraced the 
 flamens, or priests,—not of religion generally, but of peculiar 
 gods. Even the priest of Jupiter (the Flamen Dialis), preceded 
 by a lictor, and entitled by his office to the entrance of the 
 senate, at first the especial dignitary of the patricians, was sub¬ 
 sequently the choice of the people. The less national and less 
 honoured deities were usually served by plebeian ministers; 
 and many embraced the profession, as now the Roman Catholic 
 Christians enter the monastic fraternity, less from the impulse 
 of devotion than the suggestions of a calculating poverty. 
 Thus Calenus, the priest of Isis, was of the lowest origin. His 
 relations, though not his parents, were freedmen. He had re¬ 
 ceived from them a liberal education, and from his father a 
 small patrimony, which he had soon exhausted. He embraced 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 96 
 
 the priesthood as a last resource from distress. Whatever the 
 state emoluments of the sacred profession, which at that time j 
 were probably small, the officers of a popular temple could ; 
 never complain of the profits of their calling. There is no I 
 profession so lucrative as that which practises on the supersti¬ 
 tion of the multitude. 
 
 Calenus had but one surviving relative at Pompeii, and that 
 was Burbo. Various dark and disreputable ties, stronger than 
 those of blood, united together their hearts and interests; and 
 often the minister of Isis stole disguised and furtively from the 
 supposed austerity of his devotions;—and gliding through the 
 back door of the retired gladiator, a man infamous alike by 
 vices and by profession, rejoiced to throw off the last rag of 
 an hypocrisy which, but for the dictates of avarice, his ruling 
 passion, would at all times have sat clumsily upon a nature too 
 brutal for even the mimicry of virtue. 
 
 Wrapped in one of those large mantles which came in use 
 among the Romans in proportion as they dismissed the toga, 
 whose ample folds well concealed the form, and in which a 
 sort of hood (attached to it) afforded no less a security to the 
 features, Calenus now sat in the small and private chamber of 
 the wine-cellar, whence a small passage ran at once to that 
 back entrance, with which nearly all the houses of Pompeii 
 were furnished. 
 
 Opposite to him sat the sturdy Burbo, carefully counting 
 on a table between them a little pile of coins which the priest 
 had just poured from his purse—for purses were as common 
 then as now, with this difference—they were usually better 
 furnished! 
 
 “You see,” said Calenus, “that we pay you handsomely, 
 and you ought to thank me for recommending you to so ad¬ 
 vantageous a market.” 
 
 “I do, my cousin, I do,” replied Burbo, affectionately, as he 
 swept the coins into a leathern receptacle, which he then 
 deposited in his girdle, drawing the buckle round his capacious 
 waist more closely than he was wont to do in the lax hours of 
 his domestic avocations. “And by Isis, Pisis, and Nisis, or 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 97 
 
 whatever other gods there may be in Egypt, my little Nydia is 
 a very Hesperides—a garden of gold to me.” 
 
 “She sings well, and plays like a muse,” returned Calenus; 
 “those are virtues that he who employs me always pays 
 liberally.” 
 
 “He is a god,” cried Burbo, enthusiastically; “every rich 
 man who is generous deserves to be worshipped. But come, 
 a cup of wine, old friend: tell me more about it. What does 
 she do? she is frightened, talks of her oath, and reveals 
 nothing.” 
 
 “Nor will I, by my right hand! I, too, have taken that 
 terrible oath of secrecy.” 
 
 “Oath! what are oaths to men like us?” 
 
 “True oaths of a common fashion; but this!”—and the 
 stalwart priest shuddered as he spoke. “Yet,” he continued, 
 in emptying a huge cup of unmixed wine, “I will own to thee, 
 that it is not so much the oath that I dread as the vengeance 
 of him who proposed it. By the gods! he is a mighty sorcerer, 
 and could draw my confession from the moon, did I dare to 
 make it to her. Talk no more of this. By Pollux! wild as 
 those banquets are which I enjoy with him, I am never quite 
 at my ease there. I love, my boy, one jolly hour with thee, 
 and one of the plain, unsophisticated, laughing girls that I 
 meet in this chamber, all smoke-dried though it be, better 
 than whole nights of those magnificent debauches.” 
 
 “Ho! sayest thou so! To-morrow night, please the gods, 
 we will have then a snug carousal.” 
 
 “With all my heart,” said the priest, rubbing his hands, 
 and drawing himself nearer to the table. 
 
 At this moment they heard a slight noise at the door, as of 
 one feeling the handle. The priest lowered the hood over his 
 head. 
 
 “Tush!” whispered the host, “it is but the blind girl,” as 
 ! Nydia opened the door, and entered the apartment, 
 i “Ho! girl, and how durst thou? thou lookest pale,—thou 
 hast kept late revels? No matter, the young must be always 
 the young,” said Burbo, encouragingly. 
 
 The girl made no answer, but she dropped on one of the 
 
 Pompeii, J 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 9 S 
 
 seats with an air of lassitude. Her colour went and came 
 rapidly: she beat the floor impatiently with her small feet, 
 then she suddenly raised her face, and said with a determined 
 voice,— 
 
 “Master, you may starve me if you will,—you may beat 
 me,—you may threaten me with death,—but I will go no more 
 to that unholy place!” 
 
 “How, fool!” said Burbo, in a savage voice, and his heavy 
 brows met darkly over his fierce and bloodshot eyes; “how, 
 rebellious! Take care.” 
 
 “I have said it,” said the poor girl, crossing her hands on 
 her breast. 
 
 “What! my modest one, sweet vestal, thou wilt go no 
 more? Very well, thou shalt be carried.” 
 
 “I will raise the city with my cries,” said she, passionately, 
 and the colour mounted to her brow. 
 
 “We will take care of that too; thou shalt go gagged.” 
 
 “Then may the gods help me!” said Nydia, rising; “I will 
 appeal to the magistrates.” 
 
 “Thine oath remember!” said a hollow voice, as for the first 
 time Calenus joined in the dialogue. 
 
 At those words a trembling shook the frame of the un¬ 
 fortunate girl; she clasped her hands imploringly. “Wretch 
 that I am!” she cried, and burst violently into sobs. 
 
 Whether or not it was the sound of that vehement sorrow 
 which brought the gentle Stratonice to the spot, her grisly form 
 at this moment appeared in the chamber. 
 
 “How now? what hast thou been doing with my slave, 
 brute?” said she, angrily, to Burbo. 
 
 “Be quiet, wife,” said he, in a tone half-sullen, half-timid; 
 “you want new girdles and fine clothes, do you? Well then, 
 take care of your slave, or you may want them long. Vce capiti 
 tuo —vengeance on thy head, wretched one!” 
 
 “What is this?” said the hag, looking from one to the other. 
 
 Nydia started as by a sudden impulse from the wall against 
 which she had leaned; she threw herself at the feet of Stra¬ 
 tonice; she embraced her knees, and looking up at her with 
 those sightless but touching eyes— 
 
THE LAST DAYS OP POMPEII. 
 
 99 
 
 “0 my mistress!” sobbed she, “you are a woman,—you 
 have had sisters,—you have been young like me,—feel for me, 
 —save me! I will go to those horrible feasts no more!” 
 
 “Stuff!” said the hag, dragging her up rudely by one of 
 those delicate hands, fit for no harsher labour than that of 
 weaving the flowers which made her pleasure or her trade;— 
 “stuff! these fine scruples are not for slaves.” 
 
 “Hark ye,” saidBurbo, drawing forth his purse, and chink¬ 
 ing its contents: “you hear this music, wife; by Pollux! if 
 you do not break in yon colt with a tight rein, you will hear it 
 no more.” 
 
 “The girl is tired,” said Stratonice, nodding to Calenus; 
 “she will be more docile when you next want her.” 
 
 11 You! you! who is here?” cried Nydia, casting her eyes 
 round the apartment with so fearful and straining a survey, 
 that Calenus rose in alarm from his seat,— 
 
 “She must see with those eyes!” muttered he. 
 
 “Who is here? Speak, in heaven’s name! Ah, if you 
 were blind like me, you would be less cruel,” said she; and 
 she again burst into tears. 
 
 “Take her away,” saidBurbo, impatiently; “I hate these 
 whimperings.” 
 
 “Come!” said Stratonice, pushing the poor child by the 
 shoulders. 
 
 Nydia drew herself aside, with an air to which resolution 
 gave dignity. 
 
 “Hear me,” she said; “I have served you faithfully,—I, 
 who was brought up—Ah! my mother, my poor mother! didst 
 thou dream I should come to this?” She dashed the tear 
 from her eyes, and proceeded:—“Command me in aught else, 
 and I will obey; but I tell you now, hard, stern, inexorable as 
 you are,—I tell you that I will go there no more; or, if I am 
 forced there, that I will implore the mercy of the prastor him¬ 
 self—I have said it. Hear me, ye gods, I swear!” 
 
 The hag’s eyes glowed with fire; she seized the child by 
 the hair with one hand, and raised on high the other—that 
 formidable right hand, the least blow of which seemed capable 
 to crush the frail and delicate form that trembled in her grasp. 
 
 7 * 
 
IOO 
 
 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 That thought itself appeared to strike her, for she suspended 
 the blow, changed her purpose, and dragging Nydia to the 
 wall, seized from a hook a rope, often, alas! applied to a 
 similar purpose, and the next moment the shrill, the agonized 
 shrieks of the blind girl rang piercingly through the house. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 Glaucus makes a Purchase that afterwards costs him dear. 
 
 “Holla, my brave fellows!” said Lepidus, stooping his 
 head, as he entered the low doorway of the house of Burbo. 
 “We have come to see which of you most honours your 
 lanista.” The gladiators rose from the table in respect to 
 three gallants known to be among the gayest and richest 
 youths of Pompeii, and whose voices were therefore the dis¬ 
 pensers of amphitheatrical reputation. 
 
 “What fine animals!” said Clodius to Glaucus: “worthy to 
 be gladiators!” 
 
 “It is a pity they are not warriors,” returned Glaucus. 
 
 A singular thing it was to see the dainty and fastidious 
 Lepidus, whom in a banquet a ray of daylight seemed to blind, 
 —whom in the bath a breeze of air seemed to blast,—in whom 
 Nature seemed twisted and perverted from every natural 
 impulse, and curdled into one dubious thing of effeminacy and 
 art;—a singular thing was it to see this Lepidus, now all eager¬ 
 ness, and energy, and life, patting the vast shoulders of the 
 gladiators with a blanched and girlish hand, feeling with a 
 mincing gripe their great brawn and iron muscles, all lost in 
 calculating admiration at that manhood which he had spent 
 his life in carefully banishing from himself. 
 
 So have we seen at this day the beardless flutterers of the 
 saloons of London thronging round the heroes of the Fives- 
 court;—so have we seen them admire, and gaze, and calculate 
 abet;—so have we seen them meet together, in ludicrous yet in 
 melancholy assemblage,, the two extremes of civilised society, 
 —the patrons of pleasure and its slaves—vilest of all slaves— 
 at once ferocious and mercenary; male prostitutes, who sell 
 
5259. POMPEI. Casa dei Capitelli colorati. 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEIL 
 
 IOI 
 
 their strength as women their beauty; beasts in act, but baser 
 than beasts in motive, for the last, at least, do not mangle 
 themselves for money! 
 
 “Ha? Niger, how will you fight?” said Lepidus; “and with 
 whom?” 
 
 “Sporus challenges me,” said the grim giant; “we shall 
 fight to the death, I hope.” 
 
 “Ah! to be sure,” grunted Sporus, with a twinkle of his 
 small eye. 
 
 “He takes the sword, I the net and the trident: it will be 
 rare sport. I hope the survivor will have enough to keep up 
 the dignity of the crown.” 
 
 “Never fear, we’ll fill the purse, my Hector,” said Clodius: 
 “let me see,—you fight against Niger? Glaucus, a bet—I back 
 Niger.” 
 
 “I told you so,” cried Niger, exultingly. “The noble 
 Clodius knows me; count yourself dead already, my Sporus.” 
 
 Clodius took out his tablet.—“A bet,—ten sestertia.* 
 What say you?” 
 
 “So be it,” said Glaucus. “But whom have we here? I 
 never saw this hero before;” and he glanced at Lydon, whose 
 limbs were slighter than those of his companions, and who had 
 something of grace, and something even of nobleness, in his 
 face, which his profession had not yet wholly destroyed. 
 
 “It is Lydon, a youngster, practised only with the wooden 
 sword as yet,” answered Niger, condescendingly. “But he 
 has the true blood in him, and has challenged Tetraides.” 
 
 “He challenged me” said Lydon: “I accept the offer.” 
 
 “And how do you fight?” asked Lepidus. “Chut, my boy, 
 wait a while before you contend with Tetraides.” Lydon 
 smiled disdainfully. 
 
 “Is he a citizen or a slave?” said Clodius. 
 
 “A citizen;—we are all citizens here,” quoth Niger. 
 
 “Stretch out your arm, my Lydon,” said Lepidus, with the 
 air of a connoisseur. 
 
 The gladiator, with a significant glance at his companions, 
 extended an arm which, if not so huge in its girth as those of 
 
 * A little more than ^80. 
 
102 
 
 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 his comrades, was so firm in its muscles, so beautifully sym¬ 
 metrical in its proportions, that the three visitors uttered 
 simultaneously an admiring exclamation. 
 
 “Well, man, what is your weapon?” said Clodius, tablet in 
 hand. 
 
 “We are to fight first with the cestus; afterwards, if both 
 survive, with swords,” returned Tetraides, sharply, and with 
 an envious scowl. 
 
 “With the cestus!” cried Glaucus; “there you are wrong, 
 Lydon; the cestus is the Greek fashion: I know it well. You 
 should have encouraged flesh for that contest; you are far too 
 thin for it—avoid the cestus.” 
 
 “I cannot,” said Lydon. 
 
 “And why?” 
 
 “I have said—because he has challenged me.” 
 
 “But he will not hold you to the precise weapon.” 
 
 “My honour holds me!” returned Lydon, proudly. 
 
 “I bet on Tetraides, two to one, at the cestus,” said Clo¬ 
 dius; “shall it be, Lepidus?—even betting, with swords.” 
 
 “If you give me three to one, I will not take the odds,” said 
 Lepidus; “Lydon will never come to the swords. You are 
 mighty courteous.” 
 
 “What say you, Glaucus?” said Clodius. 
 
 “I will take the odds three to one.” 
 
 “Ten sestertia to thirty?” 
 
 “Yes.”* 
 
 Clodius wrote the bet in his book. 
 
 “Pardon me, noble sponsor mine,” said Lydon, in a low 
 voice to Glaucus: “but howmuch thinkyou thevictorwill gain?” 
 
 “How much? why, perhaps seven sestertia.” 
 
 “You are sure it will be as much?” 
 
 “At least. But out on you!—a Greek would have thought 
 of the honour, and not the money. O Italians! everywhere ye 
 are Italians! ” 
 
 A blush mantled over the bronzed cheek of the gladiator. 
 
 * The reader will not confound the sester&Y with the sester tia. A sester tium, 
 which was a sum, not a coin, was a thousand times the value of a sester tins; the 
 first was equivalent to £ 8 . is. 5 %d., the last to id. 3% farthings of our money. 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. IO3 
 
 “Do not wrong me, noble Glaucus; I think of both, but I 
 should never have been a gladiator but for the money.” 
 
 “Base! mayest thou fall! A miser never was a hero.” 
 
 “I am not a miser,” said Lydon, haughtily, and he withdrew 
 to the other end of the room. 
 
 “But I don’t see Burbo; where is Burbo? I must talk with 
 Burbo,” cried Clodius. 
 
 “He is within,” said Niger, pointing to the door at the ex¬ 
 tremity of the room. 
 
 “And Stratonice, the brave old lass, where is she?” quoth 
 Lepidus. 
 
 “Why, she was here just before you entered; but she heard 
 something that displeased her yonder, and vanished. Pollux! 
 old Burbo had perhaps caught hold of some girl in the back 
 room. I heard a female’s voice crying out; the old dame is as 
 jealous as Juno.” 
 
 “Ho! excellent!” cried Lepidus, laughing. “Come, Clo¬ 
 dius, let us go shares with Jupiter; perhaps he has caught a 
 Leda.” 
 
 At this moment a loud cry of pain and terror startled the 
 group. 
 
 “ Oh, spare me! spare me! I am but a child, I am blind,— 
 is not that punishment enough?” 
 
 “O Pallas! I know that voice, it is my poor flower-girl!” 
 exclaimed Glaucus, and he darted at once into the quarter 
 whence the cry rose. 
 
 He burst the door; he beheld Nydia writhing in the grasp 
 of the infuriate hag; the cord, already dabbled with blood, 
 was raised in the air,—it was suddenly arrested. 
 
 “Fury!” said Glaucus, and with his left hand he caught 
 Nydia from her grasp: “how dare you use thus a girl,—one of 
 your own sex, a child? My Nydia, my poor infant!” 
 
 “Oh! is that you—is that Glaucus?” exclaimed the flower- 
 girl, in a tone almost of transport; the tears stood arrested on 
 her cheek; she smiled, she clung to his breast, she kissed his 
 robe as she clung. 
 
 “And how dare you, pert stranger! interfere between a free 
 woman and her slave. By the gods! despite your fine tunic 
 
104 
 
 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 and your filthy perfumes, I doubt whether you are even a 
 Roman citizen, my mannikin.” 
 
 “Fair words, mistress,—fair words!” said Clodius, now 
 entering with Lepidus. “This is my friend and sworn brother: 
 he must be put under shelter of your tongue, sweet one; it 
 rains stones!” 
 
 “Give me my slave!” shrieked the virago, placing her 
 mighty grasp on the breast of the Greek. 
 
 “Not if all your sister Furies could help you,” answered 
 Glaucus. “Fear not, sweet Nydia; an Athenian never forsook 
 distress!” 
 
 “Holla!” said Burbo, rising reluctantly, “what turmoil is 
 all this about a slave? Let go the young gentleman, wife,—let 
 him go: for his sake the pert thing shall be spared this once.” 
 So saying, he drew, or rather dragged off, his ferocious help¬ 
 mate. 
 
 “Methought when we entered,” said Clodius, “there was 
 another man present?” 
 
 “He is gone.” 
 
 For the priest of Isis had indeed thought it high time to 
 vanish. 
 
 “Oh, a friend of mine! a brother cupman, a quiet dog, who 
 does not love these snarlings,” said Burbo, carelessly. “But 
 go, child, you will tear the gentleman’s tunic if you cling to 
 him so tight; go, you are pardoned.” 
 
 “Oh, do not—do not forsake me!” criedNydia, clinging yet 
 closer to the Athenian. 
 
 Moved by her forlorn situation, her appeal to him, her own 
 innumerable and touching graces, the Greek seated himself on 
 one of the rude chairs. He held her on his knees,—he wiped 
 the blood from her shoulders with his long hair,—he kissed 
 the tears from her cheeks,—he whispered to her a thousand 
 of those soothing words with which we calm the grief of a 
 child;—and so beautiful did he seem in his gentle and consol¬ 
 ing task, that even the fierce heart of Stratonice was touched. 
 His presence seemed to shed light over that base and obscene 
 haunt,—young, beautiful, glorious, he was the emblem of all 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. IO5 
 
 that earth made most happy, comforting one that earth had 
 abandoned! 
 
 “Well, who could have thought our blind Nydia had been 
 so honoured?” said the virago, wiping her heated brow. 
 
 Glaucus looked up at Burbo. 
 
 “My good man,” said he, “this is your slave; she sings 
 well, she is accustomed to the care of flowers,—I wish to make 
 a present of such a slave to a lady. Will you sell her to me?” 
 As he spoke he felt the whole frame of the poor girl tremble 
 with delight; she started up, she put her dishevelled hair from 
 her eyes, she looked around, as if, alas! she had the power 
 to seel 
 
 “Sell our Nydia! no, indeed,” said Stratonice, gruffly. 
 
 Nydia sank back with a long sigh, and again clasped the 
 robe of her protector. 
 
 “Nonsense!” said Clodius, imperiously: “you must oblige 
 me. What, man! what, old dame! offend me, and your trade 
 is ruined. Is not Burbo my kinsman Pansa’s client? Am I not 
 the oracle of the amphitheatre and its heroes ? If I say the 
 word, Break up your wine-jars,—you sell no more. Glaucus, 
 the slave is yours.” 
 
 Burbo scratched his huge head, in evident embarrassment. 
 
 “The girl is worth her weight in gold to me.” 
 
 “Name your price, I am rich,” said Glaucus. 
 
 The ancient Italians were like the modern, there was no¬ 
 thing they would not sell, much less a poor blind girl. 
 
 “I paid six sestertia for her, she is worth twelve now,” mut¬ 
 tered Stratonice. 
 
 “You shall have twenty; come to the magistrates at once, 
 and then to my house for your money.” 
 
 “I would not have sold the dear girl for a hundred but to 
 oblige noble Clodius,” said Burbo, whiningly. “And you will 
 speak to Pansa about the place of designator at the amphi¬ 
 theatre, noble Clodius? it would just suit me.” 
 
 “Thou shalt have it,” said Clodius; adding in a whisper to 
 Burbo, “Yon Greek can make your fortune; money runs 
 through him like a sieve: mark to-day with white chalk, my 
 Priam” 
 
io6 
 
 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 “An dabis ?” said Glaucus, in the formal question of sale and 
 barter. 
 
 “ Dabitur answered Burbo. 
 
 “Then, then, I am to go with you,—with you? O happi¬ 
 ness!” murmured Nydia. 
 
 “Pretty one, yes; and thy hardest task henceforth shall be 
 to sing thy Grecian hymns to the loveliest lady in Pompeii.” 
 
 The girl sprang from his clasp; a change came over her 
 whole face, so bright the instant before; she sighed heavily, 
 and then, once more taking his hand, she said,— 
 
 “I thought I was to go to your house?” 
 
 “And so thou shalt for the present; come, we lose time.” 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 The Rival of Glaucus presses onward in the Race. 
 
 IONE was one of those brilliant characters which, but once 
 or twice, flash across our career. She united in the highest 
 perfection the rarest of earthly gifts,—Genius and Beauty. No 
 one ever possessed superior intellectual qualities without know¬ 
 ing them,—the alliteration of modesty and merit is pretty 
 enough, but where merit is great, the veil of that modesty you 
 admire never disguises its extent from its possessor. It is the 
 proud consciousness of certain qualities that it cannot reveal to 
 the everyday world, that gives to genius that shy, and reserved, 
 and troubled air, which puzzles and flatters you when you en¬ 
 counter it. 
 
 lone, then, knew her genius; but, with that charming ver¬ 
 satility that belongs of right to women, she had the faculty so 
 few of a kindred genius in the less malleable sex can claim,— 
 the faculty to bend and model her graceful intellect to all whom 
 it encountered. The sparkling fountain threw its waters alike 
 upon the strand, the cavern, and the flowers; it refreshed, it 
 smiled, it dazzled eyerywhere. That pride, which is the neces¬ 
 sary result of superiority, she wore easily—in her breast it con¬ 
 centred itself in independence. She pursued thus her own 
 bright and solitary path. She asked no aged matron to direct 
 
5055. POMP El. Casa di Castore e Polluce. 
 
. f < ■: 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 107 
 
 and guide her,—she walked alone by the torch of her own un¬ 
 flickering purity. She obeyed no tyrannical and absolute cus¬ 
 tom. She moulded custom to her own will, but this so delicately 
 and with so feminine a grace, so perfect an exemption from 
 error, that you could not say she outraged custom but com¬ 
 manded it. The wealth of her graces was inexhaustible— 
 she beautified the commonest action; a word, a look from 
 her, seemed magic. Love her, and you entered into a new 
 world, you passed from this trite and commonplace earth. 
 You were in a land in which your eyes saw everything through 
 an enchanted medium. In her presence you felt as if listening 
 to exquisite music; you were steeped in that sentiment which 
 has so little of earth in it, and which music so well inspires,— 
 that intoxication which refines and exalts, which seizes, it is 
 true, the senses, but gives them the character of the soul. 
 
 She was peculiarly formed, then, to command and fascinate 
 the less ordinary and the bolder natures of men; to love her 
 was to unite two passions, that of love and of ambition,—you 
 aspired when you adored her. It was no wonder that she had 
 j completely chained and subdued the mysterious but burning 
 soul of the Egyptian, a man in whom dwelt the fiercest pas- 
 I sions. Her beauty and her soul alike enthralled him. 
 
 I Set apart himself from the common world, he loved that 
 daringness of character which also made itself, among common 
 things, aloof and alone. He did not, or he would not see, that 
 I that very isolation put her yet more from him than from the 
 j vulgar. Far as the poles—far as the night from day, his soli- 
 ! tude was divided from hers. He was solitary from his dark 
 and solemn vices—she from her beautiful fancies and her purity 
 of virtue. 
 
 If it was not strange that lone thus enthralled the Egyptian, 
 
 ! far less strange was it that she had captured, as suddenly as 
 j irrevocably, the bright and sunny heart of the Athenian. The 
 I; gladness of a temperament which seemed woven from the 
 i beams of light had led Glaucus into pleasure. He obeyed no 
 > more vicious dictates when he wandered into the dissipations 
 1 of his time, than the exhilarating voices of youth and health. 
 He threw the brightness of his nature over every abyss and 
 
io8 
 
 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 cavern through which he strayed. His imagination dazzled 
 him, but his heart never was corrupted. Of far more penetra¬ 
 tion than his companions deemed, he saw that they sought to 
 prey upon his riches and his youth: but he despised wealth 
 save as the means of enjoyment, and youth was the great sym¬ 
 pathy that united him to them. He felt, it is true, the im¬ 
 pulse of nobler thoughts and higher aims than in pleasure could 
 be indulged: but the world was one vast prison, to which the 
 Sovereign of Rome was the Imperial gaoler; and the very vir¬ 
 tues, which in the free days of Athens would have made him 
 ambitious, in the slavery of earth made him inactive and supine. 
 For in that unnatural and bloated civilisation, all that was noble 
 in emulation was forbidden. Ambition in the regions of a 
 despotic and luxurious court was but the contest of flattery and 
 craft. Avarice had become the sole ambition,—men desired 
 praetorships and provinces only as the license to pillage, and 
 government was but the excuse of rapine. It is in small states 
 that glory is most active and pure,—the more confined the limits 
 of the circle, the more ardent the patriotism. In small states, 
 opinion is concentrated and strong,—every eye reads your actions 
 —your public motives are blended with your private ties,—every 
 spot in your narrow sphere is crowded with forms familiar since 
 your childhood,—the applause of your citizens is like the ca¬ 
 resses of your friends. But in large states, the city is but the 
 court: the provinces—unknown to you, unfamiliar in customs, 
 perhaps in language,—have no claim on your patriotism, the 
 ancestry of their inhabitants is not yours. In the court you 
 desire favour instead of glory; at a distance from the court, 
 public opinion has vanished from you, and self-interest has no 
 counterpoise. 
 
 Italy, Italy, while I write, your skies are over me—your seas 
 flow beneath my feet, listen not to the blind policy which would 
 unite all your crested cities, mourning for their republics, into 
 one empire; false, pernicious delusion! your only hope of re¬ 
 generation is in division. Florence, Milan, Venice, Genoa, may 
 be free once more, if each is free. But dream not of freedom 
 for the whole while you enslave the parts; the heart must be 
 the centre of the system, the blood must circulate freely every- 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 IO9 
 
 where; and in vast communities you behold but a bloated and 
 feeble giant, whose brain is imbecile, whose limbs are dead, 
 and who pays in disease and weakness the penalty of transcend¬ 
 ing the natural proportions of health and vigour. 
 
 Thus thrown back upon themselves, the more ardent quali¬ 
 ties of Glaucus found no vent, save in that overflowing imagina¬ 
 tion which gave grace to pleasure and poetry to thought. Ease 
 was less despicable than contention with parasites and slaves, 
 and luxury could yet be refined though ambition could not be 
 ennobled. But all that was best and brightest in his soul woke 
 at once when he knew lone. Here was an empire, worthy of 
 demigods to attain; here was a glory, which the reeking smoke 
 of a foul society could not soil or dim. Love, in every time, in 
 every state, can thus find space for its golden altars. And tell 
 me if there ever, even in the ages most favourable to glory, 
 could be a triumph more exalted and elating than the conquest 
 of one noble heart? 
 
 And whether it was that this sentiment inspired him, his 
 ideas glowed more brightly, his soul seemed more awake and 
 more visible, in lone’s presence. If natural to love her, it was 
 natural that she should return the passion. Young, brilliant, 
 eloquent, enamoured, and Athenian, he was to her as the in¬ 
 carnation of the poetry of her father’s land. They were not 
 like creatures of a world in which strife and sorrow are the 
 elements; they were like things to be seen only in the holiday 
 of nature, so glorious and so fresh were their youth, their beauty, 
 and their love. They seemed out of place in the harsh and 
 every-day earth; they belonged of right to the Saturnian age, 
 and the dreams of demigod and nymph. It was as if the poetry 
 of life gathered and fed itself in them, and in their hearts were 
 concentrated the last rays of the sun of Delos and of Greece. 
 
 But if lone was independent in her choice of life, so was her 
 modest pride proportionably vigilant and easily alarmed. The 
 falsehood of the Egyptian was invented by a deep knowledge 
 of her nature. The story of coarseness, of indelicacy, in 
 Glaucus, stung her to the quick. She felt it a reproach upon 
 her character and her career, a punishment above all to her 
 love; she felt, for the first time, how suddenly she had yielded 
 
IIO 
 
 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 to that love; she blushed with shame at a weakness, the extent 
 of which she was startled to perceive: she imagined it was that 
 weakness which had incurred the contempt of Glaucus; she 
 endured the bitterest curse of noble natures— humiliation! Yet 
 her love, perhaps, was no less alarmed than her pride. If one 
 moment she murmured reproaches upon Glaucus—if one mo¬ 
 ment she renounced, she almost hated him—at the next she 
 burst into passionate tears, her heart yielded to its softness, 
 and she said in the bitterness of anguish, “He despises me—- 
 he does not love me.” 
 
 From the hour the Egyptian had left her she had retired 
 to her most secluded chamber, she had shut out her handmaids, 
 she had denied herself to the crowds that besieged her door. 
 Glaucus was excluded with the rest; he wondered, but he 
 guessed not why! He never attributed to his lone—his queen 
 —his goddess — that woman-like caprice of which the love- 
 poets of Italy so unceasingly complain. He imagined her, in 
 the majesty of her candour, above all the arts that torture. 
 He was troubled, but his hopes were not dimmed, for he knew 
 already that he loved and was beloved; what more could he 
 desire as an amulet against fear? 
 
 At deepest night, then, when the streets were hushed, and 
 the high moon only beheld his devotions, he stole to that 
 temple of his heart—her home;* and wooed her after the 
 beautiful fashion of his country. He covered her threshold 
 with the richest garlands, in which every flower was a volume 
 of sweet passion; and he charmed the long summer-night with 
 the sound of the Lydian lute; and verses, which the inspiration 
 of the moment sufficed to weave. 
 
 But the window above opened not; no smile made yet more 
 holy the shining air of night. All was still and dark. He knew 
 not if his verse was welcome and his suit was heard. 
 
 Yet lone slept not, nor disdained to hear. Those soft 
 strains ascended to her chamber; they soothed, they subdued 
 her. While she listened, she believed nothing against her 
 lover; but when they were stilled at last, and his step departed, 
 
 * Athenseus—“The true temple of Cupid is the house of the beloved one. 1 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 Ill 
 
 the spell ceased; and, in the bitterness of her soul, she almost 
 conceived in that delicate flattery a new affront. 
 
 I said she was denied to all; but there was one exception, 
 there was one person who would not be denied, assuming over 
 her actions and her house something like the authority of a 
 parent: Arbaces, for himself, claimed an exemption from all 
 the ceremonies observed by others. He entered the threshold 
 with the license of one who feels that he is privileged and at 
 home. He made his way to her solitude and with that sort of 
 quiet and unapologetic air which seemed to consider the right 
 as a thing of course. With all the independence of lone’s 
 character, his heart had enabled him to obtain a secret and 
 powerful control over her mind. She could not shake it off; 
 sometimes she desired to do so; but she never actively 
 struggled against it. She was fascinated by his serpent eye. 
 He arrested, he commanded her, by the magic of a mind long 
 accustomed to awe and to subdue. Utterly unaware of his 
 real character or his hidden love, she felt for him the re¬ 
 verence which genius feels for wisdom, and virtue for sanctity. 
 She regarded him as one of those mighty sages of old, who 
 attained to the mysteries of knowledge by an exemption from 
 the passions of their kind. She scarcely considered him as a 
 being, like herself. Of the earth, but as an oracle at once dark 
 and sacred. She did not love him, but she feared. His pre¬ 
 sence was unwelcome to her; it dimmed her spirit even in its 
 brightest mood; he seemed, with his chilling and lofty aspect, 
 like some eminence which casts a shadow over the sun. But 
 she never thought of forbidding his visits. She was passive 
 under the influence which created in her breast, not the re¬ 
 pugnance, but something of the stillness of terror. 
 
 Arbaces himself now resolved to exert all his arts to pos¬ 
 sess himself of that treasure he so burningly coveted. He was 
 cheered and elated by his conquest over her brother. From 
 the hour in which Apascides fell beneath the voluptuous sorcery 
 of that fete which we have described, he felt his empire over 
 the young priest triumphant and insured. He knew that there 
 is no victim so thoroughly subdued as a young and fervent 
 man for the first time delivered to the thraldom of the senses. 
 
II2 
 
 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 When Apaecides recovered, with the morning light, from 
 the profound sleep which succeeded to the delirium of wonder 
 and of pleasure, he was, it is true, ashamed—terrified—ap¬ 
 palled. His vows of austerity and celibacy echoed in his ear; 
 his thirst after holiness—had it been quenched at so unhal¬ 
 lowed a stream? But Arbaces knew well the means by which 
 to confirm his conquest. From the arts of pleasure he led the 
 young priest at once to those of his mysterious wisdom. He 
 bared to his amazed eyes the initiatory secrets of the sombre 
 philosophy of the Nile—those secrets plucked from the stars, 
 and the wild chemistry, which, in those days, when Reason 
 herself was but the creature of Imagination, might well pass 
 for the lore of a diviner magic. He seemed to the young eyes 
 of the priest as a being above mortality, and endowed with 
 supernatural gifts. That yearning and intense desire for the 
 knowledge which is not of earth—which had burned from his 
 boyhood in the heart of the priest—was dazzled, until it con¬ 
 fused and mastered his clearer sense. He gave himself to the 
 art which thus addressed at once the two strongest of human 
 passions, that of pleasure and that of knowledge. He was 
 loth to believe that one so wise could err, that one so lofty 
 could stoop to deceive. Entangled in the dark web of meta¬ 
 physical moralities, he caught at the excuse by which the 
 Egyptian converted vice into a virtue. His pride was insen¬ 
 sibly flattered that Arbaces had deigned to rank him with him¬ 
 self, to set him apart from the laws which bound the vulgar, to 
 make him an august participator, both in the mystic studies 
 and the magic fascinations of the Egyptian’s solitude. The pure 
 and stern lessons of that creed to which Olinthus had sought to 
 make him convert, were swept away from his memory by the 
 deluge of new passions. And the Egyptian, who was versed 
 in the articles of that true faith, and who soon learned from 
 his pupil the effect which had been produced upon him by its 
 believers, sought, not unskilfully, to undo that effect, by a tone 
 of reasoning, half-sarcastic and half-earnest. 
 
 “This faith,” said he, “is but a borrowed plagiarism from 
 one of the many allegories invented by our priests of old. 
 Observe,” he added, pointing to a hieroglyphical scroll,—“ob- 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. I I 3 
 
 serve in these ancient figures the origin of the Christian’s 
 Trinity. Here are also three Gods—the Deity, the Spirit, and 
 the Son. Observe, that the epithet of the Son is ‘Saviour,’— 
 observe, that the sign by which his human qualities are de¬ 
 noted is the cross.* Note here, too, the mystic history of 
 Osiris, how he put on death; how he lay in the grave; and 
 how, thus fulfilling a solemn atonement, he rose again from 
 the dead! In these stories we but design to paint an allegory 
 from the operations of nature and the evolutions of the eternal 
 heavens. But the allegory unknown, the types themselves 
 have furnished to credulous nations the materials of many 
 creeds. They have travelled to the vast plains of India; they 
 have mixed themselves up in the visionary speculations of the 
 Greek: becoming more and more gross and embodied, as they 
 emerge farther from the shadows of their antique origin, they 
 have assumed a human and palpable form in this novel faith; 
 and the believers of Galilee are but the unconscious repeaters 
 of one of the superstitions of the Nile!” 
 
 This was the last argument which completely subdued the 
 priest. It was necessary to him, as to all, to believe in some¬ 
 thing; and undivided and, at last, unreluctant, he surrendered 
 himself to that belief which Arbaces inculcated, and which all 
 that was human in passion—all that was flattering in vanity— 
 all that was alluring in pleasure, served to invite to, and con¬ 
 tributed to confirm. 
 
 This conquest, thus easily made, the Egyptian could now 
 give himself wholly up to the pursuit of a far dearer and 
 mightier object; and he hailed, in his success with the brother, 
 an omen of his triumph over the sister. 
 
 He had seen lone on the day following the revel we have 
 witnessed; and which was also the day after he had poisoned 
 her mind against his rival. The next day, and the next, he 
 saw her also: and each time he laid himself out with consum¬ 
 mate art: partly to confirm her impression against Glaucus, 
 and principally to prepare her for the impressions he desired 
 her to receive. The proud lone took care to conceal the 
 
 * The believer will draw from this vague coincidence a very different corollary 
 from that of the Egyptian. 
 
 Pompeii . g 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII, 
 
 114 
 
 anguish she endured; and the pride of woman has an hypo¬ 
 crisy which can deceive the most penetrating, and shame the 
 most astute. But Arbaces was no less cautious not to recur 
 to a subject which he felt it was most politic to treat as of the 
 lightest importance. He knew that by dwelling much upon 
 the fault of a rival, you only give him dignity in the eyes of 
 your mistress: the wisest plan is, neither loudly to hate, nor 
 bitterly to contemn; the wisest plan is to lower him by an in¬ 
 difference of tone, as if you could not dream that he could be 
 loved. Your safety is in concealing the wound to your own 
 pride, and imperceptibly alarming that of the umpire, whose 
 voice is fate! Such, in all times, will be the policy of one who 
 knows the science of the sex—it was now the Egyptian’s. 
 
 He recurred no more, then, to the presumption of Glaucus; 
 he mentioned his name, but not more often than that of Clodius 
 or of Lepidus. He affected to class them together as things 
 of a low and ephemeral species; as things wanting nothing of 
 the butterfly, save its innocence and its grace. Sometimes he 
 slightly alluded to some invented debauch, in which he de¬ 
 clared them companions; sometimes he adverted to them as 
 the antipodes of those lofty and spiritual natures, to whose 
 order that of lone belonged. Blinded alike by the pride of 
 lone, and, perhaps, by his own, he dreamed not that she al¬ 
 ready loved; but he dreaded lest she might have formed for 
 Glaucus the first fluttering prepossessions that lead to love. 
 And, secretly, he ground his teeth in rage and jealousy, when 
 he reflected on the youth, the fascinations, and the brilliancy 
 of that formidable rival he pretended to undervalue. 
 
 It was on the fourth day from the date of the close of the 
 previous book, that Arbaces and lone sat together. 
 
 “You wear your veil at home,” said the Egyptian; “that is 
 not fair to those whom you honour with your friendship.” 
 
 “But to Arbaces,” answered lone, who, indeed, had cast 
 the veil over her features to conceal eyes red with weeping,— 
 “to Arbaces, who looks only to the mind, what matters it that 
 the face is concealed?” 
 
 “I do look only to the mind,” replied the Egyptian: “show 
 me then your face—for there I shall see it!” 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 115 
 
 “You grow gallant in the air of Pompeii,” said lone, with a 
 forced tone of gaiety. 
 
 “Do you think, fair lone, that it is only at Pompeii that I 
 have learned to value you?” The Egyptian's voice trembled 
 —he paused for a moment, and then resumed. 
 
 “There is a love, beautiful Greek, which is not the love 
 only of the thoughtless and the young—there is a love which 
 sees not with the eyes, which hears not with the ears; but in 
 which soul is enamoured of soul. The countryman of thy an¬ 
 cestors, the cave-nursed Plato, dreamed of such a love—his 
 followers have sought to imitate it; but it is a love that is not 
 for the herd to echo—it is a love that only high and noble 
 natures can conceive—it hath nothing in common with the 
 sympathies and ties of coarse affection;—wrinkles do not revolt 
 it—homeliness of feature does not deter; it asks youth, it 
 is true, but it asks it only in the freshness of the emotions; it 
 asks beauty, it is true, but it is the beauty of the thought and 
 of the spirit. Such is the love, O lone, which is a worthy 
 offering to thee from the cold and the austere. Austere and 
 cold thou deemest me—such is the love that I venture to lay 
 upon thy shrine—thou canst receive it without a blush.” 
 
 “And its name is Friendship!” replied lone: her answer 
 was innocent, yet it sounded like the reproof of one conscious 
 of the design of the speaker. 
 
 “Friendship!” said Arbaces, vehemently. “No; that is a 
 word too often profaned to apply to a sentiment so sacred. 
 Friendship! it is a tie that binds fools and profligates! Friend¬ 
 ship ! it is the bond that unites the frivolous hearts of a Glaucus 
 and a Clodius! Friendship! no, that is an affection of earth, of 
 vulgar habits and sordid sympathies; the feeling of which I 
 speak is borrowed from the stars*—it partakes of that mystic 
 and ineffable yearning, which we feel when we gaze on them— 
 it burns, yet it purifies,—it is the lamp of naphtha in the ala¬ 
 baster vase, glowing with fragrant odours, but shining only 
 through the purest vessels. No; it is not love, and it is not 
 friendship, that Arbaces feels for lone. Give it no name—earth 
 
 * Plato. 
 
 8 * 
 
1 16 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 has no name for it—it is not of earth—why debase it with 
 earthly epithets and earthly associations?” 
 
 Never before had Arbaces ventured so far, yet he felt his 
 ground step by step: he knew that he uttered a language which, 
 if at this day of affected platonisms it would speak unequivocally 
 to the ears of beauty, was at that time strange and unfamiliar, 
 to which no precise idea could be attached, from which he 
 could imperceptibly advance or recede, as occasion suited, as 
 hope encouraged or fear deterred. lone trembled, though she 
 knew not why; her veil hid her features, and masked an ex¬ 
 pression, which, if seen by the Egyptian, would have at once 
 damped and enraged him; in fact, he never was more dis¬ 
 pleasing to her—the harmonious modulation of the most 
 suasive voice that ever disguised unhallowed thought fell dis¬ 
 cordantly on her ear. Her whole soul was still filled with the 
 image of Glaucus; and the accent of tenderness from another 
 only revolted and dismayed; yet she did not conceive that any 
 passion more ardent than that platonism which Arbaces ex¬ 
 pressed lurked beneath his words. She thought that he, in 
 truth, spoke only of the affection and sympathy of the soul; but 
 was it not precisely that affection and that sympathy which had 
 made a part of those emotions she felt for Glaucus; and could 
 any other footstep than his approach the haunted adytum of 
 her heart? 
 
 Anxious at once to change the conversation, she replied, 
 therefore, with a cold and indifferent voice, “Whomsoever 
 Arbaces honours with the sentiment of esteem, it is natural 
 that his elevated wisdom should colour that sentiment with its 
 own hues; it is natural that his friendship should be purer than 
 that of others, whose pursuits and errors he does not deign to 
 share. But tell me, Arbaces, hast thou seen my brother of late? 
 He has not visited me for several days; and when I last saw 
 him his manner disturbed and alarmed me much. I fear lest 
 he was too precipitate in the severe choice that he has adopted, 
 and that he repents an irrevocable step.” 
 
 “Be cheered, lone,” replied the Egyptian. “It is true, that 
 some little time since he was troubled and sad of spirit; those 
 doubts beset him which were likely to haunt one of that fervent 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 117 
 
 temperament, which ever ebbs and flows, and vibrates between 
 excitement and exhaustion. But he, lone, he came to me in his 
 anxieties and his distress; he sought one who pitied and loved 
 him; I have calmed his mind—I have removed his doubts—I 
 have taken him from the threshold of Wisdom into its temple; 
 and before the majesty of the goddess his soul is hushed and 
 soothed. Fear not, he will repent no more; they who trust 
 themselves to Arbaces never repent but for a moment.” 
 
 “You rejoice me,” answered lone. “My dear brother! in his 
 contentment I am happy.” 
 
 The conversation then turned upon lighter subjects; the 
 Egyptian exerted himself to please, he condescended even to 
 entertain; the vast variety of his knowledge enabled him to 
 adorn and light up every subject on which he touched; and 
 lone, forgetting the displeasing effect of his former words, 
 was carried away, despite her sadness, by the magic of his in¬ 
 tellect. Her manner became unrestrained and her language 
 fluent; and Arbaces, who had waited his opportunity, now 
 hastened to seize it. 
 
 “You have never seen,” said he, “the interior of my home; 
 it may amuse you to do so: it contains some rooms that may 
 explain to you what you have often asked me to describe—the 
 fashion of an Egyptian house; not, indeed, that you will per¬ 
 ceive in the poor and minute proportions of Roman architecture 
 the massive strength, the vast space, the gigantic magnificence, 
 or even the domestic construction of the palaces of Thebes 
 and Memphis; but something there is, here and there, that 
 may serve to express to you some notion of that antique civili¬ 
 sation which has humanised the world. Devote, then, to the 
 austere friend of your youth, one of these bright summer 
 evenings, and let me boast that my gloomy mansion has been 
 honoured with the presence of the admired lone.” 
 
 Unconscious of the pollutions of the mansion, of the danger 
 that awaited her, lone readily assented to the proposal. The 
 next evening was fixed for the visit; and the Egyptian, with a 
 serene countenance, and a heart beating with fierce and unholy 
 joy, departed. Scarce had he gone, when another visitor 
 claimed admission.-But now we return to Glaucus. 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 118 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 The poor Tortoise.—New Changes for Nydia. 
 
 The morning sun shone over the small and odorous garden 
 enclosed within the peristyle of the house of the Athenian. He 
 lay reclined, sad and listlessly, on the smooth grass which 
 intersected the viridarium; and a slight canopy stretched above, 
 broke the fierce rays of the summer sun. 
 
 When that fairy mansion was first disinterred from the 
 earth they found in the garden the shell of a tortoise that had 
 been its inmate.* That animal, so strange a link in the crea¬ 
 tion, to which Nature seems to have denied all the pleasures 
 of life, save life’s passive and dreamlike perception, had been 
 the guest of the place for years before Glaucus purchased it; 
 for years, indeed, which went beyond the memory of man, and 
 to which tradition assigned an almost incredible date. The 
 house had been built and rebuilt—its possessors had changed 
 and fluctuated—generations had flourished and decayed—and 
 still the tortoise dragged on its slow and unsympathizing 
 existence. In the earthquake, which sixteen years before had 
 overthrown many of the public buildings of the city, and scared 
 away the amazed inhabitants, the house now inhabited by 
 Glaucus had been terribly shattered. The possessors deserted 
 it for many days; on their return they cleared away the ruins 
 which encumbered the viridarium, and found still the tortoise, 
 unharmed and unconscious of the surrounding destruction. It 
 seemed to bear a charmed life in its languid blood and im¬ 
 perceptible motions; yet was it not so inactive as it seemed: it 
 held a regular and monotonous course; inch by inch it traversed 
 the little orbit of its domain, taking months to accomplish the 
 whole gyration. It was a restless voyager, that tortoise!— 
 patiently, and with pain, did it perform its self-appointed 
 journeys, evincing no interest in the things around it—a philo¬ 
 sopher concentrated in itself. There was something grand in 
 
 * I do not know whether it be still preserved (I hope so), but the shell of a 
 tortoise was found in the house appropriated, in this work, to Glaucus. 
 
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 1 • f* iM'ftijri 
 
 r 
 
 l *.* . ^ m 
 
 
 ^ ■ ** 
 
 
 
 iff 
 
 f ::f 1 
 
 . i • x 18 
 
 i 
 
 
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 ' l#g 
 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 119 
 
 its solitary selfishness!—the sun in which it basked—the waters 
 poured daily over it—the air, which it insensibly inhaled, were 
 its sole and unfailing luxuries. The mild changes of the 
 season, in that lovely clime, affected it not. It covered itself 
 with its shell—as the saint in his piety—as the sage in his wis¬ 
 dom—as the lover in his hope. 
 
 It was impervious to the shocks and mutations of time—it 
 was an emblem of time itself: slow, regular, perpetual: un¬ 
 witting of the passions that fret themselves around—of the 
 wear and tear of mortality. The poor tortoise! nothing less 
 than the bursting of volcanoes, the convulsions of the riven 
 world, could have quenched its sluggish spark! The inexorable 
 Death, that spared not pomp or beauty, passed unheedingly 
 by a thing to which death could bring so insignificant a change. 
 
 For this animal the mercurial and vivid Greek felt all the 
 wonder and affection of contrast. He could spend hours in 
 surveying its creeping progress, in moralising over its mechan¬ 
 ism. He despised it in joy—he envied it in sorrow. 
 
 Regarding it now as he lay along the sward—its dull mass 
 moving while it seemed motionless, the Athenian murmured to 
 himself:— 
 
 “The eagle dropped a stone from his talons, thinking to 
 break thy shell: the stone crushed the head of a poet. This is 
 the allegory of Fate! Dull thing! Thou hadst a father and a 
 mother; perhaps, ages ago, thou thyself hadst a mate. Did 
 thy parents love, or didst thou? Did thy slow blood circulate 
 more gladly when thou didst creep to the side of thy wedded 
 one? Wert thou capable of affection? Could it distress thee 
 if she were away from thy side? Couldst thou feel when she 
 was present? What would I not give to know the history of 
 thy mailed breast—to gaze upon the mechanism of thy faint 
 desires—to mark what hairbreadth difference separates thy 
 sorrow from thy joy! Yet, methinks, thou wouldst know if 
 lone were present! Thou wouldst feel her coming like a 
 happier air—like a gladder sun. I envy thee now, for thou 
 knowest not that she is absent; and I—would I could be like 
 thee—between the intervals of seeing her! What doubt, what 
 presentiment, haunts me! why will she not admit me? Days 
 
120 
 
 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 have passed since I heard her voice. For the first time, life 
 grows flat to me. I am as one who is left alone at a banquet, 
 the lights dead, and the flowers faded. Ah! lone, couldst thou 
 dream how I adore thee! ” 
 
 From these enamoured reveries, Glaucus was interrupted 
 by the entrance of Nydia. She came with her light, though 
 cautious step, along the marble tablinum. She passed the 
 portico, and paused at the flowers which bordered the garden. 
 She had her water-vase in her hand, and she sprinkled the 
 thirsting plants, which seemed to brighten at her approach. 
 She bent to inhale their odour. She touched them timidly and 
 caressingly. She felt, along their stems, if any withered leaf 
 or creeping insect marred their beauty. And as she hovered 
 from flower to flower, with her earnest and youthful coun¬ 
 tenance and graceful motions, you could not have imagined a 
 fitter handmaid for the goddess of the garden. 
 
 “Nydia, my child!” said Glaucus. 
 
 At the sound of his voice she paused at once—listening, 
 blushing, breathless; with her lips parted, her face upturned 
 to catch the direction of the sound, she laid down the vase— 
 she hastened to him; and wonderful it was to see how un¬ 
 erringly she threaded her dark way through the flowers, and 
 came by the shortest path to the side of her new lord. 
 
 “Nydia,” said Glaucus, tenderly stroking back her long 
 and beautiful hair, “it is now three days since thou hast been 
 under the protection of my household gods. Have they smiled 
 on thee? Art thou happy?” 
 
 “Ah! so happy!” sighed the slave. 
 
 “And now,” continued Glaucus, “that thou hast recovered 
 somewhat from the hateful recollections of thy former state,— 
 and now that they have fitted thee [touching her broidered 
 tunic] with garments more meet for thy delicate shape,—and 
 now, sweet child, that thou hast accustomed thyself to a happi¬ 
 ness, which may the gods grant thee ever! I am about to pray 
 at thy hands a boon.” 
 
 “Oh! what can I do for thee?” said Nydia, clasping her 
 hands. 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 I 2 I 
 
 “Listen,” said Glaucus, “and young as thou art, thou shalt 
 be my confidant. Hast thou ever heard the name of lone?” 
 
 The blind girl gasped for breath, and turning pale as one 
 of the statues which shone upon them from the peristyle, she 
 answered with an effort, and after a moment’s pause,— 
 
 “Yes! I have heard that she is of Neapolis, and beautiful.” 
 
 “Beautiful! her beauty is a thing to dazzle the day! Nea¬ 
 polis! nay, she is Greek by origin; Greece only could furnish 
 forth such shapes. Nydia, I love her!” 
 
 “I thought so,” replied Nydia, calmly. 
 
 “I love, and thou shalt tell her so. I am about to send thee 
 to her. Happy Nydia, thou wilt be in her chamber—thou wilt 
 drink the music of her voice—thou wilt bask in the sunny air 
 of her presence!” 
 
 “What! what! wilt thou send me from thee?” 
 
 “Thou wilt go to lone,” answered Glaucus, in a tone that 
 said, “What more canst thou desire?” 
 
 Nydia burst into tears. 
 
 Glaucus, raising himself, drew her towards him with the 
 soothing caresses of a brother. 
 
 “My child, my Nydia, thou weepest in ignorance of the 
 happiness I bestow on thee. She is gentle, and kind, and soft 
 as the breeze of spring. She will be a sister to thy youth—she 
 will appreciate thy winning talents—she will love thy simple 
 graces as none other could, for they are like her own. Weepest 
 thou still, fond fool? I will not force thee, sweet. Wilt thou 
 not do for me this kindness?” 
 
 “Well, if I can serve thee, command. See, I weep no 
 longer—I am calm.” 
 
 “That is my own Nydia,” continued Glaucus, kissing her 
 hand. “Go, then, to her: if thou art disappointed in her kind¬ 
 ness—if I have deceived thee, return when thou wilt. I do not 
 give thee to another; I but lend. My home ever be thy refuge, 
 sweet one. Ah! would it could shelter all the friendless and 
 distressed! But if my heart whispers truly, I shall claim thee 
 again soon, my child. My home and lone’s will become the 
 same, and thou shalt dwell will both.” 
 
122 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 A shiver passed through the slight frame of the blind girl, 
 but she wept no more—she was resigned. 
 
 “Go, then, my Nydia, to lone’s house—they shall show thee 
 the way. Take her the fairest flowers thou canst pluck; the 
 vase which contains them I will give thee: thou must excuse 
 its unworthiness. Thou shalt take, too, with thee the lute that 
 I gave thee yesterday, and from which thou knowest so well to 
 awaken the charming spirit. Thou shalt give her also, this letter, 
 in which, after a hundred efforts, I have embodied something 
 of my thoughts. Let thy ear catch every accent, every mo¬ 
 dulation of her voice, and tell me, when we meet again, if its 
 music should flatter me or discourage. It is now, Nydia, some 
 days since I have been admitted to lone; there is something 
 mysterious in this exclusion. I am distracted with doubts and 
 fears; learn—for thou art quick, and thy care for me will 
 sharpen tenfold thy acuteness—learn the cause of this unkind¬ 
 ness; speak of me as often as thou canst; let my name come 
 ever to thy lips; insinuate how I love rather than proclaim it; 
 watch if she sighs whilst thou speakest, if she answer thee; or, 
 if she reproves, in what accent she reproves. Be my friend, 
 plead for me: and oh! how vastly wilt thou over-pay the 
 little I have done for thee! Thou comprehendest, Nydia; 
 thou art yet a child—have I said more than thou canst under¬ 
 stand?” 
 
 “No.” 
 
 “And thou wilt serve me?” 
 
 “Yes.” 
 
 “ Come to me when thou hast gathered the flowers, and I 
 will give thee the vase I speak of; seek me in the chamber of 
 Leda. Pretty one, thou dost not grieve now?” 
 
 “Glaucus, I am a slave; what business have I with grief or 
 joy?” 
 
 “Sayest thou so? No, Nydia, be free. I give thee freedom; 
 enjoy it as thou wilt, and pardon me that I reckoned on thy 
 desire to serve me.” 
 
 “You are offended. Oh! I would not, for that which no 
 freedom can give, offend you, Glaucus. My guardian, my 
 saviour my protector, forgive the poor blind girl! She does 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. I 23 
 
 not grieve even in leaving thee, if she can contribute to thy 
 happiness.” 
 
 “May the gods bless this grateful heart!” said Glaucus, 
 greatly moved; and, unconscious of the fires he excited, he re¬ 
 peatedly kissed her forehead. 
 
 “Thou forgivest me,” said she, “and thou wilt talk no 
 more of freedom; my happiness is to be thy slave: thou hast 
 promised thou wilt not give me to another-” 
 
 “I have promised.” 
 
 “And now, then, I will gather the flowers.” 
 
 Silently, Nydia took from the hand of Glaucus, the costly 
 and jewelled vase, in which the flowers vied with each other 
 in hue and fragrance; tearlessly she received his parting ad¬ 
 monition. She paused' tor a moment when his voice ceased— 
 she did not trust herself to reply—she sought his hand—she 
 raised it to her lips, dropped her veil over her face, and passed 
 at once from his presence. She paused again as she reached 
 the threshold; she stretched her hands towards it, and mur¬ 
 mured,— 
 
 “Three happy days—days of unspeakable delight, have I 
 known since I passed thee—blessed threshold! may peace 
 dwell ever with thee when I am gone! And now, my heart tears 
 itself from thee, and the only sound it utters bids me—die! ” 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 The Happy Beauty and the Blind Slave. 
 
 A slave entered the chamber of lone. A messenger from 
 Glaucus desired to be admitted. 
 
 lone hesitated an instant. 
 
 “She is blind, that messenger,” said the slave; “she will do 
 her commission to none but thee.” 
 
 Base is that heart which does not respect affliction! The 
 moment she heard the messenger was blind, lone felt the im¬ 
 possibility of returning a chilling reply. Glaucus had chosen 
 a herald that was indeed sacred—a herald that could not be 
 denied. 
 
124 
 
 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 “What can he want with me? what message can he send?” 
 and the heart of lone beat quick. The curtain across the door 
 was withdrawn; a soft and echoless step fell upon the marble; 
 and Nydia, led by one of the attendants, entered with her pre¬ 
 cious gift. 
 
 She stood still a moment, as if listening for some sound 
 that might direct her. 
 
 “Will the noble lone,” said she, in a soft and low voice, 
 “deign to speak, that I may know whither to steer these be¬ 
 nighted steps, and that I may lay my offerings at her feet?” 
 
 “Fair child,” said lone, touched and soothingly, “give not 
 thyself the pain to cross these slippery floors, my attendant will 
 bring to me what thou hast to present;” and she motioned to 
 the handmaid to take the vase. 
 
 “I may give these flowers to none but thee,” answered 
 Nydia; and, guided by her ear, she walked slowly to the place 
 where lone sat, and kneeling when she came before her, 
 proffered the vase. 
 
 lone took it from her hand, and placed it on the table at 
 her side. She then raised her gently, and would have seated 
 her on the couch, but the girl modestly resisted. 
 
 “I have not yet discharged my office,” said she; and she 
 drew the letter of Glaucus from her vest. “This will, perhaps, 
 explain why he who sent me chose so unworthy a messenger 
 to lone.” 
 
 The Neapolitan took the letter with a hand, the trembling 
 of which Nydia at once felt and sighed to feel. With folded 
 arms, and downcast looks, she stood before the proud and 
 stately form of lone;—no less proud, perhaps, in her attitude 
 of submission. lone waved her hand, and the attendants with¬ 
 drew; she gazed again upon the form of the young slave in 
 surprise and beautiful compassion; then, retiring a little from 
 her, she opened and read the following letter:— 
 
 “Glaucus to lone sends more than he dares to utter. Is 
 lone ill? thy slaves tell me ‘No/ and that assurance comforts 
 me. Has Glaucus offended lone?—ah! that question I may not 
 ask from them. For five days I have been banished from thy 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 125 
 
 presence. Has the sun shone?—I know it not. Has the sky- 
 smiled?—it has had no smile for me. My sun and my sky are 
 lone. Do I offend thee? Am I too bold? Do I say that on 
 the tablet which my tongue has hesitated to breathe? Alas! 
 it is in thine absence that I feel most the spells by which thou 
 hast subdued me. And absence, that deprives me of joy, 
 brings me courage. Thou wilt not see me; thou hast banished 
 also the common flatterers that flock around thee. Canst thou 
 confound me with them? It is not possible! Thou knowest 
 too well that I am not of them—that their clay is not mine. 
 For even were I of the humblest mould, the fragrance of the 
 rose has penetrated me, and the spirit of thy nature hath 
 passed within me, to embalm, to sanctify, to inspire. Have 
 they slandered me to thee, lone? Thou wilt not believe them. 
 Did the Delphic oracle itself tell me thou wert unworthy, I 
 would not believe it; and am I less incredulous than thou? I 
 think of the last time we met—of the song which I sang to thee 
 —of the look that thou gavest me in return. Disguise it as 
 thou wilt, lone, there is something kindred between us, and 
 our eyes acknowledged it, though our lips were silent. Deign 
 to see me, to listen to me, and after that exclude me if thou 
 wilt. I meant not so soon to say I loved. But those words 
 rush to my heart—they will have way. Accept, then, my 
 homage and my vows. We met first at the shrine of Pallas; 
 shall we not meet before a softer and a more ancient altar? 
 
 “Beautiful! adored lone! If my hot youth and my Athenian 
 blood have misguided and allured me, they have but taught 
 my wanderings to appreciate the rest—the haven they have 
 attained. I hang up my dripping robes on the Sea-god’s shrine. 
 I have escaped shipwreck. I have found thee. lone, deign 
 to see me; thou art gentle to strangers, wilt thou be less merci¬ 
 ful to those of thine own land? I await thy reply. Accept the 
 flowers which I send—their sweet breath has a language more 
 eloquent than words. They take from the sun the odours they 
 return—they are the emblem of the love that receives and re¬ 
 pays tenfold—the emblem of the heart that drunk thy rays, 
 and owes to thee the germ of the treasures that it proffers to 
 thy smile. I send these by one whom thou wilt receive for her 
 
126 
 
 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 own sake, if not for mine. She, like us, is a stranger; her 
 fathers' ashes lie under brighter skies: but, less happy than 
 we, she is blind and a slave. Poor Nydia! I seek as much as 
 possible to repair to her the cruelties of Nature and of Fate, 
 in asking permission to place her with thee. She is gentle, 
 quick, and docile. She is skilled in music and the song; and 
 she is a very Chloris* to the flowers. She thinks, lone, that 
 thou wilt love her: if thou dost not, send her back to me. 
 
 “One word more,—let me be bold, lone. Why thinkest 
 thou so highly of yon dark Egyptian! he hath not about him 
 the air of honest men. We Greeks learn mankind from our 
 cradle; we are not the less profound, in that we affect no 
 sombre mien; our lips smile, but our eyes are grave—they ob¬ 
 serve—they note—they study. Arbaces is not one to be cre¬ 
 dulously trusted: can it be that he hath wronged me to thee? 
 I think it, for I left him with thee; thou sawest how my pre¬ 
 sence stung him; since then thou hast not admitted me. Be¬ 
 lieve nothing that he can say to my disfavour; if thou dost, tell 
 me so at once; for this lone owes to Glaucus. Farewell! this 
 letter touches thy hand; these characters meet thine eyes— 
 shall they be more blessed than he who is their author. Once 
 more, farewell!” 
 
 It seemed to lone, as she read this letter, as if a mist had 
 fallen from her eyes. What had been the supposed offence of 
 Glaucus ?—that he had not really loved! And now, plainly, and 
 in no dubious terms, he confessed that love. From that mo¬ 
 ment his power was fully restored. At every tender word in 
 that letter, so full of romantic and trustful passion, her heart 
 smote her. And had she doubted his faith, and had she be¬ 
 lieved another? and had she not, at least, allowed to him the 
 culprit’s right to know his crime, to plead in his defence? — the 
 tears rolled down her cheeks—she kissed the letter—sheplaced 
 it in her bosom; and, turning to Nydia, who stood in the same 
 place and in the same posture: — 
 
 “Wilt thou sit, my child,” said she, “while I write an an¬ 
 swer to this letter?” 
 
 * The Greek Flora. 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 12J 
 
 “You will answer it, then!” said Nydia, coldly. “Well, the 
 slave that accompanied me will take back your answer.” 
 
 “For you,” said lone, “stay with me—trust me, your service 
 shall be light.” 
 
 Nydia bowed her head. 
 
 “What is your name, fair girl?” 
 
 “They call me Nydia.” 
 
 “Your country?” 
 
 “ The land of Olympus—Thessaly.” 
 
 “Thou shalt be to me a friend,” said lone, caressingly, “as 
 thou art already half a countrywoman. Meanwhile, I beseech 
 thee, stand not on these cold and glassy marbles.—There! now 
 that thou art seated, I can leave thee for an instant.” 
 
 “lone to Glaucus greeting. — Come to me, Glaucus,” wrote 
 lone,—“come to me to-morrow. I may have been unjust to 
 thee; but I will tell thee, at least, the fault that has been im¬ 
 puted to thy charge. Fear not, henceforth, the Egyptian—fear 
 none. Thou sayest thou hast expressed too much—alas! in 
 these hasty words I have already done so. Farewell!” 
 
 As lone reappeared with the letter, which she did not dare 
 to read after she had written—(Ah! common rashness, common 
 timidity of love!)—Nydia started from her seat. 
 
 “You have written to Glaucus?” 
 
 “I have.” 
 
 “And will he thank the messenger who gives to him thy 
 letter?” 
 
 lone forgot that her companion was blind; she blushed from 
 the brow to the neck, and remained silent. 
 
 “I mean this,” added Nydia, in a calmer tone; “the lightest 
 word of coldness from thee will sadden him—the lightest kind¬ 
 ness will rejoice. If it be the first, let the slave take back thine 
 answer; if it be the last, let me—I will return this evening.” 
 
 “And why, Nydia,” asked lone, evasively, “wouldst thou 
 be the bearer of my letter?” 
 
 “It is so, then!” said Nydia. “Ah! how could it be other¬ 
 wise; who could be unkind to Glaucus?” 
 
128 
 
 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 “My child,” said lone, a little more reservedly than before, 
 “thou speakest warmly—Glaucus, then, is amiable in thine 
 eyes?” 
 
 “Noble lone! Glaucus has been that to me which neither 
 fortune nor the gods have been—a friend /” 
 
 The sadness mingled with dignity with which Nydia uttered 
 these simple words, affected the beautiful lone: she bent down 
 and kissed her. “Thou art grateful, and deservedly so; why 
 should I blush to say that Glaucus is worthy of thy gratitude? 
 Go, my Nydia—take to him thyself this letter—but return 
 again. If I am from home when thou returnest— as this even¬ 
 ing, perhaps, I shall be—thy chamber shall be prepared next 
 my own. Nydia, I have no sister—wilt thou be one to me?” 
 
 The Thessalian kissed the hand of lone, and then said, with 
 some embarrassment,— 
 
 “One favour, fair lone—may I dare to ask it?” 
 
 “Thou canst not ask what I will not grant,” replied the 
 Neapolitan. 
 
 “They tell me,” said Nydia, “that thou art beautiful beyond 
 the loveliness of earth. Alas! I cannot see that which gladdens 
 the world! Wilt thou suffer me, then, to pass my hand over 
 thy face?—that is my sole criterion of beauty, and I usually 
 guess aright.” 
 
 She did not wait for the answer of lone, but, as she spoke, 
 gently and slowly passed her hand over the bending and half- 
 averted features of the Greek—features which but one image 
 in the world can yet depicture and recall—that image is the 
 mutilated, but all-wondrous, statue in her native city—her own 
 Neapolis;—that Parian face, before which all the beauty of the 
 Florentine Venus is poor and earthly—that aspect so full of 
 harmony—of youth—of genius—of the soul—which modern 
 critics have supposed the representation of Psyche.* 
 
 Her touch lingered over the braided hair and polished brow 
 —over the downy and damask cheek—over the dimpled lip— 
 the swan-like and whitish neck. “1 know now, that thou art 
 
 * The wonderful remains of the statue so called in the Museo Borbonico. The 
 face, for sentiment and for feature, is the most beautiful of all which ancient 
 sculpture has bequeathed to us. 
 
o o 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. I 2 Q 
 
 beautiful,” she said: “and I can picture thee to my darkness 
 henceforth, and for ever!” 
 
 When Nydia left her, lone sank into a deep but delicious 
 reverie. Glaucus then loved her; he owned it—yes, he loved 
 her. She drew forth again that dear confession; she paused 
 over every word, she kissed every line; she did not ask why he 
 had been maligned, she only felt assured that he had been so. 
 She wondered how she had ever believed a syllable against 
 him; she wondered how the Egyptian had been enabled to 
 exercise a power against Glaucus; she felt a chill creep over 
 her as she again turned to his warning against Arbaces, and 
 her secret fear of that gloomy being darkened into awe. She 
 was awakened from these thoughts by her maidens, who came 
 to announce to her that the hour appointed to visit Arbaces 
 was arrived; she started, she had forgotten the promise. Her 
 first impression was to renounce it; her second, was to laugh 
 at her own fears of her eldest surviving friend. She hastened 
 to add the usual ornaments to her dress, and doubtful whether 
 she should yet question the Egyptian more closely with respect 
 to his accusation of Glaucus, or whether she should wait till, 
 without citing the authority, she should insinuate to Glaucus 
 the accusation itself, she took her way to the gloomy mansion 
 of Arbaces. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 lone entrapped.—The Mouse tries to gnaw the Net. 
 
 “O DEAREST Nydia!” exclaimed Glaucus as he read the 
 letter of lone, “whitest-robed messenger that ever passed be¬ 
 tween earth and heaven—how, how shall I thank thee?” 
 
 “I am rewarded,” said the poor Thessalian. 
 
 “To-morrow—to-morrow! how shall I while the hours till 
 then?” 
 
 The enamoured Greek would not let Nydia escape him, 
 though she sought several times to leave the chamber; he 
 made her recite to him over and over again every syllable of 
 the brief conversation that had taken place between her and 
 Pompeii . 9 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 130 
 
 lone; a thousand times, forgetting her misfortune, he ques¬ 
 tioned her of the looks, of the countenance of his beloved; and 
 then quickly again excusing his fault, he bade her recommence 
 the whole recital which he had thus interrupted. The hours 
 thus painful to Nydia passed rapidly and delightfully to him, 
 and the twilight had already darkened ere he once more dis¬ 
 missed her to lone with a fresh letter and with new flowers. 
 Scarcely had she gone, than Clodius and several of his gay 
 companions broke in upon him; they rallied him on his 
 seclusion during the whole day, and his absence from his 
 customary haunts; they invited him to accompany them to the 
 various resorts in that lively city, which night and day proffered 
 diversity to pleasure. Then, as now, in the south (for no land, 
 perhaps, losing more of greatness has retained more of custom), 
 it was the delight of the Italians to assemble at the evening; 
 and, under the porticoes of temples or the shade of the groves 
 that interspersed the streets, listening to music or the recitals 
 of some inventive tale-teller, they hailed the rising moon with 
 libations of wine and the melodies of song. Glaucus was too 
 happy to be unsocial; he longed to cast off the exuberance of 
 joy that oppressed him. He willingly accepted the proposal 
 of his comrades, and laughingly they sallied out together down 
 the populous and glittering streets. 
 
 In the meantime Nydia once more gained the house of 
 lone, who had long left it; she inquired indifferently whither 
 lone had gone. 
 
 The answer arrested and appalled her. 
 
 “To the house of Arbaces—of the Egyptian? Impossible!” 
 
 “It is true, my little one,” said the slave, who had replied 
 to her question. “She has known the Egyptian long.” 
 
 “Long! ye gods, yet Glaucus loves her!” murmured Nydia 
 to herself. 
 
 “And has,” asked she aloud,—“has she often visited him 
 before?” 
 
 “Never till now,” answered the slave. “If all the rumoured 
 scandal of Pompeii be true, it would be better, perhaps, if she 
 had not ventured there at present. But she, poor mistress 
 
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THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 13 I 
 
 mine, hears nothing of that which reaches us; the talk of the 
 vestibulum reaches not to the peristyle.”* 
 
 “Never till now!” repeated Nydia. “Art thou sure?” 
 
 “Sure, pretty one: but what is that to thee or to us?” 
 
 Nydia hesitated a moment, and then, putting down the 
 flowers with which she had been charged, she called to the slave 
 who had accompanied her, and left the house without saying 
 another word. 
 
 Not till she had got half way back to the house of Glaucus 
 did she break silence, and even then she only murmured inly:— 
 
 “She does not dream—she cannot—of the dangers into 
 which she has plunged. Fool that I am,—shall I save her!— 
 yes, for I love Glaucus better than myself.” 
 
 When she arrived at the house of the Athenian, she learnt 
 that he had gone out with a party of his friends, and none knew 
 whither. He probably would not be home before midnight. 
 
 The Thessalian groaned; she sank upon a seat in the hall, 
 and covered her face with her hands as if to collect her 
 thoughts. “There is no time to be lost,” thought she, starting 
 up. She turned to the slave who had accompanied her. 
 
 “Knowest thou,” said she, “if lone has any relative, any 
 intimate friend at Pompeii?” 
 
 “Why, by Jupiter!” answered the slave, “art thou silly 
 enough to ask the question? Every one in Pompeii knows that 
 lone has a brother who, young and rich, has been—under the 
 rose I speak—so foolish as to become a priest of Isis.” 
 
 “A priest of Isis! O Gods! his name?” 
 
 “Apaecides.” 
 
 “I know it all,” muttered Nydia: “brother and sister, then, 
 are to be both victims! Apaecides! yes, that was the name I 
 
 heard in-Ha! he well, then, knows the peril that surrounds 
 
 his sister; I will go to him.” 
 
 She sprang up at that thought, and taking the staff which 
 always guided her steps, she hastened to the neighbouring 
 shrine of Isis. Till she had been under the guardianship of the 
 kindly Greek, that staff had sufficed to conduct the poor blind 
 
 * Terence. 
 
 9 
 
132 
 
 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 girl from corner to comer of Pompeii. Every street, every 
 turning in the more frequented parts, was familiar to her; and 
 as the inhabitants entertained a tender and half-superstitious 
 veneration for those subject to her infirmity, the passengers 
 had always given way to her timid steps. Poor girl, she little 
 dreamed that she should, ere very many days were passed, 
 find her blindness her protection, and a guide far safer than 
 the keenest eyes! 
 
 But since she had been under the roof of Glaucus, he had 
 ordered a slave to accompany her always; and the poor 
 devil thus appointed, who was somewhat of the fattest, and 
 who, after having twice performed the journey to lone’s house, 
 now saw himself condemned to a third excursion (whither 
 the gods only knew), hastened after her, deploring his fate, 
 and solemnly assuring Castor and Pollux that he believed the 
 blind girl had the talaria of Mercury as well as the infirmity of 
 Cupid. 
 
 Nydia, however, required but little of his assistance to 
 find her way to the popular temple of Isis: the space before it 
 was now deserted, and she won without obstacle to the sacred 
 rail. 
 
 “There is no one here,” said the fat slave. “What dost thou 
 want, or whom? Knowest thou not that the priests do not live 
 in the temple?” 
 
 “Call out,” said she, impatiently; “night and day there 
 is always one flamen, at least, watching in the shrines of 
 Isis.” 
 
 The slave called,—no one appeared. 
 
 “Seest thou no one?” 
 
 “No one.” 
 
 “Thou mistakest; I hear a sigh : look again.” 
 
 The slave, wondering and grumbling, cast round his 
 heavy eyes, and before one of the altars, whose remains still 
 crowd the narrow space, he beheld a form bending as in me¬ 
 ditation. 
 
 “I see a figure,” said he; “and by the white garments, it is 
 a priest.” 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 133 
 
 “O flamen of Isis!” cried Nydia; “servant of the most 
 Ancient, hear me! ” 
 
 “Who calls?” said a low and melancholy voice. 
 
 “ One who has no common tidings to impart to a 
 member of your body: I come to declare and not to ask 
 oracles.” 
 
 “With whom wouldst thou confer? This is no hour for thy 
 conference; depart, disturb me not: the night is sacred to the 
 gods, the day to men.” 
 
 “Methinks I know thy voice! thou art he whom I seek; yet 
 I have heard thee speak but once before. Art thou not the 
 priest Apaecides?” 
 
 “I am that man,” replied the priest, emerging from the altar, 
 and approaching the rail. 
 
 “Thou art! the gods be praised!” Waving her hand to the 
 slave, she bade him withdraw to a distance; and he, who na¬ 
 turally imagined some superstition connected, perhaps, with 
 the safety of lone, could alone lead her to the temple, obeyed, 
 and seated himself on the ground at a little distance. “Hush!” 
 said she, speaking quick and low; “art thou indeed Apae¬ 
 cides?” 
 
 “If thou knowest me, canst thou not recall my features?” 
 
 “I am blind,” answered Nydia; “my eyes are in my ear, 
 and that recognises thee: yet swear that thou art he.” 
 
 “By the gods I swear it, by my right hand, and by the 
 moon!” 
 
 “Hush! speak low—bend near—give me thy hand: knowest 
 thou Arbaces? Hast thou laid flowers at the feet of the dead? 
 Ah! thy hand is cold—hark yet!—hast thou taken the awful 
 vow?” 
 
 “Who art thou, whence comest thou, pale maiden?” said 
 Apaecides, fearfully: “I know thee not; thine is not the 
 breast on which this head hath lain; I have never seen thee 
 before.” 
 
 “But thou hast heard my voice: no matter, those recollec¬ 
 tions it should shame us both to recall. Listen, thou hast a 
 sister.” 
 
 “Speak! speak! what of her?” 
 
*34 
 
 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 “Thou knowest the banquets of the dead, stranger,—it 
 pleases thee, perhaps, to share them—would it please thee to 
 have thy sister a partaker? Would it please thee that Arbaces 
 was her host?” 
 
 “O gods, he dare not! Girl, if thou mockest me, tremble! 
 I will tear thee limb from limb!” 
 
 “I speak the truth; and while I speak, lone is in the halls 
 of Arbaces—for the first time his guest. Thou knowest if 
 there be peril in that first time! Farewell! I have fulfilled my 
 charge.” 
 
 “Stay! stay!” cried the priest, passing his wan hand 
 over his brow. “If this be true, what—what can be done 
 to save her? They may not admit me. I know not all the 
 mazes of that intricate mansion. O Nemesis! justly am I 
 punished!” 
 
 “I will dismiss yon slave, be thou my guide and comrade; 
 I will lead thee to the private door of the house: I will whisper 
 to thee the word which admits. Take some weapon: it may be 
 needful!” 
 
 “Wait an instant,” said Apsecides, retiring into one of the 
 cells that flank the temple, and reappearing in a few moments 
 wrapped in a large cloak, which was then much worn by all 
 classes, and which concealed his sacred dress. “Now,” he 
 said, grinding his teeth, “if Arbaces hath dared to—but he 
 dare not! he dare not! Why should I suspect him? Is he so 
 base a villain? I will not think it—yet, sophist! dark bewilderer 
 that he is! O gods protect—hush! are there gods? Yes, there 
 is one goddess, at least, whose voice I can command; and that 
 is—Vengeance! ” 
 
 Muttering these disconnected thoughts, Apascides, followed 
 by his silent and sightless companion, hastened through the 
 most solitary paths to the house of the Egyptian. 
 
 The slave, abruptly dismissed by Nydia, shrugged his 
 shoulders, muttered an adjuration, and, nothing loth, rolled 
 off to his cubiculum. 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 135 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 The Solitude and Soliloquy of the Egyptian.—His Character analyzed. 
 
 We must go back a few hours in the progress of our story. 
 At the first grey dawn of the day, which Glaucus had already 
 marked with white, the Egyptian was seated, sleepless and 
 alone, on the summit of the lofty and pyramidal tower which 
 flanked his house. A tall parapet around it served as a wall, 
 and conspired, with the height of the edifice and the gloomy 
 trees that girded the mansion, to defy the prying eyes of curi¬ 
 osity or observation. A table, on which lay a scroll, filled with 
 mystic figures, was before him. On high, the stars waxed dim 
 and faint, and the shades of night melted from the sterile 
 mountain tops; only above Vesuvius there rested a deep and 
 massy cloud, which for several days past had gathered darker 
 and more solid over its summit. The struggle of night and 
 day was more visible over the broad ocean, which stretched 
 calm, like a gigantic lake, bounded by the circling shores 
 that, covered with vines and foliage, and gleaming here and 
 there with the white walls of sleeping cities, sloped to the scarce 
 rippling waves. 
 
 It was the hour above all others most sacred to the daring 
 science of the Egyptian—the science which would read our 
 changeful destinies in the stars. 
 
 He had filled his scroll, he had noted the moment and the 
 sign; and, leaning upon his hand, he had surrendered himself 
 to the thoughts which his calculation excited. 
 
 “Again do the stars forewarn me! Some danger, then, as¬ 
 suredly awaits me!” said he, slowly; “some danger, violent 
 and sudden in its nature. The stars wear for me the same 
 mocking menace which, if our chronicles do not err, they once 
 wore for Pyrrhus—for him, doomed to strive for all things— 
 to enjoy none—all attacking, nothing gaining—battles with¬ 
 out fruit, laurels without triumph, fame without success; at 
 last made craven by his own superstitions, and slain like 
 a dog by a tile from the hand of an old woman! Verily, 
 the stars flatter when they give me a type in this fool of 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 136 
 
 war3—when they promise to the ardour of my wisdom the 
 same results as to the madness of his ambition;—perpetual 
 exercise — no certain goal! — the Sisyphus task, the moun¬ 
 tain and the stone!—the stone, a gloomy image!—it reminds 
 me that I am threatened with somewhat of the same death 
 as the Epirote. Let me look again. ‘Beware!* say the shin¬ 
 ing prophets, ‘how thou passest under ancient roofs, or 
 besieged walls, or overhanging cliffs—a stone, hurled from 
 above, is charged by the curses of destiny against thee!* And, 
 at no distant date from this, comes the peril: but I cannot, of 
 a certainty, read the day and hour. Well! if my glass runs 
 low, the sands shall sparkle to the last. Yet, if I escape this 
 peril—ay, if I escape—bright and clear as the moonlight track 
 along the waters glows the rest of my existence. I see honours, 
 happiness, success, shining upon every billow of the dark gulf 
 beneath which I must sink at last. What, then, with such desti¬ 
 nies beyond the peril, shall I succumb to the peril? My soul 
 whispers hope, it sweeps exultingly beyond the boding hour, it 
 revels in the future,—its own courage is its fittest omen. If I 
 were to perish so suddenly and so soon, the shadow of death 
 would darken over me, and I should feel the icy presentiment 
 of my doom. My soul would express, in sadness and in gloom, 
 its forecast of the dreary Orcus. But it smiles—it assures me 
 of deliverance.” 
 
 As he thus concluded his soliloquy, the Egyptian in¬ 
 voluntarily rose. He paced rapidly the narrow space of that 
 star-roofed floor, and, pausing at the parapet, looked again 
 upon the grey and melancholy heavens. The chills of the 
 faint dawn came refreshingly upon his brow, and gradually 
 his mind resumed its natural and collected calm. He with¬ 
 drew his gaze from the stars, as, one after one, they receded 
 into the depths of heaven; and his eyes fell over the broad 
 expanse below. Dim in the silenced port of the city rose the 
 masts of the galleys: along that mart of luxury and of labour 
 was stilled the mighty hum. No lights, save here and there 
 from before the columns of a temple, or in the porticoes of the 
 voiceless forum, broke the wan and fluctuating light of the 
 struggling mom. From the heart of the torpid city, so soon 
 
524I. ERC0LAM0. Veduta generate degii scavi 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 137 
 
 to vibrate with a thousand passions, there came no sound: 
 the streams of life circulated not; they lay locked under 
 the ice of sleep. From the huge space of the amphitheatre, 
 with its stony seats rising one above the other—coiled and 
 round as some slumbering monster—rose a thin and ghastly 
 mist, which gathered darker, and more dark, over the scat¬ 
 tered foliage that gloomed in its vicinity. The city seemed as, 
 after the awful change of seventeen ages, it seems now to the 
 traveller,—a City of the Dead.* 
 
 The ocean itself—that serene and tideless sea—lay scarce 
 less hushed, save that from its deep bosom came, softened by 
 the distance, a faint and regular murmur, like the breathing of 
 its sleep; and curving far, as with outstretched arms, into the 
 green and beautiful land, it seemed unconsciously to clasp to 
 its breast the cities sloping to its margin—Stabiae,** and 
 Herculaneum, and Pompeii—those children and darlings of the 
 deep. “Ye slumber,” said the Egyptian, as he scowled over 
 the cities, the boast and flower of Campania; “ye slumber! 
 —would it were the eternal repose of death! As ye now— 
 jewels in the crown of empire—so once were the cities of the 
 Nile! Their greatness hath perished from them, they sleep 
 amidst ruins, their palaces and their shrines are tombs, the 
 serpent coils in the grass of their streets, the lizard basks in 
 their solitary halls. By that mysterious law of Nature, which 
 humbles one to exalt the other, ye have thriven upon their 
 ruins; thou, haughty Rome, hast usurped the glories of 
 Sesostris and Semiramis—thou art a robber, clothing thyself 
 with their spoils! And these—slaves in thy triumph—that I 
 (the last son of forgotten monarchs) survey below, reservoirs 
 of thine all-pervading power and luxury, I curse as I behold! 
 The time shall come when Egypt shall be avenged! when the 
 barbarian’s steed shall make his manger in the Golden House 
 of Nero! and thou that hast sown the wind with conquest shall 
 reap the harvest in the whirlwind of desolation!” 
 
 * When Sir Walter Scott visited Pompeii with Sir William Gell, almost his 
 only remark was the exclamation, “The City of the Dead—the City of the Dead!” 
 
 ** Stabiae was indeed no longer a city, but it was still a favourite site for the 
 villas of the rich. 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 138 
 
 As the Egyptian uttered a prediction which fate so fear¬ 
 fully fulfilled, a more solemn and boding image of ill omen 
 never occurred to the dreams of painter or of poet. The 
 morning light, which can pale so wanly even the young cheek 
 of beauty, gave his majestic and stately features almost the 
 colours of the grave, with the dark hair falling massively 
 around them, and the dark robes flowing long and loose, and 
 the arm outstretched from that lofty eminence, and the glitter¬ 
 ing eyes, fierce with a savage gladness,—half prophet and half 
 fiend! 
 
 He turned his gaze from the city and the ocean; before him 
 lay the vineyards and meadows of the rich Campania. The 
 gate and walls—ancient, half Pelasgic—of the city, seemed not 
 to bound its extent. Villas and villages stretched on every 
 side up the ascent of Vesuvius, nob nearly then so steep or so 
 lofty as at present. For as Rome itself is built on an exhausted 
 volcano, so in similar security the inhabitants of the South 
 tenanted the green and vine-clad places around a volcano 
 whose fires they believed at rest for ever. From the gate 
 stretched the long street of tombs, various in size and architec¬ 
 ture, by which, on that side, the city is yet approached. Above 
 all, rose the cloud-capped summit of the Dread Mountain, 
 with the shadows, now dark, now light, betraying the mossy 
 caverns and ashy rocks, which testified the past conflagrations, 
 and might have prophesied—but man is blind—that which was 
 to come! 
 
 Difficult was it then and there to guess the causes why the 
 tradition of the place wore so gloomy and stem a hue; why, in 
 those smiling plains, for miles around—to Baiae and Misenum— 
 the poets had imagined the entrance and thresholds of their 
 hell — their Acheron, and their fabled Styx: why, in those 
 Phlegrae,* now laughing with the vine, they placed the battles 
 of the gods, and supposed the daring Titans to have sought 
 the victory of heaven—save, indeed, that yet, in yon seared 
 and blasted summit, fancy might think to read the characters 
 of the Olympian thunderbolt. 
 
 * Or, Phlegrcsi Campi ; viz., scorched or burned fields. 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 139 
 
 But it was neither the rugged height of the still volcano, 
 nor the fertility of the sloping fields, nor the melancholy 
 avenue of tombs, nor the glittering villas of a polished and 
 luxurious people, that now arrested the eye of the Egyptian. 
 On one part of the landscape, the mountain of Vesuvius 
 descended to the plain in a narrow and uncultivated ridge, 
 broken here and there by jagged crags and copses of wild 
 foliage. At the base of this lay a marshy and unwholesome 
 pool; and the intent gaze of Arbaces caught the outline of 
 some living form moving by the marshes, and stooping ever 
 and anon as if to pluck its rank produce. 
 
 “Ho!” said he, aloud, “I have, then, another companion 
 in these unworldly night-watches. The witch of Vesuvius is 
 abroad. What! doth she, too, as the credulous imagine,— 
 doth she, too, learn the lore of the great stars? Hath she 
 been uttering foul magic to the moon, or culling (as her 
 pauses betoken) foul herbs from the venomous marsh? Well, 
 I must see this fellow-labourer. Whoever strives to know 
 learns that no human lore is despicable. Despicable only you 
 —ye fat and bloated things—slaves of luxury—sluggards in 
 thought—who, cultivating nothing but the barren sense, dream 
 that its poor soil can produce alike the myrtle and the laurel. 
 No, the wise only can enjoy—to us only true luxury is given, 
 when mind, brain, invention, experience, thought, learning, 
 imagination, all contribute like rivers to swell the seas of 
 sense!— lone!” 
 
 As Arbaces uttered that last and charmed word, his 
 thoughts sunk at once into a more deep and profound channel. 
 His steps paused; he took not his eyes from the ground; once 
 or twice he smiled joyously, and then, as he turned from his 
 place of vigil, and sought his couch, he muttered, “If death 
 frowns so near, I will say at least that I have lived—lone shall 
 be mine!” 
 
 The character of Arbaces was one of those intricate and 
 varied webs, in which even the mind that sat within it was 
 sometimes confused and perplexed. In him, the son of a 
 fallen dynasty, the outcast of a sunken people, was that spirit 
 of discontented pride, which ever rankles in one of a sterner 
 
140 
 
 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 mould, who feels himself inexorably shut from the sphere in 
 which his fathers shone, and to which Nature as well as birth 
 no less entitles himself. This sentiment hath no benevolence; 
 it wars with society, it sees enemies in mankind. But with 
 this sentiment did not go its common companion, poverty. 
 Arbaces possessed wealth which equalled that of most of the 
 Roman nobles; and this enabled him to gratify to the utmost 
 the passions which had no outlet in business or ambition. 
 Travelling from clime to clime, and beholding still Rome 
 everywhere, he increased both his hatred of society and his 
 passion for pleasure. He was in a vast prison, which, how¬ 
 ever, he could fill with the ministers of luxury. He could not 
 escape from the prison, and his only object, therefore, was to 
 give it the character of the palace. The Egyptians, from the 
 earliest time, were devoted to the joys of sense; Arbaces in¬ 
 herited both their appetite for sensuality and the glow of 
 imagination which struck light from its rottenness. But still, 
 unsocial in his pleasures as in his graver pursuits, and brook¬ 
 ing neither superior nor equal, he admitted few to his com¬ 
 panionship, save the willing slaves of his profligacy. He was 
 the solitary lord of a crowded harem; but, with all, he felt 
 condemned to that satiety which is the constant curse of men 
 whose intellect is above their pursuits, and that which once 
 had been the impulse of passion froze down to the ordinance 
 of custom. From the disappointments of sense he sought to 
 raise himself by the cultivation of knowledge; but as it was 
 not his object to serve mankind, so he despised that know¬ 
 ledge which is practical and useful. His dark imagination 
 loved to exercise itself in those more visionary and obscure 
 researches which are ever the most delightful to a wayward 
 and solitary mind, and to which he himself was invited by the 
 daring pride of his disposition and the mysterious traditions 
 of his clime. Dismissing faith in the confused creeds of the 
 heathen world, he reposed the greatest faith in the power of 
 human wisdom. He did not know (perhaps no one in that 
 age distinctly did) the limits which Nature imposes upon our 
 discoveries. Seeing that the higher we mount in knowledge 
 the more wonders we behold, he imagined that Nature not 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 *4* 
 
 only worked miracles in her ordinary course, but that she 
 might, by the cabala of some master soul, be diverted from 
 that course itself. Thus he pursued science, across her 
 appointed boundaries, into the land of perplexity and shadow. 
 From the truths of astronomy he wandered into astrologic 
 fallacy; from the secrets of chemistry he passed into the 
 spectral labyrinth of magic; and he who could be sceptical as 
 to the power of the gods, was credulously superstitious as to 
 the power of man. 
 
 The cultivation of magic, carried at that day to a singular 
 height among the would-be wise, was especially Eastern in its 
 origin; it was alien to the early philosophy of the Greeks; nor 
 had it been received by them with favour until Ostanes, who 
 accompanied the army of Xerxes, introduced, amongst the 
 simple credulities of Hellas, the solemn superstitions of 
 Zoroaster. Under the Roman emperors it had become, how¬ 
 ever, naturalised at Rome (a meet subject for Juvenal’s fiery 
 wit). Intimately connected with magic was the worship of Isis, 
 and the Egyptian religion was the means by which was ex¬ 
 tended the devotion to Egyptian sorcery. The theurgic, or 
 benevolent magic—the goetic, or dark and evil necromancy— 
 were alike in pre-eminent repute during the first century of 
 the Christian era; and the marvels of Faustus are not com¬ 
 parable to those of Apollonius.* Kings, courtiers, and 
 sages, all trembled before the professors of the dread science. 
 And not the least remarkable of his tribe was the formidable 
 and profound Arbaces. His fame and his discoveries were 
 known to all the cultivators of magic; they even survived him¬ 
 self. But it was not by his real name that he was honoured by 
 the sorcerer and the sage: his real name, indeed, was unknown 
 in Italy, for “Arbaces” was not a genuinely Egyptian but a 
 Median appellation, which, in the admixture and unsettlement 
 of the ancient races, had become common in the country of 
 the Nile; and there were various reasons, not only of pride, 
 but of policy (for in youth he had conspired against the 
 majesty of Rome), which induced him to conceal his true name 
 
 * See note ( a ) at the end. 
 
S 4 2 
 
 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 and rank. But neither by the name he had borrowed from the 
 Mede, nor by that which in the colleges of Egypt would have 
 attested his origin from kings, did the cultivators of magic 
 acknowledge the potent master. He received from their 
 homage a more mystic appellation, and was long remembered 
 in Magna Grsecia and the Eastern plains by the name 
 of “Hermes, the Lord of the Flaming Belt.” His subtle 
 speculations and boasted attributes of wisdom, recorded in 
 various volumes, were among those tokens “of the curious 
 arts” which the Christian converts most joyfully, yet most 
 fearfully, burned at Ephesus, depriving posterity of the proofs 
 of the cunning of the fiend. 
 
 The conscience of Arbaces was solely of the intellect—it 
 was awed by no moral laws. If man imposed these checks 
 upon the herd, so he believed that man, by superior wisdom, 
 could raise himself above them. “If [he reasoned] I have the 
 genius to Impose laws, have I not the right to command my 
 own creations? Still more, have I not the right to control—to 
 evade—to scorn—the fabrications of yet meaner intellects than 
 my own?” Thus, if he were a villain, he justified his villany 
 by what ought to have made him virtuous,—namely, the eleva¬ 
 tion of his capacities. 
 
 Most men have more or less the passion of power; in 
 Arbaces that passion corresponded exactly to his character. 
 It was not the passion for an external and brute authority. He 
 desired not the purple and the fasces, the insignia of vulgar 
 command. His youthful ambition once foiled and defeated, 
 scorn had supplied its place—his pride, his contempt for Rome 
 —Rome, which had become the synonym of the world (Rome, 
 whose haughty name he regarded with the same disdain as that 
 which Rome herself lavished upon the barbarian), did not per¬ 
 mit him to aspire to sway over others, for that would render him 
 at once the tool or creature of the emperor. He, the Son of the 
 Great Race of Rameses —he execute the orders of, and receive 
 his power from, another!—the mere notion filled him with rage. 
 But in rejecting an ambition that coveted nominal distinctions, 
 he but indulged the more in the ambition to rule the heart. 
 Honouring mental power as the greatest of earthly gifts, he loved 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 143 
 
 to feel that power palpably in himself, by extending it over all 
 whom he encountered. Thus had he ever sought the young— 
 thus had he ever fascinated and controlled them. He loved 
 to find subjects in men*s souls—to rule over an invisible and 
 immaterial empire!—had he been less sensual and less wealthy, 
 he might have sought to become the founder of a new religion. 
 As it was, his energies were checked by his pleasures. Besides, 
 however, the vague love of this moral sway (vanity so dear to 
 sages!), he was influenced by a singular and dreamlike devo¬ 
 tion to all that belonged to the mystic Land his ancestors had 
 swayed. Although he disbelieved in her deities, he believed 
 in the allegories they represented (or rather he interpreted 
 those allegories anew). He loved to keep alive the worship of 
 Egypt, because he thus maintained the shadow and the recol¬ 
 lection of her power. He loaded, therefore, the altars of Osiris 
 and of Isis with regal donations, and was ever anxious to 
 dignify their priesthood by new and wealthy converts. The 
 vow taken—the priesthood embraced—he usually chose the 
 comrades of his pleasures from those whom he had made his 
 victims, partly because he thus secured to himself their secrecy 
 —partly because he thus yet more confirmed to himself his 
 peculiar power. Hence the motives of his conduct to Apascides, 
 strengthened as these were, in that instance, by his passion 
 for lone. 
 
 He had seldom lived long in one place; but as he grew 
 older, he grew more wearied of the excitement of new scenes, 
 and he had sojourned among the delightful cities of Campania 
 for a period which surprised even himself. In fact, his pride 
 somewhat crippled his choice of residence. His unsuccessful 
 conspiracy excluded him from those burning climes which he 
 deemed of right his own hereditary possession, and which 
 now cowered, supine and sunken, under the wings of the 
 Roman eagle. Rome herself was hateful to his indignant soul; 
 nor did he love to find his riches rivalled by the minions of 
 the court, and cast into comparative poverty by the mighty 
 magnificence of the court itself. The Campanian cities proffered 
 to him all that his nature craved—the luxuries of an unequalled 
 clime—the imaginative refinements of a voluptuous civilisation. 
 
144 
 
 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 He was removed from the sight of a superior wealth; he was 
 without rivals to his riches; he was free from the spies of a 
 jealous court. As long as he was rich, none pried into his 
 conduct. He pursued the dark tenour of his way undisturbed 
 and secure. 
 
 It is the curse of sensualists never to love till the pleasures 
 of sense begin to pall; their ardent youth is frittered away in 
 countless desires—their hearts are exhausted. So, ever chas¬ 
 ing love, and taught by a restless imagination to exaggerate, 
 perhaps, its charms, the Egyptian had spent all the glory of 
 his years without attaining the object of his desires. The 
 beauty of to-morrow succeeded the beauty of to-day, and the 
 shadows bewildered him in his pursuit of the substance. When, 
 two years before the present date, he beheld lone, he saw, for 
 the first time, one whom he imagined he could love. He stood, 
 then, upon that bridge of life, from which man sees before him 
 distinctly a wasted youth on the one side, and the darkness of 
 approaching age upon the other: a time in which we are more 
 than ever anxious, perhaps, to secure to ourselves, ere it be 
 yet too late, whatever we have been taught to consider neces¬ 
 sary to the enjoyment of a life of which the brighter half is 
 gone. 
 
 With an earnestness and a patience which he had never 
 before commanded for his pleasures, Arbaces had devoted 
 himself to win the heart of lone. It did not content him to 
 love, he desired to be loved. In this hope he had watched the 
 expanding youth of the beautiful Neapolitan; and, knowing 
 the influence that the mind possesses over those who are taught 
 to cultivate the mind, he had contributed willingly to form the 
 genius and enlighten the intellect of lone, in the hope that she 
 would be thus able to appreciate what he felt would be his 
 best claim to her affection; viz., a character which, however 
 criminal and perverted, was rich in its original elements of 
 strength and grandeur. When he felt that character to be ac¬ 
 knowledged, he willingly allowed, nay, encouraged her, to mix 
 among the idle votaries of pleasure, in the belief that her soul, 
 fitted for higher commune, would miss the companionship of 
 his own, and that, in comparison with others, she would learn 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 145 
 
 to love herself. He had forgot, that as the sunflower to the 
 sun, so youth turns to youth, until his jealousy of Glaucus sud¬ 
 denly apprized him of his error. From that moment, though, 
 as we have seen, he knew not the extent of his danger, a fiercer 
 and more tumultuous direction was given to a passion long 
 controlled. Nothing kindles the fire of love like a sprinkling 
 of the anxieties of jealousy; it takes then a wilder, a more 
 resistless flame; it forgets its softness; it ceases to be tender; 
 it assumes something of the intensity—of the ferocity—of hate. 
 
 Arbaces resolved to lose no further time upon cautious 
 and perilous preparations: he resolved to place an irrevocable 
 barrier between himself and his rivals: he resolved to possess 
 himself of the person of lone: not that in his present love, so 
 long nursed and fed by hopes purer than those of passion 
 alone, he would have been contented with that mere posses¬ 
 sion. He desired the heart, the soul, no less than the beauty, 
 of lone; but he imagined that once separated by a daring crime 
 from the rest of mankind—once bound to lone by a tie that 
 memory could not break, she would be driven to concentrate 
 her thoughts in him—that his arts would complete his con¬ 
 quest, and that, according to the true moral of the Roman and 
 the Sabine, the empire obtained by force would be cemented 
 by gentler means. This resolution was yet more confirmed 
 in him by his belief in the prophecies of the stars: they had 
 long foretold to him this year, and even the present month, as 
 the epoch of some dread disaster, menacing life itself. He 
 was driven to a certain and limited date. He resolved to 
 crowd, monarch-like, on his funeral pyre all that his soul held 
 most dear. In his own words, if he were to die, he resolved 
 to feel that he had lived, and that lone should be his own. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 What becomes of lone in the House of Arbaces—The first Signal of the Wrath 
 of the dread Foe. 
 
 When lone entered the spacious hall of the Egyptian, the 
 same awe which had crept over her brother impressed itself 
 also upon her: there seemed to her as to him something 
 
 Pompeii. j O 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 I46 
 
 ominous and warning in the still and mournful faces of those 
 dread Theban monsters, whose majestic and passionless 
 features the marble so well portrayed: 
 
 “Their look, with the reach of past ages, was wise. 
 
 And the soul of eternity thought in their eyes.” 
 
 The tall ./Ethiopian slave grinned as he admitted her, and 
 motioned to her to proceed. Half-way up the hall she was 
 met by Arbaces himself, in festive robes, which glittered with 
 jewels. Although it was broad day without, the mansion, ac¬ 
 cording to the practice of the luxurious, was artificially dark¬ 
 ened, and the lamps cast their still and odour-giving light over 
 the rich floors and ivory roofs. 
 
 “Beautiful lone , 57 said Arbaces, as he bent to touch her 
 hand, “it is you that have eclipsed the day—it is your eyes 
 that light up the halls—it is your breath which fills them with 
 perfumes.” 
 
 “You must not talk to me thus,” said lone, smiling: “you 
 forget that your lore has sufficiently instructed my mind to 
 render these graceful flatteries to my person unwelcome. It 
 was you who taught me to disdain adulation: will you unteach 
 your pupil?” 
 
 There was something so frank and charming in the manner 
 of lone, as she thus spoke, that the Egyptian was more than 
 ever enamoured, and more than ever disposed to renew the 
 offence he had committed; he, however, answered quickly and 
 gaily, and hastened to renew the conversation. 
 
 He led her through the various chambers of a house, which 
 seemed to contain to her eyes, inexperienced to other splendour 
 than the minute elegance of Campanian cities, the treasures 
 of the world. 
 
 In the walls were set pictures of inestimable art, the lights 
 shone over statues of the noblest age of Greece. Cabinets of 
 gems, each cabinet itself a gem, filled up the interstices of the 
 columns; the most precious woods lined the thresholds and 
 composed the doors; gold and jewels seemed lavished all 
 around. Sometimes they were alone in these rooms—some¬ 
 times they passed through silent rows of slaves, who, kneeling 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 147 
 
 as she passed, proffered to her offerings of bracelets, of chains, 
 of gems, which the Egyptian vainly entreated her to receive. 
 
 “I have often heard,” said she, wonderingly, “that you were 
 rich: but I never dreamed of the amount of your wealth.” 
 
 “Would I could coin it all,” replied the Egyptian, “into one 
 crown, which I might place upon that snowy brow!” 
 
 “Alas! the weight would crush me; I should be a second 
 Tarpeia,” answered lone, laughingly. 
 
 “But thou dost not disdain riches, O lone! they know not 
 what life is capable of who are not wealthy. Gold is the great 
 magician of earth—it realises our dreams—it gives them the 
 power of a god—there is a grandeur, a sublimity, in its pos¬ 
 session; it is the mightiest, yet the most obedient of our slaves.” 
 
 The artful Arbaces sought to dazzle the young Neapolitan 
 by his treasures and his eloquence; he sought to awaken in her 
 the desire to be mistress of what she surveyed: he hoped that 
 she would confound the owner with the possessions, and that 
 the charms of his wealth would be reflected on himself. Mean¬ 
 while, lone was secretly somewhat uneasy at the gallantries 
 which escaped from those lips, which, till lately, had seemed 
 to disdain the common homage we pay to beauty: and with 
 that delicate subtlety, which woman alone possesses, she sought 
 to ward off shafts deliberately aimed, and to laugh or to talk 
 away the meaning from his warming language. Nothing in the 
 world is more pretty than that same species of defence; it is 
 the charm of the African necromancer who professed with a 
 feather to turn aside the winds. 
 
 The Egyptian was intoxicated and subdued by her grace 
 even more than by her beauty: it was with difficulty that he 
 suppressed his emotions; alas! the feather was only powerful 
 against the summer breezes—it would be the sport of the 
 storm. 
 
 Suddenly, as they stood in one hall, which was surrounded 
 by draperies of silver and white, the Egyptian clapped his 
 hands, and as if by enchantment, a banquet rose from the floor 
 —a couch or throne, with a crimson canopy, ascended simul¬ 
 taneously at the feet of lone—and at the same instant from be¬ 
 hind the curtains swelled the invisible and softest music. 
 
 10* 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 148 
 
 Arbaces placed himself at the feet of lone,—and children, 
 young and beautiful as Loves, ministered to the feast. 
 
 The feast was over, the music sank into a low and subdued 
 strain, and Arbaces thus addressed his beautiful guest:— 
 
 “Hast thou never in this dark and uncertain world—hast 
 thou never aspired, my pupil, to look beyond—hast thou never 
 wished to put aside the veil of futurity, and to behold on the 
 shores of Fate the shadowy images of things to be? For it is 
 not the past alone that has its ghosts: each event to come has 
 also its spectrum—its shade; when the hour arrives, life enters 
 it, the shadow becomes corporeal, and walks the world. Thus, 
 in the land beyond the grave, are ever two impalpable and 
 spiritual hosts—the things to be, the things that have been! 
 If by our wisdom we can penetrate that land, we see the one 
 as the other, and learn, as I have learned, not alone the mys¬ 
 teries of the dead, but also the destiny of the living.” 
 
 “As thou hast learned!—Can wisdom attain so far?” 
 
 “Wilt thou prove my knowledge, lone, and behold the re¬ 
 presentation of thine own fate? It is a drama more striking 
 than those of FEschylus: it is one I have prepared for thee, if 
 thou wilt see the shadows perform their part.” 
 
 The Neapolitan trembled; she thought of Glaucus, and 
 sighed as well as trembled; were their destinies to be united? 
 Half incredulous, half believing, half awed, half alarmed by the 
 words of her strange host, she remained for some moments 
 silent, and then answered,— 
 
 “It may revolt—it may terrify; the knowledge of the future 
 will perhaps only embitter the present!” 
 
 “Not so, lone. I have myself looked upon thy future lot, 
 and the ghosts of thy Future bask in the gardens of Elysium: 
 amidst the asphodel and the rose they prepare the garlands of 
 thy sweet destiny, and the Fates, so harsh to others, weave only 
 for thee the web of happiness and love. Wilt thou then come 
 and behold thy doom, so that thoumayest enjoy it beforehand?” 
 
 Again the heart of lone murmured “ Glaucus;” she uttered 
 a half-audible assent; the Egyptian rose, and taking her by the 
 hand, he led her across the banquet-room—the curtains with- 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 149 
 
 drew, as by magic hands, and the music broke forth in a louder 
 and gladder strain; they passed a row of columns, on either side 
 of which fountains cast aloft their fragrant waters; they de¬ 
 scended by broad and easy steps into a garden. The eve had 
 commenced; the moon was already high in heaven, and those 
 sweet flowers that sleep by day, and fill, with ineffable odours, 
 the airs of night, were thickly scattered amidst alleys cut 
 through the star-lit foliage;—or, gathered in baskets, lay like 
 offerings at the feet of the frequent statues that gleamed along 
 their path. 
 
 “Whither wouldst thou lead me, Arbaces?” said lone, 
 wonderingly. 
 
 “But yonder,” said he, pointing to a small building which 
 stood at the end of the vista. “It is a temple consecrated to 
 the Fates—our rites require such holy ground.” 
 
 They passed into a narrow hall, at the end of which hung a 
 sable curtain. Arbaces lifted it; lone entered, and found her¬ 
 self in total darkness. 
 
 “Be not alarmed,” said the Egyptian, “the light will rise 
 instantly.” While he so spoke, a soft, and warm, and gradual 
 light diffused itself around; as it spread over each object, lone 
 perceived that she was in an apartment of moderate size, hung 
 everywhere with black; a couch with draperies of the same 
 hue was beside her. In the centre of the room was a small 
 altar, on which stood a tripod of bronze. At one side, upon a 
 lofty column of granite, was a colossal head of the blackest 
 marble, which she perceived, by the crown of wheat-ears that 
 encircled the brow, represented the great Egyptian goddess. 
 Arbaces stood before the altar: he had laid his garland on the 
 shrine, and seemed occupied with pouring into the tripod the 
 contents of a brazen vase; suddenly from that tripod leaped 
 into life a blue, quick, darting, irregular flame; the Egyptian 
 drew back to the side of lone, and muttered some words in a 
 language unfamiliar to her ear; the curtain at the back of the 
 altar waved tremulously to and fro—it parted slowly, and in 
 the aperture which was thus made, lone beheld an indistinct 
 and pale landscape, which gradually grew brighter and clearer 
 as she gazed; at length, she discovered plainly trees, and rivers, 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 150 
 
 and meadows, and all the beautiful diversity of the richest 
 earth. At length, before the landscape, a dim shadow glided; 
 it rested opposite to lone; slowly the same charm seemed to 
 operate upon it as over the rest of the scene; it took form 
 and shape, and lo!—in its feature and in its form lone beheld 
 herself! 
 
 Then the scene behind the spectre faded away, and was 
 succeeded by the representation of a gorgeous palace; a throne 
 was raised in the centre of its hall—the dim forms of slaves and 
 guards were ranged around it, and a pale hand held over the 
 throne the likeness of a diadem. 
 
 A new actor now appeared; he was clothed from head to 
 foot in a dark robe—his face was concealed—he knelt at the 
 feet of the shadowy lone—he clasped her hand—he pointed 
 to the throne, as if to invite her to ascend it. 
 
 The Neapolitan’s heart beat violently. “Shall the shadow 
 disclose itself?” whispered a voice beside her—the voice of 
 Arbaces. 
 
 “Ah, yes!” answered lone, softly. 
 
 Arbaces raised his hand—the spectre seemed to drop the 
 mantle that concealed its form—and lone shrieked—it was Ar¬ 
 baces himself that thus knelt before her. 
 
 “This is, indeed, thy fate!” whispered again the Egyptian’s 
 voice in her ear. “And thou art destined to be the bride of 
 Arbaces.” 
 
 lone started—the black curtain closed over the phantasma¬ 
 goria; and Arbaces himself—the real, the living Arbaces—was 
 at her feet. 
 
 “Oh, lone!” said he, passionately gazing upon her; “listen 
 to one who has long struggled vainly with his love. I adore 
 thee! The Fates do not lie—thou art destined to be mine—I 
 have sought the world around, and found none like thee. From 
 my youth upward, I have sighed for such as thou art. I have 
 dreamed till I saw thee—I wake, and I behold thee. Turn not 
 away from me, lone; think not of me as thou hast thought; I 
 am not that being—cold, insensate, and morose, which I have 
 seemed to thee. Never woman had lover so devoted—so pas¬ 
 sionate as I will be to lone. Do not struggle in my clasp: see 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 1 5.i 
 
 —I release thy hand. Take it from me if thou wilt—well, be it 
 so! But do not reject me, lone—do not rashly reject—judge 
 of thy power over him whom thou canst thus transform. I, who 
 never knelt to mortal being, kneel to thee. I, who have com¬ 
 manded fate, receive from thee my own. lone, tremble not, 
 thou art my queen—my goddess:—be my bride! All the wishes 
 thou canst form shall be fulfilled. The ends of the earth shall 
 minister to thee—pomp, power, luxury, shall be thy slaves. 
 Arbaces shall have no ambition, save the pride of obeying thee, 
 lone, turn upon me those eyes—shed upon me thy smile. Dark 
 is my soul when thy face is hid from it:—shine over me, my 
 sun—my heaven—my daylight!—lone, lone—do not reject my 
 love!” 
 
 Alone, and in the power of this singular and fearful man, 
 lone was not yet terrified; the respect of his language, the 
 softness of his voice, reassured her; and, in her own purity, she 
 felt protection. But she was confused—astonished: it was 
 some moments before she could recover the power of reply. 
 
 “Rise, Arbaces!” said she at length; and she resigned to 
 him once more her hand, which she as quickly withdrew 
 again, when she felt upon it the burning pressure of his 
 lips. “Rise! and if thou art serious, if thy language be in 
 earnest-” 
 
 “If!” said he, tenderly. 
 
 “Well, then, listen to me: you have been my guardian, my 
 friend, my monitor; for this new character I was not pre¬ 
 pared;—think not,” she added quickly, as she saw his dark 
 eyes glitter with the fierceness of his passion—“think not, that 
 I scorn—that I am untouched—that I am not honoured by this 
 homage; but, say—canst thou hear me calmly?” 
 
 “Ay, though thy words were lightning, and could blast 
 me!” 
 
 “/ love another l” said lone, blushingly, but in a firm voice. 
 
 “By the gods—by hell!” shouted Arbaces, rising to his 
 fullest height; “dare not tell me that—dare not mock me:—it 
 is impossible!—Whom hast thou seen—whom known? Oh, 
 lone! it is thy woman’s invention, thy woman’s art that speaks 
 —thou wouldst gain time: I have surprised—I have terrified 
 
X 52 
 
 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 thee. Do with me as thou wilt—say that thou lovest not me; 
 but say not that thou lovest another!” 
 
 “Alas!” began lone; and then, appalled before his sudden 
 and unlooked-for violence, she burst into tears. 
 
 Arbaces came nearer to her—his breath glowed fiercely on 
 her cheek; he wound his arms round her—she sprang from 
 his embrace. In the struggle a tablet fell from her bosom on 
 the ground: Arbaces perceived, and seized it—it was the letter 
 that morning received from Glaucus. lone sank upon the 
 couch, half dead with terror. 
 
 Rapidly the eyes of Arbaces ran over the writing; the 
 Neapolitan did not dare to gaze upon him: she did not see the 
 deadly paleness that came over his countenance—she marked 
 not his withering frown, nor the quivering of his lip, nor the 
 convulsions that heaved his breast. He read it to the end, 
 and then, as the letter fell from his hand, he said, in a voice 
 of deceitful calmness,— 
 
 “Is the writer of this the man thou lovest?” 
 
 lone sobbed, but answered not. 
 
 “Speak!” he rather shrieked than said. 
 
 “It is—it is!” 
 
 “And his name—it is written here—his name is Glaucus!” 
 
 lone, clasping her hands, looked round as for succour or 
 escape. 
 
 “Then hear me,” said Arbaces, sinking his voice into a 
 whisper; “thou shalt go to thy tomb rather than to his arms! 
 What! thinkest thou Arbaces will brook a rival such as this 
 puny Greek? What! thinkest thou that he has watched the 
 fruit ripen, to yield it to another! Pretty fool—no! Thou art 
 mine—all—only mine: and thus—thus I seize and claim thee!” 
 As he spoke, he caught lone in his arms; and, in that ferocious 
 grasp, was all the energy—less of love than of revenge. 
 
 But to lone despair gave supernatural strength; she again 
 tore herself from him—she rushed to that part of the room by 
 which she had entered—she half withdrew the curtain—he 
 seized her—again she broke away from him—and fell, ex¬ 
 hausted, and with a loud shriek, at the base of the column which 
 supported the head of the Egyptian goddess. Arbaces paused 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 153 
 
 for a moment, as if to regain his breath; and then once more 
 darted upon his prey. 
 
 At that instant the curtain was rudely tom aside, the Egyp¬ 
 tian felt a fierce and strong grasp upon his shoulder. He 
 turned—he beheld before him the flashing eyes of Glaucus, 
 and the pale, worn, but menacing, countenance of Apaecides. 
 “Ah,” he muttered, as he glared from one to the other, “what 
 Fury hath sent ye hither?” 
 
 “Ate,” answered Glaucus; and he closed at once with the 
 Egyptian. Meanwhile, Apaecides raised his sister, now lifeless, 
 from the ground; his strength, exhausted by a mind long 
 overwrought, did not suffice to bear her away, light and deli¬ 
 cate though her shape: he placed her, therefore, on the couch, 
 and stood over her with a brandishing knife, watching the con¬ 
 test between Glaucus and the Egyptian, and ready to plunge 
 his weapon in the bosom of Arbaces should he be victorious in 
 the struggle. There is, perhaps, nothing on earth so terrible 
 as the naked and unarmed contest of animal strength, no weapon 
 but those which Nature supplies to rage. Both the antagonists 
 were now locked in each other’s grasp—rthe hand of each seek¬ 
 ing the throat of the other—the face drawn back—the fierce 
 eyes flashing—the muscles strained—the veins swelled—the 
 lips apart—the teeth set;—both were strong beyond the 
 ordinary power of men, both animated by relentless wrath; 
 they coiled, they wound, around each other; they rocked to 
 and fro—they swayed from end to end of their confined arena: 
 —they uttered cries of ire and revenge;—they were now before 
 the altar—now at the base of the column where the struggle 
 had commenced: they drew back for breath—Arbaces leaning 
 against the column—Glaucus a few paces apart. 
 
 “O ancient goddess!” exclaimed Arbaces, clasping the co¬ 
 lumn, and raising his eyes toward the sacred image it sup¬ 
 ported, “protect thy chosen,—proclaim thy vengeance against 
 this thing of an upstart creed, who with sacrilegious violence 
 profanes thy resting-place and assails thy servant.” 
 
 As he spoke, the still and vast features of the goddess 
 seemed suddenly to glow with life; through the black marble, 
 as through a transparent veil, flushed luminously a crimson and 
 
154 
 
 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 burning hue; around the head played and darted coruscations 
 of livid lightning; the eyes became like balls of lurid fire, and 
 seemed fixed in withering and intolerable wrath upon the coun¬ 
 tenance of the Greek. Awed and appalled by this sudden and 
 mystic answer to the prayer of his foe, and not free from the 
 hereditary superstitions of his race, the cheeks of Glaucus paled 
 before that strange and ghastly animation of the marble,—his 
 knees knocked together,—he stood, seized with a divine panic, 
 dismayed, aghast, half unmanned before his foe! Arbaces gave 
 him not breathing time to recover his stupor: “Die, wretch!” 
 he shouted, in a voice of thunder, as he sprang upon the Greek; 
 “the Mighty Mother claims thee as a living sacrifice!” Taken 
 thus by surprise in the first consternation of his superstitious 
 fears, the Greek lost his footing—the marble floor was as 
 smooth as glass—he slid—he fell. Arbaces planted his foot 
 on the breast of his fallen foe. Apsecides, taught by his sacred 
 profession, as well as by his knowledge of Arbaces, to distrust 
 all miraculous interpositions, had not shared the dismay of his 
 companion; he rushed forward,—his knife gleamed in the air, 
 —the watchful Egyptian caught his arm as it descended,—one 
 wrench of his powerful hand tore the weapon from the weak 
 grasp of the priest,—one sweeping blow stretched him to the 
 earth,—with a loud and exulting yell Arbaces brandished the 
 knife on high. Glaucus gazed upon his impending fate with 
 unwinking eyes, and in the stern and scornful resignation of a 
 fallen gladiator, when, at that awful instant, the floor shook 
 under them with a rapid and convulsive throe,—a mightier 
 spirit than that of the Egyptian was abroad!—a giant and crush¬ 
 ing power, before which sunk into sudden impotence his passion 
 and his arts. It woke—it stirred—that Dread Demon of the 
 Earthquake—laughing to scorn alike the magic of human guile 
 and the malice of human wrath. As a Titan, on whom the 
 mountains are piled, it roused itself from the sleep of years,— 
 it moved on its tortured couch,—the caverns below groaned and 
 trembled beneath the motion of its limbs. In the moment of 
 his vengeance and his power, the self-prized demigod was 
 humbled to his real clay. Far and wide along the soil went a 
 hoarse and rumbling sound,—the curtains of the chamber shook 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII, 
 
 155 
 
 as at the blast of a storm,—the altar rocked—the tripod reeled, 
 and, high over the place of contest, the column trembled and 
 waved from side to side,—the sable head of the goddess tot¬ 
 tered and fell from its pedestal;—and as the Egyptian stooped 
 above his intended victim, right upon his bended form, right 
 between the shoulder and the neck, struck the marble mass! 
 the shock stretched him like the blow of death, at once, sud¬ 
 denly, without sound or motion, or semblance of life, upon the 
 floor, apparently crushed by the very divinity he had impiously 
 animated and invoked! 
 
 “The Earth has preserved her children,” said Glaucus, 
 staggering to his feet. “Blessed be the dread convulsion! 
 Let us worship the providence of the gods!” He assisted 
 Apaecides to rise, and then turned upward the face of Arbaces; 
 it seemed locked as in death; blood gushed from the Egyptian’s 
 lips over his glittering robes; he fell heavily from the arms of 
 Glaucus, and the red stream trickled slowly along the marble. 
 Again the earth shook beneath their feet; they were forced to 
 cling to each other; the convulsion ceased as suddenly as it 
 came; they tarried no longer; Glaucus bore lone lightly in his 
 arms, and they fled from the unhallowed spot. But scarce had 
 they entered the garden than they were met on all sides by 
 flying and disordered groups of women and slaves, whose 
 festive and glittering garments contrasted in mockery the 
 solemn terror of the hour; they did not appear to heed the 
 strangers,—they were occupied only with their own fears. 
 After the tranquillity of sixteen years, that burning and 
 treacherous soil again menaced destruction; they uttered but 
 one cry, “the earthquake! the earthquake!” and pass¬ 
 ing unmolested from the midst of them, Apaecides and his 
 companions, without entering the house, hastened down one 
 of the alleys, passed a small open gate, and there, sitting on a 
 little mound over which spread the gloom of the dark green 
 aloes, the moonlight fell on the bended figure of the blind girl, 
 —she was weeping bitterly. 
 
156 
 
 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 BOOK III. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 The Forum of the Pompeians ;—the first rude Machinery by which the new Era 
 of the World was wrought. 
 
 It was early noon, and the forum was crowded alike with 
 the busy and the idle. As at Paris at this day, so at that time 
 in the cities of Italy, men lived almost wholly out of doors: the 
 public buildings, the forum, the porticoes, the baths, the 
 temples themselves, might be considered their real homes; it 
 was no wonder that they decorated so gorgeously these fa¬ 
 vourite places of resort,—they felt for them a sort of domestic 
 affection as well as a public pride. And animated was, indeed, 
 the aspect of the forum of Pompeii at that time! Along its 
 broad pavement, composed of large flags of marble, were 
 assembled various groups, conversing in that energetic fashion 
 which appropriates a gesture to every word, and which is still 
 the characteristic of the people of the south. Here, in seven 
 stalls on one side the colonnade, sat the money-changers, 
 with their glittering heaps before them, and merchants and 
 seamen in various costumes crowding round their stalls. On 
 one side, several men in long togas * were seen bustling rapidly 
 up to a stately edifice where the magistrates administered 
 justice;—these were the lawyers, active, chattering, joking, 
 and punning, as you may find them at this day in Westminster. 
 In the centre of the space, pedestals supported various statues, 
 
 * For the lawyers, and the clients, when attending on their patrons, retained 
 the toga after it had fallen into disuse among the rest of the citizens. 
 

THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 157 
 
 of which the most remarkable was the stately form of Cicero. 
 Around the court ran a regular and symmetrical colonnade of 
 Doric architecture; and there several, whose business drew 
 them early to the place, were taking the slight morning repast 
 which made an Italian breakfast, talking vehemently on the 
 earthquake of the preceding night as they dipped pieces of 
 bread in their cups of diluted wine. In the open space, too, 
 you might perceive various petty traders exercising the arts of 
 their calling. Here one man was holding out ribands to a 
 fair dame from the country; another man was vaunting to a 
 stout farmer the excellence of his shoes; a third, a kind of stall- 
 restaurateur, still so common in the Italian cities, was supply¬ 
 ing many a hungry mouth with hot messes from his small and 
 itinerant stove, while—contrast strongly typical of the mingled 
 bustle and intellect of the time—close by, a schoolmaster was 
 expounding to his puzzled pupils the elements of the Latin 
 grammar.* A gallery above the portico, which was ascended 
 by small wooden staircases, had also its throng; though, as 
 here the immediate business of the place was mainly carried 
 on, its groups wore a more quiet and serious air. 
 
 Every now and then the crowd below respectfully gave way 
 as some senator swept along to the Temple of Jupiter (which 
 filled up one side of the forum, and was the senators’ hall of 
 meeting), nodding with ostentatious condescension to such of 
 his friends or clients as he distinguished amongst the throng. 
 Mingling amidst the gay dresses of the better orders you saw 
 the hardy forms of the neighbouring farmers, as they made 
 their way to the public granaries. Hard by the temple you 
 caught a view of the triumphal arch, and the long street beyond 
 swarming with inhabitants; in one of the niches of the arch a 
 fountain played, cheerily sparkling in the sunbeams; and 
 above its cornice rose the bronzed and equestrian statue of 
 Caligula, strongly contrasting the gay summer skies. Behind 
 
 * In the Museum at Naples is a picture little known, but representing one 
 side of the forum at Pompeii as then existing, to which I am much indebted in the 
 present description. It may afford a learned consolation to my younger readers 
 to know that the ceremony of hoisting (more honoured in the breach than the ob¬ 
 servance) is of high antiquity, and seems to have been performed with all legiti¬ 
 mate and public vigour in the forum of Pompeii. 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII, 
 
 158 
 
 the stalls of the money-changers was that building now 
 called the Pantheon; and a crowd of the poorer Pompeians 
 passed through the small vestibule which admitted to the 
 interior, with panniers under their arms, pressing on towards 
 a platform, placed between two columns, where such pro¬ 
 visions as the priests had rescued from sacrifice were exposed 
 for sale. 
 
 At one of the public edifices appropriated to the business 
 of the city, workmen were employed upon the columns, and 
 you heard the noise of their labour every now and then rising- 
 above the hum of the multitude :—the columns are unfinished to 
 this day l 
 
 All, then, united, nothing could exceed in variety the cos¬ 
 tumes, the ranks, the manners, the occupations of the crowd; 
 —nothing could exceed the bustle, the gaiety, the animation, 
 the flow and flush of life all around. You saw there all the 
 myriad signs of a heated and feverish civilisation,—where 
 pleasure and commerce, idleness and labour, avarice and 
 ambition, mingled in one gulf their motley, rushing, yet 
 harmonious, streams. 
 
 Facing the steps of the Temple of Jupiter, with folded arms, 
 and a knit and contemptuous brow, stood a man of about fifty 
 years of age. His dress was remarkably plain,—not so much 
 from its material, as from the absence of all those ornaments 
 which were worn by the Pompeians of every rank,—partly 
 from the love of show, partly, also, because they were chiefly 
 wrought into those shapes deemed most efficacious in resisting 
 the assaults of magic and the influence of the evil eye. * His 
 forehead was high and bald; the few locks that remained at 
 the back of the head were concealed by a sort of cowl, which 
 made a part of his cloak, to be raised or lowered at pleasure, 
 and was now drawn half-way over the head, as a protection 
 from the rays of the sun. The colour of his garments was 
 brown, no popular hue with the Pompeians; all the usual ad¬ 
 mixtures of scarlet or purple seemed carefully excluded. His 
 belt, or girdle, contained a small receptacle for ink, which 
 hooked on to the girdle, a stilus (or implement of writing), and 
 
 * See note (a) at the end. 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 159 
 
 tablets of no ordinary size. What was rather remarkable, the 
 cincture held no purse, which was the almost indispensable 
 appurtenance of the girdle, even when that purse had the mis¬ 
 fortune to be empty! 
 
 It was not often that the gay and egotistical Pompeians 
 busied themselves with observing the countenances and actions 
 of their neighbours; but there was that in the lip and eye of 
 this bystander so remarkably bitter and disdainful, as he sur¬ 
 veyed the religious procession sweeping up the stairs of the 
 temple, that it could not fail to arrest the notice of many. 
 
 “Who is yon cynic?” asked.a merchant of his companion, 
 a jeweller. 
 
 “It is Olinthus,” replied the jeweller; “areputedNazarene.” 
 
 The merchant shuddered. “A dread sect!” said he, in a 
 whispered and fearful voice. “ It is said that when they meet 
 at nights they always commence their ceremonies by the mur¬ 
 der of a new-born babe: they profess a community of goods, 
 too,—the wretches! A community of goods! What would be¬ 
 come of merchants, or jewellers either, if such notions were in 
 fashion?” 
 
 “That is very true,” said the jeweller; “besides, they wear 
 no jewels,—they mutter imprecations when they see a serpent; 
 and at Pompeii all our ornaments are serpentine.” 
 
 “Do but observe,” said a third, who was a fabricant of 
 bronze, “how yon Nazarene scowls at the piety of the sacrificial 
 procession. He is murmuring curses on the temple, be sure. 
 Do you know, Celcinus, that this fellow, passing by my shop 
 the other day, and seeing me employed on a statue of Minerva, 
 told me with a frown that, had it been marble, he would have 
 broken it; but the bronze was too strong for him. ‘Break a 
 goddess!’ said I. ‘A goddess!’ answered the atheist; 4 it is a 
 demon, — an evil spirit.’ Then he passed on his way cursing. 
 Are such things to be borne? What marvel that the earth 
 heaved so fearfully last night, anxious to reject the atheist from 
 her bosom?—An atheist do I say? worse still,—a scorner of the 
 Fine Arts! Woe to us fabricants of bronze, if such fellows as 
 this give the law to society!” 
 
i6o 
 
 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 “ These are the incendiaries that burnt Rome under Nero,” 
 groaned the jeweller. 
 
 While such were the friendly remarks provoked by the air 
 and faith of the Nazarene, Olinthus himself became sensible of 
 the effect he was producing; he turned his eyes round, and ob¬ 
 served the intent faces of the accumulating throng, whispering 
 as they gazed; and surveying them for a moment with an ex¬ 
 pression, first of defiance and afterwards of compassion, he 
 gathered his cloak round him and passed on, muttering au¬ 
 dibly, “Deluded idolaters! — did not last night’s convulsion 
 warn ye? Alas! how will ye meet the last day?” 
 
 The crowd that heard these boding words gave them dif¬ 
 ferent interpretations, according to their different shades of 
 ignorance and of fear; all, however, concurred in imagining 
 them to convey some awful imprecation. They regarded the 
 Christian as the enemy of mankind; the epithets they lavished 
 upon him, of which “Atheist” was the most favoured and fre¬ 
 quent, may serve, perhaps, to warn us, believers of that same 
 creed now triumphant, how we indulge the persecution of 
 opinion Olinthus then underwent, and how we apply to those 
 whose notions differ from our own the terms at that day lavished 
 on the fathers of our faith. 
 
 As Olinthus stalked through the crowd, and gained one of 
 the more private places of egress from the forum, he perceived 
 gazing upon him a pale and earnest countenance, which he was 
 not slow to recognise. 
 
 Wrapped in a pallium that partially concealed his sacred 
 robes, the young Apaecides surveyed the disciple of that new 
 and mysterious creed, to which at one time he had been half a 
 convert. 
 
 “Is he , too, an impostor? Does this man, so plain and 
 simple in life, in garb, in mien—does he too, like Arbaces, 
 make austerity the robe of the sensualist? Does the veil of 
 Vesta hide the vices of the prostitute?” 
 
 Olinthus, accustomed to men of all classes, and combining 
 with the enthusiasm of his faith a profound experience of his 
 kind, guessed, perhaps, by the index of the countenance, some¬ 
 thing of what passed within the breast of the priest. He met 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 161 
 
 the survey of Apaecides with a steady eye, and a brow of serene 
 and open candour. 
 
 “Peace be with thee!” said he, saluting Apsecides. 
 
 “Peace!” echoed the priest, in so hollow a tone that it went 
 at once to the heart of the Nazarene. 
 
 “In that wish,” continued Olinthus, “all good things are 
 combined—without virtue thou canst not have peace. Like the 
 rainbow, Peace rests upon the earth, but its arch is lost in 
 heaven. Heaven bathes it in hues of light—it springs up 
 amidst tears and clouds,—it is a reflection of the Eternal Sun, 
 —it is an assurance of calm—it is the sign of a great covenant 
 between Man and God. Such peace, O young man! is the 
 smile of the soul; it is an emanation from the distant orb of 
 immortal light. Peace be with you!” 
 
 “Alas!” began Apaecides, when he caught the gaze of the 
 curious loiterers, inquisitive to know what could possibly be 
 the theme of conversation between a reputed Nazarene and a 
 priest of Isis. He stopped short, and then added in a low tone 
 —“We cannot converse here, I will follow thee to the banks 
 of the river; there is a walk which at this time is usually de¬ 
 serted and solitary.” 
 
 Olinthus bowed assent. He passed through the streets 
 with a hasty step, but a quick and observant eye. Every now 
 and then he exchanged a significant glance, a slight sign, with 
 some passenger, whose garb usually betokened the wearer 
 to belong to the humbler classes; for Christianity was in this 
 the type of all other and less mighty revolutions—the grain of 
 mustard-seed was in the hearts of the lowly. Amidst the huts 
 of poverty and labour, the vast stream which afterwards poured 
 its broad waters beside the cities and palaces of earth took its 
 neglected source. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 The Noonday Excursion on the Campanian Seas. 
 
 “But tell me, Glaucus,” said lone, as they glided down the 
 rippling Sarnus in their boat of pleasure, “how earnest thou 
 with Apaecides to my rescue from that bad man?” 
 
 Pomfeii. I j 
 
l6 2 
 
 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 “ Ask Nydia yonder,” answered the Athenian, pointing to 
 the blind girl, who sat at a little distance from them, leaning 
 pensively over her lyre:—“she must have thy thanks, not we. 
 It seems that she came to my house, and, finding me from 
 home, sought thy brother in his temple; he accompanied her 
 to Arbaces; on their way they encountered me, with a company 
 of friends, whom thy kind letter had given me a spirit cheer¬ 
 ful enough to join. Nydia's quick ear detected my voice—a 
 few words sufficed to make me the companion of Apsecides; I 
 told not my associates why I left them—-could I trust thy name 
 to their light tongues and gossiping opinion?—Nydia led us to 
 the garden gate, by which we afterwards bore thee—we 
 entered, and were about to plunge into the mysteries of that 
 evil house, when we heard thy cry in another direction. Thou 
 knowest the rest.” 
 
 lone blushed deeply. She then raised her eyes to those of 
 Glaucus, and he felt all the thanks she could not utter. “ Come 
 hither, my Nydia,” said she, tenderly to the Thessalian. 
 
 “Did I not tell thee that thou shouldst be my sister and 
 friend? Hast thou not already been more?—my guardian, my 
 preserver!” 
 
 “It is nothing,” answered Nydia coldly, and without stir¬ 
 ring. 
 
 “Ah! I forgot,” continued lone,—“I should come to thee;” 
 and she moved along the benches till she reached the place 
 where Nydia sat, and flinging her arms caressingly round her, 
 covered her cheeks with kisses. 
 
 Nydia was that morning paler than her wont, and her coun¬ 
 tenance grew even more wan and colourless as she submitted 
 to the embrace of the beautiful Neapolitan. “But how earnest 
 thou, Nydia,” whispered lone, “to surmise so faithfully the 
 danger I was exposed to? Didst thou know aught of the 
 Egyptian?” 
 
 “Yes, I knew of his vices.” 
 
 “And how?” 
 
 “Noble lone, I have been a slave to the vicious—those 
 whom I served were his minions.” 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 1 63 
 
 “And thou hast entered his house since thou knewest so 
 well that private entrance?” 
 
 “I have played on my lyre to Arbaces,” answered the Thes¬ 
 salian, with embarrassment. 
 
 “And thou hast escaped the contagion from which thou 
 hast saved lone!” returned the Neapolitan, in a voice too low 
 for the ear of Glaucus. 
 
 “Noble lone, I have neither beauty nor station; I am a 
 child, and a slave, and blind. The despicable are ever safe.” 
 
 It was with a pained, and proud, and indignant tone that 
 Nydia made this humble reply; and lone felt that she only 
 wounded Nydia by pursuing the subject. She remained silent, 
 and the bark now floated into the sea. 
 
 “Confess that I was right, lone,” said Glaucus, “in prevail¬ 
 ing on thee not to waste this beautiful noon in thy chamber— 
 confess that I was right.” 
 
 “Thou wert right, Glaucus,” said Nydia, abruptly. 
 
 “The dear child speaks for thee,” returned the Athenian. 
 
 “But permit me to move opposite to thee, or our light boat 
 will be overbalanced.” 
 
 So saying, he took his seat exactly opposite to lone, and 
 leaning forward, he fancied that it was her breath, and not the 
 winds of summer, that flung fragrance over the sea. 
 
 “Thou wert to tell me,” said Glaucus, “why for so many 
 days thy door was closed to me?” 
 
 “Oh, think of it no more!” answered lone, quickly; “I gave 
 my ear to what I now know was the malice of slander.” 
 
 “And my slanderer was the Egyptian?” 
 
 lone’s silence assented to the question. 
 
 “His motives are sufficiently obvious.” 
 
 “Talk not of him,” said lone, covering her face with her 
 hands, as if to shut out his very thought. 
 
 “Perhaps he may be already by the banks of the slow 
 Styx,” resumed Glaucus; “yet in that case we should probably 
 have heard of his death. Thy brother, methinks, hath felt 
 the dark influence of his gloomy soul. When we arrived last 
 night at thy house he left me abruptly. Will he ever vouch¬ 
 safe to be my friend?” 
 
 1 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 164 
 
 “He is consumed with some secret care,” answered lone, 
 tearfully. “Would that we could lure him from himself! Let 
 us join in that tender office.” 
 
 “He shall be my brother,” returned the Greek. 
 
 “How calmly,” said lone, rousing herself from the gloom 
 into which her thoughts of Apaecides had plunged her—“how 
 calmly the clouds seem to repose in heaven; and yet you tell 
 me, for I knew it not myself, that the earth shook beneath us 
 last night ” 
 
 “It did, and more violently, they say, than it has done since 
 the great convulsion sixteen years ago: the land we live in yet 
 nurses mysterious terror; and the reign of Pluto, which spreads 
 beneath our burning fields, seems rent with unseen commo¬ 
 tion. Didst thou not feel the earth quake, Nydia, where thou 
 wert seated last night? and was it not the fear that it occasioned 
 thee that made thee weep?” 
 
 “I felt the soil creep and heave beneath me, like some 
 monstrous serpent,” answered Nydia; “but as I saw nothing, 
 I did not fear: I imagined the convulsion to be a spell of the 
 Egyptian’s. They say he has power over the elements.” 
 
 “Thou art a Thessalian, my Nydia,” replied Glaucus, “and 
 hast a national right to believe in magic.” 
 
 “Magic!—who doubts it?” answered Nydia, simply: “dost 
 thou?” 
 
 “Until last night (when a necromantic prodigy did indeed 
 appal me), methinks I was not credulous in any other magic 
 save that of love! ” said Glaucus, in a tremulous voice, and fix¬ 
 ing his eyes on lone. 
 
 “Ah!” said Nydia, with a sort of shiver, and she awoke 
 mechanically a few pleasing notes from her lyre; the sound 
 suited well the tranquillity of the waters, and the sunny still¬ 
 ness of the noon. 
 
 “Play to us, dear Nydia,” said Glaucus,—“play, and give 
 us one of thine old Thessalian songs: whether it be of magic 
 or not, as thou wilt—let it, at least, be of love! ” 
 
 “Of love!” repeated Nydia, raising her large, wandering 
 eyes, that ever thrilled those who saw them with a mingled 
 fear and pity; you could never familiarise yourself to their 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 165 
 
 aspect: so strange did it seem that those dark wild orbs were 
 ignorant of the day, and either so fixed was their deep myste¬ 
 rious gaze, or so restless and perturbed their glance, that you 
 felt, when you encountered them, that same vague, and chill¬ 
 ing, and half-preternatural impression, which comes over you 
 in the presence of the insane,—of those who, having a life out¬ 
 wardly like your own, have a life within life—dissimilar—un¬ 
 searchable—unguessed! 
 
 “Will you that I should sing of love?” said she, fixing those 
 eyes upon Glaucus. 
 
 “Yes,” replied he, looking down. 
 
 She moved a little way from the arm of lone, still cast round 
 her, as if that soft embrace embarrassed; and placing her light 
 and graceful instrument on her knee, after a short prelude, 
 she sang the following strain:— 
 
 NYDIA’S LOVE-SONG. 
 
 "The Wind and the Beam loved the Rose, 
 
 And the Rose loved one; 
 
 For who recks the wind where it blows? 
 
 Or loves not the sun? 
 
 11. 
 
 None knew whence the humble Wind stole. 
 
 Poor sport of the skies— 
 
 None dreamt that the Wind had a soul. 
 
 In its mournful sighs 1 
 
 hi. 
 
 Oh f happy Beam—how canst thou prove 
 That bright love of thine ? 
 
 In thy light is the proof of thy love. 
 
 Thou hast but—to shine 1 
 
 IV. 
 
 How its love can the Wind reveal? 
 
 Unwelcome its sigh: 
 
 Mute—mute to its Rose let it steal— 
 
 Its proof is—to die 1 ” 
 
 “Thou singest but sadly, sweet girl,” said Glaucus; “thy 
 youth only feels as yet the dark shadow of Love; far other in- 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 166 
 
 spiration doth he wake, when he himself bursts and brightens 
 upon us.” 
 
 “I sing as I was taught,” replied Nydia, sighing. 
 
 “Thy master was love-crossed then—try thy hand at a 
 gayer air. Nay, girl, give the instrument to me.” As Nydia 
 obeyed, her hand touched his, and, with that slight touch, her 
 breast heaved—her cheek flushed. lone and Glaucus, oc¬ 
 cupied with each other, perceived not those signs of strange 
 and premature emotions, which preyed upon a heart that, 
 nourished by imagination, dispensed with hope. 
 
 And now, broad, blue, bright before them, spread that hal¬ 
 cyon sea, fair as at this moment, seventeen centuries from that 
 date, I behold it rippling on the same divinest shores. Clime 
 that yet enervates with a soft and Circean spell—that moulds 
 us insensibly, mysteriously, into harmony with thyself, banish¬ 
 ing the thought of austerer labour, the voices of wild ambition, 
 the contests and the roar of life; filling us with gentle and 
 subduing dreams, making necessary to our nature that which 
 is its least earthly portion, so that the very air inspires us with 
 the yearning and thirst of love. Whoever visits thee seems to 
 leave earth and its harsh cares behind—to enter by the Ivory 
 gate into the Land of Dreams. The young and laughing Hours 
 of the PRESENT— the Hours, those children of Saturn, which 
 he hungers ever to devour, seem snatched from his grasp. 
 The past—the future—are forgotten; we enjoy but the breath¬ 
 ing time. Flower of the world’s garden—Fountain of Delight— 
 Italy of Italy—beautiful, benign Campania!—vain were, indeed, 
 the Titans, if on this spot they yet struggled for another 
 heaven! Here, if God meant this working-day life for a per¬ 
 petual holiday, who would not sigh to dwell for ever—asking 
 nothing, hoping nothing, fearing nothing, while thy skies shine 
 over him—while thy seas sparkle at his feet—while thine air 
 brought him sweet messages from the violet and the orange 
 —and while the heart, resigned to—beating with—but one 
 emotion, could find the lips and the eyes, which flatter it 
 (vanity of vanities!) that love can defy custom, and be 
 eternal? 
 
 It was then in this clime—on those seas, that the Athenian 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 167 
 
 gazed upon a face that might have suited the nymph, the spirit 
 of the place: feeding his eyes on the changeful roses of that 
 softest cheek, happy beyond the happiness of common life, 
 loving, and knowing himself beloved. 
 
 In the tale of human passion, in past ages, there is some¬ 
 thing of interest even in the remoteness of the time. We love 
 to feel within us the bond which unites the most distant eras 
 —men, nations, customs perish; THE AFFECTIONS ARE IM¬ 
 MORTAL !—they are the sympathies which unite the ceaseless 
 generations. The past lives again, when we look upon its 
 emotions—it lives in our own! That which was, ever is! The 
 magician’s gift, that revives the dead—that animates the dust 
 of forgotten graves, is not in the author’s skill—it is in the 
 heart of the reader! 
 
 Still vainly seeking the eyes of lone, as, half downcast, 
 half averted, they shunned his own, the Athenian, in a low and 
 soft voice, thus expressed the feelings inspired by happier 
 thoughts than those which had coloured the song of Nydia. 
 
 THE SONG OF GLAUCUS. 
 
 1. 
 
 "As the bark floateth on o’er the summer-lit sea. 
 
 Floats my heart o’er the deeps of its passion for thee; 
 
 All lost in the space, without terror it glides. 
 
 For bright with thy soul is the face of the tides. 
 
 Now heaving, now hush’d, is that passionate ocean. 
 
 As it catches thy smile or thy sighs; 
 
 And the twin-stars* that shine on the wanderer’s devotion. 
 Its guide and its god—are thine eyes I 
 
 The bark may go down, should the cloud sweep above. 
 For its being is bound to the light of thy love. 
 
 As thy faith and thy smile are its life and its joy. 
 
 So thy frown or thy change are the storms that destroy. 
 Ah 1 sweeter to sink while the sky is serene. 
 
 If time hath a change for thy heart 1 
 If to live be to weep over what thou hast been. 
 
 Let me die while I know what thou artl” 
 
 * In allusion to the Dioscuri, or twin-stars, the guardian deity of the seamen. 
 
i68 
 
 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 As the last words of the song trembled over the sea, lone 
 raised her looks,—they met those of her lover. Happy 
 Nydia!—happy in thy affliction, that thou couldst not see that 
 fascinated and charmed gaze, that said so much—that made 
 the eye the voice of the soul—that promised the impossibility 
 of change! 
 
 But, though the Thessalian could not detect that gaze, she 
 divined its meaning by their silence—by their sighs. She 
 pressed her hands tightly across her breast, as if to keep down 
 its bitter and jealous thoughts; and then she hastened to speak 
 —for that silence was intolerable to her. 
 
 “After all, O Glaucus!” said she, “there is nothing very 
 mirthful in your strain!” 
 
 “Yet I meant it to be so, when I took up thy lyre, pretty 
 one. Perhaps happiness will not permit us to be mirthful.” 
 
 “How strange is it,” said lone, changing a conversation 
 which oppressed her while it charmed,— “that for the last 
 several days yonder cloud has hung motionless over Vesuvius! 
 Yet not indeed motionless, for sometimes it changes its form; 
 and now methinks it looks like some vast giant, with an arm 
 outstretched over the city. Dost thou see the likeness—or is 
 it only to my fancy?” 
 
 “Fair lone! I see it also. It is astonishingly distinct. The 
 giant seems seated on the brow of the mountain, the different 
 shades of the cloud appear to form a white robe that sweeps 
 over its vast breast and limbs; it seems to gaze with a steady 
 face upon the city below, to point with one hand, as thou 
 sayest, over its glittering streets, and to raise the other (dost 
 thou note it?) towards the higher heaven. It is like the ghost 
 of some huge Titan brooding over the beautiful world he lost; 
 sorrowful for the past—yet with something of menace for the 
 future.” 
 
 “Could that mountain have any connection with the last 
 night’s earthquake? They say that, ages ago, almost in the 
 earliest era of tradition, it gave forth fires as .^Etna still. Per¬ 
 haps the flames yet lurk and dart beneath.” 
 
 “It is possible,” said Glaucus, musingly. 
 
 “Thou sayest thou art slow to believe in magic?” said 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEH. 
 
 l6g 
 
 Nydia suddenly. “I have heard that a potent witch dwells 
 amongst the scorched caverns of the mountain, and yon cloud 
 may be the dim shadow of the demon she confers with.” 
 
 “ Thou art full of the romance of thy native Thessaly,” said 
 Glaucus; “and a strange mixture of sense and all conflicting 
 superstitions.” 
 
 “We are ever superstitious in the dark,” replied Nydia. 
 “Tell me,” she added,after a slight pause, “tell me,O Glaucus! 
 do all that are beautiful resemble each other? They say you 
 are beautiful, and lone also. Are your faces then the same? I 
 fancy not, yet it ought to be so.” 
 
 “Fancy no such grievous wrong to lone,” answered Glaucus, 
 laughing. “But we do not, alas! resemble each other, as the 
 homely and the beautiful sometimes do. lone’s hair is dark, 
 mine light; lone’s eyes are—what colour, lone? I cannot see, 
 turn them to me. Oh, are they black? no, they are too soft. 
 Are they blue? no, they are too deep: they change with every 
 ray of the sun—I know not their colour: but mine, sweet 
 Nydia, are grey, and bright only when lone shines on them! 
 lone’s cheek is-” 
 
 “I do not understand one word of thy description,” inter¬ 
 rupted Nydia, peevishly. “ I comprehend only that you do not 
 resemble each other, and I am glad of it.” 
 
 “Why, Nydia?” said lone. 
 
 Nydia coloured slightly. “Because,” she replied, coldly, 
 “I have always imagined you under different forms, and one 
 likes to know one is right.” 
 
 “And what hast thou imagined Glaucus to resemble?” asked 
 lone, softly. 
 
 “Music!” replied Nydia, looking down. 
 
 “Thou art right,” thought lone. 
 
 “And what likeness hast thou ascribed to lone?” 
 
 “I cannot tell yet,” answered the blind girl; “I have not 
 yet known her long enough to find a shape and sign for my 
 guesses.” 
 
 “I will tell thee, then,” said Glaucus, passionately; “she is 
 like the sun that warms—like the wave that refreshes ” 
 
170 
 
 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 “The sun sometimes scorches, and the wave sometimes 
 drowns,” answered Nydia. 
 
 “Take then these roses,” said Glaucus; “let their fragrance 
 suggest to thee lone.” 
 
 “Alas, the roses will fade!” said the Neapolitan, archly. 
 
 Thus conversing, they wore away the hours; the lovers, 
 conscious only of the brightness and smiles of love; the blind 
 girl feeling only its darkness—its tortures;—the fierceness of 
 jealousy and its woe! 
 
 And now, as they drifted on, Glaucus once more resumed 
 the lyre, and woke its strings with a careless hand to a strain, 
 so wildly and gladly beautiful, that even Nydia was aroused 
 from her reverie, and uttered a cry of admiration. 
 
 “Thou seest,” my child,” cried Glaucus, “that I can yet 
 redeem the character of love’s music, and that I was wrong in 
 saying happiness could not be gay. Listen, Nydia! listen, dear 
 lone! and hear 
 
 THE BIRTH OF LOVE. * 
 
 1. 
 
 " Like a Star in the seas above. 
 
 Like a Dream to the waves of sleep—■ 
 
 Up—Up— THE INCARNATE LOVE— 
 
 She rose from the charmed deep I 
 And over the Cyprian Isle 
 The skies shed their silent smile; 
 
 And the Forest’s green heart was rife 
 With the stir of the gushing life— 
 
 The life that had leap’d to birth. 
 
 In the veins of the happy earth! 
 
 Hail! oh, hail! 
 
 The dimmest sea-cave below thee. 
 
 The farthest sky-arch above. 
 
 In their innermost stillness know thee: 
 
 And heave with the Birth of Love I 
 
 Gale! soft Gale! 
 
 Thou comest on thy silver winglets, 
 
 From thy home in the tender west; 
 
 Now fanning her golden ringlets. 
 
 Now hush'd on her heaving breast. 
 
 * Suggested by a picture of Venus rising from the sea, taken from Pompeii, 
 and now in the Museum of Naples. 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 171 
 
 And afar on the murmuring sand, 
 
 The Seasons wait hand in hand 
 To welcome thee, Birth Divine, 
 
 To the earth which is henceforth thine. 
 
 II. 
 
 Behold 1 how she kneels in the shell. 
 
 Bright pearl in its floating cell! 
 
 Behold! how the shell’s rose-hues 
 
 The cheek and the breast of snow. 
 And the delicate limbs suffuse 
 
 Like a blush, with a bashful glow. 
 Sailing on, slowy sailing 
 O’er the wild water; 
 
 All hail! as the fond light is hailing 
 Her daughter. 
 
 All hail! 
 
 We are thine, all thine evermore: 
 
 Not a leaf on the laughing shore. 
 
 Not a wave on the heaving sea, 
 
 Nor a single sigh 
 In the boundless sky. 
 
 But is vow’d evermore to thee I 
 
 in. 
 
 And thou, my beloved one—thou, 
 
 As I gaze on thy soft eyes now, 
 
 Methinks from their depths I view. 
 
 The Holy Birth born anew; 
 
 Thy lids are the gentle cell 
 
 Where the young Love blushing lies; 
 See 1 she breaks from the mystic shell. 
 
 She comes from thy tender eyes I 
 Hail 1 all hail 1 
 
 She comes, as she came from the sea. 
 
 To my soul as it looks on thee; 
 
 She comes, she comes 1 
 She comes, as she came from the sea. 
 
 To my soul as it looks on thee 1 
 
 Hail I all hail I” 
 
17 2 
 
 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 The Congregation. 
 
 Followed by Apaecides, the Nazarene gained the side of 
 the Sarnus;—that river, which now has shrunk into a petty 
 stream, then rushed gaily into the sea, covered with countless 
 vessels, and reflecting on its waves the gardens, the vines, the 
 palaces, and the temples of Pompeii. From its more noisy 
 and frequented banks, Olinthus directed his steps to a path 
 which ran amidst a shady vista of trees, at the distance of a 
 few paces from the river. This walk was in the evening a 
 favourite resort of the Pompeians, but during the heat and 
 business of the day was seldom visited, save by some groups 
 of playful children, some meditative poet, or some disputative 
 philosophers. At the side farthest from the river, frequent 
 copses of box interspersed the more delicate and evanescent 
 foliage, and these were cut into a thousand quaint shapes, 
 sometimes into the forms of fauns and satyrs, sometimes into 
 the mimicry of Egyptian pyramids, sometimes into the letters 
 that composed the name of a popular or eminent citizen. Thus 
 the false taste is equally ancient as the pure; and the retired 
 traders of Hackney and Paddington, a century ago, were little 
 aware, perhaps, that in their tortured yews and sculptured 
 box, they found their models in the most polished period of 
 Roman antiquity, in the gardens of Pompeii, and the villas of 
 the fastidious Pliny. 
 
 This walk now, as the noonday sun shone perpendicularly 
 through the chequered leaves, was entirely deserted; at least 
 no other forms than those of Olinthus and the priest infringed 
 upon the solitude. They sat themselves on one of the 
 benches, placed at intervals between the trees, and facing the 
 faint breeze that came languidly from the river, whose waves 
 danced and sparkled before them;—a singular and contrasted 
 pair; the believer in the latest—the priest of the most ancient 
 —worship of the world! 
 
 “Since thou leftst me so abruptly,” said Olinthus, “hast 
 thou been happy? has thy heart found contentment under 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 173 
 
 these priestly robes? hast thou, still yearning for the voice of 
 God, heard it whisper comfort to thee from the oracles of 
 Isis ? That sigh, that averted countenance, give me the answer 
 my soul predicted.” 
 
 "Alas!” answered Apaecides, sadly, "thou seest before 
 thee a wretched and distracted man! From my childhood up¬ 
 ward I have idolised the dreams of virtue! I have envied the 
 holiness of men who, in caves and lonely temples, have been 
 admitted to the companionship of beings above the world; my 
 days have been consumed with feverish and vague desires; 
 my nights with mocking but solemn visions. Seduced by the 
 mystic prophecies of an impostor, I have indued these robes; 
 —my nature (I confess it to thee frankly)—my nature has re¬ 
 volted at what I have seen and been doomed to share in! 
 Searching after truth, I have become but the minister of false¬ 
 hoods. On the evening in which we last met, I was buoyed by 
 hopes created by that same impostor, whom I ought already 
 to have better known. I have—no matter—no matter! suffice 
 it, I have added perjury and sin to rashness and to sorrow. 
 The veil is now rent for ever from my eyes; I behold a villain 
 where I obeyed a demigod; the earth darkens in my sight; I 
 am in the deepest abyss of gloom; I know not if there be gods 
 above; if we are the things of chance; if beyond the bounded 
 and melancholy present there is annihilation or an hereafter— 
 tell me, then, thy faith; solve me these doubts, if thou hast 
 indeed the power!” 
 
 “I do not marvel,” answered the Nazarene, "that thou hast 
 thus erred, or that thou art thus sceptic. Eighty years ago 
 there was no assurance to man of God, or of a certain and 
 definite future beyond the grave. New laws are declared to 
 him who has ears—a heaven, a true Olympus, is revealed to 
 him who has eyes—heed then, and listen.” 
 
 And with all the earnestness of a man believing ardently 
 himself, and zealous to convert, the Nazarene poured forth to 
 Apaecides the assurances of Scriptural promise. He spoke 
 first of the sufferings and miracles of Christ—he wept as he 
 spoke: he turned next to the glories of the Saviour’s ascension 
 —to the clear predictions of Revelation. He described that 
 
174 
 
 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 pure and unsensual heaven destined to the virtuous—those 
 fires and torments that were the doom of guilt. 
 
 The doubts which spring up to the mind of later reasoners, 
 in the immensity of the sacrifice of God to man, were not such 
 as would occur to an early heathen. He had been accustomed 
 to believe that the gods had lived upon earth, and taken upon 
 themselves the forms of men; had shared in human passions, 
 in human labours, and in human misfortunes. What was the 
 travail of his own Alcmena’s son, whose altars now smoked 
 with the incense of countless cities, but a toil for the human 
 race. Had not the great Dorian Apollo expiated a mystic sin 
 by descending to the grave? Those who were the deities of 
 heaven had been the lawgivers or benefactors on earth, and 
 gratitude had led to worship. It seemed therefore, to the 
 heathen, a doctrine neither new nor strange, that Christ had 
 been sent from heaven, that an immortal had indued mortality, 
 and tasted the bitterness of death. And the end for which He 
 thus toiled and thus suffered—how far more glorious did it 
 seem to Apaecides than that for which the deities of old had 
 visited the nether world, and passed through the gates of 
 death! Was it not worthy of a God to descend to these dim 
 valleys, in order to clear up the clouds gathered over the dark 
 mount beyond—to satisfy the doubts of sages—to convert 
 speculation into certainty—by example to point out the rules 
 of life—by revelation to solve the enigma of the grave—and to 
 prove that the soul did not yearn in vain when it dreamed of 
 an immortality? In this last was the great argument of those 
 lowly men destined to convert the earth. As nothing is more 
 flattering to the pride and the hopes of man than the belief in 
 a future state, so nothing could be more vague and confused 
 than the notions of the heathen sages upon that mystic sub¬ 
 ject. Apaecides had already learned that the faith of the 
 philosophers was not that of the herd; that if they secretly 
 professed a creed in some diviner power, it was not the creed 
 which they thought it wise to impart to the community. He 
 had already learned, that even the priest ridiculed what he 
 preached to the people—that the notions of the few and the 
 many were neve** united. But, in this new faith, seemed to 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 175 
 
 him that philosopher, priest, and people, the expounders of 
 the religion and its followers, were alike accordant: they did 
 not speculate and debate upon immortality, they spoke of it as 
 a thing certain and assured; the magnificence of the promise 
 dazzled him—its consolations soothed. For the Christian 
 faith made its early converts among sinners! many of its 
 fathers and its martyrs were those who had felt the bitterness 
 of vice, and who were therefore no longer tempted by its false 
 aspect from the paths of an austere and uncompromising virtue. 
 All the assurances of this healing faith invited to repentance— 
 they were peculiarly adapted to the bruised and sore of spirit! 
 the very remorse which Apaecides felt for his late excesses, 
 made him incline to one who found holiness in that remorse, 
 and who whispered of the joy in heaven over one sinner that 
 repenteth. 
 
 “Come,” said the Nazarene, as he perceived the effect he 
 had produced, “come to the humble hall in which we meet— 
 a select and a chosen few; listen there to our prayers; note the 
 sincerity of our repentant tears; mingle in our simple sacrifice 
 —not of victims, nor of garlands, but offered by white-robed 
 thoughts upon the altar of the heart. The flowers that we lay 
 there are imperishable—they bloom over us when we are no 
 more; nay, they accompany us beyond the grave, they spring 
 up beneath our feet in heaven, they delight us with an eternal 
 odour, for they are of the soul, they partake of its nature; 
 these offerings are temptations overcome, and sins repented. 
 Come, oh come! lose not another moment; prepare already 
 for the great, the awful journey, from darkness to light, from 
 sorrow to bliss, from corruption to immortality! This is the 
 day of the Lord the Son, a day that we have set apart for our 
 devotions. Though we meet usually at night, yet some 
 amongst us are gathered together even now. What joy, what 
 triumph, will be with us all, if we can bring one stray lamb into 
 the sacred fold!” 
 
 There seemed to Apaecides, so naturally pure of heart, 
 something ineffably generous and benign in that spirit of con¬ 
 versation which animated Olinthus—a spirit that found its own 
 bliss in the happiness of others — that sought in its wide 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 176 
 
 sociality to make companions for eternity. He was touched, 
 softened, and subdued. He was not in that mood which can 
 bear to be left alone; curiosity, too, mingled with his purer 
 stimulants—he was anxious to see those rites of which so 
 many dark and contradictory rumours were afloat. He paused 
 a moment, looked over his garb, thought of Arbaces, shud¬ 
 dered with horror, lifted his eyes to the broad brow of the 
 Nazarene, intent, anxious, watchful—but for Ms benefit, for his 
 salvation! He drew his cloak round him, so as wholly to con¬ 
 ceal his robes, and said, “Lead on, I follow thee.” 
 
 Olinthus pressed his hand joyfully, and then descending to 
 the river side, hailed one of the boats that plyed there con¬ 
 stantly; they entered it; an awning overhead, while it sheltered 
 them from the sun, screened also their persons from observa¬ 
 tion: they rapidly skimmed the wave. From one of the boats 
 that passed them floated a soft music, and its prow was de¬ 
 corated with flowers—it was gliding towards the sea. 
 
 “So,” said Olinthus, sadly, “unconscious and mirthful in 
 their delusions, sail the votaries of luxury into the great ocean 
 of storm and shipwreck! we pass them, silent and unnoticed, 
 to gain the land.” 
 
 Apascides, lifting his eyes, caught through the aperture in 
 the awning a glimpse of the face of one of the inmates of that 
 gay bark—it was the face of lone. The lovers were embarked 
 on the excursion at which we have been made present. The 
 priest sighed, and once more sunk back upon his seat. They 
 reached the shore where, in the suburbs, an alley of small and 
 mean houses stretched towards the bank; they dismissed the 
 boat, landed, and Olinthus, preceding the priest, threaded the 
 labyrinth of lanes, and arrived at last at the closed door of a 
 habitation somewhat larger than its neighbours. He knocked 
 thrice—the door was opened and closed again, as Apascides 
 followed his guide across the threshold. 
 
 They passed a deserted atrium, and gained an inner cham¬ 
 ber of moderate size, which, when the door was closed, re¬ 
 ceived its only light from a small window cut over the door 
 itself. But, halting at the threshold of this chamber, and 
 knocking at the door, Olinthus said, “Peace be with you!” A 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 177 
 
 voice from within returned, “Peace with whom?” “The Faith¬ 
 ful!” answered Olinthus, and the door opened; twelve or 
 fourteen persons were sitting in a semicircle, silent, and seem¬ 
 ingly absorbed in thought, and opposite to a crucifix rudely 
 carved in wood. 
 
 They lifted up their eyes when Olinthus entered, without 
 speaking; the Nazarene himself, before he accosted them, 
 knelt suddenly down, and by his moving lips, and his eyes 
 fixed steadfastly on the crucifix, Apaecides saw that he prayed 
 inly. This rite performed, Olinthus turned to the congrega¬ 
 tion— “Men and brethren,” said he, “start not to behold 
 amongst you a priest of Isis; he hath sojourned with the blind, 
 but the Spirit hath fallen on him—he desires to see, to hear, 
 and to understand. 
 
 “Let him,” said one of the assembly; and Apaecides be¬ 
 held in the speaker a man still younger than himself, of a 
 countenance equally worn and pallid, of an eye which equally 
 spoke of the restless and fiery operations of a working mind. 
 
 “Let him,” repeated a second voice, and he who thus 
 spoke was in the prime of manhood; his bronzed skin and 
 Asiatic features bespoke him a son of Syria—he had been a 
 robber in his youth. 
 
 “Let him,” said a third voice; and the priest, again turning 
 to regard the speaker, saw an old man with a long grey beard, 
 whom he recognised as a slave to the wealthy Diomed. 
 
 “Let him,” repeated simultaneously the rest—men who, 
 with two exceptions, were evidently of the inferior ranks. In 
 these exceptions, Apaecides noted an officer of the guard, and 
 an Alexandrian merchant. 
 
 “We do not,” recommenced Olinthus—“we do not bind 
 you to secrecy; we impose on you no oaths (as some of our 
 weaker brethren would do) not to betray us. It is true, in¬ 
 deed, that there is no absolute law against us; but the multi¬ 
 tude, more savage than their rulers, thirst for our lives. So, 
 my friends, when Pilate would have hesitated, it was the •people 
 who shouted ‘Christ to the cross!’ But we bind you not to 
 our safety—no! Betray us to the crowd—impeach, calumniate, 
 malign us if you will:—we are above death, we should walk 
 
 Pompeii, 12 
 
178 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 cheerfully to the den of the lion, or the rack of the torturer— 
 we can trample down the darkness of the grave, and what is 
 death to a criminal is eternity to the Christian.” 
 
 A low and applauding murmur ran through the assembly. 
 
 “Thou comest amongst us as an examiner, mayest thou 
 remain a convert! Our religion? you behold it! Yon cross 
 our sole image, yon scroll the mysteries of our Caere and 
 Eleusis! Our morality? it is in our lives!—sinners we all have 
 been; who now can accuse us of a crime? we have baptised 
 ourselves from the past. Think not that this is of us, it is of 
 God. Approach, Medon,” beckoning to the old slave who 
 had spoken third for the admission of Apaecides, “thou art 
 the sole man amongst us who is not free. But in heaven, the 
 last shall be first: so with us. Unfold your scroll, read and 
 explain.” 
 
 Useless would it be for us to accompany the lecture of 
 Medon, or the comments of the congregation. Familiar now 
 are those doctrines, then strange and new. Eighteen centu¬ 
 ries have left us little to expound upon the lore of Scripture or 
 the life of Christ. To us, too, there would seem little con¬ 
 genial in the doubts that occurred to a heathen priest, and 
 little learned in the answers they receive from men uneducated, 
 rude, and simple, possessing only the knowledge that they were 
 greater than they seemed. 
 
 There was one thing that greatly touched the Neapolitan: 
 when the lecture was concluded, they heard a very gentle 
 knock at the door; the password was given, and replied to; 
 the door opened, and two young children, the eldest of whom 
 might have told its seventh year, entered timidly; they were 
 the children of the master of the house, that dark and hardy 
 Syrian, whose youth had been spent in pillage and bloodshed. 
 The eldest of the congregation (it was that old slave) opened 
 to them his arms; they fled to the shelter—they crept to his 
 breast—and his hard features smiled as he caressed them. 
 And then these bold and fervent men, nursed in vicissitude, 
 beaten by the rough winds of life—men of mailed and imper¬ 
 vious fortitude, ready to affront a world, prepared for torment 
 and armed for death—men, who presented all imaginable 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 I ?9 
 
 contrast to the weak nerves, the light hearts, the tender fra¬ 
 gility of childhood, crowded round the infants, smoothing 
 their rugged brows and composing their bearded lips to kindly 
 and fostering smiles: and then the old man opened the scroll, 
 and he taught the infants to repeat after him that beautiful 
 prayer which we still dedicate to the Lord, and still teach to 
 our children; and then he told them, in simple phrase, of 
 God’s love to the young, and how not a sparrow falls but His 
 eye sees it. This lovely custom of infant initiation was long 
 cherished by the early Church, in memory of the words which 
 said, “Suffer little children to come unto me, and forbid 
 them not;” and was perhaps the origin of the superstitious 
 calumny which ascribed to the Nazarenes the crime which the 
 Nazarene, when victorious, attributed to the Jew, viz. the de¬ 
 coying children to hideous rites, at which they were secretly 
 immolated. 
 
 And the stern paternal penitent seemed to feel in the in¬ 
 nocence of his children a return into early life—life ere yet it 
 sinned: he followed the motion of their young lips with an 
 earnest gaze; he smiled as they repeated, with hushed and 
 reverent looks, the holy words; and when the lesson was done, 
 and they ran, released, and gladly to his knee, he clasped them 
 to his breast, kissed them again and again, and tears flowed 
 fast down his cheek—tears, of which it would have been im¬ 
 possible to trace the source, so mingled they were with joy and 
 sorrow, penitence and hope—remorse for himself and love for 
 them! 
 
 Something, I say, there was in this scene which peculiarly 
 affected Apaecides; and, in truth, it is difficult to conceive a 
 ceremony more appropriate to the religion of benevolence, 
 more appealing to the household and everyday affections, 
 striking a more sensitive chord in the human breast. 
 
 It was at this time that an inner door opened gently, and a 
 very old man entered the chamber, leaning on a staff. At his 
 presence, the whole congregation rose; there was an expres¬ 
 sion of deep, affectionate respect upon every countenance; and 
 Apaecides, gazing on his countenance, felt attracted towards 
 him by an irresistible sympathy. No man ever looked upon 
 
 12* 
 
i8o 
 
 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 that face without love; for there had dwelt the smile of the 
 Deity, the incarnation of divinest love;—and the glory of the 
 smile had never passed away. 
 
 “My children, God be with you!” said the old man, 
 stretching his arms; and as he spoke the infants ran to his 
 knee. He sat down, and they nestled fondly to his bosom. It 
 was beautiful to see that mingling of the extremes of life—the 
 rivers gushing from their early source—-the majestic stream 
 gliding to the ocean of eternity! As the light of declining day 
 seems to mingle earth and heaven, making the outline of each 
 scarce visible, and blending the harsh mountain-tops with the 
 sky, even so did the smile of that benign old age appear to 
 hallow the aspect of those around, to blend together the strong 
 distinctions of varying years, and to diffuse over infancy and 
 manhood the light of that heaven into which it must so soon 
 vanish and be lost. 
 
 “Father,” said Olinthus, “thou on whose form the miracle 
 of the Redeemer worked; thou who wert snatched from the 
 grave to become the living witness of His mercy and His power; 
 behold! a stranger in our meeting—a new lamb gathered to 
 the fold!” 
 
 “Let me bless him,” said the old man: the throng gave 
 way. Apascides approached him as by an instinct: he fell on 
 his knees before him—the old man laid his hand on the priest’s 
 head, and blessed him, but not aloud. As his lips moved, his 
 eyes were upturned, and tears—those tears that good men 
 only shed in the hope of happiness to another—flowed fast 
 down his cheeks. 
 
 The children were on either side of the convert; his heart 
 was theirs—he had become as one of them—to enter into the 
 kingdom of Heaven. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 The Stream of Love runs on—Whither? 
 
 Days are like years in the love of the young, when no bar, 
 no obstacle, is between their hearts—when the sun shines, and 
 the course runs smooth—when their love is prosperous and con- 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEIL 
 
 181 
 
 fessed. lone no longer concealed from Glaucus the attach¬ 
 ment she felt for him, and their talk now was only of their 
 love. Over the rapture of the present the hopes of the future 
 glowed like the heaven above the gardens of spring. They 
 went in their trustful thoughts far down the stream of time; 
 they laid out the chart of their destiny to come; they suffered 
 the light of to-day to suffuse the morrow. In the youth of 
 their hearts it seemed as if care, and change, and death, were 
 as things unknown. Perhaps they loved each other the more 
 because the condition of the world left to Glaucus no aim and 
 no wish but love; because the distractions common in free 
 states to men’s affections existed not for the Athenian; because 
 his country wooed him not to the bustle of civil life; because 
 ambition furnished no counterpoise to love: and, therefore, 
 over their schemes and projects, love only reigned. In the 
 iron age they imagined themselves of the golden, doomed only 
 to live and to love. 
 
 To the superficial observer, who interests himself only in 
 characters strongly marked and broadly coloured, both the 
 lovers may seem of too slight and commonplace a mould: in 
 the delineation of characters purposely subdued, the reader 
 sometimes imagines that there is a want of character; perhaps, 
 indeed, I wrong the real nature of these two lovers by not 
 painting more impressively their stronger individualities. But 
 in dwelling so much on their bright and bird-like existence, I 
 am influenced almost insensibly by the forethought of the 
 changes that await them, and for which they were so ill pre¬ 
 pared. It was this very softness and gaiety of life that con¬ 
 trasted most strongly the vicissitudes of their coming fate. 
 For the oak without fruit or blossom, whose hard and rugged 
 heart is fitted for the storm, there is less fear than for the 
 delicate branches of the myrtle, and the laughing clusters of 
 the vine. 
 
 They had now advanced far into August—the next month 
 their marriage was fixed, and the threshold of Glaucus was 
 already wreathed with garlands; and nightly, by the door of 
 lone, he poured forth the rich libations. He existed no longer 
 for his gay companions; he was ever with lone. In the morn- 
 
182 
 
 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 ings they beguiled the sun with music: in the evenings they 
 forsook the crowded haunts of the gay for excursions on the 
 water, or along the fertile and vine-clad plains that lay beneath 
 the fatal mount of Vesuvius. The earth shook no more; the 
 lively Pompeians forgot even that there had gone forth so ter¬ 
 rible a warning of their approaching doom. Glaucus imagined 
 that convulsion, in the vanity of his heathen religion, an especial 
 interposition of the gods, less in behalf of his own safety than 
 that of lone. He offered up the sacrifices of gratitude at the 
 temples of his faith; and even the altar of Isis was covered with 
 his votive garlands;—as to the prodigy of the animated marble, 
 he blushed at the effect it had produced on him. He believed 
 it, indeed, to have been wrought by the magic of man; but the 
 result convinced him that it betokened not the anger of a 
 goddess. 
 
 Of Arbaces, they heard only that he still lived; stretched 
 on the bed of suffering, he recovered slowly from the effect of 
 the shock he had sustained—he left the lovers unmolested— 
 but it was only to brood over the hour and the method of 
 revenge. 
 
 Alike in their mornings at the house of lone, and in their 
 evening excursions, Nydia was usually their constant, and often 
 their sole companion. They did not guess the secret fires 
 which consumed her:—the abrupt freedom with which she 
 mingled in their conversation—her capricious and often her 
 peevish moods found ready indulgence in the recollection of 
 the service they owed her, and their compassion for her afflic¬ 
 tion. They felt an interest in her, perhaps the greater and 
 more affectionate from the very strangeness and waywardness 
 of her nature, her singular alternations of passion and softness 
 —the mixture of ignorance and genius—of delicacy and rude¬ 
 ness—of the quick humours of the child, and the proud calm¬ 
 ness of the woman. Although she refused to accept of free¬ 
 dom, she was constantly suffered to be free; she went where 
 she listed: no curb was put either on her words or actions; they 
 felt for one so darkly fated, and so susceptible of every wound, 
 the same pitying and compliant indulgence the mother feels for 
 a spoiled and sickly child,—dreading to impose authority, even 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 83 
 
 where they imagined it for her benefit. She availed herself of 
 this licence by refusing the companionship of the slave whom 
 they wished to attend her. With the slender staff by which 
 she guided her steps, she went now, as in her former unpro¬ 
 tected state, along the populous streetsiitwas almost miraculous 
 to perceive how quickly and how dexterously she threaded 
 every crowd, avoiding every danger, and could find her be¬ 
 nighted way through the most intricate windings of the city. 
 But her chief delight was still in visiting the few feet of ground 
 which made the garden of Glaucus;—in tending the flowers 
 that at least repaid her love. Sometimes she entered the 
 chamber where he sat, and sought a conversation, which she 
 nearly always broke off abruptly—for conversation with Glaucus 
 only tended to one subject— lone; and that name from his lips 
 inflicted agony upon her. Often she bitterly repented the 
 service she had rendered to lone: often she said inly, “If she 
 had fallen, Glaucus could have loved her no longer;” and then 
 dark and fearful thoughts crept into her breast. 
 
 She had not experienced fully the trials that were in store 
 for her, when she had been thus generous. She had never be¬ 
 fore been present when Glaucus and lone were together; she 
 had never heard that voice so kind to her, so much softer to 
 another. The shock that crushed her heart with the tidings 
 that Glaucus loved, had at first only saddened and benumbed; 
 —by degrees jealousy took a wilder and fiercer shade; it par¬ 
 took of hatred—it whispered revenge. As you see the wind 
 only agitate the green leaf upon the bough, while the leaf which 
 has lain withered and seared on the ground, bruised and 
 trampled upon till the sap and life are gone, is suddenly whirled 
 aloft—now here—now there—without stay and without rest; so 
 the love which visits the happy and the hopeful hath but fresh¬ 
 ness on its wings! its violence is but sportive. But the heart 
 that hath fallen from the ’green things of life, that is without 
 hope, that hath no summer in its fibres, is torn and whirled by 
 the same wind that but caresses its brethren;—it hath no bough 
 to cling to—it is dashed from path to path—till the winds fall, 
 and it is crushed into the mire for ever. 
 
 The friendless childhood of Nydia had hardened prema- 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 184 
 
 turely her character; perhaps the heated scenes of profligacy 
 through which she had passed, seemingly unscathed, had 
 ripened her passions, though they had not sullied her purity. 
 The orgies of Burbo might only have disgusted, the banquets 
 of the Egyptian might only have terrified, at the moment; but 
 the winds that pass unheeded over the soil leave seeds behind 
 them. As darkness, too, favours the imagination, so, perhaps, 
 her very blindness contributed to feed with wild and delirious 
 visions the love of the unfortunate girl. The voice of Glaucus 
 had been the first that had sounded musically to her ear; his 
 kindness made a deep impression upon her mind; when he had 
 left Pompeii in the former year, she had treasured up in her 
 heart every word he had uttered; and when any one told her 
 that this friend and patron of the poor flower-girl was the most 
 brilliant and the most graceful of the young revellers of Pom¬ 
 peii, she had felt a pleasing pride in nursing his recollection. 
 Even the task which she imposed upon herself, of tending his 
 flowers, served to keep him in her mind; she associated him 
 with all that was most charming to her impressions; and when 
 she had refused to express what image she fancied lone to 
 resemble, it was partly, perhaps, that whatever was bright and 
 soft in nature she had already combined with the thought of 
 Glaucus. If any of my readers ever loved at an age which 
 they would now smile to remember—an age in which fancy 
 forestalled the reason, let them say whether that love, among 
 all its strange and complicated delicacies, was not, above all 
 other and later passions, susceptible of jealousy? I seek not 
 here the cause: I know that it is commonly the fact. 
 
 When Glaucus returned to Pompeii, Nydia had told another 
 year of life; that year, with its sorrows, its loneliness, its trials, 
 had greatly developed her mind and heart; and when the 
 Athenian drew her unconsciously to his breast, deeming her 
 still in soul as in years a child—when he kissed her smooth 
 cheek, and wound his arm round her trembling frame, Nydia 
 felt suddenly, and as by revelation, that those feelings she had 
 long and innocently cherished were of love. Doomed to be 
 rescued from tyranny by Glaucus—doomed to take shelter 
 under his roof—doomed to breathe, but for so brief a time, the 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 1 85 
 
 same air—and doomed, in the first rush of a thousand happy, 
 grateful, delicious sentiments of an overflowing heart, to hear 
 that he loved another; to be commissioned to that other, the 
 messenger, the minister; to feel all at once that utter nothing¬ 
 ness which she was—which she ever must be, but which, till 
 then, her young mind had not taught her,—that utter nothing¬ 
 ness to him who was all to her; what wonder that, in her wild 
 and passionate soul, all the elements jarred discordant; that if 
 love reigned over the whole, it was not the love which is born 
 of the more sacred and soft emotions? Sometimes she dreaded 
 only lest Glaucus should discover her secret; sometimes she 
 felt indignant that it was not suspected; it was a sign of con¬ 
 tempt—could he imagine that she presumed so far? Her feel¬ 
 ings to lone ebbed and flowed with every hour; now she loved 
 her because he did; now she hated her for the same cause. 
 There were moments when she could have murdered her un¬ 
 conscious mistress; moments when she could have laid down 
 life for her. These fierce and tremulous alternations of pas¬ 
 sion were too severe to be borne long. Her health gave way, 
 though she felt it not—her cheek paled—her step grew feebler 
 —tears came to her eyes more often, and relieved her less. 
 
 One morning, when she repaired to her usual task in the 
 garden of the Athenian, she found Glaucus under the columns 
 of the peristyle, with a merchant of the town; he was selecting 
 jewels for his destined bride. He had already fitted up her 
 apartment; the jewels he bought that day were placed also 
 within it—they were never fated to grace the fair form of lone; 
 they may be seen at this day among the disinterred treasures 
 of Pompeii, in the chambers of the studio at Naples. * 
 
 “Come hither, Nydia; put down thy vase, and come hither. 
 Thou must take this chain from me—stay—there, I have put it 
 on.—There, Servilius, does it not become her?” 
 
 “Wonderfully!” answered the jeweller; for jewellers were 
 well-bred and flattering men, even at that day. “But when 
 these ear-rings glitter in the ears of the noble lone, then , by 
 Bacchus! you will see whether my art adds anything to beauty.” 
 
 * Several bracelets, chains, and jewels, were found in the house. 
 
186 
 
 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 “lone?” repeated Nydia, who had hitherto acknowledged 
 by smiles and blushes the gift of Glaucus. 
 
 “Yes,” replied the Athenian, carelessly toying with the 
 gems; “I am choosing a present for lone, but there are none 
 worthy of her.” 
 
 He was startled as he spoke by an abrupt gesture of Nydia; 
 she tore the chain violently from her neck, and dashed it on 
 the ground. 
 
 “How is this? What, Nydia, dost thou not like the bauble? 
 art thou offended?” 
 
 “You treat me ever as a slave and as a child,” replied the 
 Thessalian, with a breast heaving with ill-suppressed sobs, and 
 she turned hastily away to the opposite corner of the garden. 
 
 Glaucus did not attempt to follow, or to soothe; he was 
 offended; he continued to examine the jewels and to comment 
 on their fashion—to object to this and to praise that, and 
 finally to be talked by the merchant into buying all; the safest 
 plan for a lover, and a plan that any one will do right to adopt, 
 —provided always that he can obtain an lone! 
 
 When he had completed his purchase and dismissed the 
 jeweller, he retired into his chamber, dressed, mounted his 
 chariot, and went to lone. He thought no more of the blind 
 girl, or her offence; he had forgotten both the one and the 
 other. 
 
 He spent the forenoon with his beautiful Neapolitan, re¬ 
 paired thence to the baths, supped (if, as we have said before, 
 we can justly so translate the three o’clock ccena of the Romans) 
 alone, and abroad, for Pompeii had its restaurateurs: — and 
 returning home to change his dress ere he again repaired to 
 the house of lone, he passed the peristyle, but with the ab¬ 
 sorbed reverie and absent eyes of a man in love, and did not 
 note the form of the poor blind girl, bending exactly in the 
 same place where he had left her. But though he saw her 
 not, her ear recognised at once the sound of his step. She 
 had been counting the moments to his return. He had scarcely 
 entered his favourite chamber, which opened on the peristyle, 
 and seated himself musingly on his couch, when he felt his 
 robe timorously touched, and, turning, he beheld Nydia kneel- 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 187 
 
 mg before him, and holding up to him a handful of flowers—a 
 gentle and appropriate peace-offering;—her eyes, darkly up- 
 help to his own, streamed with tears. 
 
 “I have offended thee,” said she, sobbing, “and for the 
 first time. I would die rather than cause thee a moment’s 
 pain—say that thou wilt forgive me. See! I have taken up 
 the chain; I have put it on; I will never part from it—it is thy 
 gift.” 
 
 “My dear Nydia,” returned Glaucus, and raising her, he 
 kissed her forehead, “think of it no more! But why, my child, 
 wert thou so suddenly angry? I could not divine the cause?” 
 
 “Do not ask!” said she, colouring violently. “I am a 
 thing full of faults and humours; you know I am but a child— 
 you say so often: is it from a child that you can expect a 
 reason for every folly?” 
 
 “But, prettiest, you will soon be a child no more; and if 
 you would have us treat you as a woman, you must learn to 
 govern these singular impulses and gales of passion. Think 
 not I chide: no, it is for your happiness only I speak.” 
 
 “It is true,” said Nydia, “I must learn to govern myself. I 
 must hide, I must suppress, my heart. This is a woman’s 
 task and duty; methinks her virtue is hypocrisy.” 
 
 “Self-control is not deceit, my Nydia,” returned the 
 Athenian; “and that is the virtue necessary alike to man and 
 to woman; it is the true senatorial toga, the badge of the 
 dignity it covers.” 
 
 “Self-control! self-control! Well, well, what you say is 
 right! When I listen to you, Glaucus, my wildest thoughts 
 grow calm and sweet, and a delicious serenity falls over me. 
 Advise, ah! guide me ever, my preserver!” 
 
 “Thy affectionate heart will be thy best guide, Nydia, when 
 thou hast learned to regulate its feelings.” 
 
 “Ah! that will be never,” sighed Nydia, wiping away her 
 tears. 
 
 “Say not so; the first effort is the only difficult one.” 
 
 “I have made many first efforts,” answered Nydia, inno¬ 
 cently. “But you, my Mentor, do you find it so easy to 
 
188 
 
 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 control yourself? Can you conceal, can you even regulate, 
 your love for lone?” 
 
 “Love! dear Nydia: ah! that is quite another matter,” an¬ 
 swered the young preceptor. 
 
 “I thought so!” returned Nydia, with a melancholy smile. 
 “Glaucus, wilt thou take my poor flowers? Do with them as 
 thou wilt—thou canst give them to lone,” added she, with a 
 little hesitation. 
 
 “Nay, Nydia,” answered Glaucus, kindly, divining some¬ 
 thing of jealousy in her language, though he imagined it only 
 the jealousy of a vain and susceptible child; “I will not give 
 thy pretty flowers to any one. Sit here and weave them into 
 a garland; I will wear it this night: it is not the first those 
 delicate fingers have woven for me.” 
 
 The poor girl delightedly sat down beside Glaucus. She 
 drew from her girdle a ball of the many-coloured threads, or 
 rather slender ribands, used in the weaving of garlands, and 
 which (for it was her professional occupation) she carried con¬ 
 stantly with her, and began quickly and gracefully to com¬ 
 mence her task. Upon her young cheeks the tears were 
 already dried, a faint but happy smile played round her lips; 
 —childlike, indeed, she was sensible only of the joy of the 
 present hour: she was reconciled to Glaucus: he had forgiven 
 her—she was beside him—he played caressingly with her 
 silken hair—his breath fanned her cheek,—lone, the cruel 
 lone, was not by—none other demanded, divided, his care. 
 Yes, she was happy and forgetful; it was one of the few 
 moments in her brief and troubled life that it was sweet to 
 treasure, to recall. As the butterfly, allured by the winter 
 sun, basks for a little while in the sudden light, ere yet the 
 wind awakes and the frost comes on, which shall blast it be¬ 
 fore the eve,—she rested beneath a beam, which, by contrast 
 with the wonted skies, was not chilling; and the instinct which 
 should have warned her of its briefness, bade her only gladden 
 in its smile. 
 
 “Thou hast beautiful locks,” said Glaucus. “They were 
 once, I ween well, a mother’s delight.” 
 
 Nydia sighed; it would seem that she had not been born a 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 189 
 
 slave; but she ever shunned the mention of her parentage, 
 and, whether obscure or noble, certain it is that her birth was 
 never known by her benefactors, nor by any one in those 
 distant shores, even to the last. The child of sorrow and of 
 mystery, she came and went as some bird that enters our 
 chamber for a moment; we see it flutter for a while before us, 
 we know not whence it flew or to what region it escapes. 
 
 Nydia sighed, and after a short pause, without answering 
 the remark, said,— 
 
 “But do I weave too many roses in my wreath, Glaucus? 
 They tell me it is thy favourite flower.” 
 
 “And ever favoured, my Nydia, be it by those who have 
 the soul of poetry: it is the flower of love, of festivals; it is 
 also the flower we dedicate to silence and to death; it blooms 
 on our brows in life, while life be worth the having; it is scat¬ 
 tered above our sepulchre when we are no more.” 
 
 “Ah! would,” said Nydia, “instead of this perishable 
 wreath, that I could take thy web from the hand of the Fates, 
 and insert the roses there!” 
 
 “Pretty one! thy wish is worthy of a voice so attuned to 
 song; it is uttered in the spirit of song; and, whatever my 
 doom, I thank thee.” 
 
 “Whatever thy doom! is it not already destined to all 
 things bright and fair? My wish was vain. The Fates will be 
 as tender to thee as I should.” 
 
 “It might not be so, Nydia, were it not for love! While 
 youth lasts, I may forget my country for a while. But what 
 Athenian, in his graver manhood, can think of Athens as she 
 was, and be contented that he is happy, while she is fallen?— 
 fallen, and for ever?” 
 
 “And why for ever!” 
 
 “As ashes cannot be rekindled—as love once dead can 
 never revive, so freedom departed from a people is never 
 regained. But talk we not of these matters unsuited to thee.” 
 
 “To me, oh! thou errest. I, too, have my sighs for Greece; 
 my cradle was rocked at the foot of Olympus; the gods have 
 left the mountain, but their traces may be seen—seen in the 
 hearts of their worshippers, seen in the beauty of their clime: 
 
1 90 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 they tell me it is beautiful, and/have felt its airs, to which 
 even these are harsh—its sun, to which these skies are chill. 
 Oh! talk to me of Greece! Poor fool that I am, I can com¬ 
 prehend thee! and methinks, had I yet lingered on those 
 shores, had I been a Grecian maid whose happy fate it was to 
 love and to be loved, I myself could have armed my lover for 
 another Marathon, a new Plataea. Yes, the hand that now 
 weaves the roses should have woven thee the olive crown!” 
 
 “If such a day could come!” said Glaucus, catching 
 the enthusiasm of the blind Thessalian, and half rising.— 
 “But no ! the sun has set, and the night only bids us be 
 forgetful, — and in forgetfulness be gay: — weave still the 
 roses!” 
 
 But it was with a melancholy tone of forced gaiety that 
 the Athenian uttered the last words: and sinking into a 
 gloomy reverie, he was only wakened from it, a few minutes 
 afterwards, by the voice of Nydia, as she sang in a low tone 
 the following words, which he had once taught her: 
 
 THE APOLOGY FOR PLEASURE. 
 
 Who will assume the hays 
 That the hero wore ? 
 
 Wreaths on the Tomb of Days 
 Gone evermore I 
 Who shall disturb the brave. 
 
 Or one leaf on their holy grave ? 
 
 The laurel is vowed to them. 
 
 Leave the bay on its sacred stem! 
 
 But this, the rose, the fading rose. 
 Alike for slave and freeman grows. 
 
 11. 
 
 If Memory sit beside the dead 
 With tombs her only treasure; 
 
 If Hope is lost and Freedom fled, 
 
 The more excuse for Pleasure, 
 
 Come, weave the wreath, the roses weave. 
 The rose at least is ours: 
 
 To feeble hearts our fathers leave. 
 
 In pitying scorn, the flowers I 
 

THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 IQ! 
 
 hi. 
 
 On the summit, worn and hoary. 
 
 Of Phyle’s solemn hill. 
 
 The tramp of the brave is still! 
 
 And still in the saddening Mart, 
 
 The pulse of that mighty heart. 
 
 Whose very blood was glory 1 
 Glaucopis forsakes her own. 
 
 The angry gods forget us; 
 
 But yet, the blue streams along, 
 
 Walk the feet of the silver Song; 
 
 And the night-bird wakes the moon; 
 
 And the bees in the blushing noon 
 Haunt the hedrt of the old Hymettus. 
 
 We are fallen, but not forlorn, 
 
 If something is left to cherish; 
 
 As Love was the earliest born. 
 
 So Love is the last to perish. 
 
 Wreathe then the roses, wreathe 
 The Beautiful still is ours. 
 
 While the stream shall flow and the sky shall glow. 
 The Beautiful still is ours! 
 
 Whatever is fair, or soft, or bright. 
 
 In the lap of day or the arms of night. 
 
 Whispers our soul of Greece—of Greece. 
 
 And hushes our care with a voice of peace. 
 Wreathe then the roses, wreathe! 
 
 They tell me of earlier hours; 
 
 And I hear the heart of my Country breathe 
 From the lips of the Stranger’s flowers. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 Nydia encounters Julia.—Interview of the heathen Sister and converted Brother. 
 —An Athenian’s Notion of Christianity. 
 
 “What happiness to lone! what bliss to be ever by the 
 side of Glaucus, to hear his voice!—And she too can see 
 him!” 
 
 Such was the soliloquy of the blind girl, as she walked 
 alone and at twilight to the house of her new mistress, whither 
 Glaucus had already preceded her. Suddenly she was inter¬ 
 rupted in her fond thoughts by a female voice. 
 
192 
 
 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 “Blind flower-girl, whither goest thou? There is no pannier 
 under thine arm; hast thou sold all thy flowers?” 
 
 The person thus accosting Nydia was a lady of a handsome 
 but a bold and unmaidenly countenance: it was Julia, the 
 daughter of Diomed. Her veil was half raised as she spoke; 
 she was accompanied by Diomed himself, and by a slave 
 carrying a lantern before them — the merchant and his 
 daughter were returning home from a supper at one of their 
 neighbours’. 
 
 “Dost thou not remember my voice?” continued Julia. “I 
 am the daughter of Diomed the wealthy.” 
 
 “Ah! forgive me; yes, I recall the tones of your voice. No, 
 noble Julia, I have no flowers to sell.” 
 
 “I heard that thou wert purchased by the beautiful Greek 
 Glaucus; is that true, pretty slave?” asked Julia. 
 
 “I serve the Neapolitan, lone,” replied Nydia, evasively. 
 
 “Ah! and it is true, then-” 
 
 “Come, come!” interrupted Diomed, with his cloak up to 
 his mouth, “the night grows cold; I cannot stay here while 
 you prate to that blind girl: come, let her follow you home, if 
 you wish to speak to her.” 
 
 “Do, child,” said Julia, with the air of one not accustomed 
 to be refused; “I have much to ask of thee: come.” 
 
 “I cannot this night, it grows late,” answered Nydia. “I 
 must be at home; I am not free, noble Julia.” 
 
 “What, the meek lone will chide thee?—Ay, I doubt not 
 she is a second Thalestris. But come, then, to-morrow: do— 
 remember I have been thy friend of old.” 
 
 “I will obey thy wishes,” answered Nydia; and Diomed 
 again impatiently summoned his daughter: she was obliged to 
 proceed, with the main question she had desired to put to 
 Nydia unasked. 
 
 Meanwhile we return to lone. The interval of time that 
 had elapsed that day between the first and second visit of 
 Glaucus had not been too gaily spent: she had received a 
 visit from her brother. Since the night he had assisted 
 in saving her from the Egyptian, she had not before seen 
 him. 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 193 
 
 Occupied with his own thoughts,—thoughts of so serious 
 and intense a nature,—the young priest had thought little of 
 his sister; in truth, men perhaps of that fervent order of mind 
 which is ever aspiring above earth, are but little prone to the 
 earthlier affections; and it had been long since Apaecides had 
 sought those soft and friendly interchanges of thought, those 
 sweet confidences, which in his earlier youth had bound him 
 to lone, and which are so natural to that endearing connection 
 which existed between them. 
 
 lone, however, had not ceased to regret his estrangement: 
 she attributed it, at present, to the engrossing duties of his 
 severe fraternity. And often, amidst all her bright hopes, and 
 her new attachment to her betrothed—often, when she thought 
 of her brother’s brow prematurely furrowed, his unsmiling lip, 
 and bended frame, she sighed to think that the service of the 
 gods could throw so deep a shadow over that earth which the 
 gods created. 
 
 But this day when he visited her there was a strange calm¬ 
 ness on his features, a more quiet and self-possessed ex¬ 
 pression in his sunken eyes, than she had marked for years. 
 This apparent improvement was but momentary—it was a 
 false calm, which the least breeze could ruffle. 
 
 “May the gods bless thee, my brother!” said she, embrac¬ 
 ing him. 
 
 “The gods! Speak not thus vaguely; perchance there is but 
 one God!” 
 
 “My brother!” 
 
 “What if the sublime faith of the Nazarene be true? What 
 if God be a monarch—One—Invisible—Alone? What if these 
 numerous, countless deities, whose altars fill the earth, be but 
 evil demons, seeking to wean us from the true creed? This 
 may be the case, lone!” 
 
 “Alas! can we believe it? or if we believed, would it not be 
 a melancholy faith?” answered the Neapolitan. “What! all 
 this beautiful world made only human!—the mountain disen¬ 
 chanted of its Oread—the waters of their Nymph—that beauti¬ 
 ful prodigality of faith, which makes everything divine, con¬ 
 secrating the meanest flowers, bearing celestial whispers in 
 
 Pompeii. j 3 
 
194 
 
 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 the faintest breeze —wouldst thou deny this, and make the 
 earth mere dust and clay? No, Apsecides; all that is brightest 
 in our hearts is that very credulity which peoples the universe 
 with gods.” 
 
 lone answered as a believer in the poesy of the old mytho¬ 
 logy would answer. We may judge by that reply how obsti¬ 
 nate and hard the contest which Christianity had to endure 
 among the heathens. The Graceful Superstition was never 
 silent; every, the most household, action of their lives was 
 entwined with it,—it was a portion of life itself, as the flowers 
 are a part of the thyrsus. At every incident they recurred to 
 a god, every cup of wine was prefaced by a libation: the very 
 garlands on their thresholds were dedicated to some divinity; 
 their ancestors themselves, made holy, presided as Lares over 
 their hearth and hall. So abundant was belief with them, that 
 in their own climes, at this hour, idolatry has never thoroughly 
 been outrooted: it changes but its objects of worship; it ap¬ 
 peals to innumerable saints where once it resorted to divinities; 
 and it pours its crowds, in listening reverence, to oracles at 
 the shrines of St. Januarius or St. Stephen, instead of to those 
 of Isis or Apollo. 
 
 But these superstitions were not to the early Christians the 
 object of contempt so much as of horror. They did not be¬ 
 lieve, with the quiet scepticism of the heathen philosopher, 
 that the gods were inventions of the priests; nor even, with the 
 vulgar, that, according to the dim light of history, they had 
 been mortals like themselves. They imagined the heathen 
 divinities to be evil spirits—they transplanted to Italy and to 
 Greece the gloomy demons of India and the East; and in Ju¬ 
 piter or in Mars they shuddered at the representative of Moloch 
 or of Satan.* 
 
 Apascides had not yet adopted formally the Christian faith, 
 
 * In Pompeii, a rough sketch of Pluto delineates that fearful deity in the 
 shape we at present ascribe to the devil, and decorates him with the paraphernalia 
 of horns and a tail. But, in all probability, it was from the mysterious Pan, the 
 haunter of solitary places, the inspirer of vague and soul-shaking terrors, that we 
 to.ok the vulgar notion of the outward likeness of the fiend; it corresponds exactly 
 to the cloven-footed Satan. And in the lewd and profligate rites of Pan, Christians 
 might well imagine they traced the deceptions of the devil. 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 195 
 
 but he was already on the brink of it. He already participated 
 the doctrines of Olinthus—he already imagined that the lively 
 imaginations of the heathen were the suggestions of the arch¬ 
 enemy of mankind. The innocent and natural answer of lone 
 made him shudder. He hastened to reply vehemently, and yet 
 so confusedly, that lone feared for his reason more than she 
 dreaded his violence. 
 
 “Ah, my brother!” said she, “these hard duties of thine 
 have shattered thy very sense. Come to me, Apsecides, my 
 brother, my own brother; give me thy hand, let me wipe the 
 dew from thy brow;—chide me not now, I understand thee 
 not; think only that lone could not offend thee!” 
 
 “lone,” said Apsecides, drawing her towards him, and 
 regarding her tenderly, “can I think that this beautiful 
 form, this kind heart, may be destined to an eternity of tor¬ 
 ment?” 
 
 “Dii meliora! the gods forbid!” said lone, in the customary 
 form of words by which her contemporaries thought an omen 
 might be averted. 
 
 The words, and still more the superstition they implied, 
 wounded the ear of Apsecides. He rose, muttering to himself, 
 turned from the chamber, then, stopping half way, gazed wist¬ 
 fully on lone, and extended his arms. 
 
 lone flew to them in joy; he kissed her earnestly, and then 
 he said,— 
 
 “Farewell, my sister! when we next meet, thou mayst be to 
 me as nothing; take thou, then, this embrace—full yet of all 
 the tender reminiscences of childhood, when faith and hope, 
 creeds, customs, interests, objects, were the same to us. Now, 
 the tie is to be broken!” 
 
 With these strange words he left the house. 
 
 The great and severest trial of the primitive Christians was 
 indeed this; their conversion separated them from their dearest 
 bonds. They could not associate with beings whose com¬ 
 monest actions, whose commonest forms of speech, were im¬ 
 pregnated with idolatry. They shuddered at the blessing of 
 love, to their ears it was uttered in a demon’s name. This, 
 their misfortune, was their strength; if it divided them from 
 
 13 * 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 I96 
 
 the rest of the world, it was to unite them proportionally to 
 each other. They were men of iron who wrought forth the 
 Word of God, and verily the bonds that bound them were of 
 iron also! 
 
 Glaucus found lone in tears; he had already assumed the 
 sweet privilege to console. He drew from her a recital of her 
 interview with her brother; but in her confused account of 
 language, itself so confused to one not prepared for it, he was 
 equally at a loss with lone to conceive the intentions or the 
 meaning of Apaecides. 
 
 “Hast thou ever heard much,” asked she, “of this new sect 
 of the Nazarenes, of which my brother spoke?” 
 
 “I have often heard enough of the votaries,” returned 
 Glaucus, “but of their exact tenets know I naught, save that 
 in their doctrine there seemeth something preternaturally 
 chilling and morose. They live apart from their kind; they affect 
 to be shocked even at our simple uses of garlands; they have 
 no sympathies with the cheerful amusements of life; they 
 utter awful threats of the coming destruction of the world: 
 they appear, in one word, to have brought their unsmiling and 
 gloomy creed out of the cave of Trophonius. Yet,” continued 
 Glaucus, after a slight pause, “they have not wanted men of 
 great power and genius, nor converts, even among the Areopa- 
 gites of Athens. Well do I remember to have heard my father 
 speak of one strange guest at Athens, many years ago; me- 
 thinks his name was Paul. My father was amongst a mighty 
 crowd that gathered on one of our immemorial hills to hear 
 this sage of the East expound: through the wide throng there 
 rang not a single murmur!—the jest and the roar, with which 
 our native orators are received, were hushed for him;—and 
 when on the loftiest summit of that hill, raised above the 
 breathless crowd below, stood this mysterious visitor, his mien 
 and his countenance awed every heart, even before a sound 
 left his lips. He was a man, I have heard my father say, of no 
 tall stature, but of noble and impressive mien; his robes were 
 dark and ample; the declining sun, for it was evening, shone 
 aslant upon his form as it rose aloft, motionless and command¬ 
 ing; his countenance was much worn and marked, as of one 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 197 
 
 who had braved alike misfortune and the sternest vicissitude 
 of many climes; but his eyes were bright with an almost 
 unearthly fire; and when he raised his arm to speak, it was 
 with the majesty of a man into whom the Spirit of a God hath 
 rushed! 
 
 ‘“Men of Athens !’ he is reported to have said, £ I find 
 amongst ye an altar with this inscription—To THE UNKNOWN 
 God. Ye worship in ignorance the same Deity I serve. To 
 you unknown till now, to you be it now revealed/ 
 
 ££ Then declared that solemn man how this great Maker of 
 all things, who had appointed unto man his several tribes and 
 his various homes—the Lord of earth and the universal heaven, 
 dwelt not in temples made with hands; that His presence. His 
 spirit, were in the air we breathed:—our life and our being 
 were with Him. ‘Think you/ he cried, ‘that the Invisible is 
 like your statues of gold and marble? Think you that He 
 needeth sacrifice from you: He who made heaven and earth?* 
 Then spake he of fearful and coming times, of the end of the 
 world, of a second rising of the dead, whereof an assurance 
 had been given to man in the resurrection of the mighty Being 
 whose religion he came to preach. 
 
 “When he thus spoke, the long-pent murmur went forth, 
 and the philosophers that were mingled with the people, mut¬ 
 tered their sage contempt; there might you have seen the 
 chilling frown of the Stoic, and the Cynic’s sneer;*—and the 
 Epicurean, who believeth not even in our own Elysium, mut¬ 
 tered a pleasant jest, and swept laughing through the crowd: 
 but the deep heart of the people was touched and thrilled; 
 and they trembled, though they knew not why, for verily the 
 stranger had the voice and majesty of a man to whom ‘The 
 Unknown God’ had committed the preaching of His faith.” 
 
 lone listened with rapt attention, and the serious and 
 earnest manner of the narrator betrayed the impression that 
 he himself had received from one who had been amongst the 
 
 * “ The haughty Cynic scowl’d his grovelling hate. 
 
 And the soft Garden’s rose-encircled child 
 Smil’d unbelief, and shudder’d as he smil’d.” 
 
 Praed: Prize Poem, “ Athens .” 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 198 
 
 audience that on the hill of the heathen Mars had heard the 
 first tidings of the word of Christ! 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 The Porter—the Girl—and the Gladiator. 
 
 The door of Diomed’s house stood open, and Medon, the 
 old slave, sat at the bottom of the steps by which you ascended 
 to the mansion. That luxurious mansion of the rich merchant 
 of Pompeii is still to be seen just without the gates of the city, 
 at the commencement of the Street of Tombs; it was a gay 
 neighbourhood, despite the dead. On the opposite side, but 
 at some yards nearer the gate, was a spacious hostelry, at 
 which those brought by business or by pleasure to Pompeii 
 often stopped to refresh themselves. In the space before the 
 entrance of the inn now stood wagons, and carts, and chariots, 
 some just arrived, some just quitting, in all the bustle of an 
 animated and popular resort of public entertainment. Before 
 the door, some farmers, seated on a bench by a small circular 
 table, were talking over their morning cups, on the affairs of 
 their calling. On the side of the door itself was painted gaily 
 and freshly the eternal sign of the chequers. * By the roof 
 of the inn stretched a terrace, on which some females, wives 
 of the farmers above mentioned, were, some seated, some 
 leaning over the railing, and conversing with their friends below. 
 In a deep recess, at a little distance, was a covered seat, in 
 which some two or three poorer travellers were resting them¬ 
 selves, and shaking the dust from their garments. On the 
 other side stretched a wide space, originally the burial-ground 
 of a more ancient race than the present denizens of Pompeii, 
 and now converted into the Ustrinum, or place for the burning 
 of the dead. Above this rose the terraces of a gay villa, half 
 hid by trees. The tombs themselves, with their graceful and 
 varied shapes, the flowers and the foliage that surrounded 
 them, made no melancholy feature in the prospect. Hard by 
 the gate of the city, in a small niche, stood the still form of the 
 
 * There is another inn within the walls similarly adorned. 
 
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THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
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 well-disciplined Roman sentry, the sun shining brightly on his 
 polished crest, and the lance on which he leaned. The gate 
 itself was divided into three arches, the centre one for vehicles, 
 the others for the foot-passengers; and on either side rose the 
 massive walls which girt the city, composed, patched, repaired 
 at a thousand different epochs, according as war, time, or the 
 earthquake had shattered that vain protection. At frequent 
 intervals rose square towers, whose summits broke in pic¬ 
 turesque rudeness the regular line of the wall, and contrasted 
 well with the modern buildings gleaming whitely by. 
 
 The curving road, which in that direction leads from Pom¬ 
 peii to Herculaneum, wound out of sight amidst hanging vines, 
 above which frowned the sullen majesty of Vesuvius. 
 
 “Hast thou heard the news, old Medon?” said a young 
 woman, with a pitcher in her hand, as she paused by Diomed’s 
 door to gossip a moment with the slave, ere she repaired to 
 the neighbouring inn to fill the vessel, and coquet with the 
 travellers. 
 
 “The news! what news?” said the slave, raising his eyes 
 moodily from the ground. 
 
 “Why, there passed through the gate this morning, no 
 doubt ere thou wert well awake, such a visitor to Pompeii! ” 
 
 “Ay,” said the slave, indifferently. 
 
 “Yes, a present from the noble Pomponianus.” 
 
 “A present! I thought thou saidst a visitor?” 
 
 “It is both visitor and present. Know, O dull and stupid! 
 that it is a most beautiful young tiger, for our approaching 
 games in the amphitheatre. Hear you that Medon? Oh, what 
 pleasure! I declare I shall not sleep a wink till I see it; they 
 say it has such a roar! ” 
 
 “Poor fool!” said Medon, sadly and cynically. 
 
 “Fool me no fool, old churl! It is a pretty thing, a tiger, 
 especially if we could but find somebody for him to eat. We 
 have now a lion and a tiger: only consider that, Medon! and 
 for want of two good criminals perhaps we shall be forced to 
 see them eat each other. By-the-by, your son is a gladiator, 
 a handsome man and a strong, can you not persuade him to 
 
200 
 
 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 fight the tiger? Do now, you would oblige me mightily; nay, 
 you would be a benefactor to the whole town.” 
 
 “Vah! vah!” said the slave, with great asperity; “think 
 of thine own danger ere thou thus pratest of my poor boy’s 
 death.” 
 
 “My own danger!” said the girl, frightened and looking 
 hastily round—“Avert the omen! let thy words fall on thine 
 own head!” And the girl, as she spoke, touched a talisman 
 suspended round her neck. “‘Thine own danger!’ what 
 danger threatens me?” 
 
 “Had the earthquake but a few nights since no warning?” 
 said Medon. “Has it not a voice? Did it not say to us all, 
 ‘Prepare for death; the end of all things is at hand?”’ 
 
 “Bah, stuff!” said the young woman, settling the folds of 
 her tunic. “Now thou talkest as they say the Nazarenes talk 
 —methinks thou art one of them. Well, I can prate with thee, 
 grey croaker, no more: thou growest worse and worse— Vale! 
 O Hercules, send us a man for the lion—and another for the 
 tiger! 
 
 “Ho! ho! for the merry, merry show. 
 
 With a forest of faces in every row! 
 
 Lo, the swordsmen, bold as the son of Alcmena, 
 
 Sweep, side by side, o’er the hushed arena; 
 
 Talk while you may—you will hold your breath 
 When they meet in the grasp of the glowing death. 
 
 Tramp, tramp, how gaily they go 1 
 Ho! ho I for the merry, merry show! ” 
 
 Chanting in a silver and clear voice this feminine ditty, and 
 holding up her tunic from the dusty road, the young woman 
 stepped lightly across to the crowded hostelry. 
 
 “My poor son!” said the slave, half aloud, “is it for things 
 like this thou art to be butchered? Oh! faith of Christ, I could 
 worship thee in all sincerity, were it but for the horror which 
 thou inspirest for these bloody lists.” 
 
 The old man’s head sank dejectedly on his breast. He 
 remained silent and absorbed, but every now and then with 
 the corner of his sleeve he wiped his eyes. His heart was with 
 his son; he did not see the figure that now approached from 
 the gate with a quick step, and a somewhat fierce and reckless 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 201 
 
 gait and carriage. He did not lift his eyes till the figure paused 
 opposite the place where he sat, and with a soft voice ad¬ 
 dressed him by the name of— 
 
 “Father!” 
 
 “My boy! my Lydon! is it indeed thou?” said the old man, 
 joyfully. “Ah, thou wert present to my thoughts.” 
 
 “I am glad to hear it, my father,”said the gladiator,respect¬ 
 fully touching the knees and beard of the slave; “and soon 
 may I be always present with thee, not in thought only.” 
 
 “Yes, my son—but not in this world,” replied the slave 
 mournfully. 
 
 “Talk not thus, O my sire! look cheerfully, for I feel so— 
 I am sure that I shall win the day; and then, the gold I gain 
 buys thy freedom. Oh! my father, it was but a few days since 
 that I was taunted, by one, too, whom I would gladly have un¬ 
 deceived, for he is more generous than the rest of his equals. 
 He is not Roman—he is of Athens—by him I was taunted with 
 the lust of gain—when I demanded what sum was the prize of 
 victory. Alas! he little knew the soul of Lydon!” 
 
 “My boy! my boy!” said the old slave, as, slowly ascend¬ 
 ing the steps, he conducted his son to his own little chamber, 
 communicating with the entrance hall (which in this villa was 
 the peristyle, not the atrium):—you may see it now; it is the 
 third door to the right on entering. (The first door conducts 
 to the staircase; the second is but a false recess, in which there 
 stood a statue of bronze.) “Generous, affectionate, pious as 
 are thy motives,” said Medon, when they were thus secured 
 from observation, “thy deed itself is guilt: thou art to risk thy 
 blood for thy father’s freedom—that might be forgiven; but 
 the prize of victory is the blood of another. Oh, that is a deadly 
 sin; no object can purify it. Forbear! forbear! rather would 
 I be a slave for ever than purchase liberty on such terms!” 
 
 “Hush, my father!” replied Lydon, somewhat impatiently; 
 “thou hast picked up in this new creed of thine, of which I 
 pray thee not to speak to me, for the gods that gave me 
 strength denied me wisdom, and I understand not one word 
 of what thou often preachest to me,—thou hast picked up, I 
 say, in this new creed, some singular fantasies of right and 
 
202 
 
 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 wrong. Pardon me if I offend thee: but reflect! Against whom 
 shall I contend? Oh! couldst thou know those wretches with 
 whom, for thy sake, I assort, thou wouldst think I purified 
 earth by removing one of them. Beasts, whose very lips drop 
 blood; things, all savage, unprincipled in their very courage: 
 ferocious, heartless, senseless; no tie of life can bind them: 
 they know not fear, it is true—but neither know they gratitude, 
 nor charity, nor love; they are made but for their own career, 
 to slaughter without pity, to die without dread! Can thy gods, 
 whosoever they be, look with wrath on a conflict with such as 
 these, and in such a cause? Oh, my father, wherever the 
 powers above gaze down on earth, they behold no duty so 
 sacred, so sanctifying, as the sacrifice offered to an aged 
 parent by the piety of a grateful son! ” 
 
 The poor old slave, himself deprived of the lights of know¬ 
 ledge, and only late a convert to the Christian faith, knew not 
 with what arguments to enlighten an ignorance at once so dark, 
 and yet so beautiful in its error. His first impulse was to 
 throw himself on his son’s breast—his next to start away—to 
 wring his hands; and in the attempt to reprove, his broken 
 voice lost itself in weeping. 
 
 “And if,” resumed Lydon,—“if thy Deity (methinks thou 
 wilt own but one?) be indeed that benevolent and pitying 
 Power which thou assertest Him to be, He will know also that 
 thy very faith in Him first confirmed me in that determination 
 thou blamest.” 
 
 “How! what mean you?” said the slave. 
 
 “Why, thou knowest that I, sold in my childhood as a slave, 
 was set free at Rome by the will of my master, whom I had 
 been fortunate enough to please. I hastened to Pompeii to 
 see thee—I found thee already aged and infirm, under the 
 yoke of a capricious and pampered lord—thou hadst lately 
 adopted this new faith, and its adoption made thy slavery 
 doubly painful to thee; it took away all the softening charm 
 of custom, which reconciles us so often to the worst. Didst 
 thou not complain to me that thou wert compelled to offices 
 that were not odious to thee as a slave, but guilty as aNazarene? 
 Didst thou not tell me that thy soul shook with remorse when 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 203 
 
 thou wert compelled to place even a crumb of cake before the 
 Lares that watch over yon impluvium? that thy soul was torn 
 by a perpetual struggle? Didst thou not tell me that even by 
 pouring wine before the threshold, and calling on the name of 
 some Grecian deity, thou didst fear thou wert incurring penal¬ 
 ties worse than those of Tantalus, an eternity of tortures more 
 terrible than those of the Tartarian fields? Didst thou not tell 
 me this? I wondered, I could not comprehend; nor, by Her¬ 
 cules! can I now: but I was thy son, and my sole task was to 
 compassionate and relieve. Could I hear thy groans, could I 
 witness thy mysterious horrors, thy constant anguish, and 
 remain inactive? No! by the immortal gods! the thought 
 struck me like light from Olympus! I had no money, but I had 
 strength and youth—these were thy gifts—I could sell these in 
 my turn for thee! I learned the amount of thy ransom—I 
 learned that the usual prize of a victorious gladiator would 
 doubly pay it. I became a gladiator—I linked myself with 
 those accursed men, scorning, loathing, while I joined—I ac¬ 
 quired their skill—blessed be the lesson!—it shall teach me 
 to free my father!” 
 
 “Oh, that thou couldst hear Olinthus!” sighed the old man, 
 more and more affected by the virtue of his son, but not less 
 strongly convinced of the criminality of his purpose. 
 
 “I will hear the whole world talk if thou wilt,” answered 
 the gladiator, gaily; “but not till thou art a slave no more. 
 Beneath thy own roof, my father, thou shalt puzzle this dull 
 brain all day long, ay, and all night too, if it give thee pleasure. 
 Oh, such a spot as I have chalked out for thee!—it is one of 
 the nine hundred and ninety-nine shops of old Julia Felix, in 
 the sunny part of the city, where thou mayst bask before the 
 1 door in the day—and I will sell the oil and the wine for thee, 
 my father—and then, please Venus (or if it does not please her, 
 since thou lovest not her name, it is all one to Lydon;)—then, 
 I say, perhaps thou mayst have a daughter, too, to tend thy 
 grey hairs, and hear shrill voices at thy knee, that shall call 
 thee ‘Lydon’s fatherF Ah! we shall be so happy—the prize 
 can purchase all. Cheer thee! cheer up, my sire!—And now I 
 
204 
 
 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 must away—day wears—the lanista waits me. Come ! thy bless¬ 
 ing!” 
 
 As Lydon thus spoke, he had already quitted the dark 
 chamber of his father; and speaking eagerly, though in a 
 whispered tone, they now stood at the same place in which we 
 introduced the porter at his post. 
 
 “O bless thee! bless thee, my brave boy!” said Medon, 
 fervently; “and may the great Power that reads all hearts see 
 the nobleness of thine, and forgive its error!” 
 
 The tall shape of the gladiator passed swiftly down the 
 path; the eyes of the slave followed its light but stately steps, 
 till the last glimpse was gone; and then, sinking once more on 
 his seat, his eyes again fastened themselves on the ground. 
 Plis form, mute and unmoving, as a thing of stone. His heart! 
 —who, in our happier age, can even imagine its struggles—its 
 commotion? 
 
 “May I enter?” said a sweet voice. “Is thy mistress Julia 
 within?” 
 
 The slave mechanically motioned to the visitor to enter, 
 but she who addressed him could not see the gesture—she 
 repeated her question timidly, but in a louder voice. 
 
 “Have I not told thee!” said the slave, peevishly: “enter.” 
 
 “Thanks,” said the speaker, plaintively; and the slave, 
 roused by the tone, looked up, and recognised the blind flower- 
 girl. Sorrow can sympathise with affliction—he raised himself, 
 and guided her steps to the head of the adjacent staircase (by 
 which you descended to Julia’s apartment), where, summoning 
 a female slave, he consigned to heir the charge of the blind 
 girl. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 The Dressing-room of a Pompeian Beauty.—Important Conversation 
 between Julia and Nydia. 
 
 The elegant Julia sat in her chamber, with her slaves 
 around her;—like the cubiculum which adjoined it, the room 
 was small, but much larger than the usual apartments ap¬ 
 propriated to sleep, which were so diminutive, that few who 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 205 
 
 have not seen the bed-chambers, even in the gayest mansions, 
 can form any notion of the petty pigeon-holes in which the 
 citizens of Pompeii evidently thought it desirable to pass the 
 night. But, in fact, “bed” with the ancients was not that 
 grave, serious, and important part of domestic mysteries which 
 it is with us. The couch itself was more like a very narrow 
 and small sofa, light enough to be transported easily, and by 
 the occupant himself,* from place to place; and it was, no 
 doubt, constantly shifted from chamber to chamber, according 
 to the caprices of the inmate, or the changes of the season; for 
 that side of the house which was crowded in one month, might, 
 perhaps, be carefully avoided in the next. There was also 
 among the Italians of that period a singular and fastidious ap¬ 
 prehension of too much daylight; their darkened chambers, 
 which first appear to us the result of a negligent architecture, 
 were the effect of the most elaborate study. In their porticoes 
 and gardens they courted the sun whenever it so pleased their 
 luxurious tastes. In the interior of their houses they sought 
 rather the coolness and the shade. 
 
 Julia’s apartment at that season was in the lower part of 
 the house, immediately beneath the state rooms above, and 
 looking upon the garden, with which it was on a level. The 
 wide door, which was glazed, alone admitted the morning 
 rays: yet her eye, accustomed to a certain darkness, was suf¬ 
 ficiently acute to perceive exactly what colours were the most 
 becoming—what shade of the delicate rouge gave the brightest 
 beam to her dark glance, and the most youthful freshness to 
 her cheek. 
 
 On the table, before which she sat, was a small and cir¬ 
 cular mirror of the most polished steel: round which, in. 
 precise order, were ranged the cosmetics and the unguents— 
 the perfumes and the paints—the jewels and the combs—the 
 ribands and the gold pins, which were destined to add to the 
 natural attractions of beauty the assistance of art and the 
 capricious allurements of fashion. Through the dimness of 
 the room glowed brightly the vivid and various colourings of 
 
 * “Take up thy bed and walk” was (as Sir W. Gell somewhere observes) no 
 metaphorical expression. 
 
2 o6 
 
 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 the wall, in all the dazzling frescoes of Pompeian taste. Before 
 the dressing-table, and under the feet of Julia, was spread a 
 carpet, woven from the looms of the East. Near at hand, on 
 another table, was a silver basin and ewer; an extinguished 
 lamp, of most exquisite workmanship, in which the artist had 
 represented a Cupid reposing under the spreading branches of 
 a myrtle-tree; and a small roll of papyrus, containing the soft¬ 
 est elegies of Tibullus. Before the door, which communicated 
 with the cubiculum, hung a curtain richly broidered with gold 
 flowers. Such was the dressing-room of a beauty eighteen 
 centuries ago. 
 
 The fair Julia leaned indolently back on her seat, while the 
 ornatrix (i. e., hairdresser) slowly piled, one above the other, a 
 mass of small curls, dexterously weaving the false with the 
 true, and carrying the whole fabric to a height that seemed to 
 place the head rather at the centre than the summit of the 
 human form. 
 
 Her tunic, of a deep amber, which well set off her dark hair 
 and somewhat embrowned complexion, swept in ample folds 
 to her feet, which were cased in slippers, fastened round the 
 slender ankle by white thongs; while a profusion of pearls 
 were embroidered in the slipper itself, which was of purple, 
 and turned slightly upward, as do the Turkish slippers at this 
 day. An old slave, skilled by long experience in all the arcana 
 of the toilet, stood beside the hairdresser, with the broad and 
 studded girdle of her mistress over her arm, and giving, from 
 time to time (mingled with judicious flattery to the lady her¬ 
 self), instructions to the mason of the ascending pile. 
 
 “Put that pin rather more to the right—lower—stupid one! 
 Do you not observe how even those beautiful eyebrows are?— 
 One would think you were dressing Corinna, whose face is all 
 of one side. Now put in the flowers—what, fool!—not that 
 dull pink—you are not suiting colours to the dim cheek of 
 Chloris: it must be the brightest flowers that can alone suit 
 the cheek of the young Julia.” 
 
 “Gently!” said the lady, stamping her small foot violently: 
 “you pull my hair as if you were plucking up a weed!” 
 
 “Dull thing!” continued the directress of the ceremony. 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 207 
 
 “Do you not know how delicate is your mistress?—you are not 
 dressing the coarse horsehair of the widow Fulvia. Now, then, 
 the riband—that’s right. Fair Julia, look in the mirror; saw 
 you ever anything so lovely as yourself?” 
 
 When, after innumerable comments, difficulties, and de¬ 
 lays, the intricate tower was at length completed, the next 
 preparation was that of giving to the eyes the soft languish, 
 produced by a dark powder applied to the lids and brows; a 
 small patch cut in the form of a crescent, skilfully placed by 
 the rosy lips, attracted attention to their dimples, and to the 
 teeth, to which already every art had been applied in order to 
 heighten the dazzle of their natural whiteness. 
 
 To another slave, hitherto idle, was now consigned the 
 charge of arranging the jewels—the ear-rings of pearl (two to 
 each ear)—the massive bracelets of gold—the chain formed of 
 rings of the same metal, to which a talisman cut in crystals 
 was attached—the graceful buckle on the left shoulder, in 
 which was set an exquisite cameo of Psyche—the girdle of 
 purple riband, richly wrought with threads of gold, and clasped 
 by interlacing serpents—and lastly, the various rings, fitted to 
 every joint of the white and slender fingers. The toilet was 
 now arranged according to the last mode of Rome. The fair 
 Julia regarded herself with a last gaze of complacent vanity, 
 and reclining again upon her seat, she bade the youngest of 
 her slaves, in a listless tone, read to her the enamoured 
 couplets of Tibullus. This lecture was still proceeding, when 
 a female slave admitted Nydia into the presence of the lady of 
 the place. 
 
 “Salve, Julia!” said the flower-girl, arresting her steps 
 within a few paces from the spot where Julia sat, and cross¬ 
 ing her arms upon her breast. “I have obeyed your com¬ 
 mands.” 
 
 “You have done well, flower-girl,” answered the lady. 
 “Approach—you may take a seat.” 
 
 One of the slaves placed a stool by Julia, and Nydia 
 seated herself. 
 
 Julia looked hard at the Thessalian for some moments in 
 rather an embarrassed silence. She then motioned her 
 
2oS 
 
 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 attendants to withdraw, and to close the door. When they 
 were alone, she said, looking mechanically from Nydia, and 
 forgetful that she was with one who could not observe her 
 countenance,— 
 
 “You serve the Neapolitan, lone?” 
 
 “I am with her at present,” answered Nydia. 
 
 “Is she as handsome as they say?” 
 
 “I know not,” replied Nydia. “How can / judge?” 
 
 “Ah! I should have remembered. But thou hast ears, if 
 not eyes. Do thy fellow-slaves tell thee she is handsome? 
 Slaves talking with one another forget to flatter even their 
 mistress.” 
 
 “They tell me that she is beautiful.” 
 
 “Hem!—say they that she is tall?” 
 
 “Yes.” 
 
 “Why, so am I.—Dark haired?” 
 
 “I have heard so.” 
 
 “So am I. And doth Glaucus visit her much?” 
 
 “Daily,” returned Nydia, with a half-suppressed sigh. 
 
 “Daily, indeed! Does he find her handsome?” 
 
 “I should think so, since they are so soon to be wedded.” 
 
 “Wedded!” cried Julia, turning pale even through the 
 false roses on her cheek, and starting from her couch. Nydia 
 did not, of course, perceive the emotion she had caused. Julia 
 remained a long time silent; but her heaving breast and flash¬ 
 ing eyes would have betrayed, to one who could have seen, 
 the wound her vanity had sustained. 
 
 “They tell me thou art a Thessalian,” said she, at last 
 breaking silence. 
 
 “And truly!” 
 
 “Thessaly is the land of magic and of witches, of talismans 
 and of love-philtres,” said Julia. 
 
 “It has ever been celebrated for its sorcerers,” returned 
 Nydia, timidly. 
 
 “Knowest thou, then, blind Thessalian, of any love- 
 charms?” 
 
 “I!” said the flower-girl, colouring; “// how should I? 
 No, assuredly not!” 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 209 
 
 “The worse for thee; I could have given thee gold enough 
 to have purchased thy freedom hadst thou been more wise.” 
 
 “But what,” asked Nydia, “can induce the beautiful and 
 wealthy Julia to ask that question of her servant? Has she not 
 money, and youth, and loveliness? Are they not love-charms 
 enough to dispense with magic?” 
 
 “To all but one person in the world,” answered Julia, 
 
 haughtily: “but methinks thy blindness is infectious; and- 
 
 But no matter.” 
 
 “And that.one person?” said Nydia, eagerly. 
 
 “Is not Glaucus,” replied Julia, with the customary deceit 
 of her sex. “ Glaucus—no! ” 
 
 Nydia drew her breath more freely, and after a short pause 
 Julia recommenced. 
 
 “But talking of Glaucus, and his attachment to this Neapo¬ 
 litan, reminded me of the influence of love-spells, which, for 
 aught I know or care, she may have exercised upon him. 
 Blind girl, I love, and—shall Julia live to say it?—am loved not 
 in return! This humbles—nay, not humbles —but it stings my 
 pride. I would see this ingrate at my feet—not in order that 
 I might raise, but that I might spurn him. When they told 
 me thou wert Thessalian, I imagined thy young mind might 
 have learned the dark’secrets of thy clime.” 
 
 “Alas! no,” murmured Nydia: “would it had!” 
 
 “Thanks, at least, for that kindly wish,” said Julia, un¬ 
 conscious of what was passing in the breast of the flower- 
 girl. 
 
 “But tell me,—thou hearest the gossip of slaves, always 
 prone to these dim beliefs; always ready to apply to sorcery 
 for their own low loves,—hast thou ever heard of any Eastern 
 magician in this city, who possesses the art of which thou art 
 ignorant? No vain chiromancer, no juggler of the market¬ 
 place, but some more potent and mighty magician of India or 
 of Egypt?” 
 
 “Of Egypt?—yes!” said Nydia, shuddering. “What Pom¬ 
 peian has not heard of Arbaces?” 
 
 “Arbaces! true,” replied Julia, grasping at the recollection. 
 “They say he is a man above all the petty and false im- 
 
 Potnpeii. IA 
 
210 
 
 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 postures of dull pretenders,—that he is versed in the learning 
 of the stars, and the secrets of the ancient Nox; why not in 
 the mysteries of love?” 
 
 “If there be one magician living whose art is above that of 
 others, it is that dread man,” answered Nydia; and she felt 
 her talisman while she spoke. 
 
 “He is too wealthy to divine for money?” continued Julia, 
 sneeringly. “Can I not visit him?” 
 
 “It is an evil mansion for the young and the beauti¬ 
 ful,” replied Nydia. “I have heard, too, that he languishes 
 in-” 
 
 “An evil mansion!” said Julia, catching only the first 
 sentence. “Why so?” 
 
 “The orgies of his midnight leisure are impure and pol¬ 
 luted—at least, so says rumour.” 
 
 “By Ceres, by Pan, and by Cybele! thou dost but provoke 
 my curiosity, instead of exciting my fears,” returned the way¬ 
 ward and pampered Pompeian. “I will seek and question 
 him of his lore. If to these orgies love be admitted—why the 
 more likely that he knows its secrets!” 
 
 Nydia did not answer. 
 
 “I will seek him this very day,” resumed Julia; “nay why 
 not this very hour?” 
 
 “At daylight, and in his present state, thou hast assuredly 
 the less to fear,” answered Nydia, yielding to her own sudden 
 and secret wish to learn if the dark Egyptian were indeed 
 possessed of those spells to rivet and attract love, of which 
 the Thessalian had so often heard. 
 
 “And who dare insult the rich daughter of Diomed?” said 
 Julia, haughtily. “I will go.” 
 
 “May I visit thee afterwards to learn the result?” asked 
 Nydia, anxiously. 
 
 “Kiss me for thy interest in Julia’s honour,” answered the 
 lady. “Yes, assuredly. This eve we sup abroad — come 
 hither at the same hour to-morrow, and thou shalt know all: 
 I may have to employ thee too; but enough for the present. 
 Stay, take this bracelet for the new thought thou hast inspired 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 2 11 
 
 me with; remember, if thou servest Julia, she is grateful and 
 she is generous.” 
 
 “I cannot take thy present,” said Nydia, putting aside the 
 bracelet; “but young as I am, I can sympathise unbought with 
 those who love—and love in vain.” 
 
 “Sayest thou so!” returned Julia. “Thou speakest like a 
 free woman—and thou shalt yet be free—farewell!” 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 Julia seeks Arbaces.—The Result of that Interview. 
 
 Arbaces was seated in a chamber which opened on a kind 
 of balcony or portico that fronted his garden. His cheek was 
 pale and worn with the sufferings he had endured, but his 
 iron frame had already recovered from the severest effects 
 of that accident which had frustrated his fell designs in the 
 moment of victory. The air that came fragrantly to his brow 
 revived his languid senses, and the blood circulated more 
 freely than it had done for days through his shrunken veins. 
 
 “So, then,” thought he, “the storm of fate has broken 
 and blown over,—the evil which my lore predicted, threatening 
 life itself, has chanced—and yet I live! It came as the stars 
 foretold; and now the long, bright, and prosperous career 
 which was to succeed that evil, if I survived it, smiles be¬ 
 yond: I have passed—I have subdued the latest danger of my 
 destiny. Now I have but to lay out the gardens of my future 
 fate—unterrified and secure. First, then, of all my pleasures, 
 even before that of love, shall come revenge! This boy 
 Greek—who has crossed my passion—thwarted my designs— 
 baffled me even when the blade was about to drink his ac¬ 
 cursed blood—shall not a second time escape me! But for 
 the method of my vengeance? Of that let me ponder well! 
 Oh! Ate, if thou art indeed a goddess, fill me with thy direst 
 inspiration!” The Egyptian sank into an intent reverie, 
 which did not seem to present to him any clear or satisfactory 
 suggestions. He changed his position restlessly, as he re¬ 
 volved scheme after scheme, which no sooner occurred than it 
 was dismissed; several times he struck his breast and groaned 
 
 I 4* 
 
212 
 
 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 aloud, with the desire of vengeance, and a sense of his im¬ 
 potence to accomplish it. While thus absorbed, a boy slave 
 timidly entered the chamber. 
 
 A female, evidently of rank from her dress, and that of the 
 single slave who attended her, waited below and sought an 
 audience with Arbaces. 
 
 “A female!” his heart beat quick. “Is she young?” 
 
 “Her face is concealed by her veil; but her form is slight, 
 yet round, as that of youth.” 
 
 “Admit her,” said the Egyptian; for a moment his vain heart 
 dreamed the stranger might be lone. 
 
 The first glance of the visitor now entering the apartment 
 sufficed to undeceive so erring a fancy. True, she was about 
 the same height as lone, and perhaps the same age—true, she 
 was finely and richly formed—but where was that undulating 
 and ineffable grace which accompanied every motion of the 
 peerless Neapolitan—the chaste and decorous garb, so simple 
 even in the care of its arrangement — the dignified yet bashful 
 step—the majesty of womanhood and its modesty?” 
 
 “Pardon me that I rise with pain,” said Arbaces, gazing 
 on the stranger: “I am still suffering from recent illness.” 
 
 “Do not disturb thyself, O great Egyptian!” returned Julia, 
 seeking to disguise the fear she already experienced beneath 
 the ready resort of flattery; “and forgive an unfortunate 
 female, who seeks consolation from thy wisdom.” 
 
 “Draw near, fair stranger,” said Arbaces; “and speak 
 without apprehension or reserve.” 
 
 Julia placed herself on a seat beside the Egyptian, and 
 wonderingly gazed around an apartment whose elaborate and 
 costly luxuries shamed even the ornate enrichment of her 
 father’s mansion; fearfully,too, she regarded the hieroglyphical 
 inscriptions on the walls — the faces of the mysterious images, 
 which at every corner gazed upon her—the tripod at a little 
 distance — and, above all, the grave and remarkable coun¬ 
 tenance of Arbaces himself: a long white robe like a veil half 
 covered his raven locks, and flowed to his feet: his face was 
 made even more impressive by its present paleness; and his 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII, 
 
 213 
 
 dark and penetrating eyes seemed to pierce the shelter of her 
 veil, and explore the secrets of her vain and unfeminine soul. 
 
 “And what,” said his low, deep voice, “brings thee, O 
 maiden! to the house of the Eastern stranger?” 
 
 “His fame,” replied Julia. 
 
 “In what?” said he, with a strange and slight smile. 
 
 “Canst thou ask, O wise Arbaces? Is not thy knowledge 
 the very gossip theme of Pompeii?” 
 
 “Some little lore have I, indeed, treasured up,” replied Ar¬ 
 baces; “but in what can such serious and sterile secrets benefit 
 the ear of beauty?” 
 
 “Alas!” said Julia, a little cheered by the accustomed ac¬ 
 cents of adulation; “does not sorrow fly to wisdom for relief, 
 and they who love unrequitedly, are not they the chosen victims 
 of grief?” 
 
 “Ha!” said Arbaces, “can unrequited love be the lot of 
 so fair a form, whose modelled proportions are visible even 
 beneath the folds of thy graceful robe? Deign, O maiden! to 
 lift thy veil, that I may see at least if the face correspond in 
 loveliness with the form.” 
 
 Not unwilling, perhaps, to exhibit her charms, and thinking 
 they were likely to interest the magician in her fate, Julia, after 
 some slight hesitation, raised her veil, and revealed a beauty 
 which, but for art, had been indeed attractive to the fixed gaze 
 of the Egyptian. 
 
 “Thou comest to me for advice in unhappy love,” said he; 
 “well, turn that face on the ungrateful one: what other love- 
 charm can I give thee?” 
 
 “Oh, cease these courtesies!” said Julia; “it is a love- 
 charm, indeed, that I would ask from thy skill!” 
 
 “Fair stranger!” replied Arbaces, somewhat scornfully, 
 “ love-spells are not among the secrets I have wasted the mid¬ 
 night oil to attain.” 
 
 “Is it indeed so? Then pardon me, great Arbaces, and 
 farewell!” 
 
 “Stay,” said Arbaces, who, despite his passion for lone, 
 was not unmove d by the beauty of his visitor; and had he been 
 in the flush of a more assured health, might have attempted to 
 
214 
 
 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 console the fair Julia by other means than those of super¬ 
 natural wisdom,— 
 
 “Stay; although I confess that I have left the witchery of 
 philtres and potions to those whose trade is in such know¬ 
 ledge, yet am I myself not so dull to beauty but that in earlier 
 youth I may have employed them in my own behalf. I may 
 give thee advice, at least, if thou wilt be candid with me. Tell 
 me then, first, art thou unmarried, as thy dress betokens?” 
 
 “Yes,” said Julia. 
 
 “And, being unblest with fortune, wouldst thou allure some 
 wealthy suitor?” 
 
 “I am richer than he who disdains me.” 
 
 “Strange and more strange! And thou lovest him who 
 loves not thee?” 
 
 “I know not if I love him,” answered Julia, haughtily; “but 
 I know that I would see myself triumph over a rival—I would 
 see him who rejected me my suitor—I would see her whom he 
 has preferred, in her turn despised.” 
 
 “A natural ambition and a womanly,” said the Egyptian, in 
 a tone too grave for irony. “Yet more, fair maiden; wilt thou 
 confide to me the name of thy lover? Can he be Pompeian, 
 and despise wealth, even if blind to beauty?” 
 
 “He is of Athens,” answered Julia, looking down. 
 
 “Ha!” cried the Egyptian, impetuously, as the blood 
 rushed to his cheek; “ there is but one Athenian, young and 
 noble, in Pompeii. Can it beGlaucus of whom thou speakest!” 
 
 “Ah! betray me not—so indeed they call him.” 
 
 The Egyptian sank back, gazing vacantly on the averted 
 face of the merchant's daughter, and muttering inly to himself: 
 —this conference, with which he had hitherto only trifled, 
 amusing himself with the credulity and vanity of his visitor— 
 might it not minister to his revenge? 
 
 “I see thou canst assist me not,” said Julia, offended by his 
 continued silence; “guard at least my secret. Once more, 
 farewell! ” 
 
 “Maiden,” said the Egyptian, in an earnest and serious 
 tone, “thy suit hath touched me—I will minister to thy will. 
 Listen to me; I have not myself dabbled in these lesser myste- 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 215 
 
 
 ries, but I know one who hath. At the base of Vesuvius, less 
 than a league from the city, there dwells a powerful witch; 
 beneath the rank dews of the new moon, she has gathered the 
 herbs which possess the virtue to chain Love in eternal fetters. 
 Her art can bring thy lover to thy feet. Seek her, and men¬ 
 tion to her the name of Arbaces; she fears that name, and will 
 give thee her most potent philtres.” 
 
 “Alas!” answered Julia, “I know not the road to the home 
 of her whom thou speakest of: the way, short though it be, is 
 long to traverse for a girl who leaves, unknown, the house of 
 her father. The country is entangled with wild vines, and 
 dangerous with precipitous caverns. I dare not trust to mere 
 strangers to guide me; the reputation of women of my rank is 
 easily tarnished—and though I care not who knows that I love 
 Glaucus, I would not have it imagined that I obtained his love 
 by a spell.” 
 
 “Were I but three days advanced in health,” said the 
 Egyptian, rising and walking (as if to try his strength) across 
 the chamber, but with irregular and feeble steps, “I myself 
 would accompany thee.—Well, thou must wait.” 
 
 “But Glaucus is soon to wed that hated Neapolitan.” 
 
 “Wed!” 
 
 “Yes; in the early part of next month.” 
 
 “So soon! Art thou well advised of this?” 
 
 “From the lips of her own slave.” 
 
 “It shall not be!” said the Egyptian, impetuously. “Fear 
 nothing, Glaucus shall be thine. Yet how, when thou ob- 
 tainest it, canst thou administer to him this potion?” 
 
 “My father has invited him, and, I believe, the Neapolitan 
 also, to a banquet, on the day following to-morrow: I shall then 
 have the opportunity to administer it.” 
 
 “So be it!” said the Egyptian, with eyes flashing such 
 fierce joy, that Julia’s gaze sank trembling beneath them. “To¬ 
 morrow eve, then, order thy litter:—thou hast one at thy com¬ 
 mand?” 
 
 “Surely—yes,” returned the purse-proud Julia. 
 
 “Order thy litter—at two miles’ distance from the city is a 
 house of entertainment, frequented by the wealthier Pom- 
 
2 16 
 
 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 peians, from the excellence of its baths, and the beauty of its 
 gardens. There canst thou pretend only to shape thy course 
 —there, ill or dying, I will meet thee by the statue of Silenus, 
 in the copse that skirts the garden; and I myself will guide 
 thee to the witch. Let us wait till, with the evening star, the 
 goats of the herdsmen are gone to rest; when the dark twilight 
 conceals us, and none shall cross our steps. Go home, and 
 fear not. By Hades, swears Arbaces, the sorcerer of Egypt, 
 that lone shall never wed with Glaucus! ” 
 
 “And that Glaucus shall be mine?” added Julia, filling up 
 the incompleted sentence. 
 
 “Thou hast said it!” replied Arbaces; and Julia, half 
 frightened at this unhallowed appointment, but urged on by 
 jealousy and the pique of rivalship, even more than love, re¬ 
 solved to fulfil it. 
 
 Left alone, Arbaces burst forth,— 
 
 “ Bright stars that never lie, ye already begin the execution 
 of your promises—success in love, and victory over foes, for 
 the rest of my smooth existence. In the very hour when my 
 mind could devise no clue to the goal of vengeance, have ye 
 sent this fair fool for my guide?” He paused in deep thought. 
 “Yes,” said he again, but in a calmer voice; “I could not my¬ 
 self have given to her the poison, that shall be indeed a philtre! 
 —his death might be thus tracked to my door. But the witch 
 -—ay, there is the fit, the natural agent of my designs!” 
 
 He summoned one of his slaves, bade him hasten to track 
 the steps of Julia, and acquaint himself with her name and con¬ 
 dition. This done, he stepped forth into the portico. The 
 skies were serene and clear; but he, deeply read in the signs 
 of their various change, beheld in one mass of cloud, far on 
 the horizon, which the wind began slowly to agitate, that a 
 storm was brooding above. 
 
 “It is like my vengeance,” said he, as he gazed; “the sky 
 is clear, but the cloud moves on.” 
 
5139. PESTO. Tempio di Cerere 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 217 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 A Storm in the South.—The Witch’s Cavern. 
 
 It was when the heats of noon died gradually away from 
 the earth, that Glaucus and lone wenth forth to enjoy the 
 cooled and grateful air. At that time, various carriages were 
 1 in use among the Romans; the one most used by the richer 
 citizens, when they required no companion in their excursions, 
 was the Mg a, already described in the early portion of this 
 , work; that appropriated to the matrons, was termed carpen- 
 [j <wm,* which had commonly two wheels; the ancients used also 
 a sort of litter, a vast sedan-chair, more commodiously ar¬ 
 ranged than the modern, inasmuch as the occupant thereof 
 could lie down at ease, instead of being perpendicularly and 
 jl stiffly jostled up and down.** There was another carriage, 
 used both for travelling and for excursions in the country; it 
 • was commodious, containing three or four persons with ease, 
 having a covering which could be raised at pleasure; and, in 
 !; short, answering very much the purpose of (though very dif¬ 
 ferent in shape from) the modern britska. It was a vehicle of 
 this description that the lovers, accompanied by one female 
 I slave of lone, now used in their excursion. About ten miles 
 from the city, there was at that day an old ruin, the remains 
 of a temple, evidently Grecian; and as for Glaucus and lone 
 everything Grecian possessed an interest, they had agreed to 
 visit these ruins: it was thither they were now bound. 
 
 Their road lay among vines and olive-groves; till, winding 
 more and more towards the higher ground of Vesuvius, the 
 path grew rugged; the mules moved slowly, and with labour; 
 and at every opening in the wood they beheld those grey and 
 ; horrent caverns indenting the parched rock, which Strabo has 
 1 described; but which the various revolutions of time and the 
 volcano have removed from the present aspect of the moun- 
 1 tain. The sun, sloping towards his descent, cast long and 
 
 * For public festivals and games they used one more luxurious and costly, 
 called pilentnm, with four wheels. 
 
 ** But they had also the sella, or sedan, in which they sat as we do. 
 
2l8 
 
 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 deep shadows over the mountain; here and there they still 
 heard the rustic reed of the shepherd amongst copses of the 
 beechwood and wild oak. Sometimes they marked the form 
 of the silk-haired and graceful capella, with its wreathing horn 
 and bright grey eye—which, still beneath Ausonian skies, re¬ 
 calls the eclogues of Maro, browsing half-way up the hills; and 
 the grapes, already purple with the smiles of the deepening 
 summer, glowed out from the arched festoons, which hung 
 pendent from tree to tree. Above them, light clouds floated 
 in the serene heavens, sweeping so slowly athwart the firma¬ 
 ment that they scarcely seemed to stir; while, on their right 
 they caught, ever and anon, glimpses of the waveless sea, 
 with some light bark skimming its surface; and the sunlight 
 breaking over the deep in those countless and softest hues so 
 peculiar to that delicious sea. 
 
 “How beautiful!” said Glaucus, in a half-whispered tone, 
 “is that expression by which we call Earth our Mother! With 
 what a kindly equal love she pours her blessings upon her chil¬ 
 dren! and even to those sterile spots to which Nature has denied 
 beauty, she yet contrives to dispense her smiles: witness the 
 arbutus and the vine, which she wreathes over the arid and 
 burning soil of yon extinct volcano. Ah! in such an hour and 
 scene as this, well might we imagine that the laughing face of 
 the Faun should peep forth from those green festoons; or, that 
 we might trace the steps of the Mountain Nymph through the 
 thickest mazes of the glade. But the Nymphs ceased, beauti¬ 
 ful lone, when thou wert created! ” 
 
 There is no tongue that flatters like a lover’s; and yet, in 
 the exaggeration of his feelings, flattery seems to him common¬ 
 place. Strange and prodigal exuberance, which soon exhausts 
 itself by overflowing! 
 
 They arrived at the ruins; they examined them with that 
 fondness with which we trace the hallowed and household 
 vestiges of our own ancestry—they lingered there till Hesperus 
 appeared in the rosy heavens; and then returning homeward 
 in the twilight, they were more silent than they had been; for 
 in the shadow and beneath the stars they felt more oppressively 
 their mutual love. 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 219 
 
 It was at this time that the storm which the Egyptian had 
 predicted began to creep visibly over them. At first, a low and 
 distant thunder gave warning of the approaching conflict of the 
 elements; and then rapidly rushed above the dark ranks of the 
 serried clouds. The suddenness of storms in that climate is 
 something almost preternatural, and might well suggest to early 
 superstition the notion of a divine agency—a few large drops 
 broke heavily among the boughs that half overhung their path, 
 and then, swift and intolerably bright, the forked lightning 
 darted across their very eyes, and was swallowed up by the in¬ 
 creasing darkness. 
 
 “Swifter, good Carrucarius!” cried Glaucus to the driver; 
 “the tempest comes on apace.” 
 
 The slave urged on the mules—they went swift over the 
 uneven and stony road—the clouds thickened, near and more 
 near broke the thunder, and fast rushed the dashing rain. 
 
 “Dost thou fear?” whispered Glaucus, as he sought excuse 
 in the storm to come nearer to lone. 
 
 “Not with thee,” said she, softly. 
 
 At that instant, the carriage, fragile and ill-contrived (as, 
 despite their graceful shapes, were, for practical uses, most of 
 such inventions at that time), struck violently into a deep rut, 
 over which lay a log of fallen wood; the driver, with a curse, 
 stimulated his mules yet faster for the obstacle, the wheel was 
 torn from the socket, and the carriage suddenly overset. 
 
 Glaucus, quickly extricating himself from the vehicle, 
 hastened to assist lone, who was fortunately unhurt; with some 
 difficulty they raised the carruca (or carriage), and found that 
 it ceased any longer even to afford them shelter; the springs 
 that fastened the covering were snapped asunder, and the rain 
 poured fast and fiercely into the interior. 
 
 In this dilemma, what was to be done? They were yet 
 some distance from the city—no house, no aid, seemed near. 
 
 “There is,” said the slave, “a smith about a mile off; I 
 could seek him, and he might fasten at least the wheel to the 
 carruca—but, Jupiter! how the rain beats! my mistress will be 
 wet before I come back.” 
 
220 
 
 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 “Run thither at least,” said Glaucus; “we must find the 
 best shelter we can till you return.” 
 
 The lane was overshadowed with trees, beneath the amplest 
 of which Glaucus drew lone. He endeavoured, by stripping 
 his own cloak, to shield her yet more from the rapid rain; but 
 it descended with a fury that broke through all puny obstacles: 
 and suddenly, while Glaucus was yet whispering courage to his 
 beautiful charge, the lightning struck one of the trees im¬ 
 mediately before them, and split with a mighty crash its huge 
 trunk in twain. This awful incident apprised them of the danger 
 they braved in their present shelter, and Glaucus looked anx¬ 
 iously round for some less perilous place of refuge. “We are 
 now,” said he, “half-way up the ascent of Vesuvius; there 
 ought to be some cavern, or hollow in the vine-clad rocks, 
 could we but find it, in which the deserting Nymphs have left 
 a shelter.” While thus saying he moved from the trees, and, 
 looking wistfully towards the mountain, discovered through the 
 advancing gloom a red and tremulous light at no considerable 
 distance. “That must come,” said he, “from the hearth of 
 some shepherd or vine-dresser—it will guide us to some hos¬ 
 pitable retreat. Wilt thou stay here, while I—yet no—that 
 would be to leave thee to danger.” 
 
 “I will go with you cheerfully,” said lone. “Open as the 
 space seems, it is better than the treacherous shelter of these 
 boughs.” 
 
 Half leading, half carrying lone, Glaucus, accompanied by 
 the trembling female slave, advanced towards the light, which 
 yet burned red and stedfastly. At length the space was no 
 longer open; wild vines entangled their steps, and hid from 
 them, save by imperfect intervals, the guiding beam. But 
 faster and fiercer came the rain, and the lightning assumed its 
 most deadly and blasting form; they were still, therefore, im¬ 
 pelled onward, hoping, at last, if the light eluded them, to 
 arrive at some cottage or some friendly cavern. The vines 
 grew more and more intricate—the light was entirely snatched 
 from them; but a narrow path, which they trod with labour and 
 pain, guided only by the constant and long-lingering flashes of 
 the storm, continued to lead them towards its direction. The 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 221 
 
 rain ceased suddenly; precipitous and rough crags of scorched 
 lava frowned before them, rendered more fearful by the 
 lightning that illumined the dark and dangerous soil. Some¬ 
 times the blaze lingered over the iron-grey heaps of scoria, 
 covered in part with ancient mosses or stunted trees, as if 
 seeking in vain for some gentler product of earth, more worthy 
 of its ire; and sometimes leaving the whole of that part of the 
 scene in darkness, the lightning, broad and sheeted, hung redly 
 over the ocean, tossing far below, until its waves seemed glow¬ 
 ing into fire; and so intense was the blaze, that it brought 
 vividly into view even the sharp outline of the more distant 
 windings of the bay, from the eternal Misenum, with its lofty 
 brow, to the beautiful Sorrentum and the giant hills behind. 
 
 Our lovers stopped in perplexity and doubt, when suddenly, 
 as the darkness that gloomed between the fierce flashes of 
 lightning once more wrapped them round, they saw near, but 
 high, before them, the mysterious light. Another blaze, in 
 which heaven and earth were reddened, made visible to them 
 the whole expanse: no house was near, but just where they had 
 beheld the light, they thought they saw in the recess of the 
 cavern the outline of a human form. The darkness once more 
 returned; the light, no longer paled beneath the fires of heaven, 
 burned forth again: they resolved to ascend towards it; they 
 had to wind their way among vast fragments of stone, here and 
 there overhung with wild bushes; but they gained nearer and 
 nearer to the light, and at length they stood opposite the mouth 
 of a kind of cavern, apparently formed by huge splinters of 
 rock that had fallen transversely athwart each other: and, look¬ 
 ing into the gloom, each drew back involuntarily with a super¬ 
 stitious fear and chill. 
 
 A fire burned in the far recess of the cave; and over it was 
 a small cauldron; on a tall and thin column of iron stood a rude 
 lamp; over that part of the wall, at the base of which burned 
 the fire, hung in many rows, as if to dry, a profusion of herbs 
 and weeds. A fox, couched before the fire, gazed upon the 
 strangers with its bright and red eye—its hair bristling—and a 
 low growl stealing from between its teeth; in the centre of the 
 cave was an earthen statue, which had three heads of a singular 
 
222 
 
 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 and fantastic cast: they were formed by the real skulls of a 
 dog, a horse, and a boar; a low tripod stood before this wild 
 representation of the popular Hecate. 
 
 But it was not these appendages and appliances of the cave 
 that thrilled the blood of those who gazed fearfully therein—it 
 was the face of its inmate. Before the fire, with the light shin¬ 
 ing full upon her features, sat a woman of considerable age. 
 Perhaps in no country are there seen so many hags as in Italy 
 —in no country does beauty so awfully change, in age, to 
 hideousness the most appalling and revolting. But the old 
 woman now before them was not one of these specimens of the 
 extreme of human ugliness; on the contrary, her countenance 
 betrayed the remains of a regular but high and aquiline order 
 of feature: with stony eyes turned upon them—with a look that 
 met and fascinated theirs—they beheld in that fearful coun¬ 
 tenance the very image of a corpse!—the same, the glazed and 
 lustreless regard, the blue and shrunken lips, the drawn and 
 hollow jaw—the dead, lank hair, of a pale grey—the livid, 
 green, ghastly skin, which seemed all surely tinged and tainted 
 by the grave! 
 
 “It is a dead thing!” said Glaucus. 
 
 “Nay—it stirs—it is a ghost or larva ,” faltered lone, as she 
 clung to the Athenian’s breast. 
 
 “ Oh, away—away! ” groaned the slave, “ it is the Witch of 
 Vesuvius!” 
 
 “Who are ye?” said a hollow and ghostly voice. “And 
 what do ye here?” 
 
 The sound, terrible and deathlike as it was—suiting well 
 the countenance of the speaker, and seeming rather the voice 
 of some bodiless wanderer of the Styx than living mortal, 
 would have made lone shrink back into the pitiless fury of the 
 storm, but Glaucus, though not without some misgiving, drew 
 her into the cavern. 
 
 “We are storm-beaten wanderers from the neighbouring 
 city,” said he, “and decoyed hither by yon light; we crave 
 shelter and the comfort of your hearth.” 
 
 As he spoke, the fox rose from the ground, and advanced 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 223 
 
 towards the strangers, showing, from end to end its white 
 teeth, and deepening in its menacing growl. 
 
 “Down, slave!” said the witch; and at the sound of her 
 voice the beast dropped at once, covering its face with its 
 brush, and keeping only its quick, vigilant eye fixed upon the 
 invaders of its repose. “Come to the fire if ye will!” said she, 
 turning to Glaucus and his companions. “I never welcome 
 living thing—save the owl, the fox, the toad, and the viper—so 
 I cannot welcome ye; but come to the fire without welcome— 
 why stand upon form?” 
 
 The language in which the hag addressed them was a 
 strange and barbarous Latin, interlarded with many words of 
 some more rude and ancient dialect. She did not stir from her 
 seat, but gazed stonily upon them as Glaucus now released 
 lone of her outer wrapping garments, and making her place 
 herself on a log of wood, which was the only other seat he per¬ 
 ceived at hand—fanned with his breath the embers into a more 
 glowing flame. The slave, encouraged by the boldness of her 
 superiors, divested herself also of her long palla , and crept 
 timorously to the opposite corner of the hearth. 
 
 “We disturb you, I fear,” said the silver voice of lone, in 
 conciliation. 
 
 The witch did not reply—she seemed like one who has 
 awakened for a moment from the dead, and has then relapsed 
 once more into the eternal slumber. 
 
 “Tell me,” said she, suddenly, and after a long pause, “are 
 ye brother and sister?” 
 
 “No,” said lone, blushing. 
 
 “Are ye married?” 
 
 “Not so,” replied Glaucus. 
 
 “Ho, lovers!—ha!—ha!—ha!” and the witch laughed so 
 loud and so long that the caverns rang again. 
 
 The heart of lone stood still at that strange mirth. Glaucus 
 muttered a rapid counterspell to the omen—and the slave 
 turned as pale as the cheek of the witch herself. 
 
 “Why dost thou laugh, old crone?” said Glaucus, somewhat 
 sternly, as he concluded his invocation. 
 
 “Did I laugh?” said the hag, absently. 
 
224 
 
 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 “She is in her dotage,” whispered Glaucus: as he said this, 
 he caught the eye of the hag fixed upon him with, a malignant 
 and vivid glare. 
 
 “Thou liest!” said she, abruptly. 
 
 “ Thou art an uncourteous welcomer,” returned Glaucus. 
 
 “Hush! provoke her not, dear Glaucus!” whispered lone. 
 
 “I will tell thee why I laughed when I discovered ye were 
 lovers,” said the old woman. “It was because it is a pleasure 
 to the old and withered to look upon young hearts like yours 
 —and to know the time will come when you will loathe each 
 other—loathe—loathe—ha!—ha!—ha! ” 
 
 It was now lone’s turn to pray against the unpleasing 
 prophecy. 
 
 “The gods forbid!” said she. “Yet, poor woman, thou 
 knowest little of love, or thou wouldst know that it never 
 changes.” 
 
 “Was I young once, think ye?” returned the hag, quickly; 
 ‘‘and am I old, and hideous, and deathly now? Such as is the 
 form, so is the heart.” With these words she sank again into 
 a stillness profound and fearful, as if the cessation of life 
 itself. 
 
 “Hast thou dwelt here long?” said Glaucus, after a pause, 
 feeling uncomfortably oppressed beneath a silence so ap¬ 
 palling. 
 
 “Ah, long!—yes!” 
 
 “It is but a drear abode.” 
 
 “Ha! thou mayst well say that—Hell is beneath us!” re¬ 
 plied the hag, pointing her bony finger to the earth. “And I 
 will tell thee a secret—the dim things below are preparing wrath 
 for ye above—you, the young, and the thoughtless, and the 
 beautiful.” 
 
 “Thou utterest but evil words, ill becoming the hospitable,” 
 said Glaucus; “and in future I will brave the tempest rather 
 than thy welcome.” 
 
 “ Thou wilt do well. None should ever seek me—save the 
 wretched!” 
 
 “And why the wretched?” asked the Athenian. 
 
 “I am the witch of the mountain,” replied the sorceress, 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 225 
 
 with a ghastly grin; “my trade is to give hope to the hopeless : 
 for the crossed in love I have philtres; for the avaricious, 
 promises of treasure; for the malicious, potions ofrevenge; for 
 the happy and the good, I have only what life has—curses! 
 Trouble me no more.” 
 
 With this the grim tenant of the cave relapsed into a silence 
 so obstinate and sullen, that Glaucus in vain endeavoured to 
 draw her into farther conversation. She did not evince, by 
 any alteration of her locked and rigid features, that she even 
 heard him. Fortunately, however, the storm, which was brief 
 as violent, began now to relax; the rain grew less and less 
 fierce; and at last, as the clouds parted, the moon burst forth 
 in the purple opening of heaven, and streamed clear and full 
 into that desolate abode. Never had she shone, perhaps, on a 
 group more worthy of the painter's art. The young, the all¬ 
 beautiful lone, seated by that rude fire—her lover already 
 forgetful of the presence of the hag, at her feet, gazing up¬ 
 ward to her face, and whispering sweet words—the pale and 
 affrighted slave at a little distance—and the ghastly hag resting 
 her deadly eyes upon them; yet seemingly serene and fearless 
 (for the companionship of love hath such power) were these 
 beautiful beings, things of another sphere, in that dark and un¬ 
 holy cavern, with its gloomy quaintness of appurtenance. The 
 fox regarded them from his corner with his keen and fiery 
 eye: and as Glaucus now turned towards the witch, he per¬ 
 ceived for the first time, just under her seat, the bright gaze 
 and crested head of a large snake: whether it was that the 
 vivid colouring of the Athenian's cloak, thrown over the 
 shoulders of lone, attracted the reptile's anger—its crest began 
 to glow and rise, as if menacing and preparing itself to spring 
 upon the Neapolitan;—Glaucus caught quickly at one of the 
 half-burned logs upon the hearth—and, as if enraged at the 
 action, the snake came forth from its shelter, and with a loud 
 hiss raised itself on end till its height nearly approached that 
 of the Greek. 
 
 “Witch!” cried Glaucus, “command thy creature, or thou 
 wilt see it dead.” 
 
 “It has been despoiled of its venom!” said the witch, 
 
 Pompeii. I ^ 
 
226 
 
 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 aroused at his threat; but ere the words had left her lip, the 
 snake had sprung upon Glaucus; quick and watchful, the agile 
 Greek leaped lightly aside, and struck so fell and dexterous a 
 blow on the head of the snake, that it fell prostrate and writh¬ 
 ing among the embers of the fire. 
 
 The hag sprung up, and stood confronting Glaucus with a 
 face which would have befitted the fiercest of the Furies, so 
 utterly dire and wrathful was its expression—yet even in horror 
 and ghastliness preserving the outline and trace of beauty— 
 and utterly free from that coarse grotesque at which the imagi¬ 
 nations of the North have sought the source of terror. 
 
 “Thou hast,” said she, in a slow and steady voice—which 
 belied the expression of her face, so much was it passionless 
 and calm—“thou hast had shelter under my roof, and warmth 
 at my hearth; thou hast returned evil for good; thou hast 
 smitten and haply slain the thing that loved me and was mine: 
 nay, more, the creature, above all others, consecrated to gods 
 and deemed venerable by man*—now hear thy punishment. 
 By the moon, who is the guardian of the sorceress—by Orcus, 
 who is the treasurer of wrath—I curse thee! and thou art 
 cursed! May thy love be blasted—may thy name be blackened 
 —may the internals mark thee—may thy heart wither and 
 scorch—may thy last hour recall to thee the prophet voice of 
 the Saga of Vesuvius! And thou,” she added, turning sharply 
 towards lone* and raising her right arm, when Glaucus burst 
 impetuously on her speech:— 
 
 “Hag!” cried he, “forbear! Me thou hast cursed, and I 
 commit myself to the gods—I defy and scorn thee! but breathe 
 but one word against yon maiden, and I will convert the oath 
 on thy foul lips to thy dying groan. Beware!” 
 
 “I haye done,” replied the hag, laughing wildly; “for in 
 thy doom is she who loves thee accursed. And not the less, 
 that I heard Tier lips breathe thy name, and know by what 
 word to commend thee to the demons. Glaucus —thou art 
 doomed!” So saying, the witch turned from the Athenian, 
 
 * A peculiar sanctity was attached by the Romans (as, indeed, by perhaps 
 every ancient people) to serpents, which they kept tame in their houses, and often 
 introduced at their meals. 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 22 7 
 
 and kneeling down beside her wounded favourite, which she 
 dragged from the hearth, she turned to them her face no 
 more. 
 
 “O Glaucus!” said lone, greatly terrified, “what have we 
 done?—Let us hasten from this place; the storm has ceased. 
 Good mistress, forgive him—recall thy words—he meant but 
 to defend himself—accept this peace-offering to unsay the 
 said:” and lone, stooping, placed her purse on the hag's lap. 
 
 “Away!” said she, bitterly—“away! The oath once woven 
 the Fates only can untie. Away!” 
 
 “Come, dearest!” said Glaucus, impatiently. “Thinkest 
 thou that the gods above us or below hear the impotent rav¬ 
 ings of dotage? Come!” 
 
 Long and loud rang the echoes of the cavern with the dread 
 laugh of the Saga—she deigned no further reply. 
 
 The lovers breathed more freely when they gained the 
 open air: yet the scene they had witnessed, the words and 
 the laughter of the witch, still fearfully dwelt with lone; and 
 even Glaucus could not thoroughly shake off the impression 
 they bequeathed. The storm had subsided—save, now and 
 then, a low thunder muttered at the distance amidst the darker 
 clouds, or a momentary flash of lightning affronted the so¬ 
 vereignty of the moon. With some difficulty they regained 
 the road, where they found the vehicle already sufficiently 
 repaired for their departure, and the carrucarius calling loudly 
 upon Hercules to tell him where his charge had vanished. 
 
 Glaucus vainly endeavoured to cheer the exhausted spirits 
 of lone; and scarce less vainly to recover the elastic tone of 
 his own natural gaiety. They soon arrived before the gate of 
 the city: as it opened to them, a litter borne by slaves im¬ 
 peded the way. 
 
 “It is too late for egress,” cried the sentinel to the inmate 
 of the litter. 
 
 “Not so,” said a voice, which the lovers started to hear; it 
 was a voice they well recognised. “I am bound to the villa 
 of Marcus Polybius. I shall return shortly. I am Arbaces the 
 Egyptian.” 
 
 5 
 
228 
 
 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 The scruples of him of the gate were removed, and 
 the litter passed close beside the carriage that bore the lovers. 
 
 “Arbaces, at this hour!—scarce recovered too, methinks! 
 Whither and for what can he leave the city?” said Glaucus. 
 
 “Alas!” replied lone, bursting into tears, “my soul feels 
 still more and more the omen of evil. Preserve us, O ye 
 Gods! or at least,” she murmured inly, “preserve my Glau¬ 
 cus ! ” 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 The Lord of the Burning Belt and his Minion—Fate writes her Prophecy in 
 red Letters, but who shall read them? 
 
 ArbaceS had tarried only till the cessation of the tempest 
 allowed him, under cover of night, to seek the Saga of Vesu¬ 
 vius. Borne by those of his trustier slaves in whom in all more 
 secret expeditions he was accustomed to confide, he lay ex¬ 
 tended along his litter, and resigning his sanguine heart to the 
 contemplation of vengeance gratified and love possessed. The 
 slaves in so short a journey moved very little slower than the 
 ordinary pace of mules; and Arbaces soon arrived at the com¬ 
 mencement of a narrow path, which the lovers had not been 
 fortunate enough to discover; but which, skirting the thick 
 vines, led at once to the habitation of the witch. Here he 
 rested the litter; and bidding his slaves conceal themselves 
 and the vehicle among the vines from the observation of any 
 chance passenger, he mounted alone, with steps still feeble 
 but supported by a long staff, the drear and sharp ascent. 
 
 Not a drop of rain fell from the tranquil heaven; but the 
 moisture dripped mournfully from the laden boughs of the 
 vine, and now and then collected in tiny pools in the crevices 
 and hollows of the rocky way. 
 
 “Strange passions these for a philosopher,” thought Ar¬ 
 baces, “that lead one like me just new from the bed of death, 
 and lapped even in health amidst the roses of luxury, across 
 such nocturnal paths as this; but Passion and Vengeance tread¬ 
 ing to their goal can make an Elysium of a Tartarus,” High, 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 229 
 
 clear, and melancholy shone the moon above the road of that 
 dark wayfarer, glossing herself in every pool that lay before 
 him, and sleeping in shadow along the sloping mount. He 
 saw before him the same light that had guided the steps of 
 his intended victims, but, no longer contrasted by the black¬ 
 ened clouds, it shone less redly clear. 
 
 He paused, as at length he approached the mouth of the 
 cavern, to recover breath; and then, with his wonted collected 
 and stately mien, he crossed the unhallowed threshold. 
 
 The fox sprang up at the ingress of this new-comer, and by 
 a long howl announced another visitor to his mistress. 
 
 The witch had resumed her seat, and her aspect of grave¬ 
 like and grim repose. By her feet, upon a bed of dry weeds 
 which half covered it, lay the wounded snake; but the quick 
 eye of the Egyptian caught its scales glittering in the reflected 
 light of the opposite fire, as it writhed,—now contracting, now 
 lengthening, its folds, in pain and unsated anger. 
 
 “Down, slave!” said the witch, as before, to the fox; and, 
 as before, the animal dropped to the ground—mute, but 
 vigilant. 
 
 “Rise, servant of Nox and Erebus!” said Arbaces, com- 
 mandingly; “a superior in thine art salutes thee! rise, and 
 welcome him.” 
 
 At these words the hag turned her gaze upon the Egyptian’s 
 towering form and dark features. She looked long and fixedly 
 upon him, as he stood before her in his Oriental robe, and 
 folded arms, and steadfast and haughty brow. “Who art 
 thou,” she said at last, “that callest thyself greater in art than 
 the Saga of the Burning Fields, and the daughter of the 
 perished Etrurian race?” 
 
 “I am he,” answered Arbaces, “from whom all cultivators 
 of magic, from north to south, from east to west, from the 
 Ganges and the Nile to the vales of Thessaly and the shores 
 of the yellow Tiber, have stooped to learn.” 
 
 “There is but one such man in these places,” answered the 
 witch, “whom the men of the outer world, unknowing his 
 loftier attributes and more secret fame, call Arbaces the 
 
230 
 
 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 Egyptian: to us of a higher nature and deeper knowledge, his 
 rightful appellation is Hermes of the Burning Girdle” 
 
 “Look again,” returned Arbaces: “I am he.” 
 
 As he spoke he drew aside his robe, and revealed a cinc¬ 
 ture seemingly of fire, that burned around his waist, clasped 
 in the centre by a plate whereon was engraven some sign ap¬ 
 parently vague and unintelligible, but which was evidently not 
 unknown to the Saga. She rose hastily, and threw herself at 
 the feet of Arbaces. “I have seen, then,” said she, in a voice 
 of deep humility, “the Lord of the Mighty Girdle—vouchsafe 
 my homage.” 
 
 “Rise,” said the Egyptian; “I have need of thee.” 
 
 So saying, he placed himself on the same log of wood on 
 which lone had rested before, and motioned to the witch to 
 resume her seat. 
 
 “Thou sayest,” said he, as she obeyed, “that thou art a 
 daughter of the ancient Etrurian* tribes; the mighty walls of 
 whose rock-built cities yet frown above the robber race that 
 hath seized upon their ancient reign. Partly came those tribes 
 from Greece, partly were they exiles from a more burning and 
 primeval soil. In either case art thou of Egyptian lineage, for 
 the Grecian masters of the aboriginal helot were among the 
 restless sons whom theNile banished from her bosom. Equally, 
 then, O Saga! thy descent is from ancestors that swore 
 allegiance to mine own. By birth as by knowledge, art thou 
 the subject of Arbaces. Hear me, then, and obey!” 
 
 The witch bowed her head. 
 
 “Whatever art we possess in sorcery,” continued Arbaces, 
 “we are sometimes driven to natural means to attain our 
 object. The ring** and the crystal,*** and the ashesf and 
 the herbs,tf do not give unerring divinations; neither do the 
 
 * The Etrurians (it may be superfluous to mention) were celebrated for 
 their enchantments. Arbaces is wrong in assuming their Egyptian origin, but 
 the Egyptians arrogated the ancestry of almost every one of the more illustrious 
 races, and there are not wanting modern schoolmen who, too credulously, sup¬ 
 port the claim. 
 
 ** JaxtvZo/uavtela. *** KQVOtalXofxavtaLa. 
 
 t TecpQOjAUTTtla. tt Botocvofiavtela. 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 231 
 
 higher mysteries of the moon yield even the possessor of the 
 girdle a dispensation from the necessity of employing ever and 
 anon human measures for a human object. Mark me, then: 
 thou art deeply skilled, methinks, in the secrets of the more 
 deadly herbs; thou knowest those which arrest life, which burn 
 and scorch the soul from out her citadel, or freeze the channels 
 of young blood into that ice which no sun can melt. Do I over¬ 
 rate thy skill? Speak, and truly !” 
 
 “Mighty Hermes, such lore is, indeed, mine own. Deign 
 to look at these ghostly and corpse-like features; they have 
 waned from the hues of life merely by watching over the rank 
 herbs which simmer night and day in yon cauldron.” 
 
 The Egyptian moved his seat from so unblessed or so un¬ 
 healthful a vicinity as the witch spoke. 
 
 “It is well,” said he, “thou hast learned that maxim of all 
 the deeper knowledge which saith, ‘Despise the body to make 
 wise the mind/ But to thy task. There cometh to thee by 
 to-morrow's starlight a vain maiden, seeking of thine art a 
 love-charm to fascinate from another the eyes that should utter 
 but soft tales to her own; instead of thy philtres, give the 
 maiden one of thy most powerful poisons. Let the lover 
 breathe his vows to the Shades.” 
 
 The witch trembled from head to foot. 
 
 “Oh pardon! pardon! dread master,” said she, falteringly, 
 “but this I dare not. The law in these cities is sharp and 
 vigilant; they will seize, they will slay me.” 
 
 “For what purpose, then, thy herbs and thy potions, vain 
 Saga?” said Arbaces, sneeringly. 
 
 The witch hid her loathsome face with her hands. 
 
 “Oh! years ago,” said she, in a voice unlike her usual tones, 
 so plaintive was it, and so soft, “I was not the thing that I am 
 now.—I loved, I fancied myself beloved.” 
 
 “And what connection hath thy love, witch, with my com¬ 
 mands?” said Arbaces, impetuously. 
 
 “Patience,” resumed the witch; “patience, I implore, I 
 loved! another and less fair than I—yes, by Nemesis, less fair 
 —allured from me my chosen. I was of that dark Etrurian 
 tribe to whom most of all were known the secrets of the 
 
232 
 
 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 gloomier magic. My mother was herself a saga: she shared 
 the resentment of her child; from her hands I received the 
 potion that was to restore me his love; and from her, also, the 
 poison that was to destroy my rival. Oh, crush me, dread 
 walls! my trembling hands mistook the phials, my lover fell 
 indeed at my feet; but dead! dead! Since then, what has 
 been life to me? I became suddenly old, I devoted myself to 
 the sorceries of my race; still by an irresistible impulse I curse 
 myself with an awful penance; still I seek the most noxious 
 herbs; still I concoct the poisons; still I imagine that I am to 
 give them to my hated rival; still I pour them into the phial; 
 still I fancy that they shall blast her beauty to the dust; still I 
 wake and see the quivering body, the foaming lips, the glazing 
 eyes of my Aulus—murdered, and by me!” 
 
 The skeleton frame of the witch shook beneath strong con¬ 
 vulsions. 
 
 Arbaces gazed upon her with a curious though contemp¬ 
 tuous eye. 
 
 “And this foul thing has yet human emotions!” thought 
 he; “she still cowers over the ashes of the same fire that con¬ 
 sumes Arbaces!—Such are we all! Mystic is the tie of those 
 mortal passions that unite the greatest and the least.” 
 
 He did not reply till she had somewhat recovered herself, 
 and now sat rocking to and fro in her seat, with glassy eyes 
 fixed on the opposite flame, and large tears rolling down her 
 livid cheeks. 
 
 “A grievous tale is thine, in truth,” said Arbaces. “But 
 these emotions are fit only for our youth—age should harden 
 our hearts to all things but ourselves; as every year adds a 
 scale to the shell-fish, so should each year wall and incrust the 
 heart. Think of those frenzies no more! And now, listen to 
 me again! By the revenge that was dear to thee, I command 
 thee to obey me! it is for vengeance that I seek thee! This 
 youth whom I would sweep from my path has crossed me, 
 despite my spells:—this thing of purple and broidery, of smiles 
 and glances, soulless and mindless, with no charm but that of 
 beauty—accursed be it!—this insect—this Glaucus—I tell thee, 
 by Orcus and by Nemesis, he must die.” 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 233 
 
 And working himself up at every word, the Egyptian, for¬ 
 getful of his debility—of his strange companion—of everything 
 but his own vindictive rage, strode, with large and rapid steps, 
 the gloomy cavern. 
 
 “Glaucus! saidst thou, mighty master!” said the witch, ab¬ 
 ruptly; and her dim eye glared at the name with all that fierce 
 resentment at the memory of small affronts so common amongst 
 the solitary and the shunned. 
 
 “Aye, so he is called; but what matters the name? Let 
 it not be heard as that of a living man three days from this 
 date!” 
 
 “Hear me!” said the witch, breaking from a short reverie 
 into which she was plunged after this last sentence of the 
 Egyptian. “Hear me! Iam thy thing and thy slave! spare 
 me! If I give to the maiden thou speakest of that which would 
 destroy the life of Glaucus, I shall be surely detected—the 
 dead ever find avengers. Nay, dread man! if thy visit to me 
 be tracked, if thy hatred to Glaucus be known, thou mayest 
 have need of thy archest magic to protect thyself!” 
 
 “Ha!” said Arbaces, stopping suddenly short; and as a 
 proof of that blindness with which passion darkens the eyes 
 even of the most acute, this was the first time when the risk 
 that he himself ran by this method of vengeance had occurred 
 to a mind ordinarily wary and circumspect. 
 
 “But,” continued the witch, “if instead of that which shall 
 arrest the heart, I give that which shall sear and blast the 
 brain—which shall make him who quaffs it unfit for the uses 
 and career of life—an abject, raving, benighted thing—smiting 
 sense to drivelling, youth to dotage—will not thy vengeance 
 be equally sated—thy object equally attained?” 
 
 “Oh, witch! no longer the servant, but the sister—the 
 equal of Arbaces—how much brighter is woman’s wit, even in 
 vengeance, than ours! how much more exquisite than death is 
 such a doom!” 
 
 “And,” continued the hag, gloating over her fell scheme, 
 “in this is but little danger: for by ten thousand methods, 
 which men forbear to seek, can our victim become mad. He 
 
234 
 
 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 may have been among the vines and seen a nymph *—or the 
 vine itself may have had the same effect—ha, ha! they never 
 inquire too scrupulously into these matters in which the gods 
 may be agents. And let the worst arrive—let it be known 
 that it is a love-charm—why, madness is a common effect of 
 philtres; and even the fair she that gave it finds indulgence in 
 the excuse. Mighty Hermes, have I ministered to thee cun¬ 
 ningly?” 
 
 “ Thou shalt have twenty years’ longer date for this ,” re¬ 
 turned Arbaces. “I will write anew the epoch of thy fate on 
 the face of the pale stars—thou shalt not serve in vain the 
 Master of the Flaming Belt. And here, Saga, carve thee out, 
 by these golden tools, a warmer cell in this dreary cavern— 
 one service to me shall countervail a thousand divinations by 
 sieve and shears to the gaping rustics.” So saying, he cast 
 upon the floor a heavy purse, which clinked not unmusically to 
 the ear of the hag, who loved the consciousness of possessing 
 the means to purchase comforts she disdained. “Farewell,” 
 said Arbaces, “fail not—outwatch the stars in concocting thy 
 beverage—thou shalt lord it over thy sisters at the Walnut- 
 tree,** when thou tellest them that thy patron and thy friend 
 is Hermes the Egyptian. To-morrow night we meet again.” 
 
 He stayed not to hear the valediction or the thanks of the 
 witch; with a quick step he passed into the moonlit air, and 
 hastened down the mountain. 
 
 The witch, who followed his steps to the threshold, stood 
 long at the entrance of the cavern, gazing fixedly on his reced¬ 
 ing form; and as the sad moonlight streamed upon her shadowy 
 form and deathlike face, emerging from the dismal rocks, it 
 seemed as if one gifted, indeed, by supernatural magic had 
 escaped from the dreary Orcus; and, the foremost of its 
 ghostly throng, stood at its black portals—vainly summoning 
 his return, or vainly sighing to rejoin him. The hag, then 
 
 * To see a nymph was to become mad, according to classic and popular 
 superstition. 
 
 ** The celebrated and immemorial rendezvous of the witches at Benevento. 
 The winged serpent attached to it, long an object of idolatry in those parts, was 
 probably consecrated by Egyptian superstitions. 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 235 
 
 slowly re-entering- the cave, groaningly picked up the heavy 
 purse, took the lamp from its stand, and, passing to the re¬ 
 motest depth of her cell, a black and abrupt passage, which 
 was not visible, save at a near approach, closed round as it 
 was with jutting and sharp crags, yawned before her; she 
 went several yards along this gloomy path, which sloped 
 gradually downwards, as if towards the bowels of the earth, 
 and, lifting a stone, deposited her treasure in a hole beneath, 
 which, as the lamp pierced its secrets, seemed already to con¬ 
 tain coins of various value, wrung from the credulity or grati¬ 
 tude of her visitors. 
 
 “I love to look at you,” said she, apostrophising the 
 moneys; “for when I see you I feel that I am indeed of power. 
 And I am to have twenty years’ longer life to increase your 
 store! O thou great Hermes!” 
 
 She replaced the stone, and continued her path onward for 
 some paces, when she stopped before a deep irregular fissure 
 in the earth. Here, as she bent—strange, rumbling, hoarse, 
 and distant sounds might be heard, while ever and anon, with 
 a loud and grating noise which, to use a homely but faithful 
 simile, seemed to resemble the grinding of steel upon wheels, 
 volumes of streaming and dark smoke issued forth, and rushed 
 spirally along the cavern. 
 
 “The Shades are noisier than their wont,” said the hag, 
 shaking her grey locks; and, looking into the cavity, she be¬ 
 held, far down, glimpses of a long streak of light, intensely 
 but darkly red. “Strange!” she said, shrinking back; “it is 
 only within the last two days that dull deep light hath been 
 visible—what can it portend?” 
 
 The fox, who had attended the steps of his fell mistress, 
 uttered a dismal howl, and ran cowering back to the inner 
 cave; a cold shuddering seized the hag herself at the cry of the 
 animal, which, causeless as it seemed, the superstitions of the 
 time considered deeply ominous. She muttered her placatory 
 charm, and tottered back into her cavern, where, amidst her 
 herbs and incantations, she prepared to execute the orders of 
 the Egyptian. 
 
 “He called me dotard,” said she, as the smoke curled 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 23 6 
 
 from the hissing cauldron: “when the jaws drop, and the 
 grinders fall, and the heart scarce beats, it is a pitiable thing 
 to dote; but when,” she added, with a savage and exulting 
 grin, “the young, and the beautiful, and the strong, are sud¬ 
 denly smitten into idiocy—ah, that is terrible! Burn flame— 
 simmer herb—swelter toad—I cursed him, and he shall be 
 cursed!” 
 
 On that night, and at the same hour which witnessed the 
 dark and unholy interview between Arbaces and the Saga, 
 Apaecides was baptised. 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 Progress of Events.—The Plot thickens.—The Web is woven, but the Net 
 changes Hands. 
 
 “And you have the courage, then, Julia, to seek the Witch 
 of Vesuvius this evening; in company, too, with that fearful 
 man?” 
 
 “Why, Nydia?” replied Julia, timidly; “dost thou really 
 think there is anything to dread? These old hags, with their 
 enchanted mirrors, their trembling sieves, and their moon- 
 gathered herbs, are, I imagine, but crafty impostors, who 
 have learned, perhaps, nothing but the very charm for which 
 I apply to their skill, and which is drawn but from the know¬ 
 ledge of the field’s herbs and simples. Wherefore should I 
 dread?” 
 
 “Dost thou not fear thy companion?” 
 
 “What, Arbaces? By Dian, I never saw lover more cour¬ 
 teous than that same magician! And were he not so dark, he 
 would be even handsome.” 
 
 Blind as she was, Nydia had the penetration to perceive 
 that Julia’s mind was not one that the gallantries of Arbaces 
 were likely to terrify. She therefore dissuaded her no more: 
 but nursed in her excited heart the wild and increasing desire 
 to know if sorcery had indeed a spell to fascinate love to love. 
 
 “Let me go with thee, noble Julia,” said she at length; 
 “my presence is no protection, but I should like to be beside 
 thee to the last.” 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 237 
 
 “Thine offer pleases me much,” replied the daughter of 
 Diomed. “Yet how canst thou contrive it? we may not return 
 until late, they will miss thee.” 
 
 “lone is indulgent,” replied Nydia. “If thou wilt permit 
 me to sleep beneath thy roof, I will say that thou, an early 
 patroness and friend, hast invited me to pass the day with thee, 
 and sing thee my Thessalian songs; her courtesy will readily 
 grant to thee so light a boon.” 
 
 “Nay, ask for thyself!” said the haughty Julia. “7 stoop 
 to request no favour from the Neapolitan!” 
 
 “Well, be it so. I will take my leave now; make my re¬ 
 quest, which I know will be readily granted, and return 
 shortly.” 
 
 “Do so; and thy bed shall be prepared in my own 
 chamber.” 
 
 With that, Nydia left the fair Pompeian. 
 
 On her way back to lone she was met by the chariot of 
 Glaucus, on whose fiery and curveting steeds was riveted the 
 gaze of the crowded street. 
 
 He kindly stopped for a moment to speak to the flower-girl. 
 
 “Blooming as thine own roses, my gentle Nydia! and how 
 is thy fair mistress?—recovered, I trust, from the effects of the 
 storm?” 
 
 “I have not seen her this morning,” answered Nydia, 
 “but-” 
 
 “But what? draw back—the horses are too near thee.” 
 
 “But think you lone will permit me to pass the day with 
 Julia, the daughter of Diomed?—She wishes it, and was kind 
 to me when I had few friends.” 
 
 “The gods bless thy grateful heart! I will answer for 
 lone’s permission.” 
 
 “Then I may stay over the night, and return to-morrow?” 
 said Nydia, shrinking from the praise she so little merited. 
 
 “As thou and fair Julia please. Commend me to her; and, 
 hark ye, Nydia, when thou hearest her speak, note the con¬ 
 trast of her voice with that of the silver-toned lone.— Vale!” 
 
 His spirits entirely recovered from the effect of the past 
 night, his locks waving in the wind, his joyous and elastic 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 238 
 
 heart bounding with every spring of his Parthian steeds, a 
 very prototype of his country’s god, full of youth and of love 
 —Glaucus was borne rapidly to his mistress. 
 
 Enjoy while ye may the present—who can read the future? 
 
 As the evening darkened, Julia, reclined within her litter, 
 which was capacious enough also to admit her blind com¬ 
 panion, took her way to the rural baths indicated by Arbaces. 
 To her natural levity of disposition, her enterprise brought 
 less of terror than of pleasurable excitement; above all, she 
 glowed at the thought of her coming triumph over the hated 
 Neapolitan. 
 
 A small but gay group was collected round the door of the 
 villa, as her litter passed by it to the private entrance of the 
 baths appropriated to the women. 
 
 “Methinks, by this dim light,” said one of the bystanders, 
 “I recognise the slaves of Diomed.” 
 
 “True, Clodius,” said Sallust: “it is probably the litter of 
 his daughter Julia. She is rich, my friend; why dost thou not 
 proffer thy suit to her?” 
 
 “Why, I had once hoped that Glaucus would have married 
 her. She does not disguise her attachment; and then, as he 
 gambles freely and with ill-success-” 
 
 “The sesterces would have passed to thee, wise Clodius. 
 A wife is a good thing—when it belongs to another man!” 
 
 “But,” continued Clodius, “as Glaucus is, I understand, to 
 wed the Neapolitan, I think I must even try my chance with 
 the dejected maid. After all, the lamp of Hymen will be gilt, 
 and the vessel will reconcile one to the odour of the flame. I 
 shall only protest, my Sallust, against Diomed’s making iliee 
 trustee to his daughter’s fortune.”* 
 
 “Ha! ha! let us within, my comissator; the wine and the 
 garlands wait us.” 
 
 Dismissing her slaves to that part of the house set apart 
 for their entertainment, Julia entered the baths with Nydia, 
 
 * It was an ancient Roman law, that no one should make a woman his heir. 
 The law was evaded by the parent’s assigning his fortune to a friend in trust for 
 his daughter, but the trustee might keep it if he liked. The law had, however, 
 fallen into disuse before the date of this story. 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 239 
 
 and declining the offers of the attendants, passed by a private 
 door into the garden behind. 
 
 “She comes by appointment, be sure,” said one of the 
 slaves. 
 
 “What is that to thee?” said a superintendent, sourly; “she 
 pays for the baths, and does not waste the saffron. Such ap¬ 
 pointments are the best part of the trade. Hark! do you not 
 hear the widow Fulvia clapping her hands? Run, fool—run!” 
 
 Julia and Nydia, avoiding the more public part of the 
 garden, arrived at the place specified by the Egyptian. In a 
 small circular plot of grass the stars gleamed upon the statue 
 of Silenus:—the merry god reclined upon a fragment of rock 
 —the lynx of Bacchus at his feet—and over his mouth he held, 
 with extended arm, a bunch of grapes, which he seemingly 
 laughed to welcome ere he devoured. 
 
 “I see not the magician,” said Julia, looking round; when, 
 as she spoke, the Egyptian slowly emerged from the neigh¬ 
 bouring foliage, and the light fell palely over his sweeping 
 robes. 
 
 “ Salve , sweet maiden!—But ha! whom hast thou here? 
 
 dons!” 
 
 lower-girl, wise magician, 
 in: 
 
 j} 
 
 replied 
 I know her well.” 
 
 e Egyptian; 
 huddered. 
 
 ly house, methinks!” said he, ap- 
 lia’s ear; “thou knowest the oath!— 
 tS then, or beware!” 
 ngly to himself, “why confide more 
 i the blind—Julia, canst thou trust 
 ieve me, the magician is less formid- 
 
 drew Julia aside. 
 
 my visitors at once,” said he; “leave 
 • she can be of no assistance to us: 
 own beauty suffices—your own 
 tv, yes, Julia, I know thy name and 
 
240 
 
 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 birth. Come, trust thyself with me, fair rival of the youngest 
 of the Naiads! ” 
 
 The vain Julia was not, as we have seen, easily affrighted; 
 she was moved by the flattery of Arbaces, and she readily 
 consented to suffer Nydia to await her return; nor did Nydia 
 press her presence. At the sound of the Egyptian’s voice all 
 her terror of him returned: she felt a sentiment of pleasure at 
 learning she was not to travel in his companionship. 
 
 She returned to the Bath-house, and in one of the private 
 chambers waited their return. Many and bitter were the 
 thoughts of this wild girl as she sat there in her eternal dark¬ 
 ness. She thought of her own desolate fate, far from her 
 native land, far from the bland cares that once assuaged the 
 April sorrows of childhood;—deprived of the light of day, with 
 none but strangers to guide her steps, accursed by the one 
 soft feeling of her heart, loving and without hope, save the 
 dim and unholy ray which shot across her mind, as her Thes¬ 
 salian fancies questioned of the force of spells and the gifts of 
 magic! 
 
 Nature had sown in the heart of this poor girl the seeds of 
 virtue never destined to ripen. The lessons of adversity are 
 not always salutary—sometimes they soften and amend, but as 
 often they indurate and pervert. If we consider ourselves 
 more harshly treated by fate than those around us, and do not 
 acknowledge in our own deeds the justice of the severity, we 
 become too apt to deem the world our enemy, to case ourselves 
 in defiance, to wrestle against our softer self , and to indulge 
 the darker passions which are so easily fermented by the 
 sense of injustice. Sold early into slavery, sentenced to a 
 sordid task-master, exchanging her situation, only yet more to 
 embitter her lot—the kindlier feelings, naturally profuse in the 
 breast of Nydia, were nipped and blighted. Her sense of right 
 and wrong was confused by a passion to which she had so 
 madly surrendered herself; and the same intense and tragic 
 emotions which we read of in the women of the classic age—a 
 Myrrha, a Medea—and v/hich hurried and swept away the 
 whole soul when once delivered to love-ruled, and rioted in, 
 her breast. 
 
5076. PGMPEI. Anfiteatro 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 24 ! 
 
 Time passed: a light step entered the chamber where Nydia 
 yet indulged her gloomy meditations. 
 
 “Oh, thanked be the immortal gods!” said Julia, “I have 
 returned, I have left that terrible cavern! Come, Nydia! let us 
 away forthwith! ” 
 
 It was not till they were seated in the litter that Julia again 
 spoke. 
 
 “Oh!” said she, tremblingly, “such a scene! such fearful 
 incantations! and the dead face of the hag!—But, let us talk 
 not of it. I have obtained the potion—she pledges its effect. 
 My rival shall be suddenly indifferent to his eye, and I, I alone, 
 the idol of Glaucus! ” 
 
 “ Glaucus! ” exclaimed Nydia. 
 
 “Ay! I told thee, girl, at first, that it was not the Athenian 
 whom I loved: but I see now that I may trust thee wholly—it 
 is the beautiful Greek!” 
 
 What then were Nydia’s emotions! she had connived, she 
 had assisted, in tearing Glaucus from lone; but only to transfer, 
 by all the power of magic, his affections yet more hopelessly 
 to another. Her heart swelled almost to suffocation—she 
 gasped for breath—in the darkness of the vehicle, Julia did 
 not perceive the agitation of her companion; she went on 
 rapidly dilating on the promised effect of her acquisition, and 
 on her approaching triumph over lone, every now and then 
 abruptly digressing to the horror of the scene she had quitted 
 —the unmoved mien of Arbaces, and his authority over the 
 dreadful Saga. 
 
 Meanwhile Nydia recovered her self-possession: a thought 
 flashed across her: she slept in the chamber of Julia—she 
 might possess herself of the potion. 
 
 They arrived at the house of Diomed, and descended to 
 Julia’s apartment, where the night’s repast awaited them. 
 
 “Drink, Nydia, thou must be cold; the air was chill to¬ 
 night; as for me, my veins are yet ice.” 
 
 And Julia unhesitatingly quaffed deep draughts of the 
 spiced wine. 
 
 “Thou hast the potion,” said Nydia; “let me hold it in 
 Pompeii. 16 
 
242 
 
 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 my hands. How small the phial is! of what colour is the 
 draught?” 
 
 “Clear as crystal,” replied Julia, as she retook the philtre; 
 “thou couldst not tell it from this water. The witch assures 
 me it is tasteless. Small though the phial, it suffices for a 
 life’s fidelity: it is to be poured into any liquid; and Glaucus 
 will only know what he has quaffed by the effect.” 
 
 “Exactly like this water in appearance?” 
 
 “Yes, sparkling and colourless as this. How bright it 
 seems! it is as the very essence of moonlit dews. Bright 
 thing! how thou shinest on my hopes through thy crystal 
 vase!” 
 
 “And how is it sealed!” 
 
 “But by one little stopper—I withdraw it now—the draught 
 gives no odour. Strange, that that which speaks to neither 
 sense should thus command all!” 
 
 “Is the effect instantaneous?” 
 
 “Usually;—but sometimes it remains dormant for a few 
 hours.” 
 
 “Oh, how sweet is this perfume?” said Nydia, suddenly, 
 as she took up a small bottle on the table, and bent over its 
 fragrant contents. 
 
 “Thinkest thou so? the bottle is set with gems of some 
 value. Thou wouldst not have the bracelet yestermorn;—wilt 
 thou take the bottle?” 
 
 “It ought to be such perfumes as these that should remind 
 one who cannot see of the generous Julia. If the bottle be not 
 too costly-” 
 
 “Oh! I have a thousand costlier ones: take it, child!” 
 
 Nydia bowed her gratitude, and placed the bottle in her 
 vest. 
 
 “And the draught would be equally efficacious, whoever 
 administers it?” 
 
 “If the most hideous hag beneath the sun bestowed it, 
 such is its asserted virtue that Glaucus would deem her beauti¬ 
 ful, and none but her!” 
 
 Julia, warmed by wine, and the reaction of her spirits, was 
 now all animation and delight; she laughed loud, and talked 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 243 
 
 on a hundred matters—nor was it till the night had advanced 
 far towards morning that she summoned her slaves and un¬ 
 dressed. 
 
 When they were dismissed, she said to Nydia,— 
 
 “I will not suffer this holy draught to quit my presence 
 till the hour comes for its uses. Lie under my pillow, bright 
 spirit, and give me happy dreams!” 
 
 So saying, she placed the potion under her pillow. 
 Nydia’s heart beat violently. 
 
 “Why dost thou drink that unmixed water, Nydia? Take 
 the wine by its side.” 
 
 “I am fevered,” replied the blind girl, “and the water 
 cools me. I will place this bottle by my bedside, it refreshes 
 in these summer nights, when the dews of sleep fall not on 
 our lips. Fair Julia, I must leave thee very early—so lone 
 bids—perhaps before thou art awake; accept, therefore, now 
 my congratulations.” 
 
 “Thanks: when next we meet-you may find Glaucus at my 
 feet.” 
 
 They had retired to their couches, and Julia, worn out by 
 the excitement of the day, soon slept. But anxious and burn¬ 
 ing thoughts rolled over the mind of the wakeful Thessalian. 
 She listened to the calm breathing of Julia; and her ear, ac¬ 
 customed to the finest distinctions of sound, speedily assured 
 her of the deep slumber of her companion. 
 
 “Now befriend me, Venus!” said she softly. 
 
 She rose gently, and poured the perfume from the gift of 
 Julia upon the marble floor—she rinsed it several times care¬ 
 fully with the water that was beside her, and then easily find¬ 
 ing the bed of Julia (for night to her was as day), she pressed 
 her trembling hand under the pillow and seized the potion. 
 Julia stirred not, her breath regularly fanned the burning cheek 
 of the blind girl. Nydia, then, opening the phial, poured its 
 contents into the bottle, which easily contained them; and then 
 refilling the former reservoir of the potion with that limpid 
 water which Julia had assured her it so resembled, she once 
 more placed the phial in its former place. She then stole again 
 
 16* 
 
2 4 4 
 
 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 to her couch, and waited—with what thoughts!—the dawning 
 day. 
 
 The sun had risen—Julia slept still—Nydia noiselessly 
 dressed herself, placed her treasure carefully in her vest, took 
 up her staff, and hastened to quit the house. 
 
 The porter, Medon, saluted her kindly as she descended 
 the steps that led to the street: she heard him not; her mind 
 was confused and lost in the whirl of tumultuous thoughts, 
 each thought a passion. She felt the pure morning air upon 
 her cheek, but it cooled not her scorching veins. 
 
 “Glaucus,” she murmured, all the love-charms of the 
 wildest magic could not make thee love me as I love thee, 
 lone!—ah; away hesitation! away remorse! Glaucus, my fate 
 is in thy smile; and thine! O hope! O joy! O transport!— 
 thy fate is in these hands!” 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 245 
 
 BOOK IV. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 Reflections on the Zeal of the early Christians.—Two Men come to a perilous 
 Resolve.—Walls have Ears—particularly sacred Walls! 
 
 Whoever regards the early history of Christianity, will 
 perceive how necessary to its triumph was that fierce spirit of 
 zeal, which, fearing no danger, accepting no compromise, in¬ 
 spired its champions and sustained its martyrs. In a dominant 
 church the genius of intolerance betrays its cause;—in a weak 
 and a persecuted church, the same genius mainly supports. It 
 was necessary to scorn, to loathe, to abhor the creeds of other 
 men, in order to conquer the temptations which they presented 
 —it was necessary rigidly to believe not only that the Gospel 
 was the true faith, but the sole true faith that saved, in order 
 to nerve the disciple to the austerity of its doctrine, and to 
 encourage him to the sacred and perilous chivalry of con¬ 
 verting the Polytheist and the Heathen. The sectarian stern¬ 
 ness which confined virtue and heaven to a chosen few, which 
 saw demons in other gods, and the penalties of hell in an¬ 
 other religion—made the believer naturally anxious to convert 
 all to whom he felt the ties of human affection; and the circle 
 thus traced by benevolence to man was yet more widened by 
 a desire for the glory of God. It was for the honour of the 
 Christian faith that the Christian boldly forced its tenets upon 
 the scepticism of some, the repugnance of others, the sage 
 contempt of the philosopher, the pious shudder of the people; 
 —his very intolerance supplied him with his fittest instruments 
 of success; and the soft Heathen began at last to imagine 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 246 
 
 there must indeed be something holy in a zeal wholly foreign 
 to his experience, which stopped at no obstacle, dreaded no 
 danger, and even at the torture, or on the scaffold, referred a 
 dispute far other than the calm differences of speculative 
 philosophy to the tribunal of an Eternal Judge. It was thus 
 that the same fervour which made the Churchman of the 
 middle age a bigot without mercy, made the Christian of the 
 early days a hero without fear. 
 
 Of these more fiery, daring, and earnest natures, not the 
 least ardent was Olinthus. No sooner had Apsecides been re¬ 
 ceived by the rites of baptism into the bosom of the Church, 
 than the Nazarene hastened to make him conscious of the 
 impossibility to retain the office and robes of priesthood. He 
 could not, it was evident, profess to worship God, and con¬ 
 tinue even outwardly to honour the idolatrous altars of the 
 Fiend. 
 
 Nor was this all, the sanguine and impetuous mind of 
 Olinthus beheld in the power of Apsecides the means of 
 divulging to the deluded people the juggling mysteries of the 
 oracular Isis. He thought Heaven had sent this instrument of 
 his design in order to disabuse the eyes of the crowd, and 
 prepare the way, perchance, for the conversion of a whole city. 
 He did not hesitate then to appeal to all the new-kindled en¬ 
 thusiasm of Apaecides, to arouse his courage, and to stimulate 
 his zeal. They met, according to previous agreement, the 
 evening after the baptism of Apaecides, in the grove of Cybele, 
 which we have before described. 
 
 “At the next solemn consultation of the oracle,” said Olin¬ 
 thus, as he proceeded in the warmth of his address, “advance 
 yourself to the railing, proclaim aloud to the people the de¬ 
 ception they endure, invite them to enter, to be themselves 
 the witness of the gross but artful mechanism of imposture 
 thou hast described to me. Fear not—the Lord, who pro¬ 
 tected Daniel, shall protect thee; we , the community of Chris¬ 
 tians, will be amongst the crowd; we will urge on the shrink¬ 
 ing: and in the first flush of the popular indignation and shame, 
 I myself, upon those very altars, will plant the palm-branch 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 247 
 
 typical of the Gospel—and to my tongue shall descend the 
 rushing Spirit of the living God.” 
 
 Heated and excited as he was, this suggestion was not un¬ 
 pleasing to Apaecides. He was rejoiced at so early an op¬ 
 portunity of distinguishing his faith in his new sect, and to his 
 holier feelings were added those of a vindictive loathing at 
 the imposition he had himself suffered, and a desire to avenge 
 it. In that sanguine and elastic overwound of obstacles (the 
 rashness necessary to all who undertake venturous and lofty 
 actions), neither Olinthus nor the proselyte perceived the im¬ 
 pediments to the success of their scheme, which might be 
 found in the reverent superstition of the people themselves, 
 who would probably be loth, before the sacred altars of the 
 great Egyptian goddess, to believe even the testimony of her 
 priest against her power. 
 
 Apaecides then assented to this proposal with a readiness 
 which delighted Olinthus. They parted with the understand¬ 
 ing that Olinthus should confer with the more important of his 
 Christian brethren on his great enterprise, should receive their 
 advice and the assurances of their support on the eventful day. 
 It so chanced that one of the festivals of Isis was to be held on 
 the second day after this conference. The festival proffered a 
 ready occasion for the design. They appointed to meet once 
 more on the next evening at the same spot; and in that meet¬ 
 ing were finally to be settled the order and details of the dis¬ 
 closure for the following day. 
 
 It happened that the latter part of this conference had 
 been held near the sacellum, or small chapel, which I have 
 described in the early part of this work; and so soon as the 
 forms of the Christian and the priest had disappeared from 
 the grove, a dark and ungainly figure emerged from behind 
 the chapel. 
 
 “I have tracked you with some effect, my brother flamen,” 
 soliloquised the eavesdropper; “you, the priest of Isis, have 
 not for mere idle discussion conferred with this gloomy Chris¬ 
 tian. Alas! that I could not hear all your precious plot: 
 enough! I find, at least, that you meditate revealing the 
 sacred mysteries, and that to-morrow you meet again at this 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 248 
 
 place to plan the how and the when. May Osiris sharpen my 
 ears then, to detect the whole of your unheard-of audacity! 
 When I have learned more, I must confer at once with Ar- 
 baces. We will frustrate you, my friends, deep as you think 
 yourselves. At present, my breast is a locked treasure of your 
 secret.” 
 
 Thus muttering, Calenus, for it was he, wrapped his robe 
 round him, and strode thoughtfully homeward. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 A classic Host, Cook, and Kitchen.—Apaecides seeks lone.—Their Conversation. 
 
 It was then the day for Diomed’s banquet to the most 
 select of his friends. The graceful Glaucus, the beautiful 
 lone, the official Pansa, the high-born Clodius, the immortal 
 Fulvius, the exquisite Lepidus, the epicurean Sallust, were not 
 the only honourers of his festival. He expected, also, an in¬ 
 valid senator from Rome (a man of considerable repute and 
 favour at court), and a great warrior from Herculaneum, who 
 had fought with Titus against the Jews, and having enriched 
 himself prodigiously in the wars, was always told by his 
 friends that his country was eternally indebted to his dis¬ 
 interested exertions! The party, however, extended to a yet 
 greater number: for although, critically speaking, it was, at 
 one time, thought inelegant among the Romans to entertain 
 less than three or more than nine at their banquets, yet this 
 rule was easily disregarded by the ostentatious. And we are 
 told, indeed, in history, that one of the most splendid of these 
 entertainers usually feasted a select party of three hundred. 
 Diomed, however, more modest, contented himself with dou¬ 
 bling the number of the Muses. His party consisted of eighteen, 
 no unfashionable number in the present day. 
 
 It was the morning of Diomed’s banquet; and Diomed him¬ 
 self, though he greatly affected the gentleman and the scholar, 
 retained enough of his mercantile experience to know that a 
 master’s eye makes a ready servant. Accordingly, with his 
 tunic ungirdled on his portly stomach, his easy slippers on his 
 feet, a small wand in his hand, wherewith he now directed the 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 249 
 
 gaze, and now corrected the back, of some duller menial, he 
 went from chamber to chamber of his costly villa. 
 
 He did not disdain even a visit to that sacred apartment in 
 which the priests of the festival prepare their offerings. On 
 entering the kitchen, his ears were agreeably stunned by the 
 noise of dishes and pans, of oaths and commands. Small as 
 this indispensable chamber seems to have been in all the 
 houses of Pompeii, it was, nevertheless, usually fitted up 
 with all that amazing variety of stoves and shapes, stewpans 
 and saucepans, cutters and moulds, without which a cook of 
 spirit, no matter whether he be an ancient or a modern, de¬ 
 clares it utterly impossible that he can give you anything to 
 eat. And as fuel was then, as now, dear and scarce in those 
 regions, great seems to have been the dexterity exercised in 
 preparing as many things as possible with as little fire. An 
 admirable contrivance of this nature may be still seen in the 
 Neapolitan Museum, viz., a portable kitchen, about the size of 
 a folio volume, containing stoves for four dishes, and an ap¬ 
 paratus for heating water or other beverages. 
 
 Across the small kitchen flitted many forms which the quick 
 eye of the master did not recognise. 
 
 “Oh! oh!” grumbled he to himself, “that cursed Congrio 
 hath invited a whole legion of cooks to assist him. They won’t 
 serve for nothing, and this is another item in the total of my 
 day’s expenses. By Bacchus! thrice lucky shall I be if the 
 slaves do not help themselves to some of the drinking vessels: 
 ready, alas, are their hands, capacious are their tunics. Me 
 miserum /” 
 
 The cooks, however, worked on, seemingly heedless of the 
 apparition of Diomed. 
 
 “Ho, Euclio, your egg-pan! What, is this the largest? it 
 only holds thirty-three eggs: in the houses I usually serve, the 
 smallest egg-pan holds fifty, if need be!” 
 
 “The unconscionable rogue!” thought Diomed; “he talks 
 of eggs as if they were a sesterce a hundred!” 
 
 “By Mercury!” cried a pert little culinary disciple, scarce 
 in his novitiate; “whoever saw such antique sweetmeat shapes 
 as these?—it is impossible to do credit to one’s art with such 
 
250 
 
 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 rude materials. Why, Sallust’s commonest sweetmeat shape 
 represents the whole siege of Troy; Hector and Paris, and 
 
 Helen-with little Astyanax and the Wooden Horse into the 
 
 bargain!” 
 
 “Silence, fool!” said Congrio, the cook of the house, who 
 seemed to leave the chief part of the battle to his allies. “My 
 master, Diomed, is not one of those expensive good-for- 
 noughts, who must have the last fashion, cost what it will!” 
 
 “Thou liest, base slave!” cried Diomed, in a great passion, 
 —“and thoucostest me already enough to have ruined Lucullus 
 himself! Come out of thy den, I want to talk to thee.” 
 
 The slave, with a sly wink at his confederates, obeyed the 
 command. 
 
 “Man of three letters,”* said Diomed, with his face of 
 solemn anger, “how didst thou dare to invite all those ras¬ 
 cals into my house?—I see thief written in every line of their 
 faces.” 
 
 “Yet, I assure you, master, that they are men of most re¬ 
 spectable character—the best cooks of the place; it is a great 
 favour to get them. But for my sake-” 
 
 “Thy sake, unhappy Congrio!” interrupted Diomed; “and 
 by what purloined moneys of mine, by what reserved filchings 
 from marketing, by what goodly meats converted into grease, 
 and sold in the suburbs, by what false charges for bronzes 
 marred, and earthenware broken—hast thou been enabled to 
 make them serve thee for thy sake?” 
 
 “Nay, master, do not impeach my honesty! May the gods 
 desert me if-” 
 
 “Swear not!” again interrupted the choleric Diomed, “for 
 then the gods will smite thee for a perjurer, and I shall lose 
 my cook on the eve of dinner. But, enough of this at present: 
 keep a sharp eye on thy ill-favoured assistants, and tell me no 
 tales to-morrow of vases broken, and cups miraculously 
 vanished, or thy whole back shall be one pain. And hark thee! 
 thou knowest thou hast made me pay for those Phrygian 
 attagens ** enough, by Hercules, to have feasted a sober man 
 
 * The common witty objurgation, from the triliteral word “fur” (thief). 
 
 ** The attagen of Phrygia or Ionia (the bird thus anglicised in the plural) was 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 251 
 
 for a year together—see that they be not one iota over-roasted. 
 The last time, O Congrio, that I gave a banquet to my friends, 
 when thy vanity did so boldly undertake the becoming ap¬ 
 pearance of a Melian crane—thou knowest it came up like a 
 stone from ./Etna—as if all the fires of Phlegethon had been 
 scorching out its juices. Be modest this time, Congrio—wary 
 and modest. Modesty is the nurse of great actions; and in all 
 other things, as in this, if thou wilt not spare thy master’s 
 purse, at least consult thy master’s glory.” 
 
 “There shall not be such a coena seen at Pompeii since the 
 days of Hercules.” 
 
 “Softly, softly—thy cursed boasting again! But I say, 
 Congrio, yon homunculus —yon pigmy assailant of my cranes 
 —yon pert-tongued neophyte of the kitchen, was there aught 
 but insolence on his tongue when he maligned the comeliness 
 of my sweetmeat shapes? I would not be out of the fashion, 
 Congrio.” 
 
 “It is but the custom of us cooks,” replied Congrio, gravely, 
 “ to undervalue our tools, in order to increase the effect of our 
 art. The sweetmeat shape is a fair shape, and a lovely; but I 
 would recommend my master, at the first occasion, to purchase 
 some new ones of a-” 
 
 “That will suffice,” exclaimed Diomed, who seemed resolved 
 never to allow his slave to finish his sentences. “Now, resume 
 thy charge—shine—eclipse thyself. Let men envy Diomed his 
 cook—let the slaves of Pompeii style thee Congrio the great! 
 Go! yet stay—thou hast not spent all the moneys I gave thee 
 for the marketing?” 
 
 “‘All!’ ”—alas! the nightingales’ tongues and the Roman 
 tomacula ,* and the oysters from Britain, and sundry other things, 
 too numerous now to recite, are yet left unpaid for. But what 
 matter? every one trusts the Archimagirus ** of Diomed the 
 wealthy!” 
 
 held in peculiar esteem by the Romans. “Attagen carnis suavissimse.” {A then., 
 lib. ix. cap. 8, 9.) It was a little bigger than a partridge. 
 
 * “—candiduli divina tomacula porci. ’— Juvenal, x. 1 . 355. A rich and 
 delicate species of sausage. 
 
 ** Archimagirus was the lofty title of the chief cook. 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 252 
 
 “Oh, unconscionable prodigal!—what waste!—what pro¬ 
 fusion!—I am ruined! But go, hasten—inspect!—taste!—per¬ 
 form!—surpass thyself! Let the Roman senator not despise 
 the poor Pompeian. Away, slave—and remember, the Phrygian 
 attagens.” 
 
 The chief disappeared within his natural domain, and Dio- 
 med rolled back his portly presence to the more courtly 
 chambers. All was to his liking—the flowers were fresh, the 
 fountains played briskly, the mosaic pavements were as smooth 
 as mirrors. 
 
 “Where is my daughter Julia?” he asked. 
 
 “At the bath.” 
 
 “Ah! that reminds me!—time wanes!—and I must bathe 
 also.” 
 
 Our story returns to Apaecides. On awaking that day from 
 the broken and feverish sleep which had followed his adoption 
 of a faith so strikingly and sternly at variance with that in 
 which his youth had been nurtured, the young priest could 
 scarcely imagine that he was not yet in a dream; he had 
 crossed the fatal river—the past was henceforth to have no 
 sympathy with the future; the two worlds were distinct and 
 separate,—that which had been, from that which was to be. To 
 what a bold and adventurous enterprise he had pledged his 
 life!—to unveil the mysteries in which he had participated—to 
 desecrate the altars he had served—to denounce the goddess 
 whose ministering robe he wore! Slowly he be came sensible 
 of the hatred and the horror he should provoke amongst the 
 pious, even if successful; if frustrated in his daring attempt, 
 what penalties might he not incur for an offence hitherto un¬ 
 heard of—for which no specific law, derived from experience, 
 was prepared; and which, for that very reason, precedents, 
 dragged from the sharpest armoury of obsolete and inappli¬ 
 cable legislation, would probably be distorted to meet! His 
 friends,—the sister of his youth, — could he expect justice, 
 though he might receive compassion, from them ? This 
 brave and heroic act would by their heathen eyes be regarded, 
 perhaps, as a heinous apostasy—at the best, as a pitiable mad¬ 
 ness. 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 253 
 
 He dared, he renounced, everything in this world, in the 
 hope of securing that eternity in the next, which had so sud¬ 
 denly been revealed to him. While these thoughts on the one 
 hand invaded his breast, on the other hand his pride, his 
 courage, and his virtue, mingled with reminiscences of revenge 
 for deceit, of indignant disgust at fraud, conspired to raise and 
 to support him. 
 
 The conflict was sharp and keen; but his new feelings 
 triumphed over his old: and a mighty argument in favour of 
 wrestling with the sanctities of old opinions and hereditary 
 forms might be found in the conquest over both, achieved 
 by that humble priest. Had the early Christians been more 
 controlled by “the solemn plausibilities of custom”—less of 
 democrats in the pure and lofty acceptation of that perverted 
 word,—Christianity would have perished in its cradle! 
 
 As each priest in succession slept several nights together 
 in the chambers of the temple, the term imposed on Apae- 
 cides was not yet completed; and when he had risen from 
 his couch, attired himself, as usual, in his robes, and left his 
 narrow chamber, he found himself before the altars of the 
 temple. 
 
 In the exhaustion of his late emotions he had slept far into 
 the morning, and the vertical sun already poured its fervid 
 beams over the sacred place. 
 
 “Salve, Apaecides!” said a voice, whose natural asperity was 
 smoothed by long artifice into an almost displeasing softness 
 of tone. “Thou art late abroad; has the goddess revealed her¬ 
 self to thee in visions?” 
 
 “Could she reveal her true self to the people, Calenus, how 
 incenseless would be these altars!” 
 
 “That,” replied Calenus, “may possibly be true; but 
 the deity is wise enough to hold commune with none but 
 priests.” 
 
 “A time may come when she will be unveiled without her 
 own acquiescence.” 
 
 “It is not likely: she has triumphed for countless ages. And 
 that which has so long stood the test of time rarely succumbs 
 
254 
 
 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 to the lust of novelty. But hark ye, young brother! these say¬ 
 ings are indiscreet.” 
 
 “It is not for thee to silence them,” replied Apaecides, 
 haughtily. 
 
 “So hot!—yet I will not quarrel with thee. Why, my Apae¬ 
 cides, has not the Egyptian convinced thee of the necessity 
 of our dwelling together in unity? Has he not convinced 
 thee of the wisdom of deluding the people and enjoying our¬ 
 selves? If not, oh, brother! he is not that great magician he is 
 esteemed.” 
 
 “Thou, then, hast shared his lessons?” said Apaecides, with 
 a hollow smile. 
 
 “Ay! but I stood less in need of them than thou. Nature 
 had already gifted me with the love of pleasure, and the 
 desire of gain and power. Long is the way that leads the 
 voluptuary to the severities of life; but it is only one step 
 from pleasant sin to sheltering hypocrisy. Beware the 
 vengeance of the goddess, if the shortness of that step be dis¬ 
 closed ! ” 
 
 “Beware, thou, the hour when the tomb shall be rent 
 and the rottenness exposed,” returned Apaecides, solemnly. 
 “Valel” 
 
 With these words he left the flamen to his meditations. 
 When he got a few paces from the temple, he turned to look 
 back. Calenus had already disappeared in the entry room of 
 the priests, for it now approached the hour of that repast which, 
 called prandium by the ancients, answers in point of date to 
 the breakfast of the modems. The white and graceful fane 
 gleamed brightly in the sun. Upon the altars before it rose 
 the incense and bloomed the garlands. The priest gazed long 
 and wistfully upon the scene—it was the last time that it was 
 ever beheld by him! 
 
 He then turned and pursued his way slowly towards the 
 house of lone; for before possibly the last tie that united them 
 was cut in twain—before the uncertain peril of the next day 
 was incurred, he was anxious to see his last surviving relative, 
 his fondest as his earliest friend. 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 255 
 
 He arrived at her house, and found her in the garden with 
 Nydia. 
 
 “This is kind, Apascides,” said lone, joyfully; “and how 
 eagerly have I wished to see thee! — what thanks do I not owe 
 thee ? How churlish hast thou been to answer none of my let¬ 
 ters—to abstain from coming hither to receive the expressions 
 of my gratitude! Oh! thou hast assisted to preserve thy sister 
 from dishonour! What, what can she say to thank thee, now 
 thou art come at last?” 
 
 “My sweet lone, thou owest me no gratitude, for thy cause 
 was mine. Let us avoid that subject, let us recur not to that 
 impious man—how hateful to both of us! I may have a speedy 
 opportunity to teach the world the nature of his pretended 
 wisdom and hypocritical severity. But let us sit down, my 
 sister; I am wearied with the heat of the sun; let us sit in 
 yonder shade, and, for a little while longer, be to each other 
 what we have been.” 
 
 Beneath a wide plane-tree, with the cistus and the arbutus 
 clustering round them, the living fountain before, the green¬ 
 sward beneath their feet; the gay cicada, once so dear to 
 Athens, rising merrily ever and anon amidst the grass; the 
 butterfly, beautiful emblem of the soul, dedicated to Psyche, 
 and which has continued to furnish illustrations to the Christian 
 bard, rich in the glowing colours caught from Sicilian skies,* 
 hovering about the sunny flowers, itself like a winged flower— 
 in this spot, and this scene, the brother and the sister sat to¬ 
 gether for the last time on earth. You may tread now on the 
 same place; but the garden is no more, the columns are shat¬ 
 tered, the fountain has ceased to play. Let the traveller search 
 amongst the ruins of Pompeii for the house of lone. Its re¬ 
 mains are yet visible; but I will not betray them to the gaze 
 of commonplace tourists. He who is more sensitive than the 
 herd will discover them easily: when he has done so, let him 
 keep the secret. 
 
 They sat down, and Nydia, glad to be alone, retired to the 
 farther end of the garden. 
 
 “lone, my sister,” said the young convert, “place your 
 
 * In Sicily are found, perhaps, the most beautiful varieties of the butterfly. 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 256 
 
 hand upon my brow; let me feel your cool touch. Speak to 
 me, too, for your gentle voice is like a breeze that hath fresh¬ 
 ness as well as music. Speak to me, but forbear to bless me! 
 Utter not one word of those forms of speech which our child¬ 
 hood was taught to consider sacred!” 
 
 “Alas! and what then shall I say? Our language of affec¬ 
 tion is so woven with that of worship, that the words grow 
 chilled and trite if I banish from them allusion to our gods.” 
 
 “Our gods!" murmured Apaecides, with a shudder: “thou 
 slightest my request already.” 
 
 “Shall I speak then to thee only of Isis?” 
 
 “The Evil Spirit! No, rather be dumb for ever, unless at 
 least thou canst—but away, away this talk! Not now will we 
 dispute and cavil; not now will we judge harshly of each other. 
 Thou, regarding me as an apostate! and I all sorrow and shame 
 for thee as an idolater. No, my sister, let us avoid such topics 
 and such thoughts. In thy sweet presence a calm falls over my 
 spirit. For a little while I forget. As I thus lay my temples 
 on thy bosom, as I thus feel thy gentle arm embrace me, I think 
 that we are children once more, and that the heaven smiles 
 equally upon both. For oh! if hereafter I escape, no matter 
 what peril; and it be permitted me to address thee on one 
 sacred and awful subject; should I find thine ear closed and 
 thy heart hardened, what hope for myself could countervail 
 the despair for thee? In thee, my sister, I behold a likeness 
 made beautiful, made noble, of myself. Shall the mirror live 
 for ever, and the form itself be broken as the potter’s clay? Ah, 
 no—no—thou wilt listen to me yet! Dost thou remember how 
 we went into the fields byBaiae, hand in hand together, to pluck 
 the flowers of spring? Even so, hand in hand, shall we enter 
 the Eternal Garden, and crown ourselves with imperishable 
 asphodel! ” 
 
 Wondering and bewildered by words she could not com¬ 
 prehend, but excited even to tears by the plaintiveness of their 
 tone, lone listened to these outpourings of a full and oppressed 
 heart. In truth, Apaecides himself was softened much beyond 
 his ordinary mood, which to outward seeming was usually 
 either sullen or impetuous. For the noblest desires are of a 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 257 
 
 jealous nature—they engross, they absorb the soul, and often 
 leave the splenetic humours stagnant and unheeded at the sur¬ 
 face. Unheeding the petty things around us, we are deemed 
 morose; impatient at earthly interruption to the diviner dreams, 
 we are thought irritable and churlish. For as there is no 
 chimera vainer than the hope that one human heart shall find 
 sympathy in another, so none ever interpret us with justice; 
 and none, no, not our nearest and our dearest ties, forbear with 
 us in mercy! When we are dead and repentance comes too 
 late, both friend and foe may wonder to think how little there 
 was in us to forgive! 
 
 “I will talk to thee then of our early years,” said lone. 
 “Shall yon blind girl sing to thee of the days of childhood? 
 Her voice is sweet and musical, and she hath a song on that 
 theme which contains none of those allusions it pains thee to 
 hear.” 
 
 “Dost thou remember the words, my sister?” asked Apas- 
 cides. 
 
 “Methinks yes; for the tune, which is simple, fixed them 
 on my memory.” 
 
 “ Sing to me then thyself. My ear is not in unison with un¬ 
 familiar voices; and thine, lone, full of household associations, 
 has ever been to me more sweet than all the hireling melodies 
 of Lydia or of Crete. Sing to me! ” 
 
 lone beckoned to a slave that stood in the portico, and 
 sending for her lute, sang, when it arrived, to a tender and 
 simple air, the following verses:— 
 
 REGRET FOR CHILDHOOD. 
 
 1. 
 
 ** It is not that our earlier Heaven 
 Escapes its April showers. 
 
 Or that to childhood’s heart is given 
 No snake amidst the flowers. 
 
 Ah I twined with grief 
 Each brightest leaf 
 That’s wreath’d us by the Hours! 
 
 Young though we be, the Past may sting. 
 
 The Present feed its sorrow; 
 
 Pompeii, 
 
 17 
 
258 
 
 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 But Hope shines bright on every thing 
 That waits us with the morrow. 
 
 Like sun-lit glades. 
 
 The dimmest shades 
 Some rosy beam can borrow. 
 
 11. 
 
 It is not that our later years 
 Of cares are woven wholly; 
 
 But smiles less swiftly chase the tears. 
 
 And wounds are heal’d more slowly. 
 And Memory’s vow 
 To lost ones now. 
 
 Makes joys too bright, unholy. 
 
 And ever fled the Iris bow 
 
 That smiled when clouds were o’er us; 
 If storms should burst, uncheered we go, 
 
 A drearier waste before us;— 
 
 And with the toys 
 Of childish joys, 
 
 We’ve broke the staff that bore us 1 ” 
 
 Wisely and delicately had lone chosen that song, sad though 
 its burthen seemed; for when we are deeply mournful, discor¬ 
 dant above all others is the voice of mirth: the fittest spell is 
 that borrowed from melancholy itself, for dark thoughts can 
 be softened down when they cannot be brightened; and so they 
 lose the precise and rigid outline of their truth, and their 
 colours melt into the ideal. As the leech applies in remedy to 
 the internal sore some outward irritation, which, by a gentler 
 wound, draws away the venom of that which is more deadly, 
 thus, in the rankling festers of the mind, our art is to divert to 
 a milder sadness on the surface the pain that gnaweth at the 
 core. And so with Apaecides, yielding to the influence of the 
 silver voice that reminded him of the past, and told but of half 
 the sorrow born to the present, he forgot his more immediate 
 and fiery sources of anxious thought. He spent hours in mak¬ 
 ing lone alternately sing to, and converse with, him; and when 
 he rose to leave her, it was with a calmed and lulled mind. 
 
 “lone,” said he, as he pressed her hand, “should you hear 
 my name blackened and maligned, will you credit the asper¬ 
 sion?” 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 259 
 
 “Never, my brother, never!” 
 
 “Dost thou not imagine, according to thy belief, that the 
 evil-doer is punished hereafter, and the good rewarded?” 
 
 “Can you doubt it?” 
 
 “Dost thou think, then, that he who is truly good should 
 sacrifice every selfish interest in his zeal of virtue?” 
 
 “He who doth so is the equal of the gods.” 
 
 “And thou believest that, according to the purity and 
 courage with which he thus acts, shall be his portion of bliss 
 beyond the grave?” 
 
 “ So we are taught to hope.” 
 
 “Kiss me, my sister. One question more.—Thou art to be 
 wedded to Glaucus: perchance that marriage may separate us 
 more hopelessly—but not of this speak I now;—thou art to be 
 married to Glaucus—dost thou love him? Nay, my sister, 
 answer me by words.” 
 
 “Yes!” murmured lone, blushing. 
 
 “Dost thou feel that, for his sake, thou couldst renounce 
 pride, brave dishonour, and incur death? I have heard that 
 when women really love, it is to that excess.” 
 
 “My brother, all this could I do for Glaucus, and feel that 
 it were not a sacrifice. There is no sacrifice to those who love, 
 in what is borne for the one we love.” 
 
 “Enough! shall woman feel thus for man, and man feel less 
 devotion to his God?” 
 
 He spoke no more. His whole countenance seemed instinct 
 and inspired with a divine life: his chest swelled proudly; his 
 eyes glowed: on his forehead was writ the majesty of a man 
 who can dare be noble! He turned to meet the eyes of lone— 
 earnest, wistful, fearful;—he kissed her fondly, strained her 
 warmly to his breast, and in a moment more he had left the 
 house. 
 
 Long did lone remain in the same place, mute and thought¬ 
 ful. The maidens again and again came to warn her of the 
 deepening noon, and her engagement to Diomed’s banquet. 
 At length she woke from her reverie, and prepared, not with 
 the pride of beauty, but listless and melancholy, for the festival: 
 one thought alone reconciled her to the promised visit—she 
 
 17* 
 
2 6o 
 
 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 should meet Glaucus—she could confide to him her alarm and 
 uneasiness for her brother. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 A fashionable Party and a Dinner h la mode in Pompeii. 
 
 Meanwhile Sallust and Glaucus were slowly strolling to¬ 
 wards the house of Diomed. Despite the habits of his life, 
 Sallust was not devoid of many estimable qualities. He would 
 have been an active friend, a useful citizen—in short an ex¬ 
 cellent man, if he had not taken it into his head to be a philo¬ 
 sopher. Brought up in the schools in which Roman plagiarism 
 worshipped the echo of Grecian wisdom, he had imbued him¬ 
 self with those doctrines by which the later Epicureans cor¬ 
 rupted the simple maxims of their great master. He gave 
 hiifiself altogether up to pleasure, and imagined there was no 
 sage like a boon companion. Still, however, he had a con¬ 
 siderable degree of learning, wit, and good nature; and the 
 hearty frankness of his very vices seemed like virtue itself be¬ 
 side the utter corruption ofClodius and the prostrate effeminacy 
 of Lepidus; and therefore Glaucus liked him the best of his 
 companions ; and he, in turn, appreciating the nobler qualities 
 of the Athenian, loved him almost as much as a cold muraena, 
 or a bowl of the best Falernian. 
 
 “This is a vulgar old fellow, this Diomed,” said Sallust; 
 “but he has some good qualities—in his cellar!” 
 
 “And some charming ones—in his daughter.” 
 
 “True, Glaucus: but you are not much moved by them, 
 methinks. I fancy Clodius is desirous to be your successor.” 
 
 “He is welcome.—At the banquet of Julia’s beauty, no 
 guest, be sure, is considered a musca.” * 
 
 “You are severe; but she has, indeed, something of the 
 Corinthian about her—they will be well matched, after all! 
 What good-natured fellows we are to associate with that 
 gambling good-for-nought.” 
 
 “Pleasure unites strange varieties,” answered Glaucus. 
 “He amuses me-” 
 
 * Unwelcome and uninvited guests were called muscae, or flies. 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 261 
 
 “And flatters;—but then he pays himself well! He powders 
 his praise with gold-dust.” 
 
 “You often hint that he plays unfairly—thinkyou so really?” 
 
 “My dear Glaucus, a Roman noble has his dignity to keep 
 up — dignity is very expensive — Clodius must cheat like a 
 scoundrel, in order to live like a gentleman.” 
 
 “Ha ha!—well, of late I have renounced the dice. Ah! 
 Sallust, when I am wedded to lone, I trust I may yet redeem a 
 youth of follies. We are both born for better things than those 
 in which we sympathise now—born to render our worship in 
 nobler temples than the stye of Epicurus.” 
 
 “Alas!” returned Sallust, in rather a melancholy tone, 
 “what do we know more than this,—life is short—beyond the 
 grave all is dark? There is no wisdom like that which says 
 ‘enjoy.* ” 
 
 “By Bacchus! I doubt sometimes if we do enjoy the ut¬ 
 most of which life is capable.” 
 
 “I am a moderate man,” returned Sallust, “and do not ask 
 ‘the utmost.* We are like malefactors, and intoxicate our¬ 
 selves with wine and myrrh, as we stand on the brink of death; 
 but, if we did not do so, the abyss would look very disagree¬ 
 able. I own that I was inclined to be gloomy until I took so 
 heartily to drinking—that is a new life, my Glaucus.” 
 
 “Yes! but it brings us next morning to a new death.” 
 
 “Why, the next morning is unpleasant, I own; but, then, if 
 it were not so, one would never be inclined to read. I study 
 betimes—because, by the gods! I am generally unfit for any¬ 
 thing else till noon.” 
 
 “Fie, Scythian!” 
 
 “Pshaw! the fate of Pentheus to him who denies Bacchus.” 
 
 “Well, Sallust, with all your faults, you are the best pro¬ 
 fligate I ever met: and verily, if I were in danger of life, you 
 are the only man in all Italy who would stretch out a finger to 
 save me.** 
 
 “Perhaps I should not, if it were in the middle of supper. 
 But, in truth, we Italians are fearfully selfish.** 
 
 “So are all men who are not free,” said Glaucus, with a 
 sigh. “Freedom alone makes men sacrifice to each other.** 
 
262 
 
 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 “Freedom, then, must be a very fatiguing thing to an Epi¬ 
 curean,” answered Sallust. “But here we are at our host’s.” 
 
 As Diomed’s villa is one of the most considerable in point 
 of size of any yet discovered at Pompeii, and is, moreover, 
 built much according to the specific instructions for a suburban 
 villa laid down by the Roman architect, it may not be un¬ 
 interesting briefly to describe the plan of the apartments 
 through which our visitors passed. 
 
 They entered, then, by the same small vestibule at which 
 we have before been presented to the aged Medon, and passed 
 at once into a colonnade, technically termed the peristyle; for 
 the main difference between the suburban villa and the town 
 mansion consisted in placing, in the first, the said colonnade 
 in exactly the same place as that which in the town mansion 
 was occupied by the atrium. In the centre of the peristyle was 
 an open court, which contained the impluvium. 
 
 From this peristyle descended a staircase to the offices; 
 another narrow passage on the opposite side communicated 
 with a garden; various small apartments surrounded the colon¬ 
 nade, appropriated probably to country visitors. Another door 
 to the left on entering communicated with a small triangular 
 portico, which belonged to the baths; and behind was the ward¬ 
 robe, in which were kept the vests of the holiday suits of the 
 slaves, and, perhaps, of the master. Seventeen centuries after¬ 
 wards were found those relics of ancient finery calcined and 
 crumbling; kept longer, alas! than their thrifty lord foresaw. 
 
 Return we to the peristyle, and endeavour now to present 
 to the reader a coup tfctil of the whole suite of apartments, 
 which immediately stretched before the steps of the visitors. 
 
 Let him then first imagine the columns of the portico, hung 
 with festoons of flowers; the columns themselves in the lower 
 part painted red, and the walls around glowing with various 
 frescoes; then, looking beyond a curtain, three parts drawn 
 aside, the eye caught the tablinum or saloon (which was closed 
 at will by glazed doors, now slid back into the walls). On 
 either side of this tablinum were small rooms, one of which 
 was a kind of cabinet of gems; and these apartments, as well 
 as the tablinum, communicated with a long gallery, which 
 

THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 263 
 
 opened at either end upon terraces; and between the terraces, 
 and communicating with the central part of the gallery, was a 
 hall, in which the banquet was that day prepared. All these 
 apartments, though almost on a level with the street, were one 
 story above the garden; and the terraces communicating with 
 the gallery were continued into corridors, raised above the 
 pillars which, to the right and left, skirted the garden below. 
 
 Beneath, and on a level with the garden, ran the apart¬ 
 ments we have already described as chiefly appropriated to 
 Julia. 
 
 In the gallery, then, just mentioned, Diomed received his 
 guests. 
 
 The merchant affected greatly the man of letters, and, 
 therefore, he also affected a passion for everything Greek; he 
 paid particular attention to Glaucus. 
 
 “You will see, my friend,” said he, with a wave of his 
 hand, “that I am a little classical here—a little Cecropian— 
 eh? The hall in which we shall sup is borrowed from the 
 Greeks. It is an (Ecus Cyzicene. Noble Sallust, they have 
 not, I am told, this sort of apartment in Rome.” 
 
 “Oh!” replied Sallust, with a half smile; “you Pompeians 
 combine all that is most eligible in Greece and in Rome; 
 may you, Diomed, combine the viands as well as the archi¬ 
 tecture!” 
 
 “You shall see—you shall see, my Sallust,” replied the 
 merchant. “We have a taste at Pompeii, and we have also 
 money.” 
 
 “They are two excellent things,” replied Sallust. “But, 
 behold, the lady Julia!” 
 
 The main difference, as I have before remarked, in the 
 manner of life observed among the Athenians and Romans, 
 i was, that with the first, the modest women rarely or never 
 took part in entertainments; with the latter, they were the 
 1 common ornaments of the banquet; but when they were 
 present at the feast, it usually terminated at an early hour. 
 
 Magnificently robed in white, interwoven with pearls and 
 threads of gold, the handsome Julia entered the apartment. 
 
 Scarcely had she received the salutation of the two guests,, 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 264 
 
 ere Pansa and his wife, Lepidus, Clodius, and the Roman 
 senator, entered almost simultaneously; then came the widow 
 Fulvia; then the poet Fulvius, like to the widow in name if in 
 nothing else; the warrior from Herculaneum, accompanied by 
 his umbra, next stalked in; afterwards, the less eminent of the 
 guests. lone yet tarried. 
 
 It was the mode among the courteous ancients to flatter 
 whenever it was in their power: accordingly it was a sign of 
 ill-breeding to seat themselves immediately on entering the 
 house of their host. After performing the salutation, which 
 was usually accomplished by the same cordial shake of the 
 right hand which we ourselves retain, and sometimes, by the 
 yet more familiar embrace, they spent several minutes in 
 surveying the apartment, and admiring the bronzes, the pic¬ 
 tures, or the furniture, with which it was adorned—a mode 
 very impolite according to our refined English notions, which 
 place good-breeding in indifference. We would not for the 
 world express much admiration of another man’s house, for 
 fear it should be thought we had never seen anything so fine 
 before! 
 
 “A beautiful statue this of Bacchus!” said the Roman 
 senator. 
 
 “A mere trifle!” replied Diomed. 
 
 “What charming paintings!” said Fulvia. 
 
 “Mere trifles!” answered the owner. 
 
 “Exquisite candelabra!” cried the warrior. 
 
 “Exquisite!” echoed his umbra. 
 
 “Trifles! trifles!” reiterated the merchant. 
 
 Meanwhile, Glaucus found himself by one of the windows 
 of the gallery, which communicated with the terraces, and the 
 fair Julia by his side. 
 
 “Is it an Athenian virtue, Glaucus,” said the merchant’s 
 daughter, “to shun those whom we once sought?” 
 
 “Fair Julia—no!” 
 
 “Yet, methinks, it is one of the qualities of Glaucus.” 
 
 “Glaucus never shuns a friend!” replied the Greek, with 
 some emphasis on the last word. 
 
 “May Julia rank among the number of his friends?” 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 265 
 
 “It would be an honour to the emperor to find a friend in 
 one so lovely.” 
 
 “You evade my question,” returned the enamoured Julia. 
 “But tell me, is it true that you admire the Neapolitan 
 lone?” 
 
 “Does not beauty constrain our admiration?” 
 
 “Ah! subtle Greek, still do you fly the meaning of my 
 words. But say, shall Julia be indeed your friend?” 
 
 “If she will so favour me, blessed be the gods! The 
 day in which I am thus honoured shall be ever marked in 
 white.” 
 
 “Yet, even while you speak, your eye is restless—your 
 colour comes and goes—you move away involuntarily—you are 
 impatient to join lone!” 
 
 For at that moment lone had entered, and Glaucus had 
 indeed betrayed the emotion noticed by the jealous beauty. 
 
 “Can admiration to one woman make me unworthy the 
 friendship of another? Sanction not so, O Julia, the libels of 
 the poets on your sex!” 
 
 “Well, you are right—or I will learn to think so. Glaucus, 
 yet one moment! You are to wed lone; is it not so?” 
 
 “If the Fates permit, such is my blessed hope.” 
 
 “Accept, then, from, me, in token of our new friendship, a 
 present for your bride. Nay, it is the custom of friends, you 
 know, always to present to bride and bridegroom some such 
 little marks of their esteem and favouring wishes.” 
 
 “Julia! I cannot refuse any token of friendship from one 
 like you. I will accept the gift as an omen from Fortune 
 herself.” 
 
 “Then, after the feast, when the guests retire, you will 
 descend with me to my apartment, and receive it from my 
 hands. Remember!” said Julia, as she joined the wife of 
 Pansa, and left Glaucus to seek lone. 
 
 The widow Fulvia and the spouse of the aedile were en¬ 
 gaged in high and grave discussion. 
 
 “O Fulvia! I assure you that the last account from Rome 
 declares that the frizzling mode of dressing the hair is growing 
 antiquated; they only now wear it built up in a tower, like 
 
266 
 
 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 Julia’s, or arranged as a helmet—the Galerian fashion, like 
 mine, you see: it has a fine effect, I think. I assure you, 
 Vespius (Vespius was the name of the Herculaneum hero) 
 admires it greatly.” 
 
 “And nobody wears the hair like yon Neapolitan, in the 
 Greek way.” 
 
 “What, parted in front, with the knot behind? Oh, no; 
 how ridiculous it is! it reminds one of the statue of Diana! 
 Yet this lone is handsome, eh?” 
 
 “So the men say; but then she is rich: she is to marry 
 the Athenian—I wish her joy. He will not be long faithful, 
 I suspect; those foreigners are very faithless.” 
 
 “Oh, Julia!” said Fulvia, as the merchant’s daughter 
 joined them; “have you seen the tiger yet?” 
 
 “No!” 
 
 “Why, all the ladies have been to see him. He is so 
 handsome!” 
 
 “I hope we shall find some criminal or other for him and 
 the lion,” replied Julia. “Your husband (turning to Pansa’s 
 wife) is not so active as he should be in this matter.” 
 
 “Why, really, the laws are too mild,” replied the dame 
 of the helmet. “There are so few offences to which the 
 punishment of the arena can be awarded; and then, too, the 
 gladiators are growing effeminate! The stoutest bestiarii de¬ 
 clare they are willing enough to fight a boar or a bull; but 
 as for a lion or a tiger, they think the game too much in 
 earnest.” 
 
 “They are worthy of a mitre,”* replied Julia, in dis¬ 
 dain. 
 
 “Oh! have you seen the new house of Fulvius, the dear 
 poet?” said Pansa’s wife. 
 
 “No: is it handsome?” 
 
 “Very!—such good taste. But they say, my dear, that he 
 has such improper pictures! He won’t show them to the 
 women: how ill-bred!” 
 
 * Mitres were worn sometimes by men, and considered a great mark of 
 effeminacy. 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 267 
 
 “Those poets are always odd,” said the widow. “But he 
 is an interesting man; what pretty verses he writes! We im¬ 
 prove very much in poetry; it is impossible to read the old 
 stuff now.” 
 
 “I declare I am of your opinion,” returned the lady of the 
 helmet. “There is so much more force and energy in the 
 modern school.” 
 
 The warrior sauntered up to the ladies. 
 
 “It reconciles me to peace,” said he, “when I see such 
 faces.” 
 
 “Oh! you heroes are ever flatterers,” returned Fulvia, 
 hastening to appropriate the compliment specially to herself. 
 
 “By this chain, which I received from the emperor’s owui 
 hand,” replied the warrior, playing with a short chain which, 
 hung round the neck like a collar, instead of descending to 
 the breast, according to the fashion of the peaceful—“By this 
 chain, you wrong me! I am a blunt man—a soldier should 
 be so.” 
 
 “How do you find the ladies of Pompeii generally?” said 
 Julia. 
 
 “By Venus, most beautiful! They favour me a little, it is 
 true, and that inclines my eyes to double their charms.” 
 
 “We love a warrior,” said the wife of Pansa. 
 
 “I see it: by Hercules! it is even disagreeable to be too 
 celebrated in these cities. At Herculaneum they climb the roof 
 of my atrium to catch a glimpse of me through the com- 
 pluvium; the admiration of one’s citizens is pleasant at first, but 
 burthensome afterwards.” 
 
 “True, true, OVespius!” cried the poet, joining the group: 
 “I find it so myself.” 
 
 “You:” said the stately warrior, scanning the small form 
 of the poet with ineffable disdain. “In what legion have you 
 served?” 
 
 “You may see my spoils, my exuviae, in the forum itself,” 
 returned the poet, with a significant glance at the women. “I 
 have been among the tent-companions, the contubernales , of 
 the great Mantuan himself.” 
 
268 
 
 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 “I know no general from Mantua,” said the warrior, gravely. 
 “What campaign have you served?” 
 
 “That of Helicon.” 
 
 “I never heard of it.” 
 
 “Nay, Vespius, he does but joke,” said Julia laughing. 
 
 “Joke! By Mars, am I a man to be joked!” 
 
 “Yes; Mars himself was in love with the mother of jokes,” 
 said the poet, a little alarmed. “Know, then, O Vespius! that 
 I am the poet Fulvius. It is I who make warriors immortal!” 
 
 “The gods forbid! ” whispered Sallust to Julia. “IfVespius 
 were made immortal, what a specimen of tiresome braggadocio 
 would be transmitted to posterity!” 
 
 The soldier looked puzzled; when, to the infinite relief of 
 himself and his companions, the signal for the feast was given. 
 
 As we have already witnessed at the house of Glaucus the 
 ordinary routine of a Pompeian entertainment, the reader is 
 spared any second detail of the courses, and the manner in 
 which they were introduced. 
 
 Diomed, who was rather ceremonious, had appointed a 
 nomenclator, or appointer of places, to each guest. 
 
 The reader understands that the festive board was com¬ 
 posed of three tables; one at the centre, and one at each wing. 
 It was only at the outer side of these tables that the guests re¬ 
 clined; the inner space was left untenanted, for the greater 
 convenience of the waiters or ministri. The extreme corner 
 of one of the wings was appropriated to Julia as the lady of 
 the feast; that next her, to Diomed. At one corner of the 
 centre table was placed the sedile; at the opposite corner, the 
 Roman senator—these were the posts of honour. The other 
 guests were arranged, so that the young (gentleman or lady) 
 should sit next each other, and the more advanced in years be 
 similarly matched. An agreeable provision enough, but one 
 which must often have offended those who wished to be thought 
 still young. 
 
 The chair of lone was next to the couch of Glaucus.* The 
 
 * In formal parties the women sat in chairs,—the men reclined. It was only 
 in the bosom of families that the same ease was granted to both sexes,—the rea~ 
 son is obvious. 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 269 
 
 seats were veneered with tortoise-shell, and covered with 
 quilts stuffed with feathers, and ornamented with costly em¬ 
 broideries. The modern ornaments of epergne or plateau 
 were supplied by images of the gods, wrought in bronze, ivory, 
 and silver. The sacred salt-cellar and the familiar Lares were 
 not forgotten. Over the table and the seats a rich canopy was 
 suspended from the ceiling. At each corner of the table were 
 lofty candelabra—for though it was early noon, the room was 
 darkened—while from tripods, placed in different parts of the 
 room, distilled the odour of myrrh and frankincense; and upon 
 the abacus, or sideboard, large vases and various ornaments 
 of silver were ranged, much with the same ostentation (but 
 with more than the same taste) that we find displayed at a 
 modern feast. 
 
 The custom of grace was invariably supplied by that of 
 libations to the gods; and Vesta, as queen of the household 
 gods, usually received first that graceful homage. 
 
 This ceremony being performed, the slaves showered flowers 
 upon the couches and the floor, and crowned each guest with 
 rosy garlands, intricately woven with ribands, tied by the rind 
 of the linden-tree, and each intermingled with the ivy and the 
 amethyst—supposed preventives against the effect of wine; 
 the wreaths of the women only were exempted from these 
 leaves, for it was not the fashion for them to drink wine in 
 public. It was then that the president Diomed thought it ad¬ 
 visable to institute a basileus , or director of the feast—an im¬ 
 portant office, sometimes chosen by lot; sometimes, as now, 
 by the master of the entertainment. 
 
 Diomed was not a little puzzled as to his election. The 
 invalid senator was too grave and too infirm for the proper ful¬ 
 filment of his duty; the aedile Pansa was adequate enough to 
 the task; but then, to choose the next in official rank to the 
 senator, was an affront to the senator himself. While deliberat¬ 
 ing between the merits of the others, he caught the mirthful 
 glance of Sallust, and, by a sudden inspiration, named the jovial 
 epicure to the rank of director, or arbiter bibendi. 
 
 Sallust received the appointment with becoming humility. 
 
 "I shall be a merciful king,” said he, "to those who drink 
 
270 
 
 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 deep; to a recusant, Minos himself shall be less inexorable. 
 Beware! ” 
 
 The slaves handed round basins of perfumed water, by 
 which lavation the feast commenced: and now the table 
 groaned under the initiatory course. 
 
 The conversation, at first desultory and scattered, allowed 
 lone and Glaucus to carry on those sweet whispers, which are 
 worth all the eloquence in the world. Julia watched them with 
 flashing eyes. 
 
 “How soon shall her place be mine!” thought she. 
 
 But Clodius, who sat in the centre table, so as to observe 
 well the countenance of Julia, guessed her pique, and resolved 
 to profit by it. He addressed her across the table in set 
 phrases of gallantry; and as he was of high birth and of a 
 showy person, the vain Julia was not so much in love as to be 
 insensible to his attentions. 
 
 The slaves, in the interim, were constantly kept upon the 
 alert by the vigilant Sallust, who chased one cup by another 
 with a celerity which seemed as if he were resolved upon ex¬ 
 hausting those capacious cellars which the reader may yet see 
 beneath the house of Diomed. The worthy merchant began 
 to repent his choice, as amphora after amphora was pierced 
 and emptied. The slaves, all under the age of manhood (the 
 youngest being about ten years old,—it was they who filled 
 the wine,—the eldest, some five years older, mingled it with 
 water), seemed to share in the zeal of Sallust; and the face of 
 Diomed began to glow as he watched the provoking com¬ 
 placency with which they seconded the exertions of the king 
 of the feast. 
 
 “Pardon me, O senator!” said Sallust; “I see you flinch; 
 your purple hem cannot save you—drink!” 
 
 “By the gods,” said the senator, coughing, “my lungs are 
 already on fire; you proceed with so miraculous a swiftness, 
 that Phaeton himself was nothing to you. I am infirm, O 
 pleasant Sallust: you must exonerate me.” 
 
 “Not I, by Vesta! I am an impartial monarch—drink!” 
 
 The poor senator, compelled by the laws of the table, was 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 2 7 I 
 
 forced to comply. Alas! every cup was bringing him nearer 
 and nearer to the Stygian pool. 
 
 “Gently! gently! my king,” groaned Diomed; “we already 
 begin to-” 
 
 “Treason!” interrupted Sallust; “no stern Brutus here!— 
 no interference with royalty!” 
 
 “But our female guests-” 
 
 “Love a toper! Did not Ariadne dote upon Bacchus?” 
 
 “The feast proceeded; the guests grew more talkative and 
 noisy; the dessert or last course was already on the table; and 
 the slaves bore round water with myrrh and hyssop for the 
 finishing lavation. At the same time, a small circular table 
 that had been placed in the space opposite the guests suddenly, 
 and as by magic, seemed to open in the centre, and cast up a 
 fragrant shower, sprinkling the table and the guests; while as 
 it ceased the awning above them was drawn aside, and the 
 guests perceived that a rope had been stretched across the 
 ceiling, and that one of those nimble dancers for which Pompeii 
 was so celebrated, and whose descendants add so charming a 
 grace to the festivities of Astley’s or Vauxhall, was now tread¬ 
 ing his airy measures right over their heads. 
 
 This apparition, removed but by a cord from one’s peri¬ 
 cranium, and indulging the most vehement leaps, apparently 
 with the intention of alighting upon that cerebral region, would 
 probably be regarded with some terror by a party in May Fair; 
 but our Pompeian revellers seemed to behold the spectacle 
 with delighted curiosity, and applauded in proportion as the 
 dancer appeared with the most difficulty to miss falling upon 
 the head of whatever guest he particularly selected to dance 
 above. He paid the senator, indeed, the peculiar compliment 
 of literally falling from the rope, and catching it again with his 
 hand, just as the whole party imagined the skull of the Roman 
 was as much fractured as ever that of the poet whom the eagle 
 took for a tortoise. At length, to the great relief of at least 
 lone, who had not much accustomed herself to this entertain¬ 
 ment, the dancer suddenly paused as a strain of music was 
 heard from without. He danced again still more wildly; the 
 air changed, the dancer paused again; no, it could not dissolve 
 
272 
 
 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 the charm which was supposed to possess him! He represented 
 one who by a strange disorder is compelled to dance, and 
 whom only a certain air of music can cure.* At length the 
 musician seemed to hit on the right tune; the dancer gave one 
 leap, swung himself down from the rope, alighted on the floor, 
 and vanished. 
 
 One art now yielded to another; and the musicians who 
 were stationed without on the terrace struck up a soft and 
 mellow air, to which were sung the following words, made 
 almost indistinct by the barrier between, and the exceeding 
 lowness of the minstrelsy:— 
 
 FESTIVE MUSIC SHOULD BE LOW. 
 
 1. 
 
 51 Hark! through these flowers our music sends its greeting 
 To your loved halls, where Psilas ** sjiuns the day ; 
 
 When the young god his Cretan nymph was meeting. 
 
 He taught Pan’s rustic pipe this gliding lay. 
 
 Soft as the dews of wine 
 
 Shed in this banquethour. 
 
 The rich libation of Sound’s stream divine, 
 
 O reverent harp, to Aphrodite pour! 
 
 11. 
 
 Wild rings the trump o’er ranks to glory marching; 
 
 Music’s sublimer bursts for war are meet; 
 
 But sweet lips murmuring under wreaths o’er-arching. 
 
 Find the low whispers like their own most sweet. 
 
 Steal, my lull’d music, steal. 
 
 Like woman’s half-heard tone. 
 
 So that whoe’er shall hear, shall think to feel 
 In thee the voice of lips that love his own.” 
 
 At the end of that song lone’s cheek blushed more deeply 
 than before, and Glaucus had contrived, under cover of the 
 table, to steal her hand. 
 
 “It is a pretty song,” said Fulvius, patronisingly. 
 
 “Ah! if you would oblige us!” murmured the wife of 
 Pansa. 
 
 * A dance still retained in Campania. 
 
 ** Bacchus. 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 273 
 
 “Do you wish Fulvius to sing?” asked the king of the 
 feast, who had just called on the assembly to drink the health 
 of the Roman senator, a cup to each letter of his name. 
 
 “Can you ask?” said the matron, with a complimentary 
 glance at the poet. 
 
 Sallust snapped his fingers, and whispering the slave who 
 came to learn his orders, the latter disappeared, and returned 
 in a few moments with a small harp in one hand, and a branch 
 of myrtle in the other. 
 
 The slave approached the poet, and with a low reverence 
 presented to him the harp. 
 
 “Alas! I cannot play,” said the poet. 
 
 “ Then you must sing to the myrtle. It is a Greek fashion: 
 Diomed loves the Greeks—I love the Greeks—you love the 
 Greeks—we all love the Greeks—and between you and me 
 this is not the only thing we have stolen from them. However 
 I introduce this custom—I, the king: sing, subject, sing!” 
 
 The poet, with a bashful smile, took the myrtle in his hands, 
 and after a short prelude sang as follows, in a pleasant and 
 well-tuned voice:— 
 
 THE CORONATION OF THE LOVES.* 
 
 1. 
 
 ** The merry Loves one holiday 
 Were all at gambols madly; 
 
 But Loves too long can seldom play 
 Without behaving sadly. 
 
 They laugh’d, they toy’d, they romp’d about. 
 And then for change they all fell out. 
 
 Fie, fie! how can they quarrel so? 
 
 My Lesbia—ah, for shame, love! 
 Methinks 'tis scarce an hour ago 
 
 When we did just the same, love. 
 
 11. 
 
 The Loves, ’tis thought, were free till then. 
 
 They had no king or laws, dear; 
 
 But gods, like men, should subject be. 
 
 Say all the ancient saws, dear. 
 
 * Suggested by two Pompeian pictures in the museum at Naples, which re¬ 
 present a dove and a helmet enthroned by Cupids. 
 
 Pompeii. 1 8 
 
274 
 
 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEIL 
 
 And so our crew resolved, for quiet. 
 
 To choose a king to curb their riot. 
 
 A kiss: ah! what a grievous thing 
 
 For both, me thinks, ’twould be, child. 
 If I should take some prudish king. 
 
 And cease to be so free, child 1 
 
 ill. 
 
 Among their toys a Casque they found. 
 
 It was the helm of Ares; 
 
 With horrent plumes the crest was crown’d. 
 
 It frighten’d all the Lares. 
 
 So fine a king was never known— 
 
 They placed the helmet on the throne. 
 
 My girl, since Valour wins the world. 
 They chose a mighty master; 
 
 But thy sweet flag of smiles unfurled. 
 Would win the world much faster I 
 
 The Casque soon found the Loves too wild 
 A troop for him to school them; 
 
 For warriors know how one such child 
 Has aye contrived to fool them. 
 
 They plagued him so, that in despair 
 He took a wife the plague to share. 
 
 If kings themselves thus find the strife 
 Of earth, unshared, severe, girl; 
 Why, just to halve the ills of life. 
 
 Come, take your partner here, girl. 
 
 v. 
 
 Within the room that Bird of Love 
 The whole affair had eyed then; 
 
 The monarch hail’d the royal dove. 
 
 And placed her by his side then : 
 
 What mirth amidst the Loves was seen! 
 
 ‘ Long live,’ they cried, * our King and Queen! ’ 
 
 Ah! Lesbia, would that thrones were mine. 
 And crowns to deck that brow, love I 
 And yet I know that heart of thine 
 For me is throne enow, love! 
 
 VI. 
 
 The urchins hoped to tease the mate 
 As they had teased the hero; 
 
 But when the Dove in judgment sate 
 They found her worse than Nero! 
 Each look a frown, each word a law; 
 The little subjects shook with awe. 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 275 
 
 In thee I find the same deceit; — 
 
 Too late, alas 1 a learnerl 
 For where a mien more gently sweet? 
 
 And where a tyrant sterner?” 
 
 This song, which greatly suited the gay and lively fancy of 
 the Pompeians, was received with considerable applause, and 
 the widow insisted on crowning her namesake with the very 
 branch of myrtle to which he had sung. It was easily twisted 
 into a garland, and the immortal Fulvius was crowned amidst 
 the clapping of hands and shouts of Io triumphe! The song and 
 the harp now circulated round the party, a new myrtle branch 
 being handed about, stopping at each person who could be 
 prevailed upon to sing.* 
 
 The sun began now to decline, though the revellers, who 
 had worn away several hours, perceived it not in their dark¬ 
 ened chamber; and the senator, who was tired, and the war¬ 
 rior, who had to return to Herculaneum, rising to depart, gave 
 the signal for the general dispersion. “Tarry yet a moment, 
 my friends,” said Diomed; “if you will go so soon, you must 
 at least take a share in our concluding game.” 
 
 So saying, he motioned to one of the ministri, and whisper¬ 
 ing him, the slave went out, and presently returned with a 
 small bowl containing various tablets carefully sealed, and, 
 apparently, exactly similar. Each guest was to purchase one 
 of these at the nominal price of the lowest piece of silver: and 
 the sport of this lottery (which was the favourite diversion of 
 Augustus, who introduced it) consisted in the inequality, and 
 sometimes the incongruity, of the prizes, the nature and 
 amount of which were specified within the tablets. For in¬ 
 stance, the poet, with a wry face, drew one of his own poems 
 (no physician ever less willingly swallowed his own draught); 
 the warrior drew a case of bodkins, which gave rise to certain 
 novel witticisms relative to Hercules and the distaff; the widow 
 Fulvia obtained a large drinking-cup; Julia, a gentleman’s 
 
 * According to Plutarch ( Sympos . lib. i.) it seems that the branch of myrtle 
 or laurel was not carried round in order, but passed from the first person on one 
 couch to the first on another, and then from the second on the one to the second 
 on the other, and so on. 
 
 18* 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 276 
 
 buckle; and Lepidus, a lady’s patch-box. The most appro¬ 
 priate lot was drawn by the gambler Clodius, who reddened 
 with anger on being presented to a set of cogged dice.* A 
 certain damp was thrown upon the gaiety which these various 
 lots created by an accident that was considered ominous; 
 Glaucus drew the most valuable of all the prizes, a small 
 marble statue of Fortune, of Grecian workmanship: on hand¬ 
 ing it to him the slave, suffered it to drop, and it broke in 
 pieces. 
 
 A shiver went round the assembly, and each voice cried 
 spontaneously on the gods to avert the omen. 
 
 Glaucus alone, though perhaps as superstitious as the rest, 
 affected to be unmoved. 
 
 “Sweet Neapolitan,” whispered he tenderly to lone, who 
 had turned pale as the broken marble itself, “I accept the 
 omen. It signifies that in obtaining thee, Fortune can give no 
 more,—she breaks Tier image when she blesses me with thine.” 
 
 In order to divert the impression which this incident had 
 occasioned in an assembly which, considering the civilisation 
 of the guests, would seem miraculously superstitious, if at the 
 present day in a country party we did not often see a lady grow 
 hypochondriacal on leaving a room last of thirteen, Sallust now 
 crowning his cup with flowers, gave the health of their host. 
 This was followed by a similar compliment to the emperor; 
 and then, with a parting cup to Mercury to send them pleasant 
 slumbers, they concluded the entertainment by a last libation, 
 and broke up the party. 
 
 Carriages and litters were little used in Pompeii, partly 
 owing to the extreme narrowness of the streets, partly to the 
 convenient smallness of the city. Most of the guests replacing 
 their sandals, which they had put off in the banquet-room, and 
 induing their cloaks, left the house on foot attended by their 
 slaves. 
 
 Meanwhile, having seen lone depart, Glaucus turning to the 
 staircase which led down to the rooms of Julia, was conducted 
 
 * Several cogged dice were found in Pompeii. Some of the virtues may be 
 modern, but it is quite clear that all the vices are ancient. 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 277 
 
 by a slave to an apartment in which he found the merchant’s 
 daughter already seated. 
 
 “Glaucus!” said she, looking down, “I see that you really 
 love lone—she is indeed beautiful.” 
 
 “Julia is charming enough to be generous,” replied the 
 Greek. “Yes, I love lone; amidst all the youth who court you, 
 may you have one worshipper as sincere.” 
 
 “I pray the gods to grant it! See, Glaucus, these pearls 
 are the present I destine to your bride: may Juno give her 
 health to wear them!” 
 
 So saying, she placed a case in his hand, containing a row 
 of pearls of some size and price. It was so much the custom 
 for persons about to be married to receive these gifts, that 
 Glaucus could have little scruple in accepting the necklace, 
 though the gallant and proud Athenian inly resolved to requite 
 the gift by one of thrice its value. Julia then stopping short 
 his thanks, poured forth some wine into a small bowl. 
 
 “You have drunk many toasts with my father,” said she, 
 smiling,—“one now with me. Health and fortune to your 
 bride! ” 
 
 She touched the cup with her lips and then presented it 
 to Glaucus. The customary etiquette required that Glaucus 
 should drain the whole contents; he accordingly did so. Julia, 
 unknowing the deceit which Nydia had practised upon her, 
 watched him with sparkling eyes; although the witch had told 
 her that the effect might not be immediate, she yet sanguinely 
 trusted to an expeditious operation in favour of her charms. 
 She was disappointed when she found Glaucus coldly replace 
 the cup, and converse with her in the same unmoved but gentle 
 tone as before. And though she detained him as long as she 
 decorously could do, no change took place in his manner. 
 
 “But to-morrow,” thought she, exultingly recovering her 
 disappointment,—“to-morrow, alas for Glaucus!” 
 
 Alas for him, indeed 1 
 
278 
 
 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 The Story halts for a moment at an Episode. 
 
 Restless and anxious, Apascides consumed the day in 
 wandering through the most sequestered walks in the vicinity 
 of the city. The sun was slowly setting as he paused beside 
 a lonely part of the Sarnus, ere yet it wound amidst the 
 evidences of luxury and power. Only through openings in the 
 woods and vines were caught glimpses of the white and gleam¬ 
 ing city, in which was heard in the distance no din, no sound, 
 nor “busiest hum of men ” Amidst the green banks crept the 
 lizard and the grasshopper, and here and there in the brake some 
 solitary bird burst into sudden song, as suddenly stilled. There 
 was deep calm around, but not the calm of night; the air still 
 breathed of the freshness and life of day; the grass still moved 
 to the stir of the insect horde; and on the opposite bank the 
 graceful and white capella passed browsing through the 
 herbage, and paused at the wave to drink. 
 
 As Apsecides stood musingly gazing upon the waters, he 
 heard beside him the low bark of a dog. 
 
 “Be still, poor friend,” said a voice at hand; “the stranger’s 
 step harms not thy master.” The convert recognised the voice, 
 and, turning, he beheld the old mysterious man whom he had 
 seen in the congregation of the Nazarenes. 
 
 The old man was sitting upon a fragment of stone covered 
 with ancient mosses; beside him were his staff and scrip; at 
 his feet lay a small shaggy dog, the companion in how many a 
 pilgrimage perilous and strange. 
 
 The face of the old man was as balm to the excited spirit 
 of the neophyte: he approached, and craving his blessing, sat 
 down beside him. 
 
 “Thou art provided as for a journey, father,” said he: “wilt 
 thou leave us yet?” 
 
 “My son,” replied the old man, “the days in store for me 
 on earth are few and scanty; I employ them as becomes me, 
 travelling from place to place, comforting those whom God 
 has gathered together in His name, and proclaiming the glory 
 ofHis Son, as testified to His servant.” 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 279 
 
 “Thou hast looked, they tell me, on the face of Christ?” 
 
 “And the face revived me from the dead. Know, young 
 proselyte to the true faith, that I am he of whom thou readest 
 in the scroll of the Apostle. In the far Judea, and in the city 
 of Nain, there dwelt a widow, humble of spirit and sad of 
 heart; for of all the ties of life one son alone was spared to 
 her. And she loved him with a melancholy love, for he was 
 the likeness of the lost. And the son died. The reed on 
 which she leaned was broken, the oil was dried up in the 
 widow’s cruse. They bore the dead upon his bier; and near 
 the gate of the city, where the crowd were gathered, there 
 came a silence over the sounds of woe, for the Son of God was 
 passing by. The mother, who followed the bier, wept,—not 
 noisily, but all who looked upon her saw that her heart was 
 crushed. And the Lord pitied her, and he touched the bier, 
 and said, ‘I say unto thee, Arise.’ And the dead man woke 
 and looked upon the face of the Lord. Oh, that calm and 
 solemn brow, that unutterable smile, that careworn and sor¬ 
 rowful face, lighted up with a God’s benignity—it chased away 
 the shadows of the grave! I rose, I spoke, I was living, and 
 in my mother’s arms—yes, I am the dead revived! The people 
 shouted, the funeral horns rung forth merrily: there was a cry, 
 ‘God has visited His people!’ I heard them not—I felt—I saw 
 — nothing—but the face of the Redeemer!” 
 
 The old man paused, deeply moved; and the youth felt his 
 blood creep, and his hair stir. He was in the presence of one 
 who had known the Mystery of Death! 
 
 “Till that time,” renewed the widow’s son, “I had been as 
 other men: thoughtless, not abandoned; taking no heed, but 
 of the things of love and life; nay, I had inclined to the gloomy 
 faith of the earthly Sadducee! But, raised from the dead, from 
 awful and desert dreams that these lips never dare reveal—re¬ 
 called upon earth, to testify the powers of Heaven—once more 
 mortal, the witness of immortality; I drew a new being from 
 the grave. O faded—O lost Jerusalem!—Him from whom 
 came my life, I beheld adjudged to the agonised and parching 
 death!—Far in the mighty crowd, I saw the light rest and 
 glimmer over the cross; I heard the hooting mob, I cried aloud, 
 
28 o 
 
 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 I raved, I threatened—none heeded me—I was lost in the whirl 
 and the roar of thousands! But even then, in my agony and 
 His own, methought the glazing eye of the Son of Man sought 
 me out—His lip smiled, as when it conquered death—it hushed 
 me, and I became calm. He who had defied the grave for an¬ 
 other,—what was the grave to him? The sun shone aslant the 
 pale and powerful features, and then died away! Darkness 
 fell over the earth; how long it endured, I know not. A loud 
 cry came through the gloom—a sharp and bitter cry!—and all 
 was silent. 
 
 “But who shall tell the terrors of the night? I walked 
 along the city—the earth reeled to and fro, and the houses 
 trembled to their base—the living had deserted the streets 
 but not the Dead: through the gloom I saw them glide—the 
 dim and ghastly shapes, in the cerements of the grave,—with 
 horror, and woe, and warning on their unmoving lips and 
 lightless eyes!—they swept by me, as I passed—they glared 
 upon me—I had been their brother; and they bowed their 
 heads in recognition; they had risen to tell the living that the 
 dead can rise!” 
 
 Again the old man paused, and, when he resumed, it was 
 in a calmer tone. 
 
 “From that night I resigned all earthly thought but that of 
 serving Him. A preacher and a pilgrim, I have traversed the 
 remotest corners of the earth, proclaiming His Divinity, and 
 bringing new converts to His fold. I come as the wind, and 
 as the wind depart; sowing, as the wind sows, the seeds that 
 enrich the world. 
 
 “Son, on earth we shall meet no more. Forget not this 
 hour,—what are the pleasures and the pomps of life? As the 
 lamp shines, so life glitters for an hour; but the Souks light is 
 the star that burns for ever, in the heart of illimitable space.” 
 
 It was then that their conversation fell upon the general 
 and sublime doctrines of immortality; it soothed and elevated 
 the young mind of the convert, which yet clung to many of the 
 damps and shadows of that cell of faith which he had so lately 
 left—it was the air of heaven breathing on the prisoner re¬ 
 leased at last. There was a strong and marked distinction 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 281 
 
 between the Christianity of the old man and that of Olinthus; 
 that of the first was more soft, more gentle, more divine. The 
 hard heroism of Olinthus had something in it fierce and in¬ 
 tolerant—it was necessary to the part he was destined to play 
 —it had in it more of the courage of the martyr than the char¬ 
 ity of the saint. It aroused, it excited, it nerved, rather than 
 subdued and softened. But the whole heart of that divine old 
 man was bathed in love; the smile of the Deity had burned 
 away from it the leaven of earthlier and coarser passions, and 
 left to the energy of the hero all the meekness of the child. 
 
 “And now,” said he, rising at length, as the sun’s last ray 
 died in the west; “now, in the cool of twilight, I pursue my 
 way towards the Imperial Rome. There yet dwell some holy 
 men, who like me have beheld the face of Christ; and them 
 would I see before I die.” 
 
 “But the night is chill for thine age, my father, and the 
 way is long, and the robber haunts it; rest thee till to-mor- 
 row.” 
 
 “Kind son, what is there in this scrip to tempt the robber? 
 And the Night and the Solitude !—these make the ladder round 
 which angels cluster, and beneath which my spirit can dream 
 of God. Oh! none can know what the pilgrim feels as he 
 walks on his holy course; nursing no fear, and dreading no 
 danger—for God is with him! He hears the winds murmur 
 glad tidings; the woods sleep in the shadow of Almighty 
 wings;—the stars are the Scriptures of Heaven, the tokens of 
 love, and the witnesses of immortality. Night is the Pilgrim’s 
 day.” With these words the old man pressed Apsecides to 
 his breast, and taking up his staff and scrip, the dog bounded 
 cheerily before him, and with slow steps and downcast eyes he 
 went his way. 
 
 The convert stood watching his bended form, till the trees 
 shut the last glimpse from his view; and then, as the stars 
 broke forth, he woke from the musings with a start, reminded 
 of his appointment with Olinthus. 
 
282 
 
 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 The Philtre—its Effect. 
 
 WHEN Glaucus arrived at his own home, he found Nydia 
 seated under the portico of his garden. In fact, she had 
 sought his house in the mere chance that he might return at an 
 early hour: anxious, fearful, anticipative, she resolved upon 
 seizing the earliest opportunity of availing herself of the love- 
 charm, while at the same time she half hoped the opportunity 
 might be deferred. 
 
 It was then, in that fearful burning mood, her heart beat¬ 
 ing, her cheek flushing, that Nydia awaited the possibility of 
 Glaucus’s return before the night. He crossed the portico just 
 as the first stars began to rise, and the heaven above had as¬ 
 sumed its most purple robe. 
 
 “Ho, my child, wait you for me?” 
 
 “Nay, I have been tending the flowers, and did but linger a 
 little while to rest myself.” 
 
 “It has been warm,” said Glaucus, placing himself also on 
 one of the seats beneath the colonnade. 
 
 “Very.” 
 
 “Wilt thou summon Davus? The wine I have drunk heats 
 me, and I long for some cooling drink.” 
 
 Here at once, suddenly and unexpectedly, the very op¬ 
 portunity that Nydia awaited presented itself; of himself, at 
 his own free choice, he afforded to her that occasion. She 
 breathed quick—“I will prepare for you myself,” said she, 
 “the summer draught that lone loves—of honey and weak 
 wine cooled in snow.” 
 
 “Thanks,” said the unconscious Glaucus. “If lone love 
 it, enough; it would be grateful were it poison.” 
 
 Nydia frowned, and then smiled; she withdrew for a few 
 moments, and returned with the cup containing the beverage. 
 Glaucus took it from her hand. What would not Nydia have 
 given then for one hour’s prerogative of sight, to have watched 
 her hopes ripening to effect;—to have seen the first dawn of 
 the imagined love;—to have worshipped with more than 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 283 
 
 Persian adoration the rising of that sun which her credulous 
 soul believed was to break upon her dreary night! Far dif¬ 
 ferent, as she stood then and there, were the thoughts, the 
 emotions of the blind girl, from those of the vain Pompeian 
 under a similar suspense. In the last, what poor and frivolous 
 passions had made up the daring whole! What petty pique, 
 what small revenge, what expectation of a paltry triumph, had 
 swelled the attributes of that sentiment she dignified with the 
 name of love! but in the wild heart of the Thessalian all was 
 pure, uncontrolled, unmodified passion;—erring, unwomanly, 
 frenzied, but debased by no elements of a more sordid feeling. 
 Filled with love as with life itself, how could she resist the 
 occasion of winning love in return! 
 
 She leaned for support against the wall, and her face, be¬ 
 fore so flushed, was now white as snow, and with her delicate 
 hands clasped convulsively together, her lips apart, her eyes 
 on the ground, she waited the next words Glaucus should 
 utter. 
 
 Glaucus had raised the cup to his lips, he had already 
 drained about a fourth of its contents, when his eye suddenly 
 glancing upon the face of Nydia, he was so forcibly struck by 
 its alteration, by its intense, and painful, and strange expres¬ 
 sion, that he paused abruptly, and still holding the cup near 
 his lips, exclaimed— 
 
 “Why, Nydia! Nydia! Isay, art thou ill or in pain? Nay, 
 thy face speaks for thee. What ails my poor child?” As he 
 spoke, he put down the cup and rose from his seat to approach 
 her, when a sudden pang shot coldly to his heart, and was 
 followed by a wild, confused, dizzy sensation at the brain. The 
 floor seemed to glide from under him—his feet seemed to 
 move on air—a mighty and unearthly gladness rushed upon 
 his spirit—he felt too buoyant for the earth—he longed for 
 wings, nay, it seemed in the buoyancy of his new existence, as 
 if he possessed them. He burst involuntarily into a loud and 
 thrilling laugh. He clapped his hands — he bounded aloft— 
 he was as a Pythoness inspired; suddenly as it came this pre¬ 
 ternatural transport passed, though only partially, away. He 
 now felt his blood rushing loudly and rapidly through his veins; 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 284 
 
 it seemed to swell, to exult, to leap along, as a stream that has 
 burst its bounds, and hurries to the ocean. It throbbed in his 
 ear with a mighty sound, he felt it mount to his brow, he felt 
 the veins in the temples stretch and swell as if they could no 
 longer contain the violent and increasing tide—then a kind of 
 darkness fell over his eyes — darkness, but not entire; for 
 through the dim shade he saw the opposite walls glow out, 
 and the figures painted thereon seemed, ghost-like, to creep 
 and glide. What was most strange, he did not feel himself 
 ill —he did not sink or quail beneath the dread frenzy that was 
 gathering over him. The novelty of the feelings seemed bright 
 and vivid—he felt as if a younger health had been infused into 
 his frame. He was gliding on to madness — and he knew 
 it not! 
 
 Nydia had not answered his first question—she had not 
 been able to reply—his wild and fearful laugh had roused her 
 from her passionate suspense: she could not see his fierce 
 gesture—she could not mark his reeling and unsteady step as 
 he paced unconsciously to and fro; but she heard the words, 
 broken, incoherent, insane, that gushed from his lips. She 
 became terrified and appalled—she hastened to him, feeling 
 with her arms until she touched his knees, and then falling 
 on the ground she embraced them, weeping with terror and 
 excitement. 
 
 “Oh, speak to me! speak! you do not hate me?—speak, 
 speak!” 
 
 “By the bright goddess, a beautiful land this Cyprus! Ho! 
 how they fill us with wine instead of blood! now they open the 
 veins of the Faun yonder, to show how the tide within bubbles 
 and sparkles. Come hither, jolly old god! thou ridest on a 
 goat, eh?—what long silky hair he has! He is worth all the 
 coursers of Parthia. But a word with thee—this wine of thine 
 is too strong for us mortals. Oh! beautiful! the boughs are 
 at rest! the green waves of the forest have caught the Zephyr 
 and drowned him! Not a breath stirs the leaves—and I view 
 the Dreams sleeping with folded wings upon the motionless 
 elm; and I look beyond, and I see a blue stream sparkle in the 
 silent noon; a fountain—a fountain springing aloft! Ah! my 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 285 
 
 fount, thou wilt not put out the rays of my Grecian sun, though 
 thou triest ever so hard with thy nimble and silver arms. And 
 now, what form steals yonder through the boughs? she glides 
 like a moonbeam?—she has a garland of oak-leaves on her 
 head. In her hand is a vase upturned, from which she pours 
 pink and tiny shells, and sparkling water. Oh! look on yon 
 face! Man never before saw its like. See! we are alone; only 
 I and she in the wide forest. There is no smile upon her lips 
 —she moves, grave and sweetly sad. Ha! fly, it is a nymph! 
 —it is one of the wild Napsese!* Whoever sees her becomes 
 mad—fly! see, she discovers me!” 
 
 “Oh! Glaucus! Glaucus! do you not know me? Rave not 
 so wildly, or thou wilt kill me with a word! ” 
 
 A new change seemed now to operate upon the jarring and 
 disordered mind of the unfortunate Athenian. He put his 
 hands upon Nydia's silken hair; he smoothed the locks—he 
 looked wistfully upon her face, and then, as in the broken 
 chain of thought one or two links were yet unsevered, it 
 seemed that her countenance brought its associations of lone; 
 and with that remembrance his madness became yet more 
 powerful, and it was swayed and tinged by passion, as he burst 
 forth,— 
 
 “I swear by Venus, by Diana, and by Juno, that though I 
 have now the world on my shoulders, as my countryman 
 Hercules (ah, dull Rome! whoever was truly great was of 
 Greece; why, you would be godless if it were not for us!)— 
 I say, as my countryman Hercules had before me, I would let 
 it fall into chaos for one smile from lone. Ah, Beautiful,— 
 Adored,” he added, in a voice inexpressibly fond and plaintive, 
 “thou lovest me not. Thou art unkind to me. The Egyptian 
 hath belied me to thee—thou knowest not what hours I have 
 spent beneath thy casement—thou knowest not how I have 
 outwatched the stars, thinking thou, my sun, wouldst rise at 
 last,—and thou lovest me not, thou forsakest me! Oh! do not 
 leave me now! I feel that my life will not be long; let me gaze 
 on thee at least unto the last. I am of the bright land of thy 
 fathers—I have trod the heights of Phyle—I have gathered the 
 
 * Presiding over hills and woods. 
 
286 
 
 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 hyacinth and rose amidst the olive-groves of Ilissus. Thou 
 shouldst not desert me, for thy fathers were brothers to my 
 own. And they say this land is lovely, and these climes 
 serene, but I will bear thee with me—Ho! dark form, why 
 risest thou like a cloud between me and mine? Death sits 
 calmly dread upon thy brow—on thy lip is the smile that slays: 
 thy name is Orcus, but on earth men call thee Arbaces. See, 
 I know thee! fly, dim shadow, thy spells avail not!” 
 
 “Glaucus! Glaucus!” murmured Nydia, releasing her hold 
 and falling, beneath the excitement of her dismay, remorse, 
 and anguish, insensible on the floor. 
 
 “Who calls?” said he, in a loud voice. “lone, it is she! 
 they have borne her off—we will save her—where is my 
 stilus? Ha, I have it! I come, lone, to thy rescue! I come! I 
 come! ” 
 
 So saying, the Athenian with one bound passed the portico, 
 he traversed the house, and rushed with swift but vacillating 
 steps, and muttering audibly to himself, down the starlit streets. 
 The direful potion burnt like fire in his veins, for its effect was 
 made, perhaps, still more sudden from the wine he had drunk 
 previously. Used to the excesses of nocturnal revellers, the 
 citizens, with smiles and winks, gave way to his reeling steps; 
 they naturally imagined him under the influence of the Bromian 
 god, not vainly worshipped at Pompeii; but they who looked 
 twice upon his face started in a nameless fear, and the smile 
 withered from their lips. He passed the more populous 
 streets; and, pursuing mechanically the way to lone’s house, 
 he traversed a more deserted quarter, and entered now the 
 lonely grove of Cybele, in which Apaecides had held his inter¬ 
 view with Olinthus. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 A Reunion of different Actors.—Streams that flowed apparently apart rush 
 into one Gulf. 
 
 Impatient to learn whether the fell drug had yet been ad¬ 
 ministered by Julia to his hated rival, and with what effect, 
 Arbaces resolved, as the evening came on, to seek her house, 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 287 
 
 and satisfy his suspense. It was customary, as I have before 
 said, for men at that time to carry abroad with them the 
 tablets and the stilus attached to their girdle; and with the 
 girdle they were put off when at home. In fact, under the 
 appearance of a literary instrument, the Romans carried about 
 with them in that same stilus a very sharp and formidable 
 weapon. It was with his stilus* that Cassius stabbed Caesar 
 in the senate-house. Taking, then, his girdle and his cloak, 
 Arbaces left his house, supporting his steps, which were still 
 somewhat feeble (though hope and vengeance had conspired 
 greatly with his own medical science, which was profound, to 
 restore his natural strength), by his long staff: Arbaces took 
 his way to the villa of Diomed. 
 
 And beautiful is the moonlight of the south! In those 
 climes the night so quickly glides into the day, that twilight 
 scarcely makes a bridge between them. One moment of 
 darker purple in the sky—of a thousand rose-hues in the water 
 —of shade half victorious over light; and then burst forth at 
 once the countless stars—the moon is up—night has resumed 
 her reign! 
 
 Brightly then, and softly bright, fell the moonbeams over 
 the antique grove consecrated to Cybele—the stately trees, 
 whose date went beyond tradition, cast their long shadows 
 over the soil, while through the openings in their boughs the 
 stars shone, still and frequent. The whiteness of the small 
 sacellum in the centre of the grove, amidst the dark foliage, 
 had in it something abrupt and startling; it recalled at once 
 the purpose to which the wood was consecrated,—its holiness 
 and solemnity. 
 
 With a swift and stealthy pace, Calenus, gliding under the 
 shade of the trees, reached the chapel, and gently putting 
 back the boughs that completely closed around its rear, settled 
 himself in his concealment; a concealment so complete, what 
 with the fane in front and the trees behind, that no unsuspicious 
 passenger could possibly have detected him. Again, all was 
 apparently solitary in the grove: afar off you heard faintly the 
 voices of some noisy revellers, or the music that played 
 
 * From the stilus may be derived the stiletto of the Italians. 
 
288 
 
 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 cheerily to the groups that then, as now in those climates, 
 during the nights of summer, lingered in the streets, and en¬ 
 joyed, in the fresh air and the liquid moonlight, a milder day. 
 
 From the height on which the grove was placed, you saw 
 through the intervals of the trees the broad and purple sea, 
 rippling in the distance, the white villas of Stabiae in the 
 curving shore, and the dim Lectiarian hills mingling with the 
 delicious sky. Presently the tall figure of Arbaces, in his way 
 to the house ofDiomed, entered the extreme end of the grove; 
 and at the same instant Apeecides, also bound to his appoint¬ 
 ment with Olinthus, crossed the Egyptian’s path. 
 
 “Hem! Apaecides,” said Arbaces, recognising the priest at 
 a glance; “when last we met, you were my foe. I have wished 
 since then to see you, for I would have you still my pupil and 
 my friend.” 
 
 Apaecides started at the voice of the Egyptian: and halting 
 abruptly, gazed upon him with a countenance full of contend¬ 
 ing, bitter, and scornful emotions. 
 
 “Villain and impostor!” said he at length; “thou hast re¬ 
 covered then from the jaws of the grave! But think not again 
 to weave around me thy guilty meshes.— Retiarius , I am armed 
 against thee!” 
 
 “Hush!” said Arbaces, in a very low voice—but his pride, 
 which in that descendant of kings was great, betrayed the 
 wound it received from the insulting epithets of the priest in 
 the quiver of his lip and the flush of his tawny brow. “Hush! 
 more low! thou mayest be overheard, and if other ears than 
 mine had drunk those sounds—why ” 
 
 “Dost thou threaten?—what if the whole city had heard 
 me?” 
 
 “The manes of my ancestors would not have suffered me 
 to forgive thee. But, hold, and hear me. Thou art enraged 
 that I would have offered violence to thy sister.—Nay, peace, 
 peace, but one instant, I pray thee. Thou art right; it was the 
 frenzy of passion and of jealousy—I have repented bitterly of 
 my madness. Forgive me; I, who never implored pardon of 
 living man, beseech thee now to forgive me. Nay, I will atone 
 the insult-—I ask thy sister in marriage;—start not,—consider, 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 289 
 
 —what is the alliance of yon holiday Greek compared to mine? 
 Wealth unbounded—birth that in its far antiquity leaves your 
 Greek and Roman names the things of yesterday—science— 
 but that thou knowest! Give me thy sister, and my whole life 
 shall atone a moment’s error.” 
 
 “Egyptian, were even I to consent, my sister loathes the 
 very air thou breathest: but I have my own wrongs to forgive 
 —I may pardon thee that thou hast made me a tool to thy 
 deceits, but never that thou hast seduced me to become the 
 abettor of thy vices—a—polluted and a perjured man. 
 Tremble!—even now I prepare the hour in which thou and thy 
 false gods shall be unveiled. Thy lewd and Circean life shall 
 be dragged to day,—thy mumming oracles disclosed—the 
 fane of the idol Isis shall be a byword and a scorn—the name 
 of Arbaces a mark for the hisses of execration! Tremble!” 
 
 The flush on the Egyptian’s brow was succeeded by a livid 
 paleness. He looked behind, before, around, to feel assured 
 that none were by; and then he fixed his dark and dilating eye 
 on the priest, with such a gaze of wrath and menace, that one, 
 perhaps, less supported than Apsecides by the fervent daring 
 of a divine zeal, could not have faced with unflinching look 
 that lowering aspect. As it was, however, the young convert 
 met it unmoved, and returned it with an eye of proud de¬ 
 fiance. 
 
 “Apaecides,” said the Egyptian, in a tremulous and inward 
 tone, “beware! What is it thou wouldst meditate? Speakest 
 thou—reflect, pause before thou repliest—from the hasty in¬ 
 fluences of wrath, as yet divining no settled purpose, or from 
 some fixed design?” 
 
 “I speak from the inspiration of the True God, whose 
 servant I now am,” answered the Christian, boldly; “and in 
 the knowledge that by His grace human courage has already 
 fixed the date of thy hypocrisy and thy demon’s worship; ere 
 thrice the sun has dawned, thou wilt know all! Dark sorcerer, 
 tremble, and farewell! ” 
 
 All the fierce and lurid passions which he inherited from 
 his nation and his clime, at all times but ill concealed beneath 
 the blandness of craft and the coldness of philosophy, were 
 
 Pompeii. I g 
 
2 go 
 
 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 released in the breast of the Egyptian. Rapidly one thought 
 chased another; he saw before him an obstinate barrier to 
 even a lawful alliance with lone—the fellow-champion of 
 Glaucus in the struggle which had baffled his designs—the 
 reviler of his name—the threatened desecrator of the goddess 
 he served while he disbelieved—the avowed and approaching 
 revealer of his own impostures and vices. His love, his repute, 
 nay, his very life, might be in danger—the day and hour 
 seemed even to have been fixed for some design against him. 
 He knew by the words of the convert that Apaecides had 
 adopted the Christian faith: he knew the indomitable zeal 
 which led on the proselytes of that creed. Such was his 
 enemy; he grasped his stilus,—that enemy was in his power! 
 They were now before the chapel; one hasty glance once more 
 he cast around; he saw none near,—silence and solitude alike 
 tempted him. 
 
 “Die, then, in thy rashness!” he muttered; “away, obstacle 
 to my rushing fates!” 
 
 And just as the young Christian had turned to depart, 
 Arbaces raised his hand high over the left shoulder of 
 Apaecides, and plunged his sharp weapon twice into his breast. 
 
 Apaecides fell to the ground pierced to the heart,—he fell 
 mute, without even a groan, at the very base of the sacred 
 chapel. 
 
 Arbaces gazed upon him for a moment with the fierce 
 animal joy of conquest over a foe. But presently the full 
 sense of the danger to which he was exposed flashed upon 
 him; he wiped his weapon carefully in the long grass, and 
 with the very garments of his victim; drew his cloak round 
 him, and was about to depart, when he saw, coming up the 
 path, right before him, the figure of a young man, whose steps 
 reeled and vacillated strangely as he advanced: the quiet 
 moonlight streamed full upon his face, which seemed, by the 
 whitening ray, colourless as marble. The Egyptian recognised 
 the face and form of Glaucus. The unfortunate and benighted 
 Greek was chanting a disconnected and mad song, composed 
 from snatches of hymns and sacred odes, all jarringly woven 
 together. 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 29I 
 
 “Ha!” thought the Egyptian, instantaneously divining his 
 state and its terrible cause; “so, then, the hell-draught works, 
 and destiny hath sent thee hither to crush two of my foes at 
 once!” 
 
 Quickly, even ere this thought occurred to him, he had 
 withdrawn on one side of the chapel, and concealed himself 
 amongst the boughs; from that lurking place he watched, as a 
 tiger in his lair, the advance of his second victim. He noted 
 the wandering and restless fire in the bright and beautiful eyes 
 of the Athenian; the convulsions that distorted his statue-like 
 features, and writhed his hueless lip. He saw that the Greek 
 was utterly deprived of reason. Nevertheless, as Glaucus came 
 up to the dead body of Apascides, from which the dark red 
 stream flowed slowly over the grass, so strange and ghastly a 
 spectacle could not fail to arrest him, benighted and erring as 
 was his glimmering sense. He paused, placed his hand to his 
 brow, as if to collect himself, and then saying,— 
 
 “What ho! Endymion, sleepest thou so soundly? Wnat 
 has the moon said to thee? Thou makest me jealous; it is 
 time to wake,”—he stooped down with the intention of lifting 
 up the body. 
 
 Forgetting—feeling not—his own debility, the Egyptian 
 sprung from his hiding-place, and, as the Greek bent, struck 
 him forcibly to the ground, over the very body of the Christian; 
 then, raising his powerful voice to its loudest pitch, he 
 shouted,— 
 
 “Ho, citizens, — oh! help me! — run hither—hither!—A 
 murder—a murder before your very fane! Help, or the mur¬ 
 derer escapes!” As he spoke, he placed his foot on the breast 
 of Glaucus! an idle and superfluous precaution; for the potion 
 operating with the fall, the Greek lay there motionless and 
 insensible, save that now and then his lips gave vent to some 
 vague and raving sounds. 
 
 As he there stood awaiting the coming of those his voice 
 still continued to summon, perhaps some remorse, some com¬ 
 punctious visitings—for despite his crimes he was human,— 
 haunted the breast of the Egyptian; the defenceless state of 
 Glaucus—his wandering words—his shattered reason, smote 
 
 19* 
 
2g2 
 
 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 him even more than the death of Apaecides, and he said, half 
 audibly, to himself,— 
 
 “Poor clay!—poor human reason! where is the soul now? I 
 could spare thee, O my rival—rival never more! But destiny 
 must be obeyed — my safety demands thy sacrifice.” With 
 that, as if to drown compunction, he shouted yet more loudly; 
 and drawing from the girdle of Glaucus the stilus it contained, 
 he steeped it in the blood of the murdered man, and laid it 
 beside the corpse. 
 
 And now, fast and breathless, several of the citizens came 
 thronging to the place, some with torches, which the moon 
 rendered unnecessary, but which flared red and tremulously 
 against the darkness of the trees: they surrounded the spot. 
 
 “Lift up yon corpse,” said the Egyptian, “and guard well 
 the murderer.” 
 
 They raised the body, and great was their horror and 
 sacred indignation to discover in that lifeless clay a priest of 
 the adored and venerable Isis; but still greater, perhaps, was 
 their surprise, when they found the accused in the brilliant 
 and admired Athenian. 
 
 “Glaucus!” cried the bystanders, with one accord; “is it 
 even credible?” 
 
 “I would sooner,” whispered one man to his neighbour, 
 “believe it to be the Egyptian himself.” 
 
 Here a centurion thrust himself into the gathering crowd, 
 with an air of authority. 
 
 “How! blood spilt! who the murderer?” 
 
 The bystanders pointed to Glaucus. 
 
 “He!—by Mars, he has rather the air of being the victim! 
 Who accuses him?” 
 
 “7,” said Arbaces, drawing himself up haughtily; and the 
 jewels which adorned his dress flashing in the eyes of the 
 soldier, instantly convinced that worthy warrior of the wit¬ 
 ness’s respectability. 
 
 “Pardon me—your name?” said he. 
 
 “Arbaces; it is well known methinks in Pompeii. Passing 
 through the grove, I beheld before me the Greek and the 
 priest in earnest conversation. I was struck by the reeling 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 293 
 
 motions of the first, his violent gestures, and the loudness of 
 his voice; he seemed to me either drunk or mad. Suddenly 
 I saw him raise his stilus—I darted forward—too late to arrest 
 the blow. He had twice stabbed his victim, and was bending 
 over him, when, in my horror and indignation, I struck the 
 murderer to the ground. He fell without a struggle, which 
 makes me yet more suspect that he was not altogether in his 
 senses when the crime was perpetrated; for, recently recovered 
 from a severe illness, my blow was comparatively feeble, and 
 the frame of Glaucus, as you see, is strong and youthful. 
 
 “His eyes are open now—his lips move,” said the soldier. 
 “Speak, prisoner, what sayest thou to the charge?” 
 
 “The charge—ha—ha! Why, it was merrily done; when 
 the old hag set her serpent at me, and Hecate stood by laugh¬ 
 ing from ear to ear—what could I do? But I am ill—I faint— 
 the serpent’s fiery tongue hath bitten me. Bear me to bed, 
 and send for your physician; old JEsculapius himself will 
 attend me if you let him know that I am Greek. Oh, mercy— 
 mercy—I burn!—marrow and brain, I bum!” 
 
 And, with a thrilling and fierce groan, the Athenian fell 
 back in the arms of the bystanders. 
 
 “He raves,” said the officer, compassionately; “and in his 
 delirium he has struck the priest. Hath any one present seen 
 him to-day?” 
 
 “I,” said one of the spectators, “beheld him in the morn¬ 
 ing. He passed my shop and accosted me. He seemed well 
 and sane as the stoutest of us.” 
 
 “And I saw him half an hour ago,” said another, “passing 
 up the streets, muttering to himself with strange gestures, and 
 just as the Egyptian has described.” 
 
 “A corroboration of the witness! it must be too true. He 
 must at all events to the praetor; a pity, so young and so rich? 
 But the crime is dreadful: a priest of Isis, in his very robes, 
 too, and at the base itself of our most ancient chapel!” 
 
 At these words the crowd were reminded more forcibly, 
 than in their excitement and curiosity they had yet been, of 
 the heinousness of the sacrilege. They shuddered in pious 
 horror. 
 
2Q4 
 
 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 “No wonder the earth has quaked,” said one, “when it 
 held such a monster! ” 
 
 “Away with him to prison—away! ” cried they all. 
 
 And one solitary voice was heard shrilly and joyously 
 above the rest:— 
 
 “The beasts will not want a gladiator now, 
 
 * Ho, ho I for the merry, merry show 1 ’ ” 
 
 It was the voice of the young woman whose conversation 
 with Medon has been repeated. 
 
 “True—true—it chances in season for the games!” cried 
 several; and at that thought all pity for the accused seemed 
 vanished. His youth, his beauty, but fitted him better for the 
 purpose of the arena. 
 
 “Bring hither some planks—or if at hand, a litter—to bear 
 the dead,” said Arbaces: “a priest of Isis ought scarcely to 
 be carried to his temple by vulgar hands, like a butchered 
 gladiator.” 
 
 At this the bystanders reverently laid the corpse of Apae- 
 cides on the ground, with the face upwards; and some of them 
 went in search of some contrivance to bear the body, un¬ 
 touched by the profane. 
 
 It was just at that time that the crowd gave way to right 
 and left as a sturdy form forced itself through, and Olinthus 
 the Christian stood immediately confronting the Egyptian. 
 But his eyes, at first, only rested with inexpressible grief and 
 horror on that gory side and upturned face, on which the 
 agony of violent death yet lingered. 
 
 “Murdered!” he said. “Is it thy zeal that has brought 
 thee to this? Have they detected thy noble purpose, and by 
 death prevented their own shame?” 
 
 He turned his head abruptly, and his eyes fell full on the 
 solemn features of the Egyptian. 
 
 As he looked, you might see in his face, and even the 
 slight shiver of his frame, the repugnance and aversion which 
 the Christian felt for one whom he knew to be so dangerous 
 and so criminal. It was indeed the gaze of the bird upon the 
 basilisk—so silent was it and so prolonged. But shaking off 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 295 
 
 the sudden chill that had crept over him, Olinthus extended his 
 right arm towards Arbaces, and said, in a deep and loud 
 voice:— 
 
 “Murder hath been done upon this corpse! Where is the 
 murderer? Stand forth, Egyptian! For, as the Lord liveth, I 
 believe thou art the man!” 
 
 An anxious and perturbed change might for one moment 
 be detected on the dusky features of Arbaces; but it gave way 
 to the frowning expression of indignation and scorn, as, awed 
 and arrested by the suddenness and vehemence of the charge, 
 the spectators pressed nearer and nearer upon the two more 
 prominent actors. 
 
 “I know,” said Arbaces, proudly, “who is my accuser, and 
 I guess wherefore he thus arraigns me. Men and citizens, 
 know this man for the most bitter of the Nazarenes, if that or 
 Christians be their proper name! What marvel that in his 
 malignity he dares accuse even an Egyptian of the murder 
 of a priest ofEgypt!” 
 
 “I know him! I know the dog!” shouted several voices. 
 “It is Olinthus the Christian—or rather the Atheist;—he denies 
 the gods!” 
 
 “Peace, brethren/' said Olinthus, with dignity, “and hear 
 me! This murdered priest of Isis before his death embraced 
 the Christian faith—he revealed to me the dark sins, the 
 sorceries of yon Egyptian—the mummeries and delusions of 
 the fane of Isis. He was about to declare them publicly. Lfe, 
 a stranger, unoffending, without enemies! who should shed his 
 blood but one of those who feared his witness? Who might 
 fear that testimony the most?—Arbaces, the Egyptian!” 
 
 “You hear him!” said Arbaces; “you hear him! he blas¬ 
 phemes ! Ask him if he believes in Isis ? ” 
 
 “Do I believe in an evil demon?” returned Olinthus, 
 boldly. 
 
 A groan and shudder passed through the assembly. No¬ 
 thing daunted, for prepared at every time for peril, and in the 
 present excitement losing all prudence, the Christian con¬ 
 tinued— 
 
 “Back, idolaters! this clay is not for your vain and polluting 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 296 
 
 rites—it is to us—to the followers of Christ, that the last offices 
 due to a Christian belong. I claim this dust in the name of the 
 great Creator who has recalled the spirit!” 
 
 With so solemn and commanding a voice and aspect the 
 Christian spoke these words, that even the crowd forbore to 
 utter aloud the execration of fear and hatred which in their 
 hearts they conceived. And never, perhaps, since Lucifer and 
 the Archangel contended for the body of the mighty Lawgiver, 
 was there a more striking subject for the painter’s genius than 
 that scene exhibited. The dark trees—the stately fane—the 
 moon full on the corpse of the deceased—the torches tossing 
 wildly to and fro in the rear—the various faces of the motley 
 audience—the insensible form of the Athenian, supported, in 
 the distance; and in the foreground, and above all, the forms 
 of Arbaces and the Christian: the first drawn to its full height, 
 far taller than the herd around; his arms folded, his brow knit, 
 his eyes fixed, his lip slightly curled in defiance and disdain. 
 The last bearing, on a brow worn and furrowed, the majesty 
 of an equal command—the features stern, yet frank—the aspect 
 bold, yet open—the quiet dignity of the whole form impressed 
 with an ineffable earnestness, hushed, as it were, in a solemn 
 sympathy with the awe he himself had created. His left hand 
 pointing to the corpse—his right hand raised to heaven. 
 
 The centurion pressed forward again. 
 
 “In the first place, hast thou, Olinthus, or whatever be thy 
 name, any proof of the charge thou hast made against Arbaces, 
 beyond thy vague suspicions?” 
 
 Olinthus remained silent—the Egyptian laughed con¬ 
 temptuously. 
 
 “Dost thou claim the body of a priest of Isis as one of the 
 Nazarene or Christian sect?” 
 
 “I do.” 
 
 “Swear then by yon fane, yon statue of Cybele, by yon 
 most ancient sacellum in Pompeii, that the dead man embraced 
 your faith!” 
 
 “Vain man! I disown your idols! I abhor your temples! 
 How can I swear by Cybele then?” 
 
 “Away, away with the Atheist! away! the earth will swallow 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII, 20)*] 
 
 us, if we suffer these blasphemers in a sacred grove—away 
 with him to death!” 
 
 11 To the beasts I” added a female voice in the centre of the 
 crowd; u we shall have one a-piece now for the lion and tiger /” 
 
 “If, O Nazarene, thou disbelievest in Cybele, which of our 
 gods dost thou own?” resumed the soldier, unmoved by the 
 cries around. 
 
 “None!” 
 
 “Hark to him! hark!” cried the crowd. 
 
 “O vain and blind!” continued the Christian, raising his 
 voice: “can you believe in images of wood and stone? Do 
 you imagine that they have eyes to see, or ears to hear, or 
 hands to help ye? Is yon mute thing carved by man’s art a 
 goddess!—hath it made mankind?—alas! by mankind was it 
 made. Lo! convince yourselves of its nothingness—of your 
 folly.” 
 
 And as he spoke he strode across to the fane, and ere any 
 of the bystanders were aware of his purpose, he, in his com¬ 
 passion or his zeal, struck the statue of wood from its pedestal. 
 
 “See!” cried he, “your goddess cannot avenge herself. Is 
 this a thing to worship?” 
 
 Further words were denied to him: so gross and daring a 
 sacrilege—of one, too, of the most sacred of their places of 
 worship—filled even the most lukewarm with rage and horror. 
 With one accord the crowd rushed upon him, seized, and but 
 for the interference of the centurion, they would have torn him 
 to pieces. 
 
 “Peace!” said the soldier, authoritatively,—“refer we this 
 insolent blasphemer to the proper tribunal—time has been 
 already wasted. Bear we both the culprits to the magistrates; 
 place the body of the priest on the litter—carry it to his own 
 home.” 
 
 At this moment a priest of Isis stepped forward. “I claim 
 these remains, according to the custom of the priesthood.” 
 
 “The flamen be obeyed,” said the centurion. “How is the 
 murderer?” 
 
 “Insensible or asleep.” 
 
 “Were his crimes less, I could pity him. On!” 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 298 
 
 Arbaces, as he turned, met the eye of that priest of Isis—it 
 was Calenus; and something there was in that glance, so signi¬ 
 ficant and sinister, that the Egyptian muttered to himself— 
 
 “Could he have witnessed the deed?*’ 
 
 A girl darted from the crowd, and gazed hard on the face 
 of Olinthus. “ By Jupiter , a stout knave! I say , we shall have a 
 man for the tiger now; one for each beastl” 
 
 “Ho!” shouted the mob; “a man for the lion, and another 
 for the tiger! What luck? Io Paean!” 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 In which the Reader learns the Condition of Glaucus.—Friendship tested.— 
 Enmity softened.—Love the same;—because the one Loving is blind. 
 
 The night was somewhat advanced, and the gay lounging- 
 places of the Pompeians were still crowded. You might ob¬ 
 serve in the countenances of the various idlers a more earnest 
 expression than usual. They talked in large knots and groups, 
 as if they sought by numbers to divide the half-painful, half- 
 pleasurable anxiety which belonged to the subject on which 
 they conversed: it was a subject of life and death. 
 
 A young man passed briskly by the graceful portico of the 
 Temple of Fortune—so briskly, indeed, that he came with no 
 slight force full against the rotund and comely form of that 
 respectable citizen Diomed, who was retiring homeward to his 
 suburban villa. 
 
 “Holloa!” groaned the merchant, recovering with some 
 difficulty his equilibrium; “have you no eyes? or do you think 
 I have no feeling? By Jupiter! you have well nigh driven out 
 the divine particle; such another shock, and my soul will be 
 in Hades! ” 
 
 “Ah, Diomed! is it you? forgive my inadvertence. I was 
 absorbed in thinking of the reverses of life. Our poor friend, 
 Glaucus, eh! who could have guessed it?” 
 
 “Well, but tell me, Clodius, is he really to be tried by the 
 senate?” 
 
 “Yes; they say the crime is of so extraordinary a nature. 
 
5064. POMPEI. Strada dei Sepolcri. 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 299 
 
 that the senate itself must adjudge it; and so the lictors are to 
 induct him* formally.” 
 
 He has been accused publicly, then?” 
 
 “To be sure; where have you been not to hear that?” 
 
 “Why, I have only just returned from Neapolis, whither I 
 went on business the very morning after his crime;—so shock¬ 
 ing, and at my house the same night that it happened! ” 
 
 “There is no doubt of his guilt,” said Clodius, shrugging 
 his shoulders; “and as these crimes take precedence of all little 
 undignified peccadilloes, they will hasten to finish the sentence 
 previous to the games.” 
 
 “The games! Good gods!” replied Diomed, with a slight 
 shudder; “can they adjudge him to the beasts?—so young, so 
 rich!” 
 
 “True; but then he is a Greek. Had he been a Roman, it 
 would have been a thousand pities. These foreigners can be 
 borne with in their prosperity; but in adversity we must not 
 forget that they are in reality slaves. However, we of the 
 upper classes are always tender-hearted; and he would cer¬ 
 tainly get off tolerably well if he were left to us: for, between 
 ourselves, what is a paltry priest of Isis!—what Isis herself? 
 But the common people are superstitious; they clamour for the 
 blood of the sacrilegious one. It is dangerous not to give way 
 to public opinion.” 
 
 “And the blasphemer—the Christian, or Nazarene, or what¬ 
 ever else he be called?” 
 
 “Oh, poor dog! if he will sacrifice to Cybele, or Isis, he will 
 be pardoned—if not, the tiger has him. At least, so I suppose; 
 but the trial will decide. We talk while the urn’s still empty. 
 And the Greek may yet escape the deadly © ** of his own al¬ 
 phabet. But enough of this gloomy subject. How is the fair 
 Julia?” 
 
 “Well, I fancy.” 
 
 “Commend me to her. But hark! the door yonder creaks 
 on its hinges; it is the house of the praetor. Who comes forth? 
 
 * Plin. Ep. 11. 11, 12; v. 4, 13. 
 
 ** 6 , the initial of d'avatog (death), the condemning letter of the Greeks, as C 
 was of the Romans. 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 300 
 
 By Pollux! it is the Egyptian! What can he want with our 
 official friend!” 
 
 “Some conference touching the murder, doubtless,” re¬ 
 plied Diomed; “but what was supposed to be the induce¬ 
 ment to the crime? Glaucus was to have married the priest’s 
 sister.” 
 
 “Yes: some say Apsecides refused the alliance. It might 
 have been a sudden quarrel. Glaucus was evidently drunk; 
 — nay, so much so as to have been quite insensible when 
 taken up, and I hear is still delirious—whether with wine, 
 terror, remorse, the Furies, or the Bacchanals, I cannot 
 say.” 
 
 “Poor fellow!—he has good counsel?” 
 
 “The best—Caius Pollio, an eloquent fellow enough. Pollio 
 has been hiring all the poor gentlemen and well-born spend¬ 
 thrifts of Pompeii to dress shabbily and sneak about, swearing 
 their friendship to Glaucus (who would not have spoken to 
 them to be made emperor!—I will do him justice, he was a 
 gentleman in his choice of acquaintance), and trying to melt 
 the stony citizens into pity. But it will not do; Isis is mightily 
 popular just at this moment.” 
 
 “And, by-the-by, I have some merchandise at Alexandria. 
 Yes, Isis ought to be protected.” 
 
 “True; so farewell, old gentleman: we shall meet soon; if 
 not, we must have a friendly bet at the Amphitheatre. All my 
 calculations are confounded by this cursed misfortune of 
 Glaucus! He had bet on Lydon the gladiator; I must make up 
 my tablets elsewhere. Vale! 3 ' 
 
 Leaving the less active Diomed to regain his villa, Clodius 
 strode on, humming a Greek air, and perfuming the night with 
 the odours that steamed from his snowy garments and flowing 
 locks. 
 
 “If,” thought he, “Glaucus feed the lion, Julia will no longer 
 have a person to love better than me; she will certainly doat 
 on me;—and so, I suppose, I must marry. By the gods! the 
 twelve lines begin to fail—men look suspiciously at my hand 
 when it rattles the dice. That infernal Sallust insinuates cheat¬ 
 ing ; and if it be discovered that the ivory is cogged, why fare- 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 301 
 
 well to the merry supper and the perfumed billet;—Clodius is 
 undone! Better marry, then, while I may, renounce gaming, 
 and push my fortune (or rather the gentle Julia’s) at the im¬ 
 perial court.” 
 
 Thus muttering the schemes of his ambition, if by that high 
 name the projects of Clodius may be called, the gamester found 
 himself suddenly accosted; he turned and beheld the dark 
 brow of Arbaces. 
 
 “Hail, noble Clodius! pardon my interruption; and inform 
 me, I pray you, which is the house of Sallust?” 
 
 “It is but a few yards hence, wise Arbaces. But does Sallust 
 entertain to-night?” 
 
 “I know not,” answered the Egyptian; “nor am I, perhaps, 
 one of those whom he would seek as a boon companion. But 
 thou knowest that his house holds the person of Glaucus, the 
 murderer.” 
 
 “Ay! he, good-hearted epicure, believes in the Greek’s in¬ 
 nocence! You remind me that he has become his surety; and 
 therefore, till the trial, is responsible for his appearance.* 
 Well, Sallust’s house is better than a prison, especially 
 that wretched hole in the forum. But for what can you seek 
 Glaucus?” 
 
 “Why, noble Clodius, if we could save him from execution 
 it would be well. The condemnation of the rich is a blow 
 upon society itself. I should like to confer with him—for I 
 hear he has recovered his senses—and ascertain the motives 
 of his crime; they may be so extenuating as to plead in his 
 defence.” 
 
 “You are benevolent, Arbaces.” 
 
 “Benevolence is the duty of one who aspires to wisdom,” 
 replied the Egyptian, modestly. “Which way lies Sallust’s 
 mansion?” 
 
 “I will show you,” said Clodius, “if you will suffer me to 
 accompany you a few steps. But, pray what has become of the 
 poor girl who was to have wed the Athenian—the sister of the 
 murdered priest?” 
 
 * If a criminal could obtain surety (called vades in capital offences), he was 
 not compelled to lie in prison till after sentence. 
 
302 
 
 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 “Alas! well-nigh insane. Sometimes she utters impreca¬ 
 tions on the murderer—then suddenly stops short—then cries, 
 ‘But why curse? Oh, my brother! Glaucus was not thy mur¬ 
 derer—never will I believe it! ’ Then she begins again, and 
 again stops short, and mutters awfully to herself, ‘Yet if it were 
 indeed he?’” 
 
 “Unfortunate lone!” 
 
 “But it is well for her that those solemn cares to the dead 
 which religion enjoins have hitherto greatly absorbed her at¬ 
 tention from Glaucus and herself: and, in the dimness of her 
 senses, she scarcely seems aware that Glaucus is apprehended 
 and on the eve of trial. When the funeral rites due to Apae- 
 cides are performed, her apprehension will return; and then I 
 fear me much that her friends will be revolted by seeing her 
 run to succour and aid the murderer of her brother!” 
 
 “Such scandal should be prevented.” 
 
 “I trust I have taken precautions to that effect. I am her 
 lawful guardian, and have just succeeded in obtaining per¬ 
 mission to escort her, after the funeral of Apaecides, to my own 
 house; there, please the gods! she will be secure.” 
 
 “You have done well, sage Arbaces. And, now, yonder 
 is the house of Sallust. The gods keep you! Yet, hark 
 you, Arbaces — why so gloomy and unsocial ? Men say 
 you can be gay—why not let me initiate you into the plea¬ 
 sures of Pompeii? — I flatter myself no one knows them 
 better.” 
 
 “I thank you, noble Clodius: under your auspices I might 
 venture, I think, to wear the philyra: but, at my age, I should 
 be an awkward pupil.” 
 
 “Oh, never fear; I have made converts of fellows of seventy. 
 The rich, too, are never old.” 
 
 “You flatter me. At some future time I will remind you of 
 your promise.” 
 
 “You may command Marcus Clodius at all times:—and so, 
 valel” 
 
 “Now,” said the Egyptian, soliloquising, “I am not wantonly 
 a man of blood; I would willingly save this Greek, if, by con¬ 
 fessing the crime, he will lose himself for ever to lone, and for 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 303 
 
 ever free me from the chance of discovery; and I can save him 
 by persuading Julia to own the philtre, which will be held his 
 excuse. But if he do not confess the crime, why Julia must be 
 shamed from the confession, and he must die!—die, lest he 
 prove my rival with the living—die, that he may be my proxy 
 with the dead! Will he confess?—can he not be persuaded 
 that in his delirium he struck the blow? To me it would give 
 far greater safety than even his death. Hem! we must hazard 
 the experiment.” 
 
 Sweeping along the narrow street, Arbaces now approached 
 the house of Sallust, when he beheld a dark form wrapped in 
 a cloak, and stretched at length across the threshold of the 
 door. 
 
 So still lay the figure, and so dim was its outline, that any 
 other than Arbaces might have felt a superstitious fear, lest he 
 beheld one of those grim lemures, who, above all other spots, 
 haunted the threshold of the homes they formerly possessed. 
 But not for Arbaces were such dreams. 
 
 “Rise!” said he, touching the figure with his foot; “thou 
 obstructest the way!” 
 
 “Ha! who art thou?” cried the form, in a sharp tone; and 
 as she raised herself from the ground, the starlight fell 
 full on the pale face and fixed but sightless eyes of Nydia 
 the Thessalian. “Who art thou? I know the burden of thy 
 voice.” 
 
 “Blind girl! what dost thou here at this late hour? Fie?—is 
 this seeming thy sex or years? Home, girl!” 
 
 “I know thee,” said Nydia, in a low voice, “thou art Ar¬ 
 baces the Egyptian:” then, as if inspired by some sudden im¬ 
 pulse, she flung herself at his feet, and clasping his knees, ex¬ 
 claimed, in a wild and passionate tone, “Oh dread and potent 
 man! save him—save him! He is not guilty—it is I! He lies 
 within, ill—dying, and I—I am the hateful cause? And they 
 will not admit me to him—they spurn the blind girl from the 
 hall. Oh, heal him ! thou knowest some herb—some spell— 
 some counter-charm, for it is a potion that hath wrought this 
 frenzy!” 
 
 “Hush, child! I know all!—thou forgettest that I accom- 
 
304 
 
 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 panied Julia to the saga’s home. Doubtless her hand ad¬ 
 ministered the draught; but her reputation demands thy silence. 
 Reproach not thyself—what must be, must: meanwhile, I seek 
 the criminal—he may yet be saved. Away!” 
 
 Thus saying, Arbaces extricated himself from the clasp of 
 the despairing Thessalian, and knocked loudly at the door. 
 
 In a few moments the heavy bars were heard suddenly to 
 yield, and the porter, half opening the door, demanded who 
 was there. 
 
 “Arbaces—important business to Sallust relative toGlaucus. 
 I come from the praetor.” 
 
 The porter, half yawning, half groaning, admitted the tall 
 form of the Egyptian. Nydia sprang forward. “How is he?” 
 she cried; “tell me—tell me!” 
 
 “Ho, mad girl! is it thou still?—for shame! Why, they say 
 he is sensible.” , 
 
 “The gods be praised!—and you will not admit me? Ah! 
 I beseech thee-” 
 
 “Admit thee?—no. A pretty salute I should prepare for 
 these shoulders were I to admit such things as thou! Go home!” 
 
 The door closed, and Nydia, with a deep sigh, laid herself 
 down once more on the cold stones; and, wrapping her cloak 
 round her face, resumed her weary vigil. 
 
 Meanwhile Arbaces had already gained the triclinium, where 
 Sallust, with his favourite freedman, sat late at supper. 
 
 “What! Arbaces! and at this hour!—Accept this cup.” 
 
 “Nay, gentle Sallust; it is on business, not pleasure, that I 
 venture to disturb thee. How doth thy charge?—they say in 
 the town that he has recovered sense.” 
 
 “Alas! and truly,” replied the good-natured but thought¬ 
 less Sallust, wiping the tear from his eyes; “but so shattered 
 are his nerves and frame that I scarcely recognise the brilliant 
 and gay carouser I was wont to know. Yet, strange to say, he 
 cannot account for the cause of the sudden frenzy that seized 
 him—he retains but a dim consciousness of what hath passed; 
 and, despite thy witness, wise Egyptian, solemnly upholds his 
 innocence of the death of Apsecides.” 
 
 “Sallust,” said Arbaces, gravely, “there is much in thy 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 305 
 
 friend’s case that merits a peculiar indulgence; and could we 
 learn from his lips the confession and the cause of his crime, 
 much might be yet hoped from the mercy of the senate; for the 
 senate, thou knowest, hath the power either to mitigate or to 
 sharpen the law. Therefore it is that I have conferred with the 
 highest authority of the city, and obtained his permission to 
 hold a private conference this night with the Athenian. To¬ 
 morrow, thou knowest, the trial comes on.” 
 
 “Well,” said Sallust, “thou wilt be worthy of thy Eastern 
 name and fame if thou canst learn aught from him; but thou 
 mayst try. Poor Glaucus!—and he had such an excellent ap¬ 
 petite! He eats nothing now!” 
 
 The benevolent epicure was moved sensibly at this thought. 
 He sighed, and ordered his slaves to refill his cup. 
 
 “Night wanes,” said the Egyptian; “suffer me to see thy 
 ward now.” 
 
 Sallust nodded assent, and led the way to a small chamber, 
 guarded without by two dozing slaves. The door opened; at 
 the request of Arbaces, Sallust withdrew—the Egyptian was 
 alone with Glaucus. 
 
 One of those tall and graceful candelabra common to that 
 day, supporting a single lamp, burned beside the narrow bed. 
 Its rays fell palely over the face of the Athenian, and Arbaces 
 was moved to see how sensibly that countenance had changed. 
 The rich colour was gone, the cheek was sunk, the lips were 
 convulsed and pallid; fierce had been the struggle between 
 reason and madness, life and death. The youth, the strength 
 of Glaucus had conquered; but the freshness of blood and soul 
 —the life of life—its glory and its zest, were gone for ever. 
 
 The Egyptian seated himself quietly beside the bed; Glaucus 
 still lay mute and unconscious of his presence. At length, after 
 a considerable pause, Arbaces thus spoke:— 
 
 “Glaucus, we have been enemies. I come to thee alone 
 and in the dead of night—thy friend, perhaps thy saviour.” 
 
 As the steed starts from the path of the tiger, Glaucus 
 sprang up breathless—alarmed, panting at the abrupt voice, 
 the sudden apparition of his foe. Their eyes met, and neither, 
 for some moments, had power to withdraw his gaze. The flush 
 
 Pompeii, 20 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII, 
 
 306 
 
 went and came over the face of the Athenian, and the bronzed 
 cheek of the Egyptian grew a shade more pale. At length, 
 with an inward groan, Glaucus turned away, drew his hand 
 across his brow, sunk back, and muttered— 
 
 “Am I still dreaming?” 
 
 “No, Glaucus, thou art awake. By this right hand and my 
 father’s head, thou seest one who may save thy life. Hark! I 
 know what thou hast done, but I know also its excuse, of which 
 thou thyself art ignorant. Thou hast committed murder, it is 
 true—a sacrilegious murder: frown not—start not—these eyes 
 saw it. But I can save thee—I can prove how thou wert bereaved 
 of sense, and made not a free-thinking and free-acting man. 
 But in order to save thee, thou must confess thy crime. Sign 
 but this paper, acknowledging thy hand in the death of Apae- 
 cides, and thou shalt avoid the fatal urn.” 
 
 “What words are these?—Murder and Apaecides!—Did I 
 not see him stretched on the ground bleeding and a corpse? 
 and wouldst thou persuade me that / did the deed? Man, thou 
 liest! Away!” 
 
 “Be not rash—Glaucus, be not hasty; the deed is proved. 
 Come, come, thou mayst well be excused for not recalling the 
 act of thy delirium, and which thy sober senses would have 
 shunned even to contemplate. But let me try to refresh thy 
 exhausted and weary memory. Thou knowest thou wert walk¬ 
 ing with the priest, disputing about his sister; thou knowest 
 he was intolerant, and half a Nazarene, and he sought to convert 
 thee, and ye had hot words; and he calumniated thy mode of 
 life, and swore he would not marry lone to thee—and then, in 
 thy wrath and thy frenzy, thou didst strike the sudden blow. 
 Come, come; you can recollect this!—read this papyrus, it runs 
 to that effect—sign it, and thou art saved.” 
 
 “Barbarian, give me the written lie, that I may tear it! I 
 the murderer of lone’s brother! I confess to have injured one 
 hair of the head of him she loved! Let me rather perish a 
 thousand times!” 
 
 “Beware!” said Arbaces, in a low and hissing tone; “there 
 is but one choice—thy confession and thy signature, or the 
 amphitheatre and the lion’s maw!” 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 307 
 
 As the Egyptian fixed his eyes upon the sufferer, he hailed 
 with joy the signs of evident emotion that seized the latter at 
 these words. A slight shudder passed over the Athenian’s 
 frame—his lip fell—an expression of sudden fear and wonder 
 betrayed itself in his brow and eye. 
 
 “Great gods!” he said, in a low voice, “what reverse is 
 this? It seems but a little day since life laughed out from 
 amidst roses—lone mine—youth, health, love, lavishing on me 
 their treasures; and now—pain, madness, shame, death! And 
 for what? what have I done? Oh, I am mad still!” 
 
 “Sign, and be saved!” said the soft, sweet voice of the 
 Egyptian. 
 
 “Tempter, never!” cried Glaucus, in the reaction of rage. 
 “Thou knowest me not: thou knowest not the haughty soul of 
 an Athenian! The sudden face of death might appal me for a 
 moment, but the fear is over. Dishonour appals for ever! 
 Who will debase his name to save his life? who exchange clear 
 thoughts for sullen days? who will belie himself to shame, and 
 stand blackened in the eyes of glory and of love? If to earn a 
 few years of polluted life there be so base a coward, dream not, 
 dull barbarian of Egypt! to find him in one who has trod the 
 same sod as Harmodius, and breathed the same air as Socrates. 
 Go! leave me to live without self-reproach—or to perish with¬ 
 out fear! ” 
 
 “Bethink thee well! the lion’s fangs: the hoots of the brutal 
 mob: the vulgar gaze on thy dying agony and mutilated limbs; 
 thy name degraded; thy corpse unburied; the shame thou 
 wouldst avoid clinging to thee for aye and ever!” 
 
 “Thou ravest! thou art the madman! shame is not in the loss 
 of other men’s esteem,—it is in the loss of our own. Wilt thou 
 go?—my eyes loathe the sight of thee! hating ever, I despise 
 thee now!” 
 
 “I go,” said Arbaces, stung and exasperated, but not with-, 
 out some pitying admiration of his victim,—“I go; we meet 
 twice again—once at the Trial, once at the Death! Farewell!” 
 
 The Egyptian rose slowly, gathered his robes about him, 
 and left the chamber. He sought Sallust for a moment, whose 
 
 20* 
 
3°8 
 
 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 eyes began to reel with the vigils of the cup: “He is still un¬ 
 conscious, or still obstinate; there is no hope for him.” 
 
 “Say not so,” replied Sallust, who felt but little resentment 
 against the Athenian’s accuser, for he possessed no great 
 austerity of virtue, and was rather moved by his friend’s re¬ 
 verses than persuaded of his innocence, — “say not so, my 
 Egyptian! so good a drinker shall be saved if possible. Bacchus 
 against Isis!” 
 
 “We shall see,” said the Egyptian. 
 
 Suddenly the bolts were again withdrawn—the door un¬ 
 closed; Arbaces was in the open street; and poor Nydia once 
 more started from her long watch. 
 
 “Wilt thou save him?” she cried, clasping her hands. 
 
 “Child, follow me home; I would speak to thee—it is for 
 his sake I ask it.” 
 
 “And thou wilt save him?” 
 
 No answer came forth to the thirsting ear of the blind girl: 
 Arbaces had already proceeded far up the street; she hesitated 
 a moment, and then followed his steps in silence. 
 
 “I must secure this girl,” said he, musingly, “lest she give 
 evidence of the philtre; as to the vain Julia, she will not betray 
 herself.” 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 A Classic Funeral. 
 
 While Arbaces had been thus employed, Sorrow and Death 
 were in the house of lone. It was the night preceding the morn 
 in which the solemn funeral rites were to be decreed to the 
 remains of the murdered Apaecides. The corpse had been re¬ 
 moved from the temple of Isis to the house of the nearest sur¬ 
 viving relative, and lone had heard, in the same breath, the 
 death of her brother and the accusation against her betrothed. 
 That first violent anguish which blunts the sense to all but it¬ 
 self, and the forbearing silence of her slaves, had prevented 
 her learning minutely the circumstances attendant on the fate 
 of her lover. His illness, his frenzy, and his approaching trial, 
 were unknown to her. She learned only the accusation against 
 

 
 
 
. . . 
 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 309 
 
 him, and at once indignantly rejected it; nay, on hearing that 
 Arbaces was the accuser, she required no more to induce her 
 firmly and solemnly to believe that the Egyptian himself was 
 the criminal. But the vast and absorbing importance attached 
 by the ancients to the performance of every ceremonial con¬ 
 nected with the death of a relation, had, as yet, confined her 
 woe and her convictions to the chamber of the deceased. Alas! 
 it was not for her to perform that tender and touching office, 
 which obliged the nearest relative to endeavour to catch the 
 last breath—the parting soul—of the beloved one: but it was 
 hers to close the straining eyes, the distorted lips: to watch by 
 the consecrated clay, as, fresh bathed and anointed, it lay in 
 festive robes upon the ivory bed; to strew the couch with 
 leaves and flowers, and to renew the solemn cypress-branch at 
 the threshold of the door. And in these sad offices, in lamen¬ 
 tation and in prayer, lone forgot herself. It was among the 
 loveliest customs of the ancients to bury the young at the 
 morning twilight; for, as they strove to give the softest inter¬ 
 pretation to death, so they poetically imagined that Aurora, 
 who loved the young, had stolen them to her embrace; and 
 though in the instance of the murdered priest this fable could 
 not appropriately cheat the fancy, the general custom was still 
 preserved.* 
 
 The stars were fading one by one from the grey heavens, 
 and night slowly receding before the approach of morn, when 
 a dark group stood motionless before lone’s door. High and 
 slender torches, made paler by the unmellowed dawn, cast 
 their light over various countenances, hushed for the moment 
 in one solemn and intent expression. And now there arose a 
 slow and dismal music, which accorded sadly with the rite, 
 and floated far along the desolate and breathless streets; while 
 a chorus of female voices (the Praeficae so often cited by the Ro¬ 
 man poets), accompanying the Tibicen and the Mysian flute, 
 woke the following strain: — 
 
 * This was rather a Greek than a Roman custom; but the reader will observe 
 that in the cities of Magna Grsecia the Greek customs and superstitions were much 
 mingled with the Roman. 
 
3 io 
 
 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 THE FUNERAL DIRGE. 
 
 “ O’er the sad threshold, where the cypress Lough 
 Supplants the rose that should adorn thy home. 
 
 On the last pilgrimage on earth that now 
 Awaits thee, wanderer to Cocytus, come 1 
 Darkly we woo, and weeping we invite— 
 
 Death is thy host—his banquet asks thy soul. 
 
 Thy garlands hang within the House of Night, 
 
 And the black stream alone shall fill thy bowl. 
 
 No more for thee the laughter and the song. 
 
 The jocund night—the glory of the day! 
 
 The Argive daughters* at their labours long; 
 
 The hell-bird swooping on its Titan prey—* 
 
 The false ./Eolides** upheaving slow. 
 
 O’er the eternal hill, the eternal stone; 
 
 The crowned Lydian,*** in his parching woe. 
 
 And green Callirrhoe’s monster-headed son, f— 
 
 These shalt thou see, dim shadow’d through the dark. 
 
 Which makes the sky of Pluto’s dreary shore; 
 
 Lo! where thou stand’st, pale-gazing on the bark. 
 
 That waits our riteft to bear thee trembling o’er! 
 
 Come, then ! no more delay!—the phantom pines 
 Amidst the Unburied for its latest home; 
 
 O’er the grey sky the torch impatient shines— 
 
 Come, mourner, forth!—the lost one bids thee come.” 
 
 As the hymn died away, the group parted in twain; and 
 placed upon a couch, spread with a purple pall, the corpse of 
 Apascides was carried forth, with the feet foremost. The de¬ 
 signator, or marshal of the sombre ceremonial, accompanied 
 by his torch-bearers, clad in black, gave the signal, and the 
 procession moved dreadly on. 
 
 First went the musicians, playing a slow march—the 
 solemnity of the lower instruments broken by many a louder 
 and wilder burst of the funeral trumpet: next followed the 
 hired mourners, chanting their dirges to the dead; and the 
 female voices were mingled with those of boys, whose tender 
 years made still more striking the contrast of life and death— 
 
 * The Danaides. ** Sisyphus. *** Tantalus. t Geryon. 
 tt The most idle novel-reader need scarcely be reminded, that not till after the 
 funeral rites were the dead carried over the Styx. 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 3 I I 
 
 the fresh leaf and the withered one. But the players, the 
 buffoons, the archimimus (whose duty it was to personate the 
 dead)—these, the customary attendants at ordinary funerals, 
 were banished from a funeral attended with so many terrible 
 associations. 
 
 The priests of Isis came next in their snowy garments, bare¬ 
 footed, and supporting sheaves of corn; while before the 
 corpse were carried the images of the deceased and his many 
 Athenian forefathers. And behind the bier followed, amidst 
 her women, the sole surviving relative of the dead—her head 
 bare, her locks dishevelled, her face paler than marble, but 
 composed and still, save ever and anon, as some tender 
 thought—awakened by the music, flashed upon the dark 
 lethargy of woe, she covered that countenance with her hands, 
 and sobbed unseen: for hers were not the noisy sorrow, the 
 shrill lament, the ungoverned gesture, which characterised 
 those who honoured less faithfully. In that age, as in all, the 
 channel of deep grief flowed hushed and still. 
 
 And so the procession swept on, till it had traversed the 
 streets, passed the city gate, and gained the Place of Tombs 
 without the wall, which the traveller yet beholds. 
 
 Raised in the form of an altar—of unpolished pine, amidst 
 whose interstices were placed preparations of combustible 
 matter—stood the funeral pyre; and around it drooped 
 the dark and gloomy cypresses so consecrated by song to the 
 tomb. 
 
 As soon as the bier was placed upon the pile, the atten¬ 
 dants parting on either side, lone passed up to the couch, and 
 stood before the unconscious clay for some moments motion¬ 
 less and silent. The features of the dead had been composed 
 from the first agonised expression of violent death. Hushed 
 for ever the terror and the doubt, the contest of passion, the 
 awe of religion, the struggle of the past and present, the hope 
 and the horror of the future!—of all that racked and desolated 
 the breast of that young aspirant to the Holy of Life, what 
 trace was visible in the awful serenity of that impenetrable 
 brow and unbreathing lip? The sister gazed, and not a sound 
 was heard amidst the crowd; there was something terrible, yet 
 
312 
 
 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 softening, also, in the silence; and when it broke, it broke 
 sudden and abrupt—it broke with a loud and passionate cry— 
 the vent of long-smothered despair. 
 
 “My brother! my brother!” cried the poor orphan, falling 
 upon the couch; “thou whom the worm on thy path feared 
 not—what enemy couldst thou provoke? Oh, is it in truth come 
 to this? Awake! awake! We grew together! Are we thus 
 torn asunder? Thou art not dead—thou sleepest. Awake! 
 awake!” 
 
 The sound of her piercing voice aroused the sympathy of 
 the mourners, and they broke into loud and rude lament. 
 This startled, this recalled lone; she looked up hastily and 
 confusedly, as if for the first time sensible of the presence of 
 those around. 
 
 “Ah!” she murmured with a shiver, “we are not then 
 alone /” 
 
 With that, after a brief pause, she rose: and her pale and 
 beautiful countenance was again composed and rigid. With 
 fond and trembling hands, she unclosed the lids of the de¬ 
 ceased;* but when the dull glazed eye, no longer beaming with 
 love and life, met hers, she shrieked aloud, as if she had seen 
 a spectre. Once more recovering herself, she kissed again and 
 again the lids, the lips, the brow; and with mechanic and un¬ 
 conscious hand, received from the high priest of her brother’s 
 temple the funeral torch. 
 
 The sudden burst of music, the sudden song of the mourners 
 announced the birth of the sanctifying flame. 
 
 HYMN TO THE WIND. 
 
 i. 
 
 “ On thy couch of cloud reclined. 
 
 Wake, O soft and sacred Wind! 
 
 Soft and sacred will we name thee. 
 
 Whosoe’er the sire that claim thee,— 
 
 Whether old Auster’s dusky child. 
 
 Or the loud son of Eurus wild; 
 
 Or his** who o’er the darkling deeps, 
 
 From the bleak North, in tempest sweeps 
 
 Pliny, li. 37. 
 
 ** Boreas. 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 3*3 
 
 Still shalt thou seem as dear to us 
 As flowery-crowned Zephyrus, 
 
 When, through twilight’s starry dew. 
 Trembling, he hastes his nymph* to woo. 
 n. 
 
 Lo! our silver censers swinging. 
 
 Perfumes o’er thy path are flinging,— 
 
 Ne’er o’er Tempe’s breathless valleys. 
 
 Ne’er o’er Cypria’s cedarn alleys. 
 
 Or the Rose-isle’s ** moonlit sea. 
 
 Floated sweets more worthy thee. 
 
 Lo! around our vases sending 
 Myrrh and nard with cassia blending 
 Paving air with odours meet. 
 
 For thy silver-sandall’d feet 1 
 hi. 
 
 August and everlasting air I 
 
 The source of all that breathe and be. 
 From the mute clay before thee bear 
 The seeds it took from thee I 
 Aspire, bright Flame! aspire 1 
 Wild wind!—awake, awake 1 
 Thine own, O solemn Fire! 
 
 O Air, thine own retake! 
 
 IV. 
 
 It comes! it comes! Lo! it sweeps. 
 
 The Wind we invoke the while! 
 
 And crackles, and darts, and leaps 
 The light on the holy pile! 
 
 It rises! its wings interweave 
 With the flames,—how they howl and heave! 
 Toss’d, whirl’d to and fro. 
 
 How the flame-serpents glow! 
 Rushing higher and higher. 
 
 On—on, fearful Fire! 
 
 Thy giant limbs twined 
 With the arms of the Wind 1 
 Lo! the elements meet on the throne 
 Of death—to reclaim their own 1 
 v. 
 
 Swing, swing the censer round— 
 
 Tune the strings to a softer sound! 
 
 From the chains of thy earthly toil. 
 
 From the clasp of thy mortal coil. 
 
 From the prison where clay confined thee. 
 The hands of the flame unbind thee! 
 
 O Soul! thou art free—all free! 
 
 * Flora. 
 
 ** Rhodes. 
 
3H 
 
 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 As the winds in their ceaseless chase. 
 
 When they rush o’er their airy sea. 
 
 Thou mayst speed through the realms of space. 
 
 No fetter is forged for thee 1 
 Rejoice! o’er the sluggard tide 
 Of the Styx thy bark can glide. 
 
 And thy steps evermore shall rove 
 Through the glades of the happy grove; 
 
 Where, far from the loath’d Cocytus, 
 
 The loved and the lost invite us. 
 
 Thou art slave to the earth no more! 
 
 O soul, thou art freed!—and we?— 
 
 Ah! when shall our toil be o’er ? 
 
 Ah! when shall we rest with thee ? ” 
 
 And now high and far into the dawning skies broke the 
 fragrant fire; it flushed luminously across the gloomy cypresses 
 —it shot above the massive walls of the neighbouring city; 
 and the early fisherman started to behold the blaze reddening 
 on the waves of the creeping sea. 
 
 But lone sat down apart and alone, and, leaning her face 
 upon her hands, saw not the flame, nor heard the lamenta¬ 
 tion of the music: she felt only one sense of loneliness,—she 
 had not yet arrived to that hallowing sense of comfort, when 
 we know that we are not alone—that the dead are with us! 
 
 The breeze rapidly aided the effect of the combustibles 
 placed within the pile. By degrees the flame wavered, lowered, 
 dimmed, and slowly, by fits and unequal starts, died away— 
 emblem of life itself; where, just before, all was restlessness 
 and flame, now lay the dull and smouldering ashes. 
 
 The last sparks were extinguished by the attendants—the 
 embers were collected. Steeped in the rarest wine and the 
 costliest odours, the remains were placed in a silver urn, which 
 was solemnly stored in one of the neighbouring sepulchres be¬ 
 side the road; and they placed within it the vial full of tears, 
 and the small coin which poetry still consecrated to the grim 
 boatman. And the sepulchre was covered with flowers and 
 chaplets, and incense kindled on the altar, and the tomb hung 
 round with many lamps. 
 
 But the next day, when the priest returned with fresh offer¬ 
 ings to the tomb, he found that to the relics of heathen super- 
 
THE LAST DAYS OP POMPEII. 
 
 315 
 
 stition some unknown hands had added a green palm-branch. 
 He suffered it to remain, unknowing that it was the sepulchral 
 emblem of Christianity. 
 
 When the above ceremonies were over, one of the Prseficse 
 three times sprinkled the mourners from the purifying branch 
 of laurel, uttering the last word, Ilicet!” —Depart!—and the 
 rite was done. 
 
 But first they paused to utter—weepingly and many times 
 —the affecting farewell, “Salve Eternum!” And as lone yet 
 lingered, they woke the parting strain. 
 
 SALVE ETERNUM. 
 
 I. 
 
 “Farewell! O soul departed! 
 
 Farewell! O sacred urn! 
 
 Bereaved and broken-hearted. 
 
 To earth the mourners turn I 
 To the dim and dreary shore. 
 
 Thou art gone our steps before! 
 
 But thither the swift Hours lead us. 
 
 And thou dost but a while precede us! 
 
 Salve—salve! 
 
 Loved urn, and thou solemn cell. 
 
 Mute ashes!—farewell, farewell! 
 
 Salve—salve I 
 
 II. 
 
 Ilicet—ire licet— 
 
 Ah, vainly would we part! 
 
 Thy tomb is the faithful heart. 
 
 About evermore we bear thee; 
 
 For who from the heart can tear thee? 
 
 Vainly we sprinkle o’er us 
 
 The drops of the cleansing stream; 
 
 And vainly bright before us 
 
 The lustral fire shall beam. 
 
 For where is the charm expelling 
 Thy thought from its sacred dwelling ? 
 
 Our griefs are thy funeral feast, 
 
 And Memory thy mourning priest. 
 
 Salve—salve! 
 
 III. 
 
 Ilicet—ire licet! 
 
 The spark from the hearth is gone 
 Wherever the air shall bear it; 
 
 The elements take their own— 
 
3 16 
 
 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 The shadows receive thy spirit. 
 
 It will soothe thee to feel our grief. 
 
 As thou glid’st by the Gloomy River I 
 If love may iu life be brief. 
 
 In death it is fixed for ever. 
 
 Salve—salve! 
 
 In the hall which our feasts illume. 
 
 The rose for an hour may bloom; 
 
 But the cypress that decks the tomb— 
 The cypress is green for ever! 
 
 Salve—salve! ” 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 In which an adventure happens to lone. 
 
 While some stayed behind to share with the priests the 
 funeral banquet, lone and her handmaids took homeward their 
 melancholy way. And now (the last duties to her brother per¬ 
 formed) her mind awoke from its absorption, and she thought 
 of her affianced, and the dread charge against him. Not—as 
 we have before said—attaching even a momentary belief to 
 the unnatural accusation, but nursing the darkest suspicion 
 against Arbaces, she felt that justice to her lover and to her 
 murdered relative demanded her to seek the praetor, and com¬ 
 municate her impression, unsupported as it might be. Ques¬ 
 tioning her maidens, who had hitherto—kindly anxious, as I 
 have said, to save her the additional agony—refrained from in¬ 
 forming her of the state of Glaucus, she learned that he had 
 been dangerously ill: that he was in custody, under the roof 
 of Sallust; that the day of his trial was appointed. 
 
 “Averting gods!” she exclaimed; “and have I been so long 
 forgetful of him? Have I seemed to shun him? O! let me 
 hasten to do him justice—to show that I, the nearest relative 
 of the dead, believe him innocent of the charge. Quick! 
 quick! let us fly. Let me soothe—tend—cheer him! and if 
 they will not believe me; if they will not lead to my conviction; 
 if they sentence him to exile or to death, let me share the 
 sentence with him!” 
 
 Instinctively she hastened her pace, confused and be¬ 
 wildered, scarce knowing whither she went; now designing first 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 317 
 
 to seek the prmtor, and now to rush to the chamber of Glaucus. 
 She hurried on—she passed the gate of the city—she was in 
 the long street leading up the town. The houses were opened, 
 but none were yet astir in the streets; the life of the city was 
 scarce awake—when lo! she came suddenly upon a small knot 
 of men standing beside a covered litter. A tall figure stepped 
 from the midst of them, and lone shrieked aloud to behold 
 Arbaces. 
 
 “Fair lone!” said he, gently, and appearing not to heed 
 her alarm; “my ward, my pupil! forgive me if I disturb thy 
 pious sorrows; but the praetor, solicitous of thy honour, and 
 anxious that thou mayest not rashly be implicated in the com¬ 
 ing trial; knowing the strange embarrassment of thy state 
 (seeking justice for thy brother, but dreading punishment to 
 thy betrothed)—sympathising, too, with thy unprotected and 
 friendless condition, and deeming it harsh that thou shouldst 
 be suffered to act unguided and mourn alone—hath wisely and 
 paternally confided thee to the care of thy lawful guardian. 
 Behold the writing which intrusts thee to my charge! ” 
 
 “Dark Egyptian!” cried lone, drawing herself proudly 
 aside; “begone! It is thou that hast slain my brother! Is it 
 to thy care, thy hands yet reeking with his blood, that they 
 will give the sister? Ha! thou turnest pale! thy conscience 
 smites thee! thou tremblest at the thunderbolt of the avenging 
 god! Pass on, and leave me to my woe!” 
 
 “Thy sorrows unstring thy reason, lone,” said Arbaces, at¬ 
 tempting in vain his usual calmness of tone. “I forgive thee. 
 Thou wilt find me now, as ever, thy surest friend. But the 
 public streets are not the fitting place for us to confer—for me 
 to console thee. Approach, slaves! Come, my sweet charge, 
 the litter awaits thee.” 
 
 The amazed and terrified attendants gathered round lone, 
 and clung to her knees. 
 
 “Arbaces,” said the eldest of the maidens, “this is surely 
 not the law! For nine days after the funeral, is it not written 
 that the relatives of the deceased shall not be molested in 
 their homes, or interrupted in their solitary grief?” 
 
 “Woman!” returned Arbaces, imperiously waving his hand, 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 3^8 
 
 “to place a ward under the roof of her guardian is not against 
 the funeral laws. I tell thee I have the fiat of the praetor. This 
 delay is indecorous. Place her in the litter.” 
 
 So saying, he threw his arm firmly round the shrinking form 
 of lone. She drew back, gazed earnestly in his face, and then 
 burst into hysterical laughter:— 
 
 “Ha, ha! this is well—well! Excellent guardian—paternal 
 law! Ha, ha!” And, startled herself at the dread echo of 
 that shrill and maddened laughter, she sunk, as it died away, 
 lifeless upon the ground. ... A minute more, and Arbaces had 
 lifted her into the litter. The bearers moved swiftly on, and 
 the unfortunate lone was soon borne from the sight of her 
 weeping handmaids. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 What becomes of Nydia in the House of Arbaces.—The Egyptian feels Compas¬ 
 sion for Glaucus.—Compassion is often a very useless Visitor to the Guilty. 
 
 It will be remembered that, at the command of Arbaces, 
 Nydia followed the Egyptian to his home, and conversing there 
 with her, he learned from the confession of her despair and 
 remorse, that her hand, and not Julia’s, had administered to 
 Glaucus the fatal potion. At another time the Egyptian might 
 have conceived a philosophical interest in sounding the depths 
 and origin of the strange and absorbing passion which, in 
 blindness and in slavery, this singular girl had dared to cher¬ 
 ish; but at present he spared no thought from himself. As, 
 after her confession, the poor Nydia threw herself on her knees 
 before him, and besought him to restore the health and save 
 the life of Glaucus—for in her youth and ignorance she 
 imagined the dark magician all-powerful to effect both—Ar¬ 
 baces, with unheeding ears, was noting only the new expe¬ 
 diency of detaining Nydia a prisoner until the trial and fate of 
 Glaucus were decided. For if, when he judged her merely the 
 accomplice of Julia in obtaining the philtre, he had felt it was 
 dangerous to the full success of his vengeance to allow her to 
 be at large—to appear, perhaps, as a witness—to avow the 
 manner in which the sense of Glaucus had been darkened, and 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 319 
 
 thus win indulgence to the crime of which he was accused— 
 how much more was she likely to volunteer her testimony when 
 she herself had administered the draught, and, inspired by 
 love, would be only anxious, at any expense of shame, to re¬ 
 trieve her error and preserve her beloved? Besides, how un¬ 
 worthy of the rank and repute of Arbaces to be implicated in 
 the disgrace of pandering to the passion of Julia, and assisting 
 in the unholy rites of the Saga of Vesuvius! Nothing less, in¬ 
 deed, than his desire to induce Glaucus to own the murder of 
 Apaecides, as a policy evidently the best both for his own per¬ 
 manent safety and his successful suit with lone, could ever 
 have led him to contemplate the confession of Julia. 
 
 As for Nydia, who was necessarily cut off by her blindness 
 from much of the knowledge of active life, and who, a slave 
 and a stranger, was naturally ignorant of the perils of the 
 Roman law, she thought rather of the illness and delirium of 
 her Athenian, than the crime of which she had vaguely heard 
 him accused, or the chances of the impending trial. Poor 
 wretch that she was, whom none addressed, none cared for, 
 what did she know of the senate and the sentence—the hazard 
 of the law—the ferocity of the people—the arena and the lion’s 
 den? She was accustomed only to associate with the thought 
 of Glaucus everything that was prosperous and lofty—she 
 could not imagine that any peril, save from the madness of 
 her love, could menace that sacred head. He seemed to her 
 set apart for the blessings of life. She only had disturbed the 
 current of his felicity; she knew not, she dreamed not, that the 
 stream, once so bright, was dashing on to darkness and to 
 death. It was therefore to restore the brain that she had 
 marred, to save the life that she had endangered, that she im¬ 
 plored the assistance of the great Egyptian. 
 
 “Daughter,” said Arbaces, waking from his reverie, “thou 
 must rest here; it is not meet for thee to wander along the 
 streets, and be spumed from the threshold by the rude feet of 
 slaves. I have compassion on thy soft crime—I will do all to 
 remedy it. Wait here patiently for some days, and Glaucus 
 shall be restored.” So saying, and without waiting for her 
 reply, he hastened from the room, drew the bolt across the 
 
320 
 
 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 door, and consigned the care and wants of his prisoner to the 
 slave who had the charge of that part of the mansion. 
 
 Alone, then, and musingly, he waited the morning light, 
 and with it repaired, as we have seen, to possess himself of 
 the person of lone. 
 
 His primary object, with respect to the unfortunate Ne¬ 
 apolitan, was that which he had really stated to Clodius, viz. to 
 prevent her interesting herself actively in the trial of Glaucus, 
 and also to guard against her accusing him (which she would, 
 doubtless, have done) of his former act of perfidy and violence 
 towards her, his ward—denouncing his causes for vengeance 
 against Glaucus—unveiling the hypocrisy of his character— 
 and casting any doubt upon his veracity in the charge which 
 he had made against the Athenian. Not till he had en¬ 
 countered her that morning—not till he had heard her loud 
 denunciations—was he aware that he had also another danger 
 to apprehend in her suspicion of his crime. He hugged him¬ 
 self now in the thought that these ends were effected: that 
 one, at once the object of his passion and his fear, was in his 
 power. He believed more than ever the flattering promises of 
 the stars; and when he sought lone in that chamber in the in¬ 
 most recesses of his mysterious mansion to which he had con¬ 
 signed her—when he found her overpowered by blow upon 
 blow, and passing from fit to fit, from violence to torpor, in all 
 the alternations of hysterical disease—he thought more of the 
 loveliness which no frenzy could distort than of the woe which 
 he had brought upon her. In that sanguine vanity common 
 to men who through life have been invariably successful, 
 whether in fortune or love, he flattered himself that when 
 Glaucus had perished—when his name was solemnly blackened 
 by the award of a legal judgment, his title to her love for ever 
 forfeited by condemnation to death for the murder of her own 
 brother—her affection would be changed to horror; and that 
 his tenderness and his passion, assisted by all the arts with 
 which he well knew how to dazzle woman’s imagination, 
 might elect him to that throne in her heart from which his 
 rival would be so awfully expelled. This was his hope: but 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 321 
 
 should it fail, his unholy and fervid passion whispered, “At the 
 worst, now she is in my power.” 
 
 Yet, withal, he felt that uneasiness and apprehension which 
 attended upon the chance of detection, even when the criminal 
 is insensible to the voice of conscience—that vague terror of the 
 consequences of crime, which is often mistaken for remorse 
 at the crime itself. The buoyant air of Campania weighed 
 heavily upon his breast; he longed to hurry from a scene 
 where danger might not sleep eternally with the dead; and, 
 having lone now in his possession, he secretly resolved, as 
 soon as he had witnessed the last agony of his rival, to trans¬ 
 port his wealth—and her, the costliest treasure of all, to some 
 distant shore. 
 
 “Yes,” said he, striding to and fro his solitary chamber— 
 “yes, the law that gave me the person of my ward gives me 
 the possession of my bride. Far across the broad main will 
 we sweep on our search after novel luxuries and inexperienced 
 pleasures. Cheered by my stars, supported by the omens of 
 my soul, we will penetrate to those vast and glorious worlds 
 which my wisdom tells me lie yet untracked in the recesses of 
 the circling sea. There may this heart, possessed of love, 
 grow once more alive to ambition—there, amongst nations 
 uncrushed by the Roman yoke, and to whose ear the name of 
 Rome has not yet been wafted, I may found an empire, and 
 transplant my ancestral creed; renewing the ashes of the dead 
 Theban rule: continuing in yet grander shores the dynasty of 
 my crowned fathers, and waking in the noble heart of lone the 
 grateful consciousness that she shares the lot of one who, far 
 from the aged rottenness of this slavish civilisation, restores 
 the primal elements of greatness, and unites in one mighty 
 soul the attributes of the prophet and the king.” 
 
 From this exultant soliloquy, Arbaces was awakened to 
 attend the trial of the Athenian. 
 
 The worn and pallid cheek of his victim touched him less 
 than the firmness of his nerves and the dauntlessness of his 
 brow; for Arbaces was one who had little pity for what was 
 unfortunate, but a strong sympathy for what was bold. The 
 congenialities that bind us to others ever assimilate to the 
 Pompeii . 21 
 
322 
 
 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 qualities of our own nature. The hero weeps less at the 
 reverses of his enemy than at the fortitude with which he 
 bears them. All of us are human, and Arbaces, criminal as 
 he was, had his share of our common feelings and our mother 
 clay. Had he but obtained from Glaucus the written con¬ 
 fession of his crime, which would, better than even the 
 judgment of others, have lost him with lone, and removed 
 from Arbaces the chance of future detection, the Egyptian 
 would have strained every nerve to save his rival. Even now 
 his hatred was over—his desire of revenge was slaked: he 
 crushed his prey, not in enmity, but as an obstacle in his path. 
 Yet was he not the less resolved, the less crafty and persever¬ 
 ing, in the course he pursued, for the destruction of one 
 whose doom was become necessary to the attainment of his 
 objects; and while, with apparent reluctance and compassion, 
 he gave against Glaucus the evidence which condemned him, 
 he secretly, and through the medium of the priesthood, 
 fomented that popular indignation which made an effectual 
 obstacle to the pity of the senate. He had sought Julia; he 
 had detailed to her the confession of Nydia; he had easily, 
 therefore, lulled any scruple of conscience which might have 
 led her to extenuate the offence of Glaucus by avowing her 
 share in his frenzy: and the more readily, for her vain heart 
 had loved the fame and the prosperity of Glaucus—not Glaucus 
 himself; she felt no affection for a disgraced man—nay, she 
 almost rejoiced in the disgrace that humbled the hated lone. 
 If Glaucus could not be her slave, neither could he be the 
 adorer of her rival. This was sufficient consolation for any 
 regret at his fate. Volatile and fickle, she began again to be 
 moved by the sudden and earnest suit of Clodius, and was not 
 willing to hazard the loss of an alliance with that base but 
 high-born noble by any public exposure of her past weakness 
 and immodest passion for another. All things then smiled 
 upon Arbaces—all things frowned upon the Athenian. 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 323 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 Nydia affects the Sorceress, 
 
 WHEN the Thessalian found that Arbaces returned to her 
 no more—when she was left, hour after hour, to all the torture 
 of that miserable suspense which was rendered by blindness 
 doubly intolerable, she began, with outstretched arms, to feel 
 around her prison for some channel of escape; and finding the 
 only entrance secure, she called aloud, and with the vehemence 
 of a temper naturally violent, and now sharpened by impatient 
 agony. 
 
 “Ho, girl!” said the slave in attendance, opening the door! 
 “art thou bit by a scorpion? or thinkest thou that we are dying 
 of silence here, and only to be preserved, like the infant Jupiter, 
 by a hullabaloo?” 
 
 “Where is thy master? and wherefore am I caged here? I 
 want air and liberty: let me go forth!” 
 
 “Alas! little one, hast thou not seen enough of Arbaces to 
 know that his will is imperial? He hath ordered thee to be 
 caged; and caged thou art, and I am thy keeper. Thou canst 
 not have air and liberty; but thou mayst have what are much 
 better things—food and wine.” 
 
 “Proh Jupiter!” cried the girl, wringing her hands! “and 
 why am I thus imprisoned? What can the great Arbaces want 
 with so poor a thing as I am?” 
 
 “That I know not, unless it be to attend on thy new mis¬ 
 tress, who has been brought hither this day.” 
 
 “What! lone here?” 
 
 “Yes, poor lady; she liked it little, I fear. Yet, by the 
 Temple of Castor! Arbaces is a gallant man to the women. 
 Thy lady is his ward, thou knowest.” 
 
 “Wilt thou take me to her?” 
 
 “She is ill—frantic with rage and spite. Besides, I have 
 no orders to do so; and I never think for myself. When 
 Arbaces made me slave of these chambers,* he said, C I have 
 but one lesson to give thee;—while thou servest me, thou must 
 
 * la the houses of the great, each suite of chambers had its peculiar slave. 
 
 21 * 
 
324 
 
 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 have neither ears, eyes, nor thought; thou must be but one 
 quality—obedience/ ” 
 
 “But what harm is there in seeing lone?” 
 
 “That I know not; but if thou wantest a companion, I am 
 willing to talk to thee, little one, for I am solitary enough in 
 my dull cubiculum. And, by the way, thou art Thessalian— 
 knowest thou not some cunning amusement of knife and shears, 
 some pretty trick of telling fortunes, as most of thy race do, 
 in order to pass the time?” 
 
 “Tush, slave, hold thy peace! or, if thou wilt speak, what 
 hast thou heard of the state of Glaucus?” 
 
 “Why, my master has gone to the Athenian’s trial; Glaucus 
 will smart for it! ” 
 
 “For what?” 
 
 “The murder of the priest Apascides.” 
 
 “Ha!” said Nydia, pressing her hands to her forehead; 
 “something of this I have indeed heard, but understand not. 
 Yet, who will dare to touch a hair of his head?” 
 
 “That will the lion, I fear.” 
 
 “Averting gods! what wickedness dost thou utter?” 
 
 “Why, only that, if he be found guilty, the lion, or may be 
 the tiger, will be his executioner.” 
 
 Nydia leaped up, as if an arrow had entered her heart; she 
 uttered a piercing scream; then, falling before the feet of the 
 slave, she cried, in a tone that melted even his rude heart,— 
 
 “Ah! tell me thou jestest—thou utterest not the truth— 
 speak, speak! ” 
 
 “Why, by my faith, blind girl, I know nothing of the law; 
 it may not be so bad as I say. But Arbaces is his accuser, 
 and the people desire a victim for the arena. Cheer thee! 
 But what hath the fate of the Athenian to do with thine?” 
 
 “No matter, no matter—he has been kind to me: thou 
 knowest not, then, what they will do? Arbaces his accuser! O 
 fate! The people—the people! Ah! they can look upon his 
 face—who will be cruel to the Athenian!—Yet was not Love 
 itself cruel to him?” 
 
 So saying, her head drooped upon her bosom: she sunk 
 into silence; scalding tears flowed down her cheeks; and all 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 325 
 
 the kindly efforts of the slave were unable either to console 
 her or distract the absorption of her reverie. 
 
 When his household cares obliged the ministrant to leave 
 her room, Nydia began to re-collect her thoughts. Arbaces 
 was the accuser of Glaucus; Arbaces had imprisoned her here; 
 was not that a proof that her liberty might be serviceable to 
 Glaucus? Yes, she was evidently inveigled into some snare; 
 she was contributing to the destruction of her beloved? Oh, 
 how she panted for release! Fortunately, for her sufferings, all 
 sense of pain became merged in the desire of escape; and as 
 she began to revolve the possibility of deliverance, she grew 
 calm and thoughtful. She possessed much of the craft of her 
 sex, and it had been increased in her breast by her early servi¬ 
 tude. What slave was ever destitute of cunning? She resolved 
 to practise upon her keeper; and, calling suddenly to mind his 
 superstitious query as to her Thessalian art, she hoped by that 
 handle to work out some method of release. These doubts 
 occupied her mind during the rest of the day and the long 
 hours of night; and, accordingly, when Sosia visited her the 
 following morning, she hastened to divert his garrulity into 
 that channel in which it had before evinced a natural disposi¬ 
 tion to flow. 
 
 She was aware, however, that her only chance of escape 
 was at night; and accordingly she was obliged, with a bitter 
 pang at the delay, to defer till then her purposed attempt. 
 
 “The night,” said she, “is the sole time in which we can 
 well decipher the decrees of Fate—then it is thou must seek 
 me. But what desirest thou to learn?” 
 
 “By Pollux! 1 should like to know as much as my master; 
 but that is not to be expected. Let me know, at least, whether 
 I shall save enough to purchase my freedom, or whether this 
 Egyptian will give it me for nothing. He does such generous 
 things sometimes. Next, supposing that be true, shall I pos¬ 
 sess myself of that snug taberna among the Myropolia,* which 
 I have long had in my eye? J Tis a genteel trade that of a per¬ 
 fumer, and suits a retired slave who has something of a gentle¬ 
 man about him!” 
 
 * The shops of the perfumers. 
 
326 
 
 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 “Ay! so you would have precise answers to those ques¬ 
 tions ?—there are various ways of satisfying you. There is the 
 Lithomanteia, or Speaking-stone, which answers your prayer 
 with an infant’s voice; but, then, we have not that precious 
 stone with us—costly is it and rare. Then there is the Gastro- 
 manteia, whereby the demon casts pale and deadly images 
 upon water, prophetic of the future. But this art requires also 
 glasses of a peculiar fashion, to contain the consecrated liquid, 
 which we have not. I think, therefore, that the simplest 
 method of satisfying your desire would be by the Magic of 
 Air.” 
 
 “I trust,” said Sosia, tremulously, “that there is nothing 
 very frightful in the operation? I have no love for apparitions.” 
 
 “Fear not; thou wilt see nothing; thou wilt only hear by 
 the bubbling of water whether or not thy suit prospers. First, 
 then, be sure, from the rising of the evening star, that thou 
 leavest the garden-gate somewhat open, so that the demon 
 may feel himself invited to enter therein; and place fruits and 
 water near the gate as a sign of hospitality; then, three hours 
 after twilight, come here with a bowl of the coldest and purest 
 water, and thou shalt learn all, according to the Thessalian 
 lore my mother taught me. But forget not the garden-gate— 
 all rests upon that: it must be open when you come, and for 
 three hours previously.” 
 
 “Trust me,” replied the unsuspecting Sosia; “I know what 
 a gentleman’s feelings are when a door is shut in his face, as 
 the cookshop’s hath been in mine many a day; and I know 
 also, that a person of respectability, as a demon of course is, 
 cannot but be pleased, on the other hand, with any little mark 
 of courteous hospitality. Meanwhile, pretty one, here is thy 
 morning’s meal.” 
 
 “And what of the trial?” 
 
 “Oh, the lawyers are still at it—talk, talk—it will last over 
 till to-morrow.” 
 
 “To-morrow?—you are sure of that?” 
 
 “So I hear.” 
 
 “ And lone?” 
 
 “By Bacchus! she must be tolerably well, for she was 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 327 
 
 strong enough to make my master stamp and bite his lip this 
 morning. I saw him quit her apartment with a brow like a 
 thunder-storm.” 
 
 “Lodges she near this?” 
 
 “No—in the upper apartments. But I must not stay prat¬ 
 ing here longer.— Vale!” 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 A Wasp ventures into the Spider's Web. 
 
 The second night of the trial had set in; and it was nearly 
 the time in which Sosia was to brave the dread Unknown, 
 when there entered, at that very garden-gate which the slave 
 had left ajar—not, indeed, one of the mysterious spirits of 
 earth or air, but the heavy and most human form of Calenus, 
 the priest of Isis. He scarcely noted the humble offerings of 
 indifferent fruit, and still more indifferent wine, which the 
 pious Sosia had deemed good enough for the invisible stranger 
 they were intended to allure. “Some tribute,” thought he, 
 “to the garden god. By my father's head! if his deityship 
 were never better served, he would do well to give up the 
 godly profession. Ah! were it not for us priests, the gods 
 would have a sad time of it. And now for Arbaces—I am 
 treading a quicksand, but it ought to cover a mine. I have 
 the Egyptian's life in my power—what will he value it at?” 
 
 As he thus soliloquised, he crossed through the open court 
 into the peristyle, where a few lamps here and there broke 
 upon the empire of the starlit night; and, issuing from one 
 of the chambers that bordered the colonnade, suddenly en¬ 
 countered Arbaces. 
 
 “Ho! Calenus—seekest thou me?” said the Egyptian; 
 and there was a little embarrassment in his voice. 
 
 “Yes, wise Arbaces—I trust my visit is not unseason¬ 
 able?” 
 
 “Nay—it was but this instant that my freedman Callias 
 sneezed thrice at my right hand; I knew, therefore, some 
 good fortune was in store for me—and, lo! the gods have 
 sent me Calenus.” 
 
328 
 
 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 “Shall we within to your chamber, Arbaces?” 
 
 “As you will; but the night is clear and balmy—I have 
 some remains of languor yet lingering on me from my recent 
 illness—the air refreshes me—let us walk in the garden—we 
 are equally alone there.” 
 
 “With all my heart,” answered the priest; and the two 
 friends passed slowly to one of the many terraces which, 
 bordered by marble vases and sleeping flowers, intersected 
 the garden. 
 
 “It is a lovely night,” said Arbaces—“blue and beautiful 
 as that on which, twenty years ago, the shores of Italy first 
 broke upon my view. My Calenus, age creeps upon us—let 
 us, at least, feel that we have lived.” 
 
 “Thou, at least, mayst arrogate that boast,” said Calenus, 
 beating about, as it were, for an opportunity to communicate 
 the secret which weighed upon him, and feeling his usual awe 
 of Arbaces still more impressively that night, from the quiet 
 and friendly tone of dignified condescension which the Egyp¬ 
 tian assumed—“Thou, at least, mayst arrogate that boast. 
 Thou hast had countless wealth—a frame on whose close- 
 woven fibres disease can find no space to enter—prosperous 
 love—inexhaustible pleasure—and, even at this hour, triumph¬ 
 ant revenge.” 
 
 “Thou alludest to the Athenian. Ay, to-morrow’s sun the 
 fiat of his death will go forth. The senate does not relent. 
 But thou mistakest: his death gives me no other gratification 
 than that it releases me from a rival in the affections of lone. 
 I entertain no other sentiment of animosity against that un¬ 
 fortunate homicide.” 
 
 “Homicide!” repeated Calenus, slowly and meaningly; 
 and, halting as he spoke, he fixed his eyes upon Arbaces. 
 The stars shone pale and steadily on the proud face of their 
 prophet, but they betrayed there no change: the eyes of 
 Calenus fell disappointed and abashed. He continued rapidly 
 —“Homicide! it is well to charge him with that crime; but 
 thou, of all men, knowest that he is innocent.” . 
 
 “Explain thyself,” said Arbaces, coldly; for he had pre¬ 
 pared himself for the hint his secret fears had foretold. 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 329 
 
 “Arbaces,” answered Calenus, sinking his voice into a 
 whisper, “I was in the sacred grove, sheltered by the chapel 
 and the surrounding foliage. I overheard—I marked the 
 whole. I saw thy weapon pierce the heart of Apaecides. I 
 blame not the deed—it destroyed a foe and an apostate.” 
 
 “Thou sawest the whole!” said Arbaces, drily; “so I 
 imagined—thou wert alone?” 
 
 “Alone!” returned Calenus, surprised at the Egyptian’s 
 calmness. 
 
 “And wherefore wert thou hid behind the chapel at that 
 hour?” 
 
 “Because I had learned the conversion of Apaecides to the 
 Christian faith—because I knew that on that spot he was to 
 meet the fierce Olinthus—because they were to meet there to 
 discuss plans for unveiling the sacred mysteries of our goddess 
 to the people—and I was there to detect, in order to defeat 
 them.” 
 
 “Hast thou told living ear what thou didst witness?” 
 
 “No, my master; the secret is locked in thy servant’s 
 breast.” 
 
 “What! even thy kinsman Burbo guesses it not! Come, 
 the truth!” 
 
 “By the gods-” 
 
 “Hush! we know each other—what are the gods to us?” 
 
 “By the fear of thy vengeance, then,—no!” 
 
 “And why hast thou hitherto concealed from me this 
 secret? Why hast thou waited till the eve of the Athenian’s 
 condemnation before thou hast ventured to tell me that 
 Arbaces is a murderer? And, having tarried so long, why 
 revealest thou now that knowledge?” 
 
 “Because—because-” stammered Calenus, colouring 
 
 and in confusion. 
 
 “Because,” interrupted Arbaces, with a gentle smile, and 
 tapping the priest on the shoulder with a kindly and familiar 
 gesture—“because, my Calenus (see now, I will read thy heart, 
 and explain its motives)—because thou didst wish thoroughly 
 to commit and entangle me in the trial, so that I might have 
 no loophole of escape; that I might stand firmly pledged to 
 
330 
 
 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 perjury and to malice, as well as to homicide; that having 
 myself whetted the appetite of the populace to blood, no 
 wealth, no power, could prevent my becoming their victim; 
 and thou tellest me thy secret now, ere the trial be over and 
 the innocent condemned, to show what a desperate web of 
 villany thy word to-morrow could destroy; to enhance in this, 
 the ninth hour, the price of thy forbearance; to show that 
 my own arts, in arousing the popular wrath, would, at thy wit¬ 
 ness, recoil upon myself; and that, if not for Glaucus, for me 
 would gape the jaws of the lion! Is it not so?” 
 
 “ Arbaces,” replied Calenus, losing all the vulgar audacity 
 of his natural character, “verily thou art a Magian; thou 
 readest the heart as it were a scroll.” 
 
 “It is my vocation,” answered the Egyptian, laughing 
 gently. “Well, then, forbear; and when all is over, I will 
 make thee rich.” 
 
 “Pardon me,” said the priest, as the quick suggestion of 
 that avarice, which was his master-passion, bade him trust no 
 future chance of generosity; “pardon me; thou saidst right— 
 we know each other. If thou wouldst have me silent, thou 
 must pay something in advance, as an offer to Harpocrates.* 
 If the rose, sweet emblem of discretion, is to take root firmly, 
 water her this night with a stream of gold.” 
 
 “Witty and poetical!” answered Arbaces, still in that 
 bland voice which lulled and encouraged, when it ought to 
 have alarmed and checked, his griping comrade. “Wilt thou 
 not wait the morrow?” 
 
 “Why this delay? Perhaps, when I can no longer give 
 my testimony without shame for not having given it ere the 
 innocent man suffered, thou wilt forget my claim; and, in¬ 
 deed, thy present hesitation is a bad omen of thy future 
 gratitude.” 
 
 “Well, then, Calenus, what wouldst thou have me pay 
 thee?” 
 
 “Thy life is very precious, and thy wealth is very great,” 
 returned the priest, grinning. 
 
 * The God of Silence. 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 33 I 
 
 “Wittier and more witty. But speak out—what shall be 
 the sum?” 
 
 “Arbaces, I have heard that in thy secret treasury below, 
 beneath those rude Oscan arches which prop thy stately halls, 
 thou hast piles of gold, of vases, and of jewels, which might 
 rival the receptacles of the wealth of the deified Nero. Thou 
 mayst easily spare out of those piles enough to make Calenus 
 among the richest priests of Pompeii, and yet not miss the 
 loss.” 
 
 “Come, Calenus,” said Arbaces, winningly, and with a 
 frank and generous air, “thou art an old friend, and hast 
 been a faithful servant. Thou canst have no wish to take 
 away my life, nor I a desire to stint thy reward: thou shalt 
 descend with me to that treasury thou referrest to, thou shalt 
 feast thine eyes with the blaze of uncounted gold and the 
 sparkle of priceless gems; and thou shalt, for thy own reward, 
 bear away with thee this night as much as thou canst conceal 
 beneath thy robes. Nay, when thou hast once seen what thy 
 friend possesses, thou wilt learn how foolish it would be to in¬ 
 jure one who has so much to bestow. When Glaucus is no 
 more, thou shalt pay the treasury another visit. Speak I 
 frankly and as a friend?” 
 
 “Oh, greatest, best of men!” cried Calenus, almost weep¬ 
 ing with joy, “canst thou thus forgive my injurious doubts of 
 thy justice, thy generosity?” 
 
 “Hush! one other turn, and we will descend to the Oscan 
 arches.” 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 The Slave consults the Oracle—They who blind themselves the Blind may fool— 
 Two new Prisoners made in one Night. 
 
 Impatiently Nydia awaited the arrival of the no less 
 anxious Sosia. Fortifying his courage by plentiful potations 
 of a better liquor than that provided for the demon, the 
 credulous ministrant stole into the blind girl’s chamber. 
 
 “Well, Sosia, and art thou prepared? Hast thou the bowl 
 of pure water?” 
 
332 
 
 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 “Verily, yes: but I tremble a little. You are sure I shall 
 not see the demon? I have heard that those gentlemen are by 
 no means of a handsome person or a civil demeanour.” 
 
 “Be assured! And hast thou left the garden-gate gently 
 open?” 
 
 “Yes; and placed some beautiful nuts and apples on a little 
 table close by?” 
 
 “That’s well. And the gate is open now, so that the 
 demon may pass through it?” 
 
 “Surely it is.” 
 
 “Well, then, open this door; there—leave it just ajar. And 
 now, Sosia, give me the lamp.” 
 
 “What, you will not extinguish it?” 
 
 “No; but I must breathe my spell over its ray. There is a 
 spirit in fire. Seat thyself.” 
 
 The slave obeyed; and Nydia, after bending for some 
 moments silently over the lamp, rose, and in a low voice 
 chanted the following rude 
 
 INVOCATION TO THE SPECTRE OF THE AIR. 
 
 “Loved alike by Air and Water 
 Aye must be Thessalia’s daughter; 
 
 To us, Olympian hearts, are given 
 Spells that draw the moon from heaven. 
 
 All that Egypt’s learning wrought— 
 
 All that Persia’s Magian taught— 
 
 Won from song, or wrung from flowers. 
 
 Or whisper’d low by fiend—are ours. 
 
 Spectre of the viewless air 1 
 Hear the blind Thessalian’s prayer! 
 
 By Erictho’s art, that shed 
 Dews of life when life was fled:— 
 
 By lone Ithaca’s wise king. 
 
 Who could wake the crystal spring 
 To the voice of prophecy? 
 
 By the lost Eurydice, 
 
 Summon’d from the shadowy throng, 
 
 At the muse-son’s magic song— 
 
 By the Colchian’s awful charms, 
 
 When fair-haired Jason left her arms 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 333 
 
 Spectre of the airy halls. 
 
 One who owns thee duly calls! 
 
 Breathe along the brimming bowl. 
 
 And instruct the fearful soul 
 In the shadowy things that lie 
 Dark in dim futurity. 
 
 Come, wild demon of the air. 
 
 Answer to thy votary’s prayer! 
 
 Cornel oh, come! 
 
 And no god on heaven or earth— 
 
 Not the Paphian Queen of Mirth, 
 
 Nor the vivid Lord of Light, 
 
 Nor the triple Maid of Night, 
 
 Nor the Thunderer’s self shall be 
 Blest and honour’d more than thee I 
 Come! oh, come 1 ” 
 
 “The spectre is certainly coming/’ said Sosia. “I feel him 
 running along my hair! ” 
 
 “Place thy bowl of water on the ground. Now, then, give 
 me thy napkin, and let me fold up thy face and eyes.” 
 
 “Ay! that’s always the custom with these charms. Not so 
 tight, though: gently—gently! ” 
 
 “There—thou canst not see?” 
 
 “See, by Jupiter! No! nothing but darkness.” 
 
 “Address, then, to the spectre whatever question thou 
 wouldst ask him, in a low-whispered voice, three times. If thy 
 question is answered in the affirmative, thou wilt hear the 
 water ferment and bubble before the demon breathes upon it; 
 if in the negative, the water will be quite silent.” 
 
 “But you will not play any trick with the water, eh?” 
 
 “Let me place the bowl under thy feet—so. Now thou wilt 
 perceive that I cannot touch it without thy knowledge.” 
 
 “Very fair. Now, then, O Bacchus! befriend me. Thou 
 knowest that I have always loved thee better than all the other 
 gods, and I will dedicate to thee that silver cup I stole last 
 year from the burly carptor (butler), if thou wilt but befriend 
 me with this water-loving demon. And thou, O Spirit! listen 
 and hear me. Shall I be enabled to purchase my freedom next 
 year? Thou knowest; for, as thou livest in the air, the birds* 
 
 * Who are supposed to know all secrets. The same superstition prevails m 
 the East, and is not without example, also, in our northern legends. 
 
334 
 
 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 have doubtless acquainted thee with every secret of this 
 house,—thou knowest that I have filched and pilfered all that I 
 honestly—that is, safely—could lay finger upon for the last 
 three years, and I yet want two thousand sesterces of the full 
 sum. Shall I be able, O good Spirit! to make up the deficiency 
 in the course of this year? Speak—Ha! does the water 
 bubble? No; all is as still as a tomb.—Well, then, if not this 
 year, in two years?—Ah! I hear something; the demon is 
 scratching at the door; he’ll be here presently.—In two years, 
 my good fellow: come now, two; that’s a very reasonable 
 time. What! dumb still! Two years and a half—three—four? 
 Ill fortune to you, friend demon! You are not a lady, that’s 
 clear, or you would not keep silence so long. Five—six—sixty 
 years? and may Pluto seize you! I’ll ask no more.” And 
 Sosia, in a rage, kicked down the water over his legs. He 
 then, after much fumbling, and more cursing, managed to 
 extricate his head from the napkin in which it was completely 
 folded—stared round—and discovered that he was in the dark. 
 
 “What, ho! Nydia; the lamp is gone. Ah, traitress; and 
 thou art gone too; but I’ll catch thee—thou shalt smart for 
 this!” 
 
 The slave groped his way to the door; it was bolted from 
 without: he was a prisoner instead of Nydia. What could he 
 do? He did not dare to knock loud—to call out—lest Arbaces 
 should overhear him, and discover how he had been duped; 
 and Nydia, meanwhile, had probably already gained the 
 garden-gate, and was fast on her escape. 
 
 “But,” thought he, “she will go home, or, at least, be some¬ 
 where in the city. To-morrow, at dawn, when the slaves are 
 at work in the peristyle, I can make myself heard; then I can 
 go forth and seek her. I shall be sure to find and bring her 
 back, before Arbaces knows a word of the matter. Ah! that’s 
 the best plan. Little traitress, my fingers itch at thee: and to 
 leave only a bowl of water, too! Had it been wine, it would 
 have been some comfort.” 
 
 While Sosia, thus entrapped, was lamenting his fate, and 
 revolving his schemes to repossess himself of Nydia, the blind 
 girl, with that singular precision and dexterous rapidity of 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 335 
 
 motion, which, we have before observed, was peculiar to her, 
 had passed lightly along the peristyle, threaded the opposite 
 passage that led into the garden, and, with a beating heart, 
 was about to proceed towards the gate, when she suddenly heard 
 the sound of approaching steps, and distinguished the dread 
 voice of Arbaces himself. She paused for a moment in doubt 
 and terror; then suddenly it flashed across her recollection 
 that there was another passage which was little used except 
 for the admission of the fair partakers of the Egyptian’s secret 
 revels, and which wound along the basement of that massive 
 fabric towards a door which also communicated with the gar¬ 
 den. By good fortune it might be open. At that thought, she 
 hastily retraced her steps, descended the narrow stairs at the 
 right, and was soon at the entrance of the passage. Alas! the 
 door at the entrance was closed and secured. While she was 
 yet assuring herself that it was indeed locked, she heard be¬ 
 hind her the voice of Calenus, and, a moment after, that of 
 Arbaces in low reply. She could not stay there; they were 
 probably passing to that very door. She sprang onward, and 
 felt herself in unknown ground. The air grew damp and chill; 
 this reassured her. She thought she might be among the 
 cellars of the luxurious mansion, or, at least, in some rude spot 
 not likely to be visited by its haughty lord, when again, her 
 quick ear caught steps and the sound of voices. On, on, she 
 hurried, extending her arms, which now frequently encountered 
 pillars of thick and massive form. With a tact, doubled in 
 acuteness by her fear, she escaped these perils, and continued 
 her way, the air growing more and more damp as she pro¬ 
 ceeded; yet, still, as she ever and anon paused for breath, she 
 heard the advancing steps and the indistinct murmur of voices. 
 At length she was abruptly stopped by a wall that seemed the 
 limit of her path. Was there no spot in which she could hide? 
 No aperture? no cavity? There was none! She stopped, 
 and wrung her hands in despair; then again, nerved as the 
 voices neared upon her, she hurried on by the side of the 
 wall; and coming suddenly against one of the sharp but¬ 
 tresses that here and there jutted boldly forth, she fell to the 
 ground. Though much bruised, her senses did not leave her; 
 
336 
 
 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 she uttered no cry; nay, she hailed the accident that had led 
 her to something like a screen; and creeping close up to the 
 angle formed by the buttress, so that on one side at least she 
 was sheltered from view, she gathered her slight and small 
 form into its smallest compass, and breathlessly awaited her 
 fate. 
 
 Meanwhile Arbaces and the priest were taking their way to 
 that secret chamber whose stores were so vaunted by the 
 Egyptian. They were in a vast subterranean atrium, or hall; 
 the low roof was supported by short, thick pillars of an archi¬ 
 tecture far remote from the Grecian graces of that luxuriant 
 period. The single and pale lamp, which Arbaces bore, shed 
 but an imperfect ray over the bare and rugged walls, in which 
 the huge stones, without cement, were fitted curiously and un- 
 couthly into each other. The disturbed reptiles glared dully 
 on the intruders, and then crept into the shadow of the walls. 
 
 Calenus shivered as he looked around and breathed the 
 damp, unwholesome air. 
 
 “Yet,” said Arbaces, with a smile, perceiving his shudder, 
 “it is these rude abodes that furnish the luxuries of the halls 
 above. They are like the labourers of the world,—we despise 
 their ruggedness, yet they feed the very pride that disdains 
 them.” 
 
 “And whither goes yon dim gallery to the left?” asked 
 Calenus; “in this depth of gloom it seems without limit, as if 
 winding into Hades.” 
 
 “ On the contrary, it does but conduct to the upper rooms,” 
 answered Arbaces, carelessly: “it is to the right that we steer 
 to our bourn.” 
 
 The hall, like many in the more habitable regions of 
 Pompeii, branched off at the extremity into two wings or pas¬ 
 sages; the length of which, not really great, was to the eye 
 considerably exaggerated by the sudden gloom against which 
 the lamp so faintly struggled. To the right of these aim the 
 two comrades now directed their steps. 
 
 “The gay Glaucus will be lodged to-morrow in apartments 
 not much drier, and far less spacious than this,” said Calenus, 
 as they passed by the very spot where, completely wrapped in 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 337 
 
 the shadow of the broad, projecting buttress, cowered the 
 Thessalian. 
 
 “Ay, but then he will have dry room, and ample enough, 
 in the arena on the following day. And to think,” continued 
 Arbaces, slowly, and very deliberately—“to think that a word 
 of thine could save him, and consign Arbaces to his doom!” 
 
 “That word shall never be spoken,” said Calenus. 
 
 “Right, my Calenus! it never shall,” returned Arbaces, 
 familiarly leaning his arm on the priest’s shoulder: “and now, 
 halt—we are at the door.” 
 
 The light trembled against a small door deep set in the 
 wall, and guarded strongly by many plates and bindings of 
 iron, that intersected the rough and dark wood. From his 
 girdle Arbaces now drew a small ring, holding three or four 
 short but strong keys. Oh, how beat the griping heart of 
 Calenus, as he heard the rusty wards growl, as if resenting the 
 admission to the treasures they guarded! 
 
 “Enter, my friend,” said Arbaces, “while I hold the lamp 
 on high, that thou mayst glut thine eyes on the yellow heaps.” 
 
 The impatient Calenus did not wait to be twice invited; he 
 hastened towards the aperture. 
 
 Scarce had he crossed the threshold, when the strong hand 
 of Arbaces plunged him forwards. 
 
 “ The word shall never he spoken l” said the Egyptian, with a 
 loud, exultant laugh, and closed the door upon the priest. 
 
 Calenus had been precipitated down several steps, but not 
 feeling at the moment the pain of his fall, he sprung up again 
 to the door, and beating at it fiercely with his clenched fist, he 
 cried aloud in what seemed more a beast’s howl than a human 
 voice, so keen was his agony and despair: “Oh, release me, 
 release me, and I will ask no gold! ” 
 
 The words but imperfectly penetrated the massive door, 
 and Arbaces again laughed. Then, stamping his foot violently, 
 rejoined, perhaps to give vent to his long-stifled passions,— 
 
 “All the gold of Dalmatia,” cried he, “will not buy thee a 
 crust of bread. Starve, wretch! thy dying groans will never 
 wake even the echo of these vast halls: nor will the air ever 
 reveal, as thou gnawest, in thy desperate famine, thy flesh 
 
 Pompeii . 22 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 338 
 
 from thy bones, that so perishes the man who threatened, and 
 could have undone, Arbaces! Farewell!” 
 
 “ Oh, pity—mercy! Inhuman villain; was it for this-” 
 
 The rest of the sentence was lost to the ear of Arbaces as 
 he passed backward along the dim hall. A toad, plump and 
 bloated, lay unmoving before his path; the rays of the lamp 
 fell upon its unshaped hideousness and red upward eye. 
 Arbaces turned aside that he might not harm it. 
 
 “Thou art loathsome and obscene,” he muttered, “but thou 
 canst not injure me; therefore thou art safe in my path” 
 
 The cries of Calenus, dulled and choked by the barrier that 
 confined him, yet faintly reached the ear of the Egyptian. He 
 paused and listened intently. 
 
 “This is unfortunate,” thought he; “for I cannot sail till 
 that voice is dumb for ever. My stores and treasures lie, not 
 in yon dungeon it is true, but in the opposite wing. My slaves, 
 as they move them, must not hear his voice. But what fear 
 of that? In three days, if he still survive, his accents, by my 
 father’s beard, must be weak enough, then!—no, they could 
 not pierce even through his tomb. By Isis, it is cold!—I long 
 for a deep draught of the spiced Falernian.” 
 
 With that the remorseless Egyptian drew his gown closer 
 round him, and resought the upper air. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 Nydia accosts Calenus. 
 
 What words of terror, yet of hope, had Nydia overheard! 
 The next day Glaucus was to be condemned; yet there lived 
 one who could save him, and adjudge Arbaces to his doom, 
 and that one breathed within a few steps of her hiding-place! 
 She caught his cries and shrieks — his imprecations — his 
 prayers, though they fell choked and muffled on her ear. He 
 was imprisoned, but she knew the secret of his cell: could she 
 but escape—could she but seek the praetor, he might yet in 
 time be given to light, and preserve the Athenian. Her emo¬ 
 tions almost stifled her; her brain reeled—she felt her sense 
 give way—but by a violent effort she mastered herself; and, 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 339 
 
 after listening intently for several minutes, till she was con¬ 
 vinced that Arbaces had left the space to solitude and herself, 
 she crept on as her ear guided her to the very door that had 
 closed upon Calenus. Here she more distinctly caught his 
 accents of terror and despair. Thrice she attempted to speak, 
 and thrice her voice failed to penetrate the folds of the heavy 
 door. At length finding the lock, she applied her lips to its 
 small aperture, and the prisoner distinctly heard a soft tone 
 breathe his name. 
 
 His blood curdled—his hair stood on end. That awful 
 solitude, what mysterious and preternatural being could pene¬ 
 trate! “Who ? s there?” he cried, in new alarm; “what spectre 
 —what dread larva , calls upon the lost Calenus?” 
 
 “Priest,” replied the Thessalian, “unknown to Arbaces, I 
 have been, by the permission of the gods, a witness to his 
 perfidy. If I myself can escape from these walls, I may save 
 thee. But let thy voice reach my ear through this narrow 
 passage, and answer what I ask.” 
 
 “Ah, blessed spirit,” said the priest, exultingly, and obey¬ 
 ing the suggestion of Nydia, “save me, and I will sell the very 
 cups on the altar to pay thy kindness.” 
 
 “I want not thy gold—I want thy secret. Did I hear aright? 
 — Canst thou save the Athenian Glaucus from the charge 
 against his life?” 
 
 “I can—I can!—therefore (may the Furies blast the foul 
 Egyptian!) hath Arbaces snared me thus, and left me to starve 
 and rot!” 
 
 “They accuse the Athenian of murder: canst thou disprove 
 the accusation?” 
 
 “Only free me, and the proudest head of Pompeii is not 
 more safe than his. I saw the deed done—I saw Arbaces strike 
 the blow; I can convict the true murderer and acquit the in¬ 
 nocent man. But if I perish, he dies also. Dost thou interest 
 thyself for him? Oh, blessed stranger, in my heart is the urn 
 which condemns or frees him!” 
 
 “And thou wilt give full evidence of what thou knowest?” 
 
 “Will!—Oh! were hell at my feet—yes! Revenge on the 
 false Egyptian!—revenge! revenge! revenge!” 
 
 22 
 
340 
 
 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 As through his ground teeth Calenus shrieked forth those 
 last words, Nydia felt that in his worst passions was her cer¬ 
 tainty of his justice to the Athenian. Her heart beat: was it 
 to be her proud destiny to preserve her idolised—her adored? 
 “Enough / 5 said she; “the powers that conducted me hither will 
 carry me through all. Yes, I feel that I shall deliver thee. 
 Wait in patience and hope . 55 
 
 “But be cautious, be prudent, sweet stranger. Attempt not 
 to appeal to Arbaces—he is marble. Seek the praetor—say 
 what thou knowest— obtain his writ of search; bring soldiers, 
 and smiths of cunning—these locks are wondrous strong! Time 
 flies—I may starve—starve! if you are not quick! Go-go! 
 Yet stay—it is horrible to be alone!—the air is like a charnel 
 —and the scorpions—ha! and the pale larvae; Oh! stay, stay ! 55 
 
 “Nay , 55 said Nydia, terrified by the terror of the priest, and 
 anxious to confer with herself,—“nay, for thy sake, I must 
 depart. Take Hope for thy companion—farewell ! 55 
 
 So saying, she glided away, and felt with extended arms 
 along the pillared space until she had gained the farther end 
 of the hall and the mouth of the passage that led to the upper 
 air. But there she paused; she felt that it would be more safe 
 to wait awhile, until the night was so far blended with the 
 morning that the whole house would be buried in sleep, and 
 so that she might quit it unobserved. She, therefore, once 
 more laid herself down, and counted the weary moments. In 
 her sanguine heart, joy was the predominant emotion. Glaucus 
 was in deadly peril—but she should save him! 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 Arbaces and lone—Nydia gains the Garden—Will she escape and save the 
 Athenian ? 
 
 When Arbaces had warmed his veins by large draughts of 
 that spiced and perfumed wine so valued by the luxurious, he 
 felt more than usually elated and exultant of heart. There is 
 a pride in triumphant ingenuity, not less felt, perhaps, though 
 its object be guilty. Our vain human nature hugs itself in the 
 consciousness of superior craft and self-obtained success— 
 afterwards comes the horrible reaction of remorse. 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 341 
 
 But remorse was not a feeling which Arbaces was likely 
 ever to experience for the fate of the base Calenus. He swept 
 from his remembrance the thought of the priest’s agonies and 
 lingering death: he felt only that a great danger was passed, 
 and a possible foe silenced; all left to him now would be to 
 account to the priesthood for the disappearance of Calenus; 
 and this he imagined it would not be difficult to do. Calenus 
 had often been employed by him in various religious missions 
 to the neighbouring cities. On some such errand he could now 
 assert that he had been sent, with offerings to the shrines of 
 Isis at Herculaneum and Neapolis, placatory of the goddess for 
 the recent murder of her priest Apaecides. When Calenus had 
 expired, his body might be thrown, previous to the Egyptian’s 
 departure from Pompeii, into the deep stream of the Sarnus; 
 and when discovered, suspicion would probably fall upon the 
 Nazarene atheists, as an act of revenge for the death of Olinthus 
 at the arena. After rapidly running over these plans for screen¬ 
 ing himself, Arbaces dismissed at once from his mind all re¬ 
 collection of the wretched priest; and, animated by the success 
 which had lately crowned all his schemes, he surrendered his 
 thoughts to lone. The last time he had seen her, she had 
 driven him from her presence by a reproachful and bitter scorn, 
 which his arrogant nature was unable to endure. He now felt 
 emboldened once more to renew that interview; for his passion 
 for her was like similar feelings in other men—it made him 
 restless for her presence, even though in that presence he was 
 exasperated and humbled. From delicacy to her grief he laid 
 not aside his dark and unfestive robes, but, renewing the per¬ 
 fumes on his raven locks, and arranging his tunic in its most 
 becoming folds, he sought the chamber of the Neapolitan. 
 Accosting the slave in attendance without, he inquired if lone 
 had yet retired to rest; and learning that she was still up, and 
 unusually quiet and composed, he ventured into her presence. 
 He found his beautiful ward sitting before a small table, and 
 leaning her face upon both her hands in the attitude of thought. 
 Yet the expression of the face itself possessed not its wonted 
 bright and Psyche-like expression of sweet intelligence; the 
 lips were apart—the eye vacant and unheeding—and the long 
 
342 
 
 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 dark hair, falling neglected and dishevelled upon her neck, 
 gave by the contrast additional paleness to a cheek which had 
 already lost the roundness of its contour. 
 
 Arbaces gazed upon her a moment ere he advanced. She, 
 too, lifted up her eyes; and when she saw who was the in¬ 
 truder, shut them with an expression of pain, but did not stir. 
 
 “Ah!” said Arbaces, in a low and earnest tone, as he respect¬ 
 fully, nay, humbly, advanced and seated himself at a little 
 distance from the table—“Ah! that my death could remove 
 thy hatred, then would I gladly die! Thou wrongest me, lone; 
 but I will bear the wrong without a murmur, only let me see 
 thee sometimes. Chide, reproach, scorn me, if thou wilt—I 
 will teach myself to bear it. And is not even thy bitterest 
 tone sweeter to me than the music of the most artful lute? 
 In thy silence the world seems to stand still—a stagnation 
 curdles up the veins of the earth—there is no earth, no life, 
 without the light of thy countenance and the melody of thy 
 voice.” 
 
 “Give me back my brother and my betrothed,” said lone, 
 in a calm and imploring tone, and a few large tears rolled un¬ 
 heeded down her cheeks. 
 
 “Would that I could restore the one and save the other!” 
 returned Arbaces, with apparent emotion. “Yes; to make 
 thee happy I would renounce my ill-fated love, and gladly join 
 thy hand to the Athenian’s. Perhaps he will yet come un¬ 
 scathed from his trial [Arbaces had prevented her learning 
 that the trial had already commenced]; if so, thou art free to 
 judge or condemn him thyself. And think not, O lone, that I 
 would follow thee longer with a prayer of love. I know it is 
 in vain. Suffer me only to weep—to mourn with thee. For¬ 
 give a violence deeply repented, and that shall offend no more. 
 Let me be to thee only what I once was—a friend, a father, a 
 protector. Ah, lone! spare me and forgive.” 
 
 “I forgive thee. Save but Glaucus, and I will renounce 
 him. O mighty Arbaces! thou art powerful in evil or in good: 
 save the Athenian, and the poor lone will never see him more.” 
 As she spoke, she rose with weak and trembling limbs, and 
 falling at his feet, she clasped his knees: “ Oh! if thou really 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 343 
 
 lovest me—if thou art human—remember my father’s ashes, 
 remember my childhood, think of all the hours we passed 
 happily together, and save my Glaucus!” 
 
 Strange convulsions shook the frame of the Egyptian; his 
 features worked fearfully—he turned his face aside, and said, 
 in a hollow voice, “If I could save him, even now, I would; but 
 the Roman law is stern and sharp. Yet if I could succeed—if 
 I could rescue and set him free—wouldst thou be mine—my 
 bride?” 
 
 “Thine?” repeated lone, rising: “thine!—thy bride? My 
 brother’s blood is unavenged: who slew him? O Nemesis, can 
 I even sell, for the life of Glaucus, thy solemn trust? Arbaces 
 •—thinef Never.” 
 
 “lone, lone!” cried Arbaces, passionately; “why these 
 mysterious words?—why dost thou couple my name with the 
 thought of thy brother’s death?” 
 
 “My dreams couple it—and dreams are from the gods.” 
 
 “Vain fantasies all! Is it for a dream that thou wouldst 
 wrong the innocent, and hazard thy sole chance of saving thy 
 lover’s life?” 
 
 “Hear me!” said lone, speaking firmly, and with a de¬ 
 liberate and solemn voice: “if Glaucus be saved by thee, I 
 will never be borne to his home a bride. But I cannot master 
 the horror of other rites: I cannot wed with thee. Interrupt 
 me not; but mark me, Arbaces!—if Glaucus die, on that same 
 day I baffle thine arts, and leave to thy love only my dust! 
 Yes,—thou mayst put the knife and the poison from my reach 
 —thou mayst imprison—thou mayst chain me, but the brave 
 soul resolved to escape is never without means. These hands, 
 naked and unarmed though they be, shall tear away the bonds 
 of life. Fetter them, and these lips shall firmly refuse the 
 air. Thou art learned—thou hast read how women have died 
 rather than meet dishonour. If Glaucus perish, I will not un¬ 
 worthily linger behind him. By all the gods of the heaven, 
 and the ocean, and the earth, I devote myself to death! I have 
 said!” 
 
 High, proud, dilating in her stature, like one inspired, 
 
344 
 
 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 the air and voice of lone struck an awe into the breast of her 
 listener. 
 
 “Brave heart!” said he, after a short pause; “thou art in¬ 
 deed worthy to be mine. Oh! that I should have dreamt of 
 such a partner in my lofty destinies, and never found it but in 
 thee! lone,” he continued rapidly, “ dost thou not see that we 
 are born for each other? Canst thou not recognise something 
 kindred to thine own energy—thine own courage—in this high 
 and self-dependent soul? We were formed to unite our sym¬ 
 pathies—formed to breathe a new spirit into this hackneyed 
 and gross world—formed for the mighty ends which my soul, 
 sweeping down the gloom of time, foresees with a prophet's 
 vision. With a resolution equal to thine own, I defy thy 
 threats of an inglorious suicide. I hail thee as my own! Queen 
 of climes undarkened by the eagle's wing, unravaged by his 
 beak, I bow before thee in homage and in awe—but I claim 
 thee in worship and in love! Together will we cross the ocean 
 —together will we found our realm; and far distant ages shall 
 acknowledge the long race of kings born from the marriage- 
 bed of Arbaces and lone!” 
 
 “Thou ravest! These mystic declamations are suited 
 rather to some palsied crone selling charms in the market¬ 
 place than to the wise Arbaces. Thou hast heard my resolu¬ 
 tion,—it is fixed as the Fates themselves. Orcus has heard 
 my vow, and it is written in the book of the unforgetful Hades. 
 Atone, then, O Arbaces!—atone the past: convert hatred into 
 regard—vengeance into gratitude; preserve one who shall 
 never be thy rival. These are acts suited to thy original 
 nature, which gives forth sparks of something high and noble. 
 They weigh in the scales of the Kings of Death: they turn 
 the balance on that day when the disembodied soul stands 
 shivering and dismayed between Tartarus and Elysium; they 
 gladden the heart in life, better and longer than the reward 
 of a momentary passion. Oh, Arbaces! hear me, and be 
 swayed!” 
 
 “Enough, lone. All that I can do for Glaucus shall be 
 done; but blame me not if I fail. Inquire of my foes, even, if 
 I have not sought, if I do not seek, to turn aside the sentence 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 345 
 
 from his head; and judge me accordingly. Sleep then, lone. 
 Night wanes; I leave thee to rest,—and mayst thou have kinder 
 dreams of one who has no existence but in thine.” 
 
 Without waiting a reply, Arbaces hastily withdrew; afraid, 
 perhaps, to trust himself further to the passionate prayer of 
 lone, which racked him with jealousy, even while it touched 
 him to compassion. But compassion itself came too late. Had 
 lone even pledged him her hand as his reward, he could not 
 now—his evidence given—the populace excited—have saved 
 the Athenian. Still, made sanguine by his very energy of 
 mind, he threw himself on the chances of the future, and be¬ 
 lieved he should yet triumph over the woman that had so en¬ 
 tangled his passions. 
 
 As his attendants assisted to unrobe him for the night, the 
 thought of Nydia flashed across him. He felt it was necessary 
 that lone should never learn of her lover’s frenzy, lest it might 
 excuse his imputed crime; and it was possible that her atten¬ 
 dants might inform her that Nydia was under his roof, and she 
 might desire to see her. As this idea crossed him, he turned 
 to one of his freedmen,— 
 
 “Go, Callias,” said he, “forthwith to Sosia, and tell him, 
 that on no pretence is he to suffer the blind slave Nydia out of 
 her chamber. But, stay—first seek those in attendance upon 
 my ward, and caution them not to inform her that the blind 
 girl is under my roof. Go—quick!” 
 
 The freedman hastened to obey. After having discharged 
 his commission with respect to lone’s attendants, he sought the 
 worthy Sosia. He found him not in the little cell which was 
 apportioned for his cubiculum; he called his name aloud, and 
 fromNydia’s chamber, close at hand, he heard the voice of 
 Sosia reply,— 
 
 “Oh, Callias, is it you that I hear?—the gods be praised! 
 Open the door, I pray you!” 
 
 Callias withdrew the bolt, and the rueful face of Sosia 
 hastily protruded itself. 
 
 “What!—in the chamber with that young girl, Sosia! ProJi 
 pudor! Are there not fruits ripe enough on the wall, but that 
 thou must tamper with such green-” 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 346 
 
 “Name not the little witch!” interrupted Sosia, impatiently; 
 “she will be my ruin!” And he forthwith imparted to Callias 
 the history of the Air Demon, and the escape of the Thes¬ 
 salian. 
 
 “Hang thyself, then, unhappy Sosia! I am just charged 
 from Arbaces with a message to thee; on no account art thou 
 to suffer her, even for a moment, from that chamber!” 
 
 “Me miserum!” exclaimed the slave. “What can I do!—by 
 this time she may have visited half Pompeii. But to-morrow I 
 will undertake to catch her in her old haunts. Keep but my 
 counsel, my dear Callias.” 
 
 “I will do all that friendship can, consistent with my own 
 safety. But are you sure she has left the house?—she may be 
 hiding here yet.” 
 
 “How is that possible? She could easily have gained the 
 garden; and the door, as I told thee, was open.” 
 
 “Nay, not so; for, at that very hour thou specifiest, Arbaces 
 was in the garden with the priest Calenus. I went there in 
 search of some herbs for my master’s bath to-morrow. I saw 
 the table set out; but the gate I am sure was shut: depend 
 upon it, that Calenus entered by the garden, and naturally 
 closed the door after him.” 
 
 “But it was not locked.” 
 
 “Yes; for I myself, angry at a negligence which might ex¬ 
 pose the bronzes in the peristyle to the mercy of any robber, 
 turned the key, took it away, and—as I did not see the proper 
 slave to whom to give it, or I should have rated him finely— 
 here it actually is, still in my girdle.” 
 
 “Oh, merciful Bacchus! I did not pray to thee in vain, 
 after all. Let us not lose a moment! Let us to the garden 
 instantly—she may yet be there! ” 
 
 The good-natured Callias. consented to assist the slave; and 
 after vainly searching the chambers at hand, and the recesses 
 of the peristyle, they entered the garden. 
 
 It was about this time that Nydia had resolved to quit her 
 hiding-place, and venture forth on her way. Lightly, tremu¬ 
 lously holding her breath, which ever and anon broke forth in 
 quick convulsive gasps,-—now gliding by the flower-wreathed 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 347 
 
 columns that bordered the peristyle—now darkening the still 
 moonshine that fell over its tesselated centre—now ascending 
 the terrace of the garden—now gliding amidst the gloomy 
 and breathless trees, she gained the fatal door—to find it 
 locked! We have all seen that expression of pain, of un¬ 
 certainty, of fear, which a sudden disappointment of touch, if 
 I may use the expression, casts over the face of the blind. But 
 what words can paint the intolerable woe, the sinking of the 
 whole heart, which was now visible on the features of the 
 Thessalian? Again and again her small, quivering hands 
 wandered to and fro the inexorable door. Poor thing that 
 thou wert! in vain had been all thy noble courage, thy in¬ 
 nocent craft, thy doublings to escape the hound and hunts¬ 
 men! Within but a few yards from thee, laughing at thy 
 endeavours—thy despair—knowing thou wert now their own, 
 and watching with cruel patience their own moment to seize 
 their prey—thou art saved from seeing thy pursuers! 
 
 “Hush, Callias! — let her go on. Let us see what she will 
 do when she has convinced herself that the door is honest.” 
 
 “Look! she raises her face to the heavens—she mutters— 
 she sinks down despondent! No! by Pollux, she has some 
 new scheme! She will not resign herself! By Jupiter, a 
 tough spirit! See, she springs up—she retraces her steps— 
 she thinks of some other chance!—I advise thee, Sosia, to 
 delay no longer: seize her ere she quit the garden,—now!” 
 
 “Ah! runaway! I have thee—eh?” said Sosia, seizing upon 
 the unhappy Nydia. 
 
 As a hare’s last human cry in the fangs of the dogs—as the 
 sharp voice of terror uttered by a sleep-walker suddenly 
 awakened—broke the shriek of the blind girl, when she felt 
 the abrupt gripe of her gaoler. It was a shriek of such utter 
 agony, such entire despair, that it might have rung hauntingly 
 in your ears for ever. She felt as if the last plank of the sink¬ 
 ing Glaucus were torn from his clasp! It had been a suspense 
 of life and death; and death had now won the game. 
 
 “Gods! that cry will alarm the house! Arbaces sleeps full 
 lightly. Gag her!” cried Callias* 
 
 “Ah! here is the very napkin with which the young witch 
 
348 
 
 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 conjured away my reason! Come, that’s right; now thou art 
 dumb as well as blind.” 
 
 And, catching the light weight in his arms, Sosia soon 
 gained the house, and reached the chamber from which Nydia 
 had escaped. There, removing the gag, he left her to a soli¬ 
 tude so racked and terrible, that out of Hades its anguish 
 could scarcely be exceeded. 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 The Sorrow of Boon Companions for our Afflictions.—The Dungeon and its Victims. 
 
 IT was now late on the third and last day of the trial of 
 Glaucus and Olinthus. A few hours after the court had broke 
 up and judgment been given, a small party of the fashionable 
 youth at Pompeii were assembled round the fastidious board 
 of Lepidus. 
 
 “So Glaucus denies his crime to the last?” said Clodius. 
 
 “Yes; but the testimony of Arbaces was convincing; he 
 saw the blow given,” answered Lepidus. 
 
 “What could have been the cause?” 
 
 “Why, the priest was a gloomy and sullen fellow. He 
 probably rated Glaucus soundly about his gay life and gaming 
 habits, and ultimately swore he would not consent to his mar¬ 
 riage v/ith lone. High words arose; Glaucus seems to have 
 been full of the passionate god, and struck in sudden ex¬ 
 asperation. The excitement of wine, the desperation of abrupt 
 remorse, brought on the delirium under which he suffered for 
 some days; and I can readily imagine, poor fellow! that, yet 
 confused by that delirium, he is even now unconscious of the 
 crime he committed! Such, at least, is the shrewd conjecture 
 of Arbaces, who seems to have been most kind and forbearing 
 in his testimony.” 
 
 “Yes; he has made himself generally popular by it. But, 
 in consideration of these extenuating circumstances, the senate 
 should have relaxed the sentence.” 
 
 “And they would have done so, but for the people; but they 
 were outrageous. The priest had spared no pains to excite 
 them; and they imagined—the ferocious brutes! — because 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 349 
 
 Glaucus was a rich man and a gentleman, that he was likely to 
 escape; and therefore they were inveterate against him, and 
 doubly resolved upon his sentence. It seems, by some accident 
 or other, that he was never formally enrolled as a Roman 
 citizen; and thus the senate is deprived of the power to resist 
 the people, though, after all, there was but a majority of three 
 against him. Ho! the Chian! ” 
 
 “He looks sadly altered; but how composed and fear¬ 
 less!” 
 
 “Ay, we shall see if his firmness will last over to-morrow. 
 But what merit in courage, when that atheistical hound, Olin- 
 thus, manifested the same?” 
 
 “The blasphemer! Yes,” said Lepidus, with pious wrath, 
 “no wonder that one of the decurions was, but two days ago, 
 struck dead by lightning in a serene sky.* The gods feel 
 vengeance against Pompeii while the vile desecrator is alive 
 within its walls.” 
 
 “Yet so lenient was the senate, that had he but expressed 
 his penitence, and scattered a few grains of incense on the 
 altar of Cybele, he would have been let off. I doubt whether 
 these Nazarenes, had they the state religion, would be as 
 tolerant to us, supposing we had kicked down the image of 
 their Deity, blasphemed their rites, and denied their faith.” 
 
 “They give Glaucus one chance, in consideration of the 
 circumstances; they allow him, against the lion, the use of the 
 same stilus wherewith he smote the priest.” 
 
 “Hast thou seen the lion? hast thou looked at his teeth 
 and fangs, and wilt thou call that a chance? Why, sword and 
 buckler would be mere reed and papyrus against the rush of 
 the mighty beast! No, I think the true mercy has been, not 
 to leave him long in suspense; and it was therefore fortunate 
 for him that our benign laws are slow to pronounce, but swift 
 to execute; and that the games of the amphitheatre had been, 
 by a sort of providence, so long since fixed for to-morrow. He 
 who awaits death, dies twice.” 
 
 * Pliny says that, immediately before the eruption of Vesuvius, one of the 
 decuriones municipales was—though the heaven was unclouded—struck dead by 
 lightning. 
 
350 
 
 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 “As for the Atheist,” said Clodius, “he is to cope the grim 
 tiger naked-handed. Well, these combats are past betting on. 
 Who will take the odds?” 
 
 A peal of laughter announced the ridicule of the question. 
 
 “Poor Clodius!” said the host; “to lose a friend is some¬ 
 thing ; but to find no one to bet on the chance of his escape is 
 a worse misfortune to thee.” 
 
 “Why, it is provoking; it would have been some consola¬ 
 tion to him and to me to think he was useful to the last.” 
 
 “The people,” said the grave Pansa, “are all delighted 
 with the result. They were so much afraid the sports at the 
 amphitheatre would go off without a criminal for the beasts; 
 and now, to get two such criminals is indeed a joy for the poor 
 fellows! They work hard; they ought to have some amuse¬ 
 ment.” 
 
 “There speaks the popular Pansa, who never moves with¬ 
 out a string of clients as long as an Indian triumph. He is 
 always prating about the people. Gods! he will end by being 
 a Gracchus! ” 
 
 “Certainly I am no insolent patrician,” said Pansa, with a 
 generous air. 
 
 “Well,” observed Lepidus, “it would have been assuredly 
 dangerous to have been merciful at the eve of a beast-fight. If 
 ever /, though a Roman bred and born, come to be tried, pray 
 Jupiter there may be either no beasts in the vivaria , or plenty 
 of criminals in the gaol.” 
 
 “And pray,” said one of the party, “what has become of 
 the poor girl whom Glaucus was to have married? A widow 
 without being a bride—that is hard!” 
 
 “Oh,” returned Clodius, “she is safe under the protection 
 of her guardian, Arbaces. It was natural she should go to him 
 when she had lost both lover and brother.” 
 
 “By sweet Venus, Glaucus was fortunate among the women! 
 They say the rich Julia was in love with him.” 
 
 “A mere fable, my friend,” said Clodius, coxcombically; 
 “I was with her to-day. If any feeling of the sort she ever 
 conceived, I flatter myself that I have consoled her.” 
 
 “Hush, gentlemen!” said Pansa; “do you not know that 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 351 
 
 Clodius is employed at the house of Diomed in blowing hard 
 at the torch? It begins to burn, and will soon shine bright on 
 the shrine of Hymen.” 
 
 “Is it so?” said Lepidus. “What! Clodius become a mar¬ 
 ried man?—Fie!” 
 
 “Never fear,” answered Clodius; “old Diomed is delighted 
 at the notion of marrying his daughter to a nobleman, and will 
 come down largely with the sesterces. You will see that I 
 shall not lock them up in the atrium. It will be a white day 
 for his jolly friends, when Clodius marries an heiress.” 
 
 “Say you so?” cried Lepidus; “come, then, a full cup to 
 the health of the fair Julia! ” 
 
 While such was the conversation — one not discordant to 
 the tone of mind common among the dissipated of that day, 
 and which might perhaps, a century ago, have found an echo 
 in the looser circles of Paris—while such, I say, was the con¬ 
 versation in the gaudy triclinium of Lepidus, far different the 
 scene which scotvled before the young Athenian. 
 
 After his condemnation, Glaucus was admitted no more to 
 the gentle guardianship of Sallust, the only friend of his dis¬ 
 tress. He was led along the forum till the guards stopped at a 
 small door by the side of the temple of Jupiter. You may see 
 the place still. The door opened in the centre in a somewhat 
 singular fashion, revolving round on its hinges, as it were, like 
 a modern turnstile, so as only to leave half the threshold open 
 at the same time. Through this narrow aperture they thrust 
 the prisoner, placed before him a loaf and a pitcher of water, 
 and left him to darkness, and, as he thought, to solitude. So 
 sudden had been that revolution of fortune which had pros¬ 
 trated him from the palmy height of youthful pleasure and 
 successful love to the lowest abyss of ignominy, and the horror 
 of a most bloody death, that he could scarcely convince him¬ 
 self that he was not held in the meshes of some fearful dream. 
 His elastic and glorious frame had triumphed over a potion, 
 the greater part of which he had fortunately not drained. He 
 had recovered sense and consciousness, but still a dim and 
 misty depression clung to his nerves and darkened his mind. 
 His natural courage, and the Greek nobility of pride, enabled 
 
35 2 
 
 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 him to vanquish all unbecoming apprehension, and, in the 
 judgment-court, to face his awful lot with a steady mien and 
 unquailing eye. But the consciousness of innocence scarcely 
 sufficed to support him when the gaze of men no longer ex¬ 
 cited his haughty valour, and he was left to loneliness and 
 silence. He felt the damps of the dungeon sink chillingly into 
 his enfeebled frame. He— the fastidious, the luxurious, the re¬ 
 fined—he who had hitherto braved no hardship and known no 
 sorrow. Beautiful bird that he was! why had he left his far 
 and sunny clime—the olive-groves of his native hills—the 
 music of immemorial streams? Why had he wantoned on his 
 glittering plumage amidst these harsh and ungenial strangers, 
 dazzling the eyes with his gorgeous hues, charming the ear 
 with his blithesome song—thus suddenly to be arrested— 
 caged in darkness — a victim and a prey—his gay flights for 
 ever over—his hymns of gladness for ever stilled! The poor 
 Athenian! his very faults the exuberance of a gentle and 
 joyous nature, how little had his past career fitted him for the 
 trials he was destined to undergo! The hoots of the mob, 
 amidst whose plaudits he had so often guided his graceful car 
 and bounding steeds, still rang gratingly in his ear. The cold 
 and stony faces of his former friends (the co-mates of his 
 merry revels) still rose before his eye. None now were by to 
 soothe, to sustain, the admired, the adulated stranger. These 
 walls opened but on the dread arena of a violent and shameful 
 death. And lone! of her, too, he had heard naught; no en¬ 
 couraging word, no pitying message; she, too, had forsaken 
 him; she believed him guilty—and of what crime? — the mur¬ 
 der of a brother! He ground his teeth—he groaned aloud— 
 and ever and anon a sharp fear shot across him. In that fell 
 and fierce delirium which had so unaccountably seized his soul, 
 which had so ravaged the disordered brain, might he not , in¬ 
 deed, unknowing to himself, have committed the crime of 
 which he was accused? Yet, as the thought flashed upon him, 
 it was as suddenly checked; for, amidst all the darkness of the 
 past, he thought distinctly to recall the dim grove of Cybele, 
 the upward face of the pale dead, the pause that he had made 
 beside the corpse, and the sudden shock that felled him to the 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 353 
 
 earth. He felt convinced of his innocence; and yet who, to 
 the latest time, long after his mangled remains were mingled 
 with the elements, would believe him guiltless, or uphold his 
 fame? As he recalled his interview with Arbaces, and the 
 causes of revenge which had been excited in the heart of that 
 dark and fearful man, he could not but believe that he was the 
 victim of some deep-laid and mysterious snare—the clue and 
 train of which he was lost in attempting to discover: and lone 
 —Arbaces loved her—might his rival's success be founded 
 upon his ruin? That thought cut him more deeply than all; 
 and his noble heart was more stung by jealousy than appalled 
 by fear. Again he groaned aloud. 
 
 A voice from the recess of the darkness answered that 
 burst of anguish. “Who [it said] is my companion in this 
 awful hour? Athenian Glaucus, is it thou?" 
 
 “So, indeed, they called me in mine hour of fortune: 
 they may have other names for me now. And thy name, 
 stranger?" 
 
 “Is Olinthus, thy co-mate in the prison as the trial." 
 
 “What! he whom they call the Atheist? Is it the in¬ 
 justice of men that hath taught thee to deny the providence of 
 the gods?" 
 
 “Alas!” answered Olinthus: “thou, not I, art the true 
 Atheist, for thou deniest the sole true God—the Unknown One 
 —to whom thy Athenian fathers erected an altar. It is in this 
 hour that I know my God. He is with me in the dungeon; His 
 smile penetrates the darkness; on the eve of death my heart 
 whispers immortality, and earth recedes from me but to bring 
 the weary soul nearer unto heaven." 
 
 “Tell me," said Glaucus, abruptly, “did I not hear thy 
 name coupled with that of Apsecides in my trial? Dost thou 
 believe me guilty?" 
 
 “God alone reads the heart! but my suspicion rested not 
 upon thee." 
 
 “On whom, then?” 
 
 “Thy accuser, Arbaces." 
 
 “Ha! thou cheerest me: and wherefore?" 
 
 Pompeii. 23 
 
354 
 
 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 “Because I know the man’s evil breast, and he had cause 
 to fear him who is now dead.” 
 
 With that, Olinthus proceeded to inform Glaucus of those 
 details which the reader already knows, the conversion of 
 Apsecides, the plan they had proposed for the detection of the 
 impostures of the Egyptian priestcraft, and of the seductions 
 practised by Arbaces upon the youthful weakness of the pro¬ 
 selyte. “Therefore,” concluded Olinthus, “had the deceased 
 encountered Arbaces, reviled his treasons, and threatened de¬ 
 tection, the place, the hour, might have favoured the wrath of 
 the Egyptian, and passion and craft alike dictated the fatal 
 blow.” 
 
 “It must have been so!” cried Glaucus, joyfully. “Iam 
 happy.” 
 
 “Yet what, O unfortunate! avails to thee now the discovery? 
 Thou art condemned and fated; and in thine innocence thou 
 wilt perish.” 
 
 “But I shall know myself guiltless; and in my mysterious 
 madness I had fearful, though momentary, doubts. Yet tell 
 me, man of a strange creed, thinkest thou that for small er¬ 
 rors, or for ancestral faults, we are for ever abandoned and 
 accursed by the powers above, whatever name thou allottest 
 to them?” 
 
 “ God is just, and abandons not His creatures for their mere 
 human frailty. God is merciful, and curses none but the 
 wicked who repent not.” 
 
 “Yet it seemeth to me as if, in the divine anger, I had been 
 smitten by a sudden madness, a supernatural and solemn 
 frenzy, wrought not by human means.” 
 
 “There are demons on earth,” answered the Nazarene, 
 fearfully, “as well as there are God and His Son in heaven; 
 and since thou acknowledgest not the last, the first may have 
 had power over thee.” 
 
 Glaucus did not reply, and there was a silence for some 
 minutes. At length the Athenian said, in a changed, and soft, 
 and half-hesitating voice, “ Christian, believest thou, among the 
 doctrines of thy creed, that the dead live again—that they who 
 have loved here are united hereafter—that beyond the grave 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 355 
 
 our good name shines pure from the mortal mists that unjustly 
 dim it in the gross-eyed world—and that the streams which are 
 divided by the desert and the rock meet in the solemn Hades, 
 and flow once more into one?” 
 
 “Believe I that, O Athenian? No, I do not believe—I 
 know! and it is that beautiful and blessed assurance which 
 supports me now. O Cyllene!” continued Olinthus, pas¬ 
 sionately, “bride of my heart! torn from me in the first month 
 of our nuptials, shall I not see thee yet, and ere many days be 
 past? Welcome, welcome death, that will bring me to heaven 
 and thee!” 
 
 There was something in this sudden burst of human affec¬ 
 tion which struck a kindred chord in the soul of the Greek. 
 He felt, for the first time, a sympathy greater than mere afflic¬ 
 tion between him and his companion. He crept nearer to¬ 
 wards Olinthus; for the Italians, fierce in some points, were 
 not unnecessarily cruel in others; they spared the separate 
 cell and the superfluous chain, and allowed the victims of the 
 arena the sad comfort of such freedom and such companion¬ 
 ship as the prison would afford. 
 
 “Yes,” continued the Christian with holy fervour, “the im¬ 
 mortality of the soul—the resurrection—the reunion of the 
 dead—is the great principle of our creed—the great truth a 
 God suffered death itself to attest and proclaim. No fabled 
 Elysium—no poetic Orcus—but a pure and radiant heritage of 
 heaven itself, is the portion of the good.” 
 
 “Tell me, then, thy doctrines, and expound to me thy 
 hopes,” said Glaucus, earnestly. 
 
 Olinthus was not slow to obey that prayer; and there— 
 as oftentimes in the early ages of the Christian creed—it 
 was in the darkness of the dungeon, and over the approach of 
 death, that the dawning Gospel shed its soft and consecrating 
 rays. 
 
 23 
 
356 
 
 THE LAST DAYS OP POMPEII. 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 A Change for Glaucus. 
 
 The hours passed in lingering torture over the head of 
 Nydia from the time in which she had been replaced in her 
 cell. 
 
 Sosia, as if afraid he should be again outwitted, had re¬ 
 frained from visiting her until late in the morning of the fol¬ 
 lowing day, and then he but thrust in the periodical basket of 
 food and wine, and hastily reclosed the door. That day rolled 
 on, and Nydia felt herself pent—barred—inexorably confined, 
 when that day was the judgment-day of Glaucus, and when her 
 release would have saved him! Yet knowing, almost impos¬ 
 sible as seemed her escape, that the sole chance for the life of 
 Glaucus rested on her, this young girl, frail, passionate, and 
 acutely susceptible as she was—resolved not to give way to a 
 despair that would disable her from seizing whatever op¬ 
 portunity might occur. She kept her senses whenever, be¬ 
 neath the whirl of intolerable thought, they reeled and tottered; 
 nay, she took food and wine that she might sustain her strength 
 —that she might be prepared. 
 
 She resolved scheme after scheme of escape, and was forced 
 to dismiss all. Yet Sosia was her only hope, the only instru¬ 
 ment with which she could tamper. He had been superstitious 
 in the desire of ascertaining whether he could eventually pur¬ 
 chase his freedom. Blessed gods! might he not be won by 
 the bribe of freedom itself? was she not nearly rich enough to 
 purchase it? Her slender arms were covered with bracelets, 
 the presents of lone; and on her neck she yet wore that very 
 chain which, it may be remembered, had occasioned her 
 jealous quarrel with Glaucus, and which she had afterwards 
 promised vainly to wear for ever. She waited burningly till 
 Sosia should again appear; but as hour after hour passed, and 
 he came not, she grew impatient. Every nerve beat with 
 fever; she could endure the solitude no longer—she groaned, 
 she shrieked aloud—she beat herself against the door. Her 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 357 
 
 cries echoed along the hall, and Sosia, in peevish anger, 
 hastened to see what was the matter, and silence his prisoner 
 if possible. 
 
 “Ho! ho! what is this?” said he, surlily. “Young slave, if 
 thou screamest out thus, we must gag thee again. My shoulders 
 will smart for it, if thou art heard by my master.” 
 
 “Kind Sosia, chide me not—I cannot endure to be so long 
 alone,” answered Nydia; “the solitude appals me. Sit with 
 me, I pray, a little while. Nay, fear not that I should attempt 
 to escape; place thy seat before the door. Keep thine eye on 
 me—I will not stir from this spot.” 
 
 Sosia, who was a considerable gossip himself, was moved 
 by this address. He pitied one who had nobody to talk with 
 —it was his case too; he pitied—and resolved to relieve him¬ 
 self. He took the hint of Nydia, placed a stool before the door, 
 leant his back against it, and replied,— 
 
 “I am sure I do not wish to be churlish; and so far as a 
 little innocent chat goes, I have no objection to indulge you. 
 But mind, no tricks—no more conjuring!” 
 
 “No, no; tell me, dear Sosia, what is the hour?” 
 
 “It is already evening—the goats are going home.” 
 
 “O gods! how went the trial? 
 
 “Both condemned!” 
 
 Nydia repressed the shriek. “Well—well, I thought it 
 would be so. When do they suffer?” 
 
 “To-morrow, in the amphitheatre. If it were not for 
 thee, little wretch, I should be allowed to go with the rest and 
 see it.” 
 
 Nydia leant back for some moments. Nature could endure 
 no more—she had fainted away. But Sosia did not perceive 
 it, for it was the dusk of eve, and he was full of his own priva¬ 
 tions. He went on lamenting the loss of so delightful a show, 
 and accusing the injustice of Arbaces for singling him out 
 from all his fellows to be converted into a gaoler; and ere he 
 had half finished, Nydia, with a deep sigh, recovered the sense 
 of life. 
 
 “Thou sighest, blind one, at my loss! Well, that is some 
 comfort. So long as you acknowledge how much you cost me. 
 
358 
 
 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 I will endeavour not to grumble. It is hard to be ill-treated, 
 and yet not pitied.” 
 
 “Sosia, how much dost thou require to make up the pur¬ 
 chase of thy freedom?” 
 
 “How much? Why, about two thousand sesterces.” 
 
 “The gods be praised! not more? Seest thou these brace¬ 
 lets and this chain? They are well worth double that sum. I 
 will give them thee if-” 
 
 “Tempt me not: I cannot release thee. Arbaces is a 
 severe and awful master. Who knows but I might feed the 
 fishes of the Sarnus? Alas! all the sesterces in the world 
 would not buy me back into life. Better a live dog than a 
 dead lion.” 
 
 “Sosia, thy freedom! Think well! If thou wilt let me out 
 only for one little hour!—let me out at midnight—I will return 
 ere to-morrow’s dawn; nay, thou canst go with me.” 
 
 “No,” said Sosia, sturdily, “a slave once disobeyed Arbaces, 
 and he was never more heard of.” 
 
 “But the law gives a master no power over the life of a 
 slave.” 
 
 “The law is very obliging, but more polite than efficient. 
 I know that Arbaces always gets the law on his side. Besides, 
 if I am once dead, what law can bring me to life again!” 
 
 Nydia wrung her hands. “Is there no hope, then?” said 
 she, convulsively. 
 
 “None of escape till Arbaces gives the word.” 
 
 “Well, then,” said Nydia, quickly, “thou wilt not, at least, 
 refuse to take a letter for me: thy master cannot kill thee for 
 that.” 
 
 “To whom?” 
 
 “The praetor.” 
 
 “To a magistrate? No—not I. I should be made a witness 
 in court, for what I know; and the way they cross-examine the 
 slaves is by the torture.” 
 
 “Pardon: I meant not the praetor—it was a word that es¬ 
 caped me unawares: I meant quite another person—the gay 
 Sallust.” 
 
 “Oh! and what want you with him?” 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 359 
 
 “Glaucus was my master; he purchased me from a cruel 
 lord. He alone has been kind to me. He is to die. I shall 
 never live happily if I cannot, in his hour of trial and doom, let 
 him know that one heart is grateful to him. Sallust is his 
 friend; he will convey my message.” 
 
 “I am sure he will do no such thing. Glaucus will have 
 enough to think of between this and to-morrow without trou¬ 
 bling his head about a blind girl.” 
 
 “Man,” said Nydia, rising, “wilt thou become free? Thou 
 hast the offer in thy power; to-morrow it will be too late. 
 Never was freedom more cheaply purchased. Thou canst easily 
 and unmissed leave home: less than half an hour will suf¬ 
 fice for thine absence. And for such a trifle wilt thou refuse 
 liberty?” 
 
 Sosia was greatly moved. It was true that the request was 
 remarkably silly; but what was that to him? So much the 
 better. He could lock the door on Nydia, and, if Arbaces 
 should learn his absence, the offence was venial, and would 
 merit but a reprimand. Yet, should Nydia’s letter contain 
 something more than what she had said—should it speak of 
 her imprisonment, as he shrewdly conjectured it would do— 
 what then! It need never be known to Arbaces that Tie had 
 carried the letter. At the worst the bribe was enormous—the 
 risk light—the temptation irresistible. He hesitated no longer 
 —he assented to the proposal. 
 
 “Give me the trinkets, and I will take the letter. Yet stay 
 —thou art a slave—thou hast no right to these ornaments— 
 they are thy master’s.” 
 
 “They were the gifts of Glaucus; he is my master. What 
 chance hath he to claim them? Who else will know they are 
 in my possession?” 
 
 “Enough—I will bring thee the papyrus.” 
 
 “No, not papyrus—a tablet of wax and a stilus.” 
 
 Nydia, as the reader will have seen,, was born of gentle 
 parents. They had done all to lighten her calamity, and her 
 quick intellect seconded their exertions. Despite her blind¬ 
 ness, she had therefore acquired in childhood, though imper¬ 
 fectly, the art to write with the sharp stilus upon waxen 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 360 
 
 tablets, in which her exquisite sense of touch came to her aid. 
 When the tablets were brought to her, she thus painfully 
 traced some words in Greek, the language of her childhood, 
 and which almost every Italian of the higher ranks was 
 then supposed to know. She carefully wound round the 
 epistle the protecting thread, and covered its knot with wax; 
 and ere she placed it in the hands of Sosia, she thus addressed 
 him:— 
 
 “Sosia, I am blind and in prison. Thou mayst think to de¬ 
 ceive me—thou mayst pretend only to take the letter to Sallust 
 —thou mayst not fulfil thy charge: but herelsolemnly dedicate 
 thy head to vengeance, thy soul to the infernal powers, if thou 
 wrongest thy trust; and I call upon thee to place thy right 
 hand of faith in mine, and repeat after me these words:—‘By 
 the ground on which we stand—by the elements which con¬ 
 tain life and can curse life—by Orcus, the all-avenging—by the 
 Olympian Jupiter, the all-seeing—I swear that I will honestly 
 discharge my trust, and faithfully deliver into the hands of 
 Sallust this letter! And if I perjure myself in this oath, may 
 the full curses of heaven and hell be wreaked upon me ! 5 
 Enough!—I trust thee—take thy reward. It is already dark— 
 depart at once.” 
 
 “Thou art a strange girl, and thou hast frightened me 
 terribly; but it is all very natural: and if Sallust is to be found, 
 I give him this letter as I have sworn. By my faith, I may 
 have my little peccadilloes! but perjury—no! I leave that to my 
 betters.” 
 
 With this Sosia withdrew, carefully passing the heavy bolt 
 athwart Nydia’s door—carefully locking its wards: and, hang¬ 
 ing the key to his girdle, he retired to his own den, enveloped 
 himself from head to foot in a huge disguising cloak, and 
 slipped out by the back way undisturbed and unseen. 
 
 The streets were thin and empty. He soon gained the 
 house of Sallust. The porter bade him leave his letter, and be 
 gone; for Sallust was so grieved at the condemnation of 
 Glaucus, that he could not on any account be disturbed. 
 
 “Nevertheless, I have sworn to give this letter into his own 
 hands—do so I must!” And Sosia, well knowing by experience 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 361 
 
 that Cerberus loves a sop, thrust some half a dozen sesterces 
 into the hand of the porter. 
 
 “Well, well,” said the latter, relenting, “you may enter if 
 you will; but, to tell you the truth, Sallust is drinking himself 
 out of his grief. It is his way when anything disturbs him. He 
 orders a capital supper, the best wine, and does not give over 
 till everything is out of his head—but the liquor.” 
 
 “An excellent plan—excellent! Ah! what it is to be rich! If 
 I were Sallust, I would have some grief or another every day. 
 But just say a kind word for me with the atriensis—I see him 
 coming.” 
 
 Sallust was too sad to receive company; he was too sad, 
 also, to drink alone; so, as was his wont, he admitted his 
 favourite freedman to his entertainment, and a stranger ban¬ 
 quet never was held. For ever and anon, the kind-hearted 
 epicure sighed, whimpered, wept outright, and then turned 
 with double zest to some new dish or his refilled goblet. 
 
 “My good fellow,” said he to his companion, “it was a 
 most awful judgment—heigho! — it is not bad that kid, eh? 
 Poor, dear Glaucus!—what a jaw the lion has too! Ah, ah, ah!” 
 
 And Sallust sobbed loudly—the fit was stopped by a counter¬ 
 action of hiccups. 
 
 “Take a cup of wine,” said the freedman. 
 
 “A thought too cold: but then how cold Glaucus must 
 be! Shut up the house to-morrow—not a slave shall stir 
 forth—none of my people shall honour that cursed arena—No, 
 no!” 
 
 “Taste the Falernian—your grief distracts you. By the gods 
 it does—a piece of that cheesecake.” 
 
 It was at this auspicious moment that Sosia was admitted 
 to the presence of the disconsolate carouser. 
 
 “Ho—what art thou?” 
 
 “Merely a messenger to Sallust. I give him this billet from 
 I a young female. There is no answer that I know of. May I 
 j| withdraw?” 
 
 Thus said the discreet Sosia, keeping his face muffled in 
 his cloak, and speaking with a feigned voice, so that he might 
 not hereafter be recognised. 
 
362 
 
 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 “By the gods — a pimp! Unfeeling wretch!—do you not 
 see my sorrows ? Go ! — and the curses of Pandarus with 
 you!” 
 
 Sosia lost not a moment in retiring. 
 
 “Will you read the letter, Sallust?” said the freedman. 
 
 “Letter!— which letter?” said the epicure, reeling, for he 
 began to see double. “A curse on these wenches, say I! Am 
 I a man to think of—( hiccup) — pleasure, when—when—my 
 friend is going to be eat up?” 
 
 “Eat another tartlet.” 
 
 “No, no! My grief chokes me!” 
 
 “Take him to bed,” said the freedman; and, Sallust’s 
 head now declining fairly on his breast, they bore him off 
 to his cubiculum, still muttering lamentations for Glaucus, 
 and imprecations on the unfeeling overtures of ladies of plea¬ 
 sure. 
 
 Meanwhile Sosia strode indignantly homeward. “Pimp, in¬ 
 deed!” quoth he to himself. “Pimp! a scurvy-tongued fellow 
 that Sallust! Had I been called knave, or thief, I could have 
 forgiven it; but pimp! Faugh! there is something in the word 
 which the toughest stomach in the world would rise against. 
 A knave is a knave for his own pleasure, and a thief a thief for 
 his own profit; and there is something honourable and philo¬ 
 sophical in being a rascal for one’s own sake: that is doing 
 things upon principle—upon a grand scale. But a pimp is a 
 thing that defiles itself for another—a pipkin that is put on the 
 fire for another man’s pottage! a napkin, that every guest 
 wipes his hands upon! and the scullion says, ‘by your leave,’ 
 too. A pimp! I would rather he had called me parricide! 
 But the man was drunk, and did not know what he said; and, 
 besides, I disguised myself. Had he seen it had been Sosia who 
 addressed him, it would have been ‘honest Sosia!’ and, 
 ‘worthy man!’ I warrant. Nevertheless, the trinkets have 
 been won easily—that’s some comfort! and, O goddess Fero- 
 nia! I shall be a freedman soon! and then I should like to see 
 who’ll call me pimp!—unless, indeed, he pay me pretty hand¬ 
 somely for it! ” 
 
 While Sosia was soliloquising in this high-minded and 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 363 
 
 generous vein, his path lay along a narrow lane that led to¬ 
 wards the amphitheatre and its adjacent palaces. Suddenly, 
 as he turned a sharp corner he found himself in the midst of 
 a considerable crowd. Men, women, and children, all were 
 hurrying or laughing, talking, gesticulating; and, ere he was 
 aware of it, the worthy Sosia was borne away with the noisy 
 stream. 
 
 “What now?” he asked of his nearest neighbour, a young 
 artificer? “what now? Where are all these good folks throng¬ 
 ing? Does any rich patron give away alms or viands to-night?” 
 
 “Not so, man—better still,” replied the artificer; “the noble 
 Pansa—the people’s friend—has granted the public leave to 
 see the beasts in their vivaria. By Hercules! they will not be 
 seen so safely by some persons to-morrow.” 
 
 “’Tis a pretty sight,” said the slave, yielding to the throng 
 that impelled him onward; “and since I may not go to the 
 sports to-morrow, I may as well take a peep at the beasts to¬ 
 night.” 
 
 “You will do well,” returned his new acquaintance, “a lion 
 and a tiger are not to be seen at Pompeii every day.” 
 
 The crowd had now entered a broken and wide space of 
 ground, on which, as it was only lighted scantily and from a 
 distance, the press became dangerous to those whose limbs 
 and shoulders were not fitted for a mob. Nevertheless, the 
 women especially—many of them with children in their arms, 
 or even at the breast—were the most resolute in forcing their 
 way; and their shrill exclamations of complaint or objurgation 
 were heard loud above the more jovial and masculine voices. 
 Yet, amidst them was a young and girlish voice, that appeared 
 to come from one too happy in her excitement to be alive to 
 the inconvenience of the crowd. 
 
 “Aha!” cried the young woman, to some of her com¬ 
 panions, “I always told you so; I always said we should have 
 a man for the lion; and now we have one for the tiger too! I 
 wish to-morrow were come!” 
 
 Ho, hoi for the merry, merry show. 
 With a forest of faces in every row I 
 
364 
 
 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 Lo! the swordsmen, bold as the son of Alcmena, 
 
 Sweep, side by side o’er the hushed arena. 
 
 Talk while you may, you will hold your breath 
 When they meet in the grasp of the glowing death I 
 Tramp! tramp! how gaily they go! 
 
 Ho! ho! for the merry, merry show! ’ 
 
 “A jolly girl!” said Sosia. 
 
 “Yes,” replied the young artificer, a curly-headed, hand¬ 
 some youth. “Yes,” replied he, enviously; “the women love 
 a gladiator. If I had been a slave, I would have soon found 
 my schoolmaster in the lanista!” 
 
 “Would you, indeed?” said Sosia, with a sneer. “People’s 
 notions differ!” 
 
 The crowd had now arrived at the place of destination; but 
 as the cell in which the wild beasts were confined was extremely 
 small and narrow, tenfold more vehement than it hitherto had 
 been was the rush of the aspirants to obtain admittance. Two 
 of the officers of the amphitheatre, placed at the entrance, very 
 wisely mitigated the evil by dispensing to the foremost only a 
 limited number of tickets at a time, and admitting no new 
 visitors till their predecessors had sated their curiosity. Sosia, 
 who was a tolerably stout fellow, and not troubled with any 
 remarkable scruples of diffidence or good-breeding, contrived 
 to be among the first of the initiated. 
 
 Separated from his companion the artificer, Sosia found 
 himself in a narrow cell of oppressive heat and atmosphere, 
 and lighted by several rank and flaring torches. 
 
 The animals, usually kept in different vivaria, or dens, were 
 now, for the greater entertainment of the visitors, placed in 
 one, but equally indeed divided from each other by strong 
 cages protected by iron bars. 
 
 There they were, the fell and grim wanderers of the desert, 
 who have now become almost the principal agents of this 
 story. The lion, who, as being the more gentle by nature 
 than his fellow-beast, had been more incited to ferocity by 
 hunger, stalked restlessly and fiercely to and fro his narrow 
 confines: his eyes were lurid with rage and famine: and as, 
 every now and then, he paused and glared around, the specta¬ 
 tors fearfully pressed backward, and drew their breath more 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 365 
 
 quickly. But the tiger lay quiet and extended at full length 
 in his cage, and only by an occasional play of his tail, or a long 
 impatient yawn, testified any emotion at his confinement, or 
 at the crowd which honoured him with their presence. 
 
 “I have seen no fiercer beast than yon lion even in the 
 amphitheatre of Rome,” said a gigantic and sinewy fellow who 
 stood at the right hand of Sosia. 
 
 “I feel humbled when I look at his limbs,” replied, at the 
 left of Sosia, a slighter and younger figure, with his arms folded 
 on his breast. 
 
 The slave looked first at one, and then at the other. “ Virtus 
 in mediol —virtue is ever in the middle!” muttered he to him¬ 
 self; “a goodly neighbourhood for thee, Sosia—a gladiator on 
 each side!” 
 
 “That is well said, Lydon,” returned the huger gladiator; 
 “I feel the same.” 
 
 “And to think,” observed Lydon, in a tone of deep feeling, 
 “ to think that the noble Greek, he whom we saw but a day or 
 two since before us, so full of youth, and health, and joyous¬ 
 ness, is to feast yon monster!” 
 
 “Why not?” growled Niger, savagely; “many an honest 
 gladiator has been compelled to a like combat by the emperor 
 —why not a wealthy murderer by the law?” 
 
 Lydon sighed, shrugged his shoulders, and remained silent. 
 Meanwhile the common gazers listened with staring eyes and 
 lips apart: the gladiators were objects of interest as well as 
 the beasts—they were animals of the same species; so the 
 crowd glanced from one to the other—the men and the brutes: 
 —whispering their comments and anticipating the morrow. 
 
 “Well!” said Lydon, turning away, “I thank the gods that 
 it is not the lion or the tiger I am to contend with; even you, 
 Niger, are a gentler combatant than they.” 
 
 “But equally dangerous,” said the gladiator, with a fierce 
 laugh; and the bystanders, admiring his vast limbs and fero¬ 
 cious countenance, laughed too. 
 
 “That as it may be,” answered Lydon, carelessly, as he 
 pressed through the throng and quitted the den. 
 
 “I may as well take advantage of his shoulders,” thought 
 
366 
 
 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 the prudent Sosia, hastening to follow him: “the crowd always 
 give way to a gladiator, so I will keep close behind, and come 
 in for a share of his consequence.” 
 
 The son of Medon strode quickly through the mob, many 
 of whom recognised his features and profession. 
 
 “That is youngLydon, a brave fellow; he fights to-morrow,” 
 said one. 
 
 “Ah! I have a bet on him,” said another; “see how firmly 
 he walks!” 
 
 “Good luck to thee, Lydon!” said a third. 
 
 “Lydon, you have my wishes,” half whispered a fourth, 
 smiling (a comely woman of the middle class)—“and if you 
 win, why, you may hear more of me.” 
 
 “A handsome man, by Venus! ” cried a fifth, who was a girl 
 scarce in her teens. “Thank you,” returned Sosia, gravely 
 taking the compliment to himself. 
 
 However strong the purer motives of Lydon, and certain 
 though it be that he would never have entered so bloody a 
 calling but from the hope of obtaining his father’s freedom, 
 he was not altogether unmoved by the notice he excited. He 
 forgot that the voices now raised in commendation might, on 
 the morrow, shout over his death-pangs. By nature fierce and 
 reckless, as well as generous and warm-hearted, he was already 
 imbued with the pride of a profession that he fancied he dis¬ 
 dained , and affected by the influence of a companionship that 
 in reality he loathed. He saw himself now a man of impor¬ 
 tance ; his step grew yet lighter, and his mien more elate. 
 
 “Niger,” said he, turning suddenly, as he had now threaded 
 the crowd; “we have often quarrelled; we are not matched 
 against each other, but one of us, at least, may reasonably 
 expect to fall—give us thy hand.” 
 
 “Most readily,” said Sosia, extending his palm. 
 
 “Ha! what fool is this? Why, I thought Niger was at my 
 heels!” 
 
 “I forgive the mistake,” replied Sosia, condescendingly: 
 “don’t mention it; the error was easy—I and Niger are some¬ 
 what of the same build.” 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 367 
 
 “Ha! ha! that is excellent! Niger would have slit thy throat 
 had he heard thee?” 
 
 “You gentlemen of the arena have a most disagreeable 
 mode of talking,” said Sosia: “let us change the conver¬ 
 sation.” 
 
 “ Voh! vaii!” said Lydon, impatiently; “I am in no humour 
 to converse with thee!” 
 
 “Why, truly,” returned the slave, “you must have serious 
 thoughts enough to occupy your mind: to-morrow is, I think, 
 your first essay in the arena. Well, I am sure you will die 
 bravely!” 
 
 “May thy words fall on thine own head!” said Lydon, super- 
 stitiously, for he by no means liked the blessing of Sosia. “Die! 
 No—I trust my hour is not yet come.” 
 
 “He who plays at dice with death must expect the dog’s 
 throw,” replied Sosia, maliciously. “But you are a strong 
 fellow, and I wish you all imaginable luck; and so, vale!” 
 
 With that the slave turned on his heel, and took his way 
 homeward. 
 
 “I trust the rogue’s words are not ominous,” said Lydon, 
 musingly. “In my zeal for my father’s liberty, and my con¬ 
 fidence in my own thews and sinews, I have not contemplated 
 the possibility of death. My poor father! I am thy only son! 
 —if I were to fall ” 
 
 As the thought crossed him, the gladiator strode on with a 
 more rapid and restless pace, when suddenly, in an opposite 
 street, he beheld the very object of his thoughts. Leaning on 
 his stick, his form bent by care and age, his eyes downcast, 
 and his steps trembling, the grey-haired Medon slowly ap¬ 
 proached towards the gladiator. Lydon paused a moment: he 
 divined at once the cause that brought forth the old man at 
 that late hour. 
 
 “Be sure, it is I whom he seeks,” thought he; “he is horror- 
 struck at the condemnation of Olinthus—he more than ever 
 esteems the arena criminal and hateful—he comes again to 
 dissuade me from the contest. I must shun him—I cannot 
 brook his prayers—his tears.” 
 
 These thoughts, so long to recite, flashed across the young 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 368 
 
 man like lightning. He turned abruptly and fled swiftly in an 
 opposite direction. He paused not till, almost spent and 
 breathless, he found himself on the summit of a small acclivity 
 which overlooked the most gay and splendid part of that 
 miniature city; and as there he paused, and gazed along the 
 tranquil streets glittering in the rays of the moon (which had 
 just arisen, and brought partially and picturesquely into light 
 the crowd around the amphitheatre at a distance, murmuring, 
 and swaying to and fro), the influence of the scene affected 
 him, rude and unimaginative though his nature. He sat him¬ 
 self down to rest upon the steps of a deserted portico, and felt 
 the calm of the hour quiet and restore him. Opposite and 
 near at hand, the lights gleamed from a palace in which the 
 master now held his revels. The doors were open for cool¬ 
 ness, and the gladiator beheld the numerous and festive group 
 gathered round the tables in the atrium;* while behind them, 
 closing the long vista of the illumined rooms beyond, the 
 spray of the distant fountain sparkled in the moonbeams. 
 There, the garlands wreathed around the columns of the hall 
 — there, gleamed still and frequent the marble statue — 
 there, amidst peals of jocund laughter, rose the music and 
 the lay. 
 
 EPICUREAN SONG. 
 
 “ Away with your stories of Hades, 
 
 Which the Flamen has forged to affright us,— 
 
 We laugh at your three Maiden Ladies, 
 
 Your Fates,—and your sullen Cocytus. 
 
 Poor Jove has a troublesome life, sir. 
 
 Could we credit your tales of his portals— 
 
 In shutting his ears on his wife, sir. 
 
 And opening his eyes upon mortals. 
 
 Oh, blest be the bright Epicurus! 
 
 Who taught us to laugh at such fables; 
 
 On Hades they wanted to moor us. 
 
 And his hand cut the terrible cables. 
 
 * In the atrium, as I have elsewhere observed, a larger party of guests than 
 ordinary was frequently entertained. 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 369 
 
 If, then, there’s a Jove or a Juno, 
 
 They vex not their heads about us, man; 
 
 Besides, if they did, I and you know 
 ’Tis the life of a god to live thus, man! 
 
 What I think you the gods place their bliss—eh?— 
 
 In playing the spy on a sinner? 
 
 In counting the girls that we kiss, eh? 
 
 Or the cups that we empty at dinner? 
 
 Content with the soft lips that love us. 
 
 This music, this wine, and this mirth, boys. 
 
 We care not for gods up above us,— 
 
 We know there’s no god for this earth, boys! ” 
 
 While Lydon’s piety (which, accommodating as it might 
 be, was in no slight degree disturbed by these verses, which 
 embodied the fashionable philosophy of the day) slowly re¬ 
 covered itself from the shock it had received, a small party 
 of men, in plain garments and of the middle class, passed 
 by his resting-place. They were in earnest conversation, 
 and did not seem to notice or heed the gladiator as they 
 moved on. 
 
 “O horror on horrors!” said one; “Olinthus is snatched 
 from us! our right arm is lopped away! When will Christ 
 descend to protect his own?” 
 
 “Can human atrocity go farther?” said another: “to sen¬ 
 tence an innocent man to the same arena as a murderer! But 
 let us not despair; the thunder of Sinai may yet be heard, and 
 the Lord preserve his saint. “The fool has said in his heart, 
 There is no God.’ ” 
 
 At that moment out broke again, from the illumined palace, 
 the burden of the reveller’s song:— 
 
 “We care not for gods up above us,— 
 
 We know there’s no god for this earth, boys!”* 
 
 Ere the words died away, the Nazarenes, moved by sudden 
 indignation, caught up the echo, and, in the words of one of 
 their favourite hymns, shouted aloud— 
 
 Pompeii. 
 
 See note (a) at the end. 
 
 24 
 
370 
 
 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 THE WARNING HYMN OF THE NAZARENES. 
 
 “Around—about—for ever near thee, 
 
 God— our God —shall mark and hear thee! 
 
 On his car of storm He sweeps! 
 
 Bow, ye heavens, and shrink, ye deeps! 
 
 Woe to the proud ones who defy Him!— 
 
 Woe to the dreamers who deny Him! 
 
 Woe to the wicked, woe! 
 
 The proud stars shall fail— 
 
 The sun shall grow pale— 
 
 The heavens shrivel up like a scroll— 
 
 Hell’s ocean shall bare 
 Its depths of despair. 
 
 Each wave an eternal soul! 
 
 For the only thing, then. 
 
 That shall not live again 
 Is the corpse of the giant Time, 
 
 Hark, the trumpet of thunder! 
 
 Lo, earth rent asunder! 
 
 And, forth, on his Angel-throne, 
 
 He comes through the gloom. 
 
 The Judge of the Tomb, 
 
 To summon and save His own! 
 
 Oh, joy to Care, and woe to Crime, 
 
 He comes to save His own I 
 Woe to the proud ones who defy Him! 
 
 Woe to the dreamers who deny Him! 
 
 Woe to the wicked, woe I ” 
 
 A sudden silence from the startled hall of revel succeeded 
 these ominous words: the Christians swept on, and were 
 soon hidden from the sight of the gladiator. Awed, he 
 scarce knew why, by the mystic denunciations of the Chris¬ 
 tians, Lydon, after a short pause, now rose to pursue his way 
 homeward. 
 
 Before him, how serenely slept the starlight on that lovely 
 city! how breathlessly its pillared streets reposed in their se¬ 
 curity!—how softly rippled the dark-green waves beyond!— 
 how cloudless spread, aloft and blue, the dreaming Campanian 
 skies! Yet this was the last night for the gay Pompeii! the 
 colony of the hoar Chaldean! the fabled city of Hercules! the 
 delight of the voluptuous Roman! Age after age had rolled, 
 indestructive, unheeded, over its head; and now the last ray 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 371 
 
 quivered on the dial-plate of its doom! The gladiator heard 
 some light steps behind—a group of females were wending 
 homeward from their visit to the amphitheatre. As he turned, 
 his eye was arrested by a strange and sudden apparition. From 
 the summit of Vesuvius, darkly visible at the distance, there 
 shot a pale, meteoric, livid light—it trembled an instant and 
 was gone. And at the same moment that his eye caught it, 
 the voice of one of the youngest of the women broke out 
 hilariously and shrill:— 
 
 “Tramp! Tramp! how gaily they go 1 
 Ho, ho! for the morrow’s merry show!” 
 
 24* 
 
372 
 
 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 BOOK V. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 The Dream of Arbaces.—A Visitor and a Warning to the Egyptian. 
 
 The awful night preceding the fierce joy of the amphi¬ 
 theatre rolled drearily away, and greyly broke forth the dawn 
 of THE LAST DAY OF Pompeii ! The air was uncommonly calm 
 and sultry—a thin and dull mist gathered over the valleys and 
 hollows of the broad Campanian fields. But yet it was re¬ 
 marked in surprise by the early fishermen, that, despite the 
 exceeding stillness of the atmosphere, the waves of the sea 
 were agitated, and seemed, as it were, to run disturbedly back 
 from the shore; while along the blue and stately Sarnus, whose 
 ancient breadth of channel the traveller now vainly seeks to 
 discover, there crept a hoarse and sullen murmur, as it glided 
 by the laughing plains and the gaudy villas of the wealthy 
 citizens. Clear above the low mist rose the time-worn towers 
 of the immemorial town, the red-tiled roofs of the bright 
 streets, the solemn columns of many temples, and the statue- 
 crowned portals of the Forum and the Arch of Triumph. 
 Far in the distance, the outline of the circling hills soared 
 above the vapours, and mingled with the changeful hues of 
 the morning sky. The cloud that had so long rested over the 
 crest of Vesuvius had suddenly vanished, and its rugged and 
 haughty brow looked without a frown over the beautiful scenes 
 below. 
 
 Despite the earliness of the hour, the gates of the city were 
 already opened. Horsemen upon horsemen, vehicle after 
 vehicle, poured rapidly in; and the voices of numerous pedes- 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 373 
 
 trian groups, clad in holiday attire, rose high in joyous and 
 excited merriment; the streets were crowded with citizens and 
 strangers from the populous neighbourhood of Pompeii; and 
 noisily—fast—confusedly swept the many streams of life to¬ 
 wards the fatal show. 
 
 Despite the vast size of the amphitheatre, seemingly so dis- 
 proportioned to the extent of the city, and formed to include 
 nearly the whole population of Pompeii itself, so great, on ex¬ 
 traordinary occasions, was the concourse of strangers from 
 all parts of Campania, that the space before it was usually 
 crowded for several hours previous to the commencement of 
 the sports, by such persons as were not entitled by their rank 
 to appointed and special seats. And the intense curiosity 
 which the trial and sentence of two criminals so remarkable 
 had occasioned, increased the crowd on this day to an extent 
 wholly unprecedented. 
 
 While the common people, with the lively vehemence of 
 their Campanian blood, were thus pushing, scrambling, hurry¬ 
 ing on,—yet, amidst all their eagerness, preserving, as is now 
 the wont with Italians in such meetings, a wonderful order 
 and unquarrelsome good-humour, a strange visitor to Arbaces 
 'was threading her way to his sequestered mansion. At the 
 sight of her quaint and primaeval garb—of her wild gait and 
 gestures—the passengers she encountered touched each other 
 and smiled; but as they caught a glimpse of her countenance, 
 the mirth was hushed at once, for the face was as the face of 
 the dead; and, what with the ghastly features and obsolete 
 robes of the stranger, it seemed as if one long entombed had 
 risen once more amongst the living. In silence and awe each 
 group gave way as she passed along, and she soon gained the 
 broad porch of the Egyptian’s palace. 
 
 The black porter, like the rest of the world, astir at an un¬ 
 usual hour, started as he opened the door to her summons. 
 
 The sleep of the Egyptian had been unusually profound 
 during the night; but, as the dawn approached, it was dis¬ 
 turbed by strange and unquiet dreams, which impressed him 
 the more as they were coloured by the peculiar philosophy he 
 embraced. 
 
374 
 
 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 He thought that he was transported to the bowels of the 
 earth, and that he stood alone in a mighty cavern, supported 
 by enormous columns of rough and primaeval rock, lost, as 
 they ascended, in the vastness of a shadow athwart whose 
 eternal darkness no beam of day had ever glanced. And in 
 the space between these columns were huge wheels, that 
 whirled round and round unceasingly, and with a rushing and 
 roaring noise. Only to the right and left extremities of the 
 cavern, the space between the pillars was left bare, and the 
 apertures stretched away into galleries—not wholly dark, but 
 dimly lighted by wandering and erratic fires, that, meteor-like, 
 now crept (as the snake creeps) along the rugged and dank 
 soil; and now leaped fiercely to and fro, darting across the 
 vast gloom in wild gambols—suddenly disappearing, and as 
 suddenly bursting into tenfold brilliancy and power. And 
 while he gazed wonderingly upon the gallery to the left, thin, 
 mist-like, aerial shapes passed slowly up; and when they had 
 gained the hall they seemed to rise aloft, and to vanish, as the 
 smoke vanishes, in the measureless ascent. 
 
 He turned in fear towards the opposite extremity—and 
 behold! there came swiftly, from the gloom above, similar 
 shadows, which swept hurriedly along the gallery to the right, 
 as if borne involuntarily adown the tides of some invisible 
 stream; and the faces of these spectres were more distinct than 
 those that emerged from the opposite passage; and on some 
 was joy, and on others sorrow—some were vivid with expecta¬ 
 tion and hope, some unutterably dejected by awe and horror. 
 And so they passed, swift and constantly on, till the eyes of 
 the gazer grew dizzy and blinded with the whirl of an ever- 
 varying succession of things impelled by a power apparently 
 not their own. 
 
 Arbaces turned away, and, in the recess of the hall, he saw 
 the mighty form of a giantess seated upon a pile of skulls, 
 and her hands were busy upon a pale and shadowy woof; and 
 he saw that the woof communicated with the numberless 
 wheels, as if it guided the machinery of their movements. He 
 thought his feet, by some secret agency, were impelled towards 
 the female, and that he was borne onwards till he stood before 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 375 
 
 her, face to face. The countenance of the giantess was solemn 
 and hushed, and beautifully serene. It was as the face of some 
 colossal sculpture of his own ancestral sphinx. No passion— 
 no human emotion, disturbed its brooding and unwrinkled 
 brow: there was neither sadness, nor joy, nor memory, nor 
 hope: it was free from all with which the wild human heart 
 can sympathise. The mystery of mysteries rested on its 
 beauty,—it awed, but terrified not: it was the Incarnation of 
 the Sublime. And Arbaces felt the voice leave his lips, with¬ 
 out an impulse of his own; and the voice asked— 
 
 “Who art thou, and what is thy task?” 
 
 “I am That which thou hast acknowledged,” answered, 
 without desisting from its work, the mighty phantom. “My 
 name is Nature! These are the wheels of the world, and my 
 hand guides them for the life of all things.” 
 
 “And what,” said the voice of Arbaces, “are these galleries, 
 that, strangely and fitfully illumined, stretch on either hand 
 into the abyss of gloom?” 
 
 “That,” answered the giant-mother, “which thou beholdest 
 to the left, is the gallery of the Unborn. The shadows that flit 
 onward and upward into the world, are the souls that pass 
 from the long eternity of being to their destined pilgrimage on 
 earth. That which thou beholdest to thy right, wherein the 
 shadows descending from above sweep on, equally unknown 
 and dim, is the gallery of the Dead!” 
 
 “And, wherefore,” said the voice of Arbaces, “yon wander¬ 
 ing lights, that so wildly break the darkness; but only break , 
 not reveal?” 
 
 “Dark fool of the human sciences! dreamer of the stars, 
 and would-be decipherer of the heart and origin of things! 
 those lights are but the glimmerings of such knowledge as is 
 vouchsafed to Nature to work her way, to trace enough of the 
 past and future to give providence to her designs. Judge, then, 
 puppet as thou art, what lights are reserved for thee!” 
 
 Arbaces felt himself tremble as he asked again, “Where¬ 
 fore am I here?” 
 
 “ It is the forecast of thy soul—the prescience of thy rushing 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 376 
 
 doom—the shadow of thy fate lengthening into eternity as it 
 declines from earth.” 
 
 Ere he could answer, Arbaces felt a rushing wind sweep 
 down the cavern, as the winds of a giant god. Borne aloft 
 from the ground, and whirled on high as a leaf in the storms 
 of autumn, he beheld himself in the midst of the Spectres of 
 the Dead, and hurrying with them along the length of gloom. 
 As in vain and impotent despair he struggled against the im¬ 
 pelling power, he thought the WIND grew into something like 
 a shape—a spectral outline of the wings and talons of an eagle, 
 with limbs floating far and indistinctly along the air, and eyes 
 that, alone clearly and vividly seen, glared stonily and re¬ 
 morselessly on his own. 
 
 “What art thou?” again said the voice of the Egyptian. 
 
 “IamThat which thou hast acknowledged;” and the spectre 
 laughed aloud—“and my name is Necessity.” 
 
 “To what dost thou bear me?” 
 
 “To the Unknown.” 
 
 “To happiness or to woe?” 
 
 “As thou hast sown, so shalt thou reap.” 
 
 “Dread thing, not so! If thou art the Ruler of Life, thine 
 are my misdeeds, not mine.” 
 
 “I am but the breath of God!” answered the mighty wind. 
 
 “Then is my wisdom vain!” groaned the dreamer. 
 
 “The husbandman accuses not fate, when, having sown 
 thistles, he reaps not corn. Thou hast sown crime, accuse not 
 fate if thou reapest not the harvest of virtue.” 
 
 The scene suddenly changed. Arbaces was in a place of 
 human bones; and lo! in the midst of them was a skull, and 
 the skull, still retaining its fleshless hollows, assumed slowly, 
 and in the mysterious confusion of a dream, the face of Apas- 
 cides; and forth from the grinning jaws there crept a small 
 worm, and it crawled to the feet of Arbaces. He attempted to 
 stamp on it and crush it; but it became longer and larger with 
 that attempt. It swelled and bloated till it grew into a vast 
 serpent: it coiled itself round the limbs of Arbaces; it crunched 
 his bones; it raised its glaring eyes and poisonous jaws to his 
 face. He writhed in vain; he withered—he gasped—beneath 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 377 
 
 the influence of the blighting breath—he felt himself blasted 
 into death. And then a voice came from the reptile, which 
 still bore the face of Apaecides, and rang in his reeling ear,— 
 “Thy victim is thy judge! the worm thou wouldst 
 
 CRUSH BECOMES THE SERPENT THAT DEVOURS THEE!” 
 
 With a shriek of wrath, and woe, and despairing resistance, 
 Arbaces awoke—his hair on end—his brow bathed in dew—his 
 eyes glazed and staring—his mighty frame quivering as an 
 infant’s, beneath the agony of that dream. He awoke—he col¬ 
 lected himself—he blessed the gods whom he disbelieved, that 
 he was in a dream;—he turned his eyes from side to side—he 
 saw the dawning light break through his small but lofty window 
 —he was in the Precincts of Day—he rejoiced—he smiled;— 
 his eyes fell, and opposite to him he beheld the ghastly fea¬ 
 tures, the lifeless eye, the livid lip—of the hag of Vesuvius! 
 
 “Ha!” he cried, placing his hands before his eyes, as to 
 shut out the grisly vision, “do I dream still?—-Am I with the 
 dead?” 
 
 “Mighty Hermes—no! Thou art with one death-like, but 
 not dead. Recognise thy friend and slave.” 
 
 There was a long silence. Slowly the shudders that passed 
 over the limbs of the Egyptian chased each other away, faintlier 
 and faintlier dying till he was himself again. 
 
 “It was a dream, then,” said he. “Well—let me dream no 
 more, or the day cannot compensate for the pangs of night. 
 Woman, how earnest thou here, and wherefore?” 
 
 “I came to warn thee,” answered the sepulchral voice of 
 the saga. 
 
 “Warn me! The dream lied not, then? Of what peril?” 
 
 “Listen to me. Some evil hangs over this fated city. Fly 
 while it be time. Thou knowest that I hold my home on that 
 mountain beneath which old tradition saith there yet burn the 
 fires of the river of Phlegethon; and in my cavern is a vast 
 abyss, and in that abyss I have of late marked a red and dull 
 stream creep slowly, slowly on; and heard many and mighty 
 sounds hissing and roaring through the gloom. But last night, 
 as I looked thereon, behold the stream was no longer dull, but 
 intensely and fiercely luminous; and while I gazed, the beast 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 378 
 
 that liveth with me, and was cowering by my side, utteled a 
 shrill howl, and fell down and died,* and the slaver and froth 
 were round his lips. I crept back to my lair; but I distinctly 
 heard, all the night, the rock shake and tremble; and, though 
 the air was heavy and still, there were the hissing of pent 
 winds, and the grinding as of wheels, beneath the ground. So, 
 when I rose this morning at the very birth of dawn, I looked 
 again down the abyss, and I saw vast fragments of stone borne 
 black and floatingly over the lurid stream; and the stream it¬ 
 self was broader, fiercer, redder than the night before. Then 
 I went forth, and ascended to the summit of the rock: and in 
 that summit there appeared a sudden and vast hollow, which 
 I had never perceived before, from which curled a dim, faint 
 smoke; and the vapour was deathly, and I gasped, and sickened, 
 and nearly died. I returned home. I took my gold and my 
 drugs, and left the habitation of many years; for I remembered 
 the dark Etruscan prophecy which saith, ‘When the mountain 
 opens, the city shall fall—when the smoke crowns the Hill of 
 the Parched Fields, there shall be woe and weeping in the 
 hearths of the Children of the Sea/ Dread master, ere I leave 
 these walls for some more distant dwelling, I come to thee. As 
 thou livest, know I in my heart that the earthquake that six¬ 
 teen years ago shook this city to its solid base, was but the 
 forerunner of more deadly doom. The walls of Pompeii are 
 built above the fields of the Dead, and the rivers of the sleep¬ 
 less Hell. Be warned and fly!” 
 
 “Witch, I thank thee for thy care of one not ungrateful. 
 On yon table stands a cup of gold; take- it, it is thine. I 
 dreamt not that there lived one, out of the priesthood of Isis, 
 who would have saved Arbaces from destruction. The signs 
 thou hast seen in the bed of the extinct volcano,” continued 
 the Egyptian, musingly, “surely tell of some coming danger 
 to the city; perhaps another earthquake fiercer than the last. 
 Be that as it may, there is a new reason for my hastening from 
 these walls. After this day I will prepare my departure. 
 Daughter of Etruria, whither wendest thou?” 
 
 * We may suppose that the exhalations were similar in effect to those of the 
 Grotta del Cane. 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 379 
 
 “I shall cross over to Herculaneum this day, and, wander¬ 
 ing thence along the coast, shall seek out a new home. I am 
 friendless: my two companions, the fox and the snake, are 
 dead. Great Hermes, thou hast promised me twenty addi¬ 
 tional years of life! ” 
 
 “Ay,” said the Egyptian, “I have promised thee. But, 
 woman,” he added, lifting himself upon his arm, and gazing 
 curiously on her face, “tell me, I pray thee, wherefore thou 
 wishest to live? What sweets dost thou discover in existence?” 
 
 “It is not life that is sweet, but death that is awful,” replied 
 the hag, in a sharp, impressive tone, that struck forcibly upon 
 the heart of the vain star-seer. He winced at the truth of the 
 reply; and, no longer anxious to retain so uninviting a com¬ 
 panion, he said, “Time wanes; I must prepare for the solemn 
 spectacle of this day. Sister, farewell! enjoy thyself as thou 
 canst over the ashes of life.” 
 
 The hag, who had placed the costly gift of Arbaces in the 
 loose folds of her vest, now rose to depart. When she had 
 gained the door she paused, turned back, and said, “This 
 may be the last time we meet on earth; but whither flieth the 
 flame when it leaves the ashes?—Wandering to and fro, up 
 and down, as an exhalation on the morass, the flame may be 
 seen in the marshes of the lake below; and the witch and the 
 Magian, the pupil and the master, the great one and the ac¬ 
 cursed one, may meet again. Farewell!” 
 
 “Out, croker!” muttered Arbaces, as the door closed on 
 the hag’s tattered robes; and, impatient of his own thoughts, 
 not yet recovered from the past dream, he hastily summoned 
 his slaves. 
 
 It was the custom to attend the ceremonials of the amphi¬ 
 theatre in festive robes, and Arbaces arrayed himself that day 
 with more than usual care. His tunic was of the most dazzling 
 white; his many fibulae were formed from the most precious 
 stones: over his tunic flowed a loose eastern robe, half-gown, 
 half-mantle, glowing in the richest hues of the Tyrian dye; 
 and the sandals, that reached half way up the knee, were 
 studded with gems, and inlaid with gold. In the quackeries 
 
38 o 
 
 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 that belonged to his priestly genius, Arbaces never neglected, 
 on great occasions, the arts which dazzle and impose upon the 
 vulgar; and on this day, that was for ever to release him, by 
 the sacrifice of Glaucus, from the fear of a rival and the chance 
 of detection, he felt that he was arraying himself as for a 
 triumph or a nuptial feast. 
 
 It was customary for men of rank to be accompanied to the 
 shows of the amphitheatre by a procession of their slaves and 
 freedmen; and the long “family 75 of Arbaces were already ar¬ 
 ranged in order, to attend the litter of their lord. 
 
 Only, to their great chagrin, the slaves in attendance on 
 lone, and the worthy Sosia, as gaoler to Nydia, were con¬ 
 demned to remain at home. 
 
 “Callias , 55 said Arbaces, apart to his freedman, who was 
 buckling on his girdle, “I am weary of Pompeii; I propose to 
 quit it in three days, should the wind favour. Thou knowest 
 the vessel that lies in the harbour which belonged to Narses, 
 of Alexandria; I have purchased it of him. The day after to¬ 
 morrow we shall begin to remove my stores . 55 
 
 “So soon! 5 Tis well. Arbaces shall be obeyed;—and his 
 ward, lone ? 55 
 
 “Accompanies me. Enough!—is the morning fair ? 55 
 
 “Dim and oppressive; it will probably be intensely hot in 
 the forenoon . 55 
 
 “The poor gladiators, and more wretched criminals! 
 Descend, and see that the slaves are marshalled . 55 
 
 Left alone, Arbaces stepped into his chamber of study, and 
 thence upon the portico without. He saw the dense masses 
 of men pouring fast into the amphitheatre, and heard the cry 
 of the assistants, and the cracking of the cordage, as they 
 were straining aloft the huge awning under which the citizens, 
 molested by no discomforting ray, were to behold, at luxurious 
 ease, the agonies of their fellow creatures. Suddenly a wild, 
 strange sound went forth, and as suddenly died away—it was 
 the roar of the lion. There was a silence in the distant 
 crowd; but the silence was followed by joyous laughter— 
 they were making merry at the hungry impatience of the royal 
 beast. 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 381 
 
 “Brutes!” muttered the disdainful Arbaces, “are ye less 
 homicides than I am? I slay but in self-defence—ye make 
 murder pastime.” 
 
 He turned, with a restless and curious eye, towards Ve¬ 
 suvius. Beautifully glowed the green vineyards round its 
 breast, and tranquil as eternity lay in the breathless skies the 
 form of the mighty hill. 
 
 “We have time yet, if the earthquake be nursing,” thought 
 Arbaces; and he turned from the spot. He passed by the 
 table which bore his mystic scrolls and Chaldean calculations. 
 
 “August art!” he thought, “I have not consulted thy 
 decrees since I passed the danger and the crisis they fore¬ 
 told. What matter?—I know that henceforth all in my path is 
 bright and smooth. Have not events already proved it? 
 Away, doubt—away, pity! Reflect, O my heart—reflect, for 
 the future, but two images—Empire and lone!” 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 The Amphitheatre. 
 
 Nydia, assured by the account of Sosia, on his return 
 home, and satisfied that her letter was in the hands of Sallust, 
 gave herself up once more to hope. Sallust would surely lose 
 no time in seeking the praetor—in coming to the house of the 
 Egyptian—in releasing her—in breaking the prison of Calenus. 
 That very night Glaucus would be free. Alas! the night 
 passed—the dawn broke; she heard nothing but the hurried 
 footsteps of the slaves along the hall and peristyle, and their 
 voices in preparation for the show. By-and-by, the com¬ 
 manding voice of Arbaces broke on her ear—a flourish of 
 music rung out cheerily: the long procession were sweeping to 
 the amphitheatre to glut their eyes on the death-pangs of the 
 Athenian! 
 
 The procession of Arbaces moved along slowly, and with 
 much solemnity, till now, arriving at the place where it was 
 necessary for such as came in litters or chariots to alight, 
 Arbaces descended from his vehicle, and proceeded to the 
 entrance by which the more distinguished spectators were ad- 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF FOMPEIL 
 
 382 
 
 mitted. His slaves, mingling with the humbler crowd, were 
 stationed by officers who received their tickets (not much un¬ 
 like our modern Opera ones), in places in the popularia (the 
 seats apportioned to the vulgar). And now, from the spot 
 where Arbaces sat, his eyes scanned the mighty and im¬ 
 patient crowd that filled the stupendous theatre. 
 
 On the upper tier (but apart from the male spectators) sat 
 the women, their gay dresses resembling some gaudy flower¬ 
 bed; it is needless to add that they were the most talkative 
 part of the assembly; and many were the looks directed up to 
 them, especially from the benches appropriated to the young 
 and the unmarried men. On the lower seats round the arena 
 sat the more high-born and wealthy visitors—the magistrates 
 and those of senatorial or equestrian* dignity: the passages 
 which, by corridors at the right and left, gave access to these 
 seats, at either end of the oval arena, were also the entrances 
 for the combatants. Strong palings at these passages pre¬ 
 vented any unwelcome eccentricity in the movements of the 
 beasts, and confined them to their appointed prey. Around 
 the parapet which was raised above the arena, and from which 
 the seats gradually rose, were gladiatorial inscriptions, and 
 paintings wrought in fresco, typical of the entertainments for 
 which the place was designed. Throughout the whole build¬ 
 ing wound invisible pipes, from which, as the day advanced, 
 cooling and fragrant showers were to be sprinkled over the 
 spectators. The officers of the amphitheatre were still em¬ 
 ployed in the task of fixing the vast awning (or velaria) which 
 covered the whole, and which luxurious invention the Cam¬ 
 panians arrogated to themselves: it was woven of the whitest 
 Apulian wool, and variegated with broad stripes of crimson. 
 Owing either to some inexperience on the part of the work¬ 
 men, or to some defect in the machinery, the awning, how¬ 
 ever, was not arranged that day so happily as usual; indeed, 
 from the immense space of the circumference, the task was 
 always one of great difficulty and art—so much so, that it 
 could seldom be adventured in rough or windy weather. But 
 the present day was so remarkably still that there seemed to 
 
 * The equites sat immediately behind the senators. 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 383 
 
 the spectators no excuse for the awkwardness of the artificers; 
 and when a large gap in the back of the awning was still 
 visible, from the obstinate refusal of one part of the velaria 
 to ally itself with the rest, the murmurs of discontent were 
 loud and general. 
 
 The aedile Pansa, at whose expense the exhibition was 
 given, looked particularly annoyed at the defect, and vowed 
 bitter vengeance on the head of the chief officer of the show, 
 who, fretting, puffing, perspiring, busied himself in idle orders 
 and unavailing threats. 
 
 The hubbub ceased suddenly—the operators desisted— 
 the crowd were stilled—the gap was forgotten—for now, 
 with a loud and warlike flourish of trumpets, the gladiators, 
 marshalled in ceremonious procession, entered the arena. 
 They swept round the oval space very slowly and deliberately, 
 in order to give the spectators full leisure to admire their 
 stern serenity of feature — their brawny limbs and various 
 arms, as well as to form such wagers as the excitement of the 
 moment might suggest. 
 
 “Oh! 3 cried the widow Fulvia to the wife of Pansa, as 
 they leaned down from their lofty bench, “do you see that 
 gigantic gladiator? how drolly he is dressed!” 
 
 “Yes,” said the aedile’s wife, with complacent importance, 
 for she knew all the names and qualities of each combatant; 
 “he is a retiarius or netter; he is armed only, you see, with a 
 three-pronged spear like a trident, and a net; he wears no 
 armour, only the fillet and the tunic. He is a mighty man, 
 and is to fight with Sporus, yon thick-set gladiator, with the 
 round shield and drawn sword, but without body armour; he 
 has not his helmet on now, in order that you may see his face 
 —how fearless it is!—by-and-by he will fight with his vizor 
 down.” 
 
 “But surely a net and a spear are poor arms against a 
 shield and sword?” 
 
 “That shows how innocent you are, my dear Fulvia; the 
 retiarius has generally the best of it.” 
 
 “But who is yon handsome gladiator, nearly naked—is it 
 
384 
 
 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 not quite improper? By Venus! but his limbs are beautifully 
 shaped!” 
 
 “It is Lydon, a young untried man! he has the rashness to 
 fight yon other gladiator similarly dressed, or rather un¬ 
 dressed—Tetraides. They fight first in the Greek fashion, 
 with the cestus; afterwards they put on armour, and try sword 
 and shield.” 
 
 “He is a proper man, this Lydon; and the women, I am 
 sure, are on his side.” 
 
 “So are not the experienced betters; Clodius offers three 
 to one against him.” 
 
 “Oh, Jove! how beautiful!” exclaimed the widow, as two 
 gladiators, armed cap-a-pie , rode round the arena on light and 
 prancing steeds. Resembling much the combatants in the 
 tilts of the middle age, they bore lances and round shields 
 beautifully inlaid: their armour was woven intricately with 
 bands of iron, but it covered only the thighs and the right 
 arms; short cloaks, extending to the seat, gave a picturesque 
 and graceful air to their costume; their legs were naked, with 
 the exception of sandals, which were fastened a little above 
 the ankle. “Oh, beautiful! Who are these?” asked the 
 widow. 
 
 “The one is named Berbix—he has conquered twelve 
 times; the other assumes the arrogant name of Nobilior. 
 They are both Gauls.” 
 
 While thus conversing, the first formalities of the show 
 were oveir. To these succeeded a feigned combat with wooden 
 swords between the various gladiators matched against each 
 other. Amongst these, the skill of two Roman gladiators, 
 hired for the occasion, was the most admired; and next to 
 them the most graceful combatant was Lydon. This sham 
 contest did not last above an hour, nor did it attract any very 
 lively interest, except among those connoisseurs of the arena 
 to whom art was preferable to more coarse excitement; the 
 body of the spectators were rejoiced when it was over, and 
 when the sympathy rose to terror. The combatants were now 
 arranged in pairs, as agreed beforehand; their weapons ex¬ 
 amined; and the grave sports of the day commenced amidst 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 385 
 
 the deepest silence — broken only by an exciting and pre¬ 
 liminary blast of warlike music. 
 
 It was often customary to begin the sports by the most 
 cruel of all, and some bestiarius, or gladiator appointed to the 
 beasts, was slain first, as an initiatory sacrifice. But in the 
 present instance, the experienced Pansa thought it better that 
 the sanguinary drama should advance, not decrease, in in¬ 
 terest ; and, accordingly, the execution of Olinthus and Glaucus 
 was reserved for the last. It was arranged that the two horse¬ 
 men should first occupy the arena; that the foot gladiators, 
 paired off, should then be loosed indiscriminately on the stage; 
 that Glaucus and the lion should next perform their part in 
 the bloody spectacle; and the tiger and the Nazarene be the 
 grand finale. And, in the spectacles of Pompeii, the reader of 
 Roman history must limit his imagination, nor expect to find 
 those vast and wholesale exhibitions of magnificent slaughter 
 with which a Nero or a Caligula regaled the inhabitants of the 
 Imperial City. The Roman shows, which absorbed the more 
 celebrated gladiators, and the chief proportion of foreign 
 beasts, were indeed the very reason why, in the lesser towns 
 of the empire, the sports of the amphitheatre were com¬ 
 paratively humane and rare; and in this, as in other respects, 
 Pompeii was but the miniature, the microcosm of Rome. 
 Still, it was an awful and imposing spectacle, with which 
 modern times have, happily, nothing to compare:—a vast 
 theatre, rising row upon row, and swarming with human 
 beings, from fifteen to eighteen thousand in number, intent 
 upon no fictitious representation—no tragedy of the stage— 
 but the actual victory or defeat, the exultant life or the bloody 
 death, of each and all who entered the arena! 
 
 The two horsemen were now at either extremity of the 
 lists (if so they might be called); and, at a given signal from 
 Pansa, the combatants started simultaneously as in full col¬ 
 lision, each advancing his round buckler, each poising on 
 high his light yet sturdy javelin; but just when within three 
 paces of his opponent, the steed of Berbix suddenly halted, 
 wheeled round, and, as Nobilior was borne rapidly by, his 
 antagonist spurred upon him. The buckler of Nobilior, 
 Pompeii, 25 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 386 
 
 quickly and skilfully extended, received a blow which other¬ 
 wise would have been fatal. 
 
 “Well done, Nobilior!” cried the praetor, giving the first 
 vent to the popular excitement. 
 
 “Bravely struck, my Berbix!” answered Clodius from his 
 seat. 
 
 And the wild murmur, swelled by many a shout, echoed 
 from side to side. 
 
 The vizors of both the horsemen were completely closed 
 (like those of the knights in after times), but the head was, 
 nevertheless, the great point of assault; and Nobilior, now 
 wheeling his charger with no less adroitness than his opponent, 
 directed his spear full on the helmet of his foe. Berbix raised 
 his buckler to shield himself, and his quick-eyed antagonist, 
 suddenly lowering his weapon, pierced him through the breast. 
 Berbix reeled and fell. 
 
 “Nobilior! Nobilior!” shouted the populace. 
 
 “I have lost ten sestertia,”* said Clodius, between his 
 teeth. 
 
 “Habet l —he has it,” said Pansa, deliberately. 
 
 The populace, not yet hardened into cruelty, made the 
 signal of mercy; but as the attendants of the arena ap¬ 
 proached, they found the kindness came too late;—the heart 
 of the Gaul had been pierced, and his eyes were set in death. 
 It was his life’s blood that flowed so darkly over the sand and 
 sawdust of the arena. 
 
 “It is a pity it was so soon over—there was little enough 
 for one’s trouble,” said the widow Fulvia. 
 
 “Yes—I have no compassion for Berbix. Any one might 
 have seen that Nobilior did but feint. Mark, they fix the 
 fatal hook to the body—they drag him away to the spoliarium 
 —they scatter new sand over the stage! Pansa regrets nothing 
 more than that he is not rich enough to strew the arena with 
 borax and cinnabar, as Nero used to do.” 
 
 “Well, if it has been a brief battle, it is quickly succeeded. 
 See my handsome Lydon on the arena—ay, and the net-bearer 
 too, and the swordsmen! Oh, charming!” 
 
 * A little more than £80. 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 387 
 
 There were now on the arena six combatants: Niger and 
 his net, matched against Sporus with his shield and his short 
 broadsword; Lydon and Tetraides, naked save by a cincture 
 round the waist, each armed only with a heavy Greek cestus— 
 and two gladiators from Rome, clad in complete steel, and 
 evenly matched with immense bucklers and pointed swords. 
 
 The initiatory contest between Lydon and Tetraides being 
 less deadly than that between the other combatants, no sooner 
 had they advanced to the middle of the arena than, as by com¬ 
 mon consent, the rest held back, to see how that contest 
 should be decided, and wait till fiercer weapons might replace 
 the cestus, ere they themselves commenced hostilities. They 
 stood leaning on their arms and apart from each other, gazing 
 on the show, which, if not bloody enough, thoroughly to please 
 the populace, they were still inclined to admire, because its 
 origin was of their ancestral Greece. 
 
 No person could, at first glance, have seemed less evenly 
 matched than the two antagonists. Tetraides, though not 
 taller than Lydon, weighed considerably more; the natural 
 size of his muscles was increased, to the eyes of the vulgar, by 
 masses of solid flesh; for, as it was a notion that the contest 
 of the cestus fared easiest with him who was plumpest, Te¬ 
 traides had encouraged to the utmost his hereditary predispo¬ 
 sition to the portly. His shoulders were vast, and his lower 
 limbs thick-set, double-jointed, and slightly curved outward, 
 in that formation which takes so much from beauty to give so 
 largely to strength. But Lydon, except that he was slender 
 even almost to meagreness, was beautifully and delicately pro¬ 
 portioned; and the skilful might have perceived that, with 
 much less compass of muscle than his foe, that which he had 
 was more seasoned—iron and compact. In proportion, too, 
 as he wanted flesh, he was likely to possess activity; and a 
 haughty smile on his resolute face, which strongly contrasted 
 the solid heaviness of his enemy’s, gave assurance to those 
 who beheld it, and united their hope to their pity: so that, 
 despite the disparity of their seeming strength, the cry of the 
 multitude was nearly as loud for Lydon as for Tetraides. 
 
 Whoever is acquainted with the modern prize-ring — 
 
 25* 
 
388 
 
 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 whoever has witnessed the heavy and disabling strokes which 
 the human fist, skilfully directed, had the power to bestow— 
 may easily understand how much that happy facility would be 
 increased by a band carried by thongs of leather round the 
 arm as high as the elbow, and terribly strengthened about the 
 knuckles by a plate of iron, and sometimes a plummet of lead. 
 Yet this, which was meant to increase, perhaps rather dimin¬ 
 ished, the interest of the fray: for it necessarily shortened its 
 duration. A very few blows, successfully and scientifically 
 planted, might suffice to bring the contest to a close; and the 
 battle did not, therefore, often allow full scope for the energy, 
 fortitude, and dogged perseverance, that we technically style 
 pluck, which not unusually wins the day against superior 
 science, and which heightens to so painful a delight the inter¬ 
 est in the battle and the sympathy for the brave. 
 
 “Guard thyself!” growled Tetraides, moving nearer and 
 nearer to his foe, who rather shifted round him than receded. 
 
 Lydon did not answer, save by a scornful glance of his 
 quick, vigilant eye. Tetraides struck—it was as the blow of a 
 smith on a vice; Lydon sank suddenly on one knee—the blow 
 passed over his head. Not so harmless was Lydon’s retalia¬ 
 tion : he quickly sprung to his feet, and aimed his cestus full 
 on the broad breast of his antagonist. Tetraides reeled—the 
 populace shouted. 
 
 “You are unlucky to-day,” said Lepidus to Clodius: “you 
 have lost one bet—you will lose another.” 
 
 “By the gods! my bronzes go to the auctioneer if that is 
 the case. I have no less than a hundred sestertia* upon 
 Tetraides. Ha, ha! see how he rallies! That was a home 
 stroke: he has cut open Lydon’s shoulder.—A Tetraides!—a 
 Tetraides!” 
 
 “But Lydon is not disheartened. By Pollux! how well 
 he keeps his temper. See how dexterously he avoids those 
 hammer-like hands!—dodging now here, now there—circling 
 round and round. Ah, poor Lydon! he has it again.” 
 
 “Three to one still on Tetraides! What say you, Lepidus?” 
 
 “Well, nine sestertia to three—be it so! What! again, 
 
 # Above £800. 
 

THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 389 
 
 Lydon? He stops—he gasps for breath. By the gods, he is 
 down! No—he is again on his legs. Brave Lydon! Tetraides 
 is encouraged—he laughs loud—he rushes on him.” 
 
 “Fool—success blinds him—he should be cautious. Ly- 
 don’s eye is like the lynx’s!” said Clodius, between his teeth. 
 
 “Ha, Clodius! saw you that? Your man totters! Another 
 blow—he falls—he falls!” 
 
 “Earth revives him, then. He is once more up; but the 
 blood rolls down his face.” 
 
 “By the thunderer! Lydon wins it. See how he presses 
 on him! That blow on the temple would have crushed an ox! 
 it has crushed Tetraides. He falls again—he cannot move— 
 habet! — habet!” 
 
 “ Habet /” repeated Pansa. “Take them out and give them 
 the armour and swords.” 
 
 “Noble editor,” said the officers, “we fear that Tetraides 
 will not recover in time; howbeit, we will try.” 
 
 “Do so.” 
 
 In a few minutes the officers, who had dragged off the 
 stunned and insensible gladiator, returned with rueful coun¬ 
 tenances. They feared for his life; he was utterly incapaci¬ 
 tated from re-entering the arena. 
 
 “In that case,” said Pansa, “hold Lydon a subdititius; and 
 the first gladiator that is vanquished, let Lydon supply his 
 place with the victor.” 
 
 The people shouted their applause at this sentence: then 
 they again sunk into deep silence. The trumpet sounded 
 loudly. The four combatants stood each against each in pre¬ 
 pared and stern array. 
 
 “Dost thou recognise the Romans, my Clodius; are they 
 among the celebrated, or are they merely ordinarii?” 
 
 “Eumolpus is a good second-rate swordsman, my Lepidus. 
 Nepimus, the lesser man, I have never seen before; but he is 
 the son of one of the imperial f scales , * and brought up in a 
 proper school; doubtless they will show sport, but I have no 
 heart for the game; I cannot win back my money—I am un- 
 
 * Gladiators maintained by the emperor. 
 
390 
 
 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 done. Curses on that Lydon! who could have supposed he 
 was so dexterous or so lucky?” 
 
 “Well, Clodius, shall I take compassion on you, and ac¬ 
 cept your own terms with these Romans?” 
 
 “An even ten sestertia on Eumolpus, then?” 
 
 “What! whenNepimus is untried! Nay, nay; that is too bad.” 
 
 “Well—ten to eight?” 
 
 “Agreed.” 
 
 “While the contest in the amphitheatre had thus com¬ 
 menced, there was one in the loftier benches for whom it had 
 assumed, indeed, a poignant—a stifling interest. The aged 
 father of Lydon, despite his Christian horror of the spectacle, 
 in his agonised anxiety for his son, had not been able to resist 
 being the spectator of his fate. One amidst a fierce crowd 
 of strangers—the lowest rabble of the populace—the old man 
 saw, felt nothing, but the form—the presence of his brave son! 
 Not a sound had escaped his lips when twice he had seen him 
 fall to the earth;—only he had turned paler, and his limbs 
 trembled. But he had uttered one low cry when he saw him 
 victorious; unconscious, alas! of the more fearful battle to 
 which that victory was but a prelude. 
 
 “My gallant boy!” said he, and wiped his eyes. 
 
 “Is he thy son?” said a brawny fellow to the right of the 
 Nazarene; “he has fought well: let us see how he does by-and- 
 by. Hark! he is to fight the first victor. Now, old boy, pray 
 the gods that that victor be neither of the Romans! nor, next 
 to them, the giant Niger.” 
 
 The old man sat down again and covered his face. The 
 fray for the moment was indifferent to him—Lydon was not 
 one of the combatants. Yet—yet—the thought flashed across 
 him—the fray was indeed of deadly interest—the first who 
 fell was to make way for Lydon! He started, and bent down, 
 with straining eyes and clasped hands to view the encounter. 
 
 The first interest was attracted towards the combat of 
 Niger with Sporus; for this species of contest, from the fatal 
 result which usually attended it, and from the great science it 
 required in either antagonist, was always perculiarly inviting 
 to the spectators. 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 391 
 
 They stood at a considerable distance from each other. 
 The singular helmet which Sporus wore (the vizor of which 
 was down) concealed his face; but the features of Niger at¬ 
 tracted a fearful and universal interest from their compressed 
 and vigilant ferocity. Thus they stood for some moments, 
 each eyeing each, until Sporus began slowly, and with great 
 caution, to advance, holding his sword pointed, like a modern 
 fencer’s, at the breast of his foe. Niger retreated as his an¬ 
 tagonist advanced, gathering up his net with his right hand, 
 and never taking his small glittering eye from the movements 
 of the swordsman. Suddenly, when Sporus had approached 
 nearly at arm’s length, the retiarius threw himself forward, 
 and cast his net. A quick inflection of body saved the gladiator 
 from the deadly snare! he uttered a sharp cry of joy and rage, 
 and rushed upon Niger: but Niger had already drawn in his 
 net, thrown it across his shoulders, and now fled round the 
 lists with a swiftness which the secutor * in vain endeavoured 
 to equal. The people laughed and shouted aloud, to see the 
 ineffectual efforts of the broad-shouldered gladiator to over¬ 
 take the flying giant: when, at that moment, their attention 
 was turned from these to the two Roman combatants. 
 
 They had placed themselves at the onset face to face, at 
 the distance of modern fencers from each other: but the ex¬ 
 treme caution which both evinced at first had prevented any 
 warmth of engagement, and allowed the spectators full leisure 
 to interest themselves in the battle between Sporus and his 
 foe. But the Romans were now heated into full and fierce 
 encounter: they pushed—returned—advanced on—retreated 
 from—each other with all that careful yet scarcely perceptible 
 caution which characterises men well experienced and equally 
 matched. But at this moment, Eumolpus, the elder gladiator, 
 by that dexterous back-stroke which was considered in the 
 arena so difficult to avoid, had wounded Nepimus in the side. 
 The people shouted; Lepidus turned pale. 
 
 “Ho!” said Clodius, “the game is nearly over. If Eumolpus 
 
 * So called, from the office of that tribe of gladiators, in following the foe the 
 moment the net was cast, in order to smite him ere he could have time to re* 
 arrange it. 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 392 
 
 fights now the quiet fight, the other will gradually bleed him¬ 
 self away.” 
 
 “But, thank the gods! he does not fight the backward fight. 
 See!—he presses hard upon Nepimus. By Mars! but Nepimus 
 had him there! the helmet rang again!—Clodius, I shall win!” 
 
 “Why do I ever bet but at the dice?” groaned Clodius to 
 himself;—“or why cannot one cog a gladiator?” 
 
 “A Sporus!—a Sporus!” shouted the populace, as Niger 
 having now suddenly paused, had again cast his net, and again 
 unsuccessfully. He had not retreated this time with sufficient 
 agility—the sword of Sporus had inflicted a severe wound 
 upon his right leg; and, incapacitated to fly, he was pressed 
 hard by the fierce swordsman. His great height and length of 
 arm still continued, however, to give him no despicable ad¬ 
 vantages; and steadily keeping his trident at the front of his 
 foe, he repelled him successfully for several minutes. Sporus 
 now tried, by great rapidity of evolution, to get round his an¬ 
 tagonist, who necessarily moved with pain and slowness. In 
 so doing, he lost his caution—he advanced too near to the 
 giant—raised his arm to strike, and received the three points 
 of the fatal spear full in his breast! He sank on his knee. In 
 a moment more, the deadly net was cast over him, he struggled 
 against its meshes in vain; again—again—again he writhed 
 mutely beneath the fresh strokes of the trident—his blood 
 flowed fast through the net and redly over the sand. He 
 lowered his arms in acknowledgment of defeat. 
 
 The conquering retiarius withdrew his net, and leaning on 
 his spear, looked to the audience for their judgment. Slowly, 
 too, at the same moment, the vanquished gladiator rolled his 
 dim and despairing eyes around the theatre. From row to 
 row, from bench to bench, there glared upon him but merci¬ 
 less and unpitying eyes. 
 
 Hushed was the roar—the murmur! The silence was dread, 
 for in it was no sympathy; not a hand—no, not even a woman’s 
 hand—gave the signal of charity and life! Sporus had never 
 been popular in the arena; and, lately, the interest of the 
 combat had been excited on behalf of the wounded Niger. 
 The people were warmed into blood—the mimic fight had 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 393 
 
 ceased to charm; the interest had mounted up to the desire of 
 sacrifice and the thirst of death! 
 
 The gladiator felt that his doom was sealed: he uttered no 
 prayer—no groan. The people gave the signal of death! In 
 dogged but agonised submission, he bent his neck to receive 
 the fatal stroke. And now, as the spear of the retiarius was 
 not a weapon to inflict instant and certain death, there stalked 
 into the arena a grim and fatal form, brandishing a short, 
 sharp sword, and with features utterly concealed beneath its 
 vizor. With slow and measured steps, this dismal headsman 
 approached the gladiator, still kneeling—laid the left hand on 
 his humbled crest—drew the edge of the blade across his neck 
 —turned round to the assembly, lest, in the last moment, 
 remorse should come upon them; the dread signal continued 
 the same: the blade glittered brightly in the air—fell—and the 
 gladiator rolled upon the sand; his limbs quivered—were still, 
 —he was a corpse.* 
 
 His body was dragged at once from the arena through the 
 gate of death, and thrown into the gloomy den termed technic¬ 
 ally the spoliarium. And ere it had well reached that destina¬ 
 tion, the strife between the remaining combatants was decided. 
 The sword of Eumolpus had inflicted the death-wound upon 
 the less experienced combatant. A new victim was added to 
 the receptacle of the slain. 
 
 Throughout that mighty assembly there now ran a universal 
 movement; the people breathed more freely, and resettled 
 themselves in their seats. A grateful shower was cast over 
 every row from the concealed conduits. In cool and luxurious 
 pleasure they talked over the late spectacle of blood. Eumol¬ 
 pus removed his helmet, and wiped his brows; his close-curled 
 hair and short beard, his noble Roman features and bright 
 dark eye attracted the general admiration. He was fresh, un¬ 
 wounded, unfatigued. 
 
 The editor paused, and proclaimed aloud that, as Niger’s 
 wound disabled him from again entering the arena, Lydon was 
 
 * See the engraving from the friezes of Pompeii, in the work on that city 
 published in the “Library of Entertaining Knowledge,” vol. II. p. six. 
 
394 
 
 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 to be the successor to the slaughtered Nepimus, and the new 
 combatant of Eumolpus. 
 
 “Yet Lydon,” added he, “if thou wouldst decline the com¬ 
 bat with one so brave and tried, thou mayst have full liberty 
 to do so. Eumolpus is not the antagonist that was originally 
 decreed for thee. Thou knowest best how far thou canst 
 cope with him. If thou failest, thy doom is honourable death; 
 if thou conquerest, out of my own purse I will double the 
 stipulated prize.” 
 
 The people shouted applause. Lydon stood in the lists, 
 he gazed around; high above he beheld the pale face, the 
 straining eyes, of his father. He turned away irresolute for a 
 moment. No! the conquest of the cestus was not sufficient— 
 he had not yet won the prize of victory—his father was still a 
 slave! 
 
 “Noble sedile!” he replied, in a firm and deep tone, “I 
 shrink not from this combat. For the honour of Pompeii, I 
 demand that one trained by its long-celebrated lanista shall do 
 battle with this Roman.” 
 
 The people shouted louder than before. 
 
 “Four to one against Lydon!” said Clodius to Lepidus. 
 
 “I would not take twenty to one! Why, Eumolpus is a very 
 Achilles, and this poor fellow is but a tirol” 
 
 Eumolpus gazed hard on the face of Lydon; he smiled: 
 yet the smile was followed by a slight and scarce audible sigh 
 —a touch of compassionate emotion, which custom conquered 
 the moment the heart acknowledged it. 
 
 And now both, clad in complete armour, the sword drawn, 
 the vizor closed, the two last combatants of the arena (ere man, 
 at least, was matched with beast), stood opposed to each 
 other. 
 
 It was just at this time that a letter was delivered to the 
 prsetor by one of the attendants of the arena; he removed the 
 cincture—glanced over it for a moment—his countenance be¬ 
 trayed surprise and embarrassment. He re-read the letter, 
 and then muttering,—“Tush! it is impossible!—the man must 
 be drunk, even in the morning, to dream of such follies!”— 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 395 
 
 threw it carelessly aside, and gravely settled himself once 
 more in the attitude of attention to the sports. 
 
 The interest of the public was wound up very high. Eumol- 
 pus had at first won their favour; but the gallantry of Lydon, 
 and his well-timed allusion to the honour of the Pompeian 
 lanista, had afterwards given the latter the preference in their 
 eyes. 
 
 “Holla, old fellow!” said Medon’s neighbour to him, “ Your 
 son is hardly matched; but never fear, the editor will not 
 permit him to be slain—no, nor the people neither; he has 
 behaved too bravely for that. Ha! that was a home thrust!— 
 well averted, by Pollux! At him again, Lydon!—they stop to 
 breathe! What art thou muttering, old boy?” 
 
 “Prayers!” answered Medon, with a more calm and hope¬ 
 ful mien than he had yet maintained. 
 
 “Prayers!—trifles! The time for gods to carry a man away 
 in a cloud is gone now. Ha! Jupiter!—what a blow! Thy side 
 -—thy side!—take care of thy side, Lydon!” 
 
 There was a convulsive tremor throughout the assembly. 
 A fierce blow from Eumolpus, full on the crest, had brought 
 Lydon to his knee. 
 
 “j Habet !—he has it!” cried a shrill female voice; “he 
 has it!” 
 
 It was the voice of the girl who had so anxiously anticipated 
 the sacrifice of some criminal to the beasts. 
 
 “Be silent, child!” said the wife of Pansa, haughtily. “Non 
 habet !—he is not wounded!” 
 
 “I wish he were, if only to spite old surly Medon,” 
 muttered the girl. 
 
 Meanwhile Lydon, who had hitherto defended himself with 
 great skill and valour, began to give way before the vigorous 
 assaults of the practised Roman; his arm grew tired, his eye 
 dizzy, he breathed hard and painfully. The combatants paused 
 again for breath. 
 
 “Young man,” said Eumolpus, in a low voice, “desist; I 
 will wound thee slightly—then lower thy arms; thou hast 
 propitiated the editor and the mob—thou wilt be honourably 
 saved!” 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 396 
 
 “And my father still enslaved!” groaned Lydon to himself. 
 “No! death or his freedom.” 
 
 At that thought, and seeing that, his strength not being 
 equal to the endurance of the Roman, everything depended on 
 a sudden and desperate effort, he threw himself fiercely on 
 Eumolpus; the Roman warily retreated—Lydon thrust again— 
 Eumolpus drew himself aside—the sword grazed his cuirass— 
 Lydon’s breast was exposed—the Roman plunged his sword 
 through the joints of the armour, not meaning, however, to 
 inflict a deep wound; Lydon, weak and exhausted, fell forward, 
 fell right on the point: it passed through and through, even to 
 the back. Eumolpus drew forth his blade; Lydon still made 
 an effort to regain his balance—his sword left his grasp—he 
 struck mechanically at the gladiator with his naked hand, and 
 fell prostrate on the arena. With one accord, editor and as¬ 
 sembly made the signal of mercy—the officers of the arena ap¬ 
 proached— they took off the helmet of the vanquished. He 
 still breathed; his eyes rolled fiercely on his foe; the savage¬ 
 ness he had acquired in his calling glared from his gaze, and 
 lowered upon the brow darkened already with the shades of 
 death; then, with a convulsive groan, with a half start, he lifted 
 his eyes above. They rested not on the face of the editor nor 
 on the pitying brows of his relenting judges. He saw them 
 not; they were as if the vast space was desolate and bare; one 
 pale agonising face alone was all he recognised—one cry of a 
 broken heart was all that, amidst the murmurs and the shouts 
 of the populace, reached his ear. The ferocity vanished from 
 his brow: a soft, a tender expression of sanctifying but de¬ 
 spairing filial love played over his features—played—waned— 
 darkened! His face suddenly became locked and rigid, re¬ 
 suming its former fierceness. He fell upon the earth. 
 
 “Look to him,” said the aedile; “he has done his duty!” 
 
 The officers dragged him off to the spoliarium. 
 
 “A true type of glory, and of its fate!” murmured Arbaces 
 to himself; and his eye, glancing round the amphitheatre, be¬ 
 trayed so much of disdain and scorn, that whoever encountered 
 it felt his breath suddenly arrested, and his emotions frozen 
 into one sensation of abasement and of awe. 
 
II 
 
5029. POMPEI. Un’Ara di marmo nel Tempio di Merci 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 397 
 
 Again rich perfumes were wafted around the theatre; the 
 attendants sprinkled fresh sand over the arena. 
 
 “Bring forth the lion and Glaucus the Athenian,” said the 
 editor. 
 
 And a deep and breathless hush of overwrought interest, 
 and intense (yet, strange to say, not unpleasing) terror lay, like 
 a mighty and awful dream, over the assembly. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 Sallust and Nydia’s Letter. 
 
 Thrice had Sallust awakened from his morning sleep, and 
 thrice, recollecting that his friend was that day to perish, had 
 he turned himself with a deep sigh once more to court oblivion. 
 His sole object in life was to avoid pain; and where he could 
 not avoid, at least to forget it. 
 
 At length, unable any longer to steep his consciousness in 
 slumber, he raised himself from his incumbent posture, and 
 discovered his favourite freedman sitting by his bedside as 
 usual; for Sallust, who, as I have said, had a gentlemanlike 
 taste for the polite letters, was accustomed to be read to for 
 an hour or so previous to his rising in the morning. 
 
 “No books to-day! no more Tibullus! no more Pindar for 
 me! Pindar! alas, alas! the very name recalls those games to 
 which our arena is the savage successor. Has it begun—the 
 amphitheatre? are its rites commenced?” 
 
 “Long since, O Sallust! Did you not hear the trumpets 
 and the trampling feet?” 
 
 “Ay, ay; but the gods be thanked, I was drowsy, and had 
 only to turn round to fall asleep again.” 
 
 “The gladiators must have been long in the ring?” 
 
 “The wretches! None of my people have gone to the 
 spectacle?” 
 
 “Assuredly not; your orders were too strict.” 
 
 “That is well—would the day were over! What is that 
 letter yonder on the table?” 
 
 “That! Oh, the letter brought to you last night, when you 
 were too—too-” 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 398 
 
 “Drunk to read it, I suppose. No matter, it cannot be of 
 much importance.” 
 
 “Shall I open it for you, Sallust?” 
 
 “Do: anything to divert my thoughts. Poor Glaucus!” 
 
 The freedman opened the letter. “What! Greek?” said 
 he: “some learned lady, I suppose.” He glanced over the 
 letter, and for some moments the irregular lines traced by the 
 blind girl’s hand puzzled him. Suddenly, however, his coun¬ 
 tenance exhibited emotion and surprise. “Good gods! noble 
 Sallust! what have we done not to attend to this before? Hear 
 me read! 
 
 “ ‘Nydia, the slave, to Sallust, the friend of Glaucus! I am 
 a prisoner in the house of Arbaces. Hasten to the praetor! 
 procure my release, and we shall yet save Glaucus from the 
 lion. There is another prisoner within these walls, whose wit¬ 
 ness can exonerate the Athenian from the charge against him; 
 —one who saw the crime—who can prove the criminal in a 
 villain hitherto unsuspected. Fly! hasten! quick! quick! Bring 
 with you armed men, lest resistance be made, and a cunning 
 and dexterous smith; for the dungeon of my fellow-prisoner is 
 thick and strong. Oh! by thy right hand, and thy father’s 
 ashes, lose not a moment!’ ” 
 
 “Great Jove!” exclaimed Sallust, starting, “and this day— 
 nay, within this hour, perhaps, he dies. What is to be done? 
 I will instantly to the praetor.” 
 
 “Nay; not so. The praetor (as well as Pansa, the editor 
 himself) is the creature of the mob; and the mob will not hear 
 of delay; they will not be balked in the very moment of ex¬ 
 pectation. Besides, the publicity of the appeal would fore¬ 
 warn the cunning Egyptian. It is evident that he has some 
 interest in these concealments. No; fortunately, thy slaves are 
 in thy house.” 
 
 “I seize thy meaning,” interrupted Sallust; “arm the slaves 
 instantly. The streets are empty. We will ourselves hasten 
 to the house of Arbaces, and release the prisoners. Quick! 
 quick! What ho! Davus there! My gown and sandals, the 
 papyrus and a reed.* I will write to the praetor, to beseech 
 
 * The reed (calamus) was used for writing on papyrus and parchment, the 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 399 
 
 him to delay the sentence of Glaucus, for that, within an hour, 
 we may yet prove him innocent. So, so; that is well. Hasten 
 with this, Davus, to the praetor, at the amphitheatre. See it 
 given to his own hand. Now then, O ye gods! whose providence 
 Epicurus denied, befriend me, and I will call Epicurus a liar!” 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 The Amphitheatre once more. 
 
 GlAUCUS and Olinthus had been placed together in that 
 gloomy and narrow cell in which the criminals of the arena 
 awaited their last and fearful struggle. Their eyes, of late ac¬ 
 customed to the darkness, scanned the faces of each other in 
 this awful hour, and by that dim light, the paleness, which 
 chased away the natural hues from either cheek, assumed a 
 yet more ashy and ghastly whiteness. Yet their brows were 
 erect and dauntless—their limbs did not tremble—their lips 
 were compressed and rigid. The religion of the one, the pride 
 of the other, the conscious innocence of both, and, it may be, 
 the support derived from their mutual companionship, elevated 
 the victim into the hero. 
 
 “Hark! hearest thou that shout? They are growling over 
 their human blood,” said Olinthus. 
 
 “I hear; my heart grows sick; but the gods support me.” 
 
 “The gods! O rash young man! in this hour recognise only 
 the One God. Have I not taught thee in the dungeon, wept 
 for thee, prayed for thee?—in my zeal and in my agony, have 
 I not thought more of thy salvation than my own?” 
 
 “Brave friend!” answered Glaucus, solemnly, “I have 
 listened to thee with awe, with wonder, and with a secret 
 tendency towards conviction. Had our lives been spared, I 
 might gradually have weaned myself from the tenets of my 
 own faith, and inclined to thine; but, in this last hour, it were 
 a craven thing, and a base, to yield to hasty terror what should 
 only be the result of lengthened meditation. Were I to em¬ 
 brace thy creed, and cast down my father’s gods, should I not 
 
 stilus for writing on waxen tablets, plates of metal, &c. Letters were written 
 sometimes on tablets, sometimes on papyrus. 
 
400 
 
 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 be bribed by thy promise of heaven, or awed by thy threats 
 of hell? Olinthus, no! Think we of each other with equal 
 charity—I honouring thy sincerity—thou pitying my blindness 
 or my obdurate courage. As have been my deeds, such will 
 be my reward; and the Power or Powers above will not judge 
 harshly of human error, when it is linked with honesty of pur¬ 
 pose and truth of heart. Speak we no more of this. Hush! 
 Dost thou hear them drag yon heavy body through the passage? 
 Such as that clay will be ours soon.” 
 
 “O Heaven! O Christ! already I behold ye!” cried the 
 fervent Olinthus, lifting up his hands; “I tremble not—I rejoice 
 that the prison-house shall be soon broken.” 
 
 Glaucus bowed his head in silence. He felt the distinction 
 between his fortitude and that of his fellow-sufferer. The 
 heathen did not tremble; but the Christian exulted. 
 
 The door swung gratingly back—the gleam of spears shot 
 along the walls. 
 
 “ Glaucus the Athenian, thy time has come,” said aloud 
 and clear voice; “the lion awaits thee.” 
 
 “I am ready,” said the Athenian. “Brother and co-mate, 
 one last embrace! Bless me—and farewell!” 
 
 The Christian opened his arms—he clasped the young 
 heathen to his breast—he kissed his forehead and cheek—he 
 sobbed aloud—his tears flowed fast and hot over the features 
 of his new friend. 
 
 “Oh! could I have converted thee, I had not wept. Oh! 
 that I might say to thee, ‘We two shall sup this night in 
 Paradise P” 
 
 “It may be so yet,” answered the Greek, with a tremulous 
 voice. “They whom death part not, may meet yet beyond 
 the grave: on the earth—on the beautiful, the beloved earth, 
 farewell for ever!—Worthy officer, I attend you.” 
 
 Glaucus tore himself away; and when he came forth into 
 the air, its breath, which, though sunless, was hot and arid, 
 smote witheringly upon him. His frame, not yet restored from 
 the effects of the deadly draught, shrank and trembled. The 
 officers supported him. 
 
 “Courage!” said one; “thou art young, active, well knit. 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 4OI 
 
 They give thee a weapon! despair not, and thou mayst yet 
 conquer.” 
 
 Glaucus did not reply; but, ashamed of his infirmity, he 
 made a desperate and convulsive effort, and regained the firm¬ 
 ness of his nerves. They anointed his body, completely naked, 
 save by a cincture round the loins, placed the stilus (vain 
 weapon!) in his hand, and led him into the arena. 
 
 And now when the Greek saw the eyes of thousands and 
 tens of thousands upon him, he no longer felt that he was 
 mortal. All evidence of fear—all fear itself—was gone. A 
 red and haughty flush spread over the paleness of his features 
 —he towered aloft to the full of his glorious stature. In the 
 elastic beauty of his limbs and form, in his intent but unfrown¬ 
 ing brow, in the high disdain, and in the indomitable soul, 
 which breathed visibly, which spoke audibly, from his attitude, 
 his lip, his eye,—he seemed the very incarnation, vivid and 
 corporeal, of the valour of his land—of the divinity of its 
 worship—at once a hero and a god! 
 
 The murmur of hatred and horror at his crime, which had 
 greeted his entrance, died into the silence of involuntary ad¬ 
 miration and half-compassionate respect; and, with a quick 
 and convulsive sigh, that seemed to move the whole mass of 
 life as if it were one body, the gaze of the spectators turned 
 from the Athenian to a dark uncouth object in the centre of 
 the arena. It was the grated den of the lion! 
 
 “By Venus, how warm it is!” said Fulvia; “yet there is no 
 sun. Would that those stupid sailors* could have fastened 
 up that gap in the awning!” 
 
 “Oh! it is warm, indeed. I turn sick—I faint!” said the 
 wife of Pansa; even her experienced stoicism giving way at 
 the struggle about to take place. 
 
 The lion had been kept without food for twenty-four hours, 
 and the animal had, during the whole morning, testified a 
 singular and restless uneasiness, which the keeper had at¬ 
 tributed to the pangs of hunger. Yet its bearing seemed 
 rather that of fear than of rage; its roar was painful and dis- 
 
 * Sailors were generally employed in fastening the velaria of the amphi¬ 
 theatre. 
 
 Pompeii . 26 
 
402 
 
 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 tressed; it hung its head—snuffed the air through the bars-— 
 then lay down—started again—and again uttered its wild and 
 far-resounding cries. And now, in its den, it lay utterly dumb 
 and mute, with distended nostrils forced hard against the grat¬ 
 ing, and disturbing, with a heaving breath, the sand below on 
 the arena. 
 
 The editor’s lip quivered, and his cheek grew pale; he 
 looked anxiously around—hesitated—delayed; the crowd be¬ 
 came impatient. Slowly he gave the sign; the keeper, who 
 was behind the den, cautiously removed the grating, and the 
 lion leaped forth with a mighty and glad roar of release. The 
 keeper hastily retreated through the grated passage leading 
 from the arena, and left the lord of the forest—and his prey. 
 
 Glaucus had bent his limbs so as to give himself the firmest 
 posture at the expected rush of the lion, with his small and 
 shining weapon raised on high, in the faint hope that one well- 
 directed thrust (for he knew that he should have time but for 
 one) might penetrate through the eye to the brain of his 
 grim foe. 
 
 But, to the unutterable astonishment of all, the beast 
 seemed not even aware of the presence of the criminal. 
 
 At the first moment of its release it halted abruptly in the 
 arena, raised itself half on end, snuffing the upward air with 
 impatient sighs; then suddenly it sprang forward, but not on 
 the Athenian. At half-speed it circled round and round the 
 space, turning its vast head from side to side with an anxious 
 and perturbed gaze, as if seeking only some avenue of escape; 
 once or twice it endeavoured to leap up the parapet that 
 divided it from the audience, and, on failing, uttered rather a 
 baffled howl than its deep-toned and kingly roar. It evinced 
 no sign, either of wrath or hunger; its tail drooped along the 
 sand, instead of lashing its gaunt sides; and its eye, though it 
 wandered at times to Glaucus, rolled again listlessly from him. 
 At length, as if tired of attempting to escape, it crept with a 
 moan into its cage, and once more laid itself down to rest. 
 
 The first surprise of the assembly at the apathy of the lion 
 soon grew converted into resentment at its cowardice; and the 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 4O3 
 
 populace already merged their pity for the fate of Glaucus 
 into angry compassion for their own disappointment. 
 
 The editor called to the keeper. 
 
 “How is this? Take the goad, prick him forth, and then 
 close the door of the den 
 
 As the keeper, with some fear, but more astonishment, was 
 preparing to obey, a loud cry was heard at one of the entrances 
 of the arena; there was a confusion, a bustle—voices of re¬ 
 monstrance suddenly breaking forth, and suddenly silenced at 
 the reply. All eyes turned in wonder at the interruption, to¬ 
 wards the quarter of the disturbance; the crowd gave way, and 
 suddenly Sallust appeared on the senatorial benches, his hair 
 dishevelled—breathless—heated—half-exhausted. He cast his 
 eyes hastily round the ring. “Remove the Athenian,” he 
 cried; “haste—he is innocent! Arrest Arbaces the Egyptian— 
 HE is the murderer of Apaecides!” 
 
 “Art thou mad, O Sallust!” said the praetor, rising from his 
 seat. “What means this raving?” 
 
 “Remove the Athenian!—Quick! or his blood be on your 
 head. Praetor, delay, and you answer with your own life to the 
 emperor! I bring with me the eye-witness to the death of the 
 priest Apaecides. Room there!—stand back!— give way! People 
 of Pompeii, fix every eye upon Arbaces—there he sits! Room 
 there for the priest Calenus!” 
 
 Pale, haggard, fresh from the jaws of famine and of death, 
 his face fallen, his eyes dull as a vulture’s, his broad frame 
 gaunt as a skeleton,—Calenus was supported into the very row 
 in which Arbaces sat. His releasers had given him sparingly 
 of food; but the chief sustenance that nerved his feeble limbs 
 was revenge! 
 
 “The priest Calenus!—Calenus!” cried the mob. u Is it 
 he? No—it is a dead man!” 
 
 “It is the priest Calenus,” said the praetor, gravely. “What 
 hast thou to say?” 
 
 “Arbaces of Egypt is the murderer of Apaecides, the priest 
 of Isis; these eyes saw him deal the blow. It is from the 
 dungeon into which he plunged me—it is from the darkness 
 
 26* 
 
404 
 
 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 and horror of a death by famine—that the gods have raised me 
 to proclaim his crime! Release the Athenian— he is innocent!” 
 
 “It is for this, then, that the lion spared him.—A miracle! 
 a miracle!” cried Pansa. 
 
 “A miracle; a miracle!” shouted the people; “remove the 
 Athenian— Arbaces to the lion!” 
 
 And that shout echoed from hill to vale—from coast to sea 
 —“Arbaces to the lion! if 
 
 “Officers, remove the accused Glaucus—remove, but guard 
 him yet,” said the praetor. “The gods lavish their wonders 
 upon this day.” 
 
 As the praetor gave the word of release, there was a cry of 
 joy—a female voice—a child’s voice—and it was of joy! It 
 rang through the heart of the assembly with electric force—it 
 was touching, it was holy, that child’s voice! And the populace 
 echoed it back with sympathising congratulation! 
 
 “Silence!” said the grave praetor—“who is there?” 
 
 “The blind girl—Nydia,” answered Sallust; “it is her hand 
 that has raised Calenus from the grave, and delivered Glaucus 
 from the lion.” 
 
 “Of this hereafter,” said the prastor. “Calenus, priest of 
 Isis, thou accusest Arbaces of the murder of Apaecides?” 
 
 “I do.” 
 
 “Thou didst behold the deed?” 
 
 “Praetor—with these eyes-” 
 
 “Enough at present—the details must be reserved for more 
 suiting time and place. Arbaces of Egypt, thou hearest the 
 charge against thee—thou hast not yet spoken—what hast thou 
 to say?” 
 
 The gaze of the crowd had been long riveted on Arbaces: 
 but not until the confusion which he had betrayed at the first 
 charge of Sallust and the entrance of Calenus had subsided. 
 At the shout, “Arbaces to the lion!” he had indeed trembled, j 
 and the dark bronze of his cheek had taken a paler hue. But i 
 he had soon recovered his haughtiness and self-control. Proudly 
 he returned the angry glare of the countless eyes around him; j 
 and replying now to the question of the prastor, he said, in that ; 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 405 
 
 accent so peculiarly tranquil and commanding, which charac¬ 
 terised his tones,— 
 
 “Praetor, this charge is so mad that it scarcely deserves 
 reply. My first accuser is the noble Sallust—the most intimate 
 friend of Glaucus! my second is a priest; I revere his garb and 
 calling—but, people of Pompeii! ye know somewhat of the 
 character of Calenus—he is griping and gold-thirsty to a pro¬ 
 verb; the witness of such men is to be bought! Praetor, I am 
 innocent! ” 
 
 “Sallust,” said the magistrate, “where found you Calenus?” 
 
 “ In the dungeons of Arbaces.” 
 
 “Egyptian,” said the praetor, frowning, “thou didst, then, 
 dare to imprison a priest of the gods—and wherefore?” 
 
 “Hear me,” answered Arbaces, rising calmly, but with agi¬ 
 tation visible in his face. “This man came to threaten that he 
 would make against me the charge he has now made, unless I 
 would purchase his silence with half my fortune: I remonstrated 
 —in vain. Peace there—let not the priest interrupt me! Noble 
 praetor—and ye, O people! I was a stranger in the land—I 
 knew myself innocent of crime—but the witness of a priest 
 against me might yet destroy me. In my perplexity I decoyed 
 him to the cell whence he has been released, on pretence that 
 it was the coffer-house of my gold. I resolved to detain him 
 there until the fate of the true criminal was sealed, and his 
 threats could avail no longer; but I meant no worse. I may 
 have erred—but who amongst ye will not acknowledge the 
 equity of self-preservation? Were I guilty, why was the witness 
 of this priest silent at the trial ?—then I had not detained or 
 concealed him. Why did he not proclaim my guilt when I 
 proclaimed that of Glaucus? Praetor, this needs an answer. 
 For the rest, I throw myself on your laws. I demand their pro¬ 
 tection. Remove hence the accused and the accuser. I will 
 willingly meet, and cheerfully abide by, the decision of the 
 legitimate tribunal. This is no place for further parley.” 
 
 “He says right,” said the praetor. “Ho! guards—remove 
 Arbaces—guard Calenus! Sallust, we hold you responsible 
 for your accusation. Let the sports be resumed.” 
 
 “What!” cried Calenus, turning round to the people, “shall 
 
406 
 
 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 Isis be thus contemned? Shall the blood of Apaecides yet cjry 
 for vengeance? Shall justice be delayed now, that it may be 
 frustrated hereafter? Shall the lion be cheated of his lawful 
 prey? A god! a god!—I feel the god rush to my lips! To the 
 lion—to the lion with Arbaces l” 
 
 His exhausted frame could support no longer the ferocious 
 malice of the priest; he sank on the ground in strong con¬ 
 vulsions—the foam gathered to his mouth—he was as a man, 
 indeed, whom a supernatural power had entered! The people 
 saw and shuddered. 
 
 “It is a god that inspires the holy man!— To the lion with the 
 Egyptian !” 
 
 With that cry up sprang—on moved—thousands upon thou¬ 
 sands ! They rushed from the heights—they poured down in 
 the direction of the Egyptian. In vain did the aedile command 
 —in vain did the praetor lift his voice and proclaim the law. 
 The people had been already rendered savage by the exhibi¬ 
 tion of blood—they thirsted for more—their superstition was 
 aided by their ferocity. Aroused—inflamed by the spectacle 
 of their victims, they forgot the authority of their rulers. It 
 was one of those dread popular convulsions common to crowds 
 wholly ignorant, half free and half servile; and which the pe¬ 
 culiar constitution of the Roman provinces so frequently ex¬ 
 hibited. The power of the praetor was as a reed beneath the 
 whirl-wind; still, at his word the guards had drawn themselves 
 along the lower benches, on which the upper classes sat 
 separate from the vulgar. They made but a feeble barrier— 
 the waves of the human sea halted for a moment, to enable 
 Arbaces to count the exact moment of his doom! In despair, 
 and in a terror which beat down even pride, he glanced his 
 eyes over the rolling and rushing crowd—when, right above 
 them, through the wide chasm which had been left in the 
 velaria, he beheld a strange and awful apparition—he beheld 
 —and his craft restored his courage! 
 
 He stretched his hand on high; over his lofty brow and 
 royal features there came an expression of unutterable solem¬ 
 nity and command. 
 
 “Beholdhe shouted with a voice of thunder, which stilled 
 
THE LAST DAYS OP POMPEII. 
 
 407 
 
 the roar of the crowd; “behold how the gods protect the guilt¬ 
 less ! The fires of the avenging Orcus burst forth against the 
 false witness of my accusers! ” 
 
 The eyes of the crowd followed the gesture of the Egyptian, 
 and beheld, with ineffable dismay, avast vapour shooting from 
 the summit of Vesuvius, in the form of a gigantic pine-tree; * 
 the trunk, blackness,—the branches, fire!—a fire that shifted 
 and wavered in its hues with every moment, now fiercely 
 luminous, now of a dull and dying red, that again blazed ter¬ 
 rifically forth with intolerable glare! 
 
 There was a dead, heart-sunken silence—through which 
 there suddenly broke the roar of the lion, which was echoed 
 back from within the building by the sharper and fiercer yells 
 of its fellow-beast. Dread seers were they of the Burden of 
 the Atmosphere, and wild prophets of the wrath to come! 
 
 Then there arose on high the universal shrieks of women; 
 the men stared at each other, but were dumb. At that moment 
 they felt the earth shake beneath their feet; the walls of the 
 theatre trembled: and, beyond in the distance, they heard the 
 crash of falling roofs; an instant more and the mountain-cloud 
 seemed to roll towards them, dark and rapid, like a torrent; 
 at the same time, it cast forth from its bosom a shower of 
 ashes mixed with vast fragments of burning stone! Over the 
 crushing vines,—over the desolate streets,—over the amphi¬ 
 theatre itself,—far and wide,—with many a mighty splash in 
 the agitated sea,—fell that awful shower! 
 
 No longer thought the crowd of justice or of Arbaces; 
 safety for themselves was their sole thought. Each turned to 
 fly—each dashing, pressing, crushing, against the other. 
 Trampling recklessly over the fallen—amidst groans, and 
 oaths, and prayers, and sudden shrieks, the enormous crowd 
 vomited itself forth through the numerous passages. Whither 
 should they fly? Some, anticipating a second earthquake, 
 hastened to their homes to load themselves with their more 
 costly goods, and escape while it was yet time; others, dread¬ 
 ing the showers of ashes that now fell fast, torrent upon tor¬ 
 rent, over the streets, rushed under the roofs of the nearest 
 
 * Pliny. 
 
TOE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 408 
 
 houses, or temples, or sheds—shelter of any kind—for pro¬ 
 tection from the terrors of the open air. But darker, and 
 larger, and mightier, spread the cloud above them. It was a 
 sudden and more ghastly Night rushing upon the realm of 
 Noon! 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 The Cell of the Prisoner and the Den of the Dead.—Grief unconscious of Horror. 
 
 Stunned by his reprieve, doubting that he was awake, 
 Glaucus had been led by the officers of the arena into a small 
 cell within the walls of the theatre. They threw a loose robe 
 over his form, and crowded round in congratulation and wonder. 
 There was an impatient and fretful cry without the cell; the 
 throng gave way, and the blind girl, led by some gentler hand, 
 flung herself at the feet of Glaucus. 
 
 “It is I who have saved thee,” she sobbed; “now let me 
 die!” 
 
 “Nydia, my child!—my preserver!” 
 
 “Oh, let me feel thy touch—thy breath! Yes, yes, thou 
 livest! We are not too late! That dread door, methought 
 it would never yield! and Calenus—oh! his voice was as 
 the dying wind among tombs:—we had to wait,—gods! it 
 seemed hours ere food and wine restored to him something of 
 strength. But thou livest! thou livest yet! And I —I have 
 saved thee!” 
 
 This affecting scene was soon interrupted by the event just 
 described. 
 
 “The mountain! the earthquake!” resounded from side to 
 side. The officers fled with the rest; they left Glaucus and 
 Nydia to save themselves as they might. 
 
 As the sense of the dangers around them flashed on the 
 Athenian, his generous heart recurred to Olinthus. He, too, 
 was reprieved from the tiger by the hand of the gods; should 
 he be left to a no less fatal death in the neighbouring cell? 
 Taking Nydia by the hand, Glaucus hurried across the pas¬ 
 sages; he gained the den of the Christian! He found Olinthus 
 kneeling and in prayer. 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 409 
 
 “Arise! arise! my friend,” he cried. “Save thyself, and 
 fly! See! Nature is thy dread deliverer!” He led forth the 
 bewildered Christian, and pointed to a cloud which advanced 
 darker and darker, disgorging forth showers of ashes and pumice 
 stones;—and bade him hearken to the cries and trampling rush 
 of the scattered crowd. 
 
 “This is the hand of God—God be praised!” said Olinthus, 
 devoutly. 
 
 “Fly! seek thy brethren! Concert with them thy escape. 
 Farewell!” 
 
 Olinthus did not answer, neither did he mark the retreat¬ 
 ing form of his friend. High thoughts and solemn absorbed 
 his soul; and in the enthusiasm of his kindling heart, he exulted 
 in the mercy of God rather than trembled at the evidence of 
 His power. 
 
 At length he roused himself, and hurried on, he scarce knew 
 whither. 
 
 The open doors of a dark, desolate cell suddenly appeared 
 on his path; through the gloom within there flared and 
 flickered a single lamp; and by its light he saw three grim and 
 naked forms stretched on the earth in death. His feet were 
 suddenly arrested; for, amidst the terrors of that drear recess 
 —the spoliarium of the arena—he heard a low voice calling on 
 the name of Christ! 
 
 He could not resist lingering at that appeal; he entered the 
 den, and his feet were dabbled in the slow streams of blood 
 that gushed from the corpses over the sand. 
 
 “Who,” said the Nazarene, “calls upon the son of God?” 
 
 No answer came forth; and turning round, Olinthus beheld, 
 by the light of the lamp, an old grey-headed man sitting on 
 the floor, and supporting in his lap the head of one of the 
 dead. The features of the dead man were firmly and rigidly 
 locked in the last sleep; but over the lip there played a fierce 
 smile—not the Christian’s smile of hope, but the dark sneer of 
 hatred and defiance. Yet on the face still lingered the beauti¬ 
 ful roundness of early youth. The hair curled thick and 
 glossy over the unwrinkled brow; and the down of manhood 
 but slightly shaded the marble of the hueless cheek. And 
 
4 io 
 
 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 over this face bent one of such unutterable sadness—of such 
 yearning tenderness—of such fond and such deep despair! 
 The tears of the old man fell fast and hot, but he did not feel 
 them; and when his lips moved, and he mechanically uttered 
 the prayer of his benign and hopeful faith, neither his heart 
 nor his sense responded to the words: it was but the involun¬ 
 tary emotion that broke from the lethargy of his mind. His 
 boy was dead, and had died for him!—and the old man’s heart 
 was broken! 
 
 “Medon!” said Olinthus, pityingly, “arise, and fly! God 
 is forth upon the wings of the elements! The New Gomorrah 
 is doomed!—Fly, ere the fires consume thee!” 
 
 “Fie was ever so full of life!—he cannot be dead! Come 
 hither!—place your hand on his heart!—sure it beats yet?” 
 
 “Brother, the soul has fled! We will remember it in our 
 prayers! Thou canst not reanimate the dumb clay! Come, 
 come—hark! while I speak, yon crashing walls!—hark! yon 
 agonising cries! Not a moment is to be lost!—Come!” 
 
 “I hear nothing!” said Medon, shaking his grey hair. 
 “The poor boy, his love murdered him!” 
 
 “Come! come! forgive this friendly force.” 
 
 “What! Who would sever the father from the son?” And 
 Medon clasped the body tightly in his embrace, and covered 
 it with passionate kisses. “Go!” said he, lifting up his face 
 for one moment. “ Go!—we must be alone! ” 
 
 “Alas!” said the compassionate Nazarene, “Death hath 
 severed ye already!” 
 
 The old man smiled very calmly. “No, no, no!” he mut¬ 
 tered, his voice growing lower with each word,-“Death 
 
 has been more kind!” 
 
 With that his head drooped on his son’s breast—his arms 
 relaxed their grasp. Olinthus caught him by the hand—the 
 pulse had ceased to beat! The last words of the father were 
 the words of truth,— Death had been more kind. 
 
 Meanwhile Glaucus and Nydia were pacing swiftly up the 
 perilous and fearful streets. The Athenian had learned from 
 his preserver that lone was yet in the house of Arbaces. 
 Thither he fled, to release—to save her! The few slaves whom 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 4 11 
 
 the Egyptian had left at his mansion when he had repaired in 
 long procession to the amphitheatre, had been able to offer no 
 resistance to the armed band of Sallust; and when afterwards 
 the volcano broke forth, they had huddled together, stunned 
 and frightened, in the inmost recesses of the house. Even the 
 tall Ethiopian had forsaken his post at the door; and Glaucus 
 (who left Nydia without—the poor Nydia, jealous once more, 
 even in such an hour!) passed on through the vast hall with¬ 
 out meeting one from whom to learn the chamber of lone. 
 Even as he passed, however, the darkness that covered the 
 heavens increased so rapidly, that it was with difficulty he 
 could guide his steps. The flower-wreathed columns seemed 
 to reel and tremble: and with every instant he heard the ashes 
 fall cranchingly into the roofless peristyle. He ascended to 
 the upper rooms—breathless he paced along, shouting out 
 aloud the name of lone; and at length he heard, at the end of 
 a gallery, a voice —her voice, in wondering reply! To rush 
 forward—to shatter the door—to seize lone in his arms—to 
 hurry from the mansion—seemed to him the work of an in¬ 
 stant! Scarce had he gained the spot where Nydia was, 
 than he heard steps advancing towards the house, and re¬ 
 cognised the voice of Arbaces, who had returned to seek his 
 wealth and lone ere he fled from the doomed Pompeii. But 
 so dense was already the reeking atmosphere, that the foes 
 saw not each other, though so near,—save that, dimly in the 
 gloom, Glaucus caught the moving outline of the snowy robes 
 of the Egyptian. 
 
 They hastened onward—those three! Alas!—whither? 
 They now saw not a step before them—the blackness became 
 utter. They were encompassed with doubt and horror!—and 
 the death he had escaped seemed to Glaucus only to have 
 changed its form and augmented its victims. 
 
412 
 
 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 Calenus and Burbo.—Diomed and Clodius.—The Girl of the Amphitheatre 
 and Julia 
 
 The sudden catastrophe which had, as its were, riven the 
 very bonds of society, and left prisoner and gaoler alike free, 
 had soon rid Calenus of the guards to whose care the praetor 
 had consigned him. And when the darkness and the crowd 
 separated the priest from his attendants, he hastened with 
 trembling steps towards the temple of his goddess. As he 
 crept along, and ere the darkness was complete, he felt him¬ 
 self suddenly caught by the robe, and a voice muttered in his 
 ear,— 
 
 “Hist!—Calenus!—an awful hour!” 
 
 “Ay! by my father’s head! Who art thou?—thy face is dim, 
 and thy voice is strange! ” 
 
 “Not know thy Burbo?—fie!” 
 
 “ Gods!—how the darkness gathers! Ho, ho!—by yon terri¬ 
 fic mountain, what sudden blazes of lightning!*—How they 
 dart and quiver! Hades is loosed on earth!” 
 
 “Tush!—thou believest not these things, Calenus! Now is 
 the time to make our fortune! ” 
 
 “Ha!” 
 
 “Listen! Thy temple is full of gold and precious mum¬ 
 meries!—let us load ourselves with them, and then hasten to 
 the sea and embark! None will ever ask an account of the 
 doings of this day.” 
 
 “Burbo, thou art right! Hush! and follow me into the temple. 
 Who cares now—who sees now—whether thou art a priest or 
 not? Follow, and we will share.” 
 
 In the precincts of the temple were many priests gathered 
 around the altars, praying, weeping, grovelling in the dust. 
 Impostors in safety, they were not the less superstitious in 
 danger! Calenus passed them, and entered the chamber yet 
 to be seen in the south side of the court. Burbo followed him 
 
 * Volcanic lightnings. These phenomena were especially the characteristic 
 of the long subsequent eruption of 1779, and their evidence is visible in the tokens 
 of that more awful one, now so imperfectly described. 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 4I3 
 
 —the priest struck a light. Wine and viands strewed the table; 
 the remains of a sacrificial feast. 
 
 “A man who has hungered forty-eight hours,” muttered 
 Calenus, “has an appetite even in such a time.” He seized on 
 the food, and devoured it greedily. Nothing could, perhaps, 
 be more unnaturally horrid than the selfish baseness of these 
 villains; for there is nothing more loathsome than the valour 
 of avarice. Plunder and sacrilege while the pillars of the world 
 tottered to and fro! What an increase to the terrors of nature 
 can be made by the vices of man! 
 
 “Wilt thou never have done?” said Burbo, impatiently; 
 “thy face purples and thine eyes start already.” 
 
 “It is not every day one has such a right to be hungry. 
 Oh, Jupiter! what sound is that? —the hissing of fiery 
 water! What! does the cloud give rain as well as flame! Ha! 
 —what! shrieks? And, Burbo, how silent all is now! Look 
 forth! ” 
 
 Amidst the other horrors, the mighty mountain now cast 
 up columns of boiling water. Blent and kneaded with the half¬ 
 burning ashes, the streams fell like seething mud over the 
 streets in frequent intervals. And full, where the priests of 
 Isis had now cowered around the altars, on which they had 
 vainly sought to kindle fires and pour incense, one of the 
 fiercest of those deadly torrents, mingled with immense frag¬ 
 ments of scoria, had poured its rage. Over the bended forms 
 of the priests it dashed: that cry had been of death—that 
 silence had been of eternity! The ashes—the pitchy stream— 
 sprinkled the altars, covered the pavement, and half concealed 
 the quivering corpses of the priests! 
 
 “They are dead,” said Burbo, terrified for the first time, 
 and hurrying back into the cell. “ I thought not the danger was 
 so near and fatal.” 
 
 The two wretches stood staring at each other—you might 
 have heard their hearts beat! Calenus, the less bold by nature, 
 but the more griping, recovered first. 
 
 “We must to our task, and away!” he said, in a low whisper, 
 frightened at his own voice. He stepped to the threshold, 
 paused, crossed over the heated floor and his dead brethren to 
 
4*4 
 
 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 the sacred chapel, and called to Burbo to follow. But the 
 gladiator quaked, and drew back. 
 
 “So much the better,” thought Calenus; “the more will be 
 my booty.” Hastily he loaded himself with the more portable 
 treasures of the temple; and thinking no more of his comrade, 
 hurried from the sacred place. A sudden flash of lightning from 
 the mount showed to Burbo, who stood motionless at the 
 threshold, the flying and laden form of the priest. He took 
 heart; he stepped forth to join him, when a tremendous shower 
 of ashes fell right before his feet. The gladiator shrank back 
 once more. Darkness closed him in. But the shower con¬ 
 tinued fast—fast; its heaps rose high and suffocatingly—deathly 
 vapours steamed from them. The wretch gasped for breath 
 —he sought in despair again to fly—the ashes had blocked up 
 the threshold—he shrieked as his feet shrank from the boiling 
 fluid. How could he escape? he could not climb to the open 
 space; nay, were he able, he could not brave its horrors. It 
 were best to remain in the cell, protected, at least, from the 
 fatal air. He sat down and clenched his teeth. By degrees, 
 the atmosphere from without stifling and venomous—crept 
 into the chamber. He could endure it no longer. His eyes, 
 glaring round, rested on a sacrificial axe, which some priest 
 had left in the chamber: he seized it. With the desperate 
 strength of his gigantic arm, he attempted to hew his way 
 through the walls. 
 
 Meanwhile, the streets were already thinned; the crowd 
 had hastened to disperse itself under shelter; the ashes began 
 to fill up the lower parts of the town; but, here and there, you 
 heard the steps of fugitives cranching them warily, or saw 
 their pale and haggard faces by the blue glare of the light¬ 
 ning, or the more unsteady glare of torches, by which they en¬ 
 deavoured to steer their steps. But ever and anon, the boiling 
 water, or the straggling ashes, mysterious and gusty winds, 
 rising and dying in a breath, extinguished these wandering 
 lights, and with them the last living hope of those who bore 
 them. 
 
 In the street that leads to the gate of Herculaneum, Clodius 
 now bent his perplexed and doubtful way. “If I can gain 
 

 
 ■*ym. 
 
 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 415 
 
 the open country,” thought he, “doubtless there will be vari¬ 
 ous vehicles beyond the gate, and Herculaneum is not far dis¬ 
 tant. Thank Mercury! I have little to lose, and that little is 
 about me!” 
 
 “Holla!—help there—help!” cried a querulous and fright¬ 
 ened voice. I have fallen down—my torch has gone out—my 
 slaves have deserted me. I am Diomed—the rich Diomed;— 
 ten thousand sesterces to him who helps me!” 
 
 At the same moment, Clodius felt himself caught by 
 the feet. “Ill fortune to thee,—let me go, fool,” said the 
 gambler. 
 
 “Oh, help me up!—give me thy hand!” 
 
 “There—rise!” 
 
 “Is this Clodius ? I know the voice! Whither fliest 
 thou?” 
 
 “Towards Herculaneum.” 
 
 “Blessed be the gods! our way is the same, then, as far as 
 the gate. Why not take refuge in my villa? Thou knowest the 
 long range of subterranean cellars beneath the basement—that 
 shelter, what shower can penetrate?” 
 
 “ You speak well,” said Clodius, musingly. “And by storing 
 the cellar with food, we can remain there even some days, 
 should these wondrous storms endure so long.” 
 
 “Oh, blessed be he who invented gates to a city!” cried 
 Diomed. See!—they have placed a light within yon arch: by 
 that let us guide our steps.” 
 
 The air was now still for a few minutes: the lamp from the 
 gate streamed out far and clear: the fugitives hurried on— 
 they gained the gate—they passed by the Roman sentry; the 
 lightning flashed over his livid face and polished helmet, but 
 his stern features were composed even in their awe! He re¬ 
 mained erect and motionless at his post. That hour itself had 
 not animated the machine of the ruthless majesty of Rome 
 into the reasoning and self-acting man. There he stood, 
 amidst the crashing elements: he had not received the permis¬ 
 sion to desert his station and escape.* 
 
 Diomed and his companion hurried on, when suddenly a 
 
 * The skeletons of more than one sentry were found at their posts. 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 416 
 
 female form rushed athwart their way. It was the girl whose 
 ominous voice had been raised so often and so gladly in anti¬ 
 cipation of “ the merry show! ” 
 
 “Oh, Diomed!” she cried, “shelter! shelter! See/-'—point¬ 
 ing to an infant clasped to her breast—“see this little one!— 
 it is mine!—the child of shame! I have never owned it till this 
 hour. But noiv I remember I am a mother! I have plucked it 
 from the cradle of its nurse: she had fled! Who could think 
 of the babe in such an hour, but she who bore it? Save it! 
 save it!” 
 
 “Curses on thy shrill voice! Away, harlot!” muttered 
 Clodius between his ground teeth. 
 
 “Nay, girl,” said the more human Diomed; “follow if 
 thou wilt. This way—this way—to the vaults!” 
 
 They hurried on—they arrived at the house of Diomed— 
 they laughed aloud as they crossed the threshold, for they 
 deemed the danger over. 
 
 Diomed ordered his slaves to carry down into the subter¬ 
 ranean gallery, before described, a profusion of food and oil 
 for lights; and there Julia, Clodius, the mother and her babe, 
 the greater part of the slaves, and some frightened visitors 
 and clients of the neighbourhood, sought their shelter. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 The Progress of the Destruction. 
 
 The cloud, which had scattered so deep a murkiness over 
 the day, had now settled into a solid and impenetrable mass. 
 It resembled less even the thickest gloom of a night in the 
 open air than the close and blind darkness of some narrow 
 room.* But in proportion as the blackness gathered, did the 
 lightnings around Vesuvius increase in their vivid and scorch¬ 
 ing glare. Nor was their horrible beauty confined to the usual 
 hues of fire; no rainbow ever rivalled their varying and prodigal 
 dyes. Now brightly blue as the most azure depth of a southern 
 sky— now of a livid and snakelike green, darting restlessly to 
 and fro as the folds of an enormous serpent—now of a lurid 
 
 * Pliny. 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 417 
 
 and intolerable crimson, gushing forth through the columns of 
 smoke, far and wide, and lighting up the whole city from arch 
 to arch,—then suddenly dying into a sickly paleness, like the 
 ghost of their own life! 
 
 In the pauses of the showers, you heard the rumbling of 
 the earth beneath, and the groaning waves of the tortured 
 sea; or, lower still, and audible but to the watch of intensest 
 fear, the grinding and hissing murmur of the escaping gases 
 through the chasms of the distant mountain. Sometimes the 
 cloud appeared to break from its solid mass, and, by the 
 lightning, to assume quaint and vast mimicries of human or 
 of monster shapes, striding across the gloom, hurtling one 
 upon the other, and vanishing swiftly into the turbulent abyss 
 of shade; so that, to the eyes and fancies of the affrighted 
 wanderers, the unsubstantial vapours were as the bodily forms 
 of gigantic foes,—the agents of terror and of death.* 
 
 The ashes in many places were already knee deep; and the 
 boiling showers which came from the steaming breath of the 
 volcano forced their way into the houses, bearing with them a 
 strong and suffocating vapour. In some places, immense frag¬ 
 ments of rock, hurled upon the house roofs, bore down along 
 the streets masses of confused ruin, which yet more and more, 
 with every hour, obstructed the way; and, as the day advanced, 
 the motion of the earth was more sensibly felt—the footing 
 seemed to slide and creep—nor could chariot or litter be kept 
 steady, even on the most level ground. 
 
 Sometimes the huger stones striking against each other as 
 they fell, broke into countless fragments, emitting sparks of 
 fire, which caught whatever was combustible within their 
 reach; and along the plains beyond the city the darkness was 
 now terribly relieved; for several houses, and even vineyards, 
 had been set on flames; and at various intervals the fires rose 
 sullenly and fiercely against the solid gloom. To add to this 
 partial relief of the darkness, the citizens had, here and there, 
 in the more public places, such as the porticoes of temples 
 and the entrances to the forum, endeavoured to place rows of 
 torches; but these rarely continued long; the showers and the 
 
 * Dion Cassius. 
 
 Pompeii. 
 
 27 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 418 
 
 winds extinguished them, and the sudden darkness into which 
 their sudden birth was converted had something in it doubly 
 terrible and doubly impressing on the impotence of human 
 hopes, the lesson of despair. 
 
 Frequently, by the momentary light of these torches, parties 
 of fugitives encountered each other, some hurrying towards 
 the sea, others flying from the sea back to the land; for the 
 ocean had retreated rapidly from the shore—an utter darkness 
 lay over it, and, upon its groaning and tossing waves the storm 
 of cinders and rock fell without the protection which the 
 streets and roofs afforded to the land. Wild—haggard— 
 ghastly with supernatural fears, these groups encountered each 
 other, but without the leisure to speak, to consult, to advise; 
 for the showers fell now frequently, though not continuously, 
 extinguishing the lights, which showed to each band the death¬ 
 like faces of the other, and hurrying all to seek refuge beneath 
 the nearest shelter. The whole elements of civilisation were 
 broken up. Ever and anon, by the flickering lights, you saw 
 the thief hastening by the most solemn authorities of the law, 
 laden with, and fearfully chuckling over, the produce of his 
 sudden gains. If, in the darkness, wife was separated from 
 husband, or parent from child, vain was the hope of reunion. 
 Each hurried blindly and confusedly on. Nothing in all the 
 various and complicated machinery of social life was left save 
 the primal law of self-preservation! 
 
 Through this awful scene did the Athenian wade his way, 
 accompanied by lone and the blind girl. Suddenly, a rush of 
 hundreds, in their path to the sea, swept by them. Nydia was 
 torn from the side of Glaucus, who, with lone, was borne 
 rapidly onward; and when the crowd (whose forms they saw 
 not, so thick was the gloom) were gone, Nydia was still 
 separated from their side. Glaucus shouted her name. No 
 answer came. They retraced their steps—in vain: they could 
 not discover her—it was evident she had been swept along 
 some opposite direction by the human current. Their friend, 
 their preserver, was lost! And hitherto Nydia had been their 
 guide. Her blindness rendered the scene familiar to her alone. 
 Accustomed, through a perpetual night, to thread the wind- 
 
3050. POMPEI. Tempio della Fortuna. 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 4 !9 
 
 ings of the city, she had led them unerringly towards the sea¬ 
 shore, by which they had resolved to hazard an escape. Now, 
 which way could they wend? all was rayless to them—a 
 maze without a clue. Wearied, despondent, bewildered, they, 
 however, passed along, the ashes falling upon their heads, 
 the fragmentary stones dashing up in sparkles before their 
 feet. 
 
 “Alas! alas!” murmured lone, “I can go no farther; my 
 steps sink among the scorching cinders. Fly, dearest!—be¬ 
 loved, fly! and leave me to my fate!” 
 
 “Hush, my betrothed! my bride! Death with thee is 
 sweeter than life without thee! Yet, whither—oh! whither, can 
 we direct ourselves through the gloom? Already it seems that 
 we have made but a circle, and are in the very spot which we 
 quitted an hour ago.” 
 
 “ O gods! yon rock—see, it hath riven the roof before us! 
 It is death to move through the streets!” 
 
 “Blessed lightning! See, lone—see! the portico of the 
 Temple of Fortune is before us. Let us creep beneath it; it 
 will protect us from the showers.” 
 
 He caught his beloved in his arms, and with difficulty and 
 labour gained the temple. He bore her to the remoter and 
 more sheltered part of the portico, and leaned over her, that 
 he might shield her, with his own form, from the lightning 
 and the showers! The beauty and the unselfishness of love 
 could hallow even that dismal time! 
 
 “Who is there?” said the trembling and hollow voice of 
 one who had preceded them in their place of refuge. “Yet, 
 what matters?—the crush of the ruined world forbids to us 
 friends or foes.” 
 
 lone turned at the sound of the voice, and, with a faint 
 shriek, cowered again beneath the arms of Glaucus: and he, 
 looking in the direction of the voice, beheld the cause of her 
 alarm. Through the darkness glared forth two burning eyes 
 —the lightning flashed and lingered athwart the temple—and 
 Glaucus, with a shudder, perceived the lion to which he had 
 been doomed couched beneath the pillars;—and, close beside 
 
 27* 
 
420 
 
 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 it, unwitting of the vicinity, lay the giant form of him who had 
 accosted them—the wounded gladiator, Niger. 
 
 That lightning had revealed to each other the form of beast 
 and man; yet the instinct of both was quelled. Nay, the lion 
 crept near and nearer to the gladiator, as for companionship; 
 and the gladiator did not recede or tremble. The revolution 
 of Nature had dissolved her lighter terrors as well as her 
 wonted ties. 
 
 While they were thus terribly protected, a group of men 
 and women, bearing torches, passed by the temple. They 
 were of the congregation of the Nazarenes; and a sublime and 
 unearthly emotion had not, indeed, quelled their awe, but it 
 had robbed awe of fear. They had long believed, according 
 to the error of the early Christians, that the Last Day was at 
 hand; they imagined now that the Day had come. 
 
 “Woe! woe!” cried, in a shrill and piercing voice, the elder 
 at their head. “Behold! the Lord descendeth to judgment! 
 He maketh fire come down from heaven in the sight of men! 
 Woe! woe! ye strong and mighty! Woe to ye of the fasces 
 and the purple! Woe to the idolater and the worshipper of 
 the beast! Woe to ye who pour forth the blood of saints, 
 and gloat over the death-pangs of the sons of God! Woe to 
 the harlot of the sea!—woe! woe! ” 
 
 And with a loud and deep chorus, the troop chanted forth 
 along the wild horrors of the air,—“Woe to the harlot of the 
 sea!—woe! woe!” 
 
 The Nazarenes paced slowly on, their torches still flicker¬ 
 ing in the storm, their voices still raised in menace and solemn ( 
 warning, till, lost amid the windings in the streets, the dark- I 
 ness of the atmosphere and the silence of death again fell over 
 the scene. 
 
 There was one of the frequent pauses in the showers, and 
 Glaucus encouraged lone once more to proceed. Just as they 
 stood, hesitating, on the last step of the portico, an old man, 
 with a bag in his right hand and leaning upon a youth, tottered 
 by. The youth bore a torch. Glaucus recognised the two as 
 father and son—miser and prodigal. 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. \2 I 
 
 “Fatheiy” said the youth, “if you cannot move more swiftly, 
 I must leave you, or we both perish!” 
 
 “Fly, boy, then, and leave thy sire!” 
 
 “But I cannot fly to starve; give me thy bag of gold!” And 
 the youth snatched at it. 
 
 “Wretch! wouldst thou rob thy father?” 
 
 “Ay! who can tell the tale in this hour? Miser, perish!” 
 
 The boy struck the old man to the ground, plucked the bag 
 from his relaxing hand, and fled onward with a shrill yell. 
 
 “Ye gods!” cried Glaucus: “are ye blind, then, even in the 
 dark? Such crimes may well confound the guiltless with the 
 guilty in one common ruin. lone, on!—on!” 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 Arbaces encounters Glaucus and lone. 
 
 Advancing, as men grope for escape in a dungeon, lone 
 and her lover continued their uncertain way. At the moments 
 when the volcanic lightnings lingered over the streets, they 
 were enabled, by that awful light, to steer and guide their 
 progress: yet, little did the view it presented to them cheer or 
 encourage their path. In parts, where the ashes lay dry and 
 uncommixed with the boiling torrents, cast upward from the 
 mountain at capricious intervals, the surface of the earth pre¬ 
 sented a leprous and ghastly white. In other places, cinder 
 and rock lay matted in heaps, from beneath which emerged 
 the half-hid limbs of some crushed and mangled fugitive. The 
 groans of the dying were broken by wild shrieks of women’s 
 terror—now near, now distant—which, when heard in the utter 
 darkness, were rendered doubly appalling by the crushing 
 sense of helplessness and the uncertainty of the perils around; 
 and clear and distinct through all were the mighty and various 
 noises from the Fatal Mountain; its rushing winds; its whirling 
 torrents; and, from time to time, the burst and roar of some 
 more fiery and fierce explosion. And ever as the winds swept 
 howling along the street, they bore sharp streams of burning 
 dust, and such sickening and poisonous vapours, as took away, 
 for the instant, breath and consciousness, followed by a rapid 
 
422 
 
 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 revulsion of the arrested blood, and a tingling sensation of 
 agony trembling through every nerve and fibre of the frame. 
 
 “Oh, Glaucus! my beloved! my own!—take me to thy 
 arms! One embrace! let me feel thy arms around me—and in 
 that embrace let me die—I can no more! ” 
 
 “For my sake, for my life—courage, yet, sweet lone—my 
 life is linked with thine: and see—torches—this way! Lo! 
 how they brave the wind! Ha! they live through the storm— 
 doubtless, fugitives to the sea!—we will join them.” 
 
 As if to aid and reanimate the lovers, the winds and 
 showers came to a sudden pause; the atmosphere was pro¬ 
 foundly still—the mountain seemed at rest, gathering, perhaps, 
 fresh fury for its next burst: the torch-bearers moved quickly 
 on. “We are nearing the sea,” said, in a calm voice, the 
 person at their head. “Liberty and wealth to each slave who 
 survives this day! Courage!—I tell you that the gods them¬ 
 selves have assured me of deliverance—On!” 
 
 Redly and steadily the torches flashed full on the eyes of 
 Glaucus and lone, who lay trembling and exhausted on his 
 bosom. Several slaves were bearing, by the light, panniers 
 and coffers, heavily laden; in front of them,—a drawn sword 
 in his hand,—towered the lofty form of Arbaces. 
 
 “By my fathers!” cried the Egyptian, “Fate smiles upon 
 me even through these horrors, and, amidst the dreadest 
 aspects of woe and death, bodes me happiness and love. Away, 
 Greek! I claim my ward, lone! ” 
 
 “Traitor and murderer!” cried Glaucus, glaring upon his 
 foe, “Nemesis hath guided thee to my revenge!—a just sacri¬ 
 fice to the shades of Hades, that now seem loosed on earth. 
 Approach—touch but the hand of lone, and thy weapon shall 
 be as a reed—I will tear thee limb from limb! ” 
 
 Suddenly, as he spoke, the place became lighted with an 
 intense and lurid glow. Bright and gigantic through the dark¬ 
 ness, which closed around it like the walls of hell, the mountain 
 shone—a pile of fire! Its summit seemed riven in two; or 
 rather, above its surface there seemed to rise two monster 
 shapes, each confronting each, as Demons contending for a 
 World. These were of one deep blood-red hue of fire, which 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 423 
 
 lighted up the whole atmosphere far and wide; but, below, the 
 nether part of the mountain was still dark and shrouded, save 
 in three places, adown which flowed, serpentine and irregular,* 
 rivers of the molten lava. Darkly red through the profound 
 gloom of their banks, they flowed slowly on, as towards the 
 devoted city. Over the broadest there seemed to spring a 
 cragged and stupendous arch, from which, as from the jaws of 
 hell, gushed the sources of the sudden Phlegethon. And 
 through the stilled air was heard the rattling of the fragments 
 of rock, hurtling one upon another as they were borne down 
 the fiery cataracts—darkening, for one instant, the spot where 
 they fell, and suffused the next, in the burnished hues of the 
 flood along which they floated! 
 
 The slaves shrieked aloud, and, cowering, hid their faces. 
 The Egyptian himself stood transfixed to the spot, the glow 
 lighting up his commanding features and jewelled robes. 
 High behind him rose a tall column that supported the bronze 
 statue of Augustus; and the imperial image seemed changed 
 to a shape of fire! 
 
 With his left hand circled round the form of lone—with his 
 right arm raised in menace, and grasping the stilus which was 
 to have been his weapon in the arena, and which he still 
 fortunately bore about him, with his brow knit, his lips apart, 
 the wrath and menace of human passions arrested as by a 
 charm, upon his features, Glaucus fronted the Egyptian! 
 
 Arbaces turned his eyes from the mountain—they rested 
 on the form of Glaucus! He paused a moment: “Why,” he 
 muttered, “should I hesitate? Did not the stars foretell the 
 only crisis of imminent peril to which I was subjected?—Is not 
 that peril past? 
 
 “The soul,” cried he aloud, “can brave the wreck of worlds 
 and the wrath of imaginary gods! By that soul will I conquer 
 to the last! Advance, slaves!—Athenian, resist me, and thy 
 blood be on thine own head! Thus, then, I regain lone!” 
 
 He advanced one step—it was his last on earth! The 
 ground shook beneath him with a convulsion that cast all 
 around upon its surface. A simultaneous crash resounded 
 
 * See note (#) at the end. 
 
424 
 
 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 through the city, as down toppled many a roof and pillar!— 
 the lightning, as if caught by the metal, lingered an instant on 
 the Imperial Statue—then shivered bronze and column! Down 
 fell the ruin, echoing along the street, and riving the solid 
 pavement where it crashed!—The prophecy of the stars was 
 fulfilled! 
 
 The sound—the shock, stunned the Athenian for several 
 moments. When he recovered, the light still illumined the 
 scene—the earth still slid and trembled beneath! lone lay 
 senseless on the ground; but he saw her not yet—his eyes 
 were fixed upon a ghastly face that seemed to emerge, without 
 limbs or trunk, from the huge fragments of the shattered 
 column—a face of unutterable pain, agony, and despair! The 
 eyes shut and opened rapidly, as if sense were not yet fled; 
 the lips quivered and grinned—then sudden stillness and dark¬ 
 ness fell over the features, yet retaining that aspect of horror 
 never to be forgotten! 
 
 So perished the wise Magician—the great Arbaces—the 
 Hermes of the Burning Belt—the last of the royalty of Egypt! 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 The Despair of the Lovers.—The Condition of the Multitude. 
 
 GlAUCUS turned in gratitude but in awe, caught lone once 
 more in his arms, and fled along the street, that was yet in¬ 
 tensely luminous. But suddenly a duller shade fell over the 
 air. Instinctively he turned to the mountain, and behold! one 
 of the two gigantic crests, into which the summit had been 
 divided, rocked and wavered to and fro; and then, with a 
 sound, the mightiness of which no language can describe, it 
 fell from its burning base, and rushed, an avalanche of fire, 
 down the sides of the mountain! At the same instant gushed 
 forth a volume of blackest smoke—rolling on, over air, sea, 
 and earth. 
 
 Another—and another—and another shower of ashes far 
 more profuse than before, scattered fresh desolation along the 
 streets. Darkness once more wrapped them as a veil; and 
 Glaucus, his bold heart at last quelled and despairing, sank 
 
'f 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 425 
 
 beneath the cover of an arch, and, clasping lone to his heart— 
 a bride on that couch of ruin—resigned himself to die. 
 
 Meanwhile Nydia, when separated by the throng from 
 Glaucus and lone, had in vain endeavoured to regain them. 
 In vain she raised that plaintive cry so peculiar to the blind; 
 it was lost amidst a thousand shrieks of more selfish terror. 
 Again and again she returned to the spot where they had been 
 divided—to find her companions gone, to seize every fugitive 
 —to inquire of Glaucus—to be dashed aside in the impatience 
 of distraction. Who in that hour spared one thought to his 
 neighbour? Perhaps in scenes of universal horror, nothing is 
 more horrid than the unnatural selfishness they engender. At 
 length it occurred to Nydia, that as it had been resolved to 
 seek the sea-shore for escape, her most probable chance of 
 rejoining her companions would be to persevere in that direc¬ 
 tion. Guiding her steps, then, by the staff which she always 
 carried, she continued, with incredible dexterity, to avoid the 
 masses of ruin that encumbered the path—to thread the streets 
 —and unerringly (so blessed now was that accustomed dark¬ 
 ness, so afflicting in ordinary life!) to take the nearest direc¬ 
 tion to the sea-side. 
 
 Poor girl!—her courage was beautiful to behold!—and Fate 
 seemed to favour one so helpless! The boiling torrents 
 touched her not, save by the general rain which accompanied 
 them; the huge fragments of scoria shivered the pavement 
 before and beside her, but spared that frail form: and when 
 the lesser ashes fell over her, she shook them away with a 
 slight tremor,* and dauntlessly resumed her course. 
 
 Weak, exposed, yet fearless, supported but by one wish, 
 she was a very emblem of Psyche in her wanderings; of Hope, 
 walking through the Valley of the Shadow; of the Soul itself 
 —lone but undaunted, amidst the dangers and the snares 
 of life! 
 
 Her path was, however, constantly impeded by the crowds 
 that now groped amidst the gloom, now fled in the temporary 
 
 * “ A heavy shower of ashes rained upon us, which every now and then we 
 were obliged to shake off, otherwise we should have been crushed and buried in 
 the heap.”— Pliny. 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 426 
 
 glare of the lightnings across the scene; and, at length, a group 
 of torch-bearers rushing full against her, she was thrown down 
 with some violence. 
 
 “What!” said the voice of one of the party, “is this the 
 brave blind girl! By Bacchus, she must not be left here to die! 
 Up! my Thessalian! So—so. Are you hurt? That’s well! 
 Come along with us! we are for the shore! ” 
 
 “O Sallust! it is thy voice! The gods be thanked! Glaucus! 
 Glaucus! have ye seen him?” 
 
 “ Not I. He is doubtless out of the city by this time. The 
 gods who saved him from the lion will save him from the 
 burning mountain.” 
 
 As the kindly epicure thus encouraged Nydia, he drew her 
 along with him towards the sea, heeding not her passionate 
 entreaties that he would linger yet awhile to search for 
 Glaucus; and still, in the accent of despair, she continued to 
 shriek out that beloved name, which, amidst all the roar of the 
 convulsed elements, kept alive a music at her heart. 
 
 The sudden illumination, the bursts of the floods of lava, 
 and the earthquake, which we have already described, chanced 
 when Sallust and his party had just gained the direct path 
 leading from the city to the port; and here they were arrested 
 by an immense crowd, more than half the population of the 
 city. They spread along the field without the walls, thousands 
 upon thousands, uncertain whither to fly. The sea had retired 
 far from the shore; and they who had fled to it had been so 
 terrified by the agitation and preternatural shrinking of the 
 element, the gasping forms of the uncouth sea things which 
 the waves had left upon the sand, and by the sound of the 
 huge stones cast from the mountain into the deep, that they 
 had returned again to the land, as presenting the less frightful 
 aspect of the two. Thus the two streams of human beings, 
 the one seaward, the other from the sea, had met together, 
 feeling a sad comfort in numbers; arrested in despair and 
 doubt. 
 
 “The world is to be destroyed by fire,” said an old man in 
 long loose robes, a philosopher of the Stoic school: “Stoic 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 427 
 
 and Epicurean wisdom have alike agreed in this prediction; 
 and the hour is come!” 
 
 “Yea; the hour is come!” cried a loud voice, solemn but 
 not fearful. 
 
 Those around turned in dismay. The voice came from 
 above them. It was the voice of Olinthus, who, surrounded 
 by his Christian friends, stood upon an abrupt eminence on 
 which the old Greek colonists had raised a temple to Apollo, 
 now timeworn and half in ruin. 
 
 As he spoke, there came that sudden illumination which 
 had heralded the death of Arbaces, and glowing over that 
 mighty multitude, awed, crouching, breathless—never on earth 
 had the faces of men seemed so haggard!—never had meeting 
 of mortal beings been so stamped with the horror and sublimity 
 of dread!—never till the last trumpet sounds, shall such meet¬ 
 ing be seen again! And above those the form of Olinthus, 
 with outstretched arm and prophet brow, girt with the living 
 fires. And the crowd knew the face of him they had doomed 
 to the fangs of the beast —then their victim —now their warner; 
 and through the stillness again came his ominous voice— 
 
 “The hour is come!” 
 
 The Christians repeated the cry. It was caught up—it was 
 echoed from side to side—woman and man, childhood and old 
 age, repeated, not aloud, but in a smothered and dreary 
 murmur— 
 
 “The hour is come!” 
 
 At that moment, a wild yell burst through the air;—and, 
 thinking only of escape, whither it knew not, the terrible tiger 
 of the desert leaped amongst the throng, and hurried through 
 its parted streams. And so came the earthquake,—and so 
 darkness once more fell over the earth! 
 
 And now new fugitives arrived. Grasping the treasures 
 no longer destined for their lord, the slaves of Arbaces joined 
 the throng. One only of all their torches yet flickered on. It 
 was borne by Sosia; and its light falling on the face of Nydia, 
 he recognised the Thessalian. 
 
 “What avails thy liberty now, blind girl?” said the slave. 
 
 “Who art thou? canst thou tell me of Glaucus?” 
 
428 
 
 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 “Ay; I saw him but a few minutes since.” 
 
 “Blessed be thy head! where?” 
 
 “Couched beneath the arch of the forum—dead or dying! 
 —gone to rejoin Arbaces, who is no more!” 
 
 Nydia uttered not a word, she slid from the side of Sallust; 
 silently she glided through those behind her, and retraced her 
 steps to the city. She gained the forum— the arch; she 
 stooped down—she felt around—she called on the name of 
 Glaucus. 
 
 A weak voice answered—“Who calls on me? Is it the voice 
 of the Shades? Lo! I am prepared!” 
 
 “Arise! follow me! Take my hand! Glaucus, thou shalt 
 be saved!” 
 
 In wonder and sudden hope, Glaucus arose—“Nydia still? 
 Ah! thou, then, art safe!” 
 
 The tender joy of his voice pierced the heart of the poor 
 Thessalian, and she blessed him for his thought of her. 
 
 Half leading, half carrying lone, Glaucus followed his guide. 
 With admirable discretion, she avoided the path which led to 
 the crowd she had just quitted, and, by another route, sought 
 the shore. 
 
 After many pauses and incredible perseverance, they gained 
 the sea, and joined a group, who, bolder than the rest, resolved 
 to hazard any peril rather than continue in such a scene. In 
 darkness they put forth to sea; but, as they cleared the land 
 and caught new aspects of the mountain, its channels of 
 molten fire threw a partial redness over the waves. 
 
 Utterly exhausted and worn out, lone slept on the breast of 
 Glaucus, and Nydia lay at his feet. Meanwhile the showers of 
 dust and ashes, still borne aloft, fell into the wave, and scat¬ 
 tered their snows over the deck. Far and wide, borne by the 
 winds, those showers descended upon the remotest climes, 
 startling even the swarthy African; and whirled along the an¬ 
 tique soil of Syria and of Egypt.* 
 
 * Dion Cassius. 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 429 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 The next Morning.—The Fate of Nydia. 
 
 And meekly, softly, beautifully, dawned at last the light 
 over the trembling deed!—the winds were sinking into rest— 
 the foam died from the glowing azure of that delicious sea. 
 Around the east, thin mists caught gradually the rosy hues 
 that heralded the morning; Light was about to resume her 
 reign. Yet, still, dark and massive in the distance, lay the 
 broken fragments of the destroying cloud, from which red 
 streaks, burning dimlier and more dim, betrayed the yet roll¬ 
 ing fires of the mountain of the “Scorched Fields.” The 
 white walls and gleaming columns that had adorned the lovely 
 coasts were no more. Sullen and dull were the shores so 
 lately crested by the cities of Herculaneum und Pompeii. The 
 darlings of the Deep were snatched from her embrace! Cen¬ 
 tury after century shall the mighty Mother stretch forth her 
 azure arms, and know them not—moaning round the sepulchres 
 of the Lost! 
 
 There was no shout from the mariners at the dawning light 
 r— it had come too gradually, and they were too wearied for 
 such sudden bursts of joy—but there was a low, deep murmur 
 of thankfulness amidst those watchers of the long night. They 
 looked at each other and smiled—they took heart—they felt 
 once more that there was a world around, and a God above 
 them! And in the feeling that the worst was passed, the over¬ 
 wearied ones turned round, and fell placidly to sleep. In the 
 growing light of the skies there came the silence which night 
 had wanted: and the bark drifted calmly onward to its port. 
 A few other vessels, bearing similar fugitives, might be seen 
 in the expanse, apparently motionless, yet gliding also on. 
 There was a sense of security, or companionship, and of hope, 
 in the sight of their slender masts and white sails. What be¬ 
 loved friends, lost and missed in the gloom, might they not 
 bear to safety and to shelter! 
 
 In the silence of the general sleep, Nydia rose gently. She 
 bent over the face of Glaucus—she inhaled the deep breath of 
 
430 
 
 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 his heavy slumber,—timidly and sadly she kissed his brow— 
 his lips; she felt for his hand—it was locked in that of lone; 
 she sighed deeply, and her face darkened. Again she kissed 
 his brow, and with her hair wiped from it the damps of night. 
 “May the gods bless you, Athenian!” she murmured: “may 
 you be happy with your beloved one!—may you sometimes 
 remember Nydia! Alas! she is of no further use on earth! ” 
 
 With these words she turned away. Slowly she crept along 
 by the fori, or platforms, to the farther side of the vessel, and, 
 pausing, bent low over the deep; the cool spray dashed up¬ 
 ward on her feverish brow. “ It is the kiss of death,” she said 
 —“it is welcome.” The balmy air played through her waving 
 tresses—she put them from her face, and raised those eyes— 
 so tender, though so lightless—to the sky, whose soft face she 
 had never seen! 
 
 “No, no!” she said, half aloud, and in a musing and 
 thoughtful tone, “I cannot endure it; this jealous, exacting 
 love—it shatters my whole soul in madness! I might harm 
 him again—wretch that I was! I have saved him—twice saved 
 him—happy, happy thought:—why not die happy?—it is the 
 last glad thought I can ever know. Oh! sacred Sea! I hear 
 thy voice invitingly—it hath a freshening and joyous call. 
 They say that in thy embrace is dishonour—that thy victims 
 cross not the fatal Styx—be it so!—I would not meet him in the 
 Shades, for I should meet him still with her! Rest—rest—rest! 
 —there is no other Elysium for a heart like mine!” 
 
 A sailor, half dozing on the deck, heard a slight splash on 
 the waters. Drowsily he looked up, and behind, as the vessel 
 merrily bounded on, he fancied he saw something white above 
 the waves; but it vanished in an instant. He turned round 
 again, and dreamed of his home and children. 
 
 When the lovers awoke, their first thought was of each 
 other—their next of Nydia! She was not to be found—none 
 had seen her since the night. Every crevice of the vessel was 
 searched—there was no trace of her. Mysterious from first to 
 last, the blind Thessalian had vanished for ever from the living 
 world! They guessed her fate in silence: andGlaucus and lone, 
 while they drew nearer to each other (feeling each other the 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 431 
 
 world itself) forgot their deliverance, and wept as for a de¬ 
 parted sister. 
 
 CHAPTER THE LAST. 
 
 Wherein all Things cease. 
 
 Letter from Glaucus to Sallust, ten years after the destruction of Pompeii. 
 
 Athens. 
 
 “ Glaucus to his beloved Sallust—greeting and health!— 
 You request me to visit you at Rome—no, Sallust, come rather 
 to me at Athens! I have forsworn the Imperial City, its mighty 
 tumult and hollow joys. In my own land henceforth I dwell 
 for ever. The ghost of our departed greatness is dearer to 
 me than the gaudy life of your loud prosperity. There is a 
 charm to me which no other spot can supply, in the porticoes 
 hallowed still by holy and venerable shades. In the olive- 
 groves of Ilissus I still hear the voice of poetry—on the heights 
 of Phyle, the clouds of twilight seem yet the shrouds of de¬ 
 parted freedom—the heralds—the heralds—of the morrow 
 that shall come! You smile at my enthusiasm, Sallust!—better 
 be hopeful in chains than resigned to their glitter. You tell 
 me you are sure that I cannot enjoy life in these melancholy 
 haunts of a fallen majesty. You dwell with rapture on the 
 Roman splendours, and the luxuries of the imperial court. My 
 Sallust— ‘non sum qualis eram > — I am not what I was! The 
 events of my life have sobered the bounding blood of my 
 youth. My health has never quite recovered its wonted elasti¬ 
 city ere it felt the pangs of disease, and languished in the 
 damps of a criminal's dungeon. My mind has never shaken 
 off the dark shadow of the Last Day of Pompeii—the horror 
 and the desolation of that awful ruin!—Our beloved, our re¬ 
 membered Nydia! I have reared a tomb to her shade, and I 
 see it every day from the window of my study. It keeps alive 
 in me a tender recollection—a not unpleasing sadness—which 
 are but a fitting homage to her fidelity, and the mysteriousness 
 of her early death. lone gathers the flowers, but my own hand 
 
432 
 
 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 wreathes them daily around the tomb. She was worthy of a 
 tomb in Athens! 
 
 “You speak of the growing sect of the Christians in Rome. 
 Sallust, to you I may confide my secret; I have pondered much 
 over that faith—I have adopted it. After the destruction of 
 Pompeii, I met once more with Olinthus—saved, alas! only for 
 a day, and falling afterwards a martyr to the indomitable 
 energy of his zeal. In my preservation from the lion and the 
 earthquake he taught me to behold the hand of the unknown 
 God! I listened—believed—adored! My own, my more than 
 ever beloved lone, has also embraced the creed!—a creed, 
 Sallust, which, shedding light over this world, gathers its con¬ 
 centrated glory, like a sunset, over the next! We know that 
 we are united in the soul, as in the flesh, for ever and for ever! 
 Ages may roll on, our very dust be dissolved, the earth 
 shrivelled like a scroll; but round and round the circle of 
 eternity rolls the wheel of life—imperishable—unceasing! And 
 as the earth from the sun, so immortality drinks happiness 
 from virtue, which is the smile upon the face of God! Visit 
 me, then, Sallust; bring with you the learned scrolls of Epicu¬ 
 rus, Pythagoras, Diogenes; arm yourself for defeat; and let 
 us, amidst the groves of Academus, dispute, under a surer 
 guide than any granted to our fathers, on the mighty problem 
 of the true ends of life and the nature of the soul. 
 
 “lone—at that name my heart yet beats!—lone is by my 
 side as I write: I lift my eyes, and meet her smile. The sun¬ 
 light quivers over Hymettus: and along my garden I hear the 
 hum of the summer bees. Am I happy, ask you? Oh, what 
 can Rome give me equal to what I possess at Athens? Here, 
 everything awakens the soul and inspires the affections—the 
 trees, the waters, the hills, the skies, are those of Athens!—fair, 
 though mourning—mother of the Poetry and the Wisdom of the 
 World. In my hall I see the marble faces of my ancestors. In 
 the Ceramicus, I survey their tombs! In the streets, I behold 
 the hand of Phidias and the soul of Pericles. Harmodius, 
 Aristogiton— they are everywhere—but in our hearts!—in 
 mine , at least, they shall not perish! If anything can make me 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 433 
 
 forget that I am an Athenian and not free, it is partly the 
 soothing—the love—watchful, vivid, sleepless—of lone:—a 
 love that has taken a new sentiment in our new creed*—a love 
 which none of our poets, beautiful though they be, had 
 shadowed forth in description; for mingled with religion, it 
 partakes of religion; it is blended with pure and unworldly 
 thoughts; it is that which we may hope to carry through 
 eternity, and keep, therefore, white and unsullied, that we may 
 not blush to confess it to our God! This is the true type of 
 the dark fable of our Grecian Eros and Psyche—it is, in truth, 
 the soul asleep in the arms of love. And if this, our love, 
 support me partly against the fever of the desire for freedom, 
 my religion supports me more; for whenever I would grasp the 
 sword and sound the shell, and rush to a new Marathon (but 
 Marathon without victory), I feel my despair at the chilling 
 thought of my country’s impotence—the crushing weight of the 
 Roman yoke, comforted, at least, by the thought that earth is 
 but the beginning of life—that the glory of a few years matters 
 little in the vast space of eternity—that there is no perfect 
 freedom till the chains of clay fall from the soul, and all space, 
 all time, become its heritage and domain. Yet, Sallust, some 
 mixture of the soft Greek blood still mingles with my faith. I 
 can share not the zeal of those who see crime and eternal 
 wrath in men who cannot believe as they. I shudder not at 
 the creed of others. I dare not curse them—I pray the Great 
 Father to convert. This lukewarmness exposes me to some 
 suspicion amongst the Christians: but I forgive it; and, not 
 offending openly the prejudices of the crowd, I am thus enabled 
 to protect my brethren from the danger of the law, and the 
 consequences of their own zeal. If moderation seem to me 
 the natural creature of benevolence, it gives, also, the greatest 
 scope to beneficence. 
 
 “Such, then, O Sallust! is my life—such my opinions. In 
 this manner I greet existence and await death. And thou, 
 
 glad-hearted and kindly pupil of Epicurus, thou-But come 
 
 hither, and see what enjoyments, what hopes are ours—and 
 not the splendour of imperial banquets, nor the shouts of the 
 
 * See note (3) at the end. 
 
 Pompeii . 
 
 28 
 
434 
 
 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII, 
 
 crowded circus, nor the noisy forum, nor the glittering theatre, 
 nor the luxuriant gardens, nor the voluptuous baths of Rome, 
 —shall seem to thee to constitute a life of more vivid and un¬ 
 interrupted happiness than that which thou so unreasonably 
 pitiest as the career of Glaucus the Athenian!—Farewell!” 
 
 * * * * * * 
 ****** 
 
 Nearly Seventeen Centuries had rolled away when the City 
 of Pompeii was disinterred from its silent tomb, * all vivid with 
 undimmed hues; its walls fresh as if painted yesterday,—not 
 a hue faded on the rich mosaic of its floors, — in its forum the- 
 half-finished columns as left by the workman’s hand,—in its 
 gardens the sacrificial tripod,—in its halls the chest of trea¬ 
 sure,— in its baths the strigil,—in its theatres the counter of 
 admission,—in its saloons the furniture and the lamp,—in its 
 triclinia the fragments of the last feast,—in its cubicula the 
 perfumes and the rouge of faded beauty,—and everywhere the 
 bones and skeletons of those who once moved the springs of 
 that minute yet gorgeous machine of luxury and of life!** 
 
 In the house of Diomed, in the subterranean vaults, twenty 
 skeletons (one of a babe) were discovered in one spot by the 
 door, covered by a fine ashen dust, that had evidently been 
 wafted slowly through the apertures, until it had filled the 
 whole space. There were jewels and coins, candelabra for un¬ 
 availing light, and wine hardened in the amphorae for a pro¬ 
 longation of agonised life. The sand, consolidated by damps, 
 had taken the forms of the skeletons as in a cast; and the 
 traveller may yet see the impression of a female neck and 
 bosom of young and round proportions—the trace of the fated 
 Julia! It seems to the inquirer as if the air had been gradually 
 changed into a sulphurous vapour; the inmates of the vaults 
 had rushed to the door, to find it closed and blocked up by 
 the scoria without, and in their attempts to force it, had been 
 suffocated with the atmosphere. 
 
 In the garden was found a skeleton with a key by its bony 
 hand, and near it a bag of coins. This is believed to have 
 
 * Destroyed a . d . 79; first discovered a . d . 1750. 
 
 ** See note ( c ) at the end. 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 435 
 
 been the master of the house—the unfortunate Diomed, who 
 had probably sought to escape by the garden, and been 
 destroyed either by the vapours or some fragment of stone. 
 Beside some silver vases lay another skeleton, probably of a 
 slave. 
 
 The houses of Sallust and of Pansa, the Temple of Isis, 
 with the juggling concealments behind the statues—the lurk¬ 
 ing place of its holy oracles,—are now bared to the gaze of the 
 curious. In one of the chambers of that temple was found a 
 huge skeleton with an axe beside it: two walls had been 
 pierced by the axe—the victim could penetrate no farther. In 
 the midst of the city was found another skeleton, by the side 
 of which was a heap of coins, and many of the mystic orna¬ 
 ments of the fane of Is4s. Death had fallen upon him in his 
 avarice, and Calenus perished simultaneously with Burbo! As 
 the excavators cleared on through the mass of ruin, they found 
 the skeleton of a man literally severed in two by a prostrate 
 column; the skull was of so striking a conformation, so boldly 
 marked in its intellectual, as well as its worse physical develop¬ 
 ments, that it has excited the constant speculation of every 
 itinerant believer in the theories of Spurzheim who has gazed 
 upon that ruined palace of the mind. Still, after the lapse of 
 ages, the traveller may survey that airy hall within whose cun¬ 
 ning galleries and elaborate chambers once thought, reasoned, 
 dreamed, and sinned, the soul of Arbaces the Egyptian. 
 
 Viewing the various witnesses of a social system which has 
 passed from the world for ever—a stranger, from that remote 
 and barbarian Isle which the Imperial Roman shivered when 
 he named, paused amidst the delights of the soft Campania 
 and composed this history! 
 
 28 * 
 
NOTES. 
 
 NOTES TO BOOK I. 
 
 {a) p. 4.—“ Flowers more alluring to the ancient Italians than to 
 their descendants, ” &c. 
 
 The modern Italians, especially those of the more southern parts 
 of Italy, have a peculiar horror of perfumes; they consider them re¬ 
 markably unwholesome; and the Roman or Neapolitan lady requests 
 her visitors not to use them. What is very strange, the nostril so sus¬ 
 ceptible of a perfume is wonderfully obtuse to its reverse. You may 
 literally call Rome, “ Sentina Gentium ”—the sink of nations. 
 
 (1 b ) p. 24.—“The sixth banqueter, who was the umbra of Clodius.” 
 
 A very curious and interesting treatise might be written on the 
 parasites of Greece and Rome. In the former, they were more de¬ 
 graded than in the latter country. The “Epistles” of Alciphron ex¬ 
 press, in a lively manner, the insults which they underwent for the 
 sake of a dinner: one man complains that fish-sauce was thrown into 
 his eyes—that he was beat on the head, and given to eat stones 
 smeared with honey; while a courtesan threw at him a bladder filled 
 with blood, which burst on his face and covered him with the stream. 
 The manner in which these parasites repaid the hospitality of their 
 hosts was, like that of modem diners-out, by witty jokes and amusing 
 stories; sometimes they indulged practical jokes on each other, “box¬ 
 ing one another’s ears. ” The magistrates at Athens appear to have 
 looked very sternly upon these humble buffoons, and they complain of 
 stripes and a prison with no philosophical resignation. In fact, the 
 parasite seems at Athens to have answered the purpose of the fool of 
 the middle ages; but he was far more worthless and perhaps more 
 witty—the associate of courtesans, uniting the pimp with the buffoon. 
 
NOTES. 
 
 437 
 
 This is a character peculiar to Greece. The Latin comic writers make 
 indeed prodigal use of the parasite; yet he appears at Rome to have 
 held a somewhat higher rank, and to have met with a somewhat milder 
 treatment, than at Athens. Nor do the delineations of Terence, 
 which, in portraying Athenian manners, probably soften down what¬ 
 ever would have been exaggerated to a Roman audience, present so 
 degraded or so abandoned a character as the parasite of Alciphron and 
 Athenseus. The more haughty and fastidious Romans often disdained 
 indeed to admit such buffoons as companions, and hired (as we may 
 note in Pliny’s “Epistles”) fools or mountebanks, to entertain their 
 guests and supply the place of the Grecian parasite. When (be it ob¬ 
 served) Clodius is styled parasite in the text, the reader must take the 
 modem, not the ancient interpretation of the word. 
 
 A very feeble, but very flattering reflex of the parasite was the 
 umbra or shadow, who accompanied any invited guest, and who was 
 sometimes a man of equal consequence, though usually a poor relative, 
 or an humble friend—in modern cant, “a toady.” Such is the umbra 
 of our friend Clodius. 
 
 (c) p. 27. — “The dice in summer, and I am aedile!” 
 
 All games of chance were forbidden by law (“ Vetita legibus alea.” 
 — Horat. Od.XX IV. 1, 3), except “in Saturnalibus,” during the month 
 of December: the sediles were charged with enforcing this law, which, 
 like all laws against gaming, in all times, was wholly ineffectual. 
 
 {d) p. 34. — “The small but graceful temple consecrated to Isis.” 
 
 Sylla is said to have transported to Italy the worship of the Egyp¬ 
 tian Isis.* It soon became “the rage,” and was peculiarly in vogue 
 with the Roman ladies. Its priesthood were sworn to chastity, and, 
 like all such brotherhoods, were noted for their licentiousness. Juvenal 
 styles the priestesses by a name (Isiacse lense) that denotes how con¬ 
 venient they were to lovers, and under the mantle of night many an 
 amorous intrigue was carried on in the purlieus of the sacred temples. 
 A lady vowed for so many nights to watch by the shrine of Isis;—it 
 was a sacrifice of continence towards her husband, to be bestowed on 
 her lover! While one passion of human nature was thus appealed to, 
 another scarcely less strong was also pressed into the service of the 
 goddess—namely, Credulity. The priests of Isis arrogated a know- 
 
 * In the Campanian cities the trade with Alexandria was probably more effica¬ 
 cious than the piety of Sylla (no very popular example, perhaps) in establishing 
 the worship of the favourite deity of Egypt. 
 
438 
 
 NOTES. 
 
 ledge of magic and of the future. Among women of all classes—and 
 among many of the harder sex—the Egyptian sorceries were consulted 
 and revered as oracles. Voltaire, with much plausible ingenuity, 
 endeavours to prove that the gipsies are a remnant of the ancient 
 priests and priestesses of Isis, intermixed with those of the goddess of 
 Syria. In the time of Apuleius these holy impostors had lost their 
 dignity and importance; despised and poor, they wandered from place 
 to place selling prophecies and curing disorders; and Voltaire shrewdly 
 bids us remark that Apuleius has not forgot their peculiar skill in 
 filching from outhouses and courtyards—afterwards they practised 
 palmistry and singular dances (query, the Bohemian dances?). ‘ ‘ Such, ” 
 says the too-conclusive Frenchman, “such has been the end of the 
 ancient religion of Isis and Osiris, whose very names still impress us 
 with awe! ” At the time in which my story is cast, the worship of 
 Isis was, however, in the highest repute; and the wealthy devotees 
 sent even to the Nile, that they might sprinkle its mysterious waters 
 over the altars of the goddess. I have introduced the ibis in the sketch 
 of the temple of Isis, although it has been supposed that that bird 
 languished and died when taken from Egypt. But from various rea¬ 
 sons, too long now to enumerate, I incline to believe that the ibis was 
 by no means unfrequent in the Italian temples of Isis, though it rarely 
 lived long, and refused to breed in a foreign climate. 
 
 NOTE TO BOOK II. 
 
 (a) p. 141.—“The marvels of Faustus are not comparable to those 
 of Apollonius.” 
 
 During the earlier ages of the Christian epoch, the heathen philo¬ 
 sophy, especially of Pythagoras and of Plato, had become debased and 
 adulterated, not only by the wildest mysticism, but the most chimerical 
 dreams of magic. Pythagoras, indeed, scarcely merited a nobler 
 destiny; for though he was an exceedingly clever man, he was a most 
 prodigious mountebank, and was exactly formed to be the great father 
 of a school of magicians. Pythagoras himself either cultivated magic , 
 or arrogated its attributes, and his followers told marvellous tales of 
 his writing on the moon’s disc, and appearing in several places at once. 
 His golden rules and his golden thigh were in especial veneration in 
 Magna Grsecia, and out of his doctrines of occult numbers his followers 
 extracted numbers of doctrines. The most remarkable of the later 
 

 
 
 
 
 
NOTES. 
 
 439 
 
 impostors who succeeded him was Apollonius of Tyana, referred to in 
 the text. All sorts of prodigies accompanied the birth of this gentle¬ 
 man. Proteus, the Egyptian god, foretold to his mother, yet pregnant, 
 that it was he himself (Proteus) who was about to reappear in the world 
 through her agency. After this, Proteus might well be considered to 
 possess the power of transformation! Apollonius knew the language 
 of birds, read men’s thoughts in their bosoms, and walked about with 
 a familiar spirit. He was a devil of a fellow with a devil, and induced 
 a mob to stone a poor demon of venerable and mendicant appearance, 
 who, after the lapidary operation, changed into a huge dog. He 
 raised the dead, passed a night with Achilles, and, when Domitian 
 was murdered, he called out aloud (though at Ephesus at the moment), 
 “Strike the tyrant!” The end of so honest and great a man was 
 worthy his life. It would seem that he ascended into heaven. What 
 less could be expected of one who had stoned the devil! Should any 
 English writer meditate a new Faust, I recommend to him Apollonius. 
 
 But the magicians of this sort were philosophers (!)—excellent men 
 and pious; there were others of a far darker and deadlier knowledge, 
 the followers of the Goetic magic; in other words, the Black Art. 
 Both of these, the Goetic and the Theurgic, seem to be of Egyptian 
 origin; and it is evident, at least, that their practitioners appeared to 
 pride themselves on drawing their chief secrets from that ancient source; 
 and both are intimately connected with astrology. In attributing to 
 Arbaces the knowledge and the repute of magic, as well as that of the 
 science of the stars, ^ I am, therefore, perfectly in accordance with the 
 spirit of his time, and the circumstances of his birth. He is a cha¬ 
 racteristic of that age. At one time, I purposed to have developed 
 and detailed more than I have done the pretensions of Arbaces to the 
 mastery of his art, and to have initiated the reader into the various 
 sorceries of the period. But as the character of the Egyptian grew 
 upon me, I felt that it was necessary to be sparing of that machinery 
 which, thanks to the march of knowledge, every one now may fancy 
 he can detect. Such as he is, Arbaces is become too much of an in¬ 
 tellectual creation to demand a frequent repetition of the coarser and 
 more physical materials of terror. I suffered, him, then, merely to 
 demonstrate his capacities in the elementary and obvious secrets of his 
 craft, and leave the subtler magic he possesses to rest in mystery and 
 shadow. 
 
 As to the Witch of Vesuvius—her spells and her philtres, her 
 cavern and its appliances, however familiar to us of the North, are 
 faithful also to her time and nation. A witch of a lighter character, 
 and manners less ascetic, the learned reader will remember with delight 
 
440 
 
 NOTES. 
 
 in the “Golden Ass” of Apuleius; and the reader who is not learned, 
 is recommended to the spirited translation of that enchanting romance 
 by Taylor. 
 
 NOTE TO BOOK III. 
 
 (a) p. 158. — “The influence of the evil eye.” 
 
 This superstition, to which I have more than once alluded through¬ 
 out this work, still flourishes in Magna Grsecia, with scarcely diminished 
 vigour. I remember conversing at Naples with a lady of the highest 
 rank, and of intellect and information very uncommon amongst the 
 noble Italians of either sex, when I suddenly observed her change 
 colour, and make a rapid and singular motion with her finger. “My 
 God, that man!” she whispered, tremblingly. 
 
 “What man?” 
 
 “See! the Count-! he has just entered !” 
 
 “He ought to be much flattered to cause such emotion; doubtless 
 he has been one of the Signora’s admirers?” 
 
 “Admirer! Heaven forbid ! He has the evil eye ! His look fell 
 full upon me. Something dreadful will certainly happen.” 
 
 “I see nothing remarkable in his eyes.” 
 
 “So much the worse. The danger is greater for being disguised. 
 He is a terrible man. The last time he looked upon my husband, it 
 was at cards, and he lost half his income at a sitting; his ill-luck was 
 miraculous. The count met my little boy in the gardens, and the poor 
 child broke his arm that evening. Oh! what shall I do? something 
 dreadful will certainly happen—and, heavens! he is admiring my cap! ” 
 
 “Does every one find the eyes of the count equally fatal, and his 
 admiration equally exciting?” 
 
 “Every one—he is universally dreaded; and, what is very strange, 
 he is so angry if he sees you avoid him!” 
 
 “That is very strange indeed! the wretch!” 
 
 At Naples the superstition works well for the jewellers,—so many 
 charms and talismans as they sell for the ominous fascination of the 
 mal-occhiol In Pompeii, the talismans were equally numerous, but 
 not always of so elegant a shape, nor of so decorous a character. But, 
 generally speaking, a coral ornament was, as it now is, among the 
 favourite averters of the evil influence. The Thracians about Pontus 
 were supposed to have an hereditary claim to this charming attribute, 
 and could even kill grown-up men with a glance. As for Africa, 
 
NOTES. 
 
 441 
 
 •where the belief also still exists, certain families could not only destroy 
 children, but wither up trees—they did this, not with curses but praises. 
 The malus oculus was not always different from the eyes of other 
 people. But persons, especially of the fairer sex, with double pupils 
 to the organ, were above all to be shunned and dreaded. The Illyrians 
 were said to possess this fatal deformity. In all countries, even in the 
 North, the eye has ever been held the chief seat of fascination; but 
 now-a-days, ladies with a single pupil manage the work of destruction 
 pretty easily. So much do we improve upon our forefathers! 
 
 NOTE TO BOOK IV. 
 
 (a) p. 369. 
 
 “We care not for gods up above us,— 
 
 We know there’s no god for this earth, boys I ” 
 
 The doctrines of Epicurus himself are pure and simple. Far from 
 denying the existence of diviner powers, Velleius (the defender and 
 explainer of his philosophy in Cicero’s dialogue on the nature of the 
 gods) asserts “that Epicurus was the first who saw that there were 
 gods, from the impression which Nature herself makes on the minds 
 of all men. ”—He imagined the belief of the Deity to be an innate or 
 antecedent notion (ngohyipis) of the mind—a doctrine of which modem 
 metaphysicians (certainly not Epicureans) have largely availed them¬ 
 selves ! He believed that worship was due to the divine powers from 
 the veneration which felicity and excellence command, and not from 
 any dread of their vengeance, or awe of their power: a sublime and 
 fearless philosophy, suitable perhaps to half a dozen great and refined 
 spirits, but which would present no check to the passions of the mass 
 of mankind. According to him, the gods were far too agreeably em¬ 
 ployed, in contemplating their own happiness, to trouble their heads 
 about the sorrows and the joys, the quarrels and the cares, the petty 
 and transitory affairs, of man. For this earth they were unsympa¬ 
 thising abstractions: 
 
 “Wrapt up in majesty divine, 
 
 Can they regard on what we dine ? ” 
 
 Cotta, who, in the dialogue referred to, attacks the philosophy of 
 Epicurus with great pleasantry, and considerable, though not uniform, 
 success, draws the evident and practical corollary from the theory that 
 
442 
 
 NOTES. 
 
 asserts the non-interference of the gods. “How,” says he, “can there 
 he sanctity, if the gods regard not human affairs?—if the Deity show 
 no benevolence to man, let us dismiss him at once. Why should I 
 entreat him to be propitious? He cannot be propitious,—since, ac¬ 
 cording to you, favour and benevolence are only the effects of im¬ 
 becility. ” Cotta, indeed, quotes from Posidonius {De Naturd Deorum ), 
 to prove that Epicurus did not really believe in the existence of a God; 
 but that his concession of a being wholly nugatory was merely a pre¬ 
 caution against accusations of atheism. ‘ ‘ Epicurus could not be such 
 a fool,” says Cotta, “as sincerely to believe that a Deity has the 
 members of a man without the power to use them; a thin pellucidity, 
 regarding no one and doing nothing.” And, whether this be true or 
 false concerning Epicurus, it is certain that, to all effects and purposes, 
 his later disciples were but refining atheists. The sentiments uttered 
 in the song in the text are precisely those professed in sober prose by 
 the graceful philosophers of the Garden, who, as they had wholly per¬ 
 verted the morals of Epicurus, which are at once pure and practical, 
 found it a much easier task to corrupt his metaphysics, which are 
 equally dangerous and visionary. 
 
 NOTES TO BOOK V. 
 
 (a) p. 423.—“Rivers of the molten lava.” 
 
 Various theories as to the exact mode by which Pompeii was de¬ 
 stroyed have been invented by the ingenious; I have adopted that 
 which is the most generally received, and which, upon inspecting the 
 strata, appears the only one admissible by common sense; namely, a 
 destruction by showers of ashes, and boiling water, mingled with fre¬ 
 quent irruptions of large stones, and aided by partial convulsions of 
 the earth. Herculaneum, on the contrary, appears to have received 
 not only the showers of ashes, but also inundations from molten lava; 
 and the streams referred to in the text must be considered as destined 
 for that city rather than for Pompeii. The volcanic lightnings intro¬ 
 duced in my description were evidently among the engines of ruin at 
 Pompeii. Papyrus, and other of the more inflammable materials, are 
 found in a burnt state. Some substances in metal are partially melted; 
 and a bronze statue is completely shivered, as by lightning. Upon the 
 whole (excepting only the inevitable poetic license of shortening the 
 time which the destruction occupied), I believe my description of that 
 
NOTES. 443 
 
 awful event is very little assisted by invention, and will be found not 
 the less accurate for its appearance in a Romance. 
 
 (&) p. 433.— “A love that has taken a new sentiment in our new 
 creed. ” 
 
 What we now term, and feel to be, sentiment in love, was very 
 little known amongst the ancients, and at this day, is scarcely acknow¬ 
 ledged out of Christendom. It is a feeling intimately connected with 
 —not a belief, but a conviction , that the passion is of the soul, and, 
 like the soul, immortal. Chateaubriand, in that work so full both of 
 error and of truth, his essay on “The Genius of Christianity,” has 
 referred to this sentiment with his usual eloquence. It makes, indeed, 
 the great distinction between the amatory poetry of the modems and 
 that of the ancients. And I have thought that I might, with some 
 consonance to truth and nature, attribute the consciousness of this 
 sentiment to Glaucus after his conversion to Christianity, though he is 
 only able vaguely to guess at, rather than thoroughly to explain, its 
 cause. 
 
 (<r) p. 434. —“And everywhere the bones and skeletons of those 
 who once moved the springs of that minute yet gorgeous machine of 
 luxury and of life! ” 
 
 At present (1834) there have been about three hundred and fifty or 
 four hundred skeletons discovered in Pompeii; but as a great part of 
 the city is yet to be disinterred, we can scarcely calculate the number of 
 those who perished in the destruction. Still, however, we have every 
 reason to conclude that they were very few in proportion to those who 
 escaped. The ashes had been evidently cleared away from many of 
 the houses, no doubt for the purpose of recovering whatever treasures 
 had been left behind. The mansion of our friend Sallust is one of 
 those thus revisited. The skeletons which, re-animated for a while, 
 the reader has seen play their brief parts upon the stage, under the 
 names of Burbo, Calenus, Diomed, Julia, and Arbaces, were found 
 exactly as described in the text:—may they have been re-animated 
 more successfully for the pleasure of the reader than they have been 
 for the solace of the author, who has vainly endeavoured, in the work 
 which he now concludes, to beguile the most painful, gloomy, and 
 despondent period of a life, in the web of which has been woven less 
 of white than the world may deem! But like most other friends, the 
 Imagination is capricious, and forsakes us often at the moment in 
 which we most need its aid. As we grow older, we begin to learn 
 that, of the two, our more faithful and stedfast comforter is—Custom. 
 
444 
 
 NOTES# 
 
 But I should apologise for this sudden and unseasonable indulgence 
 of a momentary weakness—it is but for a moment. With returning 
 health returns also that energy without which the soul were given us 
 in vain, and which enables us calmly to face the evils of our being, 
 and resolutely to fulfil its objects. There is but one philosophy (though 
 there are a thousand schools), and its name is Fortitude. 
 
 “TO BEAR IS TO CONQUER OUR FATE !” 
 
 THE END. 
 
 PRINTING OFFICE OF THE PUBLISHER.