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TO SIR WILLIAM GELL, 
 
 ETC., KYO. 
 
 & Dzar Sir, —In publishing a work of which Pompeii 
 4 furnishes the subject, I can think of no one to whom it 
 ean so fitly be dedicated as yourself. Your charming . 
 © volumes upon the antiquities of that city have indissolu- ity 
 *% bly connected your name with its earlier (as your resi- 
 =. dence in the vicinity has identified you with its more. 
 recent) associations. me 
 Ere you receive these volumes, I hope to be deep in 
 the perusal of your forthcoming work upon “ the Topo- 
 graphy of Rome and its Vicinity.” The glance at its 
 contents which you permitted me at Naples sufficed to 
 convince me of its interest and value ; and as an English- 
 man, and as one who has loitered under the Portico, I 
 © rejoice to think that, in adding largely to your own repu- 
 tation, you will also renovate our country’s claim to emi- 
 > nence in those departments of learning in which of late 
 = years we have but feebly supported our ancient reputa- 
 tion. Venturing thus a prediction of the success of your 
 
 Chivers 
 
 ate f 
 
 \» work, it would be a little superfluous to express a wish 
 hie for the accomplishment of the prophecy. But I may 
 _ add a more general hope, that you will long have leisure 
 and inclination for those literary pursuits to which you 
 
 avi 
 + bvey 
 
 148900 
 
vl DEDICATORY EPISTLE, 
 
 bring an erudition so extensive, — and that they may con- 
 tinue, aS now, sometimes to beguile you from yourself, 
 and never to divert you from your friends. 
 I have the honor to be, 
 Dear Sir, 
 Very faithfully yours, 
 THE AUTHOR 
 
 Lzamincton, September 21. 1834. 
 
PREFACE TO THE EDITION OF 18084. 
 
 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 neighborhood 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 labored, 
 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 reani- 
 mate the bones which were yet spared to his survey, to 
 traverse the gulf of eighteen centuries, and to wake toa 
 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 neighborhood of Pompeii, — the sea that once 
 bore her commerce, 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 diffi- 
 - culties with which I had to contend. To paint the man- 
 ners, and exhibit the life of the Middle Ages, required 
 
 1 Nearly the whole of this work was written at Naples last win 
 ter (1832-33). 
 
Vill PREFACE TO THE EDITION OF 1834. 
 
 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. vith the men 
 and customs of the feudal time we have a natural sympa- 
 thy and bond of alliance; those men were our own 
 ancestors, —from those customsae received our own ; 
 the creed of our chivalric fathers is still ours ; their 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 civilization, present little that is 
 sacred or attractive to our Northern imaginations ; they 
 are rendered yet more trite to us by the scholastic pedan- 
 tries which first acquainted us with their nature, and are 
 linked with the recollection of studies which were imposed 
 as a labor, 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 he found to arouse the curiosity of the reader, 
 and enlist his interest in the descriptions of the author. 
 _ Jt was the first century of our religion ; it was the most 
 ~ civilized 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 endeavor has 
 been to select those which would be most attractive to a 
 
 _..modern reader: the customs and superstitions least unfa- 
 
 miliar to him, —the shadows that, when reanimated, 
 would present to him such images as, while they repre- 
 
‘PREFACE TO THE EDITION OF 1834. 1x 
 
 sented 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 attraction 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 
 éonduct 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 display, as that gorgeous city of the world, whose 
 grandeur could lend so bright an inspiration to fancy, — 
 so favorable 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 confined. 
 
 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 sum- 
 moned to the interest of my story, would only have 
 destroyed and overpowered 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 honor 
 of delineating the hollow but majestic civilization of 
 Rome. . - 
 
 The city whose fate supplied me with so superb and 
 awful a catastrophe supplied easily, from the first survey 
 
xX PREFACE TO THE EDITION OF 1834, 
 
 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 cos- 
 tumes of Hellas, suggested of itself the characters of 
 Glaucus and Ione. 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, — balled forth the Egyptian Arbaces, the base 
 Calenus, and the fervent Apecides, The early struggles 
 of Christianity with the heathen superstition suggested 
 the creation of Olinthus ; and the burned fields of Cam- 
 pania, long celebrated for the spells of the sorceress, 
 naturally produced the Saga of Vesuvius. For the exis- 
 tence of the Blind Girl, I am indebted to a casual conver- 
 sation with a gentleman 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 would be the most favored in 
 such a moment, and find the easiest deliverance. In this 
 remark originated the creation of N Vydia. 
 
 The characters, therefore, are the natural offspring of 
 the scene and time. The incidents of the tale are equally 
 consonant, perhaps, to the then existing society ; for it is 
 not only the ordinary habits of life, the feasts and the 
 forum, the baths and the amphitheatre, the commonplace 
 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. 
 
PREFACE TO THE EDITION OF 1834. xl 
 
 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 description ; 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 bring- 
 ing 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 fiction has now become, —! of its 
 dignity, of its influence, of the manner in which it has 
 gradually absorbed all similar departments of literature, | 
 of its power in teaching as well as amusing, — can so far 
 forget its connection with history, with philosophy, with 
 politics, its utter harmony with poetry and obedience 
 to truth, as to debase its nature to the level of scholas- 
 tic frivolities ; he raises scholarship to the creative, and 
 does not bow the creative to the scholastic. 
 
 With respect to the language used by the characters 
 introduced, 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.t Authors have mostly given to them the 
 
 1 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 
 
Xi PREFACE TO THE EDITION OF 1834. 
 
 stilted sentences, the cold and didactic solemnities of lan- 
 guage 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 
 
 to one who borrows from feudal antiquity. Let me avail myself of 
 the words I refer to, and humbly and reverently appropriate them 
 for the moment: “It is true that I neither can, nor do pretend, 
 to the observation [observance ?] of complete accuracy even in mat- 
 ters 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 Nor- 
 -man-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, Sastened ia 
 a cylinder, and adorned with a boss], prevents my attempting to con- 
 fine 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 liye 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 char- 
 acters 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 ficti. 
 tious composition. 
 
 ° . . ° ° . : . e 
 
 “It is true,” proceeds my authority, “that this license is con- 
 fined 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. 
 
PREFACE TO THE EDITION OF 1834. xiil 
 
 betrays in reality the ignorance of just criticism : it 
 fatigues, it wearies, it revolts, —and we have not the 
 satisfaction, in yawning, to think that we yawn eruditely. 
 To impart 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 thap the sudden and 
 hasty adoption of the toga. We must bring to our task 
 the familiarized 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 trans- 
 planted from a living soil, and not bought second-hand at 
 the nearest market-place. This advantage — 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 advantage 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 
 forgetfulness. And when, in works upon the manners of 
 the ancients, — works even of the gravest character, com- 
 posed by the profoundest scholars, —some such imper- 
 fections will often be discovered, even by a critic in 
 comparison but superficially informed, it would be far too 
 presumptuous in me to hope that I have been more for. 
 tunate 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 themselves 
 will be the most lenient of my judges. Enough if this 
 book, whatever its imperfections, should be found a por- 
 trait, — unskilful, perhaps, in coloring, faulty in drawing, 
 
XIV PREFACE TO THE EDITION OF 1834, 
 
 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 representa- 
 tion of the human passions and the human heart, whose 
 elements in all ages are the same! 
 
‘ 
 
 PREFACE TO THE EDITION OF 1850. 
 
 Tus work has had the good fortune to be so general a 
 favorite 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 inhabitants of Pompeii have been de- 
 scribed 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 colors 
 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 labors I would speak with the 
 highest respect, did not sufficiently remember, that in 
 works of imagination, the description of manners, how- 
 ever important as an accessory, must still be subordinate 
 to the vital elements of interest, — namely, plot, character, 
 -end-passion. And in reviving the ancient shadows, they 
 have rather sought occasion to display erudition, than to 
 show how the human heart beats the same, whether under 
 
 7, 
 y) a 
 4 Aerts 
 
xvl PREFACE TO THE EDITION OF 1850. 
 
 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 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 adven- 
 tures of knight-errantry are borrowed either from the 
 trials of Ulysses, or the achievements of Theseus. And 
 while Homer, yet unrestored 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 weave 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 surprises of inge- 
 nious 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 evenings, by the Sicilian 
 sea, 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEIL 
 
 BOOK L—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 Pollux, 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 pretends that wine make 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 amphore better than 
 his wit.” 
 
 ** An additional reason for supping with him while the 
 sesterces last. Next year, Diomed, we must find another 
 Glaucus.” | 
 
 1 
 
2 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEIL 
 
 “ He is fond of the dice too, I hear.” 
 
 ** He is fond of every pleasure ; and while he likes the 
 pleasure of giving suppers, we are all fond of him.” 
 
 “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 
 tolerable murzene * in my reservoir, and I will ask Pansa, 
 the edile, 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 questor; business of state, —afterwards to 
 the temple of Isis. Vale /” 
 
 “An ostentatious, bustling, ill-bred fellow,” muttered 
 Clodius to himself, as he sauntered slowly away. “He 
 thinks with his feasts and his wine-cellars to make us for- 
 get that he is the son of a freedman: and so we will, 
 when we do him the honor of winning his money ; these 
 rich plebeians are a harvest for us spendthrift nobles.” 
 
 Thus soliloquizing, Clodius arrived in the Via Domi- 
 tiana, which was crowded with passengers and chariots, 
 and exhibited all that gay and animated exuberance of 
 life and motion 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 haye you slept on your 
 good fortune?” cried, in a pleasant and musical voice, a 
 young man, in a chariot of the most fastidious and grace- 
 
 1 Murene -- lampreys. 
 
 % 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 3 
 
 ful fashion. Upon its surface of bronze were elaborately 
 wrought, in the still exquisite 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- 
 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 fibula, 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 exquisite 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 handkerchief 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 
 
4 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEIL 
 
 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 rene the baths; but it ents 
 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 low neigh and with backward ears playfully 
 acknowledged the courtesy ; “a holiday for you to-day. 
 Is he not handsome, Clodius?” 
 
 “Worthy of Phoebus,” returned the noble parasite, “or 
 of Glaucus.” 
 
cr 
 
 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 The blind Flower-Girl, and the Beauty of Fashion.— The Athe- 
 nian’s Confession. — The Reader’s Introduction to Arbaces of 
 
 Egypt. 
 
 TaLkine 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 colors of frescos inconceivably varied in 
 fancy and design. The sparkling fountains that at every 
 vista threw upwards their grateful 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, “ datet 
 anguis in herba,” a disease seems lurking in every violet 
 and rose};+the numerous haunts which fulfilled with that 
 idle people the office of cafés 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, pro- 
 tected 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 
 
 1 See note (a) at the end. 
 
6 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 give the Athenian spirit of Glaucus an excuse for its sus- 
 ceptibility to joy. 
 
 “Talk to me no more of Rome,” said he to Clodius. 
 “Pleasure is too stately and ponderous in those mighty 
 walls. Even in the precincts of the court, even in the 
 Golden House of Nero, and the incipient glories of the 
 palace of Titus, there is acertain 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 without 
 _ the lassitude of its pomp.” 
 
 “It was from that feeling that you chose your summer 
 retreat at Pompeii ?” 
 
 “It was. I prefer it to Baie; 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 
 dram.” 
 
 “Yet you are fond of the learned too; and as for 
 poetry, why your house is literally eloquent with Aischy- 
 lus 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 when- 
 ever 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 ele- 
 ments to be thus mixed together, — they must be enjoyed 
 separately ; the Romans lose both by this pragmatical 
 affectation of refinement, and prove that they have no 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 7 
 
 souls for either. Oh, my Clodius, how little your coun- 
 trymen 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 philosophical 
 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 noth- 
 ing incongruous in learning at the same time a ditty of 
 love and a description of the plague.” 
 
 “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 insen- 
 sate ear that the music pleased, whereas the book (the 
 description of the plague, mind you!) elevated the heart. 
 ‘Abe!’ quoth the fat uncle, wheezing, ‘my boy is quite 
 an Athenian, always mixing the wézle with the dulce.’ O 
 Minerva, how I laughed in my sleeve! While I was 
 there, they came to tell the boy-sophist that his favorite 
 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 hasa 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 sympathize 
 with his friend, partly because he was by nature a para- 
 _ site, and partly because it was the fashion among the dis- 
 solute young Romans to affect a little contempt for the 
 
8 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 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 porticos of a light and graceful temple 
 threw their shade, there stood a young girl, with a flower- 
 basket on her right arm, and a small, three-stringed 
 instrument of music in the left hand, to whose low and 
 soft tones she was modulating 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 song- 
 stress, — for she was blind. 
 
 “Tt is my poor Thessalian,” said Glaucus, stopping ; 
 “JT have not seen her since my return to Pompeii. 
 Hush! her voice is sweet; let us listen.” 
 
 e 
 THE BLIND FLOWER-GIRL’S SONG, 
 I. 
 
 Buy my flowers ; oh, 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! 
 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! 
 
 Sa eas Pe st ie Goo i oe 
 Ba Ri ne a IT PS An 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 On their lips her sweet kiss lingers yet, 
 And their cheeks with her tender tears are wet. 
 For she weeps — that gentle mother weeps 
 (As mérn 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! 
 
 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 ! 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 ¢ 
 We yearn for the eyes that see us, — 
 We are for night too gay, 
 In your eyes we behold the day : 
 
 Oh, buy — oh, buy the flowers!” 
 
10 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 ‘‘T must have yon bunch of violets, sweet Nydia,” said 
 Glaucus, pressing through the crowd, and dropping a 
 handful of small coins ee the basket ; “your voice is 
 more charming than ever.’ 
 
 The blind girl started forward as she heard the 
 Athenian’s voice, then as suddenly paused, while the 
 blood rushed violently over neck, cheek, and temples. 
 
 *“So you are returned!” said she, in a low voice, and 
 then 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 trust, to-morrow. And mind, no garlands at my 
 house shall be woven 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 gayly and carelessly from the crowd. 
 
 *‘ So, she isa 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’ 
 hill, — Olympus frowned upon her cradle; she is of 
 Thessaly.” 
 
 ‘The witches’ country.” 
 
 “True: but for my part I find every woman a witch ; 
 and at Pompeii, by Venus! the very air seems to have 
 taken a love-philtre, so handsome does every face without 
 a beard seem in my eyes.” 
 
 “And lo! one of the handsomest in Pompeii, old 
 Diomed’s daughter, the rich Julia!” said Clodius, as a 
 young lady, her face covered by her veil, and attended by 
 two female slaves, approached them in her WAY to the 
 baths. 
 
 “Fair Julia, we salute thee!” said Clodius. 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 11 
 
 Julia partly raised her veil, so as with some coquetry 
 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. 
 
 “ And Glaucus, too, is returned?” said she, glancing 
 meaningly 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 boldness; 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. s 
 
 They were now ina street less crowded than the rest, 
 at the end of which they beheld that broad and most 
 
12 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 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 Aphrodité 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 wan- 
 der from the 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 civilization of that 
 age. Within the narrow compass of its walls was con- 
 tained, 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 com- 
 mand of Pliny. Upon the shore sat a Sicilian, who, with 
 vehement gestures and flexile features, was narrating to a 
 group of fishermen and peasants a strange tale of ship- 
 
 - 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 13 
 
 wrecked mariners and friendly dolphins ; just as at this 
 day, in the modern neighborhood, 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. 
 
 “ 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 counterfeits of him.” 
 
 “The counterfeits are not bad little gods, upon the 
 whole,” answered Clodius. 
 
 “T agree with you,” returned the Greek. ‘TI adore 
 even the shadow of Love ; but I adore himself yet more.” 
 
 “ Art thou, then, soberly and earnestly 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.” 
 “J am not far gone enough for that,” returned Glaucus, 
 
 smiling; “or rather I say with Tibullus, — 
 
14 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 ‘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 occasion 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 doesnot affect to con- 
 ceal it ; and, by Hercules, 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 freedman, 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, 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 
 meltingly 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 
 
 1 Naples. 
 
 ai a i 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 15 
 
 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 mor- 
 tal 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, ‘Art thou not, too, 
 Athenian,’ said I, ‘O beautiful virgin?’ At the sound 
 of my voice, she blushed, and half drew her veil across 
 her face’; ‘My forefathers’ ashes,’ said she, ‘repose by 
 the waters of Ilyssus; my birth is of Neapolis, — but my 
 heart, as my lineage, is Athenian.’ —‘ Let us, then,’ said 
 I, ‘make our offerings together ;’ 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 gar- 
 lands 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 sympathies 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 resem- 
 - blance to her own, and who stood upon the steps of the 
 
16 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 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 threat- 
 ened me with litigation concerning my inheritance. When 
 ‘that suit was happily over, I repaired once more to 
 Neapolis; I instituted inquiries throughout the whole 
 city, I could discover no clew of my lost countrywoman ; 
 and hoping to lose in gayety 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 
 approached them, and at the sound it made amongst the 
 pebbles, each turned and each recognized 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 pre- 
 served 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 unalterably 
 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 
 garments added to the impressive effect of his quiet coun- 
 _ tenance 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 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. i 
 
 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.” 
 
 “Ts Nature ordinarily so unattractive?” asked the 
 Greek. 
 
 “To the dissipated, — yes.” | 
 
 “ An austere reply, but scarcely a wise one. Pleasure 
 delights 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 medi- 
 tation, 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 fervor from which 
 you only seek, in adoring her, a release. When, young 
 Athenian, the moon revealed herself in visions of light to 
 Endymion, it was after a day passed, not amongst the 
 feverish haunts of man, but on the still mountains and in 
 the solitary valleys of the hunter.” 
 
 “Beautiful simile!” cried Glaucus; “most unjust 
 application! 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 exclamation of Glaucus ; but after a pause, he 
 said, in a soft and melancholy voice, — 
 
 2 
 
18 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 “ 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 Egyptian ; ‘‘and in thy gayeties this night, thou wilt 
 be more mindful of Lezwna? than of Lais. Vale!” 
 
 Thus saying, he gathered his robe around him, and — 
 slowly swept away. 
 
 “T 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 Falernian.” . 
 
 “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 different tale.” 
 
 “Ah! there are whispers of other orgies than those of — 
 Osiris in his gloomy mansion. He is rich, too, they say. — 
 
 1 Leena, the heroic mistress of Aristogiton, when put to the tor- ‘ 
 ture bit out her tongue, that the pain might not induce her to be- © 
 tray the conspiracy against the sons of Pisistratus. The statue of — 
 a lioness, erected in her honor, was to be seen at Athens in the ~ 
 time of Pausanias. : 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 19 
 
 Can we not get him amongst us, and teach him the 
 charms of dice? Pleasure 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!” 
 
20 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 Parentage of Glaucus. — Description of the Houses of Pompeii. — 
 A Classic Revel. 
 
 wee 
 
 it had given him beauty, health, fortune, genius, ae 
 ous descent, a heart of fire, a mind of poetry, — but it had 
 denied him the heritage 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 gorgeous 
 luxuries of the imperial court. @ 
 
 He was an Alcibiades without ambition. He was what 
 a man of imagination, youth, fortune, and talents, readily 
 becomes 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 porticos and 
 exedra of an Athenian. His retreat in Pompeii, — alas! 
 the colors are faded now, the walls stripped of their paint- 
 ings; 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 
 schylus and Homer. And antiquaries, who resolve 
 
 ? 
 
+ a oe 
 a 4% ” 
 
 4 A 
 a 
 } 4 ~. ve SN" 
 
 yn 
 
 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEIL 21 
 
 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 dis- 
 buried house of the Athenian Glaucus, “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 man- 
 kind, have always puzzled antiquaries. We shall endeavor 
 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 devoted to the ladies of 
 the mansion ; and in the centre of the tessellated pave- 
 ment 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, 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 gods ; 
 the 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 
 
 a 
 
22 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEIL. 
 
 deposited a huge wooden chest, ornamented and strength- 
 ened 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 orna- 
 ment than use. 
 
 In this hall (or atriwm, to speak classically) the clients 
 and visitors of inferior rank were usually received. oln 
 the houses of the more “respectable,” an aérzensis, 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 (tablinwm), 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 ¢réclinium, 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, without passing the apart- 
 ments 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- 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 23 
 
 tive, was ordinarily appropriated to the purpose of a 
 garden, and adorned with vases of flowers, placed upon 
 pedestals ; while, under the colonnade, to the right and 
 left, were doors, admitting to bedrooms,! to a second 
 triclinvum, 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 ordi- 
 nary, 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 contain the few 
 rolls of papyrus which the ancients deemed a notable col- 
 lection of books. 
 
 At the end of the peristyle was generally the kitchen. 
 Supposing 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 bedrooms, and, perhaps, 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 wridariwm, or garden, being com- 
 monly 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 some- 
 times, if the size of the family required it, additional rooms. 
 
 At Pompeii, a second or third story was rarely of 
 importance, being built only above a small part of the 
 
 1 The Romans had bedrooms appropriated not only to the sleep 
 of night, but also to the day siesta (cubicula diurna). 
 
 2 In the stately palaces of Rome, this picture-room generally 
 -ommunicated with the atrium. 
 
 —— 
 
94 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 house, and containing rooms for the slaves, — differing in 
 this respect from the more magnificent edifices of Rome, 
 which generally contained the principal eating-room (or 
 cenaculum) on the second floor. The apartments them- 
 selves were ordinarily of small size ; for in those delight- 
 ful climes they received any extraordinary number of 
 visitors in the peristyle (or portico), the hall, or the gar- 
 den; and even their banquet-rooms, however 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 necessary 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 
 Pompeian houses, which resembled in some respects the 
 Grecian, but mostly the Roman fashion of domestic archi- 
 tecture. In almost every house there is some difference 
 in detail from the rest, but the principle outline is the 
 sameinall. 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 elegancies of life. The purity 
 of the taste of the Pompeians in decoration is, however, 
 questionable : they were fond of the gaudiest colors, of fan- 
 tastic designs ; they often painted the lower half of their 
 columns a bright red, leaving the rest uncolored; and — 
 
 1° When they entertained very large parties, the feast was usually : 
 served in the hall. 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 25 
 
 tinted to deceive the eye as to its extent, imitating trees, 
 birds, temples, etc., in perspective, —a meretricious delu- 
 sion 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 small- | 
 est 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 ccelibian purchasers of buhl _ 
 and marquetry. aN 
 
 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 “ Cayecanem,” — or “ Beware the dog.” On 
 either side is a chamber of some size; for the interior 
 part of the house not being large enough to contain the 
 two great divisions of private and public apartments, 
 these two rooms were set apart for the reception of visi- 
 tors who neither by rank nor familiarity were entitled to 
 admission in the pentralia of the mansion. 
 
 Advancing up the vestibule you enter an atrium that 
 when first discovered was rich in paintings, which in 
 point of expression would scarcely disgrace a Raphael. 
 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 vigor, 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 bedrooms, the walls 
 of which portrayed the rape of Europa, the battle of the 
 Amazons, etc. 
 
26 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 You now enter the tablinum, across which, at either 
 end, hung rich draperies of Tyrian purple, half with- 
 drawn.! 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 instruc- 
 tions given by the director of the stage to his comedians. 
 
 You passed through this saloon and entered the peri- 
 style ; 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 garlands ; the centre, supply- 
 ing 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 bronze tripod ; 
 to the left of the colonnade were two small cubicula, or 
 bedrooms; to the right was the triclinium, in which the 
 guests were now assembled. 
 
 This room is usually termed by the antiquaries of 
 Naples, “ The Chamber of Leda;” and in the beautiful 
 work of Sir William Gell, the reader will find an engrav- 
 ing 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 
 
 1 The tablinum was also secured at pleasure by sliding-doors. 
 
 2 The most valued wood,—not the modern citron-tree. My 
 learned friend, Mr. W. S. Landor, conjectures it with much plausi- 
 bility to have been mahogany. 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 27 
 
 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 yield- 
 ing luxuriously to the pressure. 
 
 “ Well, I must own,” said the edile Pansa, “that your 
 house, though scarcely larger than a case for one’s fibula, 
 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 sub- 
 jects,” said Clodius, 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 edile, who was celebrated through Pompeii for having | 
 the worst paintings in the world; for he was patriotic, 
 and patronized none but Pompeians. ‘“ You flatter me ; 
 but there is something pretty, — Aidepol, yes, in the 
 colors, 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 tro- 
 phies of his skill on the altar of Vesta, with a beautiful 
 murena (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 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 per- 
 
28 _ THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII, 
 
 fumed water, and napkins edged with a purple fringe. 
 But the edile ostentatiously drew forth his own napkin, ~ 
 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 
 reverentially 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 Pompeii!” 
 
 “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!” said Pansa. 
 “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. 29 
 
 “Tt 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. 
 
 “Tt 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 
 positively find some innocent or other to condemn to the 
 lion, Pansa!” 
 
 “Indeed I. have thought very seriously about it of 
 late,” replied the edile, gravely. “It _was a most infa- 
 mous 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, n, — 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 disappointment to the poor people! How they do love 
 to see a good, tough battle between a man and a lion; 
 and all this innocent 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, senten- 
 tiously, “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 amphi. ’’ 
 theatre for ten years.” . 
 
 “T wonder it did not create a rebellion,” said Sallust. 
 
 “It very nearly did,” returned Pansa, with his mouth 
 full of wild boar. 
 
 sled 
 
 l/ 
 
\) 
 30 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 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 like eating, — perhaps he had exhausted all the 
 others ; yet had he some talent, and an excellent heart, 
 —as far as it went. 
 
 “‘T know its face, by Pollux!” cried Pansa. “It is 
 an Ambracian kid. Ho!” snapping his fingers, —a 
 usual sign to the slaves, — ‘‘ we must prepare a new libation 
 in honor to the new-comer.” 
 
 “‘T had hoped,” said Glaucus, in a melancholy tone, 
 “to have procured you some oysters from Britain; but 
 the winds that were so cruel to Cesar 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 flavor ; 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!” 
 
 ““T wish they would produce us a gladiator,” said the 
 edile, whose provident mind was musing over the wants 
 of the amphitheatre. ‘ 
 
 “By Pallus!” cried Glaucus, as his favorite slave 
 crowned his streaming locks with a new chaplet, “I love 
 these wild spectacles 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 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 31 
 
 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 edile shrugged his shoulders. The young Sallust, 
 who was thought the best natured man in Pompeii, 
 stared in’ surprise. The graceful Lepidus, who rarely 
 spoke for fear of disturbing his features, ejaculated 
 “Hercle!” The parasite Clodius muttered “ Aidepol!” 
 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 parasite, — 
 muttered also ‘‘ Aidepol!” 
 
 “Well, you Italians are used to these spectacles ; we 
 Greeks 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 contend with a noble foe, so sad 
 to see him overcome! But ye understand 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 accomplishing the arduous feat amidst a 
 magnificent diapason. 
 
 “Your cook is, of course, from Sicily ?” said Pansa. 
 
 “Yes, of Syracuse.” 
 
 “T 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.” 
 
 1 See note (0) at the end. 
 
32 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 “My Phillida, — my beautiful dancing-girl !” 
 
 “T never buy women,” said the Greek, carelessly 
 rearranging his chaplet. 
 
 The musicians, who were stationed in the portico with- 
 out, had commenced their office with the kid; they now 
 directed the melody into a more soft, amore gay, yet it 
 may be a more intellectual strain ; and they chanted that 
 song of Horace beginning, “ Persicos odi,” ete., so impos- 
 sible 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 Spureena; and Caius Mutius, who wrote three 
 epics ina 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 notion ; but we moderns have fire 
 and passion and energy, — we never sleep, we imitate the 
 colors of painting, its life, and its action. Immortal 
 Fulvius !” 
 
 “ By the way,” said Sallust, “ have you seen the new 
 ode by Spurena, in honor of our Egyptian Isis? It is 
 magnificent, — the true religious fervor.” 
 
 “Tsis seems a favorite divinity at Pompeii,” said 
 Glaucus. | 
 
 “Yes!” said Pansa, ‘ she is exceedingly in repute just 
 at this moment; her statue has been uttering the most 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEIL. 33 
 
 remarkable oracles. I am not superstitious, but I must 
 confess that she has more than once assisted me materi- 
 ally in my magistracy with her advice. Her priests ara 
 so plous, 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 declares that in his family the secrets of 
 remotest antiquity are treasured.” 
 
 “He certainly possesses the gift of the evil eye,” said 
 Clodius. ‘If I ever come upon that Medusa front with- 
 out the previous charm, I am sure to lose a favorite horse, 
 or throw the canes1 nine times running.” ; 
 
 “The last would be indeed a miracle!” said Sallust, 
 gravely. 
 
 “How mean you, Sallust?” returned the gamester, 
 with a flushed brow. 
 
 “T 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 sorcerer. Agrippa, when edile of Rome, banishe@ 
 all such terrible citizens. But a rich man, —it is the 
 duty of an edile to protect the rich ! ” 
 
 “What think you of this new sect, which I am told 
 
 1 Canes, or Canicule, the lowest throw at dice. 
 
34 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 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 blas- 
 phemy,” said Pansa, with vehemence ; “they deny Venus 
 and Jove! Nazarene 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 a pause while they listened to 
 the soft voices of the South, and the music of the Arca- 
 dian reed. Glaucus was the most rapt and the least 
 inclinea to break the silence, but Clodius began already 
 to think that they wasted time. 
 
 “ Bene vobis! [your health!] my Glaucus,” said he, 
 quaffing 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 T an edile!”? said Pansa, — 
 magisterially ; ‘‘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 edile. : 
 
 “Not yet, good Pansa; let us wait till we have 
 supped,” said Glaucus. , : 
 
 Clodius reluctantly yielded, concealing his vexation — 
 with a yawn. ’ 
 
 See note (c) at the end. 
 
THE LAST DAYS .OF POMPEII. 35 
 
 “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. 
 
 The third course, consisting of a variety of fruits, pis- 
 -tachio nuts, sweetmeats, tarts, and confectionery tortured 
 into a thousand 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 
 excellent.” 
 
 “Tt 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 honor I pour this cup.” 
 
 “Tt is delicate,” said Pansa, “but there is perhaps the 
 least particle too much of rosin in its flavor.” 
 
 “ 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 
 favorite 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, 
 handing the cup to his slave; “but your love gives ita 
 double value.” 
 
 _ “This cup to the Graces!” said Pansa, and he thrice 
 emptied his calix. The guests followed his example. 
 
 sad, 
 
36 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 “We have appointed no director to the feast,” cried 
 Sallust. 
 
 “Tet 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 conviwiu. Have 
 not the Romans sworn never to obey a king? Shall we 
 be less free than your ancestors? Ho! musicians, let us 
 have the song I composed 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, 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 gray, 
 Hail us with song !— 
 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 hushed, low-breathing skies, 
 Half-shut looked their starry eyes, 
 And all around, 
 With a loving sound, 
 The Aigean 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 LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 The Fauns were slyly peeping, — 
 The Fauns, the prying Fauns, 
 The arch, the laughing Fauns, — 
 
 The Fauns were slyly peeping! 
 
 The 
 
 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,1 
 His soul, as he gazed behind him. 
 
 ? 
 
 III. 
 
 A cup to Jove, and a cup to Love, 
 And a cup to the son of Maia; 
 And honor 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 honors us most who gives us most, 
 And boasts, with a Bacchanal’s honest boast, 
 He never will cownt 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 
 
 1 Narcissus, 
 
 37 
 
38 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 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, ho !— we have caught thee, Psilas! 
 
 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 imi- 
 tate in the Roman poetry.” 
 
 “Tt is, indeed, a great contrast,” said Clodius, ironi- 
 cally 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 words put me in mind of a toast, — companions, I 
 give you the beautiful Ione.” 
 
 ‘“‘Tone!— the name is Greek,” said Glaucus, in a soft 
 
 voice, ‘I drink the health with delight. But who is 
 
 Ione?” 
 
 “Ah! you have but just come to Pompeii, or you 
 
 would deserve ostracism for your ignorance,” said Lepi- 
 
 dus, conceitedly ; “not to know Jone is not to know the | 
 
 chief charm of our city.” 
 
 “She is of the most rare beauty,” said Pansa; “and | 
 
 what a voice!” 
 
 “She can feed only on nightingales’ tongues,” said | 
 
 Clodius. 
 “ Nightingales’ tongues ! — beautiful thought!” sighed 
 the umbra. 
 
 j 
 (| 
 | 
 
 AE 
 eo | 
 HE 
 
 | 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 39 
 
 “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 Ione 
 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! Ione has but 
 one vice, —she is chaste. She has all Pompeii at uae 
 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; 
 “meanwhile,” added he, once more rattling the dice. 
 
 “Tam 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 absorbed in the chances of the dice. 
 
 “By Pollux!” cried Glaucus, ‘this is the second time 
 T have thrown the canicule ” (the lowest throw). 
 
40 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 “ Now Venus befriend me!” said Clodius, rattling the 
 box for several moments. ‘O Alma Venus, —it is 
 Venus herself!” 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, gayly; “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. 
 
 “TJ will play no more,” said Glaucus; “I have lost 
 thirty sestertia.” 
 
 _ “T am sorry —” began Clodius. 
 
 « Amiable man!” groaned the umbra. 
 
 “Not at all!” exclaimed Glaucus; “the pleasure 1 
 take in your gain compensates the pain of my loss.” 
 
 The conversation now grew general and animated ; the 
 wine circulated more freely ; and Ione once more became 
 the subject of eulogy to the guests of Glaucus. 
 
 “Tnstead 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 Ione ; they therefore resolved to adjourn (all, 
 at least, but Palen 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 them: 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 41 
 
 selves 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 Ione. The vesti- 
 bule 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 colors 
 of the artist; and under the portico which surrounded 
 the odorous viridarium they found Ione, already sur- 
 rounded 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 that moment the 
 group, dividing on either side of Ione, gave to his view 
 that bright, that nymph-like beauty, which for months 
 had shone down upon the waters of his memory. 
 
42 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 The Temple of Isis. —Its Priest.— The Character of Arbaces 
 develops itself. 
 
 Tue 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 him- 
 self ; ‘“ whether business or pleasure, trade or religion, be 
 your pursuit, 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 knowledge, 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 unseen. So long as craft can master force, _ 
 so long as religion has a cave from which oracles can dupe 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 43 
 
 ‘mankind, the wise hold an empire over earth. Even 
 
 from your vices Arbaces distils his pleasures: pleasures 
 unprofaned by vulgar eyes; 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 questorships, 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 
 elothed, 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 knowl- 
 
 i] 
 
 _ edge of mankind ; they applied themselves exactly to the 
 
 circumstances 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, breath- 
 
 _ less, and reverential, before the many altars which rose in 
 
 1 See note (d) at tho end. 
 
44. | THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 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 pome- 
 granate 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 
 vrace the court of the Egyptian deity: her kindred and 
 many-titled Bacchus, and the Cyprian Venus, a Grecian 
 disguise for herself, rising from her bath, and the dog- 
 headed Anubis, and the ox Apis, and various Egyptian 
 idols of uncouth form and unknown appellations. 
 
 But we must not suppose that, among the cities of - 
 Magna Grecia, Isis was worshipped with those forms and 
 ceremonies which were of right her own. ‘The mongrel 
 and modern nations of the South, with a mingled arro- 
 gance and ignorance, confounded the worships of all 
 climes and ages. And the profound mysteries of the 
 Nile were degraded by a hundred meretricious and frivo- 
 lous 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 cus- 
 toms of her ancient votaries ; and the descendant of the 
 dread Egyptian kings, beneath the appearance of reveren- 
 tial 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 ne 
 passage in front thronged the bystanders. 4 
 
 “ And what,” whispered Arbaces to one of the by 
 standers, who was a merchant engaeed 8 in the Alexandrian : 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 45 
 
 trade, which trade had probably first introduced in Pom- 
 peii the worship of the Egyptian goddess, — ‘‘ what occa- 
 sion 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 assem- 
 bly 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 interest 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 
 properly the goddess of agriculture, she was no less the 
 patron of 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 yotive wreath, 
 in the other a white wand ; while, adding to the pictu- 
 
 resque scene of that Eastern ceremony, the stately ibis 
 
 _ (bird sacred to the Egyptian worship) looked mutely down 
 _ from the wall upon the rite, or stalked beside the altar at 
 
 the base of the steps. 
 
46 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 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 
 intent in pious anxiety, — to rejoice and brighten as the 
 signs were declared favorable, and the fire began bright 
 and clearly to consume the sacred portion of the victim 
 amidst odors 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 !” 
 
 “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 rights of Isis enjoined what to the lively Pompeians 
 was an impossible suspense from the use of the vocal 
 organs, the chief priest poured his libation on the altar, 
 and after a short concluding prayer the ceremony was _ 
 
 1 See a ae picture, in the Museum of Naples, of an Egy: q 
 tian sacrifice. : 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEIL AT 
 
 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, approach- 
 ing it, saluted him with great appearance of friendly 
 familiarity. 
 
 The countenance of the priest was remarkably unpre- 
 possessing, — 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 
 oi a science modern in name, but best practically known 
 (as their sculpture teaches us) amongst the ancients, two 
 huge and almost preternatural protuberances yet more 
 distorted the unshapely head; around the brows the 
 skin was puckered into a web of deep and _ intricate 
 wrinkles ; the eyes, dark and small, rolled in a muddy 
 and yellow orbit; the nose, short yet coarse, was dis- 
 tended 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, com- 
 pleted a countenance which none could behold without 
 repugnance, and few without terror and distrust. What- 
 ever 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 prophesy good fortune, unless there is an absolute 
 
 _ Impossibility of its fulfilment.” 
 
48 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 “¢ Besides,” added Calenus, ‘if theestorm does come, 
 and if it does overwhelm the accursed ships, have we not 
 prophesied it ; and are the barks not blessed to be at rest ? 
 For rest prays the mariner in the Aigean 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 Apecides 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, concealed 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 se I make merely followers or servants; 
 
 of the women — 
 
 ‘¢ Mistresses,” said Calenus, as a livid grin distorted hig : 
 
 ungainly features. 
 “Yes, I do not disguise it ; woman is the main object 
 
 for the slaughter, J love to rear the votaries of my pleas- 
 
 ure. I love to train, to ripen their minds, — to unfold 
 the sweet blossom of their hidden passions, in order A 
 
 I 
 4 
 
 the great appetite, of my soul As you feed the victim 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 49 
 
 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 contem- 
 plating the freshness of others, I sustain the freshness of 
 my own sensations. From the young hearts of my vic- 
 tims I draw the ingredients of the caldron in which I 
 re-youth myself. But enough of this; to the subject 
 before us. You know, then, that in Neapolis some time 
 since I encountered Jone and Apecides, brother and 
 sister, the children of Athenians who had settled at Nea- 
 polis. 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 dis- 
 tant 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 
 Apecides 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 pecu- 
 fiarly alive to religious fervor that enthusiasm which 
 Imagination begets on faith. I have placed him amongst 
 you; he is one of you.” 
 
 “He is so,” said Calenus; “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 
 
 4 
 
50 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. | 
 
 all our gods, and terms our oracles the inspirations of 
 that malevolent spirit of which Kastern 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, rarrH,—the next, 
 DELUSION ; the one for the vulgar, the second for the sage.” — 
 
 ‘“‘] 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 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 Apecides, what was my design 
 for Ione? 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.” 
 
 “‘T 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 ex- 
 celled,” 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 harmonize and direct her 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 51 
 
 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. Jone 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 asa 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; Ione 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 
 boldness of career,—in this indulgence of vanity and 
 of pleasure. I loved to steep her amidst the dissipations 
 -and luxury of this abandoned city. Mark me, Calenus! 
 -Idesired to enervate her mind ! — it has been too pure to 
 ‘receive yet the breath which I wish not to pass, but burn- 
 ‘ingly to eat into, the mirror. I wished her to be sur- 
 ‘rounded 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 
 as not the young, nor the beautiful, nor the gay, that 
 should fascinate Ione ; her imagination must be won, and 
 
52 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 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 !” 
 
 “ Keypt,” 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 without 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?” | 
 
 “Tam 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 noviti- | 
 ates — 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 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.” a 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 53 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 More of the Flower-Girl. — The Progress of Love. 
 
 Tue sun shone gayly 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 ina sunny clime. And now the odors, fanned 
 _by a gentle wind creeping from the adjacent sea, scattered 
 _themselves over that chamber, whose walls vied with the 
 richest colors of the most glowing flowers. Besides the 
 gem of the room, — the painting of Leda and Tyndarus, 
 -—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 ae on the beach, unconscious of the per- 
 -fidy of Theseus. Merrily the sunbeams played to and 
 fro on the tessellated floor and the brilliant walls, — far 
 ‘more happily came the rays of joy tc the heart of the 
 young Glaucus. 
 
54 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEIL. 
 
 “‘T 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 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 endur- 
 ance, had banished the smile, but not the sweetness, from 
 her lips ; something timid and cautious in her step, some- 
 thing wandering in her eyes, led you to suspect the 
 affliction which she had suffered from her birth: she 
 was blind; but in the orbs themselves there was no visi- 
 ble defect, — their melancholy and subdued 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, tendon : 
 and in the voice of a compassionate brother. 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 55 
 
 Nydia sighed and paused before she resumed, with- 
 out 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?” 
 
 “T 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 ; “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 in 
 your absence.” 
 
 “How shall I thank thee, fair Nydia?” said the Greek. 
 “Glaucus little dreamed that he left one memory so 
 watchful over his favorites at Pompeii.” 
 
 : The hand of the child trembled, and her breast heaved 
 | beneath her tunic. She turned round in embarrassment 
 
56 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. hae 
 
 ‘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.” 
 
 “Tll, Nydia!— yet your cheek has more color than it 
 had last year.” 
 
 “T am often ailing,” said the blind girl, touchingly ; 
 ‘and as I grow up, I grieve more that Iam blind. But 
 now to the flowers!” So saying, she made a slight 
 reverence with her head, and passing into the viridarium, 
 busied herself with watering the flowers. 
 
 “Poor Nydia,” thought Glaucus, gazing on her, “ thine 
 isa hard doom! Thou seest not the earth, nor the sun, 
 nor the ocean, nor the stars, — above all, thou canst not 
 behold Ione.” 
 
 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 Ione, that whereas he had con- 
 fided to Clodius the secret of his first interview with her, 
 and the effect it had produced on him, he now felt an 
 invincible aversion even to mention to him her name. | 
 He had seen Ione, bright, pure, unsullied, in the midst of | 
 the gayest and most profligate gallants of Pompeii, charm- 
 ing rather than awing the boldest into respect, and chang- 
 ing the very nature of the most sensual and the least 
 ideal, as by her intellectual and refining spells she 
 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 | 
 brightening all things with her presence, Glaucus almost | 
 for the first time felt the nobleness of his own nature, — he | 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 57 
 
 felt how unworthy of the goddess of his dreams had been 
 his companions and his pursuits. A veil seemed lifted 
 from his eyes; he saw that immeasurable distance be- 
 tween himself and his associates which the deceiving 
 mists of pleasure had hitherto concealed ; he was refined 
 by a sense of his courage in aspiring to Ione. 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 trans- 
 ports of the beauty of Ione, Glaucus felt only resentment 
 and disgust that such lips should dare to praise her; he 
 answered coldly, and the Roman imagined that his pas- 
 sion 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 ke 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 Ione.. In passing by the threshold he 
 again encountered 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 com. 
 
 -plaint. 
 
58 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 The Thessalian lingered cn the threshold a few 
 moments, and then, guiding her steps by a long staff, 
 whichashe 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, —TI trust not,” cried Nydia, trem- 
 bling ; “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 asso- 
 eiates for one who — who —” 
 
 “Tg a slave in the house of Burbo,” returned the voice, 
 ironically, 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 _ 
 Neapolitan. He found Ione sitting amidst her attendants, — 
 who were at work around her. Her harp stood at her | 
 side, for Ione herself was unusually idle, perhaps unusu-_— 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 59 
 
 ally 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 transparent hues ; 
 not the less so from the blush that mounted over them 
 when he approached. Accustomed to flatter, flattery died 
 upon his lips when he addressed Ione. He felt it beneath 
 her to utter the homage which every look conveyed. They 
 spoke of Greece ; this was a theme on which Ione loved 
 rather to listen than to converse : it wasa theme on which 
 the Greek could have been eloquent forever. He described 
 to her the silver olive groves that yet clad the banks of 
 Ilyssus, 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 Ione listened to him, 
 absorbed and mute ; dearer were those accents, and those 
 descriptions, than all the prodigal adulation of her num- 
 berless adorers. Was it asin 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 Ione’s porticos 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, 
 
60 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 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 recognized 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 Ione, 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 conversed gayly with each other, ~ 
 Glaucus lay at the feet of Ione, and he would have looked ~ 
 up in her face, but he did not dare. lone broke the © 
 pause between them. hi 
 
 “My poor brother,” said she, sighing, “how once he ~ 
 would have enjoyed this hour!” 4 
 
 “Your brother!” said Glaucus; “I have not seen 
 him. Occupied with you, I have thought of nothing 
 else, or I should have asked if that was not your brother 
 for whose companionship you left me at the Temple of 
 Minerva, in Neapolis?” 
 
 Tt was.” 
 
 *‘ And is he here ?” 
 
 “He is.” i: 
 
 “At Pompeii, and not constantly with you? Impos a 
 sible !” 
 
 “‘ He has other duties,” answered Ione, sadly ; ‘he is 
 priest of Isis.” 
 
 “So young, too; and that priesthood, in its laws at_ 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 61 
 
 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 
 devotion ; and the eloquence of an Egyptian — our friend 
 and guardian — kindled in him the pious desire to conse- 
 erate 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.” 
 
 _ Tone 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. 
 
 Ione cast down her eyes as she resumed, — 
 
 ‘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 smiles, 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 afterwards,” 
 
62 ak THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 ae Yet, like E pimenides, he'is kind and wise “ gen- 
 tle,” answered Ione. 
 
 “Oh, happy that he has thy prise He needs no 
 other virtues to make him dear to me.’ 
 
 ‘‘ His calm, his coldness,” said Ione, evasively pursuing 
 the subject, “are perhaps but the exhaustion of past suf- 
 ferings ; as yonder mountain [and she pointed to Vesu- 
 vius], which we see dark and tranquil in the distance, 
 once nursed the fires forever quenched.” 
 
 They both gazed on the mountain as Ione said these 
 words ; the rest of the sky was bathed in rosy and tender 
 hues, bai over that gray summit, rising amidst the woods 
 and vineyards that then climbed 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 ? 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 63 
 
 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 Ione ; and when he had visited her he had 
 not encountered 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 Ione, 
 he had been forced, too, a little while, to suspend his 
 interest in Ione herself. His pride and his selfishness 
 were aroused and alarmed at the sudden 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. Apzcides 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 power- 
 ful spirits, accustomed to master others ; he chafed at the 
 notion that one once his own should ever elude his grasp. 
 He swore inly that Apecides 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 Ione, in his way to.the latter ; and there, leaning 
 against a tree, and gazing on the ground, he came una- 
 wares on the young priest of Isis. 
 
64 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 “ Anecides !” said he, and he laid his hand affection. — 
 ately 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 ?” 
 
 Apzecides 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 ?” 
 
 “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 congenial to the shade and solitude 
 of the place. 
 
 Apezcides 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 colorless; _ 
 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 Ione ; but the expression was altogether 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 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 65 
 
 reposed, but evidently did not sleep. In Apecides the 
 whole aspect betokened the fervor 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 compared with the height of the brow, 
 the trembling restlessness of the lips, to be swayed and 
 tyrannized 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 unem- 
 bodied ; and the faculties which gave genius to the one 
 threatened madness to the other. 
 
 “You say I have been your enemy,” said Arbaces. 
 “T 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 —” 
 
 “You knew the jugglings of that impious craft,” 
 answered Apzecides ; “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 themselves 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 earth- 
 'lier 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 
 5 
 
66 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 resigned all without a sigh, nay, with happiness and exul- 
 tation in the thought that I resigned them for the abstruse — 
 mysteries of diviner wisdom, for the companionship 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 novitiate 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 
 solemn voice, casting first his searching eyes around to 
 see that they were still alone. ‘‘ From Egypt came all 
 the knowledge 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 civilization into — 
 barbarism and darkness) possessed all the arts of wisdom 
 and the graces of intellectual life; from Egypt came the 
 rites and the grandeur of that solemn Cere, whose inhabi- — 
 tants 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 — 
 
 1 The slaves who had the care of the atrium. 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 67 
 
 greatness, and soared to her cloud capped eminence of wis- 
 dom? 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, those ancient ministers 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 des- 
 tinies, 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 lifted up 
 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 civilizers 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 Emperor of Rome sways the vast and various tribes 
 of earth, and harmonizes the conflicting and disunited 
 elements ; thence come peace, order, law, the blessings of 
 life. Think you it is the man, the emperor, that thus 
 sways ?— no, it is the pomp, the awe, the majesty that 
 surround him, — these are his impostures, his delusions. 
 Our oracles and our divinations, our rites and our cere- 
 monies, are the means of owr sovereignty and the engines 
 
68 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 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.” 
 
 Apecides remained silent, but the changes rapidly pass- 
 ing 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 destroyed, namely, the obedience and reverence of the 
 multitude for the few, they drew from their majestic and 
 starred meditations 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 civilization. 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 saying 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, | 
 Apecides, 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 earn- 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII 69 
 
 estness of enthusiasm, —all fitted you for that calling 
 which demands so 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, Apacides, | 
 had defeated my own object; your noble nature would 
 have at once revolted, and Isis would have lost her 
 priest.” 
 
 Apecides groaned aloud. The Egyptian continued, 
 without heeding the interruption. 
 
 “JT placed you, therefore, without preparation, in the 
 temple ; I left you suddenly to discover and to be sick- 
 ened 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 practise 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, Apecides, without 
 its substance. Come to me this night. Your hand.” 
 
 Impressed, excited, bewildered by the language of the 
 Egyptian, Apecides gave him his hand, and master and 
 pupil parted. 
 
70 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 It was true that for Apecides there was no retreat. 
 He had taken the vows of celibacy ; he had devoted him- 
 self to a life that at present seemed to possess all the 
 austerities of fanaticism, without any of the consolations 
 of belief. It was natural that he should yet cling toa 
 yearning desire to reconcile himself to an irrevocable 
 career. The powerful and profound mind of the Egyptian 
 yet claimed an empire over his young imagination, excited 
 him with vague conjecture, and kept him alternately 
 vibrating between hope and fear. 
 
 Meanwhile Arbaces pursued his slow and stately way 
 to the house of Ione. As he entered the tablinum, he 
 heard a voice from the porticos 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 involuntary thrill of 
 jealousy shot through the breast of the Egyptian. On 
 entering the peristyle, he found Glaucus seated by the 
 side of Ione. 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 Ione, who with her freedom of 
 life preserved the most delicate modesty, sat at a little 
 distance ; by the feet of Glaucus lay the lyre on which he 
 
 had been playing to Ione 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; 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 71 
 
 he recovered 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 Ione 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 recognized behind the seat of Ione 
 the cold and sarcastic face of the Egyptian. 
 
 “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 Glau- 
 cus to do the same. 
 
 “Tam glad,” said Ione, “ to see you at length together ; 
 
 I 
 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 ban- 
 quets and garlands, of Parthian steeds, and the chances 
 ‘of the dice ?— these pleasures au his age, his nature, 
 his career ; they are not for mine.’ 
 So saying, the artful Egyptian looked down and sighed ; 
 but from the corner of his eye he stole a glance towards 
 Ione, to see how she received these insinuations of the 
 pursuits of her visitor. Her countenance did not satisfy 
 him. Glaucus, slightly coloring, hastened gayly to reply. 
 
72 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 Nor was he, perhaps, without the wish in his turn to dis 
 concert and abash the Egyptian. 
 
 “You are right, wise Arbaces,” said he; “we can 
 esteem each other, but we cannot be friends. My ban- 
 quets lack the secret salt which, according to rumor, gives — 
 such zest to your own. And, by Hercules! when I have 
 reached your age, if I, like you, may think it wise to pur- 
 sue the pleasures of manhood, like you, I shall be doubt- 
 less sarcastic on the gallantries of youth.” 
 
 The Egyptian raised his eyes to Glaucus with a sudden 
 and piercing glance. 
 
 *T do not understand you,” said he; “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 contempt, and after a moment’s pause addressed 
 himself to Ione. t 
 
 ‘“‘T have not, beautiful Ione,” said he, ‘‘ been fortunate 
 enough to find you within doors the last two or three _ 
 times that I have visited your vestibule.” a 
 
 “The smoothness of the sea has tempted me much 
 from home,” replied Ione, with a little embarrassment. 
 
 The embarrassment did not escape Arbaces ; but, with- 
 out seeming to heed it, he replied with a smile, ‘ You 
 know the old poet says, that ‘ Women should keep within 
 doors, and there conyerse.’”! | : 
 
 H Ehg poet was a cynic,” said Glaucus, “and hated 
 women.’ 3 
 
 ‘He spake according to the customs of his country 
 and that country is your boasted Greece.” | 
 
 “To different periods different customs. Had our fore 
 fathers known Ione, they had made a different law.” 
 
 “Did you learn these pretty gallantries at Rome 2” 
 said Arbaces, with ill-suppressed emotion. 
 
 1 Euripides. 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. Ta 
 
 “One certainly would not go for gallantries to Egypt,” 
 retorted Glaucus, playing carelessly with his chain. 
 “Come, come,” said Ione, hastening to interrupt a con- 
 versation, 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 
 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 accus- 
 tomed 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 pre- 
 serve us? Ah, believe me, it has been the great error 
 of men — and one that has worked bitterly on their des- 
 tinies — 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 unfavorable 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?” Ione stopped 
 short suddenly, and her face was suffused with the most 
 enchanting 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 honored) 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, Ione, —ever be your 
 pure heart your unerring guide! Happy it had been for 
 
74 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEI. 
 
 Greece if she had given to the chaste the same intellect. 
 ual charms that are so celebrated amongst the iess 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 sanc- 
 tion the sentiment of Glaucus, nor to condemn that of 
 Jone ; and after a short and embarrassed conversation, 
 Glaucus took his leave of Ione. 
 
 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 fierceness 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 circumspection, when arrogated 
 by one unmarried. Continue to draw crowds of the gay, 
 the brilliant, the wise themselves, to your feet; con- 
 . tinue 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 
 reputation of a maiden, and while you provoke admira- 
 tion, give, I beseech you, no victory to envy.” 
 
 “What mean you, Arbaces?” said Ione, in an alarmed 
 and trembling voice; ‘‘I know you are my friend, that 
 you desire only my honor 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?” 
 
 **T beseech you do so.” 
 
 “This young profligate, this Glaucus, how didst thou 
 know him? Hast thou seen him often?” And as 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 75 
 e 
 
 Arbaces spoke, he fixed his gaze steadfastly upon Ione, 
 as if he sought to penetrate into her soul. 
 ~-Recoiling before that gaze, with a strange fear which 
 she could not explain, the Neapolitan answered with con- 
 fusion 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 ?” 
 
 “Tt matters not: let me not rouse your indignation 
 against one who does not deserve so grave an honor.” 
 
 “‘T 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 Ione’s 
 question, Arbaces continued, ‘‘ You know his pursuits, his 
 companions, 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 Ione, 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 ?” 
 
 “Tmpossible! How heard you this base slander?” 
 
 “Nay, would you have me relate to you all the com- 
 ‘ments of the insolent coxcombs with which the story has 
 circled through the town? Be assured that I myself dis 
 
76 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 a 
 
 believed at first, and that I have now painfully been 
 convinced by several ear-witnesses of the truth of what I 
 have reluctantly told thee.” 3 
 
 Tone sank back, and her face was whiter than the 
 pillar against which she leaned for support. 
 
 “T 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, Ione?” 
 
 Tone 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 cannot hurt thee, Ione, for a moment ; for 
 a gay thing like this could never have been honored by 
 even a serious thought from Ione. These insults only 
 wound when they come from one we love; far different 
 indeed is he whom the lofty Ione shall stoop to love.” 
 
 “Tove!” muttered Ione, with an hysterical laugh. 
 *‘ Ay, indeed !” 
 
 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 inventive 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 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. it 
 a 
 
 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 ourselves at home with the past. 
 
 Most cunningly had the Egyptian appealed to Ione’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 Ione burst into 
 passionate tears. K 
 
78 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEIL 
 a 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 The Gay Life of the Pompeian Lounger. — A Miniature Likeness 
 of the Roman Baths. 
 
 Wuen Glaucus left Ione, 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 unre- 
 warded by her. This hope filled him with a rapture for 
 which earth ahd heaven seemed too narrow to afford a 
 vent. Unconscious of the sudden enemy he had left 
 behind, and forgetting not only his taunts but his very 
 existence, Glaueus passed through the gay streets, repeat- 
 ing to himself, in the wantonness of joy, the music of the 
 soft air to which Ione had listened with such intentness ; 
 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 frescos 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 digni- 
 fied and venerable feature to a scene otherwise more bril- — 
 liant than lofty in its character. That temple was one of 
 the most graceful specimens of Roman 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 — 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 79 
 
 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 ata 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 convers- 
 ing 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 lan- 
 guage 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 T saw you.” 
 
 “And how have you spent the lustruam? What new 
 dishes have you discovered ?” 
 
 “T have been scientific,” returned Sallust, “and have 
 made some experiments in the feeding of lampreys ; I con- 
 fess I despair of bringing them to the perfection which 
 our Roman ancestors attained.” 
 
80 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 “ Miserable man! and why?” . 
 
 “‘ Because,” returned Sallust, with a sigh, “im is né’ 
 longer lawful to give them a slave to eat. [am very often 
 tempted to make away with avery fat carptor | butler] whom 
 I possess, and pop him slyly into the reservoir. He would 
 give the fish a most oleaginous flavor! But slaves are 
 not slaves nowadays, and have no sympathy with their 
 masters’ interest, — or Davus would destroy himself to 
 oblige me!” 
 
 “What news from Rome?” said Lepidus, as he lan- 
 quidly joined the group. 
 
 “The emperor has been giving a splendid supper to 
 the senators,” answered Sallust. 
 
 “He is a good creature,” quoth Lepidus; “they say he 
 never sends a man away without granting his request.” 
 
 “Perhaps he would let me kill a slave for my reser- 
 voir?” returned Sallust, eagerly. 
 
 “ Not unlikely,” said Glaucus; “for he who grants a 
 _ favor 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 patronizingly through the 
 crowd; “he has promised my brother a questorship, 
 because he had run 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 werarium,—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 LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 81 
 
 the badge of servility to a patron), the edile fidgeted 
 fussily away. 
 
 “Poor Pansa!” said Lepidus; “ he never has time for 
 pleasure. Thank Heaven, I am not an edile!” 
 
 «Ah, Glaucus, how are you? — gay as ever!” said 
 Clodius, joining the group. 
 
 ‘“‘ Are you come to sacrifice to Fortune ?” said Sallust. 
 
 ‘“‘T sacrifice to her every night,” returned the gamester. 
 
 “ T do not doubt it; no man has made more victims!” 
 
 “By Hercules, a biting speech!” cried Glaucus, 
 laughing. 
 
 “The dog’s letter is never out of your mouth, Sallust,” 
 said Clodius, angrily ; “you are always snarling.” 
 
 ‘“T may well have the dog’s letter in my mouth, since, 
 whenever I play with you, I have the dog’s throw in my 
 hand,” returned 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.” 
 
 a . e 
 1 The Romans sent tickets of invitation, like the moderns, speci- 
 _ fying the hour of the repast ; which, if the intended feast was to 
 _ be sumptuous, was earlier than usual, 
 
 e 6 
 
82 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 The young men assented readily to the proposal, and 
 they strolled to the baths. , 
 
 Although the public therma, 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 favorite place for 
 conversation, and for that indolent lounging so dear to a 
 gay and thoughtless people. The baths at Pompeii dif- 
 fered, of course, in plan and construction from the vast 
 and complicated therme of Rome ; and, indeed, it seems 
 that in each city of the empire there was always some 
 slight modification of arrangement in the general archi- 
 tecture 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 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 con- 
 versation 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 ediles 
 
 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 wasa 
 
 9 
 bi : 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEIL 83 
 
 goldsmith, “I think the eibabat 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.” 
 
 “TI care not how many gods a man likes to believe in,’ 
 said the BoLcamtED 5 “but to deny all gods is aS 
 monstrous.” 
 
 “Yet I fancy,” said Glaucus, “that these people are 
 not absolutely atheists. I am told that they believe in a 
 God, — nay, in a future state.” 
 
 “Quite a mistake, my dear Glaucus,” said the phil- 
 osopher. “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 (ot Daly 
 that it is impossible to eaves who they are.’ 
 
 As Glaucus turned away, a sculptor, who was a great 
 enthusiast 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 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 con- 
 temporaries 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, 
 ay Glaucus, you have come to hear my ode! That is 
 indeed an honor ; you, a Greek, — to whom the very lan- 
 guage of common life is poetry. How I thank you. It 
 is but a trifle; but if I secure your approbation, perhaps 
 { may get an introduction to Titus. Oh, Glaucus, a 
 
84 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEIL 
 
 poet without a patron is an amphora without a label; the 
 wine may be good, but nobody will laud it! And what 
 says Pythagoras ?-— ‘ 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, the poor Pompeians are very civil, —they love 
 to honor 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 arush 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, Clodius, and a troop of the bard’s other friends, 
 into the passage. 
 
 “‘ A poor place this, compared nae the Roman therme !” 
 said Lepidus, disdainfully. : 
 
 “Yet is there some taste in the ceiling,” said Glaucus, 
 who was in a mood to be pleased with everything, point- 
 ing to the stars which studded the roof. Mu 
 
 Lepidus shrugged his shoulders, but was too languid to 
 reply. 
 
 They now entered a somewhat spacious chamber, which 
 served for the purposes of the apoditerium (that is, a place 
 where the bathers prepared themselves for their luxuri-— 
 ous ablutions). The vaulted ceiling was raised from a 
 cornice, glowingly colored with motley and grotesque 
 paintings ; the ceiling itself was panelled in white com- 
 partments bordered 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 h 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEIL 85 
 
 more magnificent frigidariwum. The Pompeians, as all the 
 Southern Italians, were fond of banishing the light of 
 their sultry skies, and combined in their voluptuous asso- 
 cilations the idea of luxury with darkness. Two windows 
 
 of glass? alone admitted the soft and shaded ray ; and | 
 
 OO , 
 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 magis- 
 terial air, and his audience, gathering round him, encour- 
 aged 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 ii the best odes of Horace. 
 
 The poem concluded, those who took only the cold 
 bath began to undress; they suspended their garments 
 on Hes fastened in the wall, and receiving, according to 
 their condition, either from their own slaves or those of 
 the therme, 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 
 tepidarium, a place which was heated to a voluptuous 
 warmth, partly by a movable fireplace, principally by a 
 
 1 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 
 
 ‘niddle and inferior classes in their private dwellings. 
 
 f 
 4 
 
86 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 suspended pavement, beneath which was conducted the 
 caloric of the laconicum. 
 
 Here this portion of the intended bathers, after unrob- 
 ing themselves, remained for some time enjoying the 
 artificial warmth of the luxurious air. And this room, 
 as befitted its important rank in the long process of ablu- 
 tion, 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 wan- 
 dering and uncertain rays; below the massive cornices 
 were rows of figures in massive and bold relief ; the walls 
 glowed with crimson, the pavement was skilfully tessel- 
 lated in white mosaics. Here the habituated bathers, 
 men who bathed seven times a day, would remain ina 
 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 
 new-comers, recognizing their friends with a nod, but 
 dreading the fatigue of conversation. 
 
 From this place the party again diverged, according to 
 their several fancies, some to the sudatorium, which 
 answered the purpose of our vapor-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 process, save only the cold-bath, 
 which had gone lately out of fashion. Being then gradu- — 
 ally warmed in the tepidarium, which has just been © 
 described, the delicate steps of the Pompeian é/égant were — 
 conducted to the sudatorium. Here let the reader depict — 
 to himself the gradual process of the vapor-bath, accom- — 
 
{ 
 
 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 87 
 
 panied 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 remove 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 perfumes were profusely 
 scattered, and on emerging from the opposite part of the 
 room, a cooling shower played over his head and form. 
 Then, wrapping himself in a light robe, he returned 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 number of these smegmata used by the wealthy would 
 fill a modern volume, especially if the volume were 
 printed by a fashionable publisher, — Amoracinum, Mega- 
 hum, Nardum, omne quod exit in um), while soft music 
 
 played in an adjacent chamber ; 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. 
 
 “Blessed 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 groan- 
 
 ing and wheezing under the operation of being rubbed 
 
 ‘down, — “tell me, O Glaucus — evil chance to thy 
 
88 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII, 
 
 hands, O slave! why so rough ? — tell me — ugh — ugh! 
 —are the baths at Rome really so magnificent?” Glau- 
 cus turned, and recognized Diomed, 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, — 
 
 ‘Tmagine all Pompeii converted into baths, and you 
 will then form a notion of the size of the imperial therme 
 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 con- 
 struction; intersperse the whole with gardens, with 
 theatres, with porticos, with schools; suppose, in one 
 
 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 
 
 consume their lives in this occupation. They take their — 
 
 exercise in the tennis-court or the porticos, to prepare 
 
 them for the first bath ; they lounge into the theatre, to 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII, 89 
 
 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 
 voluptuaries of the Roman baths are happy: they see 
 nothing but gorgeousness and splendor; 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 suf- 
 fered his attendants to omit. After the perfumes and the 
 unguents, they scattered over him the luxurious powder 
 which prevented any farther accession of heat; and this 
 being rubbed away by the smooth surface of the pumice, 
 he began to indue, not the garments 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 lone 
 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, 
 
90 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 “Tt 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 
 acquaintance 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. 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 91 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 Arbaces Cogs his Dice with Pleasure, and Wins the Game. 
 
 THE evening darkened over the restless city as Apecides 
 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 pre- 
 sented 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 
 demeanor, and who had twice passed him with a curious 
 but doubting look, touched him on the shoulder. 
 
 “ Apecides!” 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 face grew 
 paler, “what wouldst thou ?” 
 
 “ 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 ; noram I able this evening to discuss with you 
 those themes which are most acceptable to you.” 
 
 “O backward of heart!” said Olinthus, with bitter 
 fervor; “and art thou sad and weary, and wilt thou turn 
 from the very springs that refresh and heal?” 
 
92 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 “O earth!” cried the young priest, striking his breast 
 passionately, “‘ 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 _pro- 
 fane, the very altars which I have deemed most sacred ; 
 or am [ to think with Arbaces, — what?” 
 
 fle 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 enthusi- 
 astic men by whom God in all times has worked the 
 revolutions of earth, and those, above all, in the estab- 
 lishment 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 fervor 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 accom- 
 plishes no victories without it. 
 
 Olinthus did not then suffer Apecides thus easily to 
 escape him. He overtook, and addressed him thus; — 
 
 ‘I do not wonder, Apecides, 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 uncertain and benighted thought. I wonder not at 
 this, but bear 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 Samaria, shall walk . 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEIL 93 
 
 over the lulled billows to the delivery of yoursoul. 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 Apecides, 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 1 
 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 adul- 
 terer. 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 associations, those touching connections 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 indeed 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 honor Socrates, — he has his sect, his disci- 
 ples, his schools. But what are the doubtful virtues of 
 the Athenian to the bright, the undisputed, the active, 
 the unceasing, the devoted holiness of Christ? I speak 
 
94 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 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 brightefied 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, — unhesitatingly. A few of us are now assem- 
 bled 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 !’” 
 
 “‘T cannot now,” said Apecides ; ‘ another time.” 
 
 “Now, now!” exclaimed Olinthus, earnestly, and 
 clasping him by the arm. 
 
 But Apecides, 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, extri- 
 cated himself forcibly from the grasp; and feeling an 
 effort necessary to conquer the irresolution which the elo- 
 quence 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, a 
 
 No other house was near, — the darksome vines clus- 
 tered far and wide in front of the building, and behind 
 it rose a copse of lofty forest-treées, sleeping in the 
 melancholy moonlight ; beyond stretched the dim outline ) 
 of the distant hills ane a them the quiet crest | 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 95 
 
 of Vesuvius, not then so lofty as the traveller beholds 
 it now. 
 
 Apecides 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 Egyp- 
 tian 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 loveliness with. awe ; 
 half way up the extremities of the steps darkened the 
 green and massive foliage of the aloe, and the shadow of 
 the Eastern palm cast its long and unwaving boughs par- 
 tially 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 
 ghestly fear, and he longed even for an echo to his noise- 
 less steps as he ascended to the threshold. 
 
 He knocked at the door, over which was wrought an 
 inscription in characters unfamiliar to his eyes ; it opened 
 without a sovnd, 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 colors 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 color of the South, advanced to meet him. 
 
 “T ssek Arbaces,” said the priest; but his voice 
 ‘trembled even in his own ear. The slave bowed his 
 head in siJence, and, leading Apecides to a wing without 
 ‘the hall, conducted him up a narrow staircase, and then 
 
 ed 
 
96 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 traversing several rooms, in which the stern and thought- 
 ful beauty of the sphinx still made the chief and most 
 impressive object of the priest’s notice, Apecides 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 
 unfolded 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 instruments, of curious and quaint shape, 
 whose uses were unknown to Apecides. The farther 
 extremity of the room was concealed by a curtain, and 
 the oblong window in the roof admitted the rays of the 
 moon, mingling sadly with the single lamp which burned 
 in the apartment. 
 
 “Seat yourself, Apzcides,” said the Egyptian, without 
 rising. 
 
 The young man obeyed. 
 
 “You asked me,” resumed Arbaces, after a vas pause, 
 in which he seemed absorbed in thought, — “ you asked 
 me, or would do so, the mightiest secrets which the soul 
 of man is fitted to receive; it is the enigma of life itself 
 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 terror; now | 
 wildly plunge themselves into the guideless gloom, guess- | 
 ing what it may contain, — stretching our helpless hands _ 
 here and there, lest, blindly, we stumble upon some hid- 
 den 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 eterna 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 97 
 
 In this state all wisdom consists necessarily in the solu- 
 tion of two questions: ‘What are we to believe?’ and, 
 ‘What are we to reject?’ These questions you desire 
 me to decide?” 
 
 Apecides bowed his head in assent. 
 
 “Man must have some belief,” continued the Egyptian, 
 in a tone of sadness. “He must fasten his hope to some- 
 thing : it is our common nature that you inherit when, 
 aghast and terrified 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 ! ” 
 
 “T 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 to 
 delude and lure the herd to their proper good. I explained 
 to you that from those delusions 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 
 dear to him, and which custom sanctifies and strengthens. 
 In seeking a subtler faith for us, whose senses are too 
 spiritual 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 
 landmarks being left uninjured for those whom we are 
 about to desert, we gird up our loins and depart to new 
 ‘climes of faith. Dismiss at once from your recollection, 
 
 7 
 
98 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 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. Some- 
 thing must have created it, — the design speaks a designer ; 
 in that certainty we first touch land. But what is that. 
 something? A god, youcry. Stay, — no confused and con- 
 fusing names. Of that which created the world, we know, 
 we can know, nothing, save these attributes, — power and 
 unvarying regularity ; stern, crushing, relentless regularity, 
 heeding no individual cases, rolling, sweeping, burning 
 on, —no matter 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 delusion that makes a palpable, a corporeal, a human | 
 being, of this unknown power, — that clothes the Invisi- 
 ble with attributes and a nature similar to the Seen. No: 
 to this designer let us give a name that does not command 
 our bewildering associations, and the mystery becomes _ 
 more clear, that name is Necussiry. 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. 99 
 
 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 confined 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 per- 
 fection 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 Neces- 
 sity is, we learn, at least, her decrees. And now, what 
 norality do we glean from this religion ?— for religion it 
 s. I believe in two deities, Nature and Necessity ; I 
 worship the last by reverence, the first by investigation, 
 What is the morality my religion teaches? This: all 
 hings are subject but to general rules; the sun shines 
 
100 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 for the joy of the many, —it may bring sorrow to the 
 few ; the night sheds sleep on the multitude, — but it 
 harbors 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 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 know- 
 ledge 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 
 Apecides, 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 dis- 
 charge thy duty to the mass ; by this shalt thou enlighten 
 thy race. But I will lead thide also to pleasures of which 
 
 P r fi | 
 7 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 101 
 
 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 
 Tonia ever perfected. 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 Thessaly, or in the noontide 
 glades of Paphos. The words which had rushed to the 
 lip of Apecides, in answer to the sophistries of the Egyp- 
 tian, died tremblingly away. He felt it as a profanation 
 to break upon that enchanted strain, — the susceptibility 
 of his excited nature, the Greek softness and ardor of his 
 secret soul, were swayed and captured by surprise. He 
 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 sailed trembling down the waves of air ; 
 The leaves blushed brighter in the Teian’s rose, 
 
 ‘The doves couched 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 Aigle’s! haunted cell, 
 Heaved the charmed earth in one delicious sigh. 
 
 1 The fairest of the Naiads. 
 
» 102 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEIL 
 
 “ Love, sons of earth! Iam the power of Love! 
 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 ‘* Lovs!” 
 
 As the voices died away, the Egyptian seized the hand _ 
 of Apzcides, 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 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 aérial clouds, from which | 
 
 i) 
 
 1 Hesiod. 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 103 
 
 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 transparent 
 azure rolled rapidly as they shone, while the music, that 
 again woke with a livelier and a lighter sound, seemed to 
 imitate the melody of the joyous spheres. 
 
 “Oh, what miracle is this, Arbaces?” said Apecides, ° 
 in faltering accents. “ After having denied the gods, art 
 thou about to reveal to me — ” 
 
 “Their pleasures!” interrupted Arbaces, in a tone so 
 different from its usual cold and tranquil harmony that 
 Apecides 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 con- 
 cealment. 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 youthful 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 colors, so transparent 
 
 1 Which, however, was possibly the porcelain of China, — 
 though this is a matter which admits of considerable dispute. 
 
104 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 in its material, were crowned with the exotics of the 
 East. The couches, to which 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 delicious air, and con- 
 tended with the lamps, as if the spirits of wave and fire 
 disputed which element could furnish forth the most 
 delicious odors. And now, from behind the snowy dra- 
 peries, 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 confused 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, in the bowl of Youth there glows 
 A Lesbium more divine ! 
 Bright, bright, i. 
 As the liquid light, 
 Its waves through thine eyelids shine ! 
 
 Fill up, fill up, to the sparkling brim, 
 The juice of the young Lyzeus ; * 
 
 1 Name of Bacchus, from Ave, to unbind, to release. 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 105 
 
 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 } 
 
 As the song ended, a group of three maidens, entwined 
 with a chain of starred flowers, and who, while they imi- 
 tated, 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 Aigean wave, — such as Cytherea taught her hand- 
 maids in the marriage-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 encour- 
 _ aged him to pleasure. He beheld him, but not as he had 
 hitherto seen, with dark and sable garments, with a brood- 
 ing 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 
 
106 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 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 exchanged thought for beauty, and he towered 
 amidst the loveliness that surrounded him, in all the 
 beaming and relaxing benignity of the Olympian god. 
 
 ‘“ Drink, feast, love, my pupil!” 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 
 Apecides, 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 emptied and refilled at that glowing board, 
 they sang the following strain :— 
 
 BACCHIC HYMNS TO THE IMAGE OF DEATH. 
 
 I. 
 
 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 ruined hall these flowers we lay, 
 Where thy soul once held its palace ; 
 When the rose to thy scent and sight was gay, 
 
 SE So a ee oe Uy 
 
 = =. 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 107 
 
 And the smile was in the chalice, 
 And the cithara’s silver voice 
 Could bid thy heart rejoice, 
 
 When night eclipsed the day. 
 
 Here a new group advancing, turned the tide of the 
 music into a quicker and more joyous strain ; — 
 
 TE: 
 
 r 
 
 Death, death, is the gloomy shore, 
 Where we all sail, — 
 
 Soft, soft, thou gliding oar; 
 Blow soft, sweet gale! 
 
 Chain with bright wreaths the Hours; 
 Victims if all, 
 
 Ever, ’mid song and flowers, 
 Victims should fall ! 
 
 Pausing for a moment, yet quicker and quicker danced 
 the silver-footed music :— 
 
 Since Life ’s so short, we ’ll live to laugh, 
 Ah, wherefore waste a minute ? 
 
 If youth’s the cup we yet can quaff, 
 Be love the pearl within it! 
 
 A third band now approached with brimming cups, 
 which they poured in libation upon that strange altar : 
 -and once more, slow and solemn, rose the changeful 
 | melody :— 
 
 III. 
 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! 
 All hail, dark Guest! 
 
108 
 
 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEIL 
 
 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 we the Host! 
 And thou, Dead Shadow, thou, 
 All joyless though thy brow, 
 Thou, — but our passing Guest / 
 
 At this moment she who sat beside Apecides suddenly 
 took up the song : — 
 
 IV. 
 
 Happy is yet our doom, 
 The earth and the sun are ours! 
 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! 
 Clasped to thy guardian breast, . 
 Soft let me sink to rest : 
 But wake me, — ah, wake! 
 And tell me with words and sighs, 
 But more with thy melting eyes, 
 That my sun is not set, — 
 That the Torch is not quenched at the Urn, 
 That we love, and we breathe, and burn, 
 Tell me, — thou lov’st me yet! 
 
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 
 Be a sortadd 
 
 It was a large room, that opened at once on the con- 
 fined and crowded lane. Before the threshold was a 
 group of men whose iron and well-strung muscles, whose 
 short and Herculean necks, whose hardy and _ reckless 
 countenances, indicated 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 some- 
 what 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 scripte,” which certain of the blundering 
 learned have mistaken for chess, though it rather, per- 
 | haps, resembled backgammon of the two, and was 
 
110 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 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 hubitual indolence of these tavern loungers. Yet, 
 despite the situation of the house and the character of its 
 inmates, 1t indicated none of that sordid squalor which 
 would hve 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 colors — 
 which decorated the walls, and the shapes, fantastic, but 
 not inelegant, in which the lamps, the drinking-cups, the 
 commonest household utensils, 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 care- 
 lessly 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. a 
 ‘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.”2 
 
 1 The place to which the killed or i nortally wounded were — 
 
 dragged from the arena. "i ae 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. Tit 
 
 “Croakest thou thus, old raven!” returned the gladia- 
 tor, 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 cer- 
 tainly shall, my first vow to Hercules shall be to forswear 
 thee and thy vile potations evermore.” 
 
 | “ Hear to him, — hear to this modest Pyrgopolinices ! 
 
 He has certainly served under Bombochides Cluninstari- 
 dysarchides,”! cried the host. “Sporus, N iger, Tetrai- 
 des, he declares he shall win the purse from you. Why, 
 by the gods! each of your muscles is strong enough to 
 stifle all his body, or Z know nothing of the arena!” 
 
 “Ha!” said the gladiator, coloring 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 valor 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 
 spurted from the fingers’ ends over the garments of the 
 bystanders. 
 
 They set up a savage laugh. 
 
 “‘T will teach thee, young braggart, to play the Mace- 
 
 __1 “Miles Gloriosus,” Act I.; as much as to say, in modern 
 phrase, “ He has served under Bombastes Furioso.” 
 
 - 
 , 
 We 
 
Bd ape THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 donian 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 retirement 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 fallen rock, 
 he fell, while over him fell also his ferocious foe. 
 
 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 assistance 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 
 
 1 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. 113 
 
 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. 
 
 ‘“‘ Von habeo, ye liars ; I have not goé it!” shouted the 
 host, as with a mighty effort he wrenched himself from 
 those deadly hands, and rose to his feet, breathless, pant- 
 ing, 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. 
 
 ' “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 endeavoring 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 pugi 
 listic, started back in alarm. 
 
 8 
 
114 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 “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 contemptuously 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 retired into their wonted size. He 
 shook himself with a complacent grunt, satisfied that he 
 was still alive, and then looking 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 vir- 
 tue ; give me thy hand, my hero!” 
 
 “Jolly old Burbo!” cried the gladiators, applaud- 
 ing; ‘“‘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 training 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 say they will come here to pay you — 
 
, eee 
 
 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEIL. ‘© 115 
 
 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 honorable 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 sesterces.” 
 
 “Ho! ho! I will join him,” said Burbo ; “ meanwhile, 
 I say, 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 apartment, 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. 
 
 i 
 
116 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEIL. 
 
 * 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, which of you will fight the Numidian 
 lion in case no malefactor should be found to deprive you 
 of the option ?” 
 
 “‘T 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 Nep- 
 tune,” 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. Besides, she has often other 
 employments which lie under the rose.” 
 
 “Other employments!” said Niger; “why, she is too — 
 
 {7 
 
 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 
 
 1 Son of Neptune, —a Latin phrase for a boisterous, ferocious — 
 
 fellow. 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEIL 117 
 
 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 remem- 
 berest Staphyla, Niger?” 
 
 “Ay, a large-handed wench with a face like a comic 
 mask. How should I forget her, by Pluto, whose hand- 
 maid she doubtless 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 poor Staphyla, and 
 money was so scarce, that I was 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 
 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?’ saidI. ‘Thessalian.”” Now I 
 knew the Thessalians 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 Pom- 
 peii. So I was forced to go home in a very ill humor, 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 
 
118 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEIL.: 
 
 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, 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-— 
 
 | 
 | 
 
 1 The Thessalian slave-merchants were celebrated for purloining | 
 
 persons of birth and education; they did not always spare those of 
 
 by this barter of flesh. 
 
 | 
 their own country. Aristophanes sneers bitterly at that people | 
 
 (proverbially treacherous) for their unquenchable desire of gain 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 118 
 
 Yaw : for so, as now, did the heroes of the prize-figh; 
 imagine they best sustained 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. 
 
120 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEIL 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 Two Worthies. 
 
 In the earlier times of Rome the priesthood was 4 
 profession not of lucre but of honor. 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 pro- 
 fession 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 subse- 
 quently the choice of the people. The less national and 
 less honored deities were usually served by plebeian minis- 
 ters; 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 received from them a 
 liberal education, and from his father a small patrimony, ; 
 which he had soon exhausted. He embraced the priest- ; 
 hood as a last resource from distress. Whatever the | 
 state emoluments of the sacred profession, which at that 
 time were probably small, the officers of a popular temple : 
 could never complain of the profits of their calling. There | 
 
 tits 
 
 1 
 j 
 . 3 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 121 
 
 is no profession so lucrative as that which practises on 
 _ the superstition 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 hypoc- 
 risy 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 pas- 
 sage 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 count- 
 ing 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 hand- 
 somely, and you ought to thank me for recommending 
 
 you to so advantageous a market.” 
 
 “T 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 
 
122 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 Isis, Pisis, and Nisis, or whatever other gods there may 
 be in Egypt, my little Nydia isa 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 isa 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 secresy.” 
 
 ‘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 confes- 
 sion 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. 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 123. 
 
 “Tush!” whispered the host, “it is but the blind 
 girl,” as Nydia opened the door, and entered the apart- 
 ment. 
 
 “Ho! girl, and how durst thou? Thou lookest pale, — 
 thou has 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 seats with an air of lassitude. Her color 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!” 
 
 ““T 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.” 
 
 “T will raise the city with my cries,” said she, passion- 
 ately ; and the color mounted to her brow. 
 
 “We will take care of that too; thou shalt go 
 gagged.” 
 
 “Then may the gods help me!” said Nydia, rising ; 
 “‘T will appeal to the magistrates.” 
 
 “ Thine oath remember !” said a hollow voice, as for the 
 first time Calenus joined in the dialogue. 
 
 At these words a trembling shook the frame of the 
 unfortunate girl; she clasped her hands imploringly, 
 “Wretch that I am!” she cried, and burst violently inte 
 sobs. 
 
 Whether or not it was the sound of that vehement 
 
124 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 _.. sorrow which brought the gentle Stratonice to the 
 we 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. Ve capite tuo, — vengeance on pan 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 Stratonice ; she embraced her knees, and looking 
 
 * up at her with those sightless but touching eyes, — 
 
 “Q 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 labor than that 
 of weaving the flowers which made her pleasure or her 
 trade, — ‘stuff! these fine scruples are not for slaves.” : 
 
 “Hark ye,” said Burbo, drawing forth his purse, and | 
 chinking 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.” Me | 
 
 “The girl is tired,” said Stratonice, nodding to Cale- | 
 nus; “she will be more docile when you next want her.” | 
 
 “ 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 mast see with those eyes! ” muttered he. 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 125 
 
 “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,” said Burbo, impatiently ; “I hate 
 these whimperings.” 
 
 “Come!” said Stratonice, pushing the poor child by 
 the shoulders. 
 
 Nydia drew herself aside, with an air to which resolu- 
 tion 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, “ Com- 
 mand 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 pretor himself: 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. That thought itself appeared to 
 strike her, for she suspended the blow, changed her pur- 
 pose, 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 piereingly through the hevse. 
 
 @ 
 
126 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 Glaucus makes a Purchase that afterwards costs him dear. 
 
 “ Honua, 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 
 
 honors 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 
 
 © yoices were therefore the dispensers of amphitheatrical 
 
 reputation. 
 
 “What fine animals!” said Clodius to Glaucus: 
 “worthy to be gladiators!” 
 
 _ “Tt isa 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 eagerness 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 Jost 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 _ 
 
 p* 
 
’ THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 127 
 
 Fivescourt ; so have we seen them admire, and gaze, and 
 calculate a bet; so have we seen them meet together, in 
 ludicrous yet in melancholy assemblage, the two extremes 
 of civilized society, the patrons of pleasure and _ its 
 slaves — vilest of all slaves —at once ferocious and mer- - 
 cenary ; male prostitutes, who sell 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 o 
 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, well fill the purse, my Hector,” said 
 Clodius: ‘let me see,— you fight against Niger? 
 Glaucus, a bet, —I back Niger.” 4 
 
 “T 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 
 nobieness, in his face, which his profession had not yet 
 wholly destroyed. 
 
 “Tt is Lydon, a youngster, practised only with the 
 
 1 Little more than £80. 
 
128 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 wooden sword as yet,” answered Niger, condescendingly. 
 * But he has tha 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. 
 
 “Ts 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 com-. 
 panions, extended an arm which, if not so huge in its 
 
 girth as those of his comrades, was so firm in its mus- 
 
 Ae so beautifully symmetrical in its proportions, that 
 
 the three visitors uttered simultaneously an admiring 
 exclamation. 
 
 ‘Well, man, what is your weapon?” said Clodius, 
 tablet in hand. 
 
 “Weare 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 con- 
 test ; you are far too thin for it, — avoid the cestus.” 
 
 “ T cannot,” said Lydon. 
 
 * And why?” 
 
 “‘T have said, — because he has challenged me.” 
 
 “ But he will not hold you to the precise weapon.” 
 
 “ My honor holds me!” returned Lydon, proudly. 
 
 “T bet on Tetraides, two to one, at the cestus,” said — 
 Clodius; ‘“‘shall it be, Lepidus?—even betting, with | 
 swords.” i 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 129 
 
 “Tf 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. 
 
 “TI will take the odds three to one.” 
 
 “Ten sestertia to thirty.” 
 
 aah Ces: ee 
 
 Clodius wrote the bet in his book. 
 
 “Pardon me, noble sponsor mine,” said Lydon, in a 
 low voice to Glaucus; “but how much think you the 
 victor will 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 honor, and not the money. O Italians ‘ 
 
 everywhere ye are Italians!” : 
 A blush mantled over the bronzed cheek of the % 
 gladiator. 
 “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.” 
 “T 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 extremity of the room. 
 
 “And Stratonice, the brave old lass, where is she?” 
 quoth Lepidus. 
 1 The reader will not confound the sestert/i with the sestertia. 
 
 A sestertium, which was a sum, not a coin, was a thousand times 
 the value of a sestertius ; the first was equivalent to £8, ls. 5} d., 
 
 the last to 1d. 3} farthings of our money. 
 
 9 
 
130 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 ‘‘'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, 
 Clodius, 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 arose. 
 
 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 
 
 “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 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 !” 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. P31 
 
 “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 Athe- 
 nian never forsook distress ! ” 
 
 “Holla!” said Burbo, rising reluctantly, “ what tur- 
 moil is all this about a slave? Let go the young gentle- 
 man, 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 helpmate. 
 
 “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, care- 
 lessly. ‘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!” cried Nydia, 
 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 whis- 
 pered 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 consoling 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 that 
 earth made most happy, comforting one that earth had 
 abandoned. 
 
32 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 _ “Well, who could have thought our blind Nydia had 
 been so honored?” 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 toa 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 see / 
 
 ‘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 
 
 yo 
 
 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 embarrass- © 
 ment. ‘ 
 “The girl is worth her weight in gold to me.” 
 ‘“¢ Name your price, I am rich,” said Glaucus. 4 
 The ancient Italians were like the modern: there was : 
 nothing they would not sell, much less a poor blind girl. 
 ‘ ? paid six sestertia for her; she is worth twelval | 
 now,” muttered Stratonice. > : 
 | 
 
 aH 
 | 
 
 4% 
 
 “You shall have twenty; come to the meget aby i 
 once, and then to my house for your money.” | 
 “JT 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 amphitheatre, noble Clodius ? —it would just suit me.” 
 e. 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEIL 133: 
 
 “Thou shalt have it,” said Clodius, adding in a 
 whisper to Burbo, ‘Yon Greek can make your foe: } 
 money runs through him like a sieve. Mark to-day with 
 white chalk, my Priam.” 
 
 “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? Oh, 
 happiness!” 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, — 
 
 “T thought I was to go to your house ?” 
 
 “And so thou shalt for the present; come, we lose 
 time.” 
 
fe ys 
 
 134 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEI 
 
 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 knowing 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 conscious- 
 ness of certain qualities that it cannot reveal to the every- 
 day world, that gives to genius that shy and reserved 
 
 and troubled air which puzzles and flatters you when you 
 
 encounter it. 
 Ione, then, knew her genius ; but, with that charming 
 
 versatility 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 spark- | 
 
 ling fountain threw its waters alike upon the strand, the 
 
 cavern, and the flowers ; it refreshed, it smiled, it dazzled _ 
 everywhere. That pride which is the necessary result of | 
 
 superiority, she wore easily, —in her breast it concentred 
 itself in independence. She pursued thus her own bright 
 and solitary path. She asked no aged matron to direct 
 
 and guide her, —she walked alone by the torch of her — 
 own unflickering purity. She obeyed no tyrannical and — 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 135 
 
 monest action: a word, a look, from her seemed magic. 
 Love her, and you entered into a new world 3 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 listen- 
 ing to exquisite music ; you were steeped in that senti- 
 ment which has so little of earth in it, and which musie 
 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 _fas- 
 cinate 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 completely chained and subdued 
 the mysterious but burning soul of the Egyptian, a man 
 in whom dwelt the fiercest passions. Her beauty and 
 her soul alike inthralled him. 
 
 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 that very isolation put her yet 
 more from him than from the vulgar. Far as the poles, 
 — far as the night from day, his solitude was dividea 
 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 Ione thus inthralled the 
 Egyptian, far less strange was it that she had captured, 
 
136 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 as suddenly as irrevocably, the bright and sunny heart of 
 the Athenian. The gladness of a temperament which 
 seemed woven from the beams of light had led Glaucus 
 into pleasure. He obeyed no more vicious dictates when 
 he wandered into the dissipations of his time, than the 
 exhilarating voices of youth and health. He threw the 
 brightness of his nature over every abyss and 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 sympathy that united him to them. He felt, it 
 is true, the impulse 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 jailer, and the very virtues 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 civilization, 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 pretorships 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 concen- 
 trated 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 caresses of your friends. But in large states, the city | 
 is but the court: the provinces — unknown to you, unfa- 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 137 
 
 miliar in customs, perhaps in language — have no claim 
 on your patriotism ; the ancestry of their inhabitants is 
 not yours. In the court you desire favor 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, mourn-/ 
 ing for their republics, into one empire ; false, pernicious 
 delusion ! your only hope of regeneration 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 
 everywhere ; 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 transcending the natural proportions of 
 health and vigor. 
 
 Thus thrown back upon themselves, the more ardent 
 qualities of Glaucus found no vent, save in that over- 
 flowing imagination which gave grace to pleasure, and 
 poetry to thought. Ease was less despicable than con- — 
 tention 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 Ione. 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 favorable to glory, could be a triumph more 
 
 _ exalted and elating than the conquest of one noble 
 heart? 
 
138 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 And whether it was that this sentiment inspired him, 
 his ideas glowed more brightly, his soul seemed more 
 awake and more visible, in Ione’s presence. If natural 
 
 to love her, it was natural that she should return the 
 
 passion. Young, brilliant, eloquent, enamoured, and Athe- 
 nian, he was to her as the incarnation 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 everyday earth ; they belonged of right to the Satur- 
 nian 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 Ione was independent in her choice of Bi 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 coarse- 
 ness, 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 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, — 
 humileation / Yet her love, perhaps, was no less alarmed 
 than her pride. If one moment she murmured reproaches 
 upon Glaucus, — if one moment 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.” 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 139 
 
 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 Ione —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 candor, 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 Lycian 
 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 Ione slept not, nor disdained to hear. Those soft 
 strains ascended to her chamber ; they soothed, they sub- 
 dued her. While she listened, she believed nothing 
 against her lover; but when they were stilled at last, and 
 his step departed, the spell ceased, and, in the bitterness 
 of her soul, she almost conceived in that delicate flattery 
 a new affront. 
 
 1 Atheneus: “The true temple of Cupid is the house of the 
 beloved one.” 
 
140 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII 
 
 I said she was denied to all; but there was one excep- 
 tion, 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 Ione’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 sub- 
 due. Utterly unaware of his real character or his hidden 
 love, she felt for him the reverence 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 pas- 
 sions 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 presence 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 for- 
 bidding his visits. She was passive under the influence 
 which created in her breast, not the repugnance, but 
 something of the stillness of terror. 
 
 Arbaces himself now resolved to exert all his arts to 
 possess himself of that treasure he so burningly coveted. 
 He was cheered and elated by his conquests over her 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 14] 
 
 brother. From the hour in which Apecides fell beneath 
 the voluptuous sorcery of that féte which we have 
 described, he felt his empire over the young priest 
 triumphant and insured. He knew that there is no vie- 
 tim so thoroughly subdued as a young and fervent man 
 for the first time delivered to the thraldom of the senses. 
 When Apecides 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, appalled. His vows of austerity and celibacy 
 echoed in his ear ; his thirst after holiness, —had it been 
 quenched at so unhallowed 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 philoso- 
 phy 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 confused 
 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 metaphysical moralities, he caught at the 
 excuse by which the Egyptian converted vice into a vir: 
 tue. His pride was insensibly flattered that Arbaces had 
 _deigned to rank him with himself, to set him apart from 
 
 Tra, 
 aoe, 
 \ 
 
142 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 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, —‘‘ observe 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 denoted 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 them- 
 selves 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 
 eross 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 
 
 1 The believer will draw from this vague coincidence a very dif: 
 ferent corollary from that of the Egyptian. | 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 143 
 
 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 something ; and undivided and, at last, unreluctant, 
 he surrendered himself to that. belief which Arbaces 
 inculeated, 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 contributed 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 Ione 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 consummate art, partly to confirm her 
 impression against Glaucus, and principally to prepare 
 her for the impressions he desired her to receive. The 
 proud Ione took care to conceal the anguish she endured ; 
 and the pride of woman has an hypocrisy which can 
 deceive the most penetrating, and shame the most astute. 
 But Arbaces was no less cautious not to recur to a sub- 
 ject 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 indifference of tone, as if you could 
 not dream that he could be loved. Your safety is in con- 
 cealing the wound to your own pride, and imperceptibly 
 alarming that of the umpire, whose voice is fate. Such, 
 
144 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 in all times, will be the policy ef 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 inno- 
 cence and its grace. Sometimes he slightly alluded to 
 some invented debauch, in which he declared them com- 
 panions ; sometimes he adverted to them as the antipodes 
 of those lofty and spiritual natures to whose order that 
 of Ione belonged. Blinded alike by the pride of Ione, 
 and, perhaps, by his own, he dreamed not that she already 
 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 whom he pre- 
 tended to undervalue. 
 
 It was on the fourth day from the date of the close of 
 the previous book that Arbaces and Ione sat together. 
 
 “You wear your veil at home,” said the Egyptian ; 
 “that is not fair to those whom you honor with your 
 friendship.” 
 
 ‘‘But to Arbaces,” answered Ione, 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 ?” 
 
 “JT do look only to the mind,” replied the Egyptian ; 
 “ show me, then, your face, — for there I shall see it!” 
 
 ‘You grow gallant in the air of Pompeii,” said Jone, 
 with a forced tone of gayety. 
 
 “Do you think, fair Ione, that it is only at Pompeii 
 that I have learned to value you?” The Egyptian’s: 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEIL 145 
 
 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 ancestors, 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 sympa- 
 thies 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 emo- 
 tions ; it asks beauty, it is true, but it is the beauty of 
 the thought and of the spirit. Such is the love, O Ione, 
 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 Ione; 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! Friendship, it is the bond that unites the 
 frivolous hearts of a Glaucus and a Clodius! Friend- 
 ship, 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 
 : 1 Plato. 
 
 10 
 
146 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 in the alabaster vase, glowing with fragrant odors, but 
 shining only through the purest vessels. No; it is not 
 love, and it is not friendship, that Arbaces feels for Ione. 
 Give it no name, — earth 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 lan- 
 guage 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. Jone trembled, though she knew not 
 why ; her veil hid her features, and masked an expres- 
 sion which, if seen by the Egyptian, would have at once 
 damped and enraged him ; in fact, he never was more. 
 displeasing to her, — the harmonious modulation of the 
 most suasive voice that ever disguised unhallowed thought 
 fell discordantly on her ear. Her whole soul was still 
 filled with the image of Glaucus, and the accent of ten- 
 derness from another only revolted and dismayed ; vet 
 she did not conceive that any passion more ardent than — 
 that platonism which Arbaces expressed 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 adytus — 
 of her heart ? i | 
 
 Anxious at once to change the conversation, she — 
 replied, therefore, with a cold and indifferent voice, — 
 ‘ Whomsoever Arbaces honors with the sentiment of — 
 esteem, it is natural that his elevated wisdom should | 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 147 
 
 color 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, Ione,” 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 temperament, which ever ebbs and 
 flows, and vibrates between excitement and exhaustion. 
 But he, Ione, he came to me in his anxieties and his dis- 
 tress ; 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 Ione. ‘ 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 Ione, forgetting the displeasing effect of 
 his former words, was carried away, despite her sadness, 
 by the magic of his intellect. Her manner became unre- 
 strained 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 
 
148 THE LAST DAYS. OF POMPEII. 
 
 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 perceive 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 yon some notion of that antique 
 civilization which has humanized 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 honored with the presence of the 
 admired Jone.” 
 
 Unconscious of the pollutions of the mansion, of ‘the 
 danger that awaited her, Ione 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 POMPEIL 149 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 fa AA 
 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 creation, 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 fluctu- 
 ated; 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 
 
 1 T 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. 
 
150 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 possessors deserted it for many days; on their veturn 
 they cleared away the ruins which encumbered the viri- 
 darium, and found still the tortoise, unharmed and 
 unconscious of the surrounding destruction. It seemed 
 to bear a charmed life in its languid blood and imper- 
 ceptible 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 philosopher concentrated in itself. 
 There was something grand in 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 
 wisdom, 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 ; unwitting 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 moralizing 
 over its mechanism. He despised it in joy, — he envied : 
 it in sorrow. 
 
 Regarding it now as he lay along the sward, its dull 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPETI. 151 
 
 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 ee what hairbreadth difference separates thy sorrow 
 from thy joy! Yet, methinks, thou wouldst know if Ione 
 were present! Thou wouldst feel her coming like a hap- 
 pier 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 have passed since I heard her 
 voice. For the first time, life grows flat tome. I am as 
 -one who is left alone at a banquet, the lights dead, and 
 the flowers faded. Ah, Ione, 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 bor- 
 dered 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 odor. 
 She touched them timidly and caressingly. She felt, 
 along their stems, if any withered leaf or creeping insect 
 
a 
 ee. 
 
 152 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII, 
 
 marred their beauty. And as she hovered from flower to 
 flower, with her earnest and youthful countenance 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, — listen- 
 ing, 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 unerringly 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 [touch- 
 ing her broidered tunic] with garments more meet for thy 
 delicate shape; and now, sweet child, that thou hast 
 
 accustomed thyself to a happiness which may the gods | 
 
 grant thee ever!—TI am about to pray at thy hands a 
 boon.” 
 
 “Oh, what can I do for thee?” said Nydia, clasping 
 her hands. 
 
 “ Listen,” said Glaucus, “and, young as thou art, thou — 
 shalt be my confidant. Hast thou ever heard the name — 
 
 ~ of Ione?” | 
 The blind girl gasped for breath, and, turning pale as | 
 
 one of the statues which shone upon them from the peri- — 
 style, she answered with an effort, and after a moment’s- 
 
 pause, — 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 153 
 
 “Yes; I have heard that she is of Neapolis, and 
 beautiful.” 
 
 “ Beautiful, — her beauty is a thing to dazzle the day. 
 Neapolis!— nay, she is Greek, by origin; Greece only 
 
 could furnish forth such shapes. Nydia, I love her !” 
 
 “T 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 Ione,” 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 kindness, — 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 Ione’s will become the same, and thou shalt dwell 
 with both.” 
 
 = Fate 
 
154 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 Ione’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 | 
 modulation 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 
 Ione ; 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 unkindness ; 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 accents she reproves. Be my 
 friend, plead for me, — and oh, how vastly wilt thou over- 
 pay the little I have done for thee! Thou compre- 3 
 hendest, Nydia; thou art yet a child,—have I said | 
 more than thou canst understand?” | 
 
 No” 
 
 “ And thou wilt serve me?” 
 
 Pes” 
 
 “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?” 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 155 
 
 “Sayst 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 not grieve even in leaving thee, if she can con- 
 tribute to thy happiness.” 
 
 ‘May the gods bless this grateful heart!” said Glaucus, 
 greatly moved ; and, unconscious of the fires he excited, 
 he repeatedly 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 —” 
 
 “‘T 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 admonition. She paused for 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 murmured, — 
 
 “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!” 
 
156 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 The Happy Beauty and the Blind Slave. 
 
 A suave entered the chamber of Ione. A messenger 
 from Glaucus desired to be admitted. 
 
 Tone 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, Ione 
 felt the impossibility of returning a chilling reply. 
 Glaucus had chosen a herald that was indeed sacred, — a 
 herald that could not be denied. 
 
 “What can he want with me; what message can he 
 send?” and the heart of Jone 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 precious gift. 
 
 She stood still a moment, as if listening for some sound 
 that might direct her. 
 
 “Will the noble Ione,” said she, in a soft and low — 
 voice, ‘ deign to speak, that I may know whither to steer 
 these benighted steps, and that I may lay my offerings at 
 her feet ?” 
 
 “Fair child,” said Ione, 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. 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEIL 157 
 
 “T may give these flowers to none but thee,” answered 
 Nydia; and, guided by her ear, she walked slowly to the 
 place where Ione sat, and, kneeling when she came before 
 her, proffered the vase. 
 
 Ione 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. 
 
 ‘“‘T 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 Ione.” 
 
 The Neapolitan took the letter with a hand the trem- 
 bling 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 Ione, —no less proud, per- 
 haps, in her attitude of submission. Jone waved her 
 hand, and the attendants withdrew; she gazed again 
 upon the form of the young slave in surprise and _ beauti- 
 ful compassion ; then, retiring a little from her, she 
 opened and read the following letter : — 
 
 _ “Glaucus to Ione sends more than he dares to utter. Is 
 _ lone ill ?—thy slaves tell me‘ No,’ and that assurance comforts 
 me. Has Glaucus offended Ione ?— ah, that question I may 
 not ask from them. For five days I have been banished from thy 
 presence. Has the sun shone?—I know it not. Has the 
 sky smiled ?—it has had no smile forme. My sun and my sky 
 are Ione. 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 Iam not of them, — that their 
 clay is not mine. For even were I of the humblest mould, 
 
y 
 
 158 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII, 
 
 the fragrance of the rose has penetrated me, and the spirit of 
 thy nature hath passed within me, to embalms to sanctify, to - 
 inspire. Have they slandered me to thee, Ione? Thou wilt 
 not believe them. Did the Delphic oracle itself tell me thou 
 wert unworthy, I would not believe it ; and am I less ineredu- 
 lous 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, Ione, there is something kin- 
 dred 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 nob meet before a softer and 
 a more ancient altar ? 
 
 ‘¢ Beautiful, adored Ione! If my hot youth and my Athe- 
 nian 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. Ione, deign to see me; thou art gentle to strangers, — 
 wilt thou be less merciful 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 odors they return, —they are the 
 emblem of the love that receives and repays 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 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, atid 7 
 
 docile. She is skilled in music and the song; and she is a_ 
 
 very Chloris! to the flowers. She thinks, Ione, that thou 
 wilt love her ; if thou dost not, send her back to me. aK: 
 
 1 The Greek Flora. 
 
aa ; 
 
 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEIL» ~~ 159 
 
 ‘¢ One word more, —let me be bold, Ione. 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 som- 
 bre mien; our lips smile, but our eyes are grave, — they 
 observe, they note, they study. Arbaces is not one to be 
 credulously trusted ; can it be that he hath wronged me to 
 thee? I think it, for I left him with thee; thou sawest how 
 my presence stung him ; since then thou has not admitted me. 
 Believe nothing that he can say to my disfavor; if thou 
 dost, tell me so at once ; for this Ione owes to Glaucus. Fare- 
 well! 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 Ione, 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 moment 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 believed 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, she 
 placed 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 
 answer to this letter?” 
 
 “You will answer it, then!” said Nydia, coldly. 
 “Well, the slave that accompanied me will take back 
 your answer.” 
 
 “For you,” said Ione, “stay with me, —trust me; 
 you service shall be light.” 
 ‘Nydia bowed her head. 
 
160 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEIL 
 
 “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 Ione, caressingly, 
 “as thou art already half a countrywoman. Meanwhile, 
 I beseech thee, stand not on these cold and glassy mar- 
 bles. There, now that thou art seated, I can ideas thee 
 for an instant.” i 
 
 “Tone to Glaucus greeting: Come to me, Glaucus,” 
 wrote Ione, — “come to me to-morrow. I may have been 
 unjust to thee; but I will tell thee, at least, the fault that 
 has been imputed 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 Jone 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 ?” 
 
 Rok nave." 
 
 ‘And will he thank the messenger who gives to him 
 thy letter?” 
 
 Ione forgot that her companion was blind; she blushed — 
 
 from the brow to the neck, and remained silent. 
 “‘T mean this,” added Nydia, in a calmer tone; “the 
 lightest word of coldness from thee will sadden him, — 
 
 the lightest kindness will rejoice. If it be the first, leh 
 
 the slave take back thine answer; if it be the last, let 
 me, —I will return this evening.” 
 
 ‘And why, Nydia,” asked Ione, evasively, “ wouldst 
 thou be the bearer of my letter?” 
 
 | 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 161 
 
 “Tt is so, then!” said Nydia. ‘“ Ah, how could it be 
 otherwise ; who could be unkind to Glaucus ?” 
 
 “My child,” said Ione, a little more reservedly than 
 before, “thou speakest warmly, —Glaucus, then, is 
 amiable in thine eyes ?” 
 
 “Noble Ione! 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 Ione ; 
 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 Iam from 
 home when thou returnest, —as this evening, 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 Ione, and then said, 
 with some embarrassment, — 
 
 ““Qne favor, fair Ione, — 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 Ione, but, as she 
 spoke, gently and slowly passed her hand over the bend- 
 ing 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, 
 ; ll 
 
 SS 
 - 
 
162 : THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 f 
 of youth, of genius, of the soul, which modern critics have 
 supposed the representation of Psyche.1 
 
 Her touch lingered over the braided hair and polished 
 brow; over the downy and damask cheek; over the 
 dimpled lip, the swan-like and whitest neck. “I know, 
 now, that thou art beautiful,” she said; “and I can pic- 
 ture thee to my darkness henceforth and forever!” 
 
 When Nydia left her, Ione sank into a deep but delt- 
 cious reverie. Glaucus then loved her; he owned it, — 
 yes, he loved her. She drew forth again that dear con-. 
 fession; 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 for- 
 gotten the promise. Her first impression was to renounce 7 
 it; her second, was to laugh at her own fears of her eldest . 
 surviving friend. She hastened to add the usual orna- : 
 ments to her dress, and, doubtful whether she should yet 4 
 question the Egyptian more closely with respect to his 4 
 
 accusation of Glaucus, or whether ‘she should wait till, — 
 
 without citing the authority, she should insinuate to 4 
 Glaucus the accusation itself, she took her way to the if 
 gloomy mansion of Arbaces. a 
 
 1 The wonderful remains of the statue so called in the Museo : 
 Borbonico. The face, for sentiment and for feature, is the mos 
 beautiful of all which ancient sculpture has bequeathed to us. 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEIL 163 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 Tone Entrapped.— The Mouse tries to gnaw the Net. 
 
 “O pearEst Nydia!” exclaimed Glaucus, as he read the 
 letter of Ione, “ whitest-robed messenger that ever passed 
 between earth and heaven, —how, how shall I thank 
 thee?” 
 - “T 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 Ione; a thousand times, forgetting her misfor- 
 ‘tune, he questioned 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 dismissed 
 her to Ione 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 
 
164 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 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 porticos 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 glit-— 
 
 tering streets. 
 
 In the mean time Nydia once more gained the house — 
 of Ione, who had long left it ; she inquired indifferently _ 
 
 whither Ione had gone. 
 The answer arrested and appalled her. : 
 “To the house of Arbaces, —of the Egyptian? 
 Impossible !” 
 “Tt is true, my little one,” said the slave who had 
 
 replied to her question. ‘She has known the Egyptian — 
 
 long.” 
 
 “Tong! 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 | 
 
 rumored scandal of Pompeii be true, it would be better, 
 perhaps, if she had not ventured there at present. But 
 she, poor mistress mine, hears nothing of that which 
 reaches us; the talk of the vestibulum reaches not to the. 
 peristyle.” } 
 
 sure }” 
 1 Terence. 
 
 “Never till now!” repeated Nydia. “ Art thou 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. "165 
 
 “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 
 learned 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 Ione 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 Ione 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?” 
 
 “ Apecides.” 
 
 “T know it all,” muttered Nydia : “ brother and sister, 
 then, are to be both victims! Apzcides! yes, that was 
 ‘the name I heard in — Ha! he well, then, knows the 
 peril that surrounds his sister ; I will go to him.” 
 
 i Peek aa 
 
166 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 She sprang up at that thought, and taking the staff 
 which always guided her steps, she hastened to the neigh- 
 boring shrine of Isis. Till she had been under the guar- 
 _ dianship of the kindly Greek, that staff had sufficed to 
 conduct the poor blind girl from corner to corner of 
 Pompeii. Every street, every turning in the more fre- 
 quented 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 Ione’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 Pol- 
 lux 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 rails. 
 ‘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 adh one flamen, at least, watching in the 
 shrines of Isis.” 
 The slave called, — no one appeared. 
 '“Seest thou no one?” 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 167 
 
 “ 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 meditation. 
 
 “TI see a figure,” said he ; “and by the white garments 
 it 18 a priest.” 
 
 “OQ 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 mem- 
 ber 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 Apzcides?” 
 
 “T 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 naturally imagined some superstition, connected, 
 perhaps, with the safety of Ione, 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 Apacides ?” 
 
 “If thou knowest me, canst thou not recall my 
 features ?” 
 
 “TI am blind,” answered Nydia; “my eyes are in my 
 ‘ear, and that recognizes thee; yet swear that thou art 
 
 he.” 
 
 \ 
 
 ~ 
 ee 
 — 
 
168 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 “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 Apecides, 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 
 recollections it should shame us both to recall. Listen, 
 thou hast a sister.” 
 
 “Speak ! speak ! what of her?” 
 
 “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?” 
 
 “Q gods, he dare not! Girl, if thou mockest me, | 
 tremble! I will tear thee limb from limb!” * | 
 
 “T speak the truth ; and while I speak, Ione 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 he 
 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!” 
 
 “T will dismiss yon slave, be thou my guide and com- 
 rade ; 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 Apecides, retiring into one of 
 
 a 
 AD 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 169 
 
 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! ave there gods? Yes, there is one 
 goddess, at least, whose voice I can command! and that 
 is — Vengeance !” 
 
 Muttering these disconnected thoughts, Apecides, fol- 
 lowed 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. 
 
170 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 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 gray 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 man- 
 
 sion, to defy the prying eyes of curiosity 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 _ surren- a 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 171 
 
 dered himself to the thoughts which his calculation 
 excited. 
 
 “Agam do the stars forewarn me! Some danger, 
 then, assuredly 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 attack- 
 ing, nothing gaining; battles without 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 
 war, — when they promise to the ardor of my wisdom 
 the same results as to the madness of his ambition : per- 
 petual exercise; no certain goal; the Sisyphus task, 
 the mountain and the stone! The stone a gloomy 
 image !— it reminds me that I am threatened with some- 
 what of the same death as the Epirote. Let me look again. 
 ‘ Beware,’ say the shining prophets, ‘how thou passest 
 under ancient roofs or besieged wall 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 moon- 
 light track along the waters glows the rest of my exist- 
 ence. I see honors, happiness, success, shining upon 
 every billow of the dark gulf beneath which I must sink 
 at last. What, then, with such destinies beyond the 
 
 _ peril, shall I succumb to the peril? My soul whispers 
 
 _ hope, it sweeps exultingly beyond the boding hour, it 
 
 wv eeevels i in the future, — its own courage is its fittest omen. 
 
172 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEIL | 
 
 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 
 involuntarily rose. He paced rapidly the narrow space 
 of that star-roofed floor, and, pausing at the parapet, 
 looked again upon the gray 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 withdrew 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 labor was stilled the 
 mighty hum. No lights, save here and there from before 
 the columns of a temple, or in the porticos of the voice- 
 less forum, broke the wan and fluctuating light of the 
 struggling morn. From the heart of the torpid city so 
 soon 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 scattered 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 
 
 1 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!” 
 
 a a = I eS 
 
\ 
 
 \ 
 
 YY 
 j 
 THE LAST DAYS OFF POMPEII. 173 
 
 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, — Stabie! 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 ! ” 
 
 As the Egyptian uttered a prediction which fate so 
 fearfully 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 fea- 
 
 ? Stabiz was indeed no longer a city, but it was still a favorite 
 | site for the villas of the rich. 
 
 wn 
 
174 THE LASt: DAYS OF POMPEIL 
 
 tures almost the colors 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 glittering 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 neh 
 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, not nearly then so steep or so lofty as at 
 present. “For as Rome itself is built on an exhausted 
 voleano, 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 forever. From 
 the gate stretched the long street of tombs, various in size 
 and architecture, 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 aud ashy rocks which 
 testified the past conflagrations, and might have prophe-_ 
 sied — 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 stern ale 
 hue ; why, in those smiling plains, for miles around, —~ 
 to Baiz and Misenum,— the poets had imagined the 
 entrance and thresholds of their hell, —their Acheron, 
 and their fabled Styx: why, in those Phlegre,? 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 char: 
 acters of the Olympian thunderbolt. 
 
 1 Or, Phlegrei Campi, — namely, scorched or burned fields. 
 
Lae 
 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 175 
 
 But it was neither the rugged height of the still vol- 
 tano, nor the fertility of the sloping fields, nor the melan- 
 sholy 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 eom- 
 panion in these unworldly night-watches. The witch of 
 Vesuvius is abroad. What! doth she, too, as the credu © 
 lous imagine, — doth she, too, learn the lore of the oreat 
 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-laborer. 
 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 sEnsz ! — Tone!” 
 
 _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, — Ione shall be mine !” 
 
 ¥ ; 
 
 “e 
 
~ 
 ~ 
 ~ 
 
 176 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII 
 
 The character of Arbaces was one of those intricate 
 and varied webs in which even the mind that sat within 
 +t 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 
 +n one of a sterner 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 pos- q 
 sessed 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, 
 however, 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 inherited 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 brooking neither superior 
 nor equal, he admitted few to his companionship, 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 — 
 
 ah 
 
> 
 
 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. E7Y 
 
 that knowledge which is practical and useful. His dark 
 imagination loved to exercise itself in those more vision- 
 ary 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 disposi- 
 tion and the mysterious traditions of his clime. Dis- 
 missing 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 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 pur- 
 sued science, across her appointed boundaries, into the 
 land of perplexity and shadow. From the truths of} 
 astronomy he wandered into astrological 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 
 favor 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, however, naturalized at Rome 
 (a meet subject for Juvenal’s fiery wit). Intimately con- 
 nected with magic was the worship of Isis, and the 
 Egyptian religion was the means by which was extended 
 te devotion to Egyptian sorcery. The theurgic, or 
 
 12 
 
 ee 
 
CN 
 
 178 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 benevolent magic, — the goetic, or dark and evil necro- 
 mancy, — were alike in pre-eminent repute during the 
 first century of the Christian era; and the marvels of 
 Faustus are not comparable to those of Apollonius.’ 
 Kings, courtiers, and sages, all trembled before the pro- 
 fessors of the dread science. And not the least remarka- 
 ble of his tribe was the formidable and profound Arbaces. 
 His fame and his discoveries were known to all the cul 
 tivators of magic; they even survived himself. But it 
 was not by his real name that he was honored 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 admix- 
 ture and unsettlement of the ancient races, had become 
 common in the country of the Nile ; and there were vari- 
 ous reasons, not only of pride, but of policy (for in youth 
 e had conspired against the majesty of Rome), which 
 “Induced him to conceal his true name 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 Grecia 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 
 
 1 See note (a) at the end. 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 179 
 
 _ 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 
 elevation of his capacities. 
 
 Most men have more or less the passion for power; in be 
 Arbaces that passion corresponded exactly to his charac. 
 
 ! she i hs 
 
 ter. It was not the passion for an external and brute at 2 
 authority. He desired not the purple and the fasces, the 
 insignia of vulgar command. His youthful ambition 
 
 once foiled and defeated, scorn had supphed its place; 
 
 his pride, his contempt for Rome, — Rome, whiéh had 
 become the synonyme of the world ; Rome, whose haughty 
 
 name he regarded with the same disdain as that vhicii 
 Rome herself lavished upon the barbarian, —did not™ 
 permit him to aspire to sway over others, for that would 
 render him at once the tool or creature of the emperor. He, Moy 
 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 ambi- 
 
 tion that coveted nominal distinctions, he but indulged 
 
 the more in the ambition to rule the heart. Honoring 
 mental power as the greatest of earthly gifts, he loved 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 
 
 tule 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, how- 
 
180 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. — 
 
 ever, the vague love of this moral sway (vanity so deat 
 to sages!) he was influenced by a singular and dreamlike 
 devotion to all that belonged to the mystic land his ances- — 
 tors had swayed. Although he disbelieved in her dei- — 
 ties, 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 main- 
 tained the shadow and the recollection of her power. He 
 loaded, therefore, the altars of Osiris and of Tsis 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 con- 
 @°: to himself his peculiar power. Hence the motives 
 
 { his conduct to Apecides, strengthened as these were, — 
 n that instance, by his passion for Ione. 
 
 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 resi- 
 dence. His unsuccessful conspiracy excluded him from 
 those burning climes which he deemed of right his own 
 hereditary possessions, and which now cowered, supine and — 
 sunken, under the wings of the Roman eagle. Rome her- 
 self 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 climate, the imaginative refinements of am 
 voluptuous civilization. He was removed from the sight 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 181 
 
 “hg p 
 
 ‘ 
 
 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 tenor 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 chasing love, and taught by a rest- 
 less 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-mor- 
 row 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 Ione, 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 o 
 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 necessary 
 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 Ione. 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 whoare taught to cultivate the mind, 
 he had contributed willingly to form the genius and 
 enlighten the intellect of Ione, in the hope that she 
 would be thus able to appreciate what he felt would be 
 his best claim to her affection : namely, a character which, 
 
 q 
 
182 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 however criminal and perverted, was rich in its original 
 elements of strength and grandeur. When he felt that 
 character to be acknowledged, 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 
 eomparison with others, she would learn to love herself. 
 He had forgot that, as the sunflower to the sun, so youth 
 turns to youth, until his jealousy of Glaucus suddenly 
 apprised 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 pas- 
 sion 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 soft- 
 ess ; it ceases to be tender ; it assumes something of the 
 tensity — of the ferocity — of hate. 
 
 Arbaces resolved to lose no further time upon cau- 
 tious and perilous preparations: he resolved to place an 
 irrevocable barrier between himself and his rivals; he 
 resolved to possess himself of the person of Ione ; 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 possession. He desired the 
 heart, the soul, no less than the beauty of Ione; but he 
 imagined that, once separated by a daring crime from the 
 rest of mankind,—once bound to Ione by a tie that 
 memory could not break, she would be driven to concen- 
 trate her thoughts in him; that his arts would complete 
 his conquest, 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 pro- — 
 phecies of the stars: they had long foretold to him this — 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 183 
 
 year, and even the present month, as the epoch of some 
 dread disaster menacing life itself. He was driven toa 
 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 Ione should be his own. 
 
184 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 What becomes of Ione in the House of Arbaces. — The First Signal 
 of the Wrath of the Dread Foe. 
 
 Wuen Ione 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 some- 
 thing 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 A£thiopian 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, according to the practice of the 
 luxurious, was artificially darkened, and the lamps cast 
 their still and odor-giving light over the rich floors and 
 ivory roofs. 
 
 “Beautiful Ione,” 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 Ione, smiling; 
 “vou forget that your lore has sufficiently instructed my 
 mind to render these graceful flatteries to my person 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 185 
 
 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 Ione, 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 gayly, 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 splendor 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, — sometimes they passed through silent 
 rows of slaves, who, kneeling as she passed, proffered to 
 her offerings of bracelets, of chains, of gems, which the 
 Egyptian vainly entreated her to receive. 
 
 “JT have often heard,” said she, wonderingly, ‘‘ that 
 you were rich, but I never dreamed of the amount of 
 your wealth.” 
 
 “Would I 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 Ione, laughingly. 
 
 “But thou dost not disdain riches, O Ione! They know 
 ‘not what life is capable of who are not wealthy. Gold is 
 the great magician of earth, it realizes our dreams, it gives 
 them the power of a god, —there is a grandeur, a sub: 
 
 A 
 
186 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEIL 
 
 limity, in its possession ; it is the mightiest, yet the most 
 obedient of our slaves.” 
 
 The artful Arbaces sought to dazzle the young Nea- 
 politan by his treasures and his eloquence ; he sought to 
 awaken in her the desire to be mistress of what she sur- 
 veyed: he hoped that she would confound the owner with 
 the possessions, and that the charms of his wealth would 
 be reflected on himself. Meanwhile Ione 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 deli- 
 cate 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. Noth- 
 ing 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 diffi- 
 culty that he suppressed his emotions ; alas, the feather 
 
 fe 4p é ° 
 _ was only powerful against the summer breezes, — it would 
 
 beathe sport of the storm. 
 ~ Suddenly, as they stood in one hall, which was sur- 
 rounded 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 simultaneously at the feet of Ione, and 
 at the same instant from behind the curtains swelled the 
 invisible and softest music. 
 
 Arbaces placed himself at the feet of Ione, and children, 
 young and beautiful as Loves, ministered to the feast. 
 
 The feast was over, the music sank into a low and sub- 
 dued strain, and Arbaces thus addressed his beautiful — 
 guest :— 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 187 
 
 “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 / have learned, not 
 alone the mysteries of the dead, but also the destiny of 
 the living.” 
 
 “‘ As thou hast learned! Can wisdom attain so far?” 
 
 “Wilt thou prove my knowledge, Ione, and behold 
 the representation of thine own fate? It is a drama 
 more striking than those of A%schylus; 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 t 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, — 
 
 “Tt may revolt, it may terrify ; the knowledge of the 
 future will perhaps only embitter the present !” 
 
 “Not so, Ione. 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 
 thon mayst enjoy it beforehand ?” 
 
188 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 ~ Again the heart of Ione 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 withdrew, 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 descended 
 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 ineffa- 
 ble odors 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 
 Tone, 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; Ione entered, 
 and found herself 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, Ione 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. 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 189 
 
 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, irregu- 
 lar flame; the Egyptian drew back to the side of Ione, 
 and muttered some words in a language unfamiliar to her 
 ear ; the curtain at the back of the altar waved tremu- 
 lously to and fro, — it parted slowly, and in the aperture 
 which was thus made, [one beheld an indistinct and pale 
 landscape, which gradually grew brighter and clearer as 
 she gazed ; at length she discovered plainly trees and 
 rivers and meadows, and all the beautiful diversity of 
 the richest earth. At length, before the landscape, a dim 
 shadow glided; it rested opposite to Ione; 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, Ione 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 Ione; 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 Ione, softly. 
 
 Arbaces raised his hand; the spectre seemed to drop 
 
 | the mantle that concealed its form, and Ione shrieked, — 
 | it was Arbaces himself that thus knelt before her. 
 
 v 
 
190 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 “This is, indeed, thy fate!” whispered again the 
 Egyptian’s voice in her ear. “And thou art destined to 
 be the bride of Arbaces.” 
 
 Ione started, the black curtain closed over the phan- 
 tasmagoria, and Arbaces himself —the real, the living 
 Arbaces — was at her feet. 
 
 “Oh, Ione!” 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, Ione ; 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 passionate as I will be to Ione. Do not struggle in 
 my clasp ; see, —I release thy hand. Take it from me 
 if thou wilt, —well, be it so! But do not reject me, 
 Ione, —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. Ione, 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 ambi- 
 tion, save the pride of obeying thee. Ione, 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! Ione, Ione, do not 
 reject my love!” 
 
 Alone, and in the power of this singular and fearful 
 man, Ione was not yet terrified ; the respect of his lan- 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEIL 191 . 
 
 guage, the softness of his voice, reassured her; and, in — 
 her own purity, she felt protection. But she was con- 
 fused, 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 with- 
 drew again, when she felt upon it the burning pressure of 
 his lips. “ Rise! and if thou art serious, if thy language 
 be in earnest —” 
 
 “Tf /” said he, tenderly. 
 
 “ Well, then, listen to me: you have been my guar- 
 dian, my friend, my monitor; for this new character I 
 was not prepared. Think not,” she added quickly, as she 
 saw his dark eyes glitter with the fierceness of his pas- 
 sion, — “think not that I scorn, that I am untouched, 
 that I am not honored by this homage; but, say, — canst 
 thou hear me calmly ?” 
 
 “Ay, though thy words were lightning, and could 
 blast me!” 
 
 ‘I love another /” said Ione, 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: if is impossible! Whom hast thou seen, — whom 
 known! Oh, Ione! it is thy woman’s invention, thy 
 woman’s art that speaks, — thou wouldst gain time ; [ have 
 ‘surprised, I have terrified thee. Do with meas thou wilt, 
 — say that thou lovest not me, but say not that thou lovest 
 another !” 
 
 “Alas!” began Ione; 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 
 
192 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 fell from her bosom on the ground; Arbaces perceived 
 and seized it, —it was the letter that. morning received 
 from Glaucus. Jone 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 quiver- 
 ing 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, — 
 
 ‘Ts the writer of this the man thou lovest?” 
 
 Tone sobbed, but answered not. 
 
 ‘Speak !” he rather shrieked than said. 
 
 ¢Tt'is,— it 18)” 
 
 “And his name—it is written here — his name is 
 Glaucus !” 
 
 Tone, clasping her hands, looked round as for succor 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 Ione in his arms ; and in that ferocious 
 grasp was all the energy, — less of love than of revenge. 
 
 But to Ione 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, exhausted, and with a loud shriek, at the 
 base of the column which supported the head of the 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 193 
 
 Egyptian goddess. Arbaces paused for a moment, as if 
 to regain his breath, and then once more darted upon 
 his prey. 
 
 At that instant the curtain was rudely torn aside ; 
 the Egyptian felt a fierce and strong grasp upon his 
 shoulder. He turned, —he beheld before him the flash- 
 ing eyes of Glaucus, and the pale, worn, but menacing, 
 countenance of Apecides. “Ah!” he muttered, as he 
 glared from one to the other, “ what Fury hath sent ye 
 hither ?” 
 
 ‘‘ Até,” answered Glaucus, and he closed at once with 
 the Egyptian. Meanwhile Apecides 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 delicate though her shape ; he placed her, 
 therefore, on the couch, and stood over her with a bran- 
 dishing knife, watching the contest 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 wea- 
 pon but those which Nature supplies to rage. Both the 
 antagonists were now locked in each other’s grasp, — the 
 hand of each seeking 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, 
 
 13 
 
194 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII, 
 
 — Arbaces leaning against the column, Glaucus a few 
 paces apart. 
 
 “OQ ancient goddess!” exclaimed Arbaces, clasping the 
 column, and raising his eyes towards the sacred image it 
 supported, ‘protect thy chosen, — proclaim thy ven- 
 geance 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 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 countenance 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. Apecides, 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 for- 
 ward, —his knife gleamed in the air. The watchful 
 Egyptian caught his arm as it descended ; one wrench of © 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEIL. 195 
 
 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 con- 
 vulsive throe,—-a mightier spirit than that of the 
 Egyptian was abroad !—a giant and crushing power, 
 before which sunk into sudden impotence his passion and 
 his arts. Ir 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 rea] clay. Far and wide along the soil went a hoarse 
 and rumbling sound ; the curtains of the chamber shook 
 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 tottered 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, suddenly, 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 convul- 
 sion! Let us worship the providence of the gods!” He 
 
 1a 
 
r 
 
 196 — THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 assisted Apzecides 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 Ione 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 con- 
 trasted in mockery the solemn terror of the hour; they 
 did not appear to heed the strangers, — they were occu- 
 pied only with their own fears. After the tranquillity of 
 sixteen years that burning and treacherous soil again 
 menaced destruction ; they uttered but one ery, ‘‘ THE 
 EARTHQUAKE! THE EARTHQUAKE!” and, passing unmolested 
 from the midst of them, Apecides 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. | 
 
BOOK ITI. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 The Forum of the Pompeians. — The first Rude Machinery by 
 which the New Era of the World was Wrought. 
 
 Ir 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 porticos, the baths, the temples themselves, might be 
 considered their real homes ; it was no wonder that they 
 decorated so gorgeously these favorite 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 assem- 
 bled 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 
 ‘Tound their stalls. On one side, several men in long 
 togas! were seen bustling rapidly up to a stately edifice, 
 { For the lawyers, and the clients, when attending on their 
 
 {patrons, retained the toga after it had fallen into disuse among the 
 tie of the citizens. 
 
198 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 where the magistrates administered justice, — these were 
 the lawyers, active, chattering, joking, and punning, as 
 you may find them at this day in Westminister. In the 
 centre of the space, pedestals supported various statues, 
 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 per- 
 ceive various petty traders exercising the arts of their 
 calling. Here one man was holding out ribbons 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 supplying 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 a 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 J upiter 
 
 j 1 In the Museum at Naples is a picture little known, but repre 
 
 senting one side of the forum at Pompeii as then existing, to which 
 Tam much indebted in the present description. § It may afford a 
 learned consolation to my younger readers to know that the cere: 
 mony of hoisting (more honored in the breach than the observance), 
 
 is of high antiquity, and seems to have been performed with all 
 lepitimate and public vigor in the forum of Pompeii, * f 
 
 | : 
 oy 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 199 
 
 (which filled up one side of the forum, and was the 
 senators’ hall of meeting), nodding with ostentatious con- 
 descension to such of his friends or clients as he distin- 
 guished amongst the throng. Mingling amidst the gay 
 dresses of the better orders you saw the hardy forms of 
 the neighboring 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 swarm- 
 ing 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 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 provisions as the priests had rescued 
 from sacrifice were exposed for sale, . 
 
 f At one of the public edifices appropriated to the busi- 
 hess of the city, workmen were employed upon the 
 columns, and you heard the noise of their labor every 
 ‘now and then rising above the hum of the multitude ; 
 ‘the columns are unfinished to this day! # 
 
 All, then, united, nothing could exceed in variety the 
 ‘costumes, the ranks, the manners, the occupations of the 
 crowd, — nothing could exceed the bustle, the gayety, 
 the animation, the flow and flush of life all around. You 
 Saw there all the myriad signs of a heated and feverish 
 ‘civilization, — where pleasure and commerce, idleness 
 and labor, avarice and ambition, mingled in one gulf their 
 motley, rushing, yet harmonious streams. 
 
 Facing the steps of the Temple of J upiter, with folded 
 ‘ms, and a knit and contemptuous brow, stood a man of 
 
 Pi 
 
200 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 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 pleas- 
 ure, and was now drawn half-way over the head, as a 
 protection from the rays of the sun. The color of his 
 garments was brown, no popular hue with the Pompeians ; 
 all the usual admixtures of scarlet or purple seemed care- 
 fully excluded. His belt, or girdle, contained a small 
 receptacle for ink, which hooked on to the girdle, a stilus 
 (or implement of writing), and- 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 misfortune to be 
 empty ! 
 
 It was not often that the gay and egotistical Pom- 
 peians busied themselves with observing the counte-_ 
 nances and actions of their neighbors ; but there was that. 
 in the lip and eye of this bystander so remarkably bitter 
 and disdainful, as he surveyed 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 com- 
 panion, a jeweller. 
 
 “Tt is Olinthus,” replied the jeweller; “a = | 
 Nazarene.” } 
 
 The merchant shuddered. “A dread sect!” said he, 
 
 1 See note (a) at the end. 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 201 
 
 in a whispered and fearful voice. “It is said that when 
 they meet at nights they always commence their ceremo- 
 nies by the murder of a new-born babe; they profess a 
 community of goods, too, — the wretches! A community 
 of goods! What would become of merchants, or jewel- 
 lers 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 fel- 
 low, passing by my shop the other day, and seeing me 
 employed ona 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; ‘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 !” : 
 
 “These are the incendiaries that burned 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 observed the intent faces of 
 _ the accumulating throng, whispering as they gazed ; and 
 _ surveying them for a moment with an expression, first of 
 
 a 
 
202 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 defiance, and afterwards of compassion, he gathered his 
 cloak round him and passed on, muttering audibly, 
 “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 
 different 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 favored and frequent, 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 counte- — 
 
 nance which he was not slow to recognize. 
 
 Wrapped in a pallium that partially concealed his — 
 
 sacred robes, the young Apecides surveyed the dis- 
 ciple of that new and mysterious creed to which at one 
 time he had been half a convert. 
 
 “Ig 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 combin- 
 ing with the enthusiasm of his faith a profound experi- 
 ence of his kind, guessed, perhaps, by the index of the 
 
 countenance, something of what passed within the breast _ 
 of the priest. He met the survey of Apaecides with a — 
 
 steady eye, and a brow of serene and open candor. 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 203 
 
 “Peace be with thee!” said he, saluting Apacides. 
 
 *‘ Peace ?” echoed the priest, in so hollow at one 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 isa 
 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. 
 Prack be with you!” 
 
 “ Alas!” began Apecides, when he caught the gaze of 
 the curious loiterers, inquisitive to know what could pos- 
 sibly 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 deserted 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 Chris- 
 tianity was in this the type of all other and less mighty revo- 
 lutions, — the grain of mustard-seed was in the hearts of 
 the lowly. Amidst the huts of poverty and labor, the 
 vast stream which afterwards poured its broad waters 
 beside the cities and palaces of earth took its neglected 
 source. 
 
204 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEIL 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 The Noonday Excursion on the Campanian Seas. 
 
 * Bur tell me, Glaucus,” said Ione, as they glided down 
 the rippling Sarnus in their boat of pleasure, ‘ how 
 camest thou with Apzcides to my rescue from that bad 
 man ?” 
 
 “Ask Nydia yonder,” answered the Athenian, point- 
 ing to the blind girl, who sat ata 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 cheerful 
 enough to join. Nydia’s quick ear detected my voice — 
 a few words sufficed to make me the companion of 
 Apecides ; I told not my associates why I left them, — 
 could I trust thy name to their light tongues and gossip- 
 ing 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.” 
 
 Ione 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. 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 205 
 
 “Did I not tell thee that thou shouldst be my sister 
 and friend? Hast thou not already been more, —my 
 guardian, my preserver ! ” 
 
 “Tt is nothing,” answered Nydia, coldly, and without 
 stirring. 
 
 “Ah, I forgot,” continued Ione, — “I should come to 
 thee ;” and she moved along the benches till she reached 
 the Fiabe where Nydia sat, and, flinging her arms caress- 
 ingly round her, covered her cheeks with kisses, 
 
 Nydia was that morning paler than her wont, and her 
 countenance grew even more wan and colorless as she 
 submitted to the embrace of the beautiful Neapolitan. 
 “But how camest thou, Nydia,” whispered Ione, “to 
 surmise so faithfully the danger I was exposed to? 
 Didst thou know aught of the Egyptian ?” 
 
 “Yes, I knewof his vices.” 
 
 * And how ?” 
 
 “Noble Ione, I have been a slave to the vicious, — 
 those whom I served were his minions.” 
 
 “ And thou hast entered his house since thou knewest 
 so well that private entrance ?” 
 
 ‘““T have played on my lyre to Arbaces,” answered the 
 Thessalian, with embarrassment. 
 
 ‘And thou hast eseaped the contagion from which thou 
 hast saved Ione?” returned the Neapolitan, in a voice too 
 low for the ear of Glaucus. 
 
 “Noble Ione, I have neither beauty nor station ; I am 
 a child and aslave and blind. The despicable are ever 
 
 safe.” 
 
 _ It was with a pained and proud and indignant tone 
 that Nydia made this humble reply ; and Jone felt that 
 aa only wounded Nydia by pursuing the subject. She 
 _ remained silent, and the bark now floated into the sea. 
 “Confess that I was right, Ione,” said Glaucus, “in 
 
206 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 prevailing 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 Ione, 
 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 Ione, quickly ; 
 “T gave my ear to what I now know was the malice of 
 slander.” 
 
 “And my slanderer was the Egyptian?” 
 
 Ione’s silence assented to the question. 
 
 *‘ His motives are sufficiently obvious.” 
 
 “Talk not of him,” said Ione, 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 vouchsafato be my friend ?” 
 
 “He is consumed with some secret care,” answered 
 Tone, 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 Ione, rousing herself from the 
 gloom into which her thoughts of Apecides had plunged — 
 her, — “how calmly the clouds seem to repose in heaven; _ 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEIL 207 
 
 and yet you tell me, for I knew it not myself, that the 
 earth shook beneath us last night.” 
 
 “Tt 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 commotion. 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 Thais 
 thee weep?” 
 
 “T 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 appall me), methinks, I was not credulous in any 
 other magic save that of love!” said Glaucus, in a tremu- 
 lous’ voice, and fixing his eyes on Ione. 
 
 “ 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 stillness 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, wander- 
 ing eyes, that ever thrilled those who saw them with a 
 
 mingled fear and pity ; you could never familiarize your- 
 
208 “THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEIL 
 
 self to their aspect. So strange did it seem that those 
 dark wild orbs were ignorant of the day, and either so 
 fixed was their deep mysterious gaze, or so restless and 
 perturbed their glance, that you felt, when you encountered 
 them, that same vague and chilling and half-preternatural 
 impression which comes over you in the presence of the 
 insane ; of those who, having a life outwardly like your 
 own, have a life within life, dissimilar, unsearchable, 
 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 Ione, 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. 
 
 I 
 
 The Wind and the Beam loved the Rose, 
 And the Rose loved one 3 
 
 For who recks the Wind where it blows ? 
 Or loves not the sun ? 
 
 II. 
 None knew whence the humble Wind stole, 
 Poor sport of the skies ; 
 
 None dreamt that the Wind had a soul, 
 In its mournful sighs! 
 
 III. 
 
 Oh, 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! 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 209 
 
 IV. 
 
 How its love can the Wind reveal ? 
 Unwelcome its sigh ; 
 
 Mute — mute to its Rose let it steal : 
 Its proof is to die! 
 
 “Thou singest but sadly, sweet girl,” said Glaucus, 
 ‘thy youth only feels as yet the dark shadow of love ; far 
 other inspiration doth he wake when he himself bursts 
 and brightens upon us.” 
 
 “ T 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. 
 Ione and Glaucus, occupied with each other, perceived 
 not those signs of strange and premature emotions which 
 preyed upon a heart that, nourished by imagination, dis- 
 pensed with hope. 
 
 And now, broad, blue, bright before them, spread that 
 halcyon 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 har- 
 mony with thyself, banishing the thought of austerer 
 labor, 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 chil- 
 dren of Saturn which he hungers ever to devour, seem 
 
 14 
 
210 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 snatched from his grasp. The past, the future, are for- 
 gotten ; we enjoy but the breathing time. Flower of the 
 world’s garden, Fountain of Delight, Italy of Italy, beau- 
 
 *tiful, benign Campania !— vain were, indeed, the Titans, 
 
 if on ie spot they yet struggled for another heaven ! 
 Here, if God meant this working-day life for a perpetual 
 holiday, who would not sigh to dwell forever, — 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 (vanity of vanities!), that love can defy 
 custom, and be eternal ? 
 
 It was, then, in this clime, on those seas, that the 
 Athenian 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, lovin and knowing 
 himself beloved. 
 
 In the tale of human passion, in past ages, there is 
 something 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 IMMORTAL! —-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 Ione, as, half downcast, 
 half averted, they shunned his own, the Athenian, in a 
 low and soft voice, thus expressed the feelings inspired by 
 
 A Oe ee 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 21k 
 
 happier thoughts than those which had colored the song 
 of Nydia : — 
 
 THE SONG OF GLAUCUS. 
 
 I. 
 
 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 hushed, 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 ! 
 
 II. 
 
 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, sweeter to sink while the sky is serene, 
 
 If time hath - change for thy heart ! 
 If to live be to weep over what thou hast been, 
 
 Let me die while I know what thou art! 
 
 As the last words of the song trembled over the sea, 
 Ione 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 
 
 1 Tn allusion to the Dioscuri, or twin stars, the guardian deity of 
 
 the seamen. 
 
212 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 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 Ione, changing a conversa- 
 tion 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 Ione, 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 
 taise the other (dost thou note it?) towards the higher 
 heaven. It is like the ghost of some huge Titan brood- 
 ing 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 Altna 
 still. Perhaps the flames yet lurk and dart beneath.” 
 
 “Tt is possible,” said Glaucus, musingly. : 
 
 “Thou sayest thou art slow to believe in magic?” said 
 
 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.” 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 213 
 
 “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 Ione also. Are your 
 faces then the same? I fancy not, yet it ought to be 
 so!” 
 
 “Fancy no such grievous wrong to Ione,” answered 
 Glaucus, laughing. ‘But we do not, alas, resemble 
 each other, as the homely and the beautiful sometimes 
 do. Jone’s hair is dark, mine light ; Ione’s eyes are — 
 what color, Ione? 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 color; but mine, sweet Nydia, 
 are gray, and bright only when Ione shines on them! 
 Ione’s cheek is —” 
 
 “T do not understand one word of thy description,” — 
 
 interrupted Nydia, peevishly. ‘I comprehend only that 
 you do not resemble each other, and I am glad of it.” 
 
 “Why, Nydia?” said Ione. 
 
 Nydia colored slightly. ‘ Because,” she replied coldly, 
 “TJ have always imagined you under different forms, and 
 one likes to know one is right.” 
 
 “ And what hast thou imagined Glaucus to resemble ?” 
 asked Ione, softly. 
 
 “ Music!” replied Nydia, looking down. 
 
 “ Thou art right,” thought Ione. 
 
 “ And what likeness hast thou ascribed to Ione ?” 
 
 “T cannot tell yet,” answered the blind girl; “I have 
 ‘not yet known her long enough to find a shape and sign 
 for my guesses,” 
 
 a 
 
 ee 
 
: as 
 iin ais 
 
 ne 
 
 eglor 
 
 214 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 “T will tell thee, then,” said Glaucus, passionately « 
 “she is like the sun that warms, —like the wave that 
 refreshes.” 
 
 “The sun sometimes scorches, and the wave sometimes 
 drowns,” answered Nydia. 
 
 “Take then these roses,” said Glaucus; “let their 
 fragrance suggest to thee Ione.” 
 
 “ 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 Ione! and hear.” 
 
 THE BIRTH OF LOVE. ? 
 ie} 
 
 Like a star in the seas above, 
 
 Like a dream to the waves of sleep, — 
 Up — up — THE INCARNATE LOVE, — 
 
 She rose from the charméd deep! 
 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, — 
 
 1 Suggested by a picture of Venus rising from the sea, takeul 
 from Pompeii, and now in the Museum of Naples. — Mi 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 The life that had leaped to birth, 
 In the veins of the happy earth ! 
 Hail ! ob, 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! 
 Gale! soft Gale! 
 Thou comest on thy silver winglets, 
 From thy home in the tender west,} 
 Now fanning her golden ringlets, 
 Now hushed on her heaving breast. 
 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! 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, slowly 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 vowed evermore to thee ! 
 
 215 
 
 1 According to the ancient mythologists, Venus rose from the 
 
 sea near Cyprus, to which island she was wafted by the Zephyrs. 
 The Seasons waited to welcome her on the sea-shore. 
 
a pe 
 
 216 
 
 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII, 
 
 Ill. 
 
 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, she breaks from the mystic shell! 
 She comes from thy tender eyes! 
 Hail! all hail! 
 She comes, as she came from the sea, 
 To my soul as it looks on thee! 
 She comes, she comes ! 
 She comes, as she came from the sea, 
 To my soul as it looks on thee! 
 Hail! all hail! 
 
~J 
 
 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 21 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 The Congregation. 
 
 Fottowrp by Apzcides, the Nazarene gained the side 
 of the Sarnus, — that river, which now has shrunk into 
 a petty stream, then rushed gayly 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 fav- 
 orite 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 deli- 
 cate 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 Egyp- 
 tian 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. 
 
 a 
 i 
 
218 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 This walk now, as the noonday sun shone perpen. 
 dicularly through the checkered leaves, was entirely 
 fleserted ; 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,” wid Olinthus, 
 ‘hast thou been happy; hast thy heart found content- 
 ment under these priestly robes ; hast thou, still yearn- 
 ing 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 Apzcides, sadly, ‘‘ thou seest before 
 thee a wretched and distracted man! From my child- 
 hood upward I have idolized the dreams of virtue! IL 
 have envied the holiness of men who, in caves and 
 lonely temples, have been admitted to the companion- 
 ship of beings above the world: my days have been 
 consumed with feverish and vague desires; iny 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 revolted at what I have seen and been doomed 
 to share in! Searching after truth I have become but 
 the minister of falsehoods. 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 forever from my eyes ; I behold a villain where 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 219 
 
 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 annihila- 
 tion or an hereafter, — tell me, then, thy faith ; solve me 
 these doubts, if thou hast indeed the power!” 
 
 “1 do not marvel,” answered the Nazarene, ‘ that 
 thou hast thus erred, or that thou art thus sceptic. 
 Kighty 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 Apecides 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 pre- 
 dictions of Revelation. He described that 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 labors, 
 and in human misfortunes. What was the travail of his 
 own Alcmzena’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, 
 
riAQ) THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII, 
 
 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 Apecides 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 con- 
 vert 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 con- 
 fused than the notions of the heathen sages upon that 
 mystic subject. Apzecides 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 im- 
 part 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 never 
 united. But in this new faith, it seemed to 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 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. Weak 
 
 » sinners; many of its fathers and its martyrs were those 
 
 _who had felt the bitterness of vice, and who were there- 
 
 fore 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 Apecides 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 whiterobed 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 odor, 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 Apecides, so naturally pure of heart, 
 something ineffably generous and benign in that spirit 
 of conversation which animated Olinthus, — a spirit that 
 
222 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 found its own bliss in the happiness of others; that 
 sought in its wide 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 rumors were afloat. He paused a 
 moment, looked over his garb, thought of Arbaces, 
 shuddered with horror, lifted his eyes to the broad brow 
 of the Nazarene, intent, anxious, watchful, — but for 
 his benefit, for his salvation! He drew his cloak around 
 him, so as wholly to conceal his robes, and said, ‘‘ Lead 
 on, I follow thee.” 
 
 _ Olinthus pressed his hand joyfully, and then descend- 
 ing to the river-side, hailed one of the boats that plied 
 there constantly. They entered it; an awning overhead, 
 while it sheltered them from the sun, screened also their 
 persons from observation; they rapidly skimmed the 
 wave. From one of the ee that passed them floated 
 a soft music, and its prow was decorated with flowers, — 
 it was gliding towards the sea. 
 
 “So,” said Olinthus, sadly, ‘ unconscious and mirth- 
 ful 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.” 
 
 Apeecides, lifting his eyes, caught through the aper- 
 ture in the awning a glimpse of the face of one of the 
 inmates of that gay bark, —it was the face of Ione. 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 — 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 273 
 
 labyrinth of lanes, and arrived at last at the closed door 
 of a habitation somewhat larger than its neighbors. He 
 knocked thrice; the door was opened, and closed again 
 as Apecides followed his guide across the threshold. 
 
 They passed a deserted atrium, and gained an inner 
 chamber of moderate size, which, when the door was 
 closed, received 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 voice from within returned, 
 “Peace with whom?” ‘The fartthful!” answered 
 Olinthus, and the door opened; twelve or fourteen 
 persons were sitting in a semicircle, silent, and seemingly 
 absorbed in thought, and opposite to a crucifix rudely 
 carved in wood. 
 
 They lifted up their eyes when Olinthus entered, with- 
 out speaking; the Nazarene himself, before he accosted 
 them, knelt suddenly down, and by his moving lips, and 
 his eyes fixed steadfastly on the crucifix, Apecides saw 
 that he prayed inly. ‘This rite performed, Olinthus 
 turned to the congregation: “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 Apecides 
 beheld 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. 
 
 “Tet him,” repeated a second voice; and he who thus 
 spoke was in the pride of manhood ; his bronzed skin and 
 Asiatic features bespoke him a son of Syria, —he had 
 been a robber in his youth, 
 
 ae 
 ; 
 
224 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 “Tet him,” said a third voice; and the priest, again 
 turning to regard the speaker, saw an old man with a 
 long, gray beard, whom he recognized as a slave to the 
 wealthy Diomed. 
 
 “Tet him,” repeated simultaneously the rest, — men 
 who, with two exceptions, were evidently of the inferior 
 ranks. In these exceptions, Apzecides 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 do) not to betray us. It is true, 
 indeed, that there is no absolute law against us; but the 
 multitude, 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 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 toa 
 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 
 Cere and Eleusis! Our morality ?— it is in our lives! 
 Sinners we all have been ; who now can accuse us of a 
 crime? We have baptized 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 Apecides, “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.” | 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 225 
 
 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 
 centuries have left us little to expound upon the lore of 
 Scripture or the life of Christ. To us, too, there would 
 seem little congenial in the doubts that occurred to a 
 heathen priest, and little learned in the answers they 
 receive from men uneducated, rude, and simple, possess- 
 ing only the knowledge that they were greater than they 
 seemed. 
 
 There was one thing that greatly touched the Neapo- 
 litan : when the lecture was concluded, they heard a very 
 
 gentle knock at the door; the password was given, and 
 replicd 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 congre- 
 gation (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 contrast to the weak nerves, the light hearts, 
 the tender fragility 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 chil- 
 dren ; and then he told them, in simple phrase, of God’s 
 love to the young, and how not a sparrow falls but His 
 
 & 15 
 
226 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 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 victo- 
 rious, attributed to the Jew,—namely, the decoying 
 children to hideous rites at which they were secretly 
 immolated. 
 
 And the stern paternal penitent seemed to feel in the 
 innocence 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 impossible 
 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 pecu- 
 liarly affected Apecides; and, in truth, it is difficult to 
 conceive a ceremony more appropriate to the religion of 
 benevolence, more appealing to the household of every- 
 day affections, striking a more sensitive chord in the 
 human breast. 
 
 It was at this time that an inner door opened gently, 
 and avery old man entered the chamber, leaning on a 
 
 staff. At his presence, the whole congregation rose; 
 there was an expression of deep, affectionate respect upon | 
 every countenance ; and Apzcides, gazing on his counte. | 
 
 nance, felt attracted towards him by an_ irresistible 
 sympathy. Noman ever looked upon that face without 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 227 
 
 love ; for there had dwelt the smile of the Deity, the incar- 
 nation 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. Apzcides 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. 
 
228 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEIL 
 
 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 confessed. Ione no longer concealed 
 from Glaucus the attachment 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 trust- 
 ful 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 dis- 
 tractions common in free states to men’s affection 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 their projects, love only reigned. In the iron age 
 they imagined themselves of the golden, doomed only to 
 live and to love. a 
 
 To the superficial observer, who interests himself only 
 in characters strongly marked and broadly colored, both 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 229 
 
 the lovers may seem of too slight and commonplace a 
 mould. In the delineation of characters purposely sub- 
 dued, 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 prepared. 
 It was this very softness and gayety 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 Ione, he poured forth the rich libations. 
 He existed no longer for his gay companions ; he was 
 ever with Ione. In the mornings 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 terrible 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 Ione. 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"Ahe magic of man, 
 : 
 
 230 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 a 
 
 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 dlawly 
 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 Ione, and in 
 their evening ;excursions, Nydia was usually their con 
 stant 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 affliction. They felt 
 an interest in her, perhaps the greater and more affec- 
 tionate from the very strangeness and waywardness oi 
 her nature, — her singular alternations of passion and soft 
 ness ; the mixture of ignorance and genius; of delicacy 
 and rudeness ; of the quick humors of the child, and the 
 proud calmness of the woman. Although she refused _ 
 
 _ to aecept of freedom, she was constantly suffered to be- 
 
 free. She went where she listed ; no curb was put either - 
 on her words or actions ; they felt he 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 where ° 
 they imagined it for her benefit. She availed herself of 
 this license 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 unprotected state, along the populous ' 
 streets ; it was almost miraculous to perceive how quickly | 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. yi 
 
 and how dexterously she threaded every crowd, avoid- 
 ing every danger, and could find her benighted 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 tend- 
 ing 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, 
 — Jone ; and that name from his lips inflicted agony upon 
 her. Often she bitterly repented the service she had 
 rendered to Ione ; 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 before been present when Glaucus and Ione 
 were together ; she had never heard that voice so kind 
 to her, so much softer to another. The shock that 
 erushed her heart with the tidings that Glaucus loved, 
 had at first only saddened and benumbed; by degrees 
 Jealousy took a wilder and fiercer shape, — it partook 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, 
 ds suddenly whirled aloft — now here, now there — 
 without stay and without rest; so the love which visits 
 the happy and the hopeful hath but freshness 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 ; 
 is hath no bough to cling to, it is dashed from path 
 
 | 
 i} 
 
DAS WA THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 to path till the winds fall, and it is crushed into the 
 mire forever. 
 
 The friendless childhood of Nydia had hardened 
 prematurely 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, favors the imagination, so, perhaps, her 
 very blindness contributed to feed with wild and deliri- 
 ous 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 Pompeii, she 
 had felt a pleasing pride in nursing his recollection. 
 Even the task which she imposed upon herself, of tend- 
 ing 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 Ione 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 fore- 
 stalled 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. . | 
 . fe 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 233 
 
 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 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 nothingness which 
 she was, which she ever must be, but which till then 
 her young mind had not taught her, that utter noth- 
 ingness 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 
 contempt, —could he imagine that she presumed so far ? 
 Her feelings to Ione 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 unconscious mistress, moments 
 when~she could have laid down life for her. These 
 fierce and tremulous alternations of passion were too 
 severe to be borne long. Her health gave way, though 
 she felt it not ; her cheek paled; her step grew feebler ; 
 
234 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEIL. 
 
 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 Ione; 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 
 y J 
 
 were well-bred and flattering men even at that day. 
 ‘But when these ear-rings glitter in the ears of the 
 noble Ione, then, by Bacchus! you will see whether my 
 art adds anything to beauty,” 
 
 “Tone?” repeated Nydia, who had hitherto acknowl. 
 
 edged by smiles and blushes the gift of Glaucus. 
 
 “Yes,” replied the Athenian, carelessly toying with 
 
 the gems; “I am choosing a present for gee 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. 
 
 1 Several bracelets, chains, and jewels were found in the house. q | 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEIL 235 
 
 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 # lover, and a plan that 
 any one will do right to adopt, provided always that he 
 can obtain an Ione! 
 
 When he had completed his purchase and dismissed 
 the jeweller, he retired into his chamber, dressed, 
 mounted his chariot, and went to Ione. He thought 
 no more of the blind girl, or her offence; he had for- 
 gotten both the one and the other. 
 
 He spent the forenoon with his beautiful Neapolitan, 
 repaired thence to the baths, supped (if, as we have said 
 before, we can justly so translate the three o’clock cena 
 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 Ione, he passed the 
 peristyle, but with the absorbed 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 recog- 
 nized at once the sound of his step. She had been 
 counting the moments to his return. He had scarcely 
 entered his favorite chamber, which opened on the peri- 
 style, and seated himself musingly on his couch, when he 
 felt, his robe timorously touched, and turning, he beheld 
 Nydia kneeling before him, and holding up to him a 
 handful of flowers,—a gentle and appropriate peace- 
 offering, —her eyes, darkly upheld 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! 
 
 van” | 
 
 i 
 
 q iy 
 7% 
 
236 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 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, coloring violently. ‘I ama 
 thing full of faults and humors; 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 pas- 
 sion, Think not I chide: no, it is for your happiness 
 only I speak.” 
 
 “Tt is true,” said Nydia, ‘I must learn to govern my- 
 self. 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.” _ 
 
 “JT have made many. first efforts,” answered Nydia, 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 237 
 
 innocently. ‘But you, my Mentor, do you find it so 
 easy to control yourself? Can you conceal, can you even 
 regulate your love for Ione?” 
 
 “Love! dear Nydia: ah, that is quite another mat- 
 ter,” answered the young preceptor. 
 
 “T 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 Tone,” 
 added she, with a little hesitation. 
 
 “Nay, Nydia,” answered Glaucus, kindly, divining 
 something of jealousy in her language, though he im- 
 agined it only the jealousy of a vain and susceptible child ; 
 “TI 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-colored 
 threads, or rather slender ribbons, used in the weaving of 
 garlands, and which (for it was her professional occupa- 
 tion) she carried constantly with her, and began quickly 
 and gracefully to commence 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 ; Ione, the cruel Ione, 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 fora little while in the sudden light, ere yet the 
 wind awakes and the frost comes on which shall blast it 
 
238 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEIL. 
 
 before 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 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 5 we see 
 it flutter for a while before us, we knew not whence it 
 flew or to what region it escapes. 
 
 Nydia sighed, and after a short pause, without answer- 
 ing the remark, said, — 
 
 “But do I weave too many roses in my wreath, 
 Glaucus? They tell me it is thy favorite flower.” 
 
 ‘And ever favored, my Nydia, be it by those who 
 have the soul of poetry. It is the flower of love, of festi- 
 vals ; 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 scattered 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.” y 
 
 ax 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 239 
 
 “Jt 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 forever!” 
 
 “‘ And why forever?” 
 
 “As ashes cannot be rekindled; as love once dead 
 never can 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 feet 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. They tell me it és beautiful, 
 and J 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 comprehend 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 Plata. 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 gayety 
 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: — 
 
240 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEIL. 
 
 THE APOLOGY FOR PLEASURE. 
 
 I. 
 
 Who will assume the bays 
 That the hero wore ? 
 Wreaths on the Tomb of Days 
 Gone evermore ! 
 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! 
 
 II. 
 
 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 ! 
 
 TIT. 
 
 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 ! 
 Glaucopis forsakes her own, 
 
 The angry gods forget us ; 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEIL 241 
 
 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 heart 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. 
 
 IV. 
 
 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. 
 
 16 
 
242 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. © 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 Nydia encounters Julia, — Interview of the Heathen Sister and 
 Converted Brother.— An Athenian’s Notion of Christianity. 
 
 “Waar happiness to Ione ; 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*interrupted in her fond thoughts by a female 
 voice. 
 
 “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 hand- 
 some 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 neighbor’s. 
 
 ‘Dost thou not remember my voice ?” continued Julia. 
 “T 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.” | 
 
 “T heard that thou wert purchased by the beautiful — 
 Greek, Glaucus ; is that true, pretty slave?” asked Julia 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 243 
 
 “TI serve the Neapolitan, Ione,” 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 fol- 
 low you home, if you wish to speak to her.” 
 
 ‘Do, child,” said Julia, with the air of one not accus- 
 tomed to be refused; “I have much to ask of thee: 
 come.” 
 
 “T cannot this night, it grows late,” answered Nydia. 
 “T must be at home ; I am not free, noble Julia.” 
 
 “What! the meek Ione will chide thee? Ay, I doubt 
 not she is a second Thalestris. But come, then, to-mor- 
 row ; do, — remember I have been thy friend of old.” 
 
 “‘T 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 Ione. The interval of time 
 that had elapsed that day between the first and second 
 visit of Glaucus had not been too gayly 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. 
 
 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 Apecides had sought those soft and 
 friendly interchanges of thought, those sweet confidences, 
 which in his earlier youth had bound him to Ione, and 
 
 ‘which are so natural to that endearing connection which 
 existed between them. 
 
 q 
 
944 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 Ione, however, had not ceased to regret his estrange- 
 ment; 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 prema- 
 turely 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 
 calmness on his features, a more quiet and self-possessed 
 expression 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, 
 embracing 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, Ione !” 
 
 “ 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 disenchanted of its Oread ; the waters of 
 their Nymph; that beautiful prodigality of faith which 
 makes everything divine, consecrating the meanest flow- 
 ers, bearing celestial whispers in the faintest breeze, — 
 wouldst thou deny this, and make the earth mere dust 
 and clay? No, Apecides; all that is brightest in our 
 hearts is that very credulity which peoples the universe 
 with gods.” 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 245 
 
 Tone answered as a believer in the poesy of the old 
 mythology would answer. We may judge by that reply 
 how obstinate and hard the contest which Christianity 
 had to endure among the heathens. The Graceful Super- 
 stition 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 ances- 
 tors 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 thor- 
 oughly been outrooted: it changes but its objects of 
 worship ; it appeals to innumerable saints where once it 
 resorted to divinities ; and it pours its crowds, in listen- 
 ing 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 believe, with the quiet scepticism of the heathen phi- 
 losopher, 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 Jupiter or in 
 Mars they shuddered at the representative of Moloch or 
 of Satan.? 
 
 1 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 proba- 
 bility, it was from the mysterious Pan, the haunter of solitary 
 | places, the inspirer of vague and soul-shaking terrors, that we took 
 
246 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 Apecides had not yet adopted formally the Christian 
 faith, but he was already on the brink of it. He already 
 participated the doctrines of Olinthus, — he already imag- 
 ined that the lively imaginations of the heathen were the 
 suggestions of the arch-enemy of mankind. The inno. 
 cent and natural answer of Ione made him shudder. He 
 hastened to reply vehemently, and yet so confusedly, that 
 Ione 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, 
 Apecides, 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 Ione 
 could not offend thee!” 
 
 “Tone,” said Apecides, 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 
 torment ?” 
 
 “Dii meliora! the gods forbid!” said Ione, 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 Apazcides. He rose, muttering to 
 himself, turned from the chamber, then, stopping half 
 way, gazed wistfully on Ione, and extended his arms. | 
 
 Ione 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, — i 
 
 the vulgar notion of the outward likeness of the fiend; it corre-/ 
 sponds exactly to the cloven-footed Satan. And in the tod and 
 profligate rites of Pan, Christians might well imagine they traced | 
 
 the deceptions of the devil. 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 247 
 
 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 Chris- 
 tians was indeed this; their conversion separated them 
 from their dearest bonds. They could not associate 
 with beings whose commonest actions, whose common- 
 est forms of speech, were impregnated 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 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 Ione 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 Ione 
 to conceive the intentions or the meaning of Apmcides. 
 
 “Hast thou ever heard much,” asked she, “of this 
 new sect of the Nazarenes, of which my _ brother 
 spoke?” 
 
 _ “T 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 preter- 
 naturally 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 cheer- 
 
 ful 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 
 
248 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEIL 
 
 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 Areopagites 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 Pau. 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 mum tig 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 be 
 stood this mysterious visitor, his mien and his counte- 
 nance awed every heart, even before a soundeleft 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 commanding; his countenance was much 
 worn and marked, as of one 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 
 
 Unxnown Gop. Ye worship in ignorance the same 
 
 Deity I serve. To you unknown till now, to you be ib 
 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 
 
 | 
 
 | 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 249 
 
 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 muttered their sage contempt. There might you 
 have seen hilling frown of the Stoic, and the Cynic’s 
 sneer ;* andggthe Epicurean, who believeth not even 
 in our own H¥sium, muttered a pleasant jest and swept 
 laughing throvgh 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.” 
 
 Jone 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 audience that on the hill of the heathen 
 Mars had heard the first tidings of the word of Christ! 
 
 1“The haughty Cynic scowled his grovelling hate, 
 And the soft Garden’s rose-encircled child 
 | Smiled unbelief, and shuddered as he smiled.” 
 Praup: Prize Poem, “ Athens.” 
 
 ¢ 
 
250 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII, 
 
 CHAPTER? VE 
 The Porter — the Girl —and the Gladiator. 
 
 Tur 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,pe seen just 
 without the gates of the city, at the comm@hcement of 
 the Street of Tombs ; it was a gay neighborhood, 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 gayly and freshly 
 the eternal sign of the checkers.1 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 travel- — 
 
 1 There is another inn within the walls similarly adorned. 
 
‘ 
 
 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 251 
 
 lers were resting themselves, 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 con- 
 verted 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 grace- 
 ful 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 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 picturesque 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 
 Pompeii 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 neighboring inn to fill the vessel, 
 
 _and coquet with the travellers. 
 
 “The news! what news?” said the bine, raising his 
 
 eyes moodily from the ground. 
 
 “Why, there passed through the gate this morning, 
 
252 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 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 !” 
 
 “Tt 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 crim- 
 inals, 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 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 ?’” i: 
 
( 
 
 oS, 
 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEIL. 253 
 
 “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, gray 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 gayly they go! 
 Ho! ho! 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 gait and carriage. He did 
 not lift his eyes till the figure paused opposite the place 
 where he sat, and with a soft voice addressed 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,” 
 
~ 
 
 254 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 “‘T am glad to hear it, my father,” said the gladiator, 
 respectfully 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 undeceived, 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 
 ascending 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. For- 
 
 bear! forbear! — rather would I be a slave forever than 
 
 purchase liberty on such terms !” 
 
 “Hush, my father,” replied Lydon, somewhat impa- 
 tiently ; ‘ 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 under. 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII, 255 
 
 stand not one word of what thou often preachest to me, — 
 thou hast picked up, I say, in this new creed, some singu- 
 lar fantasies of right and 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 re- 
 moving one of them. JBeasts, whose very lips drop 
 blood ; things, all savage, unprincipled in their very cour- 
 age; 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 
 knowledge, 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.” J 
 
 “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, 
 
256 - THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 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 ‘rec- 
 onciles 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 a‘ Nazarene? 
 Didst thou not tell me that thy soul shook with remorse 
 when 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 thres- 
 hold, and calling on the name of some Grecian deity, thou 
 didst fear thou wert incurring penalties 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 
 Hercules! 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 con- 
 
 stant anguish, and remain inactive? No! by the immor- 
 tal 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,—JI 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, — 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEIL 257 
 
 but not less strongly convinced of the criminality of his 
 purpose. 
 
 “T will hear the whole world talk, if thou wilt,” 
 _ answered the gladiator, gayly ; “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 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 gray hairs, and hear shrill 
 voices at thy knee, that shall call thee ‘ Lydon’s father!’ 
 Ah, we shall be so happy, — the prize can purchase 
 all. Cheer thee! cheer up, my sire. And now I must 
 away ; day wears, —the lanista waits me. Come, thy 
 blessing ! ” 
 
 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. 
 
 “Oh, 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. His form, mute and un- 
 “mnoving as a thing of stone. His heart! — who in 
 
 u 17 
 ( 
 
 4 
 
258 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 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 recognized the blind 
 flower-girl. Sorrow can sympathize 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 con- 
 signed to her the charge of the blind girl. 
 
 orn eee ee 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 259 
 
 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 apart- 
 ments appropriated to sleep, which were so diminutive 
 that few who 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 ifself 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, accord- 
 ing 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 apprehension of too much daylight ; 
 their darkened chambers, which first appear to us the result 
 of a negligent architecture, were the effect of the most elab- 
 orate study. In their porticos and gardens, they courted 
 
 1 “Take up thy bed and walk ” was (as Sir W. Gell somewhere 
 observes) no metaphorical expression. 
 
260 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 the sun whenever it so pleased their luxurious tastes. In 
 the interior of their houses they sought rather the cool- 
 ness 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 sufficiently acute to perceive exactly what 
 colors were the most becoming, — what shade of the deli- 
 cate 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 
 circular 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 ribbons 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 colorings of the wall, in all the daz- 
 zling frescos 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 extin- 
 guished 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 softest elegies of Tibullus. 
 Before the door which communicated with the ecubiculum 
 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 (that is, hairdresser) slowly piled, one 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 261 
 
 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 herself), 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 beau. 
 tiful eyebrows are? One would think you were dress- 
 ing Corinna, whose face is all of one side. Now put in 
 the flowers ; what, fool !— not that dull pink, — you are 
 not suiting colors 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 cere- 
 mony. “Do you not know how delicate is your mistress ? 
 — you are not dressing the coarse horsehair of the widow 
 Fulvia. Now, then, the ribbon, — that’s right. Fair 
 Julia, look in the mirror; saw you ever anything s¢ 
 lovely as yourself?” 
 
262 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 When after innumerable comments, difficulties, and 
 delays, 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 exqui- 
 site cameo of Psyche; the girdle of purple ribbon, 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 
 crossing her arms upon her breast. “I have obeyed your 
 commands.” : 
 
 “ 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. 4 , 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 263 
 
 Julia looked hard at the Thessalian for some moments 
 in rather an embarrassed silence. She then motioned her 
 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, Ione ?” 
 
 “I am with her at present,” answered Nydia. 
 
 “Ts she as handsome as they say ?” 
 
 “T know not,” replied Nydia. ‘‘ How can 7 judge?” 
 
 “ Ah, I should have remembered. But thou hast ears, 
 ‘if not eyes. Do thy fellow-slaves tell thee she is hand- 
 some? 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?” 
 
 f 168,” 
 
 “Why, soam I. Dark-haired?” 
 
 “T have heard so.” 
 
 “SoamJI. And doth Glaucus visit her much?” 
 
 “Daily,” returned Nydia, with a half-suppressed sigh. 
 
 “Daily indeed! Does he find her handsome ?” 
 
 “TI 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 flashing eyes would have betrayed, 
 ‘to one who could have seen, the wound her vanity 
 sustained. 
 
 _ “They tell me thou art a Thessalian,” said she, at 
 last breaking silence. 
 “ And truly !” 
 
264 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 “Thessaly is the land of magic and of witches, of 
 talismans and of love-philtres,” said Julia. 
 
 “Tt has ever been celebrated for its sorcerers,” returned 
 Nydia, timidly. | 
 
 “Knowest thou, then, blind Thessalian, of any love- 
 charms ?” 
 
 “T1” said the flower-girl, coloring ; “ Z/ how should 
 I? No, assuredly not!” 
 
 “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 ser- 
 vant? Has she not money and youth and_loveli- 
 ness? 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. 
 
 “Ts 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 
 Neapolitan, 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.” 4 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEIL 265 
 
 * Alas! no,” murmured Nydia ; “ would it had!” 
 
 “Thanks, at least, for that kindly wish,” said Julia, 
 unconscious 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 pos- 
 sesses 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 
 Pompeian has not heard of Arbaces ?” 
 
 “ Arbaces ! true,” replied Julia, grasping at the recol- 
 lection. “They say he is a man above all the petty and 
 false impostures 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!” 
 
 “Tf 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?” 
 
 “Tt is an evil mansion for the young and the beautiful,” 
 replied Nydia. “TI have heard, too, that he languishes 
 oo ”? 
 
 “An evil mansion!” said Julia, catching only the first 
 sentence. ‘“ Why so?” 
 
 _ “The orgies of his midnight leisure are impure and 
 polluted, — at least, so says rumor.” 
 
 “By Ceres, by Pan, and by Cybele! thou dost but 
 Provoke my curiosity, instead of exciting my fears,” 
 Teturned the wayward and pampered Pompeian. “I will 
 seek and question him of his lore. If to these orgies 
 
266 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 love be admitted, — why, the more likely that he knows 
 its secrets!” 
 
 Nydia did not answer. 
 
 ‘‘T 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 honor,” 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 me with ; remember, if thou 
 servest Julia, she is grateful and she is generous.” 
 
 “T eannot take thy present,” said Nydia, putting aside 
 the bracelet ; “but, young as I am, I can sympathize 
 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 ! ” ( 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 267 
 
 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, threat- 
 ening life itself, has chanced, — and yet I live! It came 
 as the stars foretold ; and now the long, bright, and pros- 
 _ perous career which was to succeed that evil, if I survived 
 it, smiles beyond: 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 accursed blood, — shall 
 not a second time escape me! But for the method of my 
 vengeance? Of that let me ponder well! Oh, Até, if 
 thou art indeed a goddess, fill me with thy direst inspira- 
 tion!” The Egyptian sank into an intent reverie, which 
 did not seem to present to him any clear or satisfactory 
 
268 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 suggestions. He changed his position restlessly, as he 
 revolved scheme after scheme, which no sooner occurred 
 than it was dismissed ; several times he struck his breast 
 and groaned aloud with the desire of vengeance and a 
 sense of his impotence 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 Ione. 
 
 The first glance of the visitor now entering the apart. 
 ment sufficed to undeceive so erring a fancy. True, she 
 was about the same height as Ione, and perhaps the same 
 age; true, she was finely and richly formed, — but where 
 was that undulating and ineffable grace which accom- 
 panied 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,” sete Arbaces ; “ and speak | 
 without apprehension or reserve.’ 
 
 es rin ta} 
 eee 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 269 
 
 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 countenance 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 impres- 
 sive by its present paleness ; and his 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 knowl- 
 edge the very gossip theme of Pompeii ?” 
 
 “Some little lore have I, indeed, treasured up,” replied 
 Arbaces ; “but in what can such serious and sterile 
 secrets benefit the ear of beauty ?” 
 
 “Alas!” said Julia, a little cheered by the accustomed 
 accents 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 
 
270 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. , 
 
 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 7s 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 
 midnight oil to attain.” 
 
 “Ts it indeed so? Then pardon me, great Arbaces, 
 and farewell! ” 
 
 “Stay,” said Arbaces, who, despite his passion for 
 Ione, was not unmoved by the beauty of his visitor; and, 
 had he been in the flush of a more assured health, might 
 have attempted to console the fair Julia by other means 
 than those of supernatural wisdom, — “stay; although 
 I confess that I have left the witchery of philtres and 
 potions to those whose trade is in such knowledge, 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 unblessed with fortune, wouldst thou 
 allure some wealthy suitor ?” 
 
 “‘T am richer than he who disdains me.” 
 
 “‘Strange and more strange! And thou lovest him 
 who loves not thee?” | 
 
 ‘“‘T know not if I love him,” answered Julia, haugh- 
 tily ; “but I know that I would see myself triumph over | 
 a rival; I would see him who rejected me my suitor, — 
 
‘ THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 271 
 
 I would see her whom he has preferred, in her turn 
 despised.” 
 
 “A natural ambition and a womanly,” said the Egyp- 
 tian, 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 be Glaucus 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 J ulia, 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 mysteries, 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 mention 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 
 
272 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 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 en- 
 tangled 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 Aakhished: 
 —and though I care not who knows that I love sien | 
 I would not have it imagined that I obtained his love y 
 
 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, 
 “TJ 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.” 
 
 “Jt shall not be!” said the Egyptian, impetuously. 
 “ Fear nothing, Glaucus shall be thine. Yet how, when 
 thou obtainest 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 command ?” 
 
 “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 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 273 
 
 wealthier Pompeians 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 thé 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 twi- 
 light conceals us, and none shall cross our steps. Go 
 home, and fear not. By Hades, swears Arbaces, the 
 sorcerer of Egypt, that Ione 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, resolved 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 clew 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 myself 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 
 
 ind"condition. This done, he stepped forth into 
 
 co. )The skies were serene and clear; but he, 
 
 the signs of their various chatens beheld 
 18 
 
274 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 in one mass of cloud, far on the horizon, which the 
 
 wind began slowly to agitate, that a storm was brood- — 
 
 ing above. 
 
 “Tt is like my vengeance,” said he, as he gazed ; « the 
 
 sky is clear but the cloud moves on.” ea 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 275 
 CHAPTER IX. Mths, 
 % » 
 
 A Storm in the South. —The Witch’s Cavern. 
 
 It was when the heats of noon died gradually away hare 
 the earth, that Glaucus and Ione went forth to enjoy the == | 
 cooled and grateful air. At that time various carriages | 
 were in use among the Romans; the one most used by 
 
 the richer citizens, when they required no companion in 
 
 their excursions, was the biga, already described in the 
 
 early portion of this work; that appropriated to the 
 matrons was termed carpentum,' which had commonly 
 
 two wheels; the ancients used also a sort of litter, a vast 
 sedan-chair, more commodiously arranged than the mod- 
 
 ern, inasmuch as the occupant thereof could le down at 
 
 ease, instead of being perpendicularly and 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 whi¢h éould “be raised at pleasure 
 and, in short, answe ng ve ery much the purpose of 
 (though very different in shape from) the modern britska. 
 It was a vehicle of this description that the lovers, 
 ae by one female slave of Ione, now y used in 
 it “ 
 
 wlentum, with four wheels. 
 
 ic festivals and games they used One more luxurious | 
 also the sella, or sedan, in which they sat as 
 
- trives to dispense her smiles, — witness t 
 
 276 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII, 
 
 dently Grecian ; and as for Glaucus and Ione 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 labor; and at every opening in the 
 wood they beheld those gray and horrent caverns indent- 
 ing the parched rock, which Strabo has described, but 
 which the various revolutions of time and the volcano 
 have removed from the present aspect of the mountain. 
 The sun, sloping towards his descent, cast long and deep 
 shadows over the mountain; here and there they still 
 heard the rustic reed of the shepherd among 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 gray eye, — which, still 
 beneath Ausonian skies, recalls 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 firmament | 
 that they scarcely seemed ¢; while on their right 
 hey caught, ever and anon, mpses of the waveless 
 sea, with some light bark skimming its surface, and thet 
 sunlight breaking over the deep in those countless and 
 softest hues so peculiar to that delicious sea. 
 
 “How beautiful} said Glaucus, in a helf-wrhisneretl 
 tone, “‘is that sion by which we call Earth our)! 
 
 Mother! With ghatja kindly equal love she pours her 
 blessings upon her children; and even to sterile | 
 spots to which Nature has denied beaut con- 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEIL OTT 
 
 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 Moun- 
 tain Nymph through the thickest mazes of the glade. 
 But the Nymphs ceased, beautiful Ione, 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 
 commonplace. 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. 
 
 It was at this time that the storm which the Egyptian 
 had predicted began to creep visibly over them. At 
 irst, a low and distant thunder gave warning of the 
 
 eternatural, and might well suggest to early supersti- 
 Wionethe 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, “fhe forked 
 lightning darted across their very eyes, and was swallowed 
 ‘up by the increasing darkness, 
 “Swifter, good Carrucarius!” cried Glaucus to the 
 river; “the tempest comes on apace.” 
 
 approaching conflict of the elements, and then rapidly eat 
 rushed above the dark ranks of the serried clouds. The a 
 uddenness of storms in that climate is something almost 
 
 i 
 Mii 
 
 ay 
 sie 
 
278 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 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 Ione, 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 
 Shaped 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 : | 
 seemed near. ee 
 
 “There is,” said the slave, “a smith about a mile off 
 I could seek him, and he might fasten at least the whee 
 to the carruca, — but, Jupiter! how the rain beats! x 
 mistress will be wet before I come back.” om 
 
 ‘*‘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 Ione. He ‘endeavored. 
 by stripping his own cloak, to shield her yet more from. 
 the rapid rain; but it descended with a fury that broke 
 
 i 
 / 
 | 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 279 
 
 through all puny obstacles: and suddenly, while Glaucus 
 was yet whispering courage to his beautiful charge, the 
 lightning struck one of the trees immediately 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 
 anxiously 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 advanc- 
 ing gloom a red and tremulons 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 hospitable retreat. Wilt thou stay 
 here, while I — yet no,— that would be to leave thee 
 to danger.” 
 
 “T will go with you cheerfully,” said Ione. “Open 
 as the space seems, it is better than the treacherous 
 shelter of these boughs.” 
 
 _ Half leading, half carrying Ione, Glaucus, accompanied 
 by the trembling female slave, advanced towards the 
 light, which yet burned red and steadfastly. At length 
 the space was no longer open ; wild vines entangled their 
 sg eps, 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, impelled onward, AR 
 at bist. 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; 
 
 hi a narrow path, which they trod with labor and pain, 
 
 ! 
 
 — 
 ss = 
 
280 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 guided only by the constant and long-lingering flashes of 
 the storm, continued to lead them towards its direction. 
 The 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. Sometimes the blaze lingered over the 
 iron-gray 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 
 glowing 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 Sorren- 
 tum 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 mysteri- 
 ous light. Another blaze, in which heaven and earth 
 were reddened, made visible to them the whole expanse ; 5 
 no house was near, but just where they had beheld the, 
 light, they thought they saw in the recess of a cavern. 
 the outline of a human form. The darkness once more 
 returned ; the light, no longer paled beneath the fires of 
 heaven, barred forth again; they resolved to ascend 
 towards it. They had to wind their way among van) 
 fragments of stone, here and there overhung with wild) 
 bushes ; but they gained nearer and nearer to the light, and 
 at ietothi they stood opposite the mouth of a kind of cay, 
 ern, apparently formed by huge splinters of rock that ha) 
 fallen transversely athwart each other ; and, looking * 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 281 
 
 the gloom, each drew back involuntarily with a supersti- 
 tious fear and chill. 
 
 A fire burned in the far recess of the cave, and over it 
 was a small caldron; 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 steal- 
 ing from between its teeth ; in the centre of the cave was 
 an earthen statue which had three heads of a singular 
 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 shining 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 connte- 
 mance 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 countenance 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 gray; the livid, green, 
 ghastly skin, which seemed all surely tinged and tainted 
 by the grave ! 
 
 ” “It is a dead thing!” said Glaucus, 
 
 i 
 Ai 
 
 i 
 
282 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 “Nay; it stirs, it is a ghost or larva,” faltered 
 Tone, 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 Ione 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 neighboring 
 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 
 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 com- 
 panions. ‘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 q 
 
 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 relieved Ione of her outer wrapping gar- 
 
 ments, and, making her place herself on a log of wood, | 
 which was the only other seat he perceived at hand, | 
 
THE LAST .DAYS OF POMPEII. 283 
 
 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 padla, and 
 crept timorously to the opposite corner of the hearth. 
 
 “We disturb you, I fear,” said the silver voice of 
 Ione, 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 Ione, 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 Ione 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. 
 
 “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 
 Tone. 
 
 “TI will tell thee why I laughed when I discovered ye 
 were lovers,” said the old woman. “It was because it is 
 
284 . THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 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 Jone’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 appalling. 
 
 “ Ah, long !— yes.” 
 
 “Tt is but a drear abode.” 
 
 “Ha! thou mayst well say~that. Hellis beneath 
 us!” replied 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 hos- 
 pitable,” 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. 
 
 ‘‘T am the witch of the mountain,” replied the sor- 
 ceress, 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, — 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII 285 
 
 potions of revenge ; 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 
 endeavored 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, how- 
 ever, 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 Ione seated by that rude fire; her lover, 
 already forgetful of the presence of the hag, at her feet, 
 gazing upward 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 unholy 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 perceived 
 for the first time, just under her seat, the bright gaze and 
 crested head of a large snake ; whether it was that the 
 vivid coloring of the Athenian’s cloak, thrown over the 
 shoulders of Ione, 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. 
 
 £% Te. 
 
286 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEIL 
 
 “Witch!” cried Glaucus, ‘command thy creature, ot 
 thou wilt see it dead.” 
 
 “Tt has been despoiled of its venom!” said the witch, 
 aroused at his threat ; but ere the words had left her lip, 
 the snake had sprung upon Glaucus ; quick and watch- 
 ful, 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 writhing 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 imaginations 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 passion- 
 less 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 
 feved me and was mine; nay, more the creature, above _ 
 all others, consecrated ny gods and deemed venerable hh | | 
 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 infernals 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 Ione, and raising her right arm, _ 
 when Glaucus burst impetuously on her ahem | 
 
 1 A peculiar sanctity was attached by the Romans (as, indeed, | 
 by perhaps every ancient people) to serpents, which they mt | 
 tame in their houses, and often introduced at their meals. 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII 287 
 
 “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 !” 
 
 “T have done,” replied the hag, laughing wildly ; “‘ for 
 in thy doom is she who loves thee accursed.” And not 
 the less, that I heard her 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, and kneeling down beside her wounded 
 favorite, which she dragged from the hearth, she turned 
 to them her face no more. 
 
 “Oh, Glaucus!” said Ione, 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 Tone, 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. ‘ Think- 
 est thou that the gods above us or below hear the impo- 
 tent ravings 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 
 Ione ; and even Glaucus could not thoroughly shake off 
 
 the impression they bequeathed. The storm had sub- 
 
 —— 
 
 sided, — save, now and then, a low thunder muttered at 
 the distance amidst the darker clouds, or a momentary 
 
288 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 flash of lightning affronted the sovereignty 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 Her- 
 cules to tell him where his charge had vanished. 
 
 Glaucus vainly endeavored to cheer the exhausted © 
 spirits of Ione; and scarce less vainly to recover the 
 elastic tone of his own natural gayety. They soon 
 arrived before the gate of the city ; as it opened to them, 
 a litter borne by slaves impeded the way. 
 
 “Tt 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 recognized. ‘‘I am bound to 
 the villa of Marcus Polybius. I shall return shortly. 
 I am Arbaces the Egyptian.” 
 
 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, me- 
 thinks! Whither and for what can he leave the city?” 
 said Glaucus. | 
 
 *¢ Alas,” replied Ione, 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 Glaucus !” 7 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 289 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 The Lord of the Burning Belt and his Minion. — Fate writes her 
 Prophecy in red letters, but who shall read them ? 
 
 Arpaces had tarried only till the cessation of the tempest 
 allowed him, under cover of night, to seek the Saga of 
 Vesuvius. Borne by those of his trustier slaves in whom 
 in all more secret expeditions he was accustomed to con- 
 fide, he lay extended 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 commencement of a nar- 
 row 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 fee- 
 ble, 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 
 Arbaces, “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 
 - 19 
 
290 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 and Vengeance treading to their goal, can make an Elys. 
 ium of a Tartarus.” High, clear, and melancholy shone the 
 moon above the road of that dark wayfarer, glassing her- 
 self 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 blackened 
 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 
 gravelike 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 glit- 
 tering 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, 
 commandingly ; “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 Burn: — 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 291] 
 
 ing Fields, and the daughter of the perished Etrurian 
 race ?” 
 
 “TI am he,” answered Arbaces, “from whom all culti- 
 vators 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, unknow- 
 ing his loftier attributes and more secret fame, call 
 Arbaces the 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 
 cincture seemingly of fire, that burned around his waist, 
 clasped in the centre by a plate whereon was engraven 
 some sign apparently vague and unintelligible, but which 
 was evidently not unknown to the saga. She rose hastily, 
 and threw herself at the feet of Arbaces. ‘TI have seen, 
 then,” said she, in a voice of deep humility, “the eee 
 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 Ione 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 
 
 1 The Etrurians (it may be superfluous to mention) were cele- 
 brated 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, support the 
 claim. 
 
 ae 
 
292 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 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 
 the Nile 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 
 ashes 3 and the herbs,‘ do not give unerring divinations ; 
 neither do the 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 TI overrate 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 watch- 
 ing over the rank herbs which simmer night and day in 
 yon caldron.” ! 
 
 The Egyptian moved his seat from so unblessed or so | 
 unhealthful a vicinity as the witch spoke. | 
 
 “It is well,” said he; ‘thou hast learned that maxim | 
 
 1 AanrvAouvarteia. 2 KpvoroAouarreta, 
 8 Teppomavteta. * Boravouayrela. © | 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 293 
 
 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, falter- 
 ingly ; “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 uot the 
 thing that I am now, —I loved, I fancied myself 
 beloved.” 
 
 “ And what connection hath thy love, witch, with my 
 commands?” said Arbaces, impetuously. 
 
 “Patience,” resumed the witch, — “patience, I im- 
 plore. 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 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 
 ‘estore me his love; and from her, also, the poison that 
 vas to destroy my rival. Oh, crush me, dread walls ! my 
 rembling hands mistook the phials ; my lover fell indeed 
 t my feet, but dead! dead! Since then, what has been 
 ife to me? “I became suddenly old ; I devoted myself 
 0 the sorceries of my race; still by an irresistible impulse 
 
294 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 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 1 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 
 convulsions. 
 
 Arbaces gazed upon her with a curious though con- 
 temptuous eye. 
 
 “And this foul thing has yet human emotions!” 
 thought he; “she still cowers over the ashes of the 
 same fire that consumes 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 hen 
 self, 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 4 
 Nemesis, he must die!” 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 295 
 
 And working himself up at every word, the Egyptian, 
 forgetful 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, 
 abruptly ; 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. 
 
 ‘““Ay, 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 sen- 
 tence of the Egyptian. ‘Hear me! I am 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 
 anfit for the uses and career of life, —an abject, raving, 
 ‘oenighted thing, smiting sense to drivelling, youth to 
 Jotage, — will not thy vengeance be equally sated, thy 
 »dbject. equally attained ?” 
 | “Oh, witch! no longer the servant, but the sister, the 
 qual of Arbaces, how much brighter is woman’s wit 
 
296 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEIL 
 
 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 thou- 
 sand methods, which men forbear to seek, can our victim 
 become mad. He 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 scrupu- 
 lously 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 indul- 
 gence in the excuse. Mighty Hermes, have I ministered 
 to thee cunningly ?” 
 
 “Thou shalt have twenty years’ longer date for this,” 
 returned Arbaces. ‘I will write anew the epoch of thy 
 fate on the face of the pale stars, — thou shalt not serve 
 1 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 counter- 
 vail 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. 
 
 1'To see a nymph was to become mad, according to classic and. 
 popular superstition. : 
 2 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. e 4 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEIL 297 
 
 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 receding 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 slowly re-entering 
 the cave, groaningly picked up the heavy purse, took the 
 lamp from its stand, and, passing to the remotest depth of 
 her cell, a black and abrupt passage, which was not visi- 
 ble 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 grad- 
 ually 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 contain coins of various value, wrung from the 
 eredulity or gratitude of her visitors. 
 
 “T love to look at you,” said she, apostrophizing 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 
 
298 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 homely but faithful simile, seemed to resemble the grind- 
 ing 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 gray locks ; and, looking into the cavity, 
 she beheld, 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 mis- 
 tress, 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 
 from the hissing caldron: ‘‘ 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 suddenly smitten into idiocy,— ah, that is 
 terrible! Burn flame, simmer herb, swelter toad, I 
 cursed him, and he shall be cursed! ” a 
 
 On that night, and at the same hour which witnessed 
 the dark and unholy interview between Arhaces and the 
 saga, Apzecides was baptized. | 
 
 | 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 299 
 
 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 
 Teally 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 
 -yery charm for which I apply to their skill, and which is 
 drawn but from the knowledge 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 
 courteous than that same magician! And were he not 
 ‘80 dark, he would be even handsome.” 
 
 Blind as she was, Nydia had the penetration to per- 
 (ceive that Julia’s mind was not one that the gallantries 
 of Arbaces were likely to terrify. She therefore dis- 
 ‘suaded 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.” 
 
300 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEIL 
 
 “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.” | 
 
 “Tone 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. “J 
 stoop to request no favor from the Neapolitan !” | 
 
 “Well, be it so. I will take my leave now, make 
 my request, 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 Ione 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?” 
 
 ‘“‘T have not seen her this morning,” answered Nydia;_ 
 * but—” | 
 “ But what? Draw back,— the horses are too near 
 thee.” | 
 
 “ But think you Jone will permit me to pass the au 
 with Julia, the daughter of Diomed? She wishes if, | 
 and was kind to me when I had few friends.” | 
 
 “The gods sates thy grateful heart! ! I will answer i | | 
 Tone’s permission.” . | 
 
 “Then I may stay over the night, and return to 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 301 
 
 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 contrast of .her voice with that of the silver-toned 
 Ione. Vale /” 
 
 His spirits entirely recovered from the effect of the 
 past night, his locks waving in the wind, his joyous and 
 elastic 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 companion, took her way to the rural baths 
 indicated by Arbaces. To her natural levity of disposi- 
 tion, her enterprise brought less of terror than of 
 pleasurable excitement ; above all, she glowed at the 
 
 _ thought of her coming triumph over the hated Neapo- 
 litan. 
 
 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 by- 
 standers, ‘I recognize 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 Clo 
 
 s 
 heel 
 i 
 A) _, 
 
302 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEIL 
 
 dius. A wife is a good thing, —when it belongs to 
 another man!” 
 
 ‘“‘ But,” continued Clodius, ‘fas Glaucus is, I under- 
 stand, 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 odor of the flame. I shall only protest, my 
 Sallust, against Diomed’s making thee 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, 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 appointments 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 weer ere he 
 devoured. 
 
 1 It was an ancient Roman law that no one should make a | 
 woman his heir. This 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. 303 
 
 “T see not the magician,” said Julia, looking round ; 
 when, as she spoke, the Egyptian slowly emerged from 
 the neighboring foliage, and the light fell palely over his 
 sweeping robes. 
 
 “ Salve, sweet maiden! .But, ha! whom hast thou 
 here ? — we must have no companions! ” 
 
 “Tt is but the blind flower-girl, wise magician,” replied 
 Julia; ‘ herself a Thessalian.” 
 
 “Oh, Nydia!” said the Egyptian; “I know her 
 well.” 
 
 Nydia drew back and shuddered. 
 
 “Thou hast been at my house, methinks!” said he, 
 approaching his voice to Nydia’s ear; ‘thou knowest 
 the oath! Silence and secrecy, now as then, or 
 beware ! t , 
 
 “ Yet,” he added, musingly, to himself, “ why confide 
 
 _ more than is necessary, even in the blind? Julia, canst 
 thou trust thyself alone with me? Believe me, the 
 magician is less formidable than he seems.” 
 
 As he spoke, he gently drew Julia aside. 
 
 “The witch loves not many visitors at once,” said 
 he ; “leave Nydia here till your return; she can be of 
 no assistance to us; and, for protection, — your own 
 beauty suffices, — your own beauty and your own rank ; 
 yes, Julia, I know thy name and 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. 
 
 wi 
 y ’ P 
 4 : 
 
304 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 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 darkness. 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 Thessalian fan- 
 cies 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 adver- 
 sity 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 taskmaster, 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 con- 
 fused 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 which hurried and swept away the whole 
 soul when once delivered to love, ruled and rioted in 
 her breast. 
 
 Time passed ; a light step entered the chamber where — 
 Nydia yet indulged her gloomy meditations. a 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 305 
 
 “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 indif- 
 ferent to his eye, and 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 2s the beautiful Greek !” 
 
 What, then, were Nydia’s emotions! She had con- 
 nived, she had assisted, in tearing Glaucus from Ione ; 
 but only to transfer, by all the power of magic, his affec- 
 tions yet more hopelessly to another. Her heart swelled 
 almost to suffocation ; she gasped for breath,—din the 
 darkness of the vehicle, Julia did not perceive the agita- 
 tion of her companion; she went on rapidly dilating on 
 the promised effect of her acquisition, and on her ap- 
 proaching triumph over Ione, every now and then 
 
 _ abruptly digressing to the horror of the scene she had 
 quitted, — the unmoved mien of Arbaces, and his author- 
 ity over the dreadful saga. 
 
 Meanwhile N ydia 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. 
 
 “rink, Nydia, thou must be cold; the air was chill 
 to-night ; as for me, my veins are yet ice.” 
 3 20 
 he 
 
306 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 And Julia unhesitatingly quaffed deep draughts of the 
 spiced wine. 
 
 ‘Thou hast the potion,” said Nydia; “let me hold it 
 in my hands. How small the phial is! Of what color 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 colorless 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 crys- 
 tal vase !” 
 
 ‘“‘ And how is it sealed ?” 
 
 “But by one little stopper; I withdraw it now, — the 
 draught gives no odor. 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, sud- 
 denly, 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 yester- — 
 morn. Wilt thou take the bottle?” 
 
 “Tt 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 havea thousand costlier ones; take it, child!” — 
 
 Nydia bowed her gratitude, and placed the bottle in — 
 her vest. : 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 307 
 
 “And the draught would be equally efficacious, who- 
 ever administers it ?” 
 
 “Tf the most hideous hag beneath the sun bestowed 
 it, such is its asserted virtue that Glaucus would deem 
 her beautiful, 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 on a hundred matters, —-nor was it till 
 the night had advanced far towards morning that she 
 summoned her slaves and undressed. 
 
 When they were dismissed, she said to Nydia, — 
 
 “T 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.” 
 
 “J 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 
 all not on our lips. Fair Julia, I must leave thee very 
 _ early, —.so Ione 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 burning thoughts rolled over the mind of the wakeful 
 Thessalian. She listened to the calm breathing of Julia ; 
 and her ear, accustomed to the finest distinctions of 
 sound, speedily assured her of the deep slumber of her 
 companion, 
 
 “Now befriend me, Venus!” said she, softly. 
 
308 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 She rose gently, and poured the perfume from the gift 
 of Julia upon the marble floor, — she rinsed it several 
 times carefully with the water that was beside her, and 
 then, easily finding 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 lim- 
 pid water which Julia had assured her it so resembled, 
 she once more placed the phial in its former place. She 
 then stole again to her couch and waited — with what 
 
 _ thoughts !— the dawning day. 
 
 The sun had risen; Julia slept still, — Nydia noise- 
 lessly 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 hety 
 scorching veins. | | 
 
 “ Glaucus,” she murmured, “all the love-charms of the 
 wildest magic could not make thee love me as I love 
 thee. Ione!—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! sd 
 
 a 
 
BOOK IV. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 Reflections on the Zeal of the Early Christians. — Two men come te 
 a Perilous Resolve. — Walls have Ears, particularly Sacred Walls, 
 
 Wuaoever 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, inspired its champions and sustained its 
 martyrs. In a dominant church the genius of intolerance 
 betrays its cause,— in a weak and e 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 peri- 
 lous chivalry of converting the Polytheist and the 
 ‘Heathen. ‘The sectarian sternness which confined virtue 
 'and heaven to a chosen few, which saw demons in other 
 ‘gods, and the penalties of hell in another 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 honor of 
 \the Christian faith that the Christian boldly forced his 
 
 & 
 ie 
 
310 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 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 soit 
 Heathen began at last to imagine 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 philos- 
 
 ophy to the tribunal of an Eternal Judge. It was thus ~ 
 
 that the same fervor 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 Apecides 
 been received 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, pro- 
 fess to worship God, and continue even outwardly to 
 honor the idolatrous altars of the Fiend. 
 
 Nor was this all ; the sanguine anf impetuous mind of — 
 
 Olinthus beheld in the power of Apecides 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 con- 
 version of a whole city. He did not hesitate then to 
 appeal to all the new-kindled enthusiasm of Apecides, to 
 arouse his courage, and to stimulate his zeal. They met 
 according to previous agreement, the evening after the 
 baptism of Apecides, in the grove of Cybele, which we 
 have before described. 
 
 “At the next solemn consultation of the oracle,” said 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEI oll 
 
 Olinthus, as he proceeded in the warmth of his address, 
 “advance yourself to the railing, proclaim aloud to the 
 people the deception they endure, invite them to enter, 
 to be themselves the witness of the gross but artful mech- 
 anism of imposture thou hast described to me. Fear not, 
 —the Lord, who protected Daniel, shall protect thee ; 
 we, the community of Christians, will be amongst the 
 crowd ; we will urge on the shrinking; and in the first 
 flush of the popular indignation and shame, I myself, 
 upon those very altars, will plant the palm-branch 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 
 unpleasing to Apawcides. He was rejoiced at so early an 
 opportunity 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 over- 
 bound of obstacles (the rashness necessary to all who 
 undertake venturous and lofty actions), neither Olinthus 
 nor the proselyte perceived the impediments to the 
 success of their scheme which might be found in the 
 
 _Teverent 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. 
 
 _ Apecides then assented to this proposal with a readi- 
 hess which delighted Olinthus. They parted with the 
 understanding that Olinthus should confer with the more 
 Important of his Christian brethren on his great enter- 
 | prise, 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 
 
 | 
 
os ee THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. ¢ 
 
 occasion for the Abeta They appointed to meet once 
 more on the next evening at the same spot; and in that 
 meeting were finally to be settled the order and details of 
 the disclosure 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. 
 
 “T have tracked you with some effect, my brother 
 flamen,” soliloquized the eavesdropper ; “you, the priest — 
 of Isis, have not for mere idle discussion conferred with 
 this gloomy Christian. 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 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 Arbaces. 
 We will frustrate you, my friends, deep as you think 
 yourselves. At present, my breast is a locked treasury 
 of your secret.” 
 
 Thus muttering, Calenus, for it was he, wrapped his 
 robe round him, and strode thoughtfully homeward. 
 
| 
 | 
 
 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 313 
 
 CHAPTER IL. 
 
 A Classic Host, Cook, and Kitchen. — Apxcides seeks Ione. — 
 Their Conversation. 
 
 It was then the day for Diomed’s banquet to the most 
 select of his friends. The graceful Glaucus, the beauti- 
 ful Ione, the official Pansa, the high-born Clodius, the 
 immortal Fulvius, the exquisite Lepidus, the epicurean 
 Sallust, were not the only honorers of his festival. He 
 expected, also, an invalid senator from Rome (a man of 
 considerable repute and favor at court), and a great 
 warrior from Herculaneum, who had fought with Titus 
 against the Jews, and having enriched himself prodig- - 
 iously in the wars, was always told by his friends that 
 his country was eternally indebted to his disinterested 
 exertions! The party, however, extended to a yet 
 greater number : for although, critically speaking, it was, 
 2t one time, thought inelegant among the Romans to 
 entertain less than three or more than nine at their ban- 
 quets, 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, how- 
 ever, more modest, contented himself with doubling 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 
 himself, though he greatly affected the gentleman and 
 the scholar, retained enough of his mercantile experience 
 
 | ae 
 
314 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 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 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 apart- 
 ment in which the priests of the festival prepare their 
 offerings. On entering the kitchen, his ears were agree- 
 ably 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, declares 
 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,— namely, 
 a portable kitchen, about the size of a folio volume, con- 
 taining stoves for four dishes, and an apparatus for heat- 
 ing water or other beverages. 
 
 Across the small kitchen flitted many forms which the 
 quick eye of the master did not recognize. | 
 
 “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 them- : 
 selves to some of the drinking vessels: ready, alas, are 
 their hands, capacious are their tunics. MMe miserum /” 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII, 315 
 
 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; ‘who ever saw such antique 
 sweetmeat shapes as these ?— it is impossible to do 
 credit to one’s art with such 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 expen- 
 sive good-for-noughts who must have the last fashion, cost 
 what it will!” 
 
 “Thou liest, base slave!” cried Diomed, in a great 
 passion, — “and thou costest me already enough to 
 have ruined Lucullus himself! Come out of thy den, I 
 want to talk to thee.” 
 
 The slave, with asly wink at his confederates obeyed 
 the command. 
 
 “Man of three letters,”1 said Diomed, with his face 
 of solemn anger, “how didst thou dare to invite all those 
 
 {”? 
 
 rascals into my house? I see thief written in every line 
 
 ae 
 
 of their faces.” 
 “Yet, I assure you, master, that they are men of most 
 
 1 The common witty objurgation, from the triliteral word 
 “fur,” thief. 
 
Shan: THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII, 
 
 respectable character, — the best cooks of the place; it is 
 a great favor 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-favored 
 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 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 
 appearance of a Melian crane, — thou knowest it came 
 up like a stone from Aitna ; as if all the fires of Phlege- 
 thon 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.” 
 
 1 The attagen of Phrygia or Ionia (the bird thus anglicized in 
 the plural) was held in peculiar esteem by the Romans. “ Attagen 
 carnis suavissime.” — Athen., lib. ix. cap. 8, 9. It was a little 
 bigger than a partridge. 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. E74 
 
 ‘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 homununculus, — yon pygmy 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.” 
 
 “Tt 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 sun- 
 dry other things, too numerous now to recite, are yet left 
 ‘unpaid for. But what matter?— every one trusts the 
 'Archimagirus? of Diomed the wealthy !” 
 
 “Oh, unconscionable prodigal! what waste! what pro- 
 fusion !—Iam ruined! But go, hasten, —inspect! taste! 
 ‘perform ! surpass thyself! Let the Roman senator not 
 despise the poor Pompeian. Away, slave, — and remem- 
 ‘ber, the Phrygian attagens.” 
 
 _ The chief disappeared within his natural domain, and 
 1 “Candiduli divina tomacula uorci.” — Juvenal, x. 1. 355. A 
 
 ‘Nich and delicate species of sausage. 
 2 Archimagirus was the lofty title of the chief cook. 
 
 | ia 
 
a 
 
 318 ‘ THE LAST DAYS. OF POMPEII. 
 
 Diomed 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 Apecides. On awaking that day 
 from the broken and feverish sleep which had followed 
 his adoption of a faith so strikingly and sternly at vari- 
 ance 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 pro- 
 voke amongst the pious, even if successful ; if frustrated 
 in his daring attempt, what penalties might he not incur. 
 for an offence hitherto unheard of, —for which no specific. 
 law, derived from experience, was prepared; and which 
 for that very reason, precedents, dragged from the sharp-| 
 est armory of obsolete and inapplicable 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, per- 
 haps, as a heinous apostasy, — at the best, as a pitiable 
 madness. 
 
‘i 
 ’ 
 
 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEI SQ a 
 
 He dared, he renounced, everything in this world, in 
 the hope of securing that eternity in the next Which had 
 so suddenly 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 favor 
 of wrestling with the sanctities of old opinions and _here- 
 ditary forms might be found in the conquest over both, 
 achieved by that humble priest. Had the early Chris- 
 tians 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 to- 
 gether in the chambers of the temple, the term imposed 
 on Apecides 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 be- 
 fore 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, Apecides!” 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 herself 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.” 
 
 : 
 | 
 : 
 : 
 
 ead 
 
 lim 
 
320 : THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEIL. 
 
 ‘A time may come when she will be unveiled without 
 her own acquiescence.” 
 
 “Tt is not likely; she has triumphed for countless ages. 
 And that which has so long stood the test of time rarely 
 succumbs to the lust of novelty. But, hark ye, young 
 brother, these sayings are indiscreet.” 
 
 “Tt is not for thee to silence them,” replied Apecides, 
 haughtily. 
 
 “So hot !— yet I will not quarrel with thee. Why, 
 my Apacides, 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 ourselves? If not, oh, brother, he is not that 
 great magician he is esteemed !” 
 
 “Thou, then, hast shared his lessons?” said Apecides, 
 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 disclosed.” | 
 
 “Beware, thou, the hour when the tomb shall be 
 rent, and the rottenness exposed,” returned Apzcides, 
 solemnly. ‘ Vale!” 
 
 With these words he left the flamen to his medita- 
 tions. 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, forit now approached 
 the hour of that repast which, called prandiwm by the 
 ancients, answers in point of date to the breakfast of the 
 moderns. The white and graceful fane gleamed brightly 
 in the sun. Upon the altars before it rose the incense 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 321 
 
 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 Ione; 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. 
 
 He arrived at her house, and found her in the garden 
 with Nydia, 
 
 “This is kind, Apecides,” said Ione, 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 letters, —to abstain from coming 
 hither to receive the expressions of my gratitude! Oh, 
 thou hast assisted to preserve thy sister from dishonor ! 
 What, what can she say to thank thee, now thou art 
 come at last?” . 
 
 “My sweet Ione, 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 
 30 dear to Athens, rising merrily ever and anon amidst 
 the grass ; the butterfly, beautiful emblem of the soul, 
 ledicated to Psyche, and which has continued to furnish 
 dlustrations to the Christian bard, rich in the glowing’ 
 21 
 
322 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 colors 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 together 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 
 Ione. Its remains 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. 
 
 “Tone, my sister,” said the young convert, “place 
 your hand upon my brow ; let me feel your cool touch. 
 Speak to me, too, for your gentle voice is like a breeze 
 that hath freshness as well as music. Speak to me, but 
 forbear to bless me / Utter not one word of those forms: 
 of speech which our childhood was taught to consider 
 sacred !” 
 
 « Alas, and what then shall I say? Our language of 
 affection 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 Apecides, with a shudder; 
 “thou slightest my request already.” 
 
 “Shall I speak then to thee only of Isis?” 
 
 “The Evil Spirit! No, rather be dumb forever, 
 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” 
 
 ; - 
 1 In Sicily are found, perhaps, the most beautiful varieties of 
 the butterfly. 4 
 
 a oes 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 32a 
 
 apostate ; and I all sorrow and shame for thee as an idol- 
 ater. No, my sister, let us avoid such topics and such 
 thoughts. In thy sweet presence a calm falls over my 
 spirit. Fora 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 per- 
 mitted 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 forever, 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 by Baia, 
 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 
 comprehend, but excited even to tears by the plaintive- 
 ness of their tone, Ione listened to these out-pourings of 
 a full and oppressed heart. In truth, Apecides 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 jealous nature, — they 
 engross, they absorb the soul, and often leave the sple- 
 netic humors stagnant and unheeded at the surface. 
 Unheeding the petty things around us, we are deemed 
 ‘morose ; impatient at earthly interruption to the diviner 
 treams, we are thought irritable and churlish. For as 
 shere is no chimera vainer than the hope that one human 
 deart shall find sympathy in another, so none ever inter: 
 wet us with justice ; and none, no, not our nearest and 
 
324 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 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 ! 
 
 “T will talk to thee then of our early years,” said 
 Ione. “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 
 Apeecides. | 
 
 “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 unfamiliar voices ; and thine, Ione, full of household 
 associations, has ever been to me more sweet than all the 
 hireling melodies of Lycia or of Crete. Sing tome!” — 
 
 Ione 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 : — | 
 | 
 
 A REGRET FOR CHILDHOOD. 
 
 I. 
 
 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! twined with grief 
 Each brightest leaf, 
 That’s wreathed us by the Hours! 
 “Young though we be, the Past may sting, 
 The Present feed its sorrow 3; 
 But hope shines bright on everything 
 That waits us with the morrow. 
 Like sunlit glades, 
 The dimmest shades 
 Some rosy beam can borrow. 
 
 { 
 } 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEI. 325 
 
 II, 
 It is not that our later years 
 Of cares are woven wholly, 
 But smiles less swiftly chase the tears, 
 And wounds are healed 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! 
 
 Wisely and delicately had Ione chosen that song, sad 
 though its burden seemed; for when we are deeply 
 mournful, discordant 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 colors 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 Apecides, 
 yielding to the influence of the silver voice the reminded 
 him of the past, and told but of half the sorrow borne 
 to the present, he forgot his more immediate and fiery 
 sources of anxious thought. He spent hours in making 
 Tone alternately sing to and converse with him; and 
 ‘when he rose to leave her, it was with a calmed and 
 Julled mind. 
 
326 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 “Tone,” said he, as he pressed her hand, “ should you 
 hear my name blackened and maligned, will you credit 
 the aspersion ?” 
 
 “‘ 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 for 
 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 Ione, blushing. 
 “ Dost thou feel that, for his sake, thou couldst renounce 
 
 pride, brave dishonor, and incur death 1 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 | 
 | 
 
 i 
 } 
 } 
 
 ef 
 a 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. SBT. 
 
 to meet the eyes of Ione, — 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 Ione remain in the same place, mute and 
 thoughtful. 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 should meet 
 Glaucus ; she could confide to him her alarm and uneasi- 
 ness for her brother. 
 
328 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEIL 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 A Fashionable Party and a Dinner 4 la mode in Pompeii. 
 
 Mzanwuite Sallust and Glaucus were slowly strolling: 
 towards 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 excellent man, if he had not taken it into 
 his head to be a philosopher. Brought up in the schools 
 in which Roman plagiarism worshipped the echo of 
 Grecian wisdom, he had imbued himself with those 
 doctrines by which the later Epicureans corrupted the 
 simple maxims of their great master. He gave himself 
 altogether up to pleasure, and imagined there was no 
 sage like a boon companion. Still, however, he had a 
 considerable degree of learning, wit, and good-nature ; 
 and the hearty frankness of his very vices seemed like 
 virtue itself beside the utter corruption of Clodius 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 murena, 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.” 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 329 
 
 “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 asso- 
 ciate with that gambling good-for-nought !” 
 
 “Pleasure unites strange varieties,” answered Glaucus. 
 “ He amuses me —” 
 
 “And flatters; but then he pays himself well! He 
 powders his praise with gold-dust.” 
 
 “You often hint that he plays unfairly, — think you 
 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 Ione, I trust I may 
 yet redeem a youth of follies. We are both born for 
 better things than those in which we sympathize 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 
 utmost of which life is capable.” 
 
 “YT am a moderate man,” returned Sallust, “and do 
 not ask ‘the utmost.’ We are like mialefactors, and 
 intoxicate ourselves with wine and myrrh, as we stand 
 
 1 Unwelcomed and uninvited guests were called muscx, or flies. 
 
330 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 on the brink of death; but, if we did not do so, the 
 abyss would look very disagreeable. 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 anything else till noon.” 
 
 “Fie, Scythian !” 
 
 “ Pshaw! the fate of Pentheus to bie who denies 
 Bacchus.” 
 
 “Well, Sallust, with all your faults, you are the best 
 profligate 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 J 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.” 
 
 “Freedom, then, must be a very fatiguing thing to an 
 
 Epicurean,” 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 instruc- 
 tions for a suburban villa laid down by the Roman 
 architect, it may not be uninteresting briefly to describe 
 the plan of the apartments through which our ie 
 passed./ 
 
 They entered, then, by the same small vestibule at 
 which we have before been presented to the aged Medon, 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 331 
 
 and passed at once into a colonnade, technically termed 
 the peristyle ; for the main difference between the subur- 
 ban 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. Inthe 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 communi- 
 cated with a garden ; various small apartments surrounded 
 the colonnade, 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 wardrobe, in which were kept the 
 vests of the holiday suits of the slaves, and, perhaps, of 
 the master. Seventeen centuries afterwards were found 
 those relics of ancient finery calcined and crumbling ; 
 kept longer, alas! than their thrifty lord foresaw. 
 
 Return we to the peristyle, and endeavor now to 
 present to the reader a coup-d’ewil of the whole suit 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 glow- 
 Ing with various frescos; 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 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 
 
332 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII 
 
 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 cor- 
 ridors, raised above the pillars, which, to the right and 
 left, skirted the garden below. 
 
 Beneath, and on a level with the garden, ran the 
 apartments we have already described as chiefly appro- 
 priated to Julia. 
 
 In the gallery, then, just ne 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 Cecro- 
 pian, —eh? The hall in which we shall sup is borrowed 
 from the Greeks. It is an Cicus Cyzicene. Noble 
 Sallust, they have not, I am told, this sort of apartment 
 in Rome.” 
 
 “Oh!” replied Sallust, with a half smile, “ you Pom- 
 peians combine all that is most eligible in Greece and in 
 Rome; may you, Diomed, combine the viands as well as 
 the architecture !” 
 
 “You shall see, you shall see, my Sallust,” replied 4 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 Ro- 
 mans, was, that with the first, the modest women rarely 
 or never took part in entertainments; with the latter, 
 they were the common ornaments of the banquet: but 
 when they were present at the feast, it usually term 
 nated at an early hour. 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 333) 
 
 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, 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. Ione yet 
 Bpeied: 
 
 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 pictures, 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, 
 
 = —_— 
 
334 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 Meanwhile Glaucus found himself by one of the 
 windows of the gallery, which communicated with the 
 terraces, and the fair Julia by his side. 
 
 “Ts it an Athenian virtue, Glaucus,”’ said the mer- 
 chant’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 ?” 
 
 ‘‘Tt would be an honor to the emperor to find a friend 
 in one so lovely.” 
 
 “Vou evade my question,” returned the enamoured 
 Julia. ‘But tell me, is it true that you admire the 
 Neapolitan Ione ?” 
 
 “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 favor me, blessed be the gods! The 
 day in which I am thus honored shall be ever marked in 
 white.” 
 
 ‘Yet, even while you speak, your eye is restless ; your 
 volor comes and goes; you move away involuntarily, — 
 you are impatient to join lone!” 
 
 For at that moment Ione had entered, and Glaucus 
 had indeed betrayed the emotion noticed by the jess 
 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 Ione; is it | 
 not so?” : | 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII, 335 
 
 “Tf the Fates permit, such is my blessed hope.” 
 
 “‘ Accept, then, from me, in token of our new friend- 
 ship, a present for your bride. N ay, it is the custom of 
 friends, you know, always to present to bride and. bride- 
 groom some such little marks of their esteem and favoring 
 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 J ulia, as she 
 joined the wife of Pansa, and left Glaucus to seek Ione, 
 
 The widow Fulvia and the spouse of the adile were 
 engaged 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 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 2 Oh, 
 no, how ridiculous it is ; it reminds one of the statue of 
 Diana! Yet this Ione 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 
 ong faithful, I suspect; those foreigners are very 
 ‘aithless.” 
 
 _ “Oh, Julia!” said Fulvia, as the merchant’s daughter 
 oined them ; ‘“ have you seen the tiger yet?” 
 
 6c No.” 
 
 ——— 
 
* 
 
 336 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 “ Why, all the ladies have been to see him, He 1s so 
 handsome ! ” 
 
 “ T 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 declare 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 J ulia, in 
 disdain. ; 
 
 “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!” 
 
 “Those poets are always odd,” said the widow. But 
 he is an interesting man; what pretty verses he writes ! 
 We improve very much in poetry; it 1s impossible to 
 read the old stuff now.” 
 
 “T 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. 
 
 “Tt reconciles me to peace,” said he, ‘‘ when I see such 
 faces.” | 3 
 
 “Qh, you heroes are ever flatterers,” returned Fulvia, | 
 
 1 Mitres were worn sometimes by men, and considered a great 
 mark of effeminacy. 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 337 
 
 hastening to appropriate the compliment specially to 
 herself. 
 
 “By this chain, which I received from the emperor’s 
 own hand,” replied the warrior, playing with a short 
 ehain 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! Iam a 
 blunt man : a soldier should be. so.” 
 
 “How do you find the ladies of Pompeii generally ?” 
 said Julia. 
 
 “By Venus, most beautiful! They favor me a little, it 
 is true, and that inclines my eyes to double their charms,” 
 
 ‘“‘ We love a warrior,” said the wife of Pansa. 
 
 “J 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 compluvium ; the admiration of one’s citizens 
 is pleasant at first, but burdensome afterwards.” 
 
 “True, true, O Vespius !” 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 exuvie, 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.” 
 
 “T know no general from Mantua,” said the warrior, 
 gravely. ‘‘ What campaign have you served ?” 
 
 “That of Helicon.” 
 
 : “‘T 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 
 22 
 
338 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII, 
 
 jokes,” said the poet, a little alarmed. ‘“ Know then, 0 
 Vespius! that I am the poet Fulvius. It is 1 who make 
 warriors immortal !” 
 
 “The gods forbid!” whispered Sallust to Julia. “If 
 Vespius were made immortal, what a specimen of tire- 
 some 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 reclined; 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 edile; at the opposite corner, the Roman senator, — 
 these were the posts of honor. 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. 2 
 
 The chair of Ione was next to the'couch of Glaucus.? 
 
 1 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 reason is obvious, 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 339 
 
 The seats were veneered with tortoise-shell, and covered 
 with quilts stuffed with feathers, and ornamented with 
 costly embroideries. 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 ceil- 
 ing. At each corner of the table were lofty candelabras, 
 — for though it was early noon, the room was darkened, — 
 while from tripods, placed in different parts of the room, 
 distilled the odor of myrrh and frankincense ; and upon 
 the abacus, or sideboard, large vases and various orna- 
 ments of silver were ranged, much with the same osten- 
 tation (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 ribbons, 
 ied by the rind of the linden-tree, and each intermingled 
 with the ivy and the amethyst, — supposed preventives 
 wainst the effect of wine ; the wreaths of the women 
 mly were exempted from these leaves, for it was not the 
 ashion for them to drink wine in public. It was then 
 hat the president Diomed thought it advisable to insti- 
 ute a bastleus, or director of the feast, — an important 
 iffice, sometimes chosen by lot; sometimes, as now, by 
 he master of the entertainment. 
 
 Diomed was not a little puzzled as to his election. The 
 ovalid senator was too grave and too infirm for the proper 
 ulfilment of his duty; the wdile Pansa was adequate 
 
340 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 enough to the task: but then, to choose the next in 
 official rank to the senator, was an affront to the senator 
 himself. While deliberating 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 bibendt. 
 
 Sallust received the appointment with becoming 
 humility. 
 
 “T shall be a merciful king,” said he, “to those who 
 drink 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 Ione and Glaucus to carry on those sweet whis- 
 pers, 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 at 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 J ulia 
 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 exhausting 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 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 341 
 
 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 miracu- 
 lous a swiftness, that Phaeton himself was nothing to 
 you. I am infirm, O pleasant Sallust: you must ex- 
 onerate me.” 
 
 “Not I, by Vesta! I am an impartial monarch, — 
 drink !” 
 
 The poor senator, compelled by the laws of the table, 
 was 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 loyalty!” 
 
 * But our female guests — ” 
 
 “Love atoper! 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 
 
342 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 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 treading his airy measures right over 
 their heads. 
 
 This apparition, removed but by a cord from one’s per- 
 icranium, and indulging the most vehement leaps, appar- 
 ently 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 Ione, who had not much accus- 
 tomed herself to this entertainment, 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 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 a 
 
 who were stationed without on the terrace struck up a a 
 
 1A dance still retained in Campania. 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 343 
 
 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. 
 
 I. 
 
 Hark! through these flowers our music sends its greeting 
 To your loved halls, where Psilas! shuns 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 banquet hour, 
 The rich libation of Sound’s stream divine, 
 O reverent harp, to Aphrodite pour! 
 
 II. 
 
 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 Ione’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, patronizingly. 
 
 “Ah! if you would oblige us!” murmured the wife 
 lee Pansa. 
 
 “Do you wish Fulvius to sing?” asked the king of 
 
 rey 
 
 1 Bacchus. 
 
344 THE LAST DAYS. OF POMPEII. 
 
 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 complimen- 
 tary 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 rever- 
 ence 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.’ 
 
 I. 
 
 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. 
 
 1 Suggested by two Pompeian pictures in the museum at Naplew, | 
 which represent a dove and a helmet enthroned by Cupids. a 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 Fie, fie! how can they quarrel so ? 
 My Lesbia, — ah, for shame, love ! 
 
 Methinks ’t is scarce an hour ago 
 When we did just the same, love. 
 
 DA Ip 
 
 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. 
 And so our crew resolved, for quiet, 
 To choose a king to curb their riot. 
 A kiss : ah ! what a grievous thing 
 For both, methinks, ’t would be, child, 
 If I should take some prudish king, 
 And cease to be so free, child! 
 
 III. 
 
 Among their toys a Casque they found, 
 It was the helm of Ares; 
 With horrent plumes the crest was crown’d, 
 Tt frightened all the Lares. 
 So fine a king was never known, — 
 They placed the helmet on the throne. 
 My girl, since Valor wins the world, 
 They chose a mighty master; 
 But thy sweet flag of smiles unfurl’d 
 Would win the world much faster ! 
 
 IV. 
 
 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. 
 
 345 
 
346 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 . 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. 
 
 Vv. 
 
 Within that room the Bird of Love 
 The whole affair had eyed then ; 
 The monarch hail’d the royal dove, 
 4 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 ! 
 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. 
 In thee I find the same deceit ; — 
 Too late, alas! a learner ! 
 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 name- 
 sake 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 
 
 5 
 
i 
 
 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 347 
 
 hands and shouts of Jo triwumphe! 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 darkened chamber ; and the senator, who was tired, 
 and the warrior, who had to return to Herculaneum, 
 rising to depart, gave the signal for the general disper- 
 sion. ‘ 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 
 whispering 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 favorite 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 instance, 
 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 drink- 
 ing-cup; Julia, a gentleman’s buckle; and Lepidus, a 
 lady’s patch-box. The most appropriate lot was drawn 
 by the gambler Clodius, who reddened with anger on 
 
 1 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. 
 
348 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 being presented to a set of cogged dice.’ A certain 
 damp was thrown upon the gayety 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 
 handing 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 Ione, 
 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 her image when 
 she blesses me with thene.” 
 
 In order to divert the impression which this incident 
 had occasioned in an assembly which, considering the 
 civilization of the guests, would seem miraculously super- 
 stitious, 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 eup 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. 7 
 
 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 
 
 1 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. 349 
 
 banquet-room, and induing their cloaks, left the house on 
 foot attended by their slaves. 
 
 Meanwhile, having seen Ione depart, Glaucus turning 
 to the staircase which led down to the rooms of Julia, 
 was conducted 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 Ione, — she is indeed beautiful.” 
 
 “Julia is charming enough to be generous,” replied 
 the Greek. ‘Yes, I love Ione ; amidst all the youth 
 who court you, may you have one worshipper as sincere.” 
 
 “T 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 N ydia 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 expedi- 
 fious operation in favor of her charms. She was disap- 
 pointed when she found Glaucus coldly replace the cup, 
 
350 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 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 ! 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 35] 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 The Story halts for a moment at an Episode. 
 
 RESTLESS and anxious, Apecides 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 gleaming 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 Apecides 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 
 recognized 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 
 
352 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 and scrip; at his feet lay a small, shaggy dog, the com. 
 panion 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 of His Son, as testified to His 
 servant.” 
 
 “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 Iam 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 unro 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 sorrowful face, 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 3538 
 
 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, J 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, —TI 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, recalled 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, 1 beheld adjudged to the agonized and 
 parching death!— Far in the mighty crowd, I saw the 
 
 light rest and glimmer over the cross ; I heard the hoot- 
 ing mob, I cried aloud, 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 another, — 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? J 
 | 23 
 
354 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 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 unmoyving 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 soul’s light is the star that burns forever, 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 released at last. There 
 
 was a strong and marked distinction between the Chris- 
 
 tianity 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 intole- 
 
 rant, — it was necessary to the part he was destined te 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 355 
 
 play; it had in it more of the courage of the martyr 
 than the charity 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 
 eaven of earthlier and coarser passions, and left to the 
 mergy of the hero all the meekness of the child. 
 
 “And now,” said he, rising at length, as the sun’s last 
 ay died in the west; “now, in the cool of twilight, I 
 yursue my way towards the Imperial Rome. There yet 
 lwell some holy men, who like me have beheld the face 
 # Christ; and them would I see before I die.” 
 
 * But the night is chill for thine age, my father, and 
 he way is long, and the robber haunts it; rest thee till 
 o-morrow.” 
 
 “Kind son, what is there in this scrip to tempt the 
 obber? And the Night and the Solitude ! — these make 
 ne ladder round which angels cluster, and beneath which 
 1y spirit can dream of God. Oh! none can know what 
 ae pilgrim feels as he walks on his holy course ; nursing 
 0 fear, and dreading no danger, — for God is ith him! 
 fe hears the winds murmur glad tidings; the woods 
 eep in the shadow of Almighty wings ; — fs stars are 
 ie Scriptures of Heaven, the tokens of love, and the 
 ‘itnesses of immortality. Night is the Pilgrim’s day.” 
 Tith these words the old man pressed Apecides to his 
 ‘east, and taking up his staff and scrip, the dog bounded 
 verily before him, and with slow steps and downcast 
 ves he went his way. 
 
 The convert stood watching his bended form, till the 
 
 es shut the last glimpse from his view: and then, as 
 e stars broke forth, he woke from the musings with a 
 hig reminded of his appointment with Glinthaa 
 
356 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEIL 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 The Philtre — its effect. 
 
 Wuen 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 maght return 
 at an early hour: anxious, fearful, anticipative, she re- 
 solved 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. a 
 
 It was then, in that fearful, burning mood, her heart. 
 beating, her cheek flushing, that Nydia awaited the pos- 
 sibility of Glaucus’s return before the night. He crossed 
 the portico just as the first stars began to rise, and the 
 heaven above had assumed 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.” ! 
 
 “Tt has been warm,” said Glaucus, placing himself also 
 on one of the seats beneath the colonnade. 5 
 
 “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’ 
 opportunity that Nydia awaited presented itself; ot 
 himself, at his own free choice, he afforded to her that 
 oceasion. She breathed quick, — “I will prepare for 
 
 | 
 
 ; 
 ; 
 | 
 i 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 357 
 
 you myself,” said she, “the summer draught that Ione 
 loves, — of honey and weak wine cooled in snow,” 
 “Thanks,” said the unconscious Glaucus. “If Tone 
 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 Persian adoration the rising 
 of that sun which her credulous soul believed was to 
 break upon her dreary night! Far different, 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 
 vique, what small revenge, what expectation of a paltry 
 miumph, had swelled the attributes of that sentiment she 
 lignified with the name of love! but in the wild heart 
 of the Thessalian all was pure, uncontrolled, unmodified 
 yassion ;— erring, unwomanly, frenzied, but debased by 
 10 elements of a more sordid feeling. Filled with love 
 ‘swith life itself, how could she resist the occasion of 
 vinning love in return! 
 ' She leaned for support against the wall, and her face, 
 ‘efore so flushed, was now white as snow ; and with her 
 elicate hands clasped convulsively together, her lips 
 part, her eyes on the ground, she waited the next words 
 daucus should utter. 
 ’ Glaucus had raised the cup to his lips, he had already 
 tained about a fourth of its contents, when his eye 
 iddenly ‘glancing upon the face of Nydia, he was so 
 ‘teibly struck by its alteration, by its intense, and pain 
 
 i 
 
358 THE LAST DAYS OF PGMPEII. 
 
 ful, and strange expression, that he paused abruptly, and 
 still holding the cup near his lips, exclaimed,— 
 
 “Why, Nydia! Nydia! I say, 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 a Pythoness inspired ; suddenly 
 as it came this preternatural transport passed, though 
 only partially, away. He now felt his blood rushing 
 loudly and rapidly through his veins; 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, — dark-’ 
 ness, 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 2/,— 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 bei 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 359 
 
 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 em- 
 braced 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 1— what long, silky 
 hair he has! He is worth all the courses 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 
 {view the Dreams sleeping with folded wings upon the 
 notionless elm ; and I look beyond, and I see a blue 
 tream sparkle in the silent noon; a fountain — a foun- 
 ‘ain springing aloft! Ah! my fount, thou wilt not put 
 out the rays of my Grecian sun, though thou triest ever 
 o hard with thy nimble and silver arms. And now, 
 vhat form steals yonder through the boughs? She glides 
 ‘ke a moonbeam, — she has a garland of oak-leaves on 
 ver head. In her hand is a vase upturned, from which 
 he pours pink and tiny shells, and sparkling water. Oh, 
 Yok on yon face! Man never before saw its like. See! 
 ve are alone; only I and she in the wide forest. There 
 no smile upon her lips,— she moves, grave and sweetly 
 
360 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 sad. Ha! fly, it is a nymph!—it is one of the wild 
 Napew!! 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 Ione ; and with that remembrance his 
 madness became yet more powerful, and it was swayed 
 and tinged by passion, as he burst forth, — 
 
 “TI 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 Ione. 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 out- 
 watched 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 hyacinth and rose amidst. 
 the olive-groves of Ilyssus. Zhou shouldst not desert me, 
 for thy fathers were brothers to my own. And they say | 
 
 1 Presiding over hills and woods. 
 
 ah 
 teh t 
 Be 
 ‘ , 
 f 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 361 
 
 this Iand 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. “Tone, it is 
 she ! they have borne her off; we will save her, — where 
 is my stilus? Ha, I have it! I come, Ione, to thy res- 
 cue! 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 burned 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 name- 
 less fear, and the smile withered from their lips. He 
 passed the more populous streets ; and, pursuing mechani- 
 tally the way to Ione’s ‘house, he traversed a more 
 Jeserted quarter, and entered now the lonely grove of 
 Cybele, in which Apecides had held his interview with 
 Olinthus. 
 
 : 
 
362 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII 
 
 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 
 administered by Julia to his hated rival, and with what 
 effect, Arbaces resolved, as the evening came on, to seek 
 her house, 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 Cesar 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 con- 
 spired 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 twi- 
 light 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 5 
 the moon is up, — night has resumed her reign ! ; 
 
 1 From this stilus may be derived the stiletto of the Italians. 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 363 
 
 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 put- 
 ting back the boughs that completely closed around ib 
 rear, settled himself in his concealment: a concealmér 
 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 cheerily to the 
 : groups that then, as now in those climates, during the 
 nights of summer, lingered in the streets, and enjoyed, 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 pur- 
 ‘ple sea, rippling in the distance, the white villas of 
 ‘Stabize 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 of Diomed, 
 entered the extreme end of the grove ; and at the same 
 instant Apecides, also bound to his appointment with 
 Olinthus, crossed the Egyptian’s path. 
 
 _ “Hem, Apecides,” said Arbaces, recognizing 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.” 
 
364 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 Apecides started at the voice of the Egyptian; and- 
 halting abruptly, gazed upon him with a countenance 
 full of contending, bitter, and scornful emotions. 
 
 “Villain and impostor!” said he at length; “thou 
 hast recovered then from the jaws of the grave! But 
 think not again to weave around me thy guilty meshes. 
 Retiarcus, 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 
 sh of his tawny brow. ‘“ Hush! more low! thou may- 
 be overheard, and if other ears than mine had drunk 
 ose 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, — 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; sci 
 ence — 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 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 365 
 
 me to become the abettor of thy vices, a — polluted and 
 aperjured 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 mum- 
 ming oracles disclosed ; the fane of the idol Isis shall be 
 a by-word 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 tla 
 Apecides by the fervent daring of a divine zeal, could/noi 
 have faced with unflinching look that lowering aspeet 
 As it was, however, the young convert met it unmoved, 
 and returned it with an eye of proud defiance. 
 
 “ Apecides,” said the Egyptian, in a tremulous and in- 
 ward tone, ‘beware! What is it thou wouldst meditate? 
 Speakest thou — reflect, pause before thou repliest — 
 from the hasty influences of wrath, as yet divining no 
 settled purpose, or from some fixed design ?” 
 
 ‘“‘T 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 con- 
 cealed beneath the blandness of craft and the coldness of 
 philosophy, were 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 Ione; 
 the fellow-champion of Glaucus in the struggle which 
 
366 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 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 Apecides 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 
 sty glance once more he cast around; he saw none 
 — 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 
 Apecides, and plunged his sharp weapon twice into his 
 breast. 
 
 Apezcides 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 overa 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, colorless as 
 marble. The Egyptian recognized the face and form of — 
 Glaucus. The unfortunate and benighted Greek was — 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 367 
 
 chanting a disconnected and mad song, composed from 
 snatches of hymns and sacred odes, all jarringly woven 
 together. 
 
 “Ha!” thought the Egyptian, instantaneously divin- 
 ing 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 him- 
 self amongst the boughs; from that lurking place he 
 watched, like 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 statuelike 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 Apecides, 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 him- 
 self, and then saying, — 
 
 “What ho! Endymion, sleepest thou so soundly? 
 What 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 Egyp- 
 tian 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 murderer escapes!” As he spoke, he placed his 
 
068 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 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 compunctious 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 him even’more than the death 
 of Apecides, 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 de- 
 mands thy sacrifice.” With that, as if to drown com- 
 punction, 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 sur- 
 rounded the spot. 
 
 “Lift up yon corpse,” said the oe ‘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, per- 
 haps, 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?” 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 *T would sooner,” whispered one man to his neighbor, © 
 
 ‘believe it to be the Egyptian himself.” 
 
 Here a centurion thrust himself into the gathering 
 erowd, 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 
 witness’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 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 senscs 
 when the crime was perpetrated ; for, recently recoverea 
 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 laughing from ear to ear, — what could I do? But 
 
 24 
 
370 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEIL. 
 
 I am ill,—I faint, — the serpent’s fiery tongue hath 
 bitten me. Bear me to bed, and send for your physician, 
 old Aisculapius himself will attend me if you let him 
 know that I am Greek. Oh, mercy, mercy, —I burn! 
 —marrow and brain, I burn!” 
 
 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 pres- 
 ent seen him to-day ? ” 
 
 “J,” said one of the spectators, “beheld him in the 
 morning. He passed my shop and aecosted 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 pretor; 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. 2 
 
 ‘“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! for the merry, merry show !’” 
 
 It was the voice of the young woman whose conversa- 
 tion with Medon has been repeated. 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 371 
 
 “ 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 
 searcely to be carried to his temple by vulgar hands, like 
 a butchered gladiator.” 
 
 At this the bystanders reverently laid the corpse of 
 Apecides on the ground, with the face upwards; and 
 some of them went in search of some contrivance to bear 
 the body, untouched 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 inex- 
 pressible 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 pur- 
 pose, 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 pro- 
 longed. But shaking off 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!” 
 
372 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 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. 
 
 “T 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 Naza- 
 renes, 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 of Egypt!” 
 
 “T 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. He, 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 
 blasphemes! Ask him if he believes in Isis ?” 
 
 ‘To I believe in an evil demon?” returned Olinthus, 
 boldly. 
 
 A groan and shudder passed through the assembly. 
 Nothing daunted, for prepared at every time for peril, 
 and in the present excitement losing all prudence, the 
 Christian continued, — 
 
 “ Back, idolaters! this clay is not for your vain and 
 
 polluting rites: it is to us, to the followers of Christ, 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 373 
 
 that the last offices due toa 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 for- 
 bore 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 dis- 
 tance ; 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 inef- 
 fable earnestness, hushed, as it were, in a solemn sym- 
 pathy 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 
 f t 
 hangs | 
 
CANN 
 ay 4 bi’ dh 
 w 
 
 374 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 Pca... 
 
 “ 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 us, if we suffer these blasphemers in a sacred 
 grove, — away with him to death!” 
 
 “ To the beasts /” added a female voice in the centre of 
 the crowd ; “we shall have one apiece now for the lion and 
 tiger!” : 
 
 “Tf, O Nazerene, 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. 
 
 “(Q 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 compassion or his zeal, struck the statue of wood from 
 its pedestal, 
 
 “See!” cried he, “your goddess cannot avenge her- 
 self. 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 
 
THER LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 375 
 
 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, — 
 earry it to his own home.” 
 
 At this moment a priest of Isis stepped forward. “TI 
 claim these remains, according to the custom of the 
 priesthood.” 
 
 “The flamen be obeyed,” said the centurion. ‘“ How 
 is the murderer?” 
 
 “‘Tnsensible or asleep.” 
 
 “Were his crimes less, I could pity him. On!” 
 
 Arbaces, as he turned, met the eye of that priest of 
 Isis, — it was Calenus ; and something there was in that 
 glance, so significant Ha 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! TI say, we 
 shall have a man for the tiger now ; one for each beast !” 
 
 “Ho!” shouted the mob; “a man for the lion, and 
 another for the tiger ! What luck! Io Pean!” 
 
376 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEIL 
 
 CHAPTER VIL 
 
 In which the Reader learns the condition of Glaueus. — Friendship 
 tested, — Enmity softened. — Love the same, — because the one 
 loving is blind. 
 
 Tue night was somewhat advanced, and the gay lounging 
 places of the Pompeians were still crowded. You might 
 observe 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 surburban_ 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 tte. 
 
 “Well, but tell me, Clodius, is he really to be tried by 
 the senate ?” 
 
 “Yes; they say the crime is of so extraordinary 4 
 
 “na a seco 
 
 Be oe - aes ; eS > 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. OTF 
 
 nature, 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 shocking, and at my house the same night 
 that it happened !” 
 
 “There is no doubt of his guilt,” said Clodius, shrug- 
 ing 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 certainly 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 clamor 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 whatever 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 
 
 1 Plin. Ep. ii. 11, 12; v, 4, 18. 
 
378 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEIL 
 
 escape the deadly @' of his own alphabet. But enough 
 of this gloomy subject. How is the fair Julia?” 
 
 Well, i faney.” 
 
 “Commend me to her. But hark! the door yonder 
 creaks on its hinges; it is the house of the pretor. Who 
 comes forth? By Pollux! it is the Egyptian! What 
 can he want with our official friend ?” 
 
 ‘*Some conference touching the murder, doubtless,” 
 replied Diomed! “but what was supposed to be the 
 inducement to the crime ? Glaucus was to have married 
 the priest’s sister.” 
 
 “Yes: some say Apecides refused the alliance. It 
 might have been a sudden quarrel. Glaucus was evi- 
 dently 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 spendthrifts 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 acquain- 
 tance), 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 Alexan- 
 dria. 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 Amphi- 
 
 1 @, the initial of @dvaros (death), the condemning letter of the 
 Greeks, as C was of the Romans, 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 379 
 
 theatre. 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!” 
 
 Leaving the less active Diomed to regain his villa, 
 Clodius strode on, humming a Greek air, and perfuming 
 the night with the odors that steamed from his snowy 
 garments and flowing locks. 
 
 “Tf” thought he, “Glaucus feed the lion, Julia will 
 no longer have a person to love better than me; she will 
 certainly dote 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 cheating; and if it be dis- 
 covered that the ivory is cogged, why farewell 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 imperial 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 ?” 
 
 “T know not,” answered the Egyptian; “nor am I, 
 perhaps, one of those whom he would seek as a hoon 
 companion. But thou knowest that his house holds the 
 
 person of Glaucus, the murderer.” 
 
 _ “Ay! he, good-hearted epicure, believes in the Greek’s 
 ‘innocence! You remind me that he has become his 
 | surety ; and, therefore, till the trial, is responsible for his 
 
380 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 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 exe- 
 eution 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 wis- 
 dom,” replied the Egyptian, modestly. ‘ Which way 
 lies Sallust’s mansion ?” 
 
 ‘‘T 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 ?” 
 
 “ Alas! well-nigh insane. Sometimes she utters impre- 
 cations on the murderer; then suddenly stops short, — 
 then cries, ‘But why curse? Oh, my brother! Glaucus 
 was not thy murderer, — 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 Ione!” 
 
 “ But it is well for her that those solemn cares to the 
 dead which religion enjoins have hitherto greatly absorbed 
 her attention from Glaucus and herself: and, in the dim- 
 ness of her senses, she scarcely seems aware that Glaucus 
 is apprehended and on the eve of trial, When the 
 funeral rites due to Apscides are performed, her appre- 
 hension will return; and then I fear me much that her 
 friends will be revolted by seeing her run to succor and 
 aid the murderer of her brother!” 
 
 | 
 
 1 If a criminal could obtain surety (called vades in capita 
 offences), he was not compelled to lie in prison till after sentence. — 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 381 
 
 “Such scandal should be prevented.” 
 
 “IT trust I have taken precautions to that effect. lam 
 her lawful guardian, and have just succeeded in obtaining 
 permission to escort her, after the funeral of Apecides, 
 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 pleasures of Pompeii?—TI flatter myself no one 
 knows them better.” 
 
 “T 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, vale /” 
 
 “Now,” said the Egyptian, soliloquizing, “I am not 
 wantonly a man of blood; I would willingly save this 
 Greek, if, by confessing the crime, he will lose himself 
 forever to Ione, and forever 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.” 
 
ee 0 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 Sweeping along the narrow street, Arbaces now ap- 
 proached 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!” 
 
 “JT know thee,” said Nydia, in a low voice, “thou art 
 Arbaces the Egyptian:” then, as if inspired by some 
 sudden impulse, she flung herself at his feet, and clasping — 
 his knees, exclaimed in a wild and passionate tone, “ Oly 
 dread and potent man! save him,—save him! He is 
 not guilty, —itis 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 forgetest that I 
 
 accompanied Julia to the saga’s home. Doubtless her 
 hand administered the draught; but her reputation | 
 demands thy silence. Reproach not thyself, — what 
 
 {?? 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 383 
 
 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 to, 
 Glaucus. I come from the pretor.” 
 
 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 pre- 
 pare 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, wrap- 
 ping her cloak round her face, resumed her weary vigil. 
 
 ' Meanwhile Arbaces had already gained the triclinium, 
 ‘where Sallust, with his favorite 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? 
 Inv they say in the town that he has recovered sense.” 
 
 | “Alas! and truly,” replied the good-natured but 
 thoughtless Sallust, wiping the tear from his eyes ; “‘ but 
 
 80 shattered are his nerves and frame that I scarcely 
 
 | 
 i} 
 a 
 
384 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 recognize 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 inno- 
 cence of the death of Apezecides.” 
 
 ‘ Sallust,” said Arbaces gravely, ‘“ there is much in thy 
 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 con- 
 ference 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 appetite! He eats nothing now! ” 
 
 The benevolent epicure was moved sensibly at this 
 thought. He sighed, and ordered his slaves to refill 
 his cup. 7 
 
 “Night wanes,” said the Egyptian ; “suffer me to see 
 thy ward now.” 
 
 Sallust nodded assent, and led the way to a smali 
 
 chamber, guarded without by two dozing slaves, The 
 
 door opened ; at the request of Arbaces, Sallust with-_ 
 
 drew, — the Egyptian was alone with Glaucus. 
 
 One of those tall and graceful candelabra common 10 - 
 
 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 color was gong 
 
 } 
 \ 
 | 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 385 
 
 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 forever. 
 
 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 savior.” 
 
 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 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 mur- 
 der: 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 Apezecides, and thou shalt avoid the fatal urn.” 
 
 _ “What words are these ?— Murder and Apzcides ! — 
 | 25 
 
386 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 Did I not see him stretched on the ground bleeding and 
 ‘a*corpse? and wouldst thou persuade me that J 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 walking with the priest, disput- 
 ing 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 Jone 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! JZ the murderer of Ione’s brother! J 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 signa- 
 ture, or the amphitheatre and the lion’s maw!” 
 
 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: Ione mine, — youth, health, love, — 
 lavishing on me their treasures; and now, — pain, mad 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 387 « 
 
 ness, shame, death! And for what? what have I done? 
 Oh, I am mad still !” vs 
 
 “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 appall me for a moment, but the fear is over. Dis- 
 honor appalls forever! 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 earna 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 without 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! thow 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 !” 
 
 _ “T go,” said Arbaces, stung and exasperated, but not 
 ‘without 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 eyes began to reel with the vigils of the 
 cup: “ He is still unconscious, or still obstinate ; there is 
 no hope for him.” 
 
 i" 
 1 
 
388 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 “ Say not so,” replied Sallust, who felt but little resent- 
 ment against the Athenian’s accuser ; for he possessed no 
 great austerity of virtue, and was rather moved by his 
 friend’s reverses 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 
 unclosed ;; 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 J 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. 
 
 “T must secure this girl,” said he, musingly, ‘lest she 
 give evidence of the philtre; as to the vain Julia, she 
 will not betray herself.” 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 889 ” 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 A Classic Funeral. 
 
 Wuite Arbaces had been thus employed, Sorrow and 
 Death were in the house of Ione. It was the night 
 preceding the morn in which the solemn funeral rites 
 were to be decreed to the remains of the murdered 
 Apecides. The corpse had been removed from the 
 temple of Isis to the house of the nearest surviving 
 relative, and Ione 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 itself, and the forbearing silence of her 
 Slaves, had prevented her learning minutely the cireum- 
 stances 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 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 Eg gyptian 
 ‘himself was the criminal. But the vast and absorbing 
 ‘importance attached by the ancients to the performance 
 of every ceremonial connected with the death of a rela- 
 tion, 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 endeavor to catch the last 
 ‘breath — the parting soul — of the beloved one; but it 
 Was hers to close the straining eyes, the distorted lips : 
 
~ 390 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 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 lamentation and in prayer, 
 Ione forgot herself. It was among the loveliest customs 
 of the ancients to bury the young at the morning twi- 
 light ; for, as they strove to give the softest interpreta- 
 tion 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 gray 
 heavens, and night slowly receding before the approach 
 of morn, when a dark group stood motionless before 
 Ione’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 Preefice so often 
 cited by the Roman poets), accompanying the Tibicen 
 and the Mysian flute, woke the following strain : — 
 
 THE FUNERAL DIRGE. 
 
 O’er the sad threshold, where the cypress bough 
 Supplants the rose that should adorn thy home, 
 On the last pilgrimage on earth that now 
 Awaits thee, wanderer to Cocytus, come! 
 
 1 This was rather a Greek than a Roman custom; but the reader 
 
 will observe that in the cities of Magna Grecia the Greek customs _ 
 
 and superstitions were much mingled with the Roman. 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 391 
 
 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 langhter and the song, 
 
 The jocund night, — the glory of the day ! 
 The Argive daughters! at their labors long ; 
 
 The hell-bird swooping on its Titan prey, — 
 The false Molides,? upheaving slow, 
 
 O’er the eternal hill, the eternal stone; 
 The crownéd Lydian,? in his parching woe, 
 
 And green Callirrhoé’s monster-headed son,4 — 
 
 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 rite® to bear thee trembling o’er! 
 Come, then! no more delay ! — the phantom pines 
 Amidst the Unburied for its latest home ; 
 O’er the gray 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 Apzxcides was carried forth, with the feet fore- 
 most. The designator, or marshal of the sombre cere- 
 monial, 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 
 
 1 The Danaides. 2 Sisyphus. 8 Tantalus. 4 Geryon. 
 5 The most idle novel reader need scarcely be reminded, that not 
 till after the funeral rites were the dead carried over the Styx. 
 
392 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII 
 
 boys, whose tender years made still more striking the 
 contrast of life and death,—the fresh leaf and the 
 withered one. But the players, the buffoons, the archi- 
 mimus (whose duty it was to personate the dead),— these, 
 the customary attendants at ordinary funerals, were ban- 
 ished from a funeral attended with so many terrible 
 associations. 
 
 The priests of Isis came next in their snowy garments, 
 barefooted, 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 characterized — 
 those who honored 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 com- 
 bustible 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 | 
 attendants parting on either side, Ione passed up to the 
 couch, and stood before the unconscious clay for some 
 
 ue 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 393 
 
 moments motionless and silent. The features of the dead 
 
 had been composed from the first agonized expression of 
 violent death. Hushed forever 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 terri- 
 ble, yet 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 Jone ; she looked up 
 hastily and confusedly, as if for the first time sensible of 
 the presence of those around. 
 
 “ 4h!” 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 deceased ;* hnt when the dull, glazed eye, no longer 
 beaming with love and life, met hers, she shrieked aloud, 
 
 _asif she had seen a spectre. Once more recovering her- 
 
 self, she kissed again and again the lids, the lips, the 
 1 Pliny, ii. 37. 
 
394 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 brow ; and with mechanic and unconscious 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. 
 Te 
 
 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, — 
 Still shalt thou seem as dear to us 
 As flowery-crownéed Zephyrus, 
 When, through twilight’s starry dew. 
 Trembling, he hastes his nymph ? to woe. 
 
 gE 
 
 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 odors meet, 
 
 For thy silver-sandall’d feet ! 
 
 III. 
 
 August and everlasting air! 
 The source of all that breathe and be, 
 
 1 Boreas. 2 Flora. 8 Rhodes. 
 
= 
 
 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEIL 395 
 
 From the mute clay before thee bear 
 
 The seeds it took from thee! 
 Aspire, bright Flame! aspire! 
 
 Wild wind ! — awake, awake! 
 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! 
 Lo! the elements meet on the throne 
 Of death, — to reclaim their own! 
 
 hie 
 
 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! 
 
 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! 
 
 Rejoice! o’er the sluggard tide 
 
 Of the Styx thy bark can glide, 
 
= 
 
 396 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 And thy steps evermore shall rove 
 Through the glades of the happy grove 3 
 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 flashed luminously across the 
 gloomy cypresses, —it shot above the massive walls of 
 the neighboring city; and the early fishermen started 
 to behold the blaze reddening on the waves of the 
 creeping sea. 
 
 But Ione sat down apart and alone, and, leaning her 
 face upon her hands, saw not the flame, nor heard the 
 lamentation 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 odors, the remains were placed in a silver urn, 
 
 which was solemnly stored in one of the neighboring 
 
 sepulchres beside the road ; and they placed within it the | 
 
 phial 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 the incense 
 
 Se eee 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 397 
 
 kindled on the altar, and the tomb hung round with 
 many lamps. 
 
 But the next day, when the priest returned with fresh 
 offerings to the tomb, he found that to the relics of 
 heathen superstition 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 
 Preeficee three times sprinkled the mourners from the 
 purifying branch of laurel, uttering the last word, 
 “ Tlicet !” — Depart !— and the rite was done. 
 
 But first they paused to utter — weepingly and many 
 times — the affecting farewell, “ Salve Hternum/” And 
 as Ione 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 ! 
 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! 
 
 1a, 
 
 Tlicet — 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 ? 
 
98 
 
 THE LAST DAYS*OF POMPEII. 
 
 Vainly we sprinkle o’er us 
 
 The drops of the cleansing stream 5 
 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! 
 
 Il. 
 
 llicet — ire licet! 
 The spark from the hearth is gone 
 
 Wherever the air shall bear it ; 
 The elements take their own, — 
 
 The shadows receive thy spirit. 
 It will soothe thee to feel our grief 
 
 As thou glid’st by the Gloomy River! 
 If love may in life be brief, 
 
 In death it is fixed forever. 
 
 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 forever! 
 Salve — salve ! 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 399 
 
 CHAPTER IX, 
 
 In which an Adventure happens to Ione. 
 
 Wuitx some stayed behind to share with the priests the 
 funeral banquet, Ione and her handmaids took homeward 
 their melancholy way. And now —the last duties to 
 her brother performed — her mind awoke from its ab- 
 sorption, 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 
 communicate her impression, unsupported as it might 
 be. Questioning her maidens, who had hitherto — kindly 
 anxious, as I have said, to save her the additional agony — 
 refrained from informing her of the state of Glaucus, she 
 learned that he had been dangerously ill; that he was in 
 eustody, 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? 
 Oh! 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 yield to my conviction; if they Lanteige 
 him to exile or to death, let me share the sentence with 
 him !” 
 
400 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 - Instinctively she hastened her pace, confused and be 
 wildered, scarce knowing whither she went; now design. 
 ing first to seek the praetor, 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 Ione shrieked aloud 
 to behold Arbaces, 
 
 ‘Fair Ione!” said he, gently, and appearing not to 
 heed her alarm: “my ward, my pupil! forgive me if I 
 
 disturb thy pious sorrows; but the preetor, solicitous of — 
 
 thy honor, and anxious that thou mayest not rashly be 
 implicated in the coming trial; knowing the strange 
 embarrassment of thy state (ceokane justice for thy 
 brother, but dreading punishment to thy betrothed), — 
 sympathizing, 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 Ione, 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 thun- 
 derbolt of the avenging god! Pass on, and leave me to 
 my woe!” 
 
 “Thy sorrows unstring thy reason, Ione,” said Arbaces, | 
 
 attempting in vain his usual calmness of tone. ‘TI for. | 
 
 give thee. Thou wilt find me now, as ever, thy surest 
 
 f 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 401 
 
 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 
 Ione, 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, “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 pretor. This delay is indecorous. Place her in 
 the litter.” 
 
 So saying he threw his arm firmly round the shrinking 
 form of Ione. She drew back, gazed earnestly in his 
 face, and then burst into hysterical laughter : — 
 
 “Ha! ha! thisis 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 Ione 
 was soon borne from the sight of her weeping handmaids. 
 
 26 
 
402 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 What becomes of Nydia in the House of Arbaces. —The Egyptian 
 feels Compassion for Glaucus. — Compassion is often a very 
 useless visitor to the Guilty. 
 
 Tr 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 cherish ; 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, — Arbaces, 
 with unheeding ears, was noting only the new expediency 
 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 dangerovs to the full success of his 
 vengeance to allow her to ne at large, — to appear, per- 
 haps, as a witness; to avow the manner in which the 
 sense of Glaucus had been darkened, and thus win indul- 
 gence to the crime of which he was accused, — how much 
 more was she likely to volunteer her testimony when she 
 
 * 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII 403 
 
 herself had administered the draught, and, inspired by 
 love, would be only anxious, at any expense of shame, to 
 retrieve her error and preserve her beloved? Besides, how 
 unworthy of the rank and repute of Arbaces to be impli- 
 cated in the disgrace of pandering to the passion of Julia, 
 and assisting in the unholy rites of the Saga of Vesuvius! 
 Nothing less, indeed, than his desire to induce Glaucus to 
 own the murder of Apecides, as a policy evidently the 
 best both for his own permanent safety and his successful 
 suit with Ione, could ever have ied him to contemplate 
 the confession of Julia. 
 
 As for Nydia, who was necessarily cut off by her blind- 
 ness 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 sen- 
 ate 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 implored 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 
 
 | 
 | 
 
404. THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 along the streets, and be spurned 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 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 Ione. 
 
 His primary object, with respect to the unfortunate 
 Neapolitan, was that which he had really stated to 
 Clodius, — namely, 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 
 encountered 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 himself 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 Ione in that chamber in the inmost recesses of his | 
 mysterious mansion to which he had consigned 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 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 405 
 
 woe which he had brought upon her. In that sanguine 
 vanity common to men who through life have been invari- 
 ably 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 forever forfeited by con- 
 demnation to death for the murder of her own brother, — 
 her affection would be changed to horror ; and that his ten- 
 derness 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 
 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 attend 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 
 Tone 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 pene- 
 trate to those vast and glorious worlds which my wisdom 
 tells me lie yet untracked in the recesses of the circling 
 
406 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 sea. There may this heart, possessed of love, grow once 
 more alive to ambition, — there, amongst nations un- 
 crushed 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 on yet grander 
 shores the dynasty of my crowned fathers, and waking 
 in the noble heart of Ione the grateful consciousness that 
 she shares the lot of one who, far from the aged rotten- 
 ness of this slavish civilization, 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 dauntless- 
 ness of his brow; for Arbaces was one who had little 
 pity for what was ‘UnfOrtanbey but a strong sympathy for 
 what was bold. The congenialities that bind us to others 
 ever assimilate to the 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 confession of his 
 crime, which would, better than even the judgment of 
 others, have lost him with Ione, 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 persevering, in the course he pursued, 
 for the destruction of one whose doom was become | 
 
THE LAST DAYS oF POMPEII. 407 
 
 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 a 
 disgrace that humbled the hated Ione. 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. 
 
408 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 Nydia affects the Sorceress. 
 
 Wuen 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 4 
 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 mayest 
 have what are much better things, — food and wine.” 
 
 “Proh Jupiter!” cried the girl, wringing her hands; 
 ‘ond 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 
 mistress, who has been brought hither this day.” 
 
 “What! Ione here?” 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 409 
 
 “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 sald, 
 ‘I have but one lesson to give thee: while thou servest 
 me, thou must have neither ears, eyes, nor thought ; thou 
 must be but one quality, — obedience.’ ” 
 
 “But what harm is there in seeing Ione?” 
 
 “That [ 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 amuse- 
 ment of knife and shears, some pretty trick of telling for- 
 tunes, 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 Apzcides.” 
 
 “Ha!” said Nydia, pressing her hands to her fore- 
 head; “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 
 maybe the tiger, will be his executioner.” 
 
 Nydia leaped up, as if an arrow had entered her heart ; 
 
 1 In the houses of the great, each suite of chambers had its 
 peculiar slave, 
 
410 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 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 — 
 
 ean look upon his face, — who will be cruel to the Athe- 
 nian! — 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 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 1m- 
 prisoned 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 servitude. What slave was ever destitute 
 of cunning? She resolved to practise upon her keeper ;_ 
 and, calling suddenly to mind his superstitious query as 
 
 a 
 Pe al 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 41] 
 
 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 fol- 
 lowing morning, she hastened to divert his garrulity into 
 that channel in which it had before evinced a natural 
 disposition 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! I 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 
 Bothing. He does such generous things sometimes. 
 
 Next, supposing that be true, shall I possess myself of 
 ‘that snug taberna among the Myropolia? which I have 
 long had in my eye? Tis a genteel trade that of a per- 
 'fumer, and suits a retired slave who has something of a 
 gentleman about him!” 
 
 “Ay! so you would have precise answers to those 
 “questions ? — 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 Gastromanteia, whereby 
 the demon casts pale and deadly images upon water, 
 ‘prophetic of the future. But this art requires alsa 
 glasses of a peculiar fashion, to contain the consecrated 
 1 The shops of the perfumers, 
 
412 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 liquid, which we have not. I think, therefore, that the 
 simplest method of satisfying your desire would be by the 
 Magic of Air.” 
 
 “T 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 ; ‘1 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 ey | at it, — tall, talk ; it will 
 last over till to-morrow.’ 
 
 “To-morrow ? — you are sure of that?” 
 
 “So I hear.” 
 
 ‘And Ione ?” 
 
 ‘By Bacchus! she must be tolerably well, for she was 
 strong enough to make my master stamp and bite his lip 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 413 
 
 this morning. 1 saw him quit her apartment with a brow 
 like a thunderstorm.” 
 
 “‘ Lodges she near this?” 
 
 “No; in the upper apartments. But I must not stay 
 prating here longer. — Vale /” 
 
414 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPBIL 
 
 ny a 
 , © ai j 
 4 ™® f 
 
 iw -/CHAPTER XII 
 A Wasp ventures into the Spider’s Web. 
 
 Tue 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 pro-— 
 
 fession. 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 soliloquized, he cron 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 encountered Arbaces. 
 
 ‘Ho! Calenus — seekest thou me?” said the Egyp- 
 
 tian ; and there was a little embarrassment in his voice. — 
 
 “Yes, wise Arbaces; I trust my visit is not unse® 
 
 sonable ?” 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 415 
 
 “Nay, —it was but this instant that my freedman 
 Callias sneezed thrice at my right hand; I knew, there- 
 fore, some good fortune was in store for me, —and, lo! 
 the gods have sent me Calenus.” 
 
 “ 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. 
 
 “Tt 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 Egyptian 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, triumphant 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 of a rival in the 
 affections of Ione. I entertain no other sentiment of 
 : animosity against that unfortunate homicide.” 
 “Homicide!” repeated Calenus, slowly and meaningly ; 
 
416 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 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 con- 
 tinued 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 
 prepared himself for the hint his secret fears had foretold. 
 
 *“‘ 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 
 Apecides. 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 Apecides 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 mys- 
 teries 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 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 417 
 
 “ 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 Athe- 
 nian’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, coloring 
 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 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 witness, 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 auda- 
 city of his natural character, “ verily thou art a Magian ; 
 thou readest the heart as it were a scroll.” 
 
 _ “TItis 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 
 : 27 
 
418 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 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, indeed, 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. 
 
 “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 refer: 
 
 1 The god of Silence. 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPREIL 419 
 
 rest 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 pos- 
 sesses, thou wilt learn how foolish it would be to injure 
 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 
 weeping with joy, “canst thou thus forgive my inju- 
 rious doubts of thy justice, thy generosity?” 
 
 “Hush! one other turn, and we will descend to the 
 Oscan arches.” 
 
420 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 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?” 
 
 “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 demeanor.” 
 
 “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 LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 491 
 
 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 whispered low by fiend — are ours. 
 
 Spectre of the viewless air, 
 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, 
 Summoned from the shadowy throng,’ 
 At the muse-son’s magic song; * 
 By the Colchian’s awful charms, 
 When fair-haired Jason left her arms — 
 Spectre of the airy halls, 
 One who owns thee duly calls ! 
 Breathe along the brimming bowl, 
 And instruct the fearful soul 
 tn the shadowy things that lie 
 Dark in dim futurity. 
 Come, wild demon of the air, 
 Answer to thy votary’s prayer! 
 Come ! oh, come! 
 
 “<4 
 
422 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 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 honored more than thee! 
 Come! oh, come ! 
 
 “The spectre zs certainly coming,” said Sosia. “TI 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 a 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?” 
 
 “Tet 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 LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 423 
 
 the birds* have doubtless acquainted thee with every 
 secret of this house, — thou knowest that I have filehed 
 and pilfered all that I honestly — that is, safely — could 
 Jay 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 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 nota 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, man- 
 aged 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 N ydia. What 
 sould he do? He did not dare to knock loud — to call 
 ut — lest Arbaces should overhear him, and discover 
 aow he had been duped ; and Nydia, meanwhile, had 
 
 orobably already gained the garden-gate, and was fast on 
 ler escape. 
 
 | 1 Who are supposed to know all secrets. The same superstition 
 revails in the Kast, and is not without example also in our north 
 'm legends. 
 
424 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 “But,” thought he, “she will go home, or, at least, be 
 somewhere 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 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 approach- 
 ing steps, and distinguished the dreaded 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 garden. 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 behind her 
 the voice of Calenus, and, a moment after, that of Arbaces 
 in low reply. She could not stay there; they were prob- 
 ably passing to that very door. She sprang onward, and 
 felt herself in unknown ground. The air grew damp and 
 
 nie 
 Re | 
 ee) 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 425 
 
 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 proceeded ; 
 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 buttresses that here 
 and there jutted boldly forth, she fell to the ground. 
 Though much bruised, her senses did not leave her: 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 architecture 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, 
 
426 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 without cement, were fitted curiously and uncouthly 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 luxu- 
 ries of the halls above. They are like the laborers 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 
 day,” 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 passages ; the length of which, not really great, was — 
 to the eye considerably exaggerated by the sullen gloom 
 against which the lamp so faintly struggled. To the 
 right of these ale the two comrades now directed their 
 steps. | 
 
 “The gay Glaucus will be lodged to-morrow in apart- 
 ments not much drier, and far less spacious than this,” 
 said Calenus, as they passed by the very spot where, com- 
 pletely wrapped in 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. 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEIL. 427 
 
 * 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 be spoken /” said the Egyptian, 
 with a loud, exultant laugh, and closed the door upon the 
 priest. 
 
 Calenus had been Paetiitated 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 
 
 | 
 | 
 | 
 
428 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 will the air ever reveal, as thou gnawest, in thy desperate 
 famine, thy flesh 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 forever. 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 es for a deep 
 draught of the spiced Falernian.” 
 
 With that the remorseless Egyptian drew his gown 
 closer round him, and resought the upper air. 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 429 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 Nydia accosts Calenus. 
 
 Wuart words of terror, yet of hope, had Nydia over- 
 heard! 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 pretor, he might yet in time be 
 given to light, and preserve the Athenian. Her emotions 
 almost stifled her: her brain reeled ; she felt her sense 
 give way, — but by a violent effort she mastered herself ; 
 and after listening intently for several minutes, till she 
 was convinced 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 dis- 
 tinctly 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 penetrate! ‘ Who’s there?” he cried, in new 
 
4390 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 alarm ; ‘‘ what spectre, — what dread Jarva, 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 
 obeying the suggestion of Nydia, “save me, and I will 
 sell the very cups on the altar to pay thy kindness.” 
 
 “T want not thy gold, ——I want thy secret. Did I 
 hear aright ?—-Canst thou save the Athenian Glaucus 
 from the charge against his life?” 
 
 “T 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 innocent 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!” 
 
 As through his ground teeth Calenus shrieked forth 
 those last words, Nydia felt that in his worst passions 
 was her certainty of his justice to the Athenian. Her 
 heart beat: was it — was it to be her proud destiny to 
 preserve her idolized, her adored? ‘‘Knough,” said she; 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEIL 431 
 
 “the powers that conducted me hither will carry me 
 through all. Yes, I feel that I shall deliver thee. Wait 
 in patience and hope.” 
 
 ‘But be cautious, be prudent, sweet stranger. At- 
 tempt not to appeal to Arbaces,— he is marble. Seck 
 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 larve! Oh! stay, 
 stay !” 
 
 “Nay,” 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!” | 
 
 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 
 
 aid herself down, and counted the weary moments. 
 
 In her sanguine heart, joy was the predominant emo- 
 tion. Glaucus was in deadly peril, — but she should 
 save him! 
 
432 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 Arbaces and Ione. —Nydia gains the Garden. — Will she escape 
 and save the Athenian ? 
 
 Wuen 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. 
 
 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 priest- 
 hood 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 mis- 
 sions to the neighboring cities. On some such errand 
 he could now assert that he had been sent, with offer- 
 ings to the shrines of Isis at Herculaneum and Neapolis, 
 placatory of the goddess for the recent murder of her 
 priest Apzecides. 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 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 433 
 
 upon the Nazarene atheists, as an act of revenge for the 
 death of Olinthus at the arena. After rapidly running 
 over these plans for screening himself, Arbaces dismissed 
 at once from his mind all recollection of the wretched 
 priest ; and, animated by the success which had lately 
 erowned all his schemes, he surrendered his thoughts 
 to Ione. 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 inter- 
 view ; 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 Ione 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, 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 intruder, shut them with an expression of pain, but 
 did not stir. 
 
 28 
 
434 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 * Ah!” said Arbaces, in a low and earnest tone, as he 
 respectfully, nay, humbly, advanced and seated himself 
 at a little distance from the table, — “ah! that my death 
 could remove thy hatred, then would I gldtlly die! Thou — 
 wrongest me, Ione; 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 
 Ione, in a calm and imploring tone, and a few large tears 
 rolled unheeded 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 unscathed 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 Ione, that I 
 would follow thee longer with a prayer of love. JI know 
 it is in vain. Suffer me only to weep, — to mourn with 
 thee. Forgive 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, Ione! spare 
 me and forgive.” 
 
 “T 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 Ione will never 
 see him more.” As she spoke, she rose with weak and 
 trembling limbs, and falling at his feet, she clasped his 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPRII, 435 
 
 knees: “Oh! if thou really 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 Ione, 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, — thine? Never.” 
 
 “Tone, Ione!” 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 Ione, speaking firmly, and with a 
 deliberate 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 
 
436 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 refuse the air. Thou art learned, — thou hast read how 
 women have died rather than meet dishonor. If Glaucus 
 perish, I will not unworthily 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, 
 the air and voice of Ione struck an awe into the breast of 
 her listener. 
 
 “ Brave heart!” said he, after a short pause; ‘‘thou 
 art indeed worthy to be mine. Oh! that I should have 
 dreamed of such a partner in my lofty destinies, and 
 never found it but in thee! Ione,” he continued 
 rapidly, ‘‘dost thou not see that we are born for each 
 other? Canst thou not recognize something kindred to 
 thine own energy —thine own courage —in this high 
 and self-dependent soul? We were formed to unite our 
 sympathies, — 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, fore- 
 sees 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 wor- 
 ship 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 Ione!” 
 
 “Thou ravest! These mystic declamations are suited 
 rather to some palsied crone selling charms in the mar- 
 ket-place than to the wise Arbaces. Thou hast heard my 
 resolution, —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 
 
 | 
 
 | 
 ah 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEIL. 437 
 
 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, Ione. 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 from his head, and judge me accordingly. 
 Sleep then, Ione. Night wanes; I leave thee to its 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 Ione, which racked him with jealousy, even 
 while it touched him to compassion. But compassion 
 itself came too late. Had Ione 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 believed he 
 should yet triumph over the woman that had so entangled 
 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 Ione should never learn of her lover’s 
 frenzy, lest it might excuse his imputed crime; and it 
 was possible that her attendants might inform her that 
 Nydia was under his roof, and she might desire to see 
 
438 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 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 freelman hastened to obey. After having dis- 
 charged his commission with respect to Ione’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 from Nydia’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 obtruded itself. 
 
 “ What !—in the chamber with that young girl, Sosia! 
 Proh pudor! Are there not fruits ripe enough on the 
 wall, but that thou must tamper with such green — ” 
 
 “Name not the little witch!” interrupted Sosia, impa- 
 tiently ; “she will be my ruin!” And he forthwith 
 imparted to Callias the history of the Air Demon, and 
 the escape of the Thessalian. 
 
 “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 council, my dear Callias.” 
 
 “T will do all that friendship can, consistent with my | 
 
 | 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 439 
 
 own safety, But are you sure she has left the house ?1— 
 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 
 expose 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, 
 tremulously, holding her breath, which ever and anon 
 broke forth in quick, convulsive gasps,— now gliding by 
 the flower-wreathed columns that bordered the peristyle ; 
 now darkening the still moonshine that fell over its tes- 
 sellated 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 
 ail seen that expression of pain, of uncertainty, of fear, 
 
440 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 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 wanderéd to and fro the inexorable door. Poor 
 thing that thou wert! in vain had been all thy noble 
 courage, thy innocent craft, thy doublings to escape the 
 hound and huntsman! Within but a few yards from thee, 
 laughing at thy endeavors, 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 whén 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 Pol- 
 lux, 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 jailer. It 
 was a shriek of such utter agony, such entire despair, | 
 that it might have rung hauntingly in your ears forever. | 
 She felt as if the last plank of the sinking Glaucus were | 
 torn from his clasp. It had been a suspense of life and 
 death ; and death had now won the game. | 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 441 
 
 “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 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 solitude so racked and terrible, that out of Hades 
 its anguish could scarcely be exceeded. 
 
j 
 
 442 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 The Sorrow of Boon Companions for our Afflictions. — The 
 Dungeon and its Victims. 
 
 Ir was now late on the third and last day of the trial of 
 Glaucus and Olinthus, A few hours after the court had 
 broken 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. 
 
 “Ves; 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 marriage with Ione. High words arose: 
 Glaucus seems to have been full of the passionate god, 
 and struck in sudden exasperation. 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 con- 
 
 fused 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 — 
 
 e . ° e % 
 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.” 
 
 ifs 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 443 
 
 “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 fero- 
 cious brutes !— because 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 
 fearless !” 
 
 “Ay, we shall see if his firmness will last over 
 to-morrow. But what merit in courage, when that 
 atheistical hound, Olinthus, 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.1— 
 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 ex- 
 pressed 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.” 
 
 1 Pliny says that, immediately before the eruption of Vesuvius, 
 
 | one of the decuriones municipales was—— though the heaven was 
 unclouded — struck dead by lightning. 
 
444 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 “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.” 
 
 “As for the atheist,” said Clodius, “he is to cope the 
 erim 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 
 something; 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 
 consolation 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 amusement.” 
 
 ‘There speaks the popular Pansa, who never moves 
 without 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 | 
 
 | 
 
~ 
 
 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 445 
 
 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 wivaria, or plenty of criminals in the jail.” 
 
 “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 protec- 
 tion 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, coxcombi- 
 cally ; “I was with her to-day. If any feeling of the sort 
 she ever conceived, I flatter myself that Z have consoled 
 her.” 
 
 “Hush, gentlemen!” said Pansa; “do you not know 
 that 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.” 
 
 “Ts it so?” said Lepidus. ‘ What! Clodius become a 
 married 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, 
 
446 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 was the conversation in the gaudy triclinium of Lepidus, 
 far different the scene which scowled before the young 
 Athenian. 
 
 After his condemnation, Glaucus was admitted no more 
 to the gentle guardianship of Sallust, the only friend of 
 his distress, 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 
 prostrated 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 himself 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 him to 
 vanquish all unbecoming apprehension, and, in the judg- 
 ment-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 excited his haughty valor, and he was left to lone- | 
 liness and silence. He felt the damps of the dungeon | 
 
 sink chillingly into his enfeebled frame. Me, — the fas- ; 
 
 tidious, the luxurious, the refined, — he who had hitherto | 
 
 braved no hardship and known no sorrow. Beautiful — 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 447 
 
 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 sud- 
 denly to be arrested, caged in darkness, a victim and a 
 prey, — his gay flights forever over, his hymns of glad- 
 ness forever 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 Ione! of her, too, 
 he had heard naught ; no encouraging word, no pitying 
 message : she, too, had forsaken him ; she believed him 
 - guilty, — and of what crime ?— the murder 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, 
 indeed, 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 earth. He felt con 
 vinced of his innocence ; and yet who, to the latest time, 
 
448 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 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 Ione, — 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) ‘fis my compan- 
 ion 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 ?” 
 
 “Ts Olinthus, thy co-mate in the prison as the trial.” 
 
 ‘“ What! he whom they call the atheist? Is it the 
 injustice of men that hath taught thee to deny the pro- 
 vidence 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. Itis 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 immor- 
 tality, 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 Apecides in my trial? Dost 
 thou believe me guilty ?” 
 
 “God alone reads the heart! but my suspicion rested 
 not upon thee.” 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEIL 449 
 
 “On whom, then?” 
 
 “Thy accuser, Arbaces.” 
 
 “Ha! thou cheerest me; and wherefore ?” 
 
 “ 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 Apzcides, the plan they had proposed for 
 the detection of the impostures of the Egyptian priest- 
 craft, and of the seductions practised by Arbaces upon 
 the youthful weakness of the proselyte. ‘ Therefore,” 
 concluded Olinthus, “had the deceased encountered 
 Arbaces, reviled his treasons, and threatened detection, 
 the place, the hour, might have favored the wrath of the 
 Egyptian, and passion and craft alike dictated the fatal 
 blow.” 
 
 ‘Jt must have been so!” cried Glaucus, joyfully. “I 
 am 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 mysteri- 
 ous madness I had fearful though momentary doubts. 
 Yet tell me, man of a strange creed, thinkest thou that, for 
 small errors or for ancestral faults, we are forever aban- 
 doned 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, 
 29 
 
450 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 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 here- 
 after; that beyond the grave 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 Olin- 
 thus, passionately, “ 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 
 affection which struck a kindred chord in the soul of the 
 Greek. He felt, for the first time, a sympathy greater 
 than mere affliction between him and his companion. He 
 crept nearer towards 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 companionship as the prison would 
 afford. 
 
 “ Yes,” continued the Christian, with holy fervor ; ‘‘ the 
 immortality 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 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 451 
 
 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, 
 
452 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 CHAPTER: Xia 
 
 A Change for Glaucus, 
 
 Tue 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 
 refrained from visiting her until late in the morning of 
 
 the following day, and then he but thrust in the periodi- — 
 
 cal 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 impossible as seemed her escape, 
 that the sole chance for the life of Glaucus rested on 
 her, this young girl, frail, passionate, and acutely sus- 
 ceptible as she was, — resolved not to give way to a 
 despair that would disable her from seizing whatever 
 opportunity might occur. She kept her senses whenever, 
 beneath 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 revolved scheme after scheme of escape, and was 
 forced to dismiss all. Yet Sosia was her only hope, the 
 only instrument with which she could tamper. He had 
 been superstitious in the desire of ascertaining whether 
 he could eventually purchase 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 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 453 
 
 arms were covered with bracelets, the presents of Ione; 
 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 forever.. 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 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 appalls 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 no- 
 body to talk with, —Jit was his case too; he pitied, — 
 and resolved to relieve himself. He took the hint of 
 Nydia, placed a stool before the door, leaned his back 
 against it, and replied, — 
 
 “‘T am sure [ 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?” 
 
 “Tt is already evening, — the goats are going home.” 
 
 “QO gods! how went the trial?” 
 
 a) 
 
454 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 * 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 leaned 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 privations. He went on lamenting 
 the loss of so delightful a show, and accusing the in- 
 justice of Arbaces for singling him out from all his 
 fellows to be converted into a jailer; 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, I will endeavor not to grumble. It is hard 
 to be ill-treated, and yet not pitied.” 
 
 ‘“‘Sosia, how much dost thou require to make up the 
 purchase of thy freedom?” 
 
 ‘How much? Why, about two thousand sesterces.” 
 
 “The gods be praised! not more? Seest thou these 
 bracelets 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!—Jet me out at mid- : 
 night, —I will return ere to-morrow’s dawn; nay, thou | 
 canst go with me.” | 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 455 
 
 “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 effi- 
 cient. 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 pretor.” 
 
 “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 slave is by the torture.” 
 
 “Pardon: I meant not the pretor, —it was a word 
 that escaped me unawares; I meant quite another per- 
 son, — the gay Sallust.” 
 
 “Oh! and what want you with him?” 
 
 “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 grate- 
 ful to him. Sallust is his friend; he will convey my 
 message.” 
 
 “T am sure he will do no such thing. Glaucus will 
 have enough to think of between this and to-morrow 
 without troubling 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 
 
456 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 too late. Never was freedom more cheaply purchased. 
 Thou canst easily and unmissed leave home: less than 
 half an hour will suffice 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 he 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 am 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 
 blindness, she had therefore acquired in childhood, though 
 imperfectly, the art to write with the sharp stilus upon 
 waxen 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 lan- 
 guage of her childhood, and which almost every Italian 
 of the higher ranks was then supposed to know. She 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 457 
 
 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 deceive me, —thou mayst pretend only to take the 
 letter to Sallust ; thou mayst not fulfil thy charge: but 
 here I solemnly 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 contain life and 
 can curse life ; by Orcus, the all-avenging ; by the Olym- 
 pian 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!’ 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, hanging the key to his girdle, he retired to his own 
 den, enveloped himself from head to foot in a huge dis- 
 guising-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 condemna- 
 tion of Glaucus, that he could not on any account be 
 disturbed. 
 
458 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 “ Nevertheless, I have sworn to give this letter into 
 his own hands, —do so I must!” And Sosia, well 
 knowing by experience 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 favorite freedman to his entertainment, and a stranger 
 banquet 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 
 counteraction 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 honor that cursed arena, 
 no, no!” 
 
 “Taste the Falernian, — your grief distracts you. By 
 the gods it does, —a piece of that cheesecake.” 
 
 | 
 
 | 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 459 
 
 It was at this auspicious moment that Sosia was admit- 
 ted to the presence of the disconsolate carouser. 
 
 “ Ho !— what art thou?” 
 
 “Merely a messenger to Sallust. I give him this 
 billet from a young female. There is no answer that I 
 know of. May I 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 recognized. 
 
 “By the gods,—a pimp! Unfeeling wretch ! — do 
 you not see my sorrows? Go!-—and the curses of 
 Pandaras with you!” 
 
 Sosia lost not a moment in retiring. 
 
 “ Will you read the letter, Sallust?” said the freed- 
 man. 
 
 “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?” 
 
 ‘at 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 lamentatiqns for Glaucus, 
 and imprecations on the unfeeling overtures of ladies of 
 pleasure. 
 
 Meanwhile Sosia strode indignantly homeward. ‘Pimp, 
 indeed !” 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 honorable aud philosophical in 
 
460 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 being a rascal for one’s own sake: that is doing things 
 upon principle, —upon a grand scale. Buta 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 Feronia ! 
 I shall be a freedman soon! and then I should lke to 
 see who'll call me pimp !-— unless, indeed, he pay me 
 pretty handsomely for it!” 
 
 While Sosia was soliloquizing in this high-minded and 
 generous vein, his path lay along a narrow lane that led 
 towards the amphitheatre and its adjacent palaces. Sud- 
 denly, as he turned a sharp corner, he found himself in 
 the midst of a considerable crowd. Men, women, and 
 children, all were hurrying on, laughing, talking, gestic- 
 ulating; and, ere he was aware of it, the worthy Sosia 
 was borne away with the noisy stream. 
 
 “What now?” he asked of his nearest neighbor, a 
 young artificer, — ‘what now? Where are all these 
 good folks thronging? 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 wvaria. By 
 Hercules! they will not be seen so safely by some per-. 
 sons to-morrow !” : 
 
 “?T is a pretty sight,” said the slave, yielding to the 
 throng that impelled him onward ; “and since I may not | 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 461 
 
 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! ho! for the merry, merry show, 
 With a forest of faces in every row! 
 Lo! the swordsmen, bold as the son of Alemena, 
 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 gayly they go! 
 Ho! ho! for the merry, merry show!” 
 
 A jolly girl!” said Sosia. 
 
 “Yes,” replied the young artificer, a curly-headed 
 handsome youth, — “ yes,” replied he, enviously ; ‘the 
 women love a gladiator. IfI had been a slave, I would 
 have soon found my schoolmaster in the lanista !” 
 
462 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 “Would you, indeed?” said Sosia, with a sneer. 
 ‘People’s notions differ !” 
 
 The crowd had now arrived at the place of destina- 
 tion; 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 spectators fearfully pressed backward, 
 and drew their breath more 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 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII: 463 
 
 yawn, testified any emotion at his confinement, or at the 
 crowd which honored him with their presence. 
 
 “T 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. 3 
 
 “‘T 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 medio! —virtue is ever in the middle!” 
 muttered he to himself; “a goodly neighborhood for 
 thee, Sosia, —a gladiator on each side!” 
 
 “That is well said, Lydon,” returned the huger gladia- 
 tor; “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 joyousness, 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 7 am to contend 
 with; even you, Niger, are a gentler combatant than 
 they.” 
 
 “But equally dangerous,” said the gladiator, with a 
 
464 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 fierce laugh; and the bystanders, admiring his vast 
 limbs and ferocious countenance, laughed too. 
 
 “That as it may be,” answered Lydon, carelessly, as he 
 pressed through the throng and quitted the den. 
 
 “IT may as well take advantage of his shoulders,” 
 thought 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 recognized his features and profession. 
 
 “That is young Lydon, 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 disdained, 
 and affected by the influence of a companionship that in 
 reality he loathed. He saw himself now a man of im- 
 portance ; his step grew yet lighter, and his mien more 
 elate. | : 
 
open 
 
 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 465 
 
 “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. 
 
 “Wa! what fool is this? Why, I thought Niger was 
 at my heels!” 
 
 “T forgive the mistake,” replied Sosia, condescendingly : 
 “don’t mention it; the error was easy, —I and Niger are 
 somewhat of the same build.” 
 
 “Ha! ha! that is excellent! Niger would have slit 
 thy throat had he heard thee!” 
 
 “You gentlemen of the arena have a most disagree- 
 able mode of talking,” said Sosia: “let us change the 
 conversation.” 
 
 “ Vah! vah/” said Lydon, impatiently ; “I am in no 
 humor 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, | am sure 
 you will die bravely !” 
 
 “May thy words fall on thine own head!” said Lydon, 
 superstitiously, 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. 
 
 “T trust’ the rogue’s words are not ominous,” said 
 Lydon, musingly. ‘‘In my zeal for my father’s liberty, 
 and my confidence in my own thews and sinews, I have 
 
 30 
 
466 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 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 gray-haired Medon slowly approached 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 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 himself 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 coolness, and the gladiator beheld 
 the numerous and festive group gathered round the tables 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 467 
 
 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. 
 
 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! 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! 
 
 1 In the atrium, as I have elsewhere observed, a larger party of 
 guests than ordinary was frequently entertained. 
 
2 
 
 468 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII, 
 
 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 recovered itself from the shock it had received, 
 a small party of men, in plain garments and of the mid- 
 dle 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. 
 
 ‘‘QOh, 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 
 sentence an innocent man to the same arena as a mur- 
 derer? 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 revellers’ song : — 
 
 “We care not for gods up above us, — 
 We know there’s no god for this earth, boys!” 1 
 
 Ere the words died away, the Nazarenes, moved by 
 sudden indignation, caught up the echo, and, in the words 
 of one of their favorite hymns, shouted aloud, — 
 
 THE WARNING HYMN OF THE NAZARENES. 
 
 Around — about — forever near thee, 
 God — our Gop — 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! 
 
 1 See note (a) at the end. 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 469 
 
 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 Truz! 
 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! 
 Woe to the proud ones who defy Him! 
 Woe to the dreamers who deny Him! 
 Woe to the wicked, woe! 
 
 A sudden silence from the startled hall of revel suc- 
 ceeded 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 Christians, 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 security !— 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, in- 
 destructive, unheeded, over its head; and now the last 
 
470 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 ray 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 GAYLY THEY Go! | 
 Ho, Ho! FOR THE MORROW’S MERRY SHOW! ” 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 471 
 
 BOOK V. 
 
 ey 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 The Dream of Arbaces.— A Visitor and a Warning to the Egyptian 
 
 Tue awful night preceding the fierce joy of the amphi- 
 theatre rolled drearily away, and grayly broke forth the 
 dawn of THE LAST Day oF Pompem! The air was uncom- 
 monly calm and sultry, —a thin and dull mist gathered 
 over the valleys and hollows of the broad Campanian 
 fields. But yet it was remarked 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 vapors, and 
 mingled with the changeful hues of the morning sky. 
 The cloud that had so long rested over the crest of Vesu- 
 -vius had suddenly vanished, and its rugged and haughty 
 
 peat er 
 
aie THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 brow looked without a frown over the beautiful scenes 
 below. — 
 
 Despite the earliness of the hour, the gates of the city 
 were already opened. Horseman upon horseman, vehicle 
 after vehicle, poured rapidly in; and the voices of nu- 
 merous pedestrian groups, clad in holiday attire, rose 
 high in joyous and excited merriment; the streets were 
 crowded with citizens and strangers from the populous 
 neighborhood of Pompeii; and noisily, fast, confusedly 
 swept the many streams of life towards the fatal show. 
 
 Despite the vast size of the amphitheatre, seemingly 
 so disproportioned to the extent of the city, and formed 
 to include nearly the whole population of Pompeii itself, 
 so great, on extraordinary 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, 
 hurrying on, — yet, amidst all their eagerness, preserving, 
 as is now the wont with Italians in such meetings, a won- 
 derful order and unquarrelsome good-humor, —a strange — 
 visitor to Arbaces was threading her way to his seques- © 
 tered mansion. At the sight of her quaint and primeval 
 garb, — of her wild gait and gestures, — the passengers she : 
 Sa naueicted 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 5 
 and what with the ghastly features and obsolete robes of 
 
 So a ee 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 473 
 
 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 unusual hour, started as he opened the door to her 
 summons. 
 
 The sleep of the Egyptian had been unusually pro- 
 found during the night; but, as the dawn approached, 
 it was disturbed by strange and unquiet dreams, which 
 impressed him the more as they were colored by the 
 peculiar philosophy he embraced. 
 
 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 primeval 
 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 hghted 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, —~ 
 
ak 
 
 dl 
 
 474 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 and behold! there came swiftly, from the gloom above, 
 similar shadows, which swept hurriedly along the gal- 
 lery 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 expectation 
 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 her, face to face. The coun- 
 tenance 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 sympathize. The mystery of myste- 
 ties rested on its beauty, —it awed, but terrified not; — 
 it was the Incarnation of the Sublime. And Arbaces — 
 felt the voice leave his lips, without an impulse of his — 
 own; and the voice asked, — 
 
 “Who art thou, and what is thy task?” : 
 
 “T am That which thou hast acknowledged,” answered, — 
 without desisting from its work, the mighty phantom. ~ 
 
os 
 “THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 475 
 
 “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 be- 
 holdest 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 
 wandering 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?” 
 
 “Tt is the forecast of thy soul, — the prescience of thy 
 rushing 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 
 
476 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 the length of gloom. As in vain and impotent despair 
 he struggled against the impelling power, he thought the 
 WIND grew into something like a shape, — a spectral out- 
 line 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 remorse- 
 lessly on his own. 
 
 “What art thou?” again said the voice of the 
 Egyptian. 
 
 ‘*T am That which thou hast acknowledged ;” and the 
 spectre laughed aloud, — “and my name is Nucussiry.” 
 
 “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.” 
 
 ‘“‘T am but the breath of Ged!” 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 Apzcides; and forth from the grin- 
 ning 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 poison- 
 
 {7 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. ATT 
 
 ous jaws to his face. He writhed in vain; he withered 
 —he gasped —beneath 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 
 Apecides, 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 resist- 
 ance, 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 collected 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 features, 
 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. Recognize 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 camest thou here, and 
 wherefore ?” 
 
 “‘T came to warn thee,” answered the sepulchral voice 
 of the saga. 
 
 “Warn me! The dream lied not, then? Of what 
 peril ?” 
 
478 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 ‘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 roar- 
 ing 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 that liveth with me, and was cowering by my side, 
 uttered 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 itself 
 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 hol- 
 low which I had never perceived before, from which 
 curled a dim, faint smoke ; and the vapor was deathly, 
 and I gasped, and sickened, and nearly died. I returned 
 home, —I took my gold and my drugs, and left the habi- 
 tation of many years ; for I remembered the dark Etrus- 
 can 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, | 
 
 1 We may suppose that the exhalations were similar in effect ta 
 those of the Grotta del Cane. 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 479 
 
 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 sixteen 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 sleepless Hell. Be warned 
 and fly!” 
 
 “Witch, I thank thee for thy care of one not ungrate- 
 ful. On yon table stands a cup of gold ; take it, it is 
 thine. I dreamed 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?” 
 
 “‘T shall cross over to Herculaneum this day, and, 
 wandering 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 additional 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?” 
 
 “Tt 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 
 80 uninviting a companion, he said, “Time wanes; I 
 must prepare for the solemn spectacle of this day. Sister, 
 
480 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 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 accursed one, may 
 meet again. Farewell!” 
 
 “Out, croaker!” 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 
 amphitheatre in festive robes, and Arbaces arrayed him- 
 self that day with more than usual care. His tunic was 
 of the most dazzling white ; his many fibule 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 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 forever 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 accompa-— 
 nied to the shows of the amphitheatre by a procession 
 of their slaves and freedmen; and the long “ family ” of 
 
 eee, oe eee 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 481 
 
 Arbaces were already arranged in order, to attend the 
 litter of their lord. 
 
 Only, to their great chagrin, the slaves in attendance 
 on Ione, and the worthy Sosia, as jailer to Nydia, were 
 condemned to remain at home. 
 
 “Callias,” 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 favor. 
 Thou knowest the vessel that lies in the harbor which 
 belonged to Narses, of Alexandria ; I have purchased it 
 of him. The day after to-morrow we shall begin to 
 remove my stores.” 
 
 “So soon! *Tis well. Arbaces shall be obeyed ; — 
 and his ward, Ione?” 
 
 “ Accompanies me. Enough! — Is the morning 
 fair?” 
 
 “Dim and oppressive ; it will probably be intensely hot 
 in the forenoon.” 
 
 “The poor gladiators, and more wretched criminals ! 
 Descend, and see that the slaves are marshalled.” 
 
 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. 
 
 * Brutes!” muttered the disdainful Arbaces, ‘‘are ye 
 
 31 
 
A82 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII, 
 
 less homicides than Iam? J slay but in self-defence, — 
 ye make murder pastime.” 
 
 He turned, with a restless and curious eye, towards 
 Vesuvius. 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!” 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEIL 483 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 The Amphitheatre. 
 
 Nypia, 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 command- 
 ing voice of Arbaces broke on her ear, —a flourish of 
 music rung out cheerily: the long processions 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 distin- 
 guished spectators were admitted. His slaves, mingling 
 with the humbler crowd, were stationed by officers who 
 received their tickets (not much unlike 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 impatient crowd that 
 filled the stupendous theatre. 
 
484 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 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 appro- 
 priated 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 prevented 
 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 building 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 employed in the 
 task of fixing the vast awning (or velaria) which covered 
 the whole, and which luxurious invention the Campanians 
 arrogated to themselves: it was woven of the whitest 
 Apulian wool, and variegated with broad stripes of crim 
 son. Owing either to some inexperience on the part of 
 the workmen, or to some defect in the machinery, the 
 awning, however, was not arranged that day so happily 
 as usual; indeed, from the immense space of the circum. 
 ference, 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 — 
 
 1 The equites sat immediately behind the senators. 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPETI. 485 
 
 remarkably still that there seemed to 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 edile 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 gladi- 
 ators, 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!” 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 edile’s wife with complacent impor- 
 tance, 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 armor, 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 armor; he has not his helmet 
 on now, in order that you may see his face, — how fear- 
 less it is! — by and by he will fight with his vizor 
 down.” 
 
486 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII, 
 
 “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 not quite improper? By Venus! but his limbs are 
 beautifully shaped ! ” 
 
 “Tt is Lydon, a young, untried man! he has the rash- 
 ness to fight yon other gladiator similarly dressed, or 
 rather undressed, — Tetraides. They fight first in the 
 Greek fashion, with the cestus ; afterwards they put on 
 armor, 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-d-pie, rode round the arena on 
 light and prancing steeds. Resembling much the com- 
 batants in the tilts of the middle age, they bore lances 
 and round shields beautifully inlaid: their armor 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 over. To these succeeded a feigned combat with 
 wooden swords between the various gladiators matched 
 against each other. Amongst these, the skill of two 
 
 aI 
 Se enn eee 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 487 
 
 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 
 examined ; and the grave sports of the day commenced 
 amidst the deepest silence, — broken only by an exciting 
 and preliminary 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, were 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 interest ; and, accordingly, the execution of 
 Olinthus and Glaucus was reserved for the last. It was 
 arranged that the two horsemen 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 comparatively humane and rare ; 
 and in this, as in other respects, Pompeii was but the 
 
488 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 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 collision, 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, quickly and skilfully extended, 
 received a blow which otherwise would have been fatal. 
 
 ‘“Well done, Nobilior!” cried the preetor, 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. 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 489 
 
 “T have lost ten sestertia,”? said Clodius, between his 
 teeth. f 
 
 “* Habet /— he has it,” said Pansa, deliberately. 
 
 The populace, not yet hardened into cruelty, made the 
 the signal of mercy ; but as the attendants of the arena 
 approached, 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. 
 
 “Tt is a pity it was so soon over, — there was little 
 enough for one’s trouble,” said the widow Fulvia. 
 
 “Ves; 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 suc- 
 ceeded. See my handsome Lydon on the arena, — ay, and 
 the net-bearer too, and the swordsmen! Oh, charming!” 
 
 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 com- 
 batants, no sooner had they advanced to the middle of 
 the arena, than, as by common consent, the rest held 
 back, to see how that contest should be decided, and 
 
 1 A little more than £80. 
 
490 © THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEIL. 
 
 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, Tetraides had encouraged 
 to the utmost his hereditary predisposition 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 proportioned’; and the skilful might have per- 
 ceived 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 heavi- 
 ness 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 ery of the 
 multitude was nearly as loud for Lydon as for Tetraides. 
 
 Whoever is acquainted with the modern prize-ring — 
 -whoever has witnessed the heavy and disabling strokes 
 which the human fist, skilfully directed, hath the power y 
 to bestow — may easily understand how much that happy — 
 facility would be increased by a band carried by thongs — 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEIL. 491 
 
 of leather round the arm as high as the elbow, and 
 terribly strengthened about the knuckles by a plate of 
 iron, and sometimes a plumpet of lead. Yet this, which 
 was meant to increase, perhaps rather diminished, the 
 interest of the fray: for it necessarily shortened its dura- 
 tion, 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 tech- 
 nically style pluck, which not unusually wins the day 
 against superior science, and which heightens to so pain- 
 ful a delight the interest 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 retaliation: 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 ha 
 avoids those hammer-like hands !— dodging now here, 
 
 1 Above £800. 
 
492 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 now there, — circling round andround. 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, 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 
 Lydon’s eye is like a lynx’s!” said Clodius, between his 
 teeth. - 
 
 “Ha, Clodius! saw you that? Your man totters! 
 Another blow, —he falls, he falls !” 
 
 “arth 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 armor and swords.” 
 
 ** Noble editor,” said the officers, “we fear that Tetra- 
 ides will not recover in time ; howbeit, we will try.” 
 
 pile Day oh 
 
 In a few minutes the officers, who had dragged off the 
 stunned and insensible gladiator, returned with rueful 
 countenances. They feared for his life; he was utterly 
 incapacitated from re-entering the arena. 
 
 “In that case,” said Pansa, “hold Lydon a subditius ; 
 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 
 
THE LAST DAYS Of POMPEII. 493 
 
 sounded loudly. The four combatants stood each against 
 ‘each in prepared and stern array. 
 
 “Dost thou recognize the Romans, my Clodius; 
 are they among the hice enon: or are they merely 
 ordinarw ?” 
 
 “EKumolpus is a good second-rate swordsman, my 
 Lepidus. Nepinws, the lesser man, I have never seen 
 before ; but he is the son of one of the imperial fiscales,} 
 and brought up in a proper school ; doubtless they wil 
 show sport, but I have no heart for the game; I cannot 
 win back my money,—I am undone. Curses on that 
 Lydon! who could have supposed he was so dexterous or 
 so lucky ?” 
 
 “Well, Clodius, shall I take compassion on you, and 
 accept your own terms with these Romans?” 
 
 “‘ An even ten sestertia on Eumolpus, then?” 
 
 “What! when Nepimus 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 agonized 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. 
 
 1 Gladiators maintained by the emperor. 
 
494 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 “‘ My gallant boy!” said he, and wiped his eyes. 
 
 “Ts 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 ebmnbat 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 pects 
 harly inviting to the spectators. : 
 
 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 attracted a fearful and universal interest from their 
 compressed and vigilant ferocity. Thus they stood for 
 some moments, each eying 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 antagonist advanced, gather- 
 ing up his net with his right hand, and never taking his 
 small, glittering eye from the movements of the swords- 
 man. 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 ery of joy 
 and rage, and rushed upon Ni iger; but Niger had already 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII 495 
 
 drawn in his net, thrown it across his shoulders, and now 
 fled round the lists with a swiftness which the secutor? in 
 vain endeavored to equal. The people laughed and 
 shouted aloud, to see the ineffectual efforts of the broad- 
 shouldered gladiator to overtake 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 extreme caution which both evinced at first had pre- 
 vented any warmth of engagement, and allowed the spec- 
 tators 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 
 characterizes 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 fights now the quiet fight, the other will 
 gradually bleed himself away.” 
 
 “But, thank the gods! he does noé 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 
 
 1 So called, from the office of that tribe of gladiators, in follow- 
 ang the foe the moment the net was cast, in order to smite him ere 
 he could have time to rearrange it. 
 
496 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 Niger, having now suddenly paused, had again cast nus 
 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, incapa- 
 citated to fly, he was pressed hard by the fierce swords- 
 man. His great height and length of arm still continued, 
 however, to give him no despicable advantages; 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 
 antagonist, who necessarily moved with pain and slow- 
 ness. 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 gladia- 
 tor rolled his dim and despairing eyes around the theatre. 
 From row to row, from bench to bench, there glared upon 
 him but merciless 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 mzmic fight had ceased to charm; the 
 interest had mounted up to the desire of sacrifice and the 
 thirst of death ! 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEIL 497 
 
 The gladiator felt that his doom was sealed : he uttered 
 no prayer, no groan. The people gave the signal of 
 death! In dogged but agonized 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 hum- 
 bled 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 con- 
 tinued 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 technically the spoliarium. And ere it had well 
 
 reached that destination, the strife between the remaining 
 combatants was decided. The sword of Eumolpus had 
 inflicted the death-wound upon the less experienced com- 
 batant. 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 con- 
 duits. In cool and luxurious pleasure they talked over 
 
 the late spectacle of blood. Eumolpus removed his hel- 
 
 met, and wiped his brows ; his close-curled hair and short 
 
 1 See the engraving from the friezes of Pompeii, in the work on 
 that city published in the “ Library of Entertaining Knowledge.” 
 vol. ii. p. 311. 
 
 32 
 
498 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 beard, his noble, Roman features and bright dark eye, 
 attracted the general admiration. He was _ fresh, 
 unwounded, unfatigued. 
 
 The editor paused, and proclaimed aloud that, as 
 Niger’s wound disabled him from again entering the 
 arena, Lydon was to be the successor to the slaughtered 
 Nepimus, and the new combatant of Eumolpus. 
 
 “Vet, Lydon,” added he, “if thou wouldst decline the 
 combat 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 honorable 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 vic- 
 tory, — his father was still a slave! 
 
 “ Noble edile!” he replied, in a firm and deep tone, 
 “T shrink not from this combat. For the honor 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. 
 
 “T would not take twenty to one! Why, Eumolpus 
 is a very Achilles, and this poor fellow is but atyro/” 
 
 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 armor, the sword 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 499 
 
 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 praetor by one of the attendants of the arena; he 
 removed the cincture ; glanced over it for a moment, — 
 his countenance betrayed 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!” — threw it carelessly 
 aside, and gravely settled himself once more in the atti- 
 tude of attention to the sports. 
 
 The interest of the public was wound up very high. 
 Eumolpus had at first won their favor ; but the gallantry 
 of Lydon, and his well-timed allusion to the honor of the 
 Pompeian lanista, had afterwards given the latter the 
 preference in their eyes. 
 
 “ Holla, old fellow!” said Medon’s neighbor 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 
 hopeful 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 assem- 
 bly. A fierce blow from Eumolpus, full on the crest, had 
 brought Lydon to his knee. 
 
 “ Habet /—he has it!” cried a shrill female voice ; 
 “he has it!” 
 
500 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 It was the voice of the girl who had so anxiously antici. 
 pated the sacrifice of some criminal to the beasts. 
 
 “ Be silent, child!” said the wife of Pansa, haughtily. 
 “ Non habet ! — he is not wounded !” 
 
 “JT wish he were, if only to spite old surly Medon,” 
 muttered the girl. 
 
 Meanwhile Lydon, who had hitherto defended him- 
 self with great skill and valor, 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, “ de- 
 sist ; I will wound thee slightly, — then lower thy arms ; 
 thou hast propitiated the editor and the mob, — thou 
 wilt be honorably saved!” 
 
 “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 re- 
 treated, — 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 armor, 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 assembly made 
 the signal of mercy ; the officers of the arena approached, 
 — they took off the helmet of the vanquished. He still 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 501 
 
 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, agonizing 
 face alone was all he recognized, —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 despairing filial love played over his features, — 
 played, waned, darkened! His face suddenly became 
 locked and rigid, resuming its former fierceness. He fell 
 upon the earth. 
 
 “Took to him,” said the edile; “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, betrayed 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. 
 
 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. 
 
502 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 Sallust and Nydia’s Letter. 
 
 Turicg had Sallust wakened 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 favorite freedman sitting by his bed- 
 side 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 ?” 
 
 “Tong 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?” 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEIL. 503 
 
 “That! Oh, the letter brought to you last night, 
 when you were too — too —” 
 
 “ 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 countenance 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 pretor! 
 procure my release, and we shall yet save Glaucus from the 
 lion. There is another prisoner within these walls, whose 
 witness 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 met 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 pretor.” 
 
 “Nay ; not so. The prator (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 expectation. Besides, the publicity of 
 the appeal would forewarn the cunning Egyptian. It is 
 
504 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 evident that he has some interest in these concealments. 
 No; fortunately thy slaves are in thy house.” : 
 
 “‘T seize thy meaning,” interrupted Sallust; “arm the 
 slaves instantly. The streets are empty. We will our- 
 selves 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 pretor, to beseech 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 pretor, at the amphitheatre. See it given 
 to his own hand. Now then, O ye gods! whose provi- 
 dence Epicurus denied, befriend me, and I will call 
 Epicurus a liar!” 
 
 1 The reed (calamus) was used for writing on papyrus and 
 parchment; the stilus for writing on waxen tablets, plates of 
 
 metal, etc. Letters were written sometimes on tablets, sometimes 
 on papyrus, 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEIL 505 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 The Amphitheatre once more. 
 
 Giaucus 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 accustomed 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 con- 
 scious 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. 
 
 “T hear: my heart grows sick ; but the gods support 
 “me.” 
 
 “The gods! O rash young man! in this hour recog- 
 nize 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 salva- 
 tion 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 
 
506 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEIL. 
 
 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 embrace thy creed, and cast down 
 my father’s gods, should I not 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 honoring 
 thy sincerity, — thou pitying my blindness or my obdu- 
 rate 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 
 purpose 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.” 
 
 “OQ 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 Chris- 
 tian exulted. 
 
 The door swung gratingly back, — the gleam of spears 
 shot along the walls. 
 
 ‘‘Glaucus the Athenian, thy time has come,” said a 
 loud and clear voice; “the lion awaits thee.” : 
 
 “T 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. — 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 507 
 
 Oh! that I might say to thee, ‘We two shall sup this 
 night in Paradise !’” 
 
 “Tt may be so yet,” answered the Greek, with a tremu- 
 lous voice. ‘They whom death part not, may meet yet 
 beyond the grave: on the earth, —on the beautiful, the 
 beloved earth, farewell forever !— 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. «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 firmness of his nerves. They anointed his body, com- 
 pletely 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 pale- 
 ness 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 unfrowning 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 
 eorporeal, of the valor 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 
 
508 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII, 
 
 had greeted his entrance, died into the silence of involun- 
 tary admiration 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 specta- 
 tors 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 attributed to the pangs of hunger. Yet its 
 bearing seemed rather that of fear than of rage ; its roar 
 was painful and distressed ; 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 grating, 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 
 became 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. 
 
 1 Sailors were generally employed in fastening the velaria of — 
 
 the amphitheatre. 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 509 
 
 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 endeavored 
 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 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 
 
510 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 entrances of the arena; there was a confusion, a bustle, — 
 voices of remonstrance suddenly breaking forth, and sud- 
 denly silenced at the reply. All eyes turned, in wonder 
 at the interruption, towards the quarter of the disturb- 
 ance ; the crowd gave way, and suddenly Sallust appeared 
 on the senatorial benches, his hair dishevelled, — breath- 
 less, 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 Apzcides !” 
 
 “ Art thou mad, O Sallust!” said the preetor, rising 
 from his seat. ‘‘ What means this raving?” 
 
 “ Remove the Athenian !— Quick! or his blood be on ~ 
 
 your head. Preetor, delay, and you answer with your 
 own life to the emperor! I bring with me the eye-wit- 
 ness to the death of the priest Apzcides. 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 sup- 
 ported 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. 
 7s it he? No; + itis: a dead aan % 
 
 “Tt ds the priest Calenus,” said the preetor, gravely. — 
 
 “What hast thou to say?” 
 
 ““ Arbaces of Egypt is the murderer of Apzecides, the — 
 
 priest of Isis; these eyes saw him deal the blow. Itis © 
 
 from the dungeon into which he plunged me, — it is 
 from the darkness and horror of a death by famine, — 
 that the gods have raised me to proclaim his crime | 
 Release the Athenian, — fe is innocent!” 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 51l 
 
 “Tt 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!” 
 
 ‘Officers, remove the accused Glaucus, — remove, but 
 guard him yet,” said the pretor. ‘ The gods lavish their 
 wonders upon this day.” 
 
 As the pretor 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 sympa- 
 thizing congratulation ! 
 
 “ Silence!” said the grave pretor, — “ 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 pretor. ‘“Calenus, 
 priest of Isis, thou accusest Arbaces of the murder of 
 Apecides ?” 
 
 i dado bit 
 
 “Thou didst behold the deed?” 
 
 “ Pretor, 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 _ be- 
 trayed at the first charge of Sallust and the entrance of 
 Calenus had subsided. At the shout, ‘‘ Arbaces to the 
 lion!” he had indeed trembled, and the dark bronze of 
 
512 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 his cheek had taken a paler hue. But he had soon 
 recovered his haughtiness and self-control. Proudly he 
 returned the angry glare of the countless eyes around 
 him; and replying now to the question of the pretor, 
 he said, in that accent so peculiarly tranquil and com- 
 manding, which characterized his tones, — 
 
 “‘ Pretor, this charge is so mad that it scarcely de- 
 serves 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 proverb ; 
 the witness of such men is to be bought! Pretor, I 
 am innocent!” 
 
 “Sallust,” said the magistrate, ‘where found you 
 Calenus ?” 
 
 ‘In the dungeons of Arbaces.” 
 
 “‘ Egyptian,” said the pretor, frowning, “thou didst, 
 then, dare to imprison a priest of the gods,— and where- 
 fore }” 
 
 ‘“‘ Hear me,” answered Arbaces, rising calmly, but with 
 agitation 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 pretor, — and ye, 
 O people! I was a stranger in the land, —I knew my- 
 self 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 te 
 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 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEIL. 513 
 
 ye will not acknowledge the equity of self-preservation 1 
 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? Pretor, this needs an answer. For 
 the rest, I throw myself on your laws. I demand their 
 protection. Remove hence the accused and the accuser. 
 I will willingly meet, and cheerfully abide by the decis- 
 ion of the legitimate tribunal. This is no place for 
 further parley.” 
 
 “He says right,” said the pretor. ‘‘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 Isis be thus contemned? Shall the blood of 
 Apecides yet cry for vengeance? Shall justice be de- 
 Jayed 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! TZ'o the lion — to the 
 hon with Arbaces /” 
 
 His exhausted frame could support no longer the fero- 
 cious malice of the priest: he sank on the ground in 
 strong convulsions; the foam gathered to his mouth, — 
 he was as a man, indeed, whom a supernatural power had 
 entered! The people saw, and shuddered. 
 
 “Tt is a god that inspires the holy man ! — 7° the hon 
 with the Egyptian /” 
 
 With that cry up sprang —on moved — thousands 
 upon thousands! They rushed from the heights; they 
 poured down in the direction of the Egyptian. In vain 
 did the edile command; in vain did the pretor lift his 
 voice and proclaim the law. The people had been 
 
 already rendered savage by the exhibition of blood: they 
 ’ 33 
 
514 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEIL 
 
 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 peculiar constitution of the Roman provinces so fre- 
 quently exhibited. The power of the praetor was as a 
 reed beneath the whirlwind ; 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 ihn been left in the vela- 
 ria, 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 unuttera- 
 ble solemnity and command. 
 
 “ Behold!” he shouted with a voice of thunder, which 
 stilled the roar of the crowd, — ‘‘ behold how the gods 
 protect the guiltless! 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, a vast vapom : 
 shooting from the summit of Vesuvius, in the form of a 
 gigantic pine-tree ;* the trunk, blackness, — the branches, | 
 
 ye!—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 bet reson tren with intoler. | 
 able glare! , és 
 1 Pliny. tai Gor 4 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 515 
 
 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 amphitheatre 
 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 
 
 rans, and oaths, and prayers, and sudden shrieks, the 
 enormous crowd vomited itself forth through the numer- 
 ous passages. Whither should they fly? Some, antici- 
 | pating a second earthquake, hastened to their homes to 
 ‘Toad themselves with their more costly goods, and escape 
 while it was yet time ; others, dreading the showers of 
 jashes that now fell fast, torrent upon torrent, over the 
 ‘streets, rushed under the roofs of the nearest 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. 
 Tt was a sudden and more ghastly Night rushing upon 
 
 ‘the realm of Noon! 
 | : 
 
516 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 The Cell of the Prisoner and the Den of the Dead. — Grief uncon- 
 scious of Horror. 
 
 Stunnep 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 con- 
 gratulation 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. 
 
 “Tt is J 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! Weare 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 —J have saved thee !” a 
 
 This affecting scene was soon interrupted by the chau 
 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 ee 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 
 
 ia 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 517 
 
 gods ; should he be left toa no less fatal death in the 
 neighboring cell? Taking Nydia by the hand, Glaucus 
 hurried across the passages; he gained the den of the 
 Christian. He found Olinthus kneeling, and in prayer. 
 
 “ Arise! arise! my friend!” he eried. “Save thy 
 self, 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 
 retreating 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 ap- 
 peared 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. 
 
518 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 “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, gray-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 beautiful 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 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 mechani- 
 cally uttered the prayer of his benign and hopeful faith, — 
 neither his heart nor his sense responded to the words: if 
 was but the involuntary emotion that broke from the leth- — 
 argy 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 !” 
 
 “He 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 agonizing cries! Not a moment is to be 
 lost ! — Come!” | 
 
-_ 
 
 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPETL. 519 
 
 ‘‘T hear nothing!” said Medon, shaking his gray hair. 
 
 _ ©The poor boy, his love murdered him !” 
 
 = pane Tet 3 
 
 “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 muttered, 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 Ione was yet in the house 
 of Arbaces. Thither he fled, to release, — to save her! 
 The few slaves whom the Egyptian had left at his man- 
 sion 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 without meeting one from whom to 
 learn the chamber of Ione. Even as he passed, however, 
 
 | the darkness that covered the heavens increased so 
 
 rapidly, that it was with difficulty he could guide his 
 
520 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 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 Ione; 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 
 Ione in his arms, to hurry from the mansion, — seemed 
 to him the work of an instant! Scarce had he gained 
 the spot where Nydia was, than he heard steps advancing 
 towards the house, and recognized the voice of Arbaces, 
 who had returned to seek his wealth and Ione ere he fied 
 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. 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 521 
 
 CHAPTER VL 
 
 Calenus and Burbo. — Diomed and Clodius. — The Girl of the 
 Amphitheatre and Julia. 
 
 Tue sudden catastrophe which had, as it were, riven the 
 very bonds of society, and left prisoner and jailer alike 
 free, had soon rid Calenus of the guards to whose care 
 the preetor 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 himself 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 terrific 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 !” 
 
 gtd 5 Ei ‘ 
 
 “Listen! Thy temple is full of gold and precious 
 mummeries! —let us load ourselves with them, and 
 
 1 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 se 
 imperfectly described. 
 
3 
 522 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 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,—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 atime.” He seized 
 on the food, and devoured it greedily. Nothing could, 
 perhaps, be more unnaturally horrid than the selfish base- 
 ness of these villains ; for there is nothing more loathsome 
 than the valor 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 his- 
 sing 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. Blended 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 
 
 U 
 
* 
 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 523 
 
 altars, on which they had vainly sought to kindle fires 
 and pour incense, one of the fiercest of those deadly 
 torrents, mingled with immense fragments 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 con- 
 cealed 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 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 
 continued fast —fast ; its heaps rose high and suffocat- 
 ingly, — deathly vapors 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 
 
524 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 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 clinched 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 cham- 
 ber: 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 lightning, or the more unsteady glare of 
 torches, by which they endeavored 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 the open country,” thought he, “doubtless there 
 will be various vehicles beyond the gate, and Hercula- 
 neum is not far distant. Thank Mercury! I have little 
 to lose, and that little is about me!” 
 
 ‘‘ Holla !— help there, — help !” cried a querulous and 
 frightened voice. ‘I have fallen down; my torch has 
 gone out, — my slaves have deserted me. Iam Diomed, 
 —the rich Diomed;—ten thousand sesterces to him 
 who helps me! ” | 
 
 At the same moment, Clodius felt himself caught by 
 
« 
 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. es y'45) 
 
 the feet. ‘Il! fortune to thee, — let me go, fool!” said 
 the gambler. 
 
 “Oh, help me up !— give me thy hand!” 
 
 “There, — rise ! ” 
 
 “Ts 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 remained 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 ele- 
 ments: he had not received the permission to desert his 
 station and escape. 
 
 Diomed and his companion hurried on, when suddenly 
 a female form rushed athwart their way. It was the girl 
 
 1 The skeletons of more than one sentry were found at their 
 posts. 
 
526 THE LAST DAYS OF Bees 
 whose ominous voice had been raised so often and so 
 gladly in anticipation of ‘‘the merry show!” 
 
 ‘‘Oh, Diomed!” she cried, “‘shelter! shelter! See,” 
 — pointing 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 now I remem- 
 ber Lama 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!” mut- 
 tered Clodius between his ground teeth. 
 
 “Nay, girl,” said the more humane 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 sub- 
 terranean 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 neighborhood, 
 sought their shelter. 
 
ye 
 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 527. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 The Progress of the Destruction. 
 
 Tue 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 black- 
 ness gathered, did the lightnings around Vesuvius increase 
 in their vivid and scorching 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 snake-like green, darting restlessly to and fro 
 as the folds of an enormous serpent; now of a lurid 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 tor- 
 tured 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 moun- 
 tain. 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 van- 
 
 1 Pliny. 
 
528 TERE LAST DAYS OF POMPEIL. 
 
 ishing swiftly into the turbulent abyss of shade; so that, 
 to the eyes and fancies of the affrighted wanderers, the 
 unsubstantial vapors 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 vapor. In some 
 places, immense fragments 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 porticos of temples and 
 the entrances to the forum, endeavored to place rows of 
 torches ; but these rarely continued long ; the showers 
 and the winds extinguished them, and the sudden dark- 
 ness 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 hurry- 
 
 1 Dion Cassius. 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 529 
 
 ing 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 continu- 
 ously, extinguishing the lights, which showed to each 
 band the deathlike faces of the other, and hurrying all to 
 seek refuge beneath the nearest shelter. The whole ele- 
 ments of civilization 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 Ione 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 Ione, 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 dis- 
 cover 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 
 34 
 
530 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 familiar to her alone. Accustomed, through a perpetual 
 night, to thread the windings of the city, she had led 
 them unerringly towards the seashore, by which they 
 had resolved to hazard an escape. Now, which way 
 could they wend? all was rayless to them,—a maze 
 without aclew. 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 Ione, ‘I can go no farther ; 
 my steps sink among the scorching cinders. Fly, dear- 
 est !— beloved, 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,” 
 
 “OQ gods! yon rock,— see, it hath riven the roof before 
 us! It is death to move through the streets!” 
 
 “Blessed lightning! See, Ione, — 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 labor 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.” 
 
 Tone turned at the sound of the voice, and, with a faint 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 531 
 
 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 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 Chris- 
 tians, 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 
 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 har- 
 lot of the sea !— woe! woe!” 
 
532 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 The Nazarenes paced slowly on, their torches still 
 flickering in the storm, their voices still raised in menace 
 and solemn warning, till, lost amid the windings in the 
 streets, the darkness 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 Jone 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 recognized the two as father and son, — miser 
 and prodigal. 
 
 “ Father,” 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, abaiked the 
 bag from his relaxing hand, and fled onward with a shrill 
 yell. 
 
 “Ve gods!” cried Glaucus: ‘are ye blind, then, even 
 in the dark? Such crimes may well confound the guilt- 
 less with the guilty in one common ruin. Ione, on !— 
 
 on!” 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 533 
 
 CHAPTER VIIL 
 Arbaces Encounters Glaucus and Ione. 
 
 ADVANCING, as men grope for escape in a dungeon, Ione 
 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 pre- 
 sented to them cheer or encourage their path. Ii parts, 
 where the ashes lay dry and uncommixed with the boil- 
 ing torrents, cast upward from the mountain at capricious 
 intervals, the surface of the earth presented 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 burn- 
 ing dust, and such sickening and poisonous vapors, as 
 took away, for the instant, breath and consciousness, fol 
 
534 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 lowed by a rapid 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 Ione ; 
 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 
 profoundly still, — the mountain seemed at rest, gather- 
 
 ing, perhaps, fresh fury for its next burst: the torch- — 
 
 bearers moved quickly on. ‘ We are nearing the sea,” 
 said, ina calm voice, the person at their head. ‘ Liberty 
 and wealth to each slave who survives thisday. Courage! 
 —I tell you that the gods themselves have assured me of 
 deliverance, —on !” 
 
 Redly and steadily the torches flashed full on the eyes 
 of Glaucus and Ione, 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, Ione!” 
 
 “ Traitor and murderer!” cried Glaucus, glaring upon 
 his foe, “‘ Nemesis hath guided thee to my revenge ! — 
 
 a just sacrifice to the shades of Hades, that now seem > 
 
 loosed on earth. Approach, touch but the hand of Ione, 
 
~ 
 
 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 535 
 
 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 darkness, 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 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, hurling 
 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 Ione, — 
 with his right arm raised in menace, and grasping the 
 
 1 See note (a) at the end. 
 
36 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 - gtilus 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,” eried 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 Ione!” 
 
 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 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 shiv- 
 ered 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! Ione lay senseless on the ground ; but he saw 
 her not yet, — his é@yes 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- 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 537 
 
 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! 
 
538 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEIL 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 The Despair of the Lovers. — The Condition of the Multitude. 
 
 Guaucus turned in gratitude but in awe, caught Ione 
 once more in his arms, and fled along the street, that was 
 yet intensely luminous. But suddenly a duller shade 
 fell over the air. Instinctively he turned to the moun- 
 tain, 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 beneath the cover of an arch, and, clasping Ione to 
 his heart, —a bride on that couch of ruin, — resigned 
 himself to die. 
 
 Meanwhile Nydia, when separated by the throng from 
 Glaucus and Ione, had in vain endeavored to regain them. 
 In vain she raised that plaintive cry so peculiar to the 
 blind ; it was lost amidst a thousafid shrieks of more sel- 
 fish 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 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 539 
 
 in that hour spared one thought to his neighbor? Per- 
 haps 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 seashore for escape, her most probable chance of 
 rejoining her companions would be. to persevere in that 
 direction. Guiding her steps, then, by the staff which 
 she always carried, she continued, with incredible dex- 
 terity, to avoid the masses of ruin that encumbered the 
 path ; to thread the streets, — and unerringly (so blessed 
 now was that accustomed darkness, so afflicting in ordinary 
 life !) to take the nearest direction to the sea-side. 
 
 Poor girl! her courage was beautiful to behold ! — and 
 Fate seemed to favor one so helpless! The boiling tor- 
 rents 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 wander- 
 ings; 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 dy the 
 crowds that now groped amidst the gloom, now fled in 
 the temporary 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 
 
 1 “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. 
 
540 THE LAST DAYS OF) POMPEII. 
 
 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 !” | 
 
 “QO Sallust! it is thy-voice! The gods be thanked! 
 Glaucus ! Glareus! 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 pas- 
 sionate 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 present- 
 ing the less frightful aspect of the two.) Thusithe two 
 streams of human beings, the one seaward, the other from 
 the sea, had met together, feeling a sad comfort in. num- a 
 bers; arrested in despair and doubt. Soh 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 541 
 
 “The world is to be destroyed by fire,” said an old | 
 man in long, loose robes, a philosopher of the Stoic 
 school: “Stoic 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, sur- 
 rounded 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 meeting 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, child- 
 hood 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 ! 
 
542 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 And now new fugitives arrived. Grasping the treas- 
 ures 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 recognized the Thessalian. 
 
 “What avails thy liberty now, blind girl?” said the 
 slave. 
 
 ‘“‘ Who art thou ? canst thou tell me of Glaucus ?” 
 
 «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? ‘ 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 fiipgt of 4 
 
 her, 
 Half leading, half carrying Ione, 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; buh — 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 543 
 
 as they cleared the land and caught new aspects of the 
 mountain, its channels of molten fire threw a partial red- 
 ness over the waves. 
 
 Utterly exhausted and worn out, Ione 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 scattered 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 antique soil of Syria and 
 of Egypt.* 
 
 1 Dion Cassius. 
 
544 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 CHAPTER X, 
 
 The Next Morning. — The Fate of Nydia. 
 
 Anp meekly, softly, beautifully, dawned at last the light 
 over the trembling deep !— the winds were sinking into 
 rest, — the foam died from the glowing azure of that 
 delicious sea. Around the east, thin mists caught gradu- 
 ally 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 destroy- 
 ing cloud, from which red streaks, burning dimlier and 
 more dim, betrayed the yet rolling 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 and Pompeii. The darlings of the — 
 Deep were snatched from her embrace! Century after 
 century shall the mighty Mother stretch forth her azure 
 arms, and know them not, — moaning round the sepul- 
 chres of the Lost! | 
 There was no shout from the mariners at the dawning 
 light, —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 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 545 
 
 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 companion- 
 ship, and of hope, in the sight of their slender masts.and 
 white sails. What beloved 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 his heavy slumber ; timidly and sadly she 
 kissed his brow, — his lips ; she felt for his hand, — it 
 was locked in that of Ione; 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 for?, or platforms, to the farther side of the 
 vessel, and, pausing, bent low over the deep; the cool 
 spray dashed upward 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 
 
 35 
 
546 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEIL. 
 
 ever know. Oh! sacred Sea! I hear thy voice invitingly, 
 —it hath a freshening and joyous call. They say that in 
 thy embrace is dishonor, — 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 fora 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 some- 
 thing 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 forever from the living world! They guessed 
 her fate in silence: and Glaucus and Ione, while they 
 drew nearer to each other (feeling each other the world 
 itself) forgot their deliverance, and wept as fora departed 
 sister. 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 547 
 
 CHAPTER THE LAST, 
 
 Wherein all things cease, 
 
 LETTER FROM GLAUCUS TO SALLUST, TEN YEARS AFTER THE 
 DESTRUCTION OF POMPEII. 
 
 ATHENS. 
 
 Giavcus 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 hence- 
 forth I dwell forever. 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 porticos hallowed still by holy and venerable shades, In 
 the olive-groves of Ilyssus I still hear the voice of poetry ; on 
 the heights of Phyle, the clouds of twilight seem yet the 
 shrouds of departed 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 splendors, and the luxuries of the impe- 
 rial court. My Sallust, — “ non swm qualis eram,” — I am not 
 what I was! The events of my life have sobered the bound- 
 ing blood of my youth, My health has never quite recovered 
 its wonted elasticity ere it felt the pangs of disease, and lan- 
 guished 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 remembered Nydia! I have reared a tomb to 
 
548 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 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. Ione 
 gathers the flowers, but my own hand 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, Ione has also embraced the creed! 
 —a creed, Sallust, which, shedding light over this world, 
 gathers its concentrated glory, like a sunset, over the next ! 
 We know that we are united in the soul, as in the flesh, forever 
 and forever! Ages may roll on, our very dust be dis- 
 solved, the earth shrivelled like a scroll; but round and 
 round the circle of eternity rolls the wheel of life, — imperish- 
 able, unceasing! And as the earth from the sun, so immor- 
 tality drinks happiness from virtue, which is the smile upon 
 the face of God! Visit me, then, Sallust; bring with you the 
 learned scrolls of Epicurus, Pythagoras, Diogenes: arm your- 
 self 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. 
 
 Ione, — at that name my heart yet beats! — Ione is by my 
 side as I write : 1 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 Wis- 
 dom of the World. In my hall I see the marble faces of my — 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 5A9 . 
 
 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 any- 
 thing can make me forget that I am an Athenian and not 
 free, it is partly the soothing, the love, — watchful, vivid, 
 sleepless — of Ione: — a love that has taken a new sentiment 
 in our new creed ;1 a love which none of our poets, beautiful 
 though they be, had shadowed forth in description : for min- 
 gled 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 unsul- 
 lied, 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 impo- 
 tence, — 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 heri- - 
 tage 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, —TI 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. 
 
 1 See note (d) at the end, 
 
550 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 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 splendor of imperial banquets, nor the shouts of the 
 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 unin- 
 terrupted 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 treasure ; 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 unavailing light, and wine hardened 
 in the amphore for a prolongation of agonized life. The 
 
 1 Destroyed a. p. 79; first discovered A, D. 1750. 
 2 See note (c) at the end. 
 
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 551 
 
 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 vapor; 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 been the master of the house, the unfortunate 
 Diomed, who had probably sought to escape by the 
 garden, and been destroyed either by the vapors 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 oj 
 Isis, with the juggling concealments behind the statues, 
 — the lurking-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 ornaments 
 of the fane of Isis. 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 developments, that it has excited - 
 the constant speculation of every itinerant believer in the 
 theories of Spurzheim who has gazed upon that ruined 
 
552 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 
 
 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 forever, —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 ! 
 
NOTES. 
 
 NOTES TO BOOK I. 
 
 (a) p. 5. —“ Flowers more alluring to the ancient Italians than 
 to their descendants,” etc. 
 
 The modern Italians, especially those of the more southern parts 
 of Italy, have a peculiar horror of perfumes; they consider them 
 remarkably unwholesome; and the Roman or Neapolitan lady 
 requests her visitors not to use them. What is very strange, the 
 nostril so susceptible of a perfume is wonderfully obtuse to its 
 reverse. You may literally call Rome, “Sentina Gentium,” — the 
 sink of nations. 
 
 (b) p. 31.—“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 
 degraded than in the latter country. The “ Epistles” of Alciph- 
 ron express, 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 hima 
 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 modern diners-out, by 
 witty jokes and amusing stories; sometimes they indulged practi. 
 cal jokes on each other, “ boxing one another’s ears.” The magis- 
 trates 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 
 
554 NOTES. 
 
 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. This is a char- 
 acter peculiar to Greece. The Latin comic writers- make indeed 
 prodigal use of the parasite ; yet he appears at Rome to haye 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 
 whatever would have been exaggerated to a Roman audience, 
 present so degraded or so abandoned a character as the parasite of 
 Alciphron and Athenezus. ‘The more haughty and fastidious 
 Romans often disdained indeed to admit such buffoons as compan 
 ions, 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 observed) Clodius is styled parasite 
 in the text, the reader must take the modern, not the ancient inter- 
 pretation 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. 34. — “ The dice in summer, and I an edile!” 
 
 All games of chance were forbidden by law (“ Vetita legibus 
 alea.” — Horat. Od, xxiy, |.32) except “in Saturnalibus,’ during 
 the month of December; the ediles were charged with enforcing 
 this law, which, like all laws against gaming, in all times, was 
 wholly ineffectual 
 
 (d) p. 48.--“The small but graceful temple consecrated to 
 Isis.” 
 
 Sylla is said to have transported to Italy the worship of the 
 Egyptian Isis.t 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 (Isiace 
 
 1 In the Campanian cities the trade with Alexandria was probably mote effica- 
 cious than the piety of Sylla(no very popular example, perhaps) in establish- 
 ing the worship of the favorite deity of Egypt. 
 
 j 
 
NOTES. 55D 
 
 Jenz) that denotes how convenient 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 conti- 
 nence 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 knowledge of 
 magic and of the future. Among women of all classes — and 
 among many of the harder sex — the Egyptian sorceries were con- 
 sulted and revered as oracles. Voltaire, with much plausible inge- 
 nuity, endeavors to prove that the gypsies 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 prophesies and curing dis. 
 orders; and Voltaire shrewdly bids us remark that Apuleius has 
 not forgot their peculiar skill in filching from outhouses and court- 
 vards,—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 lan- 
 guished 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 
 iz rarely lived long, and refused to breed in a foreign climate. 
 
 NOTE TO BOOK II. 
 
 (a) p. 178—“The marvels of Faustus are not comparable to 
 those of Apollonius.” 
 
 During the earlier ages of the Christian epoch, the heathen phi- 
 losophy, especially of Pythagoras and of Plato, had become debased 
 
556 NOTES. 
 
 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 follow- 
 ers told marvellous tales of his writing on the moon’s disc, and ap- 
 pearing in several places at once. His golden rules and his golden 
 thigh were in especial veneration in Magna Grecia, and out of 
 his doctrines of occult numbers his followers extracted numbers of 
 doctrines. The most remarkable of the later impostors who suc- 
 ceeded him was Apollonius of Tyana, referred to in the text. 
 All sorts of prodigies accompanied the birth of this gentleman. 
 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 fel- 
 low with a devil, and induced a mob to stone a poor demon of ven- 
 erable 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 Goethic magic; in other words, 
 the Black Art. Both of these, the Goethic 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 con- 
 nected 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 characteristic of that 
 age. Atone time, I purposed to have developed and detailed more 
 than I have done the pretensions of Arbaces to the mastery of his 
 
 ee a ac st 
 
NOTES. 5ST 
 
 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 intel- 
 lectual 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 mys- 
 tery 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 char- 
 acter, and manners less ascetic, the learned reader will remember 
 with delight 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. 200. — “ The influence of the evil eye.” 
 
 This superstition, to which I have more than once alluded 
 throughout this work, still flourishes in Magna Grecia, with 
 scarcely diminished vigor. 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 sud- 
 denly observed her change color, 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 ; doubt- 
 less 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.” 
 
 “T 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, 
 
558 - NOTES. 
 
 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 7s 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-occhio! 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 favorite averters of the evil influence. The Thebans about 
 Pontus were supposed to have an hereditary claim to this charm- 
 ing attribute, and could even kill grown-up men with a glance. As 
 for Africa, 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 differ- 
 ent 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 Lllyrians 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 nowadays 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. 468. 
 
 “ We care not for gods up above us,— 
 We know there ’s no god for this earth, boys!” 
 
 The doctrines of Epicurus himself are pure and simple. Far 
 from denying the existence of diviner powers, Velleius (the de- 
 fender and explainer of his philosophy in Cicero’s dialogue on the 
 nature of the gods) asserts “that Epicurus was the first who saw 
 
NOTES. 559 
 
 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 (mpéAnyis) of the mind, 
 — a doctrine of which modern metaphysicians (certainly not Epicu- 
 reans) have largely availed themselves! 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 ven- 
 geance, 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 employed, 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 unsympathiz- 
 ing 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 uni- 
 form, success, draws the evident and practical corollary from the 
 theory that asserts the non-interference of the gods. “ How,” says 
 he, “can there be 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, according to you, favor and benevolence are 
 only the effects of imbecility.” Cotta, indeed, quotes from Posido- 
 nius (De Naturé Deorum), to prove that Epicurus did not really 
 believe in the existence of a God ; but that his concession of a be- 
 ing wholly nugatory was merely a precaution 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 do- 
 ing nothing.” And whether this be true or false concerning Epi- 
 curus, it is certain that, to all effects and purposes, his later disci- 
 ples 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 practi- 
 cal, found it a much easier task to corrupt his metaphysics, which 
 are equally dangerous and visionary. 
 
560 NOTES. 
 
 NOTES TO BOOK V. 
 
 (a) p. 525. — “ 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 frequent irruptions of large stones, and aided by par- 
 tial convulsions of the earth. Herculaneum, on the contrary, ap- 
 pears to have received not only the showers of ashes, but also inun- 
 dations from molten lava; and the streams referred to in the text 
 
 must be considered as destined for that city rather than for Pom- | 
 
 peii. The volcanic lightnings introduced in my description were 
 evidently among the engines of ruin at Pompeii. Papyrus, and 
 other of the more inflammable materials, are found ina 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 licence of shortening the time which the 
 destruction occupied), I believe my description of that awful event 
 is very little assisted by invention, and will be found not the less 
 accurate for its appearance in a romance. 
 
 (6) p. 549. —“ 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 ac. 
 knowledged out of Christendom. It is a feeling intimately con 
 nected 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 elo- 
 quence. It makes, indeed, the great distinction between the ama- 
 tory poetry of the moderns 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. 
 
 es Or a Ss as 
 
NOTES. 561 
 
 (c) p. 550. —“ 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 cisinterred, we can scarcely calculate 
 the number of those who perished in the destruction. Still, how- 
 ever, 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, reanimated 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 reanimated more successfully for the pleasure 
 of the reader than they have been for the solace of the author, who 
 has vainly endeavored, in the work which he now concludes, to be- 
 guile 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 steadfast comforter is— Custom. But I should 
 apologize for this sudden and unseasonable indulgence of a mo- 
 mentary 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 be- 
 ing. and resolutely to fulfil its objects. There is but one philoso- 
 phy (though there are a thousand schools), and its name is Forti- 
 tude, —— 
 
 “QO BEAR IS TO CONQUER OUR FATE!” 
 
 THE END. 
 
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