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3Lytton
The Last Days of Pompeii
*eum ºoth
Cºomas 39. Crotuell Company
iºublishers

THE
LAST DAYS OF POMPEII
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NEW YORK
THOMAS Y. CROWELL COMPANY
PUBLISHERS
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TO SIR WILLIAM GELL,
ETC., ETC.
DEAR SIR, - In publishing a work of which Pompeii fur-
nishes the subject, I can think of no one to whom it can so
fitly be dedicated as yourself. Your charming volumes
upon the antiquities of that city have indissolubly con-
nected your name with its earlier (as your residence in the
vicinity has identified you with its more recent) associa-
tions.
Ere you receive these volumes, I hope to be deep in the
perusal of your forthcoming work upon “the Topography
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 Englishman, and as
one who has loitered under the Portico, I rejoice to think
that, in adding largely to your own reputation, you will
also renovate our country’s claim to eminence in those
departments of learning in which of late years we have
but feebly supported our ancient reputation. Venturing
thus a prediction of the success of your work, it would be
a little superfluous to express a wish for the accomplish-
ment 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 bring an erudition so
extensive, — and that they may continue, as now, some-
times 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.
LEAMINGroN, September 21, 1834.
“Such is Vesuvius ! and these things take place in it every year.
But all eruptions which have happened since would be trifling, even
if all summed into one, compared to what occurred at the period we
refer to.
º e & º & gº © gº ſº tº Q gº
‘‘Day was turned into night, and light into darkness; an inex-
pressible quantity of dust and ashes was poured out, deluging land,
sea, and air, and burying two entire cities, Herculaneum and Pompeii,
while the people were sitting in the theatre l’”—DIon CAssius, lib. lxvi.
PREFACE TO THE EDITION OF 1834.
ON visiting those disinterred remains of an ancient city
which, more perhaps than either the delicious breeze or the
cloudless sun, the violet valleys and orange-groves of the
South, attract the traveller to the 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 reanimate the bones which were yet
spared to his survey, to traverse the gulf of eighteen centu-
ries, and to wake to a second existence the City of the
Dead
And the reader will easily imagine how sensibly this
desire grew upon one whose task was undertaken in the
immediate 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 the
hand of a master genius; yet, perhaps, that task was slight
and easy in comparison with the attempt to portray a far
earlier and more unfamiliar period. With the men and
customs of the feudal time we have a natural sympathy and
bond of alliance; those men were our own ancestors, – from
those customs we received our own; the creed of our chi-
valric fathers is still ours; their tombs yet consecrate our
churches; the ruins of their castles yet frown over our val-
1 Nearly the whole of this work was written at Naples last winter (1832–33).
viii PREFA CE TO EDITION OF I&34.
leys. 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 pedantries
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 be found to arouse the curiosity of the reader,
and enlist his interest in the descriptions of the author. It
was the first century of our religion; it was the most civil-
ized 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 represented the
past, might be least uninteresting to the speculations of the
present. It did indeed require a greater self-control than
the reader may at first imagine, to reject much that was most
inviting in itself; but which, while it might have added
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 conduct the characters of his
tale, during the progress of its incidents, from Pompeii to
Rome. What could afford such materials for description,
or such field for the vanity of 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 2 But, in choosing for my subject, — my catas-
trophe, – the Destruction of Pompeii, it required but little
PREFA CE TO EDITION OF 1834. ix
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 im-
perial sway; and the auxiliary I should have summoned 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 of
its remains, the characters most suited to the subject and
the scene: the half-Grecian colony of Hercules, mingling
with the manners of Italy so much of the costumes of Hellas,
suggested of itself the characters of Glaucus and Ione. The
worship of Isis, its existent fane with its false oracles un-
veiled; the trade of Pompeii with Alexandria; the associa-
tions of the Sarnus with the Nile, – called forth the Egyptian
Arbaces, the base Calenus, and the fervent Apaºcides. The
early struggles of Christianity with the heathen superstition
suggested the creation of Olinthus; and the burned fields of
Campania, long celebrated for the spells of the sorceress,
naturally produced the Saga of Vesuvius. For the exist-
ence 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 Nydia.
The characters, therefore, are the natural offspring of the
scene and time. The incidents of the tale are equally con-
sonant, perhaps, to the then 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, -
X PREFA CE TO EDITION OF 1834.
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. wº
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 de-
scription; 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. The last art is,
perhaps, the better effected by not bringing the art itself
constantly before the reader, — by not crowding the page
with quotations, and the margin with notes. The intuitive
spirit which infuses antiquity into ancient images is,
perhaps, the true learning which a work of this nature
requires; without it, pedantry is offensive, – with it, use-
less. 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 sim-
ilar 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 scholastic 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." Authors have mostly given to them the
* What the strong common-sense of Sir Walter Scott has expressed so well
in his Preface to “ Ivanhoe” (1st edition), appears to me at least as applicable
to a writer who draws from classical as to one who borrows from feudal
antiquity. Let me avail myself of the words I refer to, and humbly and
reverently appropriate them for the moment: “It is true that I neither can,
nor do pretend, to the observation [observance 2) of complete accuracy even
in matters of outward costume, much less in the more important points of
PREFA CE TO EDITION OF 1834. xi
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 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 l Nothing can give to a writer a more stiff
and uneasy gait than the sudden and hasty adoption of the
toga. We must bring to our task the familiarized knowl-
edge of many years; the allusions, the phraseology, the
language generally, must flow from a stream that has long
been full; the flowers must be transplanted from a living
soil, and not bought second-hand at the nearest market-
place. This 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
language and manners. But the same motive which prevents my writing the
dialogue of the piece in Anglo-Saxon, or in Norman-French [in Lafin or
Greek], and which prohibits my sending forth this essay printed with the
types of Caxton or Wynken de Yºſ"; with a reed upon five rolls of
parchment, fastened to a cylinder, and adorned with a boss], prevents my
attempting to confine myself within the limits of the period to which my story
is j. It is necessary, for exciting interest of any kind, that the subject
assumed should be, as it were, translated into the manners as well as the
language of the age we live in.
& e * & & & e * * Q wº
“In point of justice, therefore, to the multitudes who will, I trust, devour
this book with avidity [hem ſ], I have so far explained ancient manners in
modern language, and so far detailed the characters and sentiments of my
persons, that the modern reader will not find himself, I should hope, much
trammelled by the repulsive dryness of mere antiquity. In this, I respectfully
contend, I have in no respect exceeded the fair license due to the author of a
fictitious composition.
tº e e e e ſº º º & & e sº & º
“It is true,” proceeds my authority, “that this license is confined within
legitimate bounds; the author must introduce nothing inconsistent with the
manners of the age.” — Preface to Ivanhoe.
I can add nothing to these judicious and discriminating remarks; they form
the canons of true criticism, by which all fiction that portrays the past should
be judged.
xii PREFA CE TO EDITION OF 7834.
and the studies of our maturity. Yet, even did a writer
possess the utmost advantage of this nature which educa-
tion 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, composed by the profoundest scholars, – some
such imperfections 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 portrait, —
unskilful, perhaps, in coloring, faulty in drawing, but not
altogether unfaithful to the features and the costume of the
age which I have attempted to paint. May it be (what is
far more important) a just representation of the human
passions and the human heart, whose elements in all ages
are the same !
PREFACE TO THE EDITION OF 1850.
THIs work has had the good fortune to be so general a
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 described in these pages.
And writing the work almost on the spot, and amidst a
population that still preserve a strong family likeness to
their classic forefathers, I could scarcely fail to catch some-
thing 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 nar-
rative, in the manners and persons of a classic age. Per-
haps, 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, however important as an accessory, must still be
subordinate to the vital elements of interest, — namely, plot,
character, and passion. And in reviving the ancient shad-
ows, they have rather sought occasion to display erudition,
than to show how the human heart beats the same, whether
under the Grecian tunic or the Roman toga. It is this,
indeed, which distinguishes the imitators of classic learning
from the classic literature itself. For, in classic literature,
there is no want of movement and passion, — of all the
more animated elements of what we now call romance. In-
deed, romance itself, as we take it from the Middle Ages,
owes much to Grecian fable. Many of the adventures of
knight-errantry are borrowed either from the trials of Ulys-
xiii
xiv. PREFA CE TO EDITION OF 1850.
ses, 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 we have most to
deplore are the old novels or romances for which Miletus
was famous. But, judging from all else of Greek litera-
ture that is left to us, there can be little doubt that they
were well fitted to sustain the attention of lively and impa-
tient 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 ingenious fancy; in the con-
trasts of character; and, least of all, in the delineations
of the tender passion, which, however modified in its ex-
pression 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 seas.
CONTENTS.
LETTER TO SIR WILLIAM GELL . tº º e º
PREFACE TO THE EDITION OF 1834 . e g wº
PREFACE TO THE EDITION OF 1850 . e © §
CHAPTºlº
I.
II.
III.
IV.
V.
VI.
VII.
VIII.
I.
II.
º
BOOK I.
THE Two GENTLEMEN of Pompeii e * sº º
THE BLIND FLower—GIRL, AND THE BEAUTY OF FASHION.
— THE ATHENIAN's conFEssion. — THE READER's
INTRoDUCTION TO ARBACEs of EGYPT e * e
PARENTAGE OF GLAUCUs. – DESCRIPTION OF THE
Hous ES OF POMPEII. — A CLASSIC REVEL ſº g
THE TEMPLE OF Isis. – ITS PRIEST. — THE CHAR-
ACTER OF ARBACES DEVELOP's ITSELF º º e
MoRE OF THE FLOWER-GIRL. — THE PROGRESS OF
LOVE , tº * $ e g e © e e
THE FOWLER sNAREs AGAIN THE BIRD THAT HAD JUST
EscAPED, AND SETs HIs NETS FOR A NEW VICTIM .
THE GAY LIFE OF THE POMPEIAN Lou NgER. — A
MINIATURE LIKENEss OF THE ROMAN BATHs . to
ARBACEs cogs HIS DICE WITH PLEASURE, AND WINS
THE GAME . º te & o tº «» gº * >
BOOK II.
A r1.AsH HOUSE IN POMPEII, AND THE GENTLEMEN of
THE CLASSIC RING . * * º g o º
Two worTHIEs . sº * e & ſo & to
GLAUCUs MAKES A PURCHAs E THAT AFTERwards costs
HIM DEAR . e tº tº e †º & & &
THE RIvaL of GLAUCUs PREsses onward IN THE
RACE . e e ſº e * e & e
THE Poor Tortois E. – New CHANGEs for NYDLA .
PAGE
vii
15
32
40
48
59
69
83
91
95
(xv)
101
112
XV1 CONTENTS.
CHAPTER
WI. THE HAPPY BEAUTY AND THE BLIND slave. . g wº
VII. Ion E ENTRAPPED. — The MoUs E TRIEs To GNAw THE
* NET , g º o * º * e e º
VIII. THE solitude AND soliloquy of THE EGYPTIAN. —
HIS CHARACTER ANALYZED . . tº gº e *
IX. WHAT BEcoMEs of Ion E IN THE HOUSE OF ARBACEs.
—THE FIRST signal of THE weath of THE DREAD
IFOE . * sº e © e e g o
BOOK III.
I. THE FORUM of THE PompeiaNs. – THE FIRST RUDE
MACHINERY BY WHICH THE NEW ERA OF THE WORLD
WAS WROUGHT . t “º g e e * gº
II. THE NOONDAY Excurs ION ON THE CAMPANIAN SEA .
III. THE congregaTION . & s & tº © .
IV. THE STREAM of LovE RUNs on — whitHER & ©
W. NYDIA ENCOUNTERs JULIA. — INTERVIEw of THE HEA-
THEN SISTER AND CONVERTED BROTHER. — AN ATHE-
NIAN's NoTION of CHRISTIANITY * . . sº
VI. THE PORTER—THE GIRL — AND THE GLADIATOR . ge
VII. THE DRESSING—Room of A PompeLAN BEAUTY. —
IMPORTANT conversation BETweBN JULIA AND
NYDIA tº & g tº e ſº º e *
VIII. JULIA SREKs ARBACEs. – THE RESULT of THAT IN–
TERVIEW . & . © © * e © º
IX. A storm IN THE souTH. — THE WITCH's caveRN &
X. THE LORD OF THE BURNING BELT AND HIs MINION.—
FATE WRITES HER PROPHECY IN RED LETTERs, BUT
who shALL READ THEM2 . o wº * wº e
XI. ProgREss of EvºNTs. – THE PLOT THICKENs. – THE
WEB Is WOWEN, BUT THE NET CHANGEs HANDS *
BOOK IV.
I. REFLECTIons on THE ZEAL of THE EARLY CHRISTIANs.
II.
— Two MEN come. To A PERILous REsolve. —
WALLs HAVE EARs, PARTICULARLY SACRED walls .
A CLASSIC HOST, Cook, AND KITCHEN. — APAECIDEs
SEEKs Ion E. — THEIR CONVERSATION * e tº
PAGE
117
123
128
138
149
154
164
173
183
189
195
201
207
217
225
233
236
CONTENTS. xvii
O. APTER PAGE
III. A FASHIONABLE PARTY AND A DINNER A LA MoDE IN
POMPEII . © g & & * & tº . .247
IV. The story HALTs For A MoMENT AT AN Episode . 264
V. This PHILTRE — ITS EFFECT . * e * t . 268
VI. A REUNION OF DIFFERENT ACTORs — stEEAMs THAT
FLOWED APPARENTLY APART RUSH INTO ONE GULF . 272
VII. IN which THE READER LEARNS THE conDITION of
GLAUCUs. – FRIENDSHIP TESTED. — ENMITY soft-
ENED. — LovE THE SAME, BECAUSE THE ONE Loving
IS BLIND . * e & e * e * . 283
VIII. A classic FUNERAL . e ſº * © & , 293
IX. IN which AN ADVENTURE HAPPEN’s To Ion E © . 300
X. WHAT BEcoMEs of NYDIA IN THE House of ARBACEs.
—THE EGYPTIAN FEELs compassion For GLAUcus.
— CoMPAssION IS OFTEN A VFRY USBLEss visitor
TO THE GUILTY * e e e e e . 303
XI. NYDLA AFFECTS THE SORCERESs . © tº º . 307
XII. A wasp venTUREs INTO THE SPIDER’s web * . 311
XIII. THE SLAVE Consults THE or AcLE. — THEY who
BLIND THEMSELVES THE BLIND MAY FOOL. — Two
NEW PRISONERS MADE IN ONE NIGHT © º . 315
XIV. NYDIA Accosts CALENUs . sº tº e e . 322
XV. ARBACEs AND IONE. – NYDIA GAINS THE GARDEN. —
WILL she EscAPE AND SAVE THE ATHENIAN ? . 324
XVI. THE sorrow of Boon companions For our AFFLIC—
TIONs. – THE DUNGEON AND ITs victims e . 331
XVII. A CHANGE For GLAUCUs . * e º e . 339
BOOK W.
I. THE DREAM of ARBACEs. – A VISITOR AND A war.N-
ING To THE Egyptian . © tº e e . 354
II. THE AMPHITHEATRE . * º e e © . 363
III. SALLUST AND NYDIA’s LETTER . e sº g . 378
IV. THE AMPHITHEATRE ONCE MoRE . © º o . 380
V. THE CELL of THE PRIsonER AND THE DEN of THE
DEAD. — GRIEF UNconscious of HoRRoR & . 388
VI. CALENUs AND BURBO. — DIOMED AND CLoDrus. –
THE GIRL of THE AMPHITHEATRE AND JULIA . . 892
VII. THE PRogress of THE DESTRUCTION . © {º . 396
VIII. ARBACEs Excounters GLAUcus AND Ione . © . 401
xviii contents.
Cº LAPTER
IX. THE DESPAIR or THE LovERs. – THE condition or
THE MULTITUDE e i. e * e tº
X. THE NExT MoRNING. — THE FATE or NxdiA
LAST. WHEREIN ALL THINGs cFAs E * o g o ©
NOTES.
NotEs to Book I. . tº o . . G & tº tº
Not E to Book II. . e & e • . . ë tº
NoTE To Book III. . © © ſº o • • •
NotE TO Book IV. . § º tº & * > º © gº
PAG
NoTEs to Book V. . e © cº tº * e º
404
408
410
415
417
418
419
421
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.
PAGE
PANorAMA OF POMPEII . e * e • Frontispiece
Hous E of THE TRAGIC PoET . & e {º} ſº 16
• TEMPLE OF IsIs . º tº Q © * © 32
TEMPLE of ForTUNE . i.e. * e º tº 48
INTERIOR of BATHs {º g tº tº & º 64
ScHool, of THE GLADIATORs . * g © º 80
STREET of PLENTY g e g & g . 128
THE ForUM . e tº tº * e e . 144
TEMPLE of AUGUSTUs (PANTHEoN) tº e . 160
Hous E of DIoMED . ſº º * tº ſº . 224
STREET of THE ToMBs . * * te tº . .288
BASILICA. ſº e º tº {º tº tº . 320
TEMPLE of JUPITER º g g e sº . 336
AMPHITHEATRE te e § e g $ . 352
TEMPLE of WENUs . g * g * * . 384
INTERIOR TRAGIC THEATRE . ſº e * > . 400
Hous E of PANSA . * dº g º sº wº 416
THE
LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
BOOK I.
CHAPTER I.
THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF POMPEII.
“Ho, Diomed, well met ! Do you sup with Glaucus to-
night 2 * 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 1 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 makes him dull the next morning.”
“There may be another reason for that thrift,” said
Diomed, raising his brows. With all his conceit and
extravagance he is not so rich, I fancy, as be affects to be,
and perhaps loves to save his amphorae better than his wit.”
“An additional reason for supping with him while the
sesterces last. Next year, Diomed, we must find another
Glaucus.”
“He is fond of the dice too, I hear.”
“He is fond of every pleasure; and while he likes the
pleasure of giving Suppers, we are all fond of him.”
2 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
“Ha, ha, Clodius, that is well said I 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 tol-
erable muraenae" in my reservoir, and I will ask Pansa, the
aedile, to meet you.”
“Oh, no state with me ! — Persicos odi apparatus, I am
easily contented. Well, the day wanes; I am for the
baths; and you — ” -
“To the questor; business of state, – afterwards to the
temple of Isis. Vale /*
“An ostentatious, bustling, ill-bred fellow,” muttered Clo-
dius to himself, as he sauntered slowly away. “He thinks
with his feasts and his wine-cellars to make us forget that
he is the son of a freedman : and so we will, when we do
him the honor of winning his money; these rich plebeians
are a harvest for us spendthrift nobles.”
Thus soliloquizing, Clodius arrived in the Via Domitiana,
which was crowded with passengers and chariots, and exhib-
ited 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 have you slept on your good
fortune 2 ” cried, in a pleasant and musical voice, a young
man, in a chariot of the most fastidious and graceful fashion.
Upon its surface of bronze were elaborately wrought, in the
still exquisite workmanship of Greece, reliefs of the Olym-
pian games. The two horses that drew the car were of the
rarest breed of Parthia; their slender limbs seemed to dis-
dain 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, – lifeless, 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 per-
* Muraenae – lampreys.
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 3
fect 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 rich-
est hues of the Tyrian dye, and the fibulae, or buckles, by
which it was fastened, sparkled with emeralds; around his
neck was a chain of gold, which in the middle of his breast
twisted itself into the form of a serpent’s head, from the
mouth of which hung pendent a large signet ring of elabo-
rate 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
pieces of metal that should change our spirit, my Clodius 2
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 2 ”
“Why, I thought of visiting the baths; but it wants yet
an hour to the usual time.”
“Well, I will dismiss my chariot, and go with you. So,
so, my Phylias,” stroking the horse nearest to him, which
by a low neigh and with backward ears playfully acknowl-
edged the courtesy; “a holiday for you to-day. Is he not
handsome, Clodius 2 ”
“Worthy of Phoebus,” returned the noble parasite, “ or
of Glaucus.”
4 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
CHAPTER II.
THE BLIND FLOWER—GIRL, AND THE BEAUTY of FASHIon.
— THE ATHENIAN's CONFESSION. — THE READER's IN–
TRODUCTION TO ARBACES OF EGYPT.
TALKING lightly on a thousand matters, the two young
men sauntered through the streets; they were now in that
quarter which was filled with the gayest shops, their open
interiors all and each radiant with the gaudy yet harmoni-
ous colors of frescos inconceivably varied in fancy and de-
sign. 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, “ latet 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, protected
from the sun by a purple awning, invited the weary to rest
and the indolent to lounge, – made a scene of such glowing
and vivacious excitement as might well give the Athenian
spirit of Glaucus an excuse for its susceptibility 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 a certain dulness of magnificence, — the eye aches,
the spirit is wearied; besides, my Clodius, we are discontented
when we compare the enormous luxury and wealth of others
with the mediocrity of our own state. But here we surren-
der ourselves easily to pleasure, and we have the brilliancy
of luxury without the lassitude of its pomp.”
* See note (a) at the end.
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 5
“It was from that feeling that you chose your summer
retreat at Pompeii ?”
“It was. I prefer it to Baiae; I grant the charms of the
latter, but I love not the pedants who resort there, and who
seem to weigh out their pleasures by the dram.”
“Yet you are fond of the learned too; and as for poetry,
why your house is literally eloquent with AEschylus and
Homer, the epic and the drama.”
“Yes, but those Romans who mimic my Athenian ances-
tors do everything so heavily. Even in the chase they make
their slaves carry Plato with them ; and whenever the boar
is lost, out they take their books and their papyrus, in order
not to lose their time too. When the dancing-girls swim be-
fore them in all the blandishment of Persian manners, some
drone of a freedman, with a face of stone, reads them a sec-
tion of Cicero ‘De Officiis.’ Unskilful pharmacists pleas-
ure and study are not elements 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 souls for either. Oh, my Clodius, how little your
countrymen know of the true versatility of a Pericles, of the
true witcheries of an Aspasia / It was but the other day
that I paid a visit to Pliny ; he was sitting in his summer-
house writing, while an unfortunate slave played on the tibia.
His nephew (oh, whip me such philosophical coxcombs ()
was reading Thucydides’ description of the plague, and nod-
ding his conceited little head in time to the music, while his
lips were repeating all the loathsome details of that terrible
delineation. The puppy saw nothing incongruous in learn-
ing 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 insensate ear that
the music pleased, whereas the book (the description of the
plague, mind you!) elevated the heart. ‘Ah!’ quoth the
fat uncle, wheezing, “my boy is quite an Athenian, always
mixing the utile with the dulce.” O Minerva, how I laughed
in my sleeve | While I was there, they came to tell the
boy-sophist that his favorite freedman was just dead of a
fever. ‘Inexorable death !' cried he ; “get me my Horace.
6 THE LAST DA YS OF POMPEII.
How beautifully the Sweet poet consoles us for these mis-
fortunes!’ Oh, can these men love, my Clodius 2 Scarcely
even with the senses. How rarely a Roman has a heart
He is but the mechanism of genius, – he wants its bones
and flesh.”
Though Clodius was secretly a little sore at these remarks
on his countrymen, he affected to sympathize with his friend,
partly because he was by nature a parasite, and partly
because it was the fashion among the dissolute young
Romans to affect a little contempt for the very birth which,
in reality, made them so arrogant; it was the mode to imi-
tate 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 songstress, – for she was
blind.
“It is my poor Thessalian,” said Glaucus, stopping ; “I
have not seen her since my return to Pompeii. Hush ! her
voice is sweet; let us listen.”
THE BLIND FLOWER—GIRL'S SONG.
I.
Buy my flowers; oh, buy, I pray !
he 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 !
THE LA ST DAYS OF POMPEII. 7
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 morn and night her watch she keeps,
With a yearning heart and a passionate care) –
To see the young things grow so fair;
She weeps — for love she weeps,
And the dews are the tears she weeps,
From the well of a mother's love .
II.
Ye have a world of light, ſº
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 stream 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. º
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' "
“I must have yon bunch of violets, sweet Nydia,” said
Glaucus, pressing through the crowd, and dropping a hand-
ful of small coins into the basket; “your voice is more
charming than ever.”
The blind girl started forward as she heard the Athe-
nian’s voice, then as suddenly paused, while the blood
rushed violently over neck, cheek, and temples.
“So you are returned l’” said she, in a low voice, and then
repeated half to herself, “ Glaucus is returned l’”
8 THE LA ST" D.A. YS OF POMPEII.
“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 is a sort of client of yours, this child?” said
Clodius.
- “Ay; does she not sing prettily 2 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 handsome in Pompeii, old Diomed’s
daughter, the rich Julia, l’” 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.
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
I’OS8.
“And Glaucus, too, is returned ?” said she, glancing mean-
ingly at the Athenian. “Has he forgotten,” she added in
a half-whisper, “his friends of the last year 2”
“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 7”
“We shall see you both at my father's villa soon,” said
Julia, turning to Clodius.
“We will mark the day in which we visit you with a
white stone,” answered the gamester.
Julia dropped her veil, but slowly, so that her last glance
rested on the Athenian with affected timidity and real bold-
ness; the glance bespoke tenderness and reproach.
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 9
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 l’”
Glaucus sighed.
They were now in a street less crowded than the rest, at
the end of which they beheld that broad and most lovely
sea which upon those delicious coasts seems to have re-
nounced 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 wander 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
10 THE LA ST DAYS OF POMPEII.
vehement gestures and flexile features, was narrating to a
group of fishermen and peasants a strange tale of ship-
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 invis-
ible 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 2 ”
“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.
“I agree with you,” returned the Greek. “I adore even
the shadow of Love; but I adore himself yet more.”
“Art thou, then, soberly and 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 2 I should never have thought it. You
dissemble well.”
“I am not far gone enough for that,” returned Glaucus,
smiling; or rather I say with Tibullus, –
‘He whom love rules, where'er his path may be,
Walks safe and sacred.”
In fact, I am not in love; but I could be if there were but
occasion to see the object. Eros would light his torch, but
the priests have given him no oil.”
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 11
“Shall I guess the object 2 Is it not Diomed’s daughter ?
She adores you, and does not affect to conceal 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 fort-
unate virgin 7”
“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 Par-
thenope, 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
just behind me was a female. She had raised her veil also
in prayer; and when our eyes met, methought a celestial
ray shot from those dark and Smiling orbs at once into my
soul. Never, my Clodius, have I seen mortal face more
exquisitely moulded: a certain melancholy softened and
yet elevated its expression; that unutterable something
which springs from the soul, and which our sculptors have
imparted to the aspect of Psyche, gave her beauty I know
not what of divine and noble : tears were rolling down her
eyes. I guessed at once that she was also of Athenian
lineage, and that in my prayer for Athens her heart had
responded to mine. I spoke to her, though with a falter-
ing voice, “Art thou not, too, Athenian,’ said I, ‘O beautiful
virgin 7' At the sound of my voice, she blushed, and half
1 Naples.
12 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
drew her veil across her face; “My forefathers' ashes,’ said
she, “repose by the waters of Ilyssus; my birth is of Neap-
olis, - 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 fol-
lowed the priest in his ceremonial prayer; together we
touched the knees of the goddess, – together we laid our
olive garlands on the altar. I felt a strange emotion of
almost sacred tenderness at this companionship. We,
strangers from a far and fallen land, stood together and
alone in that temple of our country's deity; was it not
natural that my heart should yearn to my countrywoman,
for so I might surely call her ? I felt as if I had known
her for years; and that simple rite seemed, as by a miracle,
to operate on the 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
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 (es-
pecially in the chin, the lip, and the brow), save that the
nose was somewhat raised and aquiline; and the bones, hard
and visible, forbade that fleshy and waving contour which on
the Grecian physiognomy preserved even in manhood the
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 13
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 com-
manding 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 impres-
sive effect of his quiet countenance and stately form. Each
of the young men, in saluting the new-comer, made mechan-
ically, and with care to conceal it from him, a slight gesture
or sign with their fingers; for Arbaces the Egyptian was
supposed to possess the fatal gift of the evil eye.
“The scene must, indeed, be beautiful,” said Arbaces,
with a cold though courteous Smile, “which draws the gay
Clodius, and Glaucus the all-admired, from the crowded
thoroughfares of the city.”
“Is Nature ordinarily so unattractive 2" 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 meditation, and
imagine that, because they are sated with others, they know
the delight of loneliness. But not in such jaded bosoms can
Nature awaken that enthusiasm which alone draws from her
chaste reserve all her unspeakable beauty; she demands from
you, not the exhaustion of passion, but all that 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 appli-
cation | Exhaustion 1 — that word is for age, not youth.
By me, at least, one moment of Satiety has never been
known l’”
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 ex-
clamation of Glaucus; but after a pause, he said in a soft
and melancholy voice, —
14 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 2 — 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 l’’
“Thy heart rebukes thee while thou speakest,” said the
Egyptian ; “and in thy gayeties this night, thou wilt be
more mindful of Leaena' than of Lais. Vale / ''
Thus saying, he gathered his robe around him, and slowly
swept away.
“I breathe more freely,” said Clodius. “Imitating the
Egyptians, we sometimes introduce a skeleton at our feasts.
In truth, the presence of such an Egyptian as yon gliding
shadow were spectre enough to sour the richest grape of the
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.
Can we not get him amongst us, and teach him the charms
of dice 2 Pleasure of pleasures hot fever of hope and fear !
inexpressible, unjaded passion how fiercely beautiful thou
art, O Gaming !”
“Inspired — inspired l’ cried Glaucus, laughing; “the
oracle speaks poetry in Claudius. What miracle next l”
* Leaºna, the heroic mistress of Aristogiton, when put to the torture bit out
her, tongue, that the pain might not induce her to betray the conspiracy
against the sons of Pisistratus. The statue of a lioness, erected in her honor,
was to be seen at Athens in the time of Pausanias.
THE LA ST DAYS OF POMPEII. 15
CHAPTER III.
PARENTAGE OF GLAUCU.S. — DESCRIPTION OF THE HOUSES
OF POMPEII. — A CLASSIC REVEL.
HEAVEN had given to Glaucus every blessing but one :
it had given him beauty, health, fortune, genius, illustrious
descent, a heart of fire, a mind of poetry, - but it had
denied him the 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 lux-
uries 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
eacedra 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 glow-
ing decorations create, – its paintings, its mosaics | Pas-
sionately enamored 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 AEschylus
and Homer. And antiquaries, who resolve taste to a trade,
have turned the patron to the professor, and still (though
the error is now acknowledged) they style in custom, as
they first named in mistake, the disburied house of the
Athenian 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,
Cf caprice and taste, which, being natural to mankind, have
always puzzled antiquaries. We shall endeavor to make
this description as clear and unpedantic as possible.
16 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
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 im-
pluvium, 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 hos-
pitable hearth, often mentioned by the Roman poets, and
consecrated to the Lares, was at Pompeii almost invariably
formed by a movable brazier; while in some corner, often
the most Ostentatious place, was deposited a huge wooden
chest, ornamented and strengthened by bands of bronze or
iron, and secured by strong hooks upon a stone pedestal so
firmly as to defy the attempts of any robber to detach it
from its position. It is supposed that this chest was the
money-box, or coffer, of the master of the house; though
as no money has been found in any of the chests discovered
at Pompeii, it is probable that it was sometimes rather
designed for ornament than use.
In this hall (or atrium, to speak classically) the clients
and visitors of inferior rank were usually received. In the
houses of the more “respectable, an atriensis, or slave
peculiarly devoted to the service of the hall, was invariably
retained, and his rank among his fellow-slaves was high
and important. The reservoir in the centre must have
been rather a dangerous ornament, but the centre of the
hall was like the grass-plot of a college, and interdicted to
the passers to and fro, who found ample space in the
margin. Right opposite the entrance, at the other end of
the hall, was an apartment (tablinum), in which the pave-
ment was usually adorned with rich mosaics, and the walls
covered with elaborate paintings. Here were usually kept
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* * *
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THE LAST DAYS OF POMPE II. 17
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 triclinium;
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 apartments thus mentioned.
These rooms all opened on a square or oblong colonnade,
technically termed peristyle. If the house was small, its
boundary ceased with this colonnade; and in that case its
centre, however diminutive, 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 triclinium, or eating-room (for the ancients gener-
ally appropriated two rooms at least to that purpose, one
for summer, and one for winter, — or, perhaps, one for
ordinary, the other for festive occasions); and if the owner
affected letters, a cabinet, dignified by the name of library,
—for a very small room was sufficient to 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 tabli-
num, 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
viridarium, or garden, being commonly adorned with a
fountain, or statues, and a profusion of gay flowers; at its
extreme end was the gardener’s house; on either side,
beneath the colonnade, were sometimes, if the size of the
family required it, additional rooms.
* The Romans had bedrooms appropriated not only to the sleep of night,
but also to the day siesta (cubicula diurna).
*In the stately palaces of Rome, this picture-room generally communicated
with the atrium.
18 THE LA ST DAYS OF POMPEII.
At Pompeii, a second or third story was rarely of impor.
tance, being built only above a small part of the house, and
containing rooms for the slaves, – differing in this respect
from the more magnificent edifices of Rome, which gener-
ally contained the principal eating-room (or coenaculum) on
the second floor. The apartments themselves were ordi-
narily of small size; for in those delightful climes they
received any extraordinary number of visitors in the peri-
style (or portico), the hall, or the garden; 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 grace-
ful peristyle, and (if the house extended farther) the oppo-
site 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 same in
all. In all you find the hall, the tablinum, and the peri-
style, 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, question-
able; they were fond of the gaudiest colors, of fantastic
designs; they often painted the lower half of their columns
a bright red, leaving the rest uncolored; and where the
garden was small, its wall was frequently tinted to deceive
the eye as to its extent, imitating trees, birds, temples, etc.,
in perspective, — a meretricious delusion which the graceful
pedantry of Pliny himself adopted, with a complacent pride
in its ingenuity.
But the house of Glaucus was at once one of the smallest
and yet one of the most adorned and finished of all the
1 When they entertained very large parties, the feast was usually served in
the hall.
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 19
private mansions of Pompeii; it would be a model at this
day for the house of ºf a single man in Mayfair,” — the
envy and despair of the celibian purchasers of buhl and
marquetry. -
You enter by a long and narrow vestibule, on the floor of
which is the image of a dog in mosaic, with the well-known
“Cave canem,” – or “Beware the dog.” On either side is
a chamber of some size; for the interior part of the house
not being large enough to contain the two great divisions of
private and public apartments, these two rooms were set
apart for the reception of visitors who neither by rank nor
familiarity were entitled to admission in the 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 acknowl-
edge the force, the vigor, the beauty, employed in delineat-
ing 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 por-
trayed the rape of Europa, the battle of the Amazons, etc.
You now enter the tablinum, across which, at either end,
hung rich draperies of Tyrian purple, half withdrawn."
On the walls was depicted a poet reading his verses to his
friends; and in the pavement was inserted a small and most
exquisite mosaic, typical of the instructions given by the
director of the stage to his comedians.
You passed through this saloon and entered the peristyle;
and here (as I have said before was usually the case with
the smaller houses of Pompeii) the mansion ended. From
each of the seven columns that adorned this court hung
festoons of garlands; the centre, supplying the place of a
garden, bloomed with the rarest flowers placed in vases of
white marble, that were supported on pedestals. At the
left hand of this small garden was a diminutive fame, re-
sembling one of those small chapels placed at the side of
* The tablinum was also secured at pleasure by sliding-doors.
20 THE LA ST" DAYS OF POMPEII.
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 engraving from
that most delicate and graceful painting of Leda presenting
her new-born to her husband, from which the room derives
its name. This charming apartment opened upon the fra-
grant garden. Round the table of citrean * wood, highly
polished and delicately wrought with silver arabesques,
were placed the three couches, which were yet more common
at Pompeii than the semicircular seat that had grown lately
into fashion at Rome; and on these couches of bronze,
studded with richer metals, were laid thick quiltings covered
with elaborate broidery, and yielding luxuriantly to the
pressure. * :
“Well, I must own,” said the aedile Pansa, “ that your
house, though scarcely larger than a case for one's fibulae, is
a gem of its kind. How beautifully painted is that parting
of Achilles and Briseis' – what a style ! — what heads ! —
what a -hem l’” -
“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 l’’
“You flatter me, my Clodius, indeed you do,” quoth the
aedile, who was celebrated through Pompeii for having the
worst paintings in the world; for he was patriotic, and pat-
ronized none but Pompeians. “You flatter me; but there
is something pretty, - AEdepol, 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 º’” said Glaucus. “I have not yet
seen your kitchen, though I have often witnessed the excel-
lence of its cheer.” -
“A cook, my Athenian, – a cook sacrificing the trophies
of his skill on the altar of Westa, with a beautiful muraena
(taken from life) on a spit at a distance; there is some in.
vention there !”
* The most valued wood, - not the modern citron-tree. My learned friend,
Mr. W. S. Landor, conjectures it with much plausibility to have been
mahogany.
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 21
At that instant the slaves appeared, bearing a tray cov-
ered 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 perfumed water
and napkins edged with a purple fringe. But the aedile
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 rev-
erentially 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 minister-
ing 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 fas-
tened 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.
22 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
“It is like a woman’s ‘No,'” added Glaucus; “it cools
but to inflame the more.”
“When is our next wild-beast fight !” said Clodius to
Pansa.
“It stands fixed for the ninth ide of August,” answered
Pansa; “on the day after the Vulcanalia. We have a
most lovely young lion for the occasion.”
“Whom shall we get for him to eat?” asked Clodius.
“Alas ! there is a great scarcity of criminals. You must
positively find some innocent or other to condemn to the
lion, Pansa l’”
“Indeed I have thought very seriously about it of late,”
replied the aedile, gravely. “It was a most infamous law
that which forbade us to send our own slaves to the wild
beasts. Not to let us do what we like with our own, - that's
what I call an infringement on property itself.”
“Not so in the good old days of the Republic,” sighed
Sallust. %.
“And then this pretended mercy to the slaves is such a
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, sententiously,
“ than to interfere with the manly amusements of the
people 2 °
“Well, thank Jupiter and the Fates, we have no Nero at
present l” said Sallust.
“He was, indeed, a tyrant; he shut up our amphitheatre
for ten years.”
“I wonder it did not create a rebellion,” said Sallust.
“It very nearly did,” returned Pansa, with his mouth
full of wild boar.
Here the conversation was interrupted for a moment by a
flourish of flutes, and two slaves entered with a single dish.
“Ah ! what delicacy hast thou in store for us now, my
Glaucus 2 ” 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.
“I know its face, by Pollux l’’ cried Pansa. “It is an
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 23
Ambracian kid. Ho!” snapping his fingers, – a usual sign
to the slaves, – “we must prepare a new libation in honor
to the new-comer.”
“I had hoped,” said Glaucus, in a melancholy tone, “to
have procured you some oysters from Britain; but the winds
that were so cruel to Caesar have forbid us the oysters.”
“Are they in truth so delicious 2 * asked Lepidus, loosen-
ing 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 l’”
“I wish they would produce us a gladiator,” said the
aedile, whose provident mind was musing over the wants of
the amphitheatre.
“By Pallas !” 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 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 exhibi-
tion for our next show !”
The aedile 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 “AEdepol!” 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
“AEdepol!”
“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.”
* See note (b) at the end.
24 THE LA ST DAYS OF POMPE II.
“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 7” said Pansa.
“Yes, of Syracuse.”
“I will play you for him,” said Clodius. “We will have
a game between the courses.” *"
“Better that sort of game, certainly, than a beast fight;
but I cannot stake my Sicilian : you have nothing so precious
to stake me in return.”
“My Phillida, – my beautiful dancing-girl!”
“I never buy women,” said the Greek, carelessly rearrang-
ing 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, a more gay, yet it
may be a more intellectual strain; and they chanted that
song of Horace beginning, “Persicos Odi,” etc., 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 l’” 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 immortall ” said the umbra.
“And Spuraena; and Caius Mutius, who wrote three
epics in a year, – could Horace do that, or Virgil either ?”
said Lepidus. “Those old poets all fell into the mistake
of copying sculpture instead of painting. Simplicity and
repose, – that was their 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 Spuraena, in honor of our Egyptian Isis 2 It is magnifi-
cent, — the true religious fervor.”
THE LA ST DAYS OF POMPEII. 25
“Isis 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
remarkable oracles. I am not superstitious, but I must
confess that she has more than once assisted me materially
in my magistracy with her advice. Her priests are so
pious, too ! none of your gay, none of your proud, ministers
of Jupiter and Fortune; they walk barefoot, eat no meat,
and pass the greater part of the night in solitary devotion l’”
“An example to our other priesthoods, indeed 1 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 Sal-
lust. “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 canes' nine times running.”
“The last would be indeed a miracle !” said Sallust,
gravely.
“How mean you, Sallust 7° returned the gamester, with
a flushed brow. -
“I mean what you would leave me if I played often with
you; and that is — nothing.”
Clodius answered only by a smile of disdain.
“If Arbaces were not so rich,” said Pansa, with a stately
air, “I should stretch my authority a little, and inquire
into the truth of the report which calls him an astrologer
and a sorcerer. Agrippa, when aedile of Rome, banished
all such terrible citizens. But a rich man, – it is the duty
of an aedile to protect the rich !”
“What think you of this new sect, which I am told has
even a few proselytes in Pompeii, these followers of the
Hebrew God, - Christus 2 ”
“Oh, mere speculative visionaries,” said Clodius; “they
have not a single gentleman amongst them ; their proselytes
are poor, insignificant, ignorant people !”
* Canes, or Caniculae, the lowest throw at dice.
26 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
“Who ought, however, to be crucified for their blas.
phemy,” said Pansa, with vehemence; “they deny Venus
and Jovel 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 Arcadian
reed. Glaucus was the most rapt and the least inclined to
break the silence, but Clodius began already to think that
they wasted time.
“Bene vobis / [your health !] my Glaucus,” said he,
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 I an aedile !”” 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 l’ muttered the umbra.
“Well, I will look another way,” said the aedile.
“Not yet, good Pansa; let us wait till we have supped,”
said Glaucus.
Clodius reluctantly yielded, concealing his vexation with
a yawn.
“He gapes to devour the gold,” whispered Lepidus to
Sallust, in a quotation from the “Aulularia” of Plautus.
“Ah! how well I know these polypi who hold all they
touch,” answered Sallust, in the same tone, and out of the
same play.
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.”
* See note (c) at the end.
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 27
“It is not very old,” said Glaucus, “but it has been
made precocious, like ourselves, by being put to the fire: the
wine to the flames of Vulcan ; we to those of his wife, – to
whose honor I pour this cup.”
“It 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 accept-
ance, my Clodius, on whom may the gods bestow health and
fortune, long and oft to crown it to the brim l’’
“You are too generous, Glaucus,” said the gamester, hand-
ing the cup to his slave; “but your love gives it a double
value.”
“This cup to the Graces !” said Pansa, and he thrice
emptied his calix. The guests followed his example.
“We have appointed no director to the feast,” cried Sal-
lust.
“Let us throw for him then,” said Clodius, rattling the
dice-box.
“Nay,” cried Glaucus, “no cold and trite director for us,
— no dictator of the banquet ; no reac convivii. Have not
the Romans sworn never to obey a king 2 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,
e 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;
28 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
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 AEgean waves were creeping.
On her lap lay the lynx's head;
Wild thyme was her bridal bed;
And aye through each tiny space,
In the green vine’s green embrace,
The Fauns were slyly peeping, —
The Fauns, the prying Fauns,
The arch, the laughing Fauns, –
The Fauns were syſy peeping !
II.
Flagging and faint are we
With our ceaseless flight;
And dull shall our journey be
Through the realm of night.
Bathe us, O bathe our weary wings
In the purple wave, as it freshly springs
To your cups from the fount of light—
From the fount of light, from the fount of light;
For there, when the sun has gone down in night,
There in the bowl we find him.
The grape is the well of that summer sun,
Or rather the stream that he gazed upon,
Till he left in truth, like the Thespian youth,”
His soul, as he gazed behind him.
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 count the treasure.
Fastly we fleet, then seize our wings,
1 Narcissus.
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 29
And plunge us deep in the sparkling springs;
And aye, as we rise with a dripping plume,
We'll scatter the spray round the garland's bloom.
We glow — we glow.
Behold, as the girls of the Eastern wave
Bore once with a shout to their crystal cave
The prize of the Mysian Hylas,
Even so — even so,
We have caught the young god in our warm embrace,
We hurry him on in our laughing race;
We hurry him on, with a whoop and song,
The cloudy rivers of night along, —
Ho, 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 imitate in the
Roman poetry.”
“It is, indeed, a great contrast,” said Clodius, ironically
at heart, though not in appearance, “to the old-fashioned
and tame simplicity of that ode of Horace which we heard
before. The air is beautifully Ionic; the words put me in
mind of a toast, — companions, I give you the beautiful
Ione.”
“Ione ! — 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 Lepidus, con-
ceitedly; “not to know Ione 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 1—beautiful thought !” sighed
the umbra.
“Enlighten me, I beseech you,” said Glaucus.
“Rnow 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 him-
self, as he fell back disdainfully on his couch.
30 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
“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 her feet,
and she has no lovers; she will not even marry.”
“No lovers l’” echoed Glaucus.
“No; she has the soul of Westa, 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.
“I am yours l’” said the complaisant Glaucus. “Pansa,
turn your face l’”
Lepidus and Sallust played at odd and even, and the
umbra looked on, while Glaucus and Clodius became gradu-
ally absorbed in the chances of the dice.
“By Pollux ” cried Glaucus, “this is the second time I
have thrown the caniculae'' (the lowest throw).
“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 pro-
pitiates 1 *
“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. ,
“I will play no more,” said Glaucus; “I have lost thirty
sestertia.”
“I am sorry —” began Clodius.
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 31
“Amiable man l’ groaned the umbra.
“Not at all !” exclaimed Glaucus; “the pleasure I take in
your gain compensates the pain of my loss.”
The conversation now grew general and animated; the
wine circulated more freely; and Ione once more became
the subject of eulogy to the guests of Glaucus.
“Instead of outwatching the stars, let us visit one at
whose beauty the stars grow pale,” said Lepidus.
Clodius, who saw no chance of renewing the dice,
seconded the proposal; and Glaucus, though he civilly
pressed his guests to continue the banquet, could not but
let them see that his curiosity had been excited by the
praises of Ione; they therefore resolved to adjourn (all, at
least, but Pansa and the umbra) to the house of the fair
Greek. They drank, therefore, to the health of Glaucus
and of Titus; they performed their last libation; they
resumed their slippers; they descended the stairs, passed
the illumined atrium, and, walking unbitten over the fierce
dog painted on the threshold, found themselves beneath the
light of the moon just risen, in the lively and still crowded
streets of Pompeii.
They passed the jewellers’ quarter, sparkling with lights,
caught and reflected by the gems displayed in the shops,
and arrived at last at the door of Ione. The vestibule
blazed with rows of lamps; curtains of embroidered purple
hung on either aperture of the tablinum, whose walls and
mosaic pavement glowed with the richest colors of the
artist; and under the portico which surrounded the odorous
viridarium they found Ione, already surrounded by adoring
and applauding guests.
“Did you say she was Athenian 2 ” 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.
32 THE LA ST DA YS OF POMPEII.
CHAPTER IV.
THE TEMPLE OF ISIS. — ITS PRIEST. — THE CHARACTER OF
AIRBACES DEVELOPS ITSELF.
THE story returns to the Egyptian. We left Arbaces
upon the shores of the noonday sea, after he had parted
from Glaucus and his companion. As he approached to
the more crowded part of the bay, he paused, and gazed
upon that animated scene with folded arms, and a bitter
smile upon his dark features.
“Gulls, dupes, fools, that ye are l’ 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 1), 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, con-
trols 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 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 ener-
vate minds, in their unimaginative sensuality, cannot con-
ceive or dream Plod on, plod on, fools of ambition and
of avarice ; your petty thirst for fasces and quaestorships,
and all the mummery of servile power, provokes my laughter
and my scorn. My power can extend wherever man be-
lieves. 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 enter-
-----
：|-
：

THE LAST D.4 YS OF POMPEII. 33
ing the town, his tall figure towered above the crowded
throng of the forum, and swept towards the Small but grace-
ful 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 mys-
terious language in which they were clothed, than for the
credit which was attached to their mandates and predictions.
If they were not dictated by a divinity, they were framed
at least by a profound knowledge 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, breathless, and reverential, before the many altars
which rose in the open court. In the walls of the cella, ele-
vated 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 grace the
court of the Egyptian deity: her kindred and many-titled
Bacchus, and the Cyprian Venus, a Grecian disguise for her-
self, rising from her bath, and the dog-headed Anubis, and
the ox Apis, and various Egyptian idols of uncouth form
and unknown appellations.
But we must not suppose that, among the cities of Magna
Græcia, Isis was worshipped with those forms and cere-
monies which were of right her own. The mongrel and
modern nations of the South, with a mingled arrogance and
ignorance, confounded the worships of all climes and ages.
And the profound mysteries of the Nile were degraded by
a hundred meretricious and frivolous admixtures from the
creeds of Cephisus and of Tibur. The temple of Isis in Pom-
peii was served by Roman and Greek priests, ignorant alike of
the language and the customs of her ancient votaries; and
1 See note (d) at the end.
34 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
the descendant of the dread Egyptian kings, beneath the
appearance of reverential awe, secretly laughed to scorn the
puny mummeries which imitated the solemn and typical
worship of his burning clime.
Ranged now on either side the steps was the sacrificial
crowd, arrayed in white garments, while at the summit
stood two of the inferior priests, the One holding a palm
branch, the other a slender sheaf of corn. In the narrow
passage in front thronged the bystanders.
“And what,” whispered Arbaces to one of the bystanders,
who was a merchant engaged in the Alexandrian trade,
which trade had probably first introduced in Pompeii the
worship of the Egyptian goddess, - “what occasion now
assembles you before the altars of the venerable Isis 2 It
seems, by the white robes of the group before me, that a
sacrifice is to be rendered; and by the assembly of the
priests, that ye are prepared for some Oracle. To what
question is it to vouchsafe a reply 2 ”
“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 2 ”
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 votive wreath, in the other a white wand; while,
adding to the picturesque scene of that Eastern ceremony,
the stately ibis (bird sacred to the Egyptian worship) looked
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 35
mutely down from the wall upon the rite, or stalked beside
the altar at the base of the steps.
At that altar now stood the sacrificial flamen."
The countenance of Arbaces seemed to lose all its rigid
calm while the aruspices inspected the entrails, and to be
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 l’”
“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 over and the congre-
gation 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, approaching it, saluted him with great ap-
pearance of friendly familiarity.
The countenance of the priest was remarkably unpre-
possessing, — his shaven skull was so low and narrow in
* See a singular picture, in the Museum of Naples, of an Egyptian sacrifice
36 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
the front as nearly to approach to the conformation of that
of an African Savage, save only towards the temples, where,
in that organ styled acquisitiveness by the pupils of a
science modern in name, but best practically known (as
their sculpture teaches us) amongst the ancients, two huge
and almost preternatural 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 distended at the nostrils like
a satyr's; and the thick but pallid lips, the high cheek-
bones, the livid and motley hues that struggled through the
parchment skin, completed a countenance which none could
behold without repugnance, and few without terror and
distrust. Whatever the wishes of the mind, the animal
frame was well fitted to execute them ; the wiry muscles of
the throat, the broad chest, the nervous hands and lean,
gaunt arms, which were bared above the elbow, betokened
a form capable alike of great active exertion and passive
endurance.
“Calenus,” said the Egyptian to this fascinating flamen,
“you have improved the voice of the statue much by
attending to my suggestion; and your verses are excellent.
Always prophesy good fortune, unless there is an absolute
impossibility of its fulfilment.” -
“Besides,” added Calenus, “if the storm 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 AEgean 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 2 ”
“Right, my Calenus; I wish Apačcides 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 2 °
“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 admon-
THE LAST' DA YS OF POMPEII. 37
ished them by the thinness of the partition to speak low,
or to speak no secrets; they chose the former alternative.
“Thou knowest,” said Arbaces, in a voice that scarcely
stirred the air, so soft and inward was its sound, “that it
has ever been my maxim to attach myself to the young.
From their flexile and unformed minds I can carve out my
fittest tools. I weave, I warp, I mould them at my will.
Of the men I make merely followers or servants; of the
women — ”
“Mistresses,” said Calenus, as a livid grin distorted his
ungainly features.
“Yes, I do not disguise it ; woman is the main object,
the great appetite, of my soul. As you feed the victim
for the slaughter, I love to rear the votaries of my pleas-
ure. I love to train, to ripen their minds, – to unfold the
sweet blossom of their hidden passions, in order to prepare
the fruit to my taste. I loathe your ready-made and
ripened courtesans; it is in the soft and unconscious prog-
ress of innocence to desire that I find the true charm of
love. It is thus that I defy satiety; and by contemplating
the freshness of others, I sustain the freshness of my own
sensations. From the young hearts of my victims I draw
the ingredients of the caldron in which I re-youth myself.
But enough of this; to the subject before us. You know,
then, that in Neapolis some time since I encountered Ione
and Apacides, brother and sister, the children of Athenians
who had settled at Neapolis. The death of their parents,
who knew and esteemed me, constituted me their guardian.
I was not unmindful of the trust. The youth, docile and
mild, yielded readily to the impression I sought to stamp
upon him. Next to woman, I love the old recollections of
my ancestral land; I love to keep alive, to propagate on
distant shores (which her colonies perchance yet people)
her dark and mystic creeds. It may be that it pleases me
to delude mankind, while I thus serve the deities. To
Apaecides I taught the solemn faith of Isis. I unfolded
to him something of those sublime allegories which are
couched beneath her worship. I excited in a soul pecu-
liarly alive to religious fervor that enthusiasm which imag-
ination begets on faith. I have placed him amongst you;
he is one of you.”
“He is so,” said Calenus; “but in thus stimulating his
38 THE LA ST DAYS OF POMPEII.
faith, you have robbed him of wisdom. He is horror-struck
that he is no longer duped. Our Sage delusions, our speak-
ing statues and secret staircases, dismay and revolt him; he
pines; he wastes away; he mutters to himself; he refuses
to share our ceremonies. He has been known to frequent
the company of men suspected of adherence to that new
and atheistical creed which denies all our gods, and terms
our oracles the inspirations of that malevolent spirit of
which Eastern tradition speaks. Our Oracles, – alas! we
know well whose inspirations they are l’’
“This is what I feared,” said Arbaces, musingly, “from
various reproaches he made me when I last saw him. Of
late he hath shunned my steps. I must find him; I must
continue my lessons; I must lead him into the adytum of
wisdom. I must teach him that there are two stages of
sanctity: the first, FAITH, - the next, DELUSION ; the one
for the vulgar, the second for the sage.”
“I never passed through the first,” said Calenus; “nor
you either, I think, my Arbaces.” t
“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 Apaecides, what was my
design for Ione 2 Thou knowest already I intend her
for my queen, my bride, my heart's Isis. Never till I saw
her knew I all the love of which my nature is capable.”
“I hear from a thousand lips that she is a second Helen,”
said Calenus; and he smacked his own lips, but whether at
the wine or at the notion it is not easy to decide.
“Yes, she has a beauty that Greece itself never excelled,”
resumed Arbaces. “But that is not all ; she has a soul
worthy to match with mine. She has a genius beyond that
of woman, – keen, dazzling, bold. Poetry flows spon-
taneous to her lips; utter but a truth, and, however intri-
cate 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 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 LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 39
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. Ione 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 2 ” said the priest.
No; she loves me — but as a friend : she loves me with
her mind only. She fancies in me the paltry virtues which
I have only the profounder virtue to disdain. But you must
pursue with me her history. The brother and sister were
young and rich; Ione is proud and ambitious, – proud of
her genius, the magic of her poetry, the charm of her con-
versation. 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 2 ”
“But Sappho without lovel 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 !
I desired 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 surrounded
by lovers, hollow, vain, and frivolous (lovers that her nature
must despise), in order to feel the want of love. Then, in
those soft intervals of lassitude that succeed to excitement,
I can weave my spells, excite her interest, attract her pas-
sions, possess myself of her heart. For it is not the young,
nor the beautiful, nor the gay, that should fascinate Ione;
her imagination must be won, and the life of Arbaces has
been one scene of triumph over the imaginations of his
kind.”
“And hast thou no fear, then, of thy rivals 2 The gal-
lants 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 l’”
“Egypt,” replied Arbaces, “is the mother of Athens.
• Her tutelary Minerva is our deity; and her founder, Cecrops,
40 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
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 sub-
duing 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 ?”
“I am about to invite her to a feast in my house; I wish
to dazzle, to bewilder, to inflame her senses. Our arts —
the arts by which Egypt trained her young novitiates —
must be employed; and, under veil of the mysteries of reli-
gion, I will open to her the secrets of love.”
“Ah, now I understand; one of those voluptuous ban-
quets 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 7 No ; but first we must ensnare the brother,
— an easier task. Listen to me, while I give you my in-
structions.”
CHAPTER. W.
MORE OF THE FLOWER—GIRL. — THE PROGRESS OF LOVE.
THE 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 in a sunny clime.
And now the odors, fanned by a gentle wind creeping from
the adjacent sea, scattered themselves over that chamber,
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 41
whose walls vied with the richest colors of the most glow-
ing 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 sleeping on the beach, unconscious of the
perfidy 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 to the heart of the
young Glaucus.
“I have seen her, then,” said he, as he paced that narrow
chamber, — “I have heard her; nay, I have spoken to her
again, – I have listened to the music of her song, and she
sung of glory and of Greece. I have discovered the long-
sought idol of my dreams; and like the Cyprian sculptor, I
have breathed life into my own imaginings.”
Longer, perhaps, had been the enamoured soliloquy of
Glaucus, but at that moment a shadow darkened the
threshold of the chamber, and a young female, still half a
child in years, broke upon his solitude. She was dressed
simply in a white tunic, which reached from the neck to
the ankles; under her arm she bore a basket of flowers, and
in the other hand she held a bronze water-vase; her features
were more formed than exactly became her years, yet they
were soft and feminine in their outline, and, without being
beautiful in themselves, they were almost made so by their
beauty of expression; there was something ineffably gentle,
and you would say patient, in her aspect. A look of
resigned sorrow, of tranquil endurance, had banished the
smile, but not the sweetness, from her lips; something timid
and cautious in her step, something 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 visible defect, — the melancholy and subdued light
was clear, cloudless, and serene. “They tell me that
Glaucus is here,” said she ; “may I come in 2 ”
“Ah, my Nydia,” said the Greek, “is that you? I knew
you would not neglect my invitation.”
“Glaucus did but justice to himself,” answered Nydia, with
a blush; “for he has always been kind to the poor blind girl.”
“Who could be otherwise?” said Glaucus, tenderly, and
in the voice of a compassionate brother.
42 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
Nydia sighed and paused before she resumed, without
replying to his remark. “You have but lately returned ?”
“This is the sixth sun that hath shone upon me at
Pompeii.”
“And you are well ?” Ah, I need not ask, - for who
that sees the earth, which they tell me is so beautiful, can
be ill 2 °
“I am well. And you, Nydia, – how you have grown
Next year you will be thinking what answer to make your
lovers.”
A second blush passed over the cheek of Nydia, but this
time she frowned as she blushed. “I have brought you
some flowers,” said she, without replying to a remark that
she seemed to resent; and feeling about the room till she
found the table that stood by Glaucus, she laid the basket
upon it; “they are poor, but they are fresh-gathered.”
“They might come from Flora herself,” said he, kindly;
“ 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 2 ”
“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 7" said the Greek.
“ Glaucus little dreamed that he left one memory so watch-
ful over his favorites at Pompeii.”
The hand of the child trembled, and her breast heaved
beneath her tunic. She turned round in embarrassment.
“The sun is hot for the poor flowers,” said she, “to-day,
and they will miss me; for I have been ill lately, and it is
nine days since I visited them.” -
“Ill, Nydia 1—yet your cheek has more color than it had
last year.”
“I am often ailing,” said the blind girl, touchingly; “and
as I grow up, I grieve more that I am blind. But now to
the flowers l’” So saying, she made a slight reverence with
her head, and passing into the viridarium, busied herself
with watering the flowers. .
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 43
“Poor Nydia,” thought Glaucus, gazing on her, “thine
is a hard doom | Thou seest not the earth, nor the Sun, nor
the ocean, nor the stars, – above all, thou canst not behold
Ione.” -
At that last thought his mind flew back to the past even-
ing, 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 confided 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, charming rather than
awing the boldest into respect, and changing the very nature
of the most sensual and the least ideal,- as by her intel-
lectual 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 noble-
ness of his own nature, — he 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 between himself and his associates
which the deceiving mists of pleasure had hitherto con-
cealed; 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 remem-
bered, - 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
44 THE LA ST DA YS OF POMPEII.
regretted it, for he was anxious that Glaucus should marry
an heiress yet more richly endowed, - Julia, the daughter
of the wealthy Diomed, whose gold the gamester imagined
he could readily divert into his own coffers. Their con-
versation 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 2 ” said she.
“Yes; for the skies of Campania rebuke the sluggard
who neglects them.”
“Ah, would I could see them l’ murmured the blind
girl, but so low that Glaucus did not overhear the com-
plaint.
The Thessalian lingered on the threshold a few moments,
and then, guiding her steps by a long staff, which she used
with great dexterity, she took her way homeward. She
soon turned from the more gaudy streets, and entered a
quarter of the town but little loved by the decorous and
the sober. But from the low and rude evidences of vice
around her she was saved by her misfortune. And at that
hour the streets were quiet and silent, nor was her youth-
ful 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 nightin-
gales' tongues.” --
“Oh, I hope not, — I trust not,” cried Nydia, trembling;
“I will beg from sunrise to sunset, but send me not there.”
“And why?” asked the same voice.
“Because — because I am young, and delicately born,
and the female companions I meet there are not fit asso-
ciates for one who — who — ”
“Is a slave in the house of Burbo,” returned the voice,
ironically, and with a coarse laugh,
*
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 45
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-
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 was a 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 numberless adorers. Was it
a sin to love her countryman 2 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, imagina-
tion, all were its ministers and priests. As you take some
obstacle from two objects that have a mutual attraction,
they met, and united at once; their wonder was, that they
had lived separate so long. And it was natural that they
should so love. Young, beautiful and gifted, - of the
46 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
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 ves-
sels 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. Ione broke the pause between them.
“My poor brother,” said she, sighing, “how once he would
have enjoyed this hour !”
“Your brother l’” 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 ?”
“ It was.”
“And is he here 2 ”
« He is.”
“At Pompeii, and not constantly with you? Impos-
sible !”
“He has other duties,” answered Ione, sadly; “he is a
priest of Isis.”
“So young, too; and that priesthood, in its laws at least,
so severe !” said the warm and bright-hearted Greek, in sur-
prise and pity. “What could have been his inducement 2 °
“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 consecrate
his life to the most mystic of our deities. Perhaps in the
intenseness of his zeal, he found in the severity of that
peculiar priesthood its peculiar attraction.”
“And he does not repent his choice 2 – I trust he is
happy.”
Ione sighed deeply, and lowered her veil over her eyes.
“I wish,” said she, after a pause, “that he had not been
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPE II. 47
so hasty. Perhaps, like all who expect too much, he is
revolted too easily l’”
“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 2 ”
“ 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
VO1Ce.
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.”
“Yet, like Epimenides, he is kind and wise and gentle,”
answered Ione.
“Oh, happy that he has thy praise ! 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 sufferings;
as yonder mountain [and she pointed to Vesuvius], 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, but
over that gray summit, rising amidst the woods and vine-
yards 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 moun-
tain, and, full of unimaginable tenderness, met. What need
had they of words to say they loved ?
48 - THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
CHAPTER WI.
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.
Apačcides had ceased to seek or to consult him. He was
rarely to be found; he turned sullenly from the Egyptian,
— may, he fled when he perceived him in the distance.
Arbaces was one of those haughty and powerful spirits,
accustomed to master others; he chafed at the notion that
one once his own should ever elude his grasp. He swore
inly that Apaccides 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.
“Apaecides 1’’ said he, and he laid his hand affectionately
on the young man’s shoulder.
The priest started, and his first instinct seemed to be
that of flight. “My son,” said the Egyptian, “what has
chanced that you desire to shun me?”
Apa-cides 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 2 °
-----
*： Nn LHO， BO BT.d.Wºl

THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 49
“To thee, – nothing.”
“And why is it to me thou art thus unconfidential 7”
“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.
Apaccides 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 vein.s indicated the lassitude and weakness of the
relaxed £bres. 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 reposed,
but evidently did not sleep. In Apačcides 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 com-
pared with the height of the brow, the trembling restlessness
of the lips, to be swayed and tyrannized over by the imagi-
native and ideal. Fancy, with the sister, had stopped short
at the golden goal of poetry; with the brother, less happy
and less restrained, it had wandered into visions more
intangible and unembodied; and the faculties which gave
genius to the one threatened madness to the other.
“You say I have been your enemy,” said Arbaces. “I
know the cause of that unjust accusation: I have placed
you amidst the priests of Isis, – you are revolted at their
trickeries and imposture; you think that I too have deceived
you; the purity of your mind is offended; you imagine that
I am one of the deceitful — ”
“You knew the jugglings of that impious craft,” answered
Apaccides; “why did you disguise them from me? When
50 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
you excited my desire to devote myself to the office whose
garb I bear, you spoke to me of the holy life of men resign-
ing 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 earthlier pleasures to the sublime
cultivation of virtue, – you place me amongst men reeking
with all the filthiness of vice; you spoke to me of the
friends, the enlighteners of our common kind, – I see but
their cheats and deluders Oh, it was basely done !—you
have robbed me of the glory of youth, of the convictions of
virtue, of the sanctifying thirst after wisdom. Young as I
was, rich, fervent, the sunny pleasures of earth before me, I
resigned all without a sigh, nay, with happiness and exulta-
tion 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 worth.
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 barbar-
ism and darkness) possessed all the arts of wisdom and the
graces of intellectual life; from Egypt came the rites and the
* The slaves who had the care of the atrium.
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 51
grandeur of that solemn Caere, whose inhabitants taught their
iron vanquishers of Rome all that they yet know of elevated
in religion and sublime in worship. And how deemest thou,
young man, that that dread Egypt, the mother of countless
nations, achieved her greatness and soared to her cloud-capped
eminence of wisdom ? It was the result of a profound and
holy policy. Your modern nations owe their greatness to
Egypt, — Egypt her greatness to her priests. Rapt in them-
selves, 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 mor-
tals. From the revolutions of the stars, from the seasons of
the earth, from the round and unvarying circle of human
destinies, they devised an august allegory; they made it
gross and palpable to the vulgar by the signs of gods and
goddesses, and that which in reality was Government they
named Religion. Isis is a fable, – start not l — 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, impos-
tors if you will. But think you, young man, that if they
had not deceived their kind they could have served them 2
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 came peace, order, law, the
blessings of life. Think you it is the man, the emperor,
that thus sways 2 — no, it is the pomp, the awe, the majesty
that surround him, - these are his impostures, his delu-
sions. Our Oracles and our divinations, our rites and our
ceremonies, are the means of our sovereignty and the en-
gines 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.”
Apaccides remained silent, but the changes rapidly pass-
52 THE LA ST DAYS OF POMPEII.
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 2 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 generalities to
yourself; I hasten to obey the wish. The altars of the god-
dess of our ancient faith must be served, and served too by
others than the stolid and soulless things that are but as
pegs and hooks whereon to hang the fillet and the robe.
Remember two sayings of Sextus the Pythagorean, sayings
borrowed from the lore of Egypt. The first is, ‘Speak not
of God to the multitude;’ the second is, ‘The man worthy
of God is a god among men.” As genius gave to the min-
isters of Egypt worship, that empire in late ages so fear-
fully decayed, thus by genius only can the dominion be
restored. I saw in you, Apaecides, a pupil worthy of my
lessons, – a minister worthy of the great ends which may
yet be wrought; your energy, your talents, your purity of
faith, your earnestness of enthusiasm, - all fitted you for
that calling which demands so imperiously high and ardent
qualities; I fanned, therefore, your sacred desires; I stimu-
lated you to the step you have taken. But you blame me
that I did not reveal to you the little souls and the juggling
tricks of your companions. Had I done so, Apaecides, I
had defeated my own object; your noble nature would have
at once revolted, and Isis would have lost her priest.”
Apaccides groaned aloud. The Egyptian continued, with-
out heeding the interruption.
“I 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
THE LAST DAYS JP POMPEII. 53
desired that you should perceive how those engines are
moved by which the fountain that refreshes the world
casts its water 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 pur-
suit, 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 2 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, Apacides, without
its substance. Come to me this night. Your hand.”
Impressed, excited, bewildered by the language of the
Egyptian, Apaecides gave him his hand, and master and
pupil parted.
It was true that for Apaecides there was no retreat. He
had taken the vows of celibacy; he had devoted himself to
a life that at present seemed to possess all the austerities
of fanaticism, without any of the consolations of belief. It
was natural that he should yet cling to a 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 con-
jecture, 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, musi-
cal 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 deli-
54 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
cate 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;
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. g
“I am glad,” said Ione, “to see you at length together;
for you are suited to each other, and you are formed to be
friends.”
“Give me back some fifteen years of life,” replied the
Egyptian, “before you can place me on an equality with
Glaucus. Happy should I be to receive his friendship; but
what can I give him in return ? Can. I make to him the
same confidences that he would repose in me: of banquets
and garlands, of Parthian steeds, and the chances of the
dice 2 These pleasures suit his age, his nature, his career;
they are not for mine.”
So saying, the artful Egyptian looked down and sighed;
but from the corner of his eye he stole a glance towards
Ione, to see how she received these insinuations of the
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 55
pursuits of her visitor. Her countenance did not satisfy
him. Glaucus, slightly coloring, hastened gayly to reply.
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 banquets 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 pursue the pleasures
of manhood, like you, I shall be doubtless sarcastic on the
gallantries of youth.”
The Egyptian raised his eyes to Glaucus with a sudden
and piercing glance.
“I do not understand you,” said he ; “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.
“I 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.”
“The smoothness of the sea has tempted me much from
home,” replied Ione, with a little embarrassment.
The embarrassment did not escape Arbaces; but, without
seeming to heed it, he replied with a smile, “You know the
old poet says, that ‘Women should keep within doors, and
there converse.’”"
“The poet was a cynic,” said Glaucus, “and hated
women.”
“He spake according to the customs of his country, and
that country is your boasted Greece.”
“To different periods different customs. Had our 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.
“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
1 Euripides.
56 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
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 chogen ; yet it
is not greater than the Roman women are accustomed to, --
it is not greater than the Grecian ought to be. Alas! is it
only to be among men that freedom and virtue are to be
deemed united? Why should the slavery that destroys
you be considered the only method to preserve us? Ah,
believe me, it has been the great error of men — and one
that has worked bitterly on their destinies — to imagine
that the nature of women is (I will not say inferior, that
may be so, but) so different from their own, in making laws
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, – Ior 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 Greece
if she had given to the chaste the same intellectual charms
that are so celebrated amongst the less worthy of her
women. No state falls from freedom, from knowledge,
while your sex Smile only on the free, and by appreciating,
encourage the wise.”
Arbaces was silent, for it was neither his part to sanction
the sentiment of Glaucus, nor to condemn that of Ione;
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;
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 57
but which, if not greater, as you rightly observe, than that
possessed by the Roman women, must at least be accom-
panied by great circumspection, when arrogated by one
unmarried. Continue to draw crowds of the gay, the brill-
iant, the wise themselves, to your feet; continue to charm
them with the conversation of an Aspasia, the music of an
Erinna, – but reflect, at least, on those censorious tongues
which can so easily blight the tender reputation of a
maiden, and while you provoke admiration, give, I beseech
you, no victory to envy.”
“What mean you, Arbaces 7" 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 1 May I speak then as
a friend, without reserve and without offence 2 ”
“I beseech you do so.”
“This young profligate, this Glaucus, how didst thou
know him 2 Hast thou seen him often ?” And as 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 confusion
and hesitation, “He was brought to my house as a country-
man of my father's, and I may say of mine. I have known
him only within this last week or so; but why these ques-
tions 2 ” t
“Forgive me,” said Arbaces; “I though you might have
known him longer, — base insinuator that he is l’’
“How ! what mean you? Why that term 2 ”
“It matters not : let me not rouse your indignation
against one who does not deserve so grave an honor.”
“I implore you speak. What has Glaucus insinuated;
or rather, in what do you suppose he has offended ?”
Smothering his resentment at the last part of 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 2 ”
“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
58 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPE II.
but yesterday that Glaucus boasted openly, -yes, in the
public baths, of your love to him. He said it amused him
to take advantage of it. Nay, I will do him justice, he
praised your beauty. Who could deny it? But he laughed
scornfully when his Clodius, or his Lepidus, asked him if he
loved you enough for marriage, and when he purposed to
adorn his door-posts with flowers ?”
“Impossible ! How heard you this base slander ?”
“Nay, would you have me relate to you all the comments
of the insolent coxcombs with which the story has circled
through the town 2 Be assured that I myself disbelieved
at first, and that I have now painfully been convinced by
several ear-witnesses of the truth of what I have reluc-
tantly told thee.”
Ione sank back, and her face was whiter than the pillar
against which she leaned for support.
“I own it vexed — it irritated me to hear your name thus
lightly pitched from lip to lip, like some mere dancing-girl’s
fame. I hastened this morning to seek and to warn you.
I found Glaucus here. I was stung from my self-possession.
I could not conceal my feelings; nay, I was uncourteous in
thy presence. Canst thou forgive thy friend, Ione 7 °
Ione placed her hand in his, but replied not.
“Think no more of this,” said he ; “but let it be a warn-
ing 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.” -
“Love l’ 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
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 59
that can cling to the keel and arrest its progress: so is it
ever with the great passions of mankind; and we should
paint life but ill if, even in times the most prodigal of
romance, and of the romance of which we most largely
avail ourselves, we did not also describe the mechanism of
those trivial and household springs of mischief which we
see every day at work in our chambers and at our hearths.
It is in these, the lesser intrigues of life, that we mostly
find 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 hasten-
ing 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 in-
tended victim, and the haughty Ione burst into passionate.
tears.
CHAPTER VII.
THE GAY LIFE OF THE POMPEIAN LOUNGER. — A MINIA—
TUIRE LIKENESS OF THE ROMAN BATHS.
WHEN 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 unrewarded by her.
This hope filled him with a rapture for which earth and
heaven seemed too narrow to afford a vent. Unconscious of
the sudden enemy he had left behind, and forgetting not
only his taunts but his very existence, Glaucus passed
through the gay streets, repeating to himself, in the wanton-
ness 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
60 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
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 brilliant
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 of broad stairs
led to the portico, from the height of whose fluted columns
hung festoons of the richest flowers. On either side the ex-
tremities of the temple were placed statues of Grecian work-
manship ; and at a little distance from the temple rose the
triumphal arch crowned with an equestrian statue of Calig-
ula, 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 conversing on the approaching spectacle of the amphi-
theatre. One knot of young men were lauding a new beauty;
another discussing the merits of the last play; a third group,
more stricken with age, were speculating on the chance of
the trade with Alexandria; and amidst these were many
merchants in the Eastern costume, whose loose and peculiar
robes, painted and gemmed slippers, and composed and
serious countenances, formed a striking contrast to the
tunicked forms and animated gestures of the Italians. For
that impatient and lively people had, as now, a language
distinct from speech, – a language of signs and motions
inexpressibly significant and vivacious; their descendants re-
tain it, and the learned Jorio hath written a most entertain-
ing work upon that species of hieroglyphical gesticulation.
Sauntering through the crowd, Glaucus soon found himself
almidst a group of his merry and dissipated friends.
“Ah !” said Sallust, “it is a lustrum since I saw you.”
“And how have you spent the lustrum ? What new
dishes have you discovered ?”
“I have been scientific,” returned Sallust, “ and have
made some experiments in the feeding of lampreys; I con-
fess I despair of bringing them to the perfection which our
Roman ancestors attained.”
THE LA ST DAYS OF POMPEII. 61
“Miserable man and why ’”
“Because,” returned Sallust, with a sigh, “it is no longer
lawful to give them a slave to eat. I am very often tempted
to make away with a very fat carptor [butler] 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 2 ” said Lepidus, as he languidly
joined the group.
“The emperor has been giving a splendid supper to the
senators,” answered Sallust.
“He is a good creature,” quoth Lepidus; “they say he
never sends a man away without granting his request.”
“Perhaps he would let me kill a slave for my reservoir 2 ”
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 quæstorship, 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 aerarium, - it is a little out of repair; ” and
followed by a long train of clients, distinguished from the
rest of the throng by the togas they wore (for togas, once
the sign of freedom in a citizen, were now the badge of
servility to a patron), the aedile fidgeted fussily away.
“Poor Pansa l’” said Lepidus; “he never has time for
pleasure. Thank Heaven, I am not an aedile !”
“Ah, Glaucus, how are you ? — gay as ever !” said
Clodius, joining the group.
“Are you come to sacrifice to Fortune 2’” said Sallust.
“I sacrifice to her every night,” returned the gamester.
“I do not doubt it; no man has made more victims' "
“By Hercules, a biting speech ” cried Glaucus, laughing,
62 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
“The dog's letter is never out of your mouth, Sallust,”
said Clodius, angrily; “you are always Snarling.”
“I may well have the dog's letter in my mouth, since,
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 2 ”
“Yes, I received an invitation this morning.”
“And I, too,” said Sallust, drawing a square piece of
papyrus from his girdle; “I see that he asks us an hour
earlier than usual, -an earnest of something sumptuous.” "
“Oh, he is rich as Croesus,” said Clodius; “and his bill of
fare is as long as an epic.” !
“Well, let us to the baths,” said Glaucus; “this is the
time when all the world is there; and Fulvius, whom you
admire so much, is going to read us his last ode.”
The young men assented readily to the proposal, and they
strolled to the baths.
Although the public thermae, or baths, were instituted
rather for the poorer citizens than the wealthy (for the last
had baths in their own houses), yet, to the crowds of all
ranks who resorted to them, it was a 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 thermae of Rome; and, indeed, it seems
that in each city of the empire there was always some
slight modification of arrangement in the general architect-
ure 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 dis-
pensed. Round the walls of the portico were seats crowded
with persons of all ranks; while others, as the regimen of
1 The Romans sent tickets of invitation, like the moderns, specifying the
hour of the repast; which, if the intended feast were to be sumptuous, was
earlier than usual.
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPE II. 63
the physicians prescribed, were walking briskly to and fro
the portico, stopping every now and then to gaze on the in-
numerable notices of shows, games, sales, exhibitions, which
were painted or inscribed upon the walls. The general sub-
ject of conversation was, however, the spectacle announced
in the amphitheatre; and each new-comer was fastened
upon by a group eager to know if Pompeii had been so fort-
unate as to produce some monstrous criminal, Some happy
case of sacrilege or of murder, which would allow the aediles
to provide a man for the jaws of the lion: all other more
common exhibitions seemed dull and tame, when compared
with the possibility of this fortunate occurrence.
“For my part,” said one jolly-looking man, who was a
goldsmith, “I think the emperor, if he is as good as they say,
might have sent us a Jew.”
“Why not take one of the new sect of Nazarenes 2 ” said
a philosopher. “I am not cruel: but an atheist, one who
denies Jupiter himself, deserves no mercy.”
“I care not how many gods a man likes to believe in,”
said the goldsmith; “but to deny all gods is something
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 philosopher.
“I have conferred with them, - they laughed in my face
when I talked of Pluto and Hades.”
“O ye gods !” exclaimed the goldsmith, in horror; “are
there any of these wretches in Pompeii ?”
“I know there are a few ; but they meet so privately
that it is impossible to discover who they are.”
As Glaucus turned away, a sculptor, who was a great
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 artſ Why don’t they give him to
the lion ?”
Meanwhile Fulvius, the Roman poet, whom his contem-
poraries declared immortal, and who, but for this history,
would never have been heard of in our neglectful age, came
eagerly up to Glaucus : “Oh, my Athenian, my Glaucus
64 THE LA ST DAYS OF POMPEII.
you have come to hear my ode That is indeed an honor;
you, a Greek, - to whom the very language of common life
is poetry. How I thank you. It is but a trifle; but if I
secure your approbation, perhaps I may get an introduction
to Titus. Oh, Glaucus, a poet without a patron is an am-
phora without a label; the wine may be good, but nobody
will laud it ! And what says Pythagoras 2 – “Frankin-
cense 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 7 °
“Certainly ; we lose time till we hear your poem.”
At this instant there was a rush of some twenty persons
from the baths into the portico; and a slave stationed at
the door of a small corridor now admitted the poet, Glaucus,
Clodius, and a troop of the bard’s other friends, into the
paSSage. -
“A poor place this, compared with the Roman thermae ”
said Lepidus, disdainfully.
“Yet is there some taste in the ceiling,” said Glaucus,
who was in a mood to be pleased with everything, pointing
to the stars which studded the roof.
Lepidus shrugged his shoulders, but was too languid to
reply.
They now entered a somewhat spacious chamber, which
served for the purposes of the apoditerium (that is, a place
where the bathers prepared themselves for their luxurious
ablutions). The vaulted ceiling was raised from a cornice,
glowingly colored with motley and grotesque paintings; the
ceiling itself was panelled in white compartments 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 his more magnificent frigidarium.
The Pompeians, as all the Southern Italians, were fond of
banishing the light of their sultry skies, and combined in
their voluptuous associations the idea of luxury with dark-
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THE LA ST DAYS OF POMPEII. 65
ness. Two windows of glass" alone admitted the soft and
shaded rays; and the Compartment in which one of these
casements was placed was adorned with a large relief of the
destruction of the Titans.
In this apartment Fulvius seated himself with a 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 mortifica-
tion of the author of this history, no single verse can be
discovered.
By the plaudits he received, it was doubtless worthy of
his fame; and Glaucus was the only listener who did not
find it excel the best odes of Horace.
The poem concluded, those who took only the cold bath
began to undress; they suspended their garments on hooks
fastened in the wall, and receiving, according to their con-
dition, either from their own slaves or those of the thermae,
loose robes in exchange, withdrew into that graceful and
circular building which yet exists to shame the unlaving
posterity of the South.
The more luxurious departed by another door to the
tepidarium, a place which was heated to a voluptuous
warmth, partly by a movable fireplace, principally by a
suspended pavement, beneath which was conducted the
caloric of the laconicum.
Here this portion of the intended bathers, after unrobing
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 ablution, was
more richly and elaborately decorated than the rest; the
arched roof was beautifully carved and painted; the
windows above, of ground-glass, admitted but wandering
and uncertain rays; below the massive cornices were rows
of figures in massive and bold relief; the walls glowed with
crimson, the pavement was skilfully tessellated in white
mosaics. Here the habituated bathers, men who bathed
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 middle and inferior classes in
their private dwellings.
66 THE LA ST DAYS OF POMPE II.
seven times a day, would remain in a state of enervate and
speechless lassitude, either before or (mostly) after the
water-bath; and many of these victims of the pursuit of
health turned their listless eyes on the new-comers, recog-
nizing 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 gradually warmed in the
tepidarium, which has just been described, the delicate steps
of the Pompeian élégant were conducted to the sudatorium.
Here let the reader depict to himself the gradual process of
the vapor-bath, accompanied by an exhalation of spicy per-
fumes. 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 prac-
tised bather. Thence, somewhat cooled, he passed into the
water-bath, over which fresh perfumes were profusely scat-
tered, 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, Megalium, Nardum,
omne quod exit in um), while soft music played in an adja.
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 67
cent 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 hands,
O slave why so rough 2 — tell me — ugh — ugh ! — are
the baths at Rome really so magnificent 2 ” Glaucus
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 2 ” Suppressing a smile, Glaucus replied, -
“Imagine all Pompeii converted into baths, and you will
then form a notion of the size of the imperial thermae
of Rome; but a notion of the size only. Imagine every
entertainment for mind and body ; enumerate all the gym-
nastic 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 wastest size, the most complicated construction;
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.” f
“By Hercules I’’ 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
eonsume their lives in this occupation. They take their
68 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
exercise in the tennis-court or the porticos, to prepare
them for the first bath; they lounge into the theatre, to
refresh themselves after it. They take their prandium
under the trees, and think over their second bath. By
the time it is prepared, the prandium is digested. From
the second bath they stroll into one of the peristyles, to
hear some new poet recite; or into the library, to sleep
over an old one. Then comes the supper, which they still
consider but a part of the bath; and then a third time
they bathe again, as the best place to converse with their
friends.”
“Per Hercle! but we have their imitators at Pompeii.”
“Yes, and without their excuse. The magnificent volup-
tuaries 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 suffered his
attendants to omit. After the perfumes and the unguents,
they scattered over him the luxurious powder which pre-
vented 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 fes-
tive ones termed “the synthesis,” with which the Romans
marked their respect for the coming ceremony of supper, if
rather, from its hour (three o’clock in our measurement of
time), it might not be more fitly denominated dinner. This
done, he at length opened his eyes and gave signs of return-
ing life. #
At the same time, too, Sallust betokened by a long yawn
the evidence of existence.
“It is supper-time,” said the epicure; “you, Glaucus and
Lepidus, come and sup with me.”
“Recollect you are all three engaged to my house next
week,” cried Diomed, who was mightily proud of the ac-
quaintance of men of fashion.
“Ah, ah, we recollect,” said Sallust: “the seat of memory,
my Diomed, is certainly in the stomach.”
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 60
Passing now once again into the cooler air, and so into
the street, our gallants of that day concluded the ceremony
of a Pompeian bath. -
CHAPTER VIII.
ARBACEs cogs HIs DICE WITH PLEASURE, AND WINS THE
GAME.
THE evening darkened over the restless city as Apaºcides
took his way to the house of the Egyptian. He avoided the
more lighted and populous streets; and as he strode onward,
witn his head buried in his bosom, and his arms folded
within his robe, there was something startling in the con-
trast which his solemn mien and wasted form presented to
the thoughtless brows and animated air of those who occa-
sionally crossed his path.
At length, however, a man of a more sober and staid de-
meanor, and who had twice passed him with a curious but
doubting look, touched him on the shoulder.
“Apaecides I’’ 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; nor am I able this evening to discuss with you those
themes which are most acceptable to you.”
“O backward of heart l” said Olinthus, with bitter fervor;
“and art thou sad and weary, and wilt thou turn from the
very springs that refresh and heal 2 °
“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 be-
lieve with this man, that none whom for so many centuries
my fathers worshipped have a being or a name 2 Am I to
break down, as something blasphemous and profane, the very
altars which I have deemed most sacred; or am I to think
with Arbaces, – what ?”
70 THE LA ST DAYS OF POMPEII.
He paused and strode rapidly away in the impatience of
a man who strives to get rid of himself. But the Nazarene
was one of those hardy, vigorous, and enthusiastic men by
whom God in all times has worked the revolutions of earth,
and those, above all, in the establishment and in the refor-
mation of His own religion, — men who were formed to con-
vert, because formed to endure. It is men of this mould
whom nothing discourages, 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 con-
tagious as enthusiasm; it is the real allegory of the tale of
Orpheus, – it moves stones, it charms brutes. Enthusiasm
is the genius of sincerity, and truth accomplishes no victo-
ries without it.
Olinthus did not then suffer Apaºcides thus easily to es-
cape him. He overtook, and addressed him thus: —
“I do not wonder, Apaecides, that I distress you; that I
shake all the elements of your mind; that you are lost in
doubt; that you drift here and there in the vast ocean of
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 over the lulled bil-
lows to the delivery of your soul. Ours is a religion jeal-
ous in its demands, but how infinitely prodigal in its gifts
It troubles you for an hour, it repays you by immortality.”
“Such promises,” said Apaecides, sullenly, “are the tricks
by which man is ever gulled. Oh, glorious were the prom-
ises which led me to the shrine of Isis ”
“But,” answered the Nazarene, “ask thy reason, — can
that religion be sound which outrages all morality ? You
are told to worship your gods. What are those gods, even
according to yourselves 2 What their actions, what their at-
tributes ? Are they not all represented to you as the blackest
of criminals 2 — 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 7 You are told not to murder, but you worship mur-
derers; you are told not to commit adultery, and you make
your prayers to an adulterer. Oh, what is this but a mock-
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 71
ery 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 con-
nections 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 un-
ceasing, the devoted holiness of Christ 2 I speak to you
now only of His human character. He came in that as the
pattern of future ages, to show us the form of virtue which
Plato thirsted to see embodied. This was the true sacrifice
that He made for man; but the halo that encircled His
dying hour not only brightened 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 assembled to expound the word of God.
Come, let me guide you to them. You are sad, you are
weary; listen, then, to the words of God: ‘Come to me,’
saith He, ‘all ye that are heavy laden, and I will give you
rest, I ?”
“I cannot now,” said Apaecides; “another time.”
“Now, now !” exclaimed Olinthus, earnestly, and clasping
him by the arm.
But Apačcides, 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 eloquence
of the Christian had begun to effect in his heated and feverish
mind, he gathered up his robes, and fled away with a speed
that defied pursuit. -
Breathless and exhausted, he arrived at last in a remote
and sequestered part of the city, and the lone house of the
Egyptian stood before him. As he paused to recover him-
72 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
self the moon emerged from the silver cloud, and shone full
upon the walls of that mysterious habitation. .
No other house was near, − the darksome vines clustered
far and wide in front of the building, and behind it rose a
copse of lofty forest-trees, sleeping in the melancholy moon-
light; beyond stretched the dim outline of the distant hills
and amongst them the quiet crest of Vesuvius, not then so
lofty as the traveller beholds it now.
Apaecides passed through the arching vines, and arrived
at the broad and spacious portico. Before it, on either side
of the steps, reposed the image of the Egyptian sphinx, and
the moonlight gave an additional and yet more solemn calm
to those large and harmonious and passionless features in
which the sculptors of that type of wisdom united so much
of 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 partially over the marble surface of the
stairs.
Something there was in the stillness of the place, and
the strange aspect of the sculptured sphinxes, which
thrilled the blood of the priest with a nameless and ghostly
fear, and he longed even for an echo to his noiseless steps
as he ascended to the threshold.
He knocked at the door, over which was wrought an
inscription in characters unfamiliar to his eyes; it opened
without a sound, and a tall Ethiopian slave, without question
or salutation, motioned to him to proceed.
The wide hall was lighted by lofty candelabra of elabo-
rate bronze, and round the walls were wrought vast hiero-
glyphics, 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.
“I seek Arbaces,” said the priest; but his voice trembled
even in his own ear. The slave bowed his head in silence,
and, leading Apačcides to a wing without the hall, conducted
him up a narrow staircase, and then traversing several
rooms, in which the stern and thoughtful beauty of the
sphinx still made the chief and most impressive object of
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 73
the priest’s notice, Apaecides found himself in a dim and
half-lighted chamber, in the presence of the Egyptian.
Arbaces was seated before a small table, on which lay
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 Apaºcides. 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, Apacides,” said the Egyptian, without
rising.
The young man obeyed.
“You asked me,” resumed Arbaces, after a short 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, guessing what it may
contain, - stretching our helpless hands here and there, lest,
blindly, we stumble upon some hidden danger; not knowing
the limits of our boundary, -—now feeling them suffocate us
with compression, now seeing them extend far away till
they vanish into eternity. In this state all wisdom consists
necessarily in the solution of two questions: ‘What are we
to believe 2' and ‘What are we to reject 7' These ques-
tions you desire me to decide 2°
Apaecides 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
74 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
dim and distant, to attain. Well, then, listen. You have
not forgotten our conversation of to-day ?”
“Forgotten I’” .#
“I confessed to you that those deities for whom smoke
so many altars were but inventions. I confessed to you
that our rites and ceremonies were but mummeries 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 benev-
olent.”
“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,
from your thought, all that you have believed before.
Suppose the mind a blank, an unwritten scroll, fit to re-
ceive impressions for the first time. Look round the world:
observe its order, its regularity, its design. Something
must have created it, — the design speaks a designer; in
that certainty we first touch land. But what is that some-
thing ? A god, you cry. Stay, - no confused and confus-
ing names. Of that which created the world, we know, we
can know, nothing, save these attributes, – power and un,
varying 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 2 To account for this, the Per-
sian creates a second spirit whose nature is evil, and sup-
poses a continual war between that and the god of good.
THE LA ST DAYS OF POMPEI I. 75
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 un-
known power, — that clothes the Invisible with attributes
and a nature similar to the Seen. No : to this designer let
us give a name that does not command our bewildering
associations, and the mystery becomes more clear, – that
name is NECEssITY. Necessity, say the Greeks, compels
the gods. Then why the gods 2— 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 noth-
ing; whether it be eternal — whether it compel us, its
creatures, to new careers after that darkness which we call
death — we cannot tell. There leave we this ancient, un-
seen, 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 re-
searches 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 knowl-
edge of the stars we measure the limits of the earth, that
we portion out the epochs of time, that by their pale light
we are guided into the abyss of the past, that in their
solemn lore we discern the destinies of the future. And thus,
while we know not that which Necessity is, we learn, at
least, her decrees. And now, what morality do we glean
76 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
from this religion ? — for religion it is. I believe in two
deities, Nature and Necessity; I worship the last by rever-
ence, the first by investigation. What is the morality my
religion teaches 2 This ; all things are subject but to gen-
eral rules; the sun shines for the joy of the many, -it may
bring sorrow to the few ; the night sheds sleep on the mul-
titude, – 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 uni-
versal 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 service-
able to the multitude; I would impart to man the arts I
discover, the sciences I perfect; I would speed the vast
career of civilizing lore, — in this I serve the mass, I fulfil
the general law, I execute the great moral that Nature
preaches. For myself I claim the individual exception; I
claim it for the wise, – satisfied that my individual actions
are nothing in the great balance of good and evil; satisfied
that the product of my knowledge can give greater blessings
to the mass than my desires can operate evil on the few (for
the first can extend to remotest regions and humanize
nations yet unborn), I give to the world wisdom, to myself
freedom. I enlighten the lives of others, and I enjoy my
own. Yes; our wisdom is eternal, but our life is short ;
make the most of it while it lasts. Surrender thy youth to
pleasure, and thy senses to delight. Soon comes the hour
when the wine-cup is shattered, and the garlands shall cease
to bloom. Enjoy while you may. Be still, O Apaecides,
my pupil and my follower I will teach thee the mechanism
of Nature, her darkest and her wildest secrets, – the lore
which fools call magic, - and the mighty mysteries of the
stars. By this shalt thou discharge thy duty to the mass;
by this shalt thou enlighten thy race. But I will lead thee
also to pleasures of which the vulgar do not dream ; and the
day which thou givest to men shall be followed by the sweet
night which thou surrenderest to thyself.”
As the Egyptian ceased there rose about, around, beneath,
the softest music that Lydia ever taught, or Ionia ever per-
fected. It came like a stream of sound, bathing the senses
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 77
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 Apačcides, in answer to the
sophistries of the Egyptian, 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 thirst-
ing 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 AEgle's haunted cell,
Heaved the charmed earth in one delicious sigh.
“Love, sons of earth ! I am the power of Love
Eldest of all the gods, with Chaos” born;
My smile sheds light along the courts above,
y 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,
'T is 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.
*The fairest of the Naiads. - * Hesiod.
78 THE LA ST DAYS OF POMPEII.
“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 “LovE 1"
As the voices died away, the Egyptian seized the hand of
Apaecides, and led him, wandering, intoxicated, yet half-
reluctant, across the chamber towards the curtain at the far
end; and now, from behind that curtain, there seemed to
burst a thousand Sparkling stars; the veil itself, hitherto
dark, was now lighted by these fires behind into the tender-
est 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 ačrial clouds, from which Smiled, by the limner's
art, faces of divinest beauty, and on which reposed the
shapes of which Phidias and Apelles dreamed. And the
stars which studded the 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 P’’ said Apaecides, in
faltering accents. “After having denied the gods, art thou
about to reveal to me — ”
“Their pleasures 1’’ interrupted Arbaces, in a tone so
different from its usual cold and tranquil harmony that
Apaecides started, and thought the Egyptian himself trans-
formed; and now, as they neared the curtain, a wild, a
loud, an exulting melody burst from behind its conceal-
ment. 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
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 79
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 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 contended 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
draperies, trooped such forms as Adonis beheld when he
lay on the lap of Venus. They came, some with garlands,
others with lyres; they surrounded the youth, they led his
steps to the banquet. They flung the chaplets round him
in rosy chains. The earth, the thought of earth, vanished
from his soul. He imagined himself in a dream, and sup-
pressed 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 Bacchio
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,
As the liquid Tight,
Its waves through thine eyelids shine !
Fill up, fill up, to the sparkling brim,
The juice of the young Lyaeus;”
The grape is the key that we owe to him
From the gaol of the world to free us.
Drink, drink
What need to shrink,
When the lamps alone can see us?
Drink, drink, as I quaff from thine eyes
The wine of a softer tree;
* Which, however, was possibly the porcelain of China, – though this is a
matter which admits of considerable dispute.
* Name of Bacchus, from Ava, to unbind, to release.
80 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
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
AEgean wave, – such as Cytherea taught her handmaids 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 spar-
kled. The youth resisted no more, he grasped the intoxi-
cating cup, the blood mantled fiercely through his veins.
He sank upon the breast of the nymph who sat beside him,
and turning with swimming eyes to seek for Arbaces, whom
he had lost in the whirl of his emotions, he beheld him
seated beneath a canopy at the upper end of the table, and
gazing upon him with a smile that encouraged him to
pleasure. He beheld him, but not as he had hitherto seen,
with dark and sable garments, with a brooding and solemn
brow: a robe that dazzled the sight, so studded was its
whitest surface with gold and gems, blazed upon his majestic
form ; white roses, alternated with the emerald and the
ruby, and shaped tiara-like, crowned his raven locks. He
appeared, like Ulysses, to have gained the glory of a second
youth, – his features seemed to have exchanged thought for
beauty, and he towered amidst the loveliness that surrounded
him, in all the beaming and relaxing benignity of the Olym-
pian god. gº -
“Drink, feast, love, my pupil l’” 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 Apaecides,
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.”
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THE LAST DAYS OF POMPE II. 81
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,
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 : —
II.
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;
Wictims if ;
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: —
82 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
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 |
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 P
Long yet be we the Hostſ
And thou, Dead Shadow, thou
All joyless though thy brow,
Thou, - but our passing Guest 1
At this moment she who sat beside Apacides suddenly
took up the song : —
IV.
Happy is yet our doom,
The earth and 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!
THE LAST DA YS OF POMPEII. 83
BOOK II.
*=ºmsºmºss-s-s-s-s
CHAPTER I.
A FLASH HOUSE IN POMPEII, AND THE GENTLEMEN OF THE
CI, ASSIC RIN G.
To one of those parts of Pompeii which were tenanted, not
by the lords of pleasure, but by its minions and its victims;
the haunt of gladiators and prize-fighters, of the vicious and
the penniless, of the savage and the obscene; the Alsatia of
an ancient city, - we are now transported.
It was a large room, that opened at once on the confined
and crowded lane. Before the threshold 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 exhib-
ited gladiators drinking, — so ancient and so venerable is
the custom of signs ! Within the room were placed several
small tables, arranged somewhat in the modern fashion of
“boxes,” and round these were seated several knots of men,
Some drinking, some playing at dice, some at that more
skilful game called “ duodecim scriptae,” which certain of
the blundering learned have mistaken for chess, though it
rather, perhaps, resembled backgammon of the two, and was
usually, though not always, played by the assistance of dice.
The hour was in the early forenoon, and nothing better,
perhaps, than that unseasonable time itself denoted the
habitual indolence of these tavern loungers. Yet, despite
the situation of the house and the character of its inmates,
it indicated none of that sordid squalor which would have
characterized a similar haunt in a modern city. The gay
disposition of all the Pompeians, who sought, at least, to
84 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEX}.
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 walls of the threshold, “the wine thou sellest
us, old Silenus,” — and as he spoke, he slapped a portly
personage on the back, - “is enough to thin the best blood
in one’s veins.” -
The man thus caressingly saluted, and whose bared arms,
white apron, and keys and napkin tucked carelessly within
his girdle, indicated him to be the host of the tavern, was
already passed into the autumn of his years; but his form
was still so robust and athletic that he might have shamed
even the sinewy shapes beside him, save that the muscles
had seeded, as it were, into flesh, that the cheeks were
swelled and bloated, and the increasing stomach threw into
shade the vast and massive chest which rose above it.
“None of thy scurrilous blusterings with me,” growled
the gigantic landlord, in the gentle semi-roar of an insulted
tiger; “my wine is good enough for a carcass which shall
so soon soak the dust of the spoliarium.””
“Croakest thou thus, old raven l’’ returned the gladiator,
laughing scornfully ; “thou shalt live to hang thyself with
despite when thou seest me win the palm crown; and when
I get the purse at the amphitheatre, as I certainly shall,
my first vow to Hercules shall be to forswear thee and thy
vile potations evermore.”
“Hear to him, - hear to this modest Pyrgopolinices !
He has certainly served under Bombochides Cluninstari-
dysarchides,”* cried the host. “Sporus, Niger, Tetraides,
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 I know nothing of the arena ’’
“Hal” 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.
1 The place to which the killed or mortally wounded were dragged from the
§re 18,
* Miles Gloriosus,” Act I. ; as much as to say, in modern phrase, “He has
served under Bombastes Furioso.” -
THE LA ST DAYS OF POMPEII. 85
“Or me,” who have conquered in fifteen fights 2" said the
gigantic Niger, stalking up to the gladiator.
“Or me 2'' 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.
“I will teach thee, young braggart, to play the Mace-
donian with me ! I am no puny Persian, I warrant thee
What, man I have I not fought twenty years in the ring, and
never lowered my arms once 2 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 2 And am I now to be
lectured by a boy 7" 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 gladi.
ator; 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,”
1 Not only did women sometimes fight in the amphitheatres, but even those
of noble birth participated in that meek ambition.
86 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
—nay, under the emperor's eye. And Burbo himself, -
Burbo the unconquered in the field, according to report, now
and then yielded the palm to his soft Stratonice. This
sweet creature no sooner saw the imminent peril that
awaited her worse half, than without other weapons than
those with which Nature had provided her, she darted upon
the incumbent gladiator, and, clasping him round the waist
with her long and Snakelike arms, lifted him by a sudden
wrench from the body of her husband, leaving only his
hands still clinging to the throat of his foe. So have we
seen a dog snatched by the hind-legs from the strife with a
fallen rival in the arms of some envious groom; so have we
seen one-half of him high in air, – passive and offenceless,
— while the other half, head, teeth, eyes, claws, seemed
buried and engulfed in the mangled and prostrate enemy.
Meanwhile the gladiators, lapped and pampered, and glutted
upon blood, crowded delightedly round the combatants, –
their nostrils distended, their lips grinning, their eyes
gloatingly fixed on the bloody throat of the one, and the
indented talons of the other.
“Habet / [he has got it !] habet / " cried they, with a
sort of yell, rubbing their nervous hands.
“Non habeo, ye liars; I have not got it !” shouted the
host, as with a mighty effort he wrenched himself from
those deadly hands, and rose to his feet, breathless, 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 pugilistic, started
back in alarm.
“O gods !” cried she, “the ruffian – he has concealed
weapons ! Is that fair 2 Is that like a gentleman and a
gladiator ? No, indeed, I scorn such fellows ' " With that
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPE II. 87
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 him-
self 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 l’” said he, “thou art a stronger fellow than
I took thee for I see thou art a man of merit and virtue;
give me thy hand, my hero !”
“Jolly old Burbo l’ cried the gladiators, applauding;
“stanch to the backbone. Give him thy hand, Lydon.”
“Oh, to be sure,” said the gladiator; “but now I have
tasted his blood, I long to lap the whole.”
“By Hercules 1’’ 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 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 !” w
“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 !”
88 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
“Not so hard, she-wolf thou art worse than the gladi.
ator,” 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 mus-
cles,” said Niger. “Who sent to previse thee of it, my
mistress 2 °
“Lepidus. He brings with him Clodius, the surest bettor
in Pompeii, and the young Greek, Glaucus.”
“A wager on a wager,” cried Tetraides; “Clodius bets
on me, for twenty sesterces ! What say you, Lydon ?”
“He bets on me / ?” said Lydon.
“No, on me / ?' grunted Sporus.
“Dolts do you think he would prefer any of you to
Niger ?” said the athletic, thus modestly naming himself.
“Well, well,” said Stratonice, as she pierced a huge
amphora for her guests, who had now seated themselves
before one of the tables, “great men and brave, as ye all
think yourselves, which of you will fight the Numidian lion
in case no malefactor should be found to deprive you of
the option ?”
“I who have escaped your arms, stout Stratonice,” said
Lydon, “might safely, I think, encounter the lion.”
“But tell me,” said Tetraides, “where is that pretty
young slave of yours, – the blind girl with bright eyes 2
I have not seen her a long time.”
“Oh, she is too delicate for you, my son of Neptune,” "
said the hostess, “ and too nice even for us, I think. We
send her into the town to sell flowers and sing to the ladies;
she makes us more money so than she would by waiting on
you. Besides, she has often other employments which lie
under the rose.”
* Son of Neptune, – a Latin phrase for a boisterous, ferocious fellow.
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 89
“Other employments l’” said Niger; “why, she is too
young for them l’” .
“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 l’”
“But, hark ye, Stratonice,” said Lydon; “how didst thou
come by so gentle and delicate a slave 2 She were more
meet for the handmaid of Some rich matron of Rome than
for thee.” .
“That is true,” returned Stratonice; “and some day or
other I shall make my fortune by selling her. How came
I by Nydia, thou askest ?”
&é 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 l”
“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 2 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 2”
said I. “ 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
plind Ha haſ a clever fellow that merchant " I ran at
once to the magistrates, but the rogue was already gone
from Pompeii. So I was forced to go home in a very ill
humor, I assure you ; and the poor girl felt the effects of it
90 THE LA ST DAYS OF POMPEII.
too. But it was not her fault that she was blind, for she
had been so from her birth. By degrees we got reconciled
to our purchase. True, she had not the strength of Sta-
phyla, 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 l” cried Lydon; “art thou
turned sphinx 7”
“Sphinx, no, - why sphinx 7”
“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 re-
turned with a tray laden with large pieces of meat half
raw : for so, as now, did the heroes of the prize-fight imagine
they best 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 im-
portant personages of classic life to follow the steps of
Burbo. -
1 The Thessalian slave-merchants were celebrated for purloining persons of
birth and education; they did not always spare those ..? their own country.
Aristophanes sneers bitterly at . that people (proverbially treacherous) for
their unquenchable desire of gain by this barter of flesh.
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 91
CHAPTER II.
TWO WORTHIES.
IN the earlier times of Rome the priesthood was a pro.
fession not of lucre but of honor. It was embraced by the
noblest citizens, – it was forbidden to the plebeians. After-
wards, and long previous to the present date, it was equally
open to all ranks; at least, that part of the profession which
embraced the flamens, or priests, not of religion generally,
but of peculiar gods. Even the priest of Jupiter (the
Flamen Dialis), preceded by a lictor, and entitled by his
office to the entrance of the senate, at first the especial dig-
nitary of the patricians, was subsequently the choice of the
people. The less national and less honored deities were
usually served by plebeian ministers; and many embraced
the profession, as now the Roman Catholic Christians enter
the monastic fraternity, less from the impulse of devotion
than the suggestions of a calculating poverty. Thus Cale-
nus, the priest of Isis, was of the lowest origin. His rela-
tions, though not his parents, were freedmen. He had re-
ceived from them a liberal education, and from his father
a small patrimony, which he had soon exhausted. He em-
braced the priesthood 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 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 devo-
tions, and gliding through the back-door of the retired
gladiator, a man infamous alike by vices and by profession,
rejoiced to throw off the last rag of an hypocrisy which,
but for the dictates of avarice, his ruling passion, would at
all times have sat clumsily upon a nature too brutal for even
the mimicry of virtue.
Wrapped in one of those large mantles which game in use
92 THE LA ST DA YS OF POMPEII.
among the Romans in proportion as they dismissed the toga,
whose ample folds well concealed the form, and in which
a sort of hood (attached to it) afforded no less a security
to the features, Calenus now sat in the small and private
chamber of the wine-cellar, whence a small passage ran at
once to that back entrance with which nearly all the houses
of Pompeii were furnished.
Opposite to him sat the sturdy Burbo, carefully counting
on a table between them a little pile of coins which the
priest had just poured from his purse; for purses were as
common then as now, with this difference, — they were
usually better furnished
“You see,” said Calenus, “that we pay you handsomely,
and you ought to thank me for recommending you to so
advantageous a market.”
“I do, my cousin, I do,” replied Burbo, affectionately, as
he swept the coins into a leathern receptacle, which he
then deposited in his girdle, drawing the buckle round his
capacious waist more closely than he was wont to do in the
lax hours of his domestic avocations. “And by Isis, Pisis,
and Nisis, or whatever other gods there may be in Egypt,
my little Nydia is a very Hesperides, – a garden of gold
to me.”
“She sings well, and plays like a muse,” returned Cale-
nus; “ those are virtues that he who employs me always
pays liberally.” -
“He is a god,” cried Burbo, enthusiastically; “every rich
man who is generous deserves to be worshipped. But come,
a cup of wine, old friend: tell me more about it. What
does she do 2 — she is frightened, talks of her oath, and
reveals nothing.”
“Nor will I, by my right hand l I, too, have taken that
terrible oath of secrecy.”
“Oath ! what are oaths to men like us 2 ”
“True oaths of a common fashion ; but this l’” — and the
stalwart priest shuddered as he spoke. “Yet,” he con-
tinued, in emptying a huge cup of unmixed wine, “I will
own to thee that it is not so much the oath that I dread as
the vengeance of him who proposed it. By the gods ! he is
a mighty sorcerer, and could draw my confession from the
moon, did I dare to make it to her. Talk no more of this.
By Pollux wild as those banquets are which I enjoy with
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 93
him, I am never quite at my ease there. I love, my boy,
one jolly hour with thee, and one of the plain, unsophisti.
cated, laughing girls that I meet in this chamber, all smoke-
dried though it be, better than whole nights of those mag-
nificent debauches.”
“Ho! sayest thou so. To-morrow night, please the gods,
we will have then a Snug carousal.”
“With all my heart,” said the priest, rubbing his hands,
and drawing himself nearer to the table.
At this moment they heard a slight noise at the door, as
of one feeling the handle. The priest lowered the hood
over his head.
“Tush l’” whispered the host, “it is but the blind gifl,”
as Nydia opened the door, and entered the apartment.
“Ho! girl, and how durst thou ? Thou lookest pale, –
thou hast kept late revels l 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 deter-
mined 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 l’”
“How, fool!” said Burbo, in a savage voice, and his
heavy brows met darkly over his fierce and bloodshot eyes;
“how, rebellious ! Take care l’”
“I have said it,” said the poor girl, crossing her hands on
her breast.
“What I my modest one, sweet vestal, thou wilt go no
more Very well, thou shalt be carried.”
“I will raise the city with my cries,” said she, 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; “I
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 unfort-
unate girl; she clasped her hands imploringly, “Wretch that
I am l’” she cried, and burst violently into sobs.
94 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
Whether or not it was the sound of that vehement sorrow
which brought the gentle Stratonice to the spot, her grisly
form at this moment appeared in the chamber.
“How now ; what hast thou been doing with my slave,
brute?” said she, angrily, to Burbo.
“Be quiet, wife,” said he, in a tone half-sullen, half-
timid; “you want new girdles and fine clothes, do you ?
Well, then, take care of your slave, or you may want them
long. Wae capiti tuo, - vengeance on thy head, wretched
One !”
“What is this ?” said the hag, looking from one to the
other.
Nydia started as by a sudden impulse from the wall
against which she had leaned; she threw herself at the feet
of Stratonice; she embraced her knees, and looking at her
with those sightless but touching eyes, –
“O 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 l’”
“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 Pol-
lux l if you do not break in yon colt with a tight rein, you
will hear it no more.”
“The girl is tired,” said Stratonice, nodding to Calenus;
“she will be more docile when you next want her.”
“You / you / who is here ?” cried Nydia, casting her eyes
round the apartment with so fearful and straining a survey,
that Calenus rose in alarm from his seat, —
“She must see with those eyes l’ muttered he.
“Who is here ! Speak, in Heaven's name ! Ah, if you
were blind like me, you would be less cruel,” said she ; and
she again burst into tears.
“Take her away,” 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 resolution
gave dignity.
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 95
“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 2 ” She dashed the
tear from her eyes, and proceeded, “Command me in aught
else, and I will obey; but I tell you now, hard, stern, inex-
orable 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 praetor 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 purpose, and dragging
Nydia to the wall, seized from a hook a rope, often, alas,
applied to a similar purpose, and the next moment the
shrill, the agonized shrieks of the blind girl rang piercingly
through the house.
CHAPTER III.
GLAUCUS MAIKES A PURCHASE THAT AFTERWARDS COSTS
HIM DEAR.
“HollA, my brave fellows l’” said Lepidus, stooping his
lead, 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 voices were therefore the
dispensers of amphitheatrical reputation. -
“What fine animals l’” said Clodius to Glaucus : “worthy
to be gladiators l’”
“It is a pity they are not warriors,” returned Glaucus.
A singular thing it was to see the dainty and fastidious
Lepidus, whom in a banquet a ray of daylight seemed to
blind; whom in the bath a breeze of air seemed to blast ;
in whom Nature seemed twisted and perverted from every
natural impulse, and curdled into one dubious thing of
effeminacy and art, — a singular thing was it to see this
96 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
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 lost in calculating admiration at that man-
hood which he had spent his life in carefully banishing from
himself.
So have we seen at this day the beardless flutterers of the
saloons of London thronging round the heroes of the Fives-
court ; so have we seen them admire, and gaze, and calcu-
late 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 mercenary; male prosti-
tutes, 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 of his
small eye.
“He takes the sword, I the net and the trident; it will
be rare sport. I hope the survivor will have enough to
keep up the dignity of the crown.”
“Never fear, we’ll fill the purse, my Hector,” said
Clodius: “ let me see, – you fight against Niger ? Glaucus,
a bet, — I back Niger.”
“I told you so,” cried Niger, exultingly. “The noble
Clodius knows me; count yourself dead already, my
Sporus.”
Clodius took out his tablet. “A bet, — ten sestertia."
What say you?” .
“So be it,” said Glaucus. “But whom have we here ?
I never saw this hero before ; ” and he glanced at Lydon,
whose limbs were slighter than those of his companions,
and who had something of grace, and something even of
nobleness, in his face, which his profession had not yet
wholly destroyed.
“It is Lydon, a youngster, practised only with the
wooden sword as yet,” answered Niger, condescendingly,
1 Little more than £80.
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 97
“But he has the true blood in him, and has challenged
Tetraides.”
“ He challenged me,” said Lydon; “I accept the offer.”
“And how do you fight 2'' asked Lepidus. “Chut, my
boy, wait a while before you contend with Tetraides.”
Lydon smiled disdainfully.
“Is he a citizen or a slave 2 ” said Clodius.
“A citizen ; we are all citizens here,” quoth Niger.
“Stretch out your arm, my Lydon,” said Lepidus, with
the air of a connoisseur.
The gladiator, with a significant glance at his companions,
extended an arm which, if not so huge in its girth as those
of his comrades, was so firm in its muscles, 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.
“We are to fight first with the cestus; afterwards, if
both survive, with swords,” returned Tetraides, sharply,
and with an envious Scowl.
“With the cestus !” cried Glaucus; “there you are
wrong, Lydon. The cestus is the Greek fashion; I know
it well. You should have encouraged flesh for that con-
test; you are far too thin for it, — avoid the cestus.”
“I cannot,” said Lydon.
“And why?”
“I have said, - because he has challenged me.”
“But he will not hold you to the precise weapon.”
“My honor holds me!” returned Lydon, proudly.
“I bet on Tetraides, two to one, at the cestus,” said
Clodius; “shall it be, Lepidus 2 — even betting, with
Swords.”
“If you give me three to one, I will not take the odds,”
said Lepidus; “Lydon will never come to the swords.
You are mighty courteous.”
“What say you, Glaucus 2 ” said Clodius.
“I will take the odds three to one.”
“Ten sestertia to thirty.”
« Yes.” 1
1.The reader will not confound the sestertii 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, 18, 5}d., the last to la. 3; farthings of our
money.
98 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
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 P’’
“How much 2 — why, perhaps seven sestertia.”
“You are sure it will be as much 3 *
“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.”
“I am not a miser,” said Lydon, haughtily, and he with-
drew to the other end of the room.
“But I don’t see Burbo; where is Burbo 2 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 2 °
quoth Lepidus.
“Why, she was here just before you entered; but she
heard something that displeased her yonder, and vanished.
Pollux old Burbo had perhaps caught hold of some girl in
the back-room. I heard a female's voice crying out; the
old dame is as jealous as Juno.”
“Ho excellent l” 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 2 ”
“O Pallas ! I know that voice; it is my poor flower-
girl l’ 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 poor infant l”
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 99
“Oh, is that you, - is that Glaucus 2 " 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 Pepidus. “This is my friend and sworn
brother; he must be put under shelter of your tongue, Sweet
one ; it rains stones l’’
“Give me my slave l’” shrieked the virago, placing her
mighty grasp on the breast of the Greek.
“Not if all your sister Furies could help you,” answered
Glaucus. “Fear not, sweet Nydia; an Athenian never for-
sook distress ”
“Holla!” said Burbo, rising reluctantly, “what turmoil
is all this about a slave 2 Let go the young gentleman, wife,
— let him go : for his sake the pert thing shall be spared
this once.” So saying, he drew, or rather dragged off his
ferocious helpmate.
“Methought when we entered,” said Clodius, “there was
another man present 2 °
“He is gone.”
For the priest of Isis had indeed thought it high time
to vanish.
“Oh, a friend of mile, a brother cupman, a quiet dog
who does not love these snarlings,” said Burbo, carelessly.
“But go, child, you will tear the gentleman’s tunic if you
cling to him so tight; go, you are pardoned.”
“Oh, do not — do not forsake me !” 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 him-
self on one of the rude chairs. He held her on his knees;
he wiped the blood from her shoulders with his long hair;
he kissed the tears from her cheeks; he whispered to her a
thousand of those soothing words with which we calm the
grief of a child, - and so beautiful did he seem in his
gentle and consoling task that even the fierce heart of Strat-
onice was touched. His presence seemed to shed light over
100 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
that base and obscene haunt: young, beautiful, glorious, he
was the emblem of all that earth made most happy, com-
forting one that earth had abandoned.
“Well, who could have thought our blind Nydia had been
so honored 7” said the virago, wiping her heated brow.
Glaucus looked up at Burbo.
“My good man,” said he, “this is your slave; she sings
well, she is accustomed to the care of flowers, – I wish to
make a present of such a slave to a lady. Will you sell her
to me?” As he spoke he felt the whole frame of the poor
girl tremble with delight; she started up, she put her dishev-
elled hair from her eyes, she looked around, as if, alas, she
nad 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 2
Am I not the oracle of the amphitheatre and its heroes 2
If I say the word, break up your wine-jars, – you sell no
more. Glaucus, the slave is yours.”
Burbo scratched his huge head in evident embarrassment.
“The girl is worth her weight in gold to me.”
“Name your price, I am rich,” said Glaucus.
The ancient Italians were like the modern : there was
nothing they would not sell, much less a poor blind girl.
“I paid six sestertia for her; she is worth twelve now,”
muttered Stratonice.
“You shall have twenty; come to the magistrates at once,
and then to my house for your money.”
“I would not have sold the dear girl for a hundred but
to oblige noble Clodius,” said Burbo, whiningly. “And you
will speak to Pansa about the place of designator at the
amphitheatre, noble Clodius 2 — it would just suit me.”
“Thou shalt have it,” said Clodius, adding in a whisper
to Burbo, “Yon Greek can make your fortune; money runs
through him like a sieve. Mark to-day with white chalk,
my Priam.”
“An dabis 2 ” said Glaucus, in the formal question of Sale
and barter.
“ Dabitur,” answered Burbo.
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 101
“Then, then, I am to go with you, - with you ? Oh,
happiness l’ murmured Nydia.
“Pretty one, yes; and thy hardest task henceforth shall
be to sing thy Grecian hymns to the loveliest lady in
Pompeii.”
The girl sprang from his clasp; a change came over her
whole face, so bright the instant before ; she sighed heavily,
and then, once more taking his hand, she said, –
“I thought I was to go to your house ?”
“And so thou shalt for the present ; come, we lose time.”
CHAPTER IV.
THE RIVAL OF GLAUCUS PRESSES ONWARD IN THE RACE.
IoME 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 with-
out 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 pos-
sessor. It is the proud consciousness of certain qualities
that it cannot reveal to the everyday world, that gives to
genius that shy and reserved and troubled air which puzzles
and flatters you when you 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 sparkling foun-
tain 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 inde-
pendence. 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 absolute custom.
She moulded custom to her own will; but this so delicately
102 THE LA ST" D.A. YS OF POMPEII.
and with so feminine a grace, so perfect an exemption from
error, that you could not say she outraged custom, but com-
manded it. The wealth of her graces was inexhaustible, –
she beautified the commonest action : a word, a look, from
her seemed magic. Love her, and you entered into a new
world ; you passed from this trite and commonplace earth.
You were in a land in which your eyes saw everything
through an enchanted medium. In her presence you felt
as if listening to exquisite music ; you were steeped in that
sentiment which has so little of earth in it, and which
music so well inspires, – that intoxication which refines
and exalts, which seizes, it is true, the senses, but gives
them the character of the soul.
She was peculiarly formed, then, to command and 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 com-
mon 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 divided from hers. He was
solitary from his dark and solemn vices, – she from her
beautiful fancies and her purity of virtue.
If it was not strange that Ione thus inthralled the Egyp-
tian, far less strange was it that she had captured, as sud-
denly 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 pleas-
ure. 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 cor-
rupted. Of far more penetration 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
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 103
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 praetorships and provinces only as
the license to pillage ; and government was but the excuse
of rapine. It is in small states that glory is most active
and pure, — the more confined the limits of the circle, the
more ardent the patriotism. In small states, opinion is
concentrated and strong : every eye reads your actions, –
your public motives are blended with your private ties;
every spot in your narrow sphere is crowded with forms
familiar since your childhood ; the applause of your citizens
is like the caresses of your friends. But in large states,
the city is but the court : the provinces – unknown to you,
unfamiliar in customs, perhaps in language — have no claim
on your patriotism ; the ancestry of their inhabitants is
not yours. In the court you desire 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, mourning
for their republics, into one empire ; false, pernicious delu-
sion | 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 qual-
ities of Glaucus found no vent, save in that overflowing
104 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
imagination which gave grace to pleasure, and poetry to
thought. Ease was less despicable than contention with
parasites and slaves, and luxury could yet be refined, though
ambition could not be ennobled. But all that was best and
brightest in his soul woke at once when he knew 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 2
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 Athenian, 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 was their youth, their beauty, and their love. They
seemed out of place in the harsh and everyday earth ; they
belonged of right to the Saturnian age, and the dreams of
demigod and nymph. It was as if the poetry of life
gathered and fed itself in them, and in their hearts were
concentrated the last rays of the sun of Delos and of
Greece.
But if Ione was independent in her choice of life, so
was her modest pride proportionably vigilant and easily
alarmed. The falsehood of the Egyptian was invented by a
deep knowledge of her nature. The story of coarseness, of
indelicacy, in Glaucus, stung her to the quick. She felt it
a reproach upon her character and her career, a punishment
above all to her love; she felt, for the first time, how sud-
denly she had yielded to that love; she blushed with shame
at a weakness the extent of which she was startled to per-
ceive. She imagined it was that weakness which had in-
curred the contempt of Glaucus; she endured the bitterest
curse of noble natures, – humiliation / Yet her love, per-
haps, was no less alarmed than her pride. If one moment
she murmured reproaches upon Glaucus, – if one moment
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 105
she renounced, she almost hated him, - at the next she
burst into passionate tears, her heart yielded to its softness,
and she said in the bitterness of anguish, “He despises me,
— he does not love me.”
From the hour the Egyptian had left her, she had retired
to her most secluded chamber, she had shut out her hand-
maids, she had denied herself to the crowds that besieged
her door. Glaucus was excluded with the rest ; he won-
dered, 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 2
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 thresh-
old 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 suffice 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.
I said she was denied to all; but there was one exception,
there was one person who would not be denied, assuming over
her actions and her house something like the authority of a
parent, — Arbaces, for himself, claimed an exemption from
all the ceremonies observed by others. He entered the thresh-
old with the license of one who feels that he is privileged and
* Athenaeus: “The true temple of Cupid is the house of the beloved one.”
106 THE LA ST DAYS OF POMPEII.
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 subdue.
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 knowl-
edge by an exemption from the passions of their kind.
She scarcely considered him as a being, like herself, of the
earth, but as an Oracle at once dark and sacred. She did
not love him, but she feared. His presence was unwelcome
to her; it dimmed her spirit even in its brighest mood;
he seemed, with his chilling and lofty aspect, like some
eminence which casts a shadow over the sun. But she never
thought of forbidding his visits. She was passive under
the influence which created in her breast, not the repug-
nance, 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
brother. From the hour in which Apaecides fell beneath
the voluptuous sorcery of that fête which we have described,
he felt his empire over the young priest triumphant and
insured. He knew that there is no victim so thoroughly
subdued as a young and fervent man for the first time
delivered to the thraldom of the senses.
When Apaccides recovered, with the morning light, from
the profound sleep which succeeded to the delirium of won-
der 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 2 But Arbaces knew well the means
by which to confirm his conquest. From the arts of pleas-
ure he led the young priest at once to those of his mysteri-
ous wisdom. He bared to his amazed eyes the initiatory
secrets of the sombre philosophy of the Nile, – those secrets
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 107
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 metaphysi-
cal moralities, he caught at the excuse by which the Egyp-
tian converted vice into a virtue. His pride was insensibly
flattered that Arbaces had deigned to rank him with him-
self, to set him apart from the laws which bound the vulgar,
to make him an august participator, both in the mystic
studies and the magic fascinations of the Egyptian’s solitude.
The pure and stern lessons of that creed to which Olinthus
had sought to make him convert, were swept away from his
memory by the deluge of new passions. And the Egyptian,
who was versed in the articles of that true faith, and who
soon learned from his pupil the effect which had been pro-
duced 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 qual-
ities 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 evo-
lutions of the eternal heavens. But, the allegory unknown,
*The believer will draw from this vague coincidence a very different corol-
lary from that of the Egyptian.
108 THE LA ST DAYS OF POMPEII.
the types themselves have furnished to credulous nations
the materials of many creeds. They have travelled to the
vast plains of India; they have mixed themselves up in the
visionary speculations of the Greek. Becoming more and
more gross and embodied, as they emerge farther from the
shadows of their antique origin, they have assumed a human
and palpable form in this novel faith ; and the believers of
Galilee are but the unconscious repeaters of one of the
superstitions of the Nile.” t
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 sur-
rendered himself to that belief which Arbaces inculcated,
and which all that was human in passion, all that was flat-
tering 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 poi-
soned 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 im-
pressions 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 pene-
trating, and shame the most astute. But Arbaces was no
less cautious not to recur to a subject which he felt it was
most politic to treat as of the lightest importance. He
knew that by dwelling much upon the fault of a rival, you
only give him dignity in the eyes of your mistress; the
wisest plan is, neither loudly to hate, nor bitterly to con-
temn; 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 concealing the wound to your own pride,
and imperceptibly alarming that of the umpire, whose voice
is fate. Such, in all times, will be the policy of one who
knows the science of the sex, — it was now the Egyptian’s.
He recurred no more, then, to the presumption of Glau.
THE LA ST DAYS OF POMPEII. 109
cus; he mentioned his name, but not more often than that
of Clodius or of Lepidus. He affected to class them to-
gether, as things of a low and ephemeral species; as things
wanting nothing of the butterfly, save its innocence and its
grace. Sometimes he slightly alluded to some invented
debauch, in which he declared them companions; 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 formid-
able rival whom he pretended 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 ?”
“I 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 Ione, 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 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 country-
man 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 sympathies and ties of coarse
affection ; wrinkles do not revolt it; homeliness of feature
does not deter; it asks youth, it is true, but it asks it only
in the freshness of the emotions; it asks beauty, it is true,
110 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
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 con-
scious 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 prof-
ligates | Friendship, it is the bond that unites the frivo-
lous hearts of a Glaucus and a Clodius ! Friendship, no,
that is an affection of earth, of vulgar habits and Sordid
sympathies; the feeling of which I speak is borrowed from
the stars,'— it partakes of that mystic and ineffable yearn-
ing which we feel when we gaze on them ; it burns, yet it
purifies: it is the lamp of naphtha 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 de
terred. Ione trembled, though she knew not why; her veil
hid her features, and masked an expression 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 tenderness from another only revolted
and dismayed; yet 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,
1 Plato.
THE LA ST DA YS OF POMPEII. 111
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?
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 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 2 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 distress; he
sought one who pitied and loved him. I have calmed his
mind, I have removed his doubts, I have taken him from
the threshold of Wisdom into its temple; and before the
majesty of the goddess his soul is hushed and soothed.
Fear not, he will repent no more; they who trust them-
selves 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 the sadness, by the magic of his
intellect. Her manner became unrestrained and her lan-
guage fluent; and Arbaces, who had waited his opportunity,
now hastened to seize it. **
“You have never seen,” said he, “the interior of my
home; it may amuse you to do so. It contains some rooms
112 THE LA ST DAYS OF POMPEII.
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 you 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 Ione.” - -
Unconscious of the pollutions of the mansion, of the
danger that awaited her, Ione readily assented to the pro-
posal. 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 re-
turn to Glaucus.
CHAPTER W.
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 percep-
tion, had been the guest of the place for years before Glau-
cus purchased it; for years, indeed, which went beyond the
memory of man, and to which tradition assigned an almost
incredible date. The house had been built and rebuilt ; its
possessors had changed and fluctuated; generations had
1 I do not know whether it be still preserved (I hope so), but the shell of a
tortoise was found in the house appropriated, in this work, to Glaucus.
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 113
flourished and decayed, - and still the tortoise dragged on
its slow and unsympathizing existence. In the earthquake,
which sixteen years before had overthrown many of the
public buildings of the city, and scared away the amazed
inhabitants, the house now inhabited by Glaucus had been
terribly shattered. The possessors deserted it for many
days; on their return they cleared away the ruins which
encumbered the viridarium, and found still the tortoise un-
harmed and unconscious of the surrounding destruction. It
seemed to bear a charmed life in its languid blood and im-
perceptible motions; yet was it not so inactive as it seemed :
it held a regular, and monotonous course ; inch by inch it
traversed the little orbit of its domain, taking months to
accomplish the whole gyration. It was a restless voyager,
that tortoise ! Patiently, and with pain, did it perform its
self-appointed journeys, evincing no interest in the things
around it, — a philosopher concentrated in itself. There
was something grand in its solitary selfishness l— 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, perpet-
ual; 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 mass
moving while it seemed motionless, the Athenian murmured
to himself: — th
“The eagle dropped a stone from his talons, thinking to
114 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
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 2 Wert thou capable of affection ? Could
it distress thee if she were away from thy side 2 Couldst
thou feel when she was present 2 What would I not give
to know the history of thy mailed breast; to gaze upon
the mechanism of thy faint desires; to mark what hair-
breadth difference separates thy sorrow from thy joy! Yet,
methinks, thou wouldst know if Ione were present Thou
wouldst feel her coming like a happier air, – like a gladder
sun. I envy thee now, for thou knowest not that she is
absent; and I– would I could be like thee, – between the
intervals of seeing her | What doubt, what presentiment,
haunts me! why will she not admit me 2 Days have passed
since I heard her voice. For the first time, life grows flat
to me. I am as one who is left alone at a banquet, the
lights dead, and the flowers faded. Ah, 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 bordered the
garden. She had her water-vase in her hand, and she
sprinkled the thirsting plants, which seemed to brighten at
her approach. She bent to inhale their odor. She touched
them timidly and caressingly. She felt, along their stems,
if any withered leaf or creeping insect marred their beauty.
And as she hovered from flower to flower, with her earnest
and youthful 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, — listening,
blushing, breathless; with her lips parted, her face upturned
to catch the direction of the sound, she laid down the vase,
— she hastened to him; and wonderful it was to see how
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
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 115
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 2 ”
“Ah, so happy l’” sighed the slave.
“And now,” continued Glaucus, “that thou hast recovered
somewhat from the hateful recollections of thy former state;
and now that they have fitted thee [touching her broidered
tunic] with garments more meet for thy delicate shape;
and now, sweet child, that thou hast accustomed thyself to
a happiness, which may the gods grant thee ever ! — I am
about to pray at thy hands a boon.”
“Oh, what can I do for thee ?” said Nydia, clasping her
hands.
“Listen,” said Glaucus, “and, young as thou art, thou
shalt be my confidant. Hast thou ever heard the name of
Ione 2 ” -
The blind girl gasped for breath, and, turning pale as one
of the statues which shone upon them from the peristyle,
she answered with an effort, and after a moment's pause, –
“Yes; I have heard that she is of Neapolis, and beauti-
ful.”
“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 l’’
“I thought so,” replied Nydia, calmly.
“I love, and thou shalt tell her so. I am about to send
thee to her. Happy Nydia, thou wilt be in her chamber;
thou wilt drink the music of her voice ; thou wilt bask in
the sunny air of her presence l’”
“What what I 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 2 I will not force
thee, sweet. Wilt thou not do for me this kindness 2 °
116 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
“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.”
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 hun-
dred 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 overpay the little I have done for
thee Thou comprehendest, Nydia; thou art yet a child,
-— have I said more than thou canst understand 2 ”
« No.”
“And thou wilt serve me 2 ”
« Yes.” -
“Come to me when thou hast gathered the flowers, and
I will give thee the vase I speak of ; seek me in the cham-
ber of Leda. Pretty one, thou dost not grieve now 7"
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 117
“ Glaucus, I am a slave; what business have I with
grief or joy 2”
“Sayst thou so 2 No, Nydia, be free. I give thee free.
dom; 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 contribute
to thy happiness.” . -
“May the gods bless this grateful heart l” 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 — ”
“I have promised.”
“And now, then, I will gather the flowers.”
Silently Nydia took from the hand of Glaucus the costly
and jewelled vase, in which the flowers vied with each
other in hue and fragrance; tearlessly she received his
parting 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 l’’
CHAPTER VI.
THE HAPPY REAUTY AND THE BLIND SLAVE.
A SDAVE entered the chamber of Ione. A messenger
from Glaucus desired to be admitted.
Ione hesitated an instant.
“She is blind, that messenger,” said the slave; “she
will do her commission to none but thee.”
118 THE LA ST DAYS OF POMPEII.
Base is that heart which does not respect affliction 1
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 Ione 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 at-
tendants, 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 be-
nighted steps, and that I may lay my offerings at her feet 2 ”
“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.
“I 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.
“I have not yet discharged my office,” said she ; and she
drew the letter of Glaucus from her vest. “This will, per-
haps, explain why he who sent me chose so unworthy a
messenger to Ione.”
The Neapolitan took the letter with a hand the trembling
of which Nydia at once felt and sighed to feel. With folded
arms, and downcast looks, she stood before the proud and
stately form of Ione, – no less proud, perhaps, in her atti-
tude of submission. Ione waved her hand, and the attend-
ants withdrew ; she gazed again upon the form of the
young slave in surprise and beautiful compassion ; then,
retiring a little from her, she opened and read the follow-
ing letter : —
“ Glaucus to Ione sends more than he dares to utter. Is Ione
ill?'—thy slaves tell me ‘No,' and that assurance comforts me.
Has Glaucus offended Ione P – ah, that question I may not ask
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 119 .
from them. For five days I have been banished from thy pres-
ence. . . Has the sun shone P — I know it not. Has the sky
smiled? — it has had no smile for me. 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 P Alas, it is in
thine absence #. I feel most the spells by which thou hast sub-
dued me. And absence, that deprives me of joy, brings me
courage. Thou wilt not see me; thou hast banished also the
common flatterers that flock around thee. Canst thou confound
me with them? It is not possible? | Thou knowest too well that
I am not of them, - that their clay is not mine. For even were
I of the humblest mould, the fragrance of the rose has pene-
trated me, and the spirit of thy nature hath passed within me,
to embalm, 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 incredulous than thou? I think of the last time
we met, of the song which I sang to thee, of the look that thou
gavest me in return. Disguise it as thou wilt, Ione, there is
something kindred between us, and our eyes acknowledged it,
though our lips were silent. Deign to see me, to listen to me,
and after that exclude me if thou wilt. I meant not so soon to
say I loved; but those words rush to my heart, — they will have
way. Accept, then, my homage and my vows. We met first
at the shrine of Pallas; shall we not meet before a softer and
a more ancient altar P
“Beautiful, adored Ione ! If my hot youth and my Athenian
blood have misguided and allured me, they have but taught my
wanderings to appreciate the rest, — the haven they have at-
tained. 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 P 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
father's ashes lie under brighter skies: but, less happy than we,
she is blind and a slave. Poor Nydia! I seek as much as pos-
sible to repair to her the cruelties of Nature and of Fate in asking
permission to place her with thee. She is gentle, quick, an
docile. She is skilled in music and the song; and she is a very
Chloris 1 to the flowers. She thinks, Ione, that thou wilt love
her; if thou dost not, send her back to me.
“One word more, — let me be bold, Ione. Why thinkest thou
1 The Greek Flora.
120 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
so highly of yon dark Egyptian P- he hath not about him the air
of honest men. We Greeks learn mankind from our cradle; we
are not the less profound, in that we affect no sombre mien ; our
lips smile, but our eyes are grave, – they 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
hast not admitted me. Believe nothing that he can say to my dis-
favor; if thou dost, tell me so at once; for this Ione owes to
Glaucus. Farewell ! this letter touches thy hand; these characters
meet thine eyes, – shall they be more blessed than he who is
their author P. 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 2–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 2 – the tears rolled down her cheeks;
she kissed the letter, she placed it in her bosom, and, turn-
ing 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 l’” said Nydia, coldly. “Well,
the slave that accompanied me will take back your answer.”
“For you,” said Ione, “stay with me, – trust me; your
service shall be light.”
Nydia bowed her head.
“What is your name, fair girl?”
“They call me Nydia.”
“Your country?”
“The land of Olympus, – Thessaly.”
“Thou shalt be to me a friend,” said Ione, caressingly,
“ as thou art already half a countrywoman. Meanwhile, I
beseech thee, stand not on these cold and glassy marbles.
There, now that thou art seated, I can leave thee for an
instant.”
| THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 121
“Ione 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 Ione 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 2 ”
“I have.”
“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.
“I 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, let 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 ?”
“It is so, then " said Nydia. “Ah, how could it be
otherwise; who could be unkind to Glaucus 2 °
“My child,” said Ione, a little more reservedly than
before, “thou speakest warmly, - Glaucus, then, is amiable
in thine eyes 2 ”
“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 deserv-
edly so; why should I blush to say that Glaucus is worthy
of thy gratitude 7 Go, my Nydia, – take to him thyself this
letter; but return again. If I am from home when thou re-
turnest, — 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, —
“One favor, fair Ione, – may I dare to ask it 7”
122 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
“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 7 — 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 bending and
half-averted features of the Greek, - features which but one
image in the world can yet depicture and recall: that image
is the mutilated, but all-wondrous, statue in her native city,
her own Neapolis; that Parian face, before which all the
beauty of the Florentine Venus is poor and earthly; that
aspect so full of harmony, of youth, of genius, of the soul,
which modern critics have supposed the representation of
Psyche.'
Her touch lingered over the braided hair and polished
brow ; over the downy and damask cheek; over the dimpled
lip, the swan-like and whitest neck. “I know, now, that
thou art beautiful,” she said; “and I can picture thee to
my darkness henceforth and forever!”
When Nydia left her, Ione sank into a deep but delicious
reverie. Glaucus then loved her ; he owned it, — yes, he
loved her. She drew forth again that dear confession ; she
paused over every word; she kissed every line; she did not
ask why he had been maligned, - she only felt assured that
he had been so. She wondered how she had ever believed
a syllable against him ; she wondered how the Egyptian
had been enabled to exercise a power against Glaucus; she
felt a chill creep over her as she again turned to his warn-
ing against Arbaces, and her secret fear of that gloomy
being darkened into awe. She was awakened from these
thoughts by her maidens, who came to announce to her
that the hour appointed to visit Arbaces was arrived; she
started, - she had forgotten the promise. Her first impres-
sion was to renounce it ; her second, was to laugh at her
own fears of her eldest surviving friend. She hastened to
add the usual ornaments to her dress, and, doubtful whether
1 The wonderful remains of the statue so called in the Museo Borbonico.
The face, for sentiment and for feature, is the most beautiful of all which
ancient sculpture has bequeathed to us.
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 123
she should yet question the Egyptian more closely with re-
spect to his accusation of Glaucus, or whether she should
wait till, without citing the authority, she should insinuate
to Glaucus the accusation itself, she took her way to the
gloomy mansion of Arbaces.
CHAPTER VII.
IONE ENTRAPPED. — THE MOUSE TRIES TO GN AW THE NET.
“O DEAREST 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 ?”
“I am rewarded,” said the poor Thessalian.
“To-morrow, - to-morrow ! how shall I while the hours
till then 2 ”
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 Tone ; a thousand times, forgetting her misfortune, he
questioned her of the looks, of the countenance of his be-
loved ; and then, quickly again excusing his fault, he bade
her recommence the whole recital which he had thus inter-
rupted. The hours thus painful to Nydia passed rapidly
and delightfully to him, and the twilight had already dark-
ened 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 in-
vited him to accompany them to the various resorts in that
lively city, which night and day proffered diversity to
pleasure. Then, as now, in the South (for no land, per-
haps, losing more of greatness has retained more of custom),
it was the delight of the Italians to assemble at the even-
ing; 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
124 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
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 laugh-
ingly 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 2 Impos-
Sible !”
“It is true, my little one,” said the slave who had re-
plied to her question. “She has known the Egyptian
long.” -
“Long ! ye gods, yet Glaucus loves her l’ 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.”"
“Never till now !” repeated Nydia. “Art thou sure ?”
“Sure, pretty one; but what is that to thee or to us?”
Nydia hesitated a moment, and then, putting down the
flowers with which she had been charged, she called to the
slave who had accompanied her, and left the house without
saying another word.
Not till she had got half way back to the house of
Glaucus did she break silence, and even then she only
murmured inly : — tº
“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.
1 Terence.
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 125
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, start-
ing 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 l’” 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 7”
“Apaecides.”
“I know it all,” muttered Nydia: “brother and sister,
then, are to be both victims | Apacides 1 yes, that was the
name I heard in — Ha! he well, then, knows the peril
that surrounds his sister; I will go to him.”
She sprang up at that thought, and taking the staff which
always guided her steps, she hastened to the neighboring
shrine of Isis. Till she had been under the guardianship
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 frequented parts, was
familiar to her; and as the inhabitants entertained a tender
and half-superstitious veneration for those subject to her
infirmity, the passengers had always given way to her timid
steps. Poor girl, she little dreamed that she should, ere
very many days were passed, find her blindness her pro-
tection, 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 conderſtned to a third excursion
(whither the gods only knew), hastened after her, deplor-
ing his fate, and solemnly assuring Castor and Pollux that
he believed the blind girl had the talaria of Mercury as
well as the infirmity of Cupid. º
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.
126 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPE II.
“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 2 ”
“Call out,” said she, impatiently; “night and day there
is always one flamen, at least, watching in the shrines of
Isis.”
The slave called, - no one appeared.
“Seest thou no one 2 ”
* 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.
“I see a figure,” said he ; “and by the white garments
it is a priest.”
“O flamen of Isis l’’ cried Nydia, “ servant of the Most
Ancient, hear me !”
“Who calls 7” said a low and melancholy voice.
“One who has no common tidings to impart to a member
of your body; I come to declare and not to ask oracles.”
“With whom wouldst thou confer ? This is no hour for
thy conference; depart, disturb me not. The night is
sacred to the gods, the day to men.”
“Methinks I know thy voice thou art he whom I seek;
yet I have heard thee speak but once before. Art thou not
the priest Apacides 2 ”
“I am that man,” replied the priest, emerging from the
altar, and approaching the rail.
“Thou art the gods be praised l’” 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 Apaecides 2 ”
“If thou knowest me, canst thou not recall my
features 2 ”
“I am blind,” answered Nydia; “my eyes are in my
ear, and that recognizes thee; yet swear that thou art he.”
“By the gods I swear it, by my right hand, and by the
moon l’’
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 127
“Hush speak low, bend near, give me thy hand:
knowest thou Arbaces 2 Hast thou laid flowers at the feet
of the dead? Ah, thy hand is cold, -hark yet !—hast
thou taken the awful vow 2 ”
“Who art thou, whence comest thou, pale maiden º’ ”
said Apaecides, fearfully : “I know thee not ; thine is not
the breast on which this head hath lain ; I have never seen
thee before.”
“But thou hast heard my voice; no matter, those recol-
lections 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 7”
“O gods, he dare not Girl, if thou mockest me,
tremble ! I will tear thee limb from limb l’’
“I 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 be done
to save her ? They may not admit me. I know not all
the mazes of that intricate mansion. O Nemesis' justly
am I punished l’”
“I 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 l’”
“Wait an instant,” said Apaecides, retiring into one of
the cells that flank the temple, and reappearing in a few
moments wrapped in a large cloak, which was then much
worn by all classes, and which concealed his sacred dress.
“Now,” he said, grinding his teeth, “if Arbaces hath
dared to — but he dare not he dare not Why should I
suspect him 2 Is he so base a villain 2 I will not think
it, — yet, Sophist dark bewilderer that he is O gods
protect' — hush | are there gods? Yes, there is one god-
dess, at least, whose voice I can command l and that is —
Wengeance l’” *
128 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
Muttering these disconnected thoughts, Apačcides, fol.
lowed by his silent and sightless companion, hastened
through the most solitary paths to the house of the Egyp-
tian.
The slave, abruptly dismissed by Nydia, shrugged his
shoulders, muttered an adjuration, and, nothing loth, rolled
off to his cubiculum.
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 surrendered
himself to the thoughts which his calculation excited.
“Again 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 LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 129
the same mocking menace which, if our chronicles do not
err, they once wore for Pyrrhus, - for him, doomed to
strive for all things, to enjoy none; all attacking, nothing
gaining; battles 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; perpetual exercise; no certain goal; the Sisy-
phus task, the mountain and the stone ! The stone a
gloomy image 1 — it reminds me that I am threatened with
somewhat 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 moonlight
track along the waters glows the rest of my existence. 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 2 My soul whispers hope, it sweeps exultingly
beyond the boding hour, it revels in the future, — its own
courage is its fittest omen. If I were to perish so suddenly
and so soon, the shadow of death would darken over me,
and I should feel the icy presentiment of my doom. My
soul would express, in sadness and in gloom, its forecast
of the dreary Orcus. But it smiles, – it assures me of
deliverance.”
As he thus concluded his soliloquy, the Egyptian invol-
untarily 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 with-
drew his gaze from the stars, as, one after one, they receded
into the depths of heaven ; and his eyes fell over the broad
expanse below. Dim in the silenced port of the city rose
130 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
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 voiceless forum, broke the wan and fluctuat-
ing 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 trav-
eller, — a City of the Dead.”
The ocean itself — that serene and tideless sea — lay
scarce less hushed, save that from its deep bosom came,
softened by the distance, a faint and regular murmur, like
the breathing of its sleep; and curving far, as with out-
stretched arms, into the green and beautiful land, it seemed
unconsciously to clasp to its breast the cities sloping to its
margin, – Stabiae" and Herculaneum and Pompeii, - those
children and darlings of the deep. ‘: Ye slumber,” said the
Egyptian, as he scowled over the cities, the boast and flower
of Campania; “ye slumber 1 — 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 great-
ness 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 soli-
tary 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 thy-
self 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
1 When Sir Walter Scott visited Pompeii with Sir William Gell, almost his
tººk was the exclamation, “The City of the Dead, - the City of the
* Stabiae was indeed no longer a city, but it was still a favorite site for the
villas of the rich.
*ALNETid -20 LB38 LS

THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 131
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 fear-
fully fulfilled, a more solemn and boding image of ill omen
never occurred to the dreams of painter or of poet. The
morning light, which can pale So Wanly even the young
cheek of beauty, gave his majestic and stately features
almost the colors of the grave, with the dark hair falling
massively around them, and the dark robes flowing long
and loose, and the arms outstretched from that lofty emi-
nence, 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 the meadows of the rich Cam-
pania. The gate and walls — ancient, half Pelasgic — of
the city, seemed not to bound its extent. Villas and vil-
lages 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 volcano, so in similar security
the inhabitants of the South tenanted the green and vine-
clad places around a volcano whose fires they believed at
rest 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 and ashy
rocks which testified the past conflagrations, and might have
prophesied — but man is blind — that which was to come!
Difficult was it then and there to guess the causes why
the tradition of the place wore so gloomy and stern a hue;
why, in those smiling plains, for miles around, - to Baiae
and Misenum, - the poets had imagined the entrance and
thresholds of their hell, - their Acheron, and their fabled
Styx : why, in those Phlegrae, now laughing with the vine,
they placed the battles of the gods, and supposed the
daring Titans to have sought the victory of heaven, –
save, indeed, that yet, in yon seared and blasted summit,
fancy might think to read the characters of the Olympian
thunderbolt.
1 Or, Phlegraei Campi, - namely, scorched or burned fields.
132 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
But it was neither the rugged height of the still volcano,
nor the fertility of the sloping fields, nor the melancholy
avenue of tombs, nor the glittering villas of a polished and
luxurious people, that now arrested the eye of the Egyptian.
On one part of the landscape, the mountain of Vesuvius
descended to the plain in a narrow and uncultivated ridge,
broken here and there by jagged crags and copses of wild
foliage. At the base of this lay a marshy and unwhole-
some pool; and the intent gaze of Arbaces caught the out-
line of some living form moving by the marshes, and stoop-
ing ever and anon as if to pluck its rank produce.
“Ho !” said he, aloud, “I have, then, another companion
in these unworldly night-watches. The witch of Vesuvius
is abroad. What I doth she, too, as the credulous imagine,
— doth she, too, learn the lore of the great stars ? Hath
she been uttering foul magic to the moon, or culling (as her
pauses betoken) foul herbs from the venomous marsh 2
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 SENSE 1 — Ione !”
As Arbaces uttered that last and charmed word, his
thoughts sunk at once into a more deep and profound chan-
nel. 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 !”
The character of Arbaces was one of those intricate and
varied webs in which even the mind that sat within it was
sometimes confused and perplexed. In him, the son of a
fallen dynasty, the outcast of a sunken people, was that
spirit of discontented pride which ever rankles in one of a
sterner 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
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 133
mankind. But with this sentiment did not go its common
companion, poverty. Arbaces possessed wealth which
equalled that of most of the Roman nobles; and this en-
abled 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 imagina-
tion which struck light from its rottenness. But still, un-
social in his pleasures as in his graver pursuits, and brook-
ing 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 knowl-
edge; but as it was not his object to serve mankind, so he
despised that knowledge which is practical and useful.
His dark imagination loved to exercise itself in those more
visionary and obscure researches which are ever the most
delightful to a wayward and solitary mind, and to which
he himself was invited by the daring pride of his disposi-
tion and the mysterious traditions of his clime. Dismissing
faith in the confused creeds of the heathen world, he
reposed the greatest faith in the power of human wisdom.
He did not know (perhaps no one in that age distinctly
did) the limits which Nature imposes upon our discoveries.
Seeing that the higher we mount in knowledge the more
wonders we behold, he imagined that Nature not only
worked miracles in her ordinary course, but that she might,
by the cabala of some master soul, be diverted from that
course itself. Thus he pursued science, across her ap-
pointed 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
134 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
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 super-
stitions of Zoroaster. Under the Roman emperors it had
become, however, naturalized at Rome (a meet subject for
Juvenal's fiery wit). Intimately connected with magic was
the worship of Isis, and the Egyptian religion was the
means by which was extended the devotion to Egyptian
sorcery. The theurgic, or benevolent magic, - the goetic,
or dark and evil necromancy, — were alike in pre-eminent
repute during the first century of the Christian era; and
the marvels of Faustus are not comparable to those of
Apollonius." Kings, courtiers, and sages, all trembled
before the professors of the dread science. And not the
least remarkable of his tribe was the formidable and pre-
found Arbaces. His fame and his discoveries were known
to all the cultivators 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 admixture and unsettle-
ment of the ancient races, had become common in the
country of the Nile; and there were various reasons, not
only of pride, but of policy (for in youth he had conspired
against the majesty of Rome), which induced him to con-
ceal his true name and rank. But neither by the name he
had borrowed from the Mede, nor by that which in the col-
leges 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 Graecia 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
1 See note (a) at the end.
THE LA ST DAYS OF POMPEII. 135
most joyfully, yet most fearfully, burned at Ephesus, depriv-
ing posterity of the proofs of the cunning of the fiend.
The conscience of Arbaces was solely of the intellect, —
it was awed by no moral laws. If man imposed these
checks upon the herd, so he believed that man, by superior
wisdom, could raise himself above them. “If [he reasoned]
I have the genius to impose laws, have I not the right to
command my own creations ? Still more, have I not the
right to control, to evade, to scorn, the fabrications of yet
meaner intellects than my own 2 ” Thus, if he were a vil-
lain, 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
Arbaces that passion corresponded exactly to his charac-
ter. It was not the passion for an external and brute
authority. He desired not the purple and the fasces, the
insignia of vulgar command. His youthful ambition once
foiled and defeated, scorn had supplied its place ; his pride,
his contempt for Rome, – Rome, which had become the
synonyme of the world; Rome, whose haughty name he
regarded with the same disdain as that which 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, the Son of the Great
Race of Rameses, – he execute the orders of, and receive
his power from another' — the mere notion filled him with
rage. But in rejecting an ambition that coveted nominal
distinctions, he but indulged the more in the ambition to
rule the heart. Honoring mental power as the greatest of
earthly gifts, he loved to feel that power palpably in him-
self, by extending it over all whom he encountered. Thus
had he ever sought the young, — thus had he ever fasci-
nated and controlled them. He loved to find subjects in
men’s souls, — to rule over an invisible and immaterial
empire – had he been less sensual and less wealthy, he
might have sought to become the founder of a new religion.
As it was, his energies were checked by his pleasures.
Besides, however, the vague love of this moral sway (vanity
so dear to Sages 1) he was influenced by a singular and
dreamlike devotion to all that belonged to the mystic land
his ancestors had swayed. Although he disbelieved in her
deities, he believed in the allegories they represented (or
136 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
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 Isis with regal
donations, and was ever anxious to dignify their priesthood
by new and wealthy converts. The vow taken, the priest-
hood embraced, he usually chose the comrades of his pleas-
ures from those whom he had made his victims, – partly
because he thus secured to himself their secrecy; partly
because he thus yet more confirmed to himself his peculiar
power. Hence the motives of his conduct to Apaºcides,
strengthened as these were, in 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 residence.
His unsuccessful conspiracy excluded him from those burn-
ing 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 herself was
-hateful to his indignant soul; nor did he love to find his
riches rivalled by the minions of the court, and cast into
comparative poverty by the mighty magnificence of the
court itself. The Campanian cities proffered to him all
that his nature craved, - the luxuries of an unequalled
climate, the imaginative refinements of a voluptuous civili-
zation. He was removed from the sight of a superior
wealth; he was without rivals to his riches; he was free
from the spies of a jealous court. As long as he was rich,
none pried into his conduct. He pursued the dark tenor of
his way undisturbed and secure.
It is the curse of sensualists never to love till the pleas-
ures 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 restless imagination
to exaggerate, perhaps, its charms, the Egyptian had spent
all the glory of his years without attaining the object of his
desires. The beauty of to-morrow succeeded the beauty of
to-day, and the shadows bewildered him in his pursuit of
the substance. When, two years before the present date,
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 137
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 on the one side, and the darkness of approaching age
upon the other : a time in which we are more than ever
anxious, perhaps, to secure to ourselves, ere it be yet too
late, whatever we have been taught to consider 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
who are 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, however criminal and perverted,
was rich in its original elements of strength and grandeur.
When he felt that character to be acknowledged, he will-
ingly allowed, nay, encouraged her to mix among the idle
votaries of pleasure, in the belief that her soul, fitted for
higher commune, would miss the companionship of his own,
and that, in comparison with others, she would learn 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 passion long controlled. Nothing kindles the fire of
love like a sprinkling of the anxieties of jealousy; it takes
then a wilder, a more resistless flame; it forgets its soft-
ness; it ceases to be tender; it assumes something of the
intensity — of the ferocity — of hate.
Arbaces resolved to lose no further time upon cautious
and perilous preparations: he resolved to place an irrevo-
cable barrier between himself and his rivals; he resolved to
possess himself of the person of Ione; not that in his pres-
ent 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
138 THE LA ST" DAYS OF POMPEII.
than the beauty of Ione; but he imagined that, once sepa.
rated 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 concentrate 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 prophecies of the stars: they had long
foretold to him this year, and even the present month, as
- the epoch of some dread disaster menacing life itself. He
was driven to a certain and limited date. He resolved to
crowd, monarch-like, on his funeral pyre all that his soul
held most dear. In his own words, if he were to die, he
resolved to feel that he had lived, and that Ione should be
his own.
CHAPTER IX.
WHAT BECOMES OF IONE IN THE HOUSE OF ARBACES. —
THE FIRST SIGNAL OF THE WRATH OF THE DREAD FOE.
WHEN 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 passion-
less 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 AEthiopian 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
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 139
that light up the halls; it is your breath which fills them
with perfumes.”
“You must not talk to me thus,” said Ione, smiling;
“you forget that your lore has sufficiently instructed my
mind to render these graceful flatteries to my person un-
welcome. It was you who taught me to disdain adulation;
will you unteach your pupil 7”
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 in-
terstices 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 offer-
ings of bracelets, of chains, of gems, which the Egyptian
vainly entreated her to receive.
“I have often heard,” said she, wonderingly, “that you
were rich, but I never dreamed of the amount of your
wealth.”
“Would I could coin it all,” replied the Egyptian, “into
one crown, which I might place upon that snowy brow !”
“Alas, the weight would crush me; I should be a second
Tarpeia,” answered 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 sublimity,
in its possession; it is the mightiest, yet the most obedient
of our slaves.”
The artful Arbaces sought to dazzle the young Neapolitan
by his treasures and his eloquence; he sought to awaken in
her the desire to be mistress of what she surveyed: he hoped
140 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
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 delicate subtlety which woman
alone possesses, she sought to ward off shafts deliberately
aimed, and to laugh or to talk away the meaning from his
warming language. Nothing in the world is more pretty
than that same species of defence; it is the charm of the
African necromancer who professed with a feather to turn
aside the winds.
The Egyptian was intoxicated and subdued by her grace
even more than by her beauty; it was with difficulty that
he suppressed his emotions; alas, the feather was only
powerful against the summer breezes, – it would be the
sport of the storm.
Suddenly, as they stood in one hall, which was surrounded
by draperies of silver and white, the Egyptian clapped his
hands, and, as if by enchantment, a banquet rose from the
floor; a couch or throne, with a crimson canopy, ascended
simultaneously at the feet of Ione, and at the same instant
from behind the curtains swelled the invisible and softest
IſlūS1C. g
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
subdued strain, and Arbaces thus addressed his beautiful
guest : —
“ Hast thou never in this dark and uncertain world —
hast thou never aspired, my pupil, to look beyond; hast
thou never wished to put aside the veil of futurity, and to
behold on the shores of Fate the shadowy images of things
to be 2 For it is not the past alone that has its ghosts:
each event to come has also its spectrum, -its shade ;
when the hour arrives, life enters it, the shadow becomes
corporeal, and walks the world. Thus, in the land beyond
the grave, are ever two impalpable and spiritual hosts, –
the things to be, the things that have been If by our
wisdom we can penetrate that land, we see the one as the
other, and learn as I have learned, not alone the mysteries
of the dead, but also the destiny of the living.”
THE LA ST D.4 YS OF POMPE II. 141
“As thou hast learned Can wisdom attain so far ”’’
“Wilt thou prove my knowledge, Ione, and behold the
representation of thine own fate 2 It is a drama more strik-
ing than those of Æschylus; it is one I have prepared for
thee, if thou wilt see the shadows perform their part.”
The Neapolitan trembled; she thought of Glaucus, and
sighed as well as trembled, - were their destinies to be
united ? Half incredulous, half believing, half awed, half
alarmed by the words of her strange host, she remained for
Some moments silent, and then answered, -
“It may revolt, it may terrify ; the knowledge of the
future will perhaps only embitter the present l”
“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
thou mayst enjoy it beforehand 2 ”
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 ineffable 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 2 ” said Ione,
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
142 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
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, repre-
sented the great Egyptian goddess. Arbaces stood before
the altar; he had laid his garland on the shrine, and seemed
occupied with pouring into the tripod the contents of a
brazen vase; suddenly from that tripod leaped into life
a blue, quick, darting, irregular flame; the Egyptian
drew back to the side of Ione, and muttered some words
in a language unfamiliar to her ear; the curtain at the back
of the altar waved tremulously to and fro, it parted slowly,
and in the aperture which was thus made, Ione 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 2 " 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.
THE LA ST DAYS OF POMPEII. 143
“This is, indeed, thy fate l’’ whispered again the Egyp-
tian’s voice in her ear. “And thou art destined to be the
bride of Arbaces.”
Ione started, the black curtain closed over the phantas-
magoria, 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 I – 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, insen-
sate, 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
commanded fate, receive from thee my own. Ione, tremble
not, thou art my queen, my goddess, – be my bride 1 All
the wishes thou canst form shall be fulfilled. The ends of
the earth shall minister to thee, – pomp, power, luxury,
shall be thy slaves. Arbaces shall have no ambition, save
the pride of obeying thee. 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 day-
light ! Ione, Ione, do not reject my love l’”
Alone, and in the power of this singular and fearful man,
Ione was not yet terrified; the respect of his language, the
softness of his voice, reassured her; and, in her own purity,
she felt protection. But she was confused, astonished ; it
was some moments before she could recover the power of
reply.
“Rise, Arbaces !” said she, at length ; and she resigned
to him once more her hand, which she as quickly withdrew
again, when she felt upon it the burning pressure of his
lips. “Rise ! and if thou art serious, if thy language be in
earnest — ”
“If/’” said he, tenderly.
144 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
“Well, then, listen to me: you have been my guardian,
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 passion, —
“think not that I scorn, that I am untouched, that I am
not honored by this homage; but, say, - canst thou hear
me calmly 2”
“Ay, though thy words were lightning, and could blast
me . .”
“I love another /?” said Ione, blushingly, but in a firm
WOlC6.
“By the gods, – by hell !” shouted Arbaces, rising to
his fullest height; “ dare not tell me that, — dare not mock
me: it is impossible ! Whom hast thou seen, – whom
known Oh, Ione ! it is thy woman’s invention, thy
woman’s art that speaks, – thou wouldst gain time; I have
surprised, I have terrified thee. Do with me as thou wilt,
— say that thou lovest not me, but say not that thou lovest
another l’’
“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 fell from her
bosom on the ground; Arbaces perceived and seized it, — it
was the letter that morning received from Glaucus. Ione
sank upon the couch, half dead with terror.
Rapidly the eyes of Arbaces ran over the writing. The
Neapolitan did not dare to gaze upon him; she did not see
the deadly paleness that came over his countenance, — she
marked not his withering frown, nor the quivering of his
lip, nor the convulsions that heaved his breast. He read it
to the end, and then, as the letter fell from his hand, he
said, in a voice of deceitful calmness, -
“Is the writer of this the man thou lovest ?”
Ione sobbed, but answered not.
“Speak l’’ he rather shrieked than said.
“It is, – it is l’”
“And his name — it is written here –– his name is
Glaucus !”
Ione, clasping her hands, looked round as for succor or
escape.
-----
Wºld O-2 + H_L

THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 145
“Then hear me,” said Arbaces, sinking his voice into a
whisper; “thou shalt go to thy tomb rather than to his
arms What I thinkest thou Arbaces will brook a rival
such as this puny Greek 2 What I 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 Egyptian god-
dess. 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
Bgyptian felt a fierce and strong grasp upon his shoulder.
He turned, - he beheld before him the flashing eyes of
Glaucus, and the pale, worn, but menacing, countenance of
Apa-cides. “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 Apaecides raised his sister, now life-
less, 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 brandishing 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 weapon
but those which Nature supplies to rage. Both the antago-
mists 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 relent-
less wrath; they coiled, they wound around each other ;
they rocked to and fro; they swayed from and te end of
146 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
their confined arena; they uttered cries of ire and revenge;
they were now before the altar, now at the base of the
column where the struggle had commenced; they drew back
for breath, – Arbaces leaning against the column, Glaucus a
few paces apart.
“O ancient goddess l’ exclaimed Arbaces, clasping the
column, and raising his eyes towards the sacred image it
supported, “protect thy chosen, – proclaim thy vengeance
against this thing of an upstart creed who with sacrilegious
violence profanes thy resting-place, and assails thy servant.”
As he spoke, the still and vast features of the goddess
seemed suddenly to glow with life; through the black
marble, as through a transparent veil, flushed luminously
a crimson and 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 intoler-
able 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 1”
he shouted, in a voice of thunder, as he sprang upon the
Greek; “the Mighty Mother claims thee as a living sacri-
fice l’” 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.
Apaecides, taught by his sacred profession, as well as by
his knowledge of Arbaces, to distrust all miraculous inter-
positions, had not shared the dismay of his companion;
he rushed forward, – his knife gleamed in the air. The
watchful Egyptian caught his arm as it descended; one
wrench of his powerful hand tore the weapon from the
weak grasp of the priest; one sweeping blow stretched him
to the earth; with a loud and exulting yell Arbaces bran-
dished the knife on high. Glaucus gazed upon his impend-
ing fate with unwinking eyes, and in the stern and scornful
resignation of a fallen gladiator, when, at that awful instant,
the floor shook under them with a rapid and convulsive
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 147
throe, – a mightier spirit than that of the Egyptian was
abroad l—a giant and crushing power, before which sunk
into sudden impotence his passion and his arts. IT woke,
it stirred, that Dread Demon of the Earthquake, – laugh-
ing to scorn alike the magic of human guile and the malice
of human wrath. As a Titan, on whom the mountains are
piled, it roused itself from the sleep of years, – it moved
on its tortured couch; the caverns below groaned and
trembled beneath the motion of its limbs. In the moment
of his vengeance and his power, the self-prized demigod
was humbled to his real clay. Far and wide along the soil
went a hoarse and rumbling sound; the curtains of the
chamber shook 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 convulsion
Let us worship the providence of the gods !” He assisted
Apaecides to rise, and then turned upward the face of
Arbaces; it seemed locked as in death; blood gushed from
the Egyptian's lips over his glittering robes; he fell heavily
from the arms of Glaucus, and the red stream trickled
slowly along the marble. Again the earth shook beneath
their feet; they were forced to cling to each other; the
convulsion ceased as suddenly as it came. They tarried no
longer; Glaucus bore 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 contrasted in mockery the solemn
terror of the hour; they did not appear to heed the strangers,
— they were occupied only with their own fears. After
the tranquillity of sixteen years that burning and treacher-
ous soil again menaced destruction; they utiered but one
148 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
cry, “THE EARTHQUAKE | THE EARTHQUAKE l’’ and passing
unmolested from the midst of them, Apaccides and his com-
panions, 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.
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 149
BOOK III.
CHAPTER. I.
THE FORUM OF THE POMPEIANS. — THE FIRST RUDE
MACHINERY BY WHICH THE NEW ERA OF THE WORLD
WAS WROUGHT.
IT was early noon, and the forum was crowded alike with
the busy and the idle. As at Paris at this day, so at that
time in the cities of Italy, men lived almost wholly out of
doors; the public buildings, the forum, the porticos, the
baths, the temples themselves, might be considered their
real homes; it was no wonder that they decorated so gor-
geously 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 assembled various groups, conversing
in that energetic fashion which appropriates a gesture to
every word, and which is still the characteristic of the
people of the South. Here, in seven stalls on one side
the colonnade, sat the money-changers, with their glittering
heaps before them, and merchants and seamen in various
costumes crowding round their stalls. On one side, several
men in long togas' were seen bustling rapidly up to a
stately edifice, where the magistrates administered justice,
—these were the lawyers, active, chattering, joking, and
punning, as you may find them at this day in Westminster.
In the centre of the space, pedestals supported various
statues, 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
1 For the lawyers, and the clients, when attending on their patrons, retained
the toga after it had fallen into disuse among the rest of the citizens.
150 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
business drew them early to the place, were taking the
slight morning repast which made an Italian breakfast,
talking vehemently on the earthquake of the preceding
night as they dipped pieces of bread in their cups of diluted
wine. In the open space, too, you might perceive various
petty traders exercising the arts of their calling. Here one
man was holding out ribbons to a fair dame from the coun-
try; another man was vaunting to a stout farmer the excel-
lence 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 to his puzzled pupils the elements of the
Latin grammar." A gallery above the portico, which was
ascended by small, wooden staircases, had also its throng;
though, as here the immediate business of the place was
mainly carried on, its groups wore a more quiet and seri-
ous air.
Every now and then the crowd below respectfully gave
way as some senator swept along to the Temple of Jupiter
(which filled up one side of the forum, and was the senators'
hall of meeting), nodding with ostentatious condescension to
such of his friends or clients as he distinguished amongst
the throng. Mingling amidst the gay dresses of the better
orders you saw the hardy forms of the 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 swarming with inhabitants; in one of
the niches of the arch a fountain played, cheerily sparkling
in the sunbeams; and above its cornice rose the bronzed and
equestrian statue of Caligula, strongly contrasting the gay
summer skies. Behind 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,
*In the Museum at Naples is a picture little known, but representing one
side of the forum at Pompeii as then existing, to which I am much indebted
in the present description. It may afford a learned consolation to my younger
readers to know that the ceremony of hoisting (more honored in the breach
than the observance) is of high antiquity, and seems to have been performed
with all legitimate and public vigor in the forum of Pompeii.
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 151
where such provisions as the priests had rescued from sacri-
fice were exposed for sale.
At one of the public edifices appropriated to the business
of the city, workmen were employed upon the columns, and
you heard the noise of their labor every now and then rising
above the hum of the multitude; the columns are unfin-
ished 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 civiliza-
tion, — where pleasure and commerce, idleness and labor,
avarice and ambition, mingled in one gulf their motley, rush-
ing, yet harmonious streams.
Facing the steps of the Temple of Jupiter, with folded
arms, and a knit and contemptuous brow, stood a man of
about fifty years of age. His dress was remarkably plain,
— not so much from its material, as from the absence of all
those ornaments which were worn by the Pompeians of
every rank, partly from the love of show, partly, also,
because they were chiefly wrought into those shapes
deemed most efficacious in resisting the assaults of magic,
and the influence of the evil eye." His forehead was high
and bald; the few locks that remained at the back of the
head were concealed by a sort of cowl, which made a part of
his cloak, to be raised or lowered at pleasure, and was now
drawn half-way over the head, as a protection from the rays
of the sun. The color of his garments was brown, no pop-
ular hue with the Pompeians; all the usual admixtures
of scarlet or purple, seemed carefully excluded. His belt,
or girdle, contained a small receptacle for ink, which hooked
on to the girdle, a stilus (or implement of writing), and
tablets of no ordinary size. What was rather remarkable,
the cincture held no purse, which was the almost indispen-
sable appurtenance of the girdle, even when that purse had
the misfortune to be empty
It was not often that the gay and egotistical Pompeians
busied themselves with observing the countenances and
actions of their neighbors; but there was that in the lip and
eye of this bystander so remarkably bitter and disdainful,
* See note (a) at the end.
152 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
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.
“It is Olinthus,” replied the jeweller; “a reputed Naza-
rene.”
The merchant shuddered. “A dread sect l” said he,
in a whispered and fearful voice. “It is said that when
they meet at nights they always commence their ceremonies
by the murder of a new-born babe; they profess a commu-
nity of goods, too, -the wretches | A community of goods !
What would become of merchants, or jewellers either, if
such notions were in fashion ?”
“That is very true,” said the jeweller; “besides, they
wear no jewels, — they mutter imprecations when they see
a serpent ; and at Pompeii all our ornaments are serpen-
tine.”
“Do but observe,” said a third, who was a fabricant of
bronze, “how yon Nazarene scowls at the piety of the
sacrificial procession. He is murmuring curses on the
temple, be sure. Do you know, Celcinus, that this fellow,
passing by my shop the other day, and seeing me employed
on a statue of Minerva, told me with a frown that, had it
been marble, he would have broken it; but the bronze was
too strong for him. “Break a goddess l’ said I. ‘A god-
dess l’ answered the atheist; “it is a demon, — an evil
spirit !” Then he passed on his way cursing. Are such
things to be borne 2 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 l’”
“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 defiance, and after-
wards of compassion, he gathered his cloak round him and
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 153
passed on, muttering audibly, “Deluded idolaters 1— did
not last night's convulsion warn ye 2 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 imagin-
ing 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 in-
dulge the persecution of opinion Olinthus then underwent,
and how we apply to those whose notions differ from our
own the terms at that day lavished on the fathers of
our faith.
As Olinthus stalked through the crowd, and gained one
of the more private places of egress from the forum, he
perceived gazing upon him a pale and earnest countenance
which he was not slow to recognize.
Wrapped in a pallium that partially concealed his sacred
robes, the young Apačcides surveyed the disciple of that new
and mysterious creed to which at one time he had been half
a Convert.
“Is he, too, an impostor ? Does this man, so plain and
simple in life, in garb, in mien, – does he too, like Arbaces,
make austerity the robe of the sensualist 2 Does the veil
of Westa hide the vices of the prostitute 7”
Olinthus, accustomed to men of all classes, and combining
with the enthusiasm of his faith a profound experience of
his kind, guessed, perhaps, by the index of the countenance,
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.
“Peace be with thee l’” said he, saluting Apaecides.
“Peace 7” echoed the priest, in so hollow a tone that it
went at once to the heart of the Nazarene.
“In that wish,” continued Olinthus, “all good things
are combined, - without virtue thou canst not have peace.
Like the rainbow, Peace rests upon the earth, but its arch
is lost in heaven Heaven bathes it in hues of light; it
springs up amidst tears and clouds; it is a reflection of the
Eternal Sun; it is an assurance of calm ; it is the sign of a
154 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
great covenant between man and God. Such peace, O
young man l is the smile of the soul; it is an emanation
from the distant orb of immortal light. PEACE be with
Ou ! ”
“Alas!” began Apaecides, when he caught the gaze of
the curious loiterers, inquisitive to know what could possi-
bly be the theme of conversation between a reputed Naza-
rene 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
revolutions, – 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
SOUITC0.
CHAPTER II.
THE NOONDAY EXCURSION ON THE CAMPANIAN SEA.
“BUT tell me, Glaucus,” said Ione, they glided down the
rippling Sarnus in their boat of pleasure, “how camest thou
with Apaºcides to my rescue from that bad man 2 °
“Ask Nydia yonder,” answered the Athenian, pointing
to the blind girl, who sat at a little distance from them,
leaning pensively over her lyre; “she must have thy thanks,
not we. It seems that she came to my house, and finding
me from home, sought thy brother in his temple; he accom-
panied 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 de-
tected my voice — a few words sufficed to make me the com-
panion of Apačcides; I told not my associates why I left
them, - could I trust thy name to their light tongues and
THE LA ST DA YS OF POMPEII. 155
gossiping opinion ? Nydia led us to the garden gate, by
which we afterwards bore thee, – we entered, and were
about to plunge into the mysteries of that evil house, when
we heard thy cry in another direction. Thou knowest the
rest.”
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 Thes-
salian.
“Did I not tell thee that thou shouldst be my sister and
friend ? Hast thou not already been more, —my guardian,
my preserver !”
“It is nothing,” answered Nydia, coldly, and without
stirring. -
“Ah, I forgot,” continued Ione, – “I should come to
thee; ” and she moved along the benches till she reached
the place 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 2 ”
“Yes, I knew of his vices.”
“And how 2 ”
“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 2 °
“I have played on my lyre to Arbaces,” answered the
Thessalian, with embarrassment.
“And thou hast escaped the contagion from which thou
hast saved Ione 2" 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 a slave and blind. The despicable are ever
safe.”
It was with a pained and proud and indignant tone that
Nydia made this humble reply; and Ione felt that she only
wounded Nydia by pursuing the subject. She remained
silent, and the bark now floated into the sea.
156 THE LAST DAYs of POMPEII.
“Confess that I was right, Ione,” said Glaucus, “in pre-
vailing 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 2 ” ..
“Oh, think of it no more l’” answered Ione, quickly; “I
gave my ear to what I now know was the malice of
slander.”
“And my slanderer was the Egyptian 2 ”
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 prob-
ably 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 vouchsafe to be my friend ?”
“He is consumed with some secret care,” answered Ione,
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 Apaecides had plunged her, —
“how calmly the clouds seem to repose in heaven; and yet
you tell me, for I knew it not myself, that the earth shook
beneath us last night.”
“It did, and more violently, they say, than it has done
since the great convulsion sixteen years ago. The land we
live in yet nurses mysterious terror; and the reign of Pluto,
which spreads beneath our burning fields, seems rent with
unseen 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 made thee weep 7”
THE LA ST DAYS OF POMPEII. 157
“I felt the soil creep and heave beneath me like some
monstrous serpent,” answered Nydia; “but as I saw noth-
ing, 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 lovel ” said Glaucus, in a trem-
ulous 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 l’”
“Of love l’” 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-
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, un-
guessed
“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, plac-
ing her light and graceful instrument on her knee, after
a short prelude, she sang the following strain : —
158 THE LA ST DAYS OF POMPEII.
NY DIA'S LOVE SONG.
I.
The Wind and the Beam loved the Rose,
And the Rose loved one; *
For who recks the Wind where it blows P
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 !
IV.
How its love can the Wind reveal P
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.”
“I sing as I was taught,” replied Nydia, sighing.
“Thy master was love-crossed then, – try thy hand at
a gayer air. Nay, girl, give the instrument to me.” As
Nydia obeyed, her hand touched his, and, with that slight
touch, her breast heaved, - her cheek flushed. 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, dispensed 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
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 159
spell,—that moulds us insensibly, mysteriously, into har-
mony with thyself, banishing the thought of austerer labor,
the voices of wild ambition, the contest, and the roar of
life; filling us with gentle and subduing dreams; making
necessary to our nature that which is its least earthly por-
tion, so that the very air inspires us with the yearning and
thirst of love | Whoever visits thee seems to leave earth
and its harsh cares behind, -— to enter by the Ivory Gate
into the Land of Dreams. The young and laughing Hours
of the PRESENT, - the Hours, those children of Saturn
which he hungers ever to devour, seem snatched from his
grasp. The past, the future, are forgotten ; we enjoy but
the breathing time. Flower of the world’s garden, Foun-
tain of Delight, Italy of Italy, beautiful, benign Campanial
— vain were, indeed, the Titans, if on this spot they yet
struggled for another heaven Here, if God meant this work-
ing-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 mes-
sages 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 2
It was, then, in this clime, on those seas, that the Athe-
nian gazed upon a face that might have suited the nymph,
the spirit of the place, — feeding his eyes on the changeful
roses of that softest cheek, happy beyond the happiness of
common life, loving, and knowing himself beloved.
In the tale of human passion, in past ages, there is some-
thing of interest even in the remoteness of the time. We
love to feel within us the bond which unites the most dis-
tant eras, – men, nations, customs perish ; THE AFFECTIONS
ARE IMMORTAL 1 — 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 hap-
160 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
pier 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 a 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 1— happy in thy affliction, that thou couldst
not see that fascinated and charmed gaze, that said so much,
that made the eye the voice of the Soul, that promised the
impossibility of change
But, though the Thessalian could not detect that gaze,
she divined its meaning by their silence, — by their sighs.
She pressed her hands tightly across her breast, as if to
keep down its bitter and jealous thoughts; and then she
hastened to speak, - for that silence was intolerable to
her.
“After all, O Glaucus !” said she, “there is nothing very
mirthful in your strain l’’
“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 conversation
which oppressed her while it charmed, “that for the last
1 In allusion to the Dioscuri, or twin stars, the guardian deity of the
Seº IIGD,
-
* (NOE H1Nſwa) Sn|Snºnº - O Bºld WHL

THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 161
several days yonder cloud has hung motionless over Vesu-
vius ! 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 2 ”
“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 raise
the other (dost thou note it 2) towards the higher heaven.
It is like the ghost of some huge Titan brooding over the
beautiful world he lost; sorrowful for the past, — yet with
something of menace for the future.”
“Could that mountain have any connection with the last
night's earthquake 2 They say that ages ago, almost in the
earliest era of tradition, it gave forth fires as AEtna still.
Perhaps the flames yet lurk and dart beneath.”
“It is possible,” said Glaucus, musingly.
“Thou sayest thou art slow to believe in magic 2 ” 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.”
“Thou art full of the romance of thy native Thessaly,”
said Glaucus, “ and a strange mixture of sense and all con-
flicting 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 2 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.
Ione's hair is dark, mine light; Ione's eyes are — what
color, Ione 2 I cannot see, turn them to me. Oh, are
they black? — no, they are too soft. Are they blue 2 –
no, they are too deep : they change with every ray of the
sun, –I know not their color; but mine, Sweet Nydia, are
162 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
gray, and bright only when Ione shines on them | Ione's
cheek is — ”
“I do not understand one word of thy description,” inter-
rupted Nydia, peevishly. “I comprehend only that you do
not resemble each other, and I am glad of it.”
“Why, Nydia 2° said Ione.
Nydia colored slightly. “Because,” she replied coldly, “I
have always imagined you under different forms, and one
likes to know one is right.”
“And what hast thou imagined Glaucus to resemble 2 ”
asked Ione, softly. -
“Music l’’ replied Nydia, looking down.
“Thou art right,” thought Ione.
“And what likeness hast thou ascribed to Ione º’’
“I cannot tell yet,” answered the blind girl; “I have not
yet known her long enough to find a shape and sign for my
guesses.”
“I will tell thee, then,” said Glaucus, passionately :
“she is like the sun that warms, – like the wave that
refreshes.” -
“The sun sometimes scorches, and the wave sometimes
drowns,” answered Nydia.
“Take then these roses,” said Glaucus; “let their fra-
grance suggest to thee Ione.”
“Alas, the roses will fade l’” 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 woel
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, Nydial
Listen, dear Ione ! and hear.”
THE LAst DAYs of Pompeii. 163
e
THE BIRTH OF LOVE.1
I.
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, –
The life that had leaped to birth,
In the veins of the happy earth !
- Hail! Oh, hail
The dimmest sea-cave below thee,
The farthest sky-arch above,
In their innermost stillness know thee,
And heave with the Birth of Love :
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,
* Suggested by a picture of Venus rising from the sea, taken from Pompeii,
and now in the Museum of Naples.
* 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.
164 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
Nor a single sigh
In the boundless sky,
But is vowed evermore to thee!
III.
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!
CHAPTER III.
THE CONGREGATION.
FollowRD by Apacides, 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 favorite resort of the Pompeians, but during
the heat and business of the day was seldom visited, save
by some groups of playful children, some meditative poet,
or some disputative philosophers. At the side farthest
from the river, frequent copses of box interspersed the
more delicate and evanescent foliage, and these were cut
into a thousand quaint shapes, – sometimes into the forms
of fauns and satyrs, sometimes into the mimicry of Egyp-
tian pyramids, sometimes into the letters that composed the
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 165
name of a popular or eminent citizen. Thus the false taste
is equally ancient as the pure; and the retired traders of
Hackney and Paddington, a century ago, were little aware,
perhaps, that in their tortured yews and sculptured box
they found their models in the most polished period of
Roman antiquity, in the gardens of Pompeii, and the villas
of the fastidious Pliny.
This walk now, as the noonday sun shone perpendicularly
through the checkered leaves, was entirely deserted; at
least no other forms than those of Olinthus and the priest
infringed upon the solitude. They sat themselves on one
of the benches placed at intervals between the trees and
facing the faint breeze that came languidly from the river,
whose waves danced and sparkled before them, - a singular
and contrasted pair: the believer in the latest, the priest of
the most ancient, worship of the world !
“Since thou leftst me so abruptly,” said Olinthus, “ hast
thou been happy; hast thy heart found contentment under
these priestly robes; hast thou, still yearning for the voice
of God, heard it whisper comfort to thee from the oracles
of Isis 2 That sigh, that averted countenance, give me the
answer my soul predicted.”
“Alas!” answered Apaccides, sadly, “thou seest before
thee a wretched and distracted man | From my childhood
upward I have idolized the dreams of virtue! I have
envied the holiness of men who, in caves and lonely temples,
have been admitted to the companionship of beings above
the world: my days have been consumed with feverish and
vague desires; my nights with mocking but solemn visions.
Seduced by the mystic prophecies of an impostor, I have
indued these robes; my nature, — I confess it to thee
frankly, -my nature has revolted at what I have seen and
been doomed to share in 1 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 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
166 THE LA ST DAYS OF POMPEII.
bounded and melancholy present there is annihilation or an
hereafter, — tell me, then, thy faith; solve me these doubts,
if thou hast indeed the power l’”
“I do not marvel,” answered the Nazarene, “that thou
hast thus erred, or that thou art thus sceptic. Eighty
years ago there was no assurance to man of God, or of a
certain and definite future beyond the grave. New laws
are declared to him who has ears; a heaven, a true Olym-
pus, is revealed to him who has eyes. Heed, then, and
listen.”
And with all the earnestness of a man believing ardently
himself, and zealous to convert, the Nazarene poured forth
to Apaecides the assurances of Scriptural promise. He spoke
first of the sufferings and miracles of Christ, — he wept
as he spoke; he turned next to the glories of the Saviour's
ascension, to the clear predictions of Revelation. He de-
scribed 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 rea-
soners, 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 Alcmaena’s
son, whose altars now smoked with the incense of countless
cities, but a toil for the human race 2 Had not the great
Dorian Apollo expiated a mystic sin by descending to the
grave 2 Those who were the deities of heaven had been
the lawgivers or benefactors on earth, and gratitude had
led to worship. It seemed, therefore, to the heathen, a
doctrine neither new nor strange, that Christ had been sent
from heaven, that an immortal had indued mortality, and
tasted the bitterness of death. And the end for which He
thus toiled and thus suffered, - how far more glorious did
it seem to Apaecides than that for which the deities of old
had visited the nether world, and passed through the gates
of death ! Was it not worthy of a God to descend to these
dim valleys in order to clear up the clouds gathered over
the dark mount beyond, to satisfy the doubts of sages, to
convert speculation into certainty, — by example to point
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 167
out the rules of life, by revelation to solve the enigma of
the grave, and to prove that the Soul did not yearn in vain
when it dreamed of an immortality ? In this last was the
great argument of those lowly men destined to convert the
earth. As nothing is more flattering to the pride and
the hopes of man than the belief in a future state, so
nothing could be more vague and confused than the notions
of the heathen sages upon that mystic subject. Apaccides
had already learned that the faith of the philosophers was
not that of the herd; that if they secretly professed a creed
in some divine power, it was not the creed which they
thought it wise to impart to the community. He had
already learned, that even the priest ridiculed what he
preached to the people, that the notions of the few and
the many were never united. But in this new faith, it
seemed to him that philosopher, priest, and people, the
expounders of religion and its followers, were alike accord-
ant: they did not speculate and debate upon immortality,
— they spoke of it as a thing certain and assured ; the mag-
nificence of the promise dazzled him, its consolation soothed.
For the Christian faith made its early converts among
sinners; many of its fathers and its martyrs were those
who had felt the bitterness of vice, and who were therefore
no longer tempted by its false aspect from the paths of an
austere and uncompromising virtue. All the assurances of
this healing faith invited to repentance, — they were pecul-
iarly adapted to the bruised and sore of spirit; the very
remorse which Apaecides felt for his late excesses, made
him incline to one who found holiness in that remorse, and
who whispered of the joy in heaven over one sinner that
repenteth. -
“Come,” said the Nazarene, as he perceived the effect he
had produced, - “come to the humble hall in which we
meet, — a select and a chosen few ; listen there to our
prayers; note the sincerity of our repentant tears; mingle
in our simple sacrifice, — not of victims, nor of garlands,
but offered by white-robed thoughts upon the altar of the
heart. The flowers that we lay there are imperishable, –
they bloom over us when we are no more; nay, they accom-
pany 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 offer-
168 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
ings are temptations overcome, and sins repented. Come,
oh, come 1 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 Apaccides, so naturally pure of heart,
something ineffably generous and benign in that spirit of
conversation which animated Olinthus, – a spirit that 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 descending 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 boats 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 mirthful in
their delusions, sail the votaries of luxury into the great
ocean of storm and shipwreck; we pass them, silent and
unnoticed, to gain the land.”
Apaecides, lifting his eyes, caught through the aperture
in the awning a glimpse of the face of one of the inmates
of that gay bark, -it was the face of 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
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEI. 169
suburbs, an alley of small and mean houses stretched
towards the bank; they dismissed the boat, landed, and
Olinthus, preceding the priest, threaded the labyrinth of
lanes, and arrived at last at the closed door of a habitation
somewhat larger than its neighbors. He knocked thrice;
the door was opened, and closed again as Apačcides 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 faithful l’” answered Olinthus, and the door
opened; twelve or fourteen persons were sitting in a semi-
circle, silent, and seemingly absorbed in thought, and oppo-
site to a crucifix rudely carved in wood.
They lifted up their eyes when Olinthus entered, without
speaking; the Nazarene himself, before he accosted them,
knelt suddenly down, and by his moving lips, and his eyes
fixed steadfastly on the crucifix, Apacides 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 Apaecides
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 work-
ing mind.
“Let 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.
“Let him,” said a third voice; and the priest, again turn-
ing to regard the speaker, saw an old man with a long, gray
beard, whom he recognized as a slave to the wealthy Diomed.
“Let him,” repeated simultaneously the rest, — men who,
with two exceptions, were evidently of the inferior ranks.
In these exceptions, Apačcides noted an officer of the guard,
and an Alexandrian merchant.
170 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
“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 l’ 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 to a criminal is eternity to the
Christian.”
A low and applauding murmur ran through the assembly.
“Thou comest amongst us as an examiner, — mayest thou
remain a convert Our religion ? —you behold it ! Yon
cross our sole image, yon scroll the mysteries of our Caere
and Eleusis Our morality ?—it is in our lives | Sinners
we all have been ; who now can accuse us of a crime 2 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
Apaecides, “thou art the sole man amongst us who is not
free. But in heaven the last shall be first ; so with us.
Unfold your scroll, read and explain.”
Useless would it be for us to accompany the lecture of
Medon, or the comments of the congregation. Familiar
now are those doctrines, then strange and new. Eighteen
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, possessing only the
knowledge that they were greater than they seemed.
There was one thing that greatly touched the Neapol-
itan; when the lecture was concluded, they heard a very
gentle knock at the door; the password was given, and
replied to ; the door opened, and two young children, the
eldest of whom might have told its seventh year, entered
timidly. They were the children of the master of the
house, that dark and hardy Syrian whose youth had been
spent in pillage and bloodshed. The eldest of the congre.
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPE II. 171
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 impervious forti-
tude, ready to affront a world, prepared for torment and
armed for death; men who presented all imaginable con-
trast to the weak nerves, the light hearts, the tender
fragility of childhood, - crowded round the infants, smooth-
ing their rugged brows and composing their bearded lips to
kindly and fostering smiles; and then the old man opened
the scroll, and he taught the infants to repeat after him
that beautiful prayer which we still dedicate to the Lord,
and still teach to our children; and then he told them, in
simple phrase, of God’s love to the young, and how not a
sparrow falls but His eye sees it. This lovely custom of
infant initiation was long cherished by the early Church in
memory of the words which said, “Suffer little children to
come unto me, and forbid them not,” and was perhaps the
origin of the superstitious calumny which ascribed to the
Nazarenes the crime which the Nazarene, when victorious,
attributed to the Jew, - 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 pecul-
iarly affected Apaecides; and, in truth, it is difficult to
conceive a ceremony more appropriate to the religion of
benevolence, more appealing to the household of everyday
affections, striking a more sensitive chord in the human
breast.
It was at this time that an inner door opened gently,
and a very old man entered the chamber, leaning on a staff.
172 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
At his presence, the whole congregation rose; there was an
expression of deep, affectionate respect upon every coun-
tenance; and Apaecides, gazing on his countenance, felt
attracted towards him by an irresistible sympathy. No
man ever looked upon that face without love; for there had
dwelt the smile of the Deity, the incarnation of divinest
love, and the glory of the smile had never passed away.
“My children, God be with you !” said the old man,
stretching his arms; and as he spoke the infants ran to his
knee. He sat down, and they nestled fondly to his bosom.
It was beautiful to see that mingling of the extremes of life,
— the rivers gushing from their early source, the majestic
stream gliding to the ocean of eternity As the light of
declining day seems to mingle earth and heaven, making
the outline of each scarce visible, and blending the harsh
mountain-tops with the sky, even so did the smile of that
benign old age appear to hallow the aspect of those around,
to blend together the strong distinctions of varying years,
and to diffuse over infancy and manhood the light of that
heaven into which it must so soon vanish and be lost.
“Father,” said Olinthus, “ thou on whose form the mira-
cle 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 ne
lamb gathered to the fold !” -
“Let me bless him,” said the old man ; the throng gave
way. Apacides 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.
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 178
CHAPTER IV.
TELE STREAM OF LOVE RUNS ON — WHITEIER.
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 trustful
thoughts far down the stream of time; they laid out the
chart of their destiny to come; they suffered the light of
to-day to suffuse the morrow. In the youth of their hearts
it seemed as if care and change and death were as things
unknown. Perhaps they loved each other the more, be-
cause the condition of the world left to Glaucus no aim
and no wish but love; because the distractions common in
free states to men's 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.
To the superficial observer, who interests himself only in
characters strongly marked and broadly colored, both the
lovers may seem of too slight and commonplace a mould.
In the delineation of characters purposely subdued, the
reader sometimes imagines that there is a want of char-
acter; 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 contrasted more strongly the vicissi-
tudes 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.
1T4 THE LAST DAY'S OF POMPEII.
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 Pom-
peians 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 grati-
tude 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 pro-
duced on him. He believed it, indeed, to have been
wrought by the magic of man, but the result convinced
him that it betokened not the anger of a goddess.
Of Arbaces, they heard only that he still lived; stretched
on the bed of suffering, he recovered slowly from the effect
of the shock he had sustained; he left the lovers unmo-
lested, -- 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 constant and
often their sole companion. They did not guess the secret
fires which consumed her; the abrupt freedom with which
she mingled in their conversation, her capricious and often
her peevish moods, found ready indulgence in the recol-
lection of the service they owed her, and their compassion
for her affliction. They felt an interest in her, perhaps the
greater and more affectionate from the very strangeness and
waywardness of her nature, — her singular alternations of
passion and softness; the mixture of ignorance and genius;
of delicacy and rudeness; of the quick humors of the child,
and the proud calmness of the woman. Although she
refused to accept 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 for one so darkly
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPE II. 175
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 her-
self 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 and how
dexterously she threaded every crowd, avoiding 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 tending the flowers that at least
repaid her love. Sometimes she entered the chamber
where he sat, and sought a conversation, which she nearly
always broke off abruptly; for conversation with Glaucus
only tended to one subject, — Ione ; 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 them 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 crushed her heart with the tid-
ings 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, is suddenly whirled aloft — now here, now there —
without stay and without rest: so the love which visits the
happy and the hopeful hath but 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 : it hath no bough to
cling to, it is dashed from path to path till the winds fall,
and it is crushed into the mire forever,
176 | THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
The friendless childhood of Nydia had hardened prema-
turely her character; perhaps the heated scenes of profligacy
through which she had passed, seemingly unscathed, had
ripened her passions, though they had not sullied her purity.
The orgies of Burbo might only have disgusted, the banquets
of the Egyptian might only have terrified, at the moment,
but the winds that pass unheeded over the soil leave seeds
behind them. As darkness, too, favors the imagination, so,
perhaps, her very blindness contributed to feed with wild
and delirious visions the love of the unfortunate girl. The
voice of Glaucus had been the first that had sounded musi-
cally 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 tending his flowers, served to keep
him in her mind; she associated him with all that was most
charming to her impressions; and when she had refused
to express what image she fancied 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 forestalled
the reason, — let them say whether that love, among all its
strange and complicated delicacies, was not, above all other
and later passions, susceptible of jealousy 2 I seek not here
the cause; I know that it is commonly the fact.
When Glaucus returned to Pompeii, Nydia had told
another year of life. That year with its sorrows, its lone-
liness, 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 revela-
tion, that those feelings she had long and innocently cher-
ished 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,
THE LAST DA YS OF POMPEII. 177
delicious sentiments of an overflowing heart to hear that he
loved another, to be commissioned to that other, the mes-
senger, the minister, to feel all at once that utter nothing-
ness which she was, which she ever must be, but which till
then her young mind had not taught her, that utter
nothingness 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 emo-
tions ? 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 2 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; tears came to her eyes more often, and re-
lieved her less.
One morning, when she repaired to her usual task in the
garden of the Athenian, she found Glaucus under the col-
umns 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 l’” answered the jeweller; for jewellers
were well-bred and flattering men even at that day. “But
when these ear-rings glitter in the ears of the noble Ione,
then, by Bacchus ! you will see whether my art adds any-
thing to beauty.”
“Ione 7” repeated Nydia, who had hitherto acknowl-
edged by smiles and blushes the gift of Glaucus.
1 Several bracelets, chains, and jewels were found in the house.
178 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
“Yes,” replied the Athenian, carelessly toying with the
gems; “I am choosing a present for Ione, 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 2 What, Nydia, dost thou not like the
bauble ; art thou offended ?”
“You treat me ever as a slave and as a child,” replied
the Thessalian, with a breast heaving with ill-suppressed
sobs, and she turned hastily away to the opposite corner of
the garden.
Glaucus did not attempt to follow, or to soothe: he was
offended; he continued to examine the jewels and to com-
ment on their fashion, to object to this and to praise that,
and finally to be talked by the merchant into buying
all, - the safest plan for a lover, and a plan that any one
will do right to adopt, provided always that he can obtain
an 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 forgotten both the one
and the othe..
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 caena of
the Romans) alone, and abroad, for Pompeii had its restau-
rateurs, 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 recognized 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 peristyle, and seated himself musingly
on his couch, when he felt his robe timorously touched, and
turning, he beheld Nydia kneeling before him, and hold-
ing up to him a handful of flowers, – a gentle and appro-
priate peace-offering, — her eyes, darkly upheld to his own,
streamed with tears.
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 179
“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. Seel 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 2 I could not divine
the cause !”
“Do not ask l’” said she, coloring violently. “I am a
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 passion.
Think not I chide : no, it is for your happiness only I
speak.”
“It is true,” said Nydia, “I must learn to govern myself.
I must hide, I must suppress, my heart. This is a woman's
task and duty; methinks her virtue is hypocrisy.” *
“Self-control is not deceit, my Nydia,” returned the
Athenian, “ and that is the virtue necessary alike to man
and to woman; it is the true Senatorial toga, the badge of
the dignity it covers.”
“Self-controll self-control | Well, well, what you say is
right ! When I listen to you, Glaucus, my wildest thoughts
grow calm and sweet, and a delicious serenity falls over me.
Advise, ah, guide me ever, my preserver !”
“Thy affectionate heart will be thy best guide, Nydia,
when thou hast learned to regulate its feelings.”
“Ah, that will be never !” sighed Nydia, wiping away
her tears.
“Say not so; the first effort is the only difficult one.”
“I have made many first efforts,” answered Nydia,
innocently. “But you, my Mentor, do you find it so easy
to control yourself 2 Can you conceal, can you even regu-
late your love for Ione 7”
“Lovel dear Nydia : ah, that is quite another matter,”
answered the young preceptor.
“I thought so l’’ returned Nydia, with a melancholy
smile. “ Glaucus, wilt thou take my poor flowers ? Do
180 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
with them as thou wilt, — thou canst give them to Ione,”
added she, with a little hesitation.
“Nay, Nydia,” answered Glaucus, kindly, divining some-
thing of jealousy in her language, though he imagined it
only the jealousy of a vain and susceptible child; “I will
not give thy pretty flowers to any one. Sit here and weave
them into a garland; I will wear it this night: it is not the
first those delicate fingers have woven for me.”
The poor girl delightedly sat down beside Glaucus. She
drew from her girdle a ball of the many-colored threads, or
rather slender ribbons, used in the weaving of garlands,
and which (for it was her professional occupation) she car-
ried 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 caress-
ingly 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 for a little while in the
sudden light, ere yet the wind awakes and the frost comes
on which shall blast it 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 parent-
age, 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 sor-
row and of mystery, she came and went as some bird that
enters our chamber for a moment; we see it flutter for a
while before us, we knew not whence it flew, or to what
region it escapes.
Nydia sighed, and after a short pause, without answering
the remark, said, -
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 181
“But do I weave too many roses in my wreath, Glaucus 2
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 festivals; it
is also the flower we dedicate to silence and to death; it
blooms on our brows in life, while life be worth the having;
it is 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 2 My wish was vain. The Fates
will be as tender to thee as I should.”
“It might not be so, Nydia, were it not for love | While
youth lasts, I may forget my country for a while. But
what Athenian, in his graver manhood, can think of Athens
as she was, and be contented that he is happy, while she is
fallen 2 — 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 is beautiful,
and I 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 Plataea. Yes, the hand that now weaves
the roses should have woven thee the olive crown ”
“If such a day could come !” said Glaucus, catching
the enthusiasm of the blind Thessalian, and half rising, —
“but no the sun has set, and the night only bids us be
182 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
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 : —
THE APOLOGY FOR PLEASURR.
I
Who will assume the bays
That the hero wore P
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 1
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 1
III.
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;
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 !
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 183
We are fallen, but not forlorn,
If º 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, wreathel
They tell me of earlier hours;
And I hear the heart of my country breathe
From the lips of the Stranger's flowers.
CHAPTER V.
NY DIA EN COUNTERS J ULIA. — INTERVIEW OF THE HEATHEN
sISTER AND CONVERTED BROTHER. — AN ATHENIAN’s
NOTION OF CHRISTIANITY .
“WHAT happiness to Ione; what bliss to be ever by the
side of Glaucus, to hear his voice — and she, too, can see
him I ?”
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
panmier 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.
184 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
“Dost thou not remember my voice 2° continued Julia.
“I am the daughter of Diomed the wealthy.”
“Ah, forgive me; yes, I recall the tones of your voice.
No, noble Julia, I have no flowers to sell.”
“I heard that thou wert purchased by the beautiful Greek
Glaucus; is that true, pretty slave 2 ° asked Julia.
“I 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 follow
you home, if you wish to speak to her.”
“Do, child,” said Julia, with the air of one not accustomed
to be refused; “I have much to ask of thee: come.”
“I cannot this night, it grows late,” answered Nydia. “I
must be at home ; I am not free, noble Julia.”
“What the meek Ione will chide thee ? Ay, I doubt
not she is a second Thalestris. But come, then, to-morrow ;
do, - remember I have been thy friend of old.”
“I will obey thy wishes,” answered Nydia, and Diomed
again impatiently summoned his daughter; she was obliged
to proceed, with the main question she had desired to put
to Nydia unasked.
Meanwhile we return to 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
Apaecides 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.
Ione, however, had not ceased to regret his estrangement;
she attributed it, at present, to the engrossing duties of his
severe fraternity. And often, amidst all her bright hopes,
and her new attachment to her betrothed, - often, when
she thought of her brother's brow prematurely furrowed, his
THE LA ST DAYS OF POMPE II. 185
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 l’” said she, embrac-
ing him.
“The gods ! Speak not thus vaguely; perchance there is
but one God | *
“My brother l’’
“What if the sublime faith of the Nazarene be true 2
What if God be a monarch, – One, Invisible, Alone 7
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 flowers, bearing celestial
whispers in the faintest breeze, – wouldst thou deny this,
and make the earth mere dust and clay ? No, Apacides;
all that is brightest in our hearts is that very credulity
which peoples the universe with gods.”
Ione 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 Superstition
was never silent; every, the most household, action of
their lives was entwined with it, — it was a portion of life
itself, as the flowers are a part of the thyrsus. At every
incident they recurred to a god; every cup of wine was
prefaced by a libation; the very garlands on their thresh-
olds were dedicated to some divinity; their ancestors them-
selves, made holy, presided as Lares over their hearth and
hall. So abundant was belief with them, that in their own
climes, at this hour, idolatry has never thoroughly been
outrooted: it changes but its objects of worship; it appeals
186 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
to innumerable saints where once it resorted to divinities;
and it pours its crowds, in listening reverence, to Oracles at
the shrines of St. Januarius or St. Stephen, instead of to
those of Isis or Apollo.
But these superstitions were not to the early Christians
the object of contempt so much as of horror. They did
not 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 shud-
dered at the representative of Moloch or of Satan."
Apaecides 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 innocent
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 l’” said she, “these hard duties of time
have shattered thy very sense. Come to me, Apaccides, 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!”
“Ione,” said Apacides, 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 2 ” -
“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 Apaecides. He rose, muttering to him-
* 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 parapher-
malia of horns and a tail. ... But, in all probability, it was from the myste-
rious Pan, the haunter of solitary places, the inspirer of vague and soul-shaking
terrors, that we took the vulgar notion of the outward likeness of the fiend; it
corresponds exactly to the cloven-footed Satan. And in the lewd and prof-
ligate rites of Pan, Christians might well imagine they traced the deceptions
of the devil. •
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 187
self, 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, — 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 l’”
With these strange words he left the house.
The great and severest trial of the primitive Christians
was indeed this ; their conversion separated them from
their dearest bonds. They could not associate with beings
whose commonest actions, whose commonest 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 Apaecides.
“Hast thou ever heard much,” asked she, “ of this new
sect of the Nazarenes, of which my brother spoke 2 ”
“I have often heard enough of the votaries,” returned
Glaucus; “but of their exact tenets know I naught, save
that in their doctrine there seemeth something preternatu-
rally chilling and morose. They live apart from their kind;
they affect to be shocked even at our simple uses of garlands;
they have no sympathies with the cheerful amusements
of life; they utter awful threats of the coming destruction
of the world: they appear, in one word, to have brought
their unsmiling and gloomy creed out of the cave of Tro-
phonius. 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
188 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
guest at Athens, many years ago; methinks his name was
PAUL. My father was amongst a mighty crowd that gath-
ered on one of our immemorial hills to hear this sage of the
East expound. Through the wide throng there rang not a
single murmur ! — the jest and the roar, with which our
native orators are received, were hushed for him; and when
on the loftiest summit of that hill, raised above the breath-
less crowd below, stood this mysterious visitor, his mien and
his countenance awed every heart, even before a sound left his
lips. He was a man, I have heard my father say, of no tall
stature, but of noble and impressive mien ; his robes were
dark and ample ; the declining sun, for it was evening,
shone aslant upon his form as it rose aloft, motionless and
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 UNKNowN
GoD. Ye worship in ignorance the same Deity I serve.
To you unknown till now, to you be it now revealed.’
“Then declared that solemn man how this great Maker
of all things, who had appointed unto man his several
tribes and his various homes, – the Lord of earth and the
universal heaven, – dwelt not in temples made with hands;
that His presence, His spirit, were in the air we breathed,
— our life and our being were with Him. “ Think you,” he
cried, ‘ that the Invisible is like your statues of gold and
marble 2 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
the chilling frown of the Stoic, and the Cynic's sneer;' and
1 “The haughty Cynic scowled his grovellin hate,
And the soft Garden's rose encircled .#
Smiled unbelief, and shuddered as he smiled.”
PRAED : Prize Poem, “Athens.”
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 189
the Epicurean, who believeth not even in our own Elysium,
muttered a pleasant jest and swept laughing through the
crowd, - but the deep heart of the people was touched and
thrilled, and they trembled, though they knew not why, for
verily the stranger had the voice and majesty of a man to
whom ‘The Unknown God’ had committed the preaching
of his faith.”
Ione 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!
• CHAPTER WI.
THE PORTER — THE GIRL — AND THE GLADIATOR.
THE door of Diomed’s house stood open, and Medon, the old
slave, sat at the bottom of the steps by which you ascended
to the mansion. That luxurious mansion of the rich mer-
chant of Pompeii is still to be seen just without the gates of
the city, at the commencement of the Street of Tombs; it
was a gay neighborhood, despite the dead. On the opposite
side, but at some yards nearer the gate, was a spacious hos-
telry 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 enter-
tainment. 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." 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 con-
versing with their friends below. In a deep recess, at a
little distance, was a covered seat, in which Some two ol
three poorer travellers were resting themselves, and shaking
*There is another inn within the walls similarly adorned.
190 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
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 graceful and
varied shapes, the flowers and the foliage that surrounded
them, made no melancholy feature in the prospect. Hard
by the gate of the city, in a small niche, stood the still
form of the 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 build-
ings gleaming whitely by.
The curving road, which in that direction leads from
Pompeii to Herculaneum, wound out of sight amidst hang-
ing vines, above which frowned the sullen majesty of
Vesuvius.
“Hast thou heard the news, old Medon 2 ” 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 slave, raising his eyes
moodily from the ground.
“Why, there passed through the gate this morning, no
doubt ere thou wert well awake, such a visitor to Pompeii!”
“Ay,” said the slave, indifferently.
“Yes, a present from the noble Pomponianus.”
“A present 1 I thought thou saidst a visitor l’”
“It is both visitor and present. Know, O dull and
stupid! that it is a most beautiful young tiger, for our
approaching games in the amphitheatre. Hear you that,
Medon 2 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.
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 191
“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 l and for want of two good criminals, perhaps we
shall be forced to see them eat each other. By the by, your
son is a gladiator, a handsome man, and a strong, — can you
not persuade him to fight the tiger ? Do now, you would
oblige me mightily; nay, you would be a benefactor to the
whole town.”
“Wah! vah l’” said the slave, with great asperity;
“think of thine own danger ere thou thus pratest of my poor
boy's death.”
“My own danger l’” said the girl, frightened and looking
hastily round, - “avert the omen Let thy words fall on
thine own head l’’ And the girl, as she spoke, touched a
talisman suspended round her neck. “‘Thine own danger’?
what danger threatens me 2 ”
“Had the earthquake but a few nights since no warning 2 ”
said Medon. “Has it not a voice P Did it not say to us
all, ‘Prepare for death; the end of all things is at hand’’’’
“Bah, stuff!” said the young woman, settling the folds
of her tunic. “Now thou talkest as they say the Naza-
renes 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 Alcmaena,
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 2 Oh, faith of
Christ, I could worship thee in all sincerity, were it but for
the horror which thou inspirest for these bloody lists l’’.
The old man's head sank dejectedly on his breast. He
192 THE LAST DAYS OF POVMPEII. .
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 approacned
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 l is it indeed thou?” said the old
man, joyfully. “Ah, thou Wert present to my thoughts.”
“I am glad to hear it, my father,” said the gladiator,
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 I 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 l’”
“My boy my boy l’” 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 free-
dom, - that might be forgiven; but the prize of victory is
the blood of another. Oh, that is a deadly sin; no object
can purify it. Forbear ! forbear ! — rather would I be a
slave forever than purchase liberty on such terms l’
“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
\
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 193
gave me strength denied me wisdom, and I understand not
One word of what thou often preachest to me, – thou hast
picked up, I say, in this new creed, some singular fantasies
of right and wrong. Pardon me, if I offend thee; but re-
flect Against whom shall I contend ? Oh, couldst thou
know those wretches with whom, for thy sake, I assort,
thou wouldst think I purified earth by removing one of
them. Beasts, whose very lips drop blood; things, all
savage, unprincipled in their very courage; ferocious, heart-
less, 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 l 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 l’” {
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 2) be indeed that benevolent and
pitying Power which thou assertest Him to be, He will
know also that thy very faith in Him first confirmed me in
that determination thou blamest.”
“How ! what mean you?” said the slave.
“Why, thou knowest that I, sold in my childhood as a
slave, was set free at Rome by the will of my master, whom
I had been fortunate enough to please. I hastened to
Pompeii to see thee, – I found thee already aged and infirm,
under the yoke of a capricious and pampered lord; thou
hadst lately adopted this new faith, and its adoption made
thy slavery doubly painful to thee: it took away all the
softening charm of custom, which reconciles us so often to
the worst. Didst thou not complain to me that thou wert
compelled to offices that were not odious to thee as a slave,
but guilty as a Nazarene 2 Didst thou not tell me that thy
194 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII,
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 2
Didst thou not tell me, that even by pouring wine before
the threshold, and calling on the name of some Grecian deity,
thou didst fear that thou wert incurring penalties worse than
those of Tantalus, an eternity of tortures more terrible than
those of the Tartarian fields 2 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 com-
passionate and relieve. Could I hear thy groans, could I
witness thy mysterious horrors, thy constant anguish, and
remain inactive 2 No! by the immortal gods ! the
thought struck me like light from Olympus ! I had no
money, but I had strength and youth, – these were thy
gifts; I could sell these in my turn for thee I learned
the amount of thy ransom, - I learned that the usual
prize of a victorious gladiator would doubly pay it. I be.
came a gladiator, – I linked myself with those accursed
men, scorning, loathing, while I joined ; I acquired their
skill, - blessed be the lesson it shall teach me to free my
father | ?”
“Oh, that thou couldst hear Olinthus !” sighed the old
man, more and more affected by the virtue of his son, but
not less strongly convinced of the criminality of his purpose.
“I will hear the whole world talk, if thou wilt,”
answered the gladiator, 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 !”
THE LAST DA YS OF POMPEII. 195
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 l’” said Medon,
fervently ; “ and may the great Power that reads all hearts
see the nobleness of thine, and forgive its error l’’
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 unmoving as a thing of stone.
His heart! — who in our happier age, can even imagine its
struggles, – its commotion ?
“May I enter ?” said a sweet voice. “Is thy mistress
Julia within 2 ”
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 ad-
jacent staircase (by which you descended to Julia's apart-
ment), where, summoning a female slave, he consigned to
her the charge of the blind girl.
CHAPTER VII.
THE DIRESSING—ROOM OF A POMPEIAN BEAUTY. — IM—
PORTANT CONVERSATION BETWEEN JULIA AND NYDIA.
THE elegant Julia sat in her chamber, with her slaves
around her; like the cubiculum which adjoined it, the
room was small, but much larger than the usual apartments
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
\96 TIH E LA ST DAYS OF POMPE II.
which the citizens of Pompeii evidently thought it desir-
able to pass the night. But, in fact, “bed” with the
ancients was not that grave, serious, and important part of
domestic mysteries which it is with us. The couch itself
was more like a very narrow and small sofa, light enough
to be transported easily, and by the occupant himself," from
place to place; and it was, no doubt, constantly shifted
from chamber to chamber, according to the caprices of the
inmate, or the changes of the season; for that side of
the house which was crowded in one month might, perhaps,
be carefully avoided in the next. There was also among
the Italians of that period a singular and fastidious appre-
hension of too much daylight; their darkened chambers,
which first appear to us the result of a negligent archi-
tecture, were the effect of the most elaborate study. In
their porticos and gardens, they courted the sun whenever
it so pleased their luxurious tastes. In the interior of their
houses they sought rather the coolness and the shade.
Julia's apartment at that season was in the lower part
of the house, immediately beneath the state rooms above,
and looking upon the garden, with which it was on a level.
The wide door, which was glazed, alone admitted the morn-
ing 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 delicate rouge gave
the brightest beam to her dark glance, and the most youth-
ful 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 dim-
mess of the room glowed brightly the vivid and various
colorings of the wall, in all the dazzling frescoes of Pom-
peian taste. Before the dressing-table, and under the feet
of Julia, was spread a carpet woven from the looms of the
East. Near at hand, on another table, was a silver basin
and ewer; an extinguished lamp, of most exquisite work-
* “Take up thy bed and walk” was (as Sir W. Gell somewhere observes)
no metaphorical expression. *
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 197
manship, in which the artist had represented a Cupid re-
posing 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
cubiculum hung a curtain richly broidered with gold flow-
ers. Such was the dressing-room of a beauty eighteen cen-
turies ago.
The fair Julia leaned indolently back on her seat, while
the ornatrix (that is, hairdresser) slowly piled, one above
the other, a mass of small curls, — dexterously weaving the
false with the true, and carrying the whole fabric to a
height that seemed to place the head rather at the centre
than the summit of the human form.
Her tunic, of a deep amber, which well set off her dark
hair and somewhat embrowned complexion, swept in ample
folds to her feet, which were cased in slippers, fastened
round the slender ankle by white thongs, while a profusion
of pearls were embroidered in the slipper itself, which was
of purple, and turned slightly upward as do the Turkish
slippers at this day. An old slave, skilled by long experi-
ence in all the arcana of the toilet, stood beside the hair-
dresser, 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 beautiful eye-
brows are 2 One would think you were dressing Corinna,
whose face is all of one side. Now put in the flowers;
what, fool! — not that dull pink, -you are not suiting
colors to the dim cheek of Chloris; it must be the brightest
flowers that can alone suit the cheek of the young Julia.”
“Gently l’” said the lady, stamping her small foot vio-
lently ; “you pull my hair as if you were plucking up a
weed ”
“Dull thing !” continued the directress of the ceremony.
“Do you not know how delicate is your mistress 2 — 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 so lovely as yourself 7”
When after innumerable comments, difficulties, and
delays, the intricate tower was at length completed, the
198 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
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, skil-
fully placed by the rosy lips, attracted attention to their
dimples, and to the teeth, to which already every art had
been applied in order to heighten the dazzle of their natural
whiteness. .
To another slave, hitherto idle, was now consigned the
charge of arranging the jewels, — the ear-rings of pearl (two
to each ear); the massive bracelets of gold; the chain formed
of rings of the same metal, to which a talisman, cut in
crystals, was attached; the graceful buckle on the left
shoulder, in which was set an exquisite cameo of Psyche;
the girdle of purple 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, l’” said the flower-girl, arresting her steps
within a few paces from the spot where Julia sat, and cross-
ing her arms upon her breast. “I have obeyed your com-
mands.”
“You have done well, flower-girl,” answered the lady.
“ Approach, – you may take a seat.” *
One of the slaves placed a stool by Julia, and Nydia
seated herself.
Julia looked hard at the Thessalian for some moments
in rather an embarrassed silence. She then motioned her
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 2 ”
“I am with her at present,” answered Nydia.
“Is she as handsome as they say?”
“I know not,” replied Nydia. “How can I judge 7”
“Ah, I should have remembered. But thou hast ears,
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 199
if not eyes. Do thy fellow-slaves tell thee she is hand-
some 2 Slaves talking with one another forget to flatter
even their mistress.”
“They tell me that she is beautiful.”
“Hem – say they that she is tall ?”
<! Yes.”
“Why, so am I. Dark-haired ?”
“I have heard so.”
“So am I. And doth Glaucus visit her much 2 °
“Daily,” returned Nydia, with a half-suppressed sigh.
“Daily indeed! Does he find her handsome?”
“I should think so, since they are so soon to be wedded.”
“Wedded !” cried Julia, turning pale even through the
false roses on her cheek, and starting from her couch.
Nydia did not, of course, perceive the emotion she had
caused. Julia remained a long time silent ; but her heav-
ing 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 1”
“Thessaly is the land of magic and of witches, of talis-
mans and of love-philtres,” said Julia.
“It has ever been celebrated for its sorcerers,” returned
Nydia, timidly.
“Knowest thou, then, blind Thessalian, of any love-
charms | *
“Il" said the flower-girl, coloring; “I/ how should I?
No, assuredly not l”
“The worse for thee; I could have given thee gold
enough to have purchased thy freedom hadst thou been
more wise.”
“But what,” asked Nydia, “can induce the beautiful and
wealthy Julia to ask that question of her servant 2 Has
she not money and youth and loveliness 2 Are they not
love-charms enough to dispense with magic 2 °
“To all but one person in the world,” answered Julia,
haughtily : “but methinks thy blindness is infectious; and
— But no matter.”
“And that one person ?” said Nydia, eagerly.
“Is not Glaucus,” replied Julia, with the customary deceit
of her sex. “ Glaucus, – no l’’
200 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
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 2 — am loved not in return This humbles — nay, not
humbles — but it stings my pride. I would see this in-
grate at my feet, — not in order that I might raise, but that
I might spurn him. When they told me thou wert Thessa-
lian, I imagined thy young mind might have learned the
dark secrets of thy clime.” * -
“Alas! no,” murmured Nydia; “would it had ' "
“Thanks, at least, for that kindly wish,” said Julia, uncon-
scious of what was passing in the breast of the flower-girl.
“But tell me, – thou hearest the gossip of slaves, always
prone to these dim beliefs; always ready to apply to sorcery
for their own low loves, – hast thou ever heard of any
Eastern magician in this city, who possesses the art of which
thou art ignorant 2 No vain chiromancer, no juggler of the
market-place, but some more potent and mighty magician of
India or of Egypt. 2”
“Of Egypt 2–yes!” said Nydia, shuddering. “What
Pompeian has not heard of Arbaces 2 ”
“Arbaces ! true,” replied Julia, grasping at the recollec-
tion. “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 l’”
“If there be one magician living whose art is above that
of others, it is that dread man,” answered Nydia; and she
felt her talisman while she spoke.
“He is too wealthy to divine for money 2” continued
Julia, sneeringly. “Can I not visit him 2 ”
“It is an evil mansion for the young and the beautiful,”
replied Nydia. “I have heard, too, that he languishes
in — ”
“An evil mansion | * said Julia, catching only the first
sentence. “Why so 7”
“The orgies of his midnight leisure are impure and pol-
luted, – at least, so says rumor.”
“By Ceres, by Pan, and by Cybele ! thou dost but pro.
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 201
voke my curiosity, instead of exciting my fears,” returned
the wayward and pampered Pompeian. “I will seek and
question him of his lore. If to these orgies love be ad-
mitted, - why, the more likely that he knows its secrets!”
Nydia did not answer.
“I will seek him this very day,” resumed Julia; “nay,
why not this very hour 2 ”
“At daylight, and in his present state, thou hast assuredly
the less to fear,” answered Nydia, yielding to her own sud-
den 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 2 ” 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.”
“I cannot take thy present,” said Nydia, putting aside
the bracelet; “but, young as I am, I can sympathize un-
bought with those who love, – and love in vain.”
“Sayest thou so 2 ” returned Julia. “Thou speakest like
a free woman, – and thou shalt yet be free; farewell !”
CHAPTER VIII.
JULIA SEEKS ARBACES. — THE RESULT OF THAT INTERVIEW.
ARBACES was seated in a chamber which opened on a
kind of balcony or portico that fronted his garden. His
cheek was pale and worn with the sufferings he had
endured, but his iron frame had already recovered from the
severest effects of that accident which had frustrated his
fell designs in the moment of victory. The air that came
fragrantly to his brow revived his languid senses, and the
202 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
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 prosper-
ous 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 ven-
geance 2 Of that let me ponder well ! Oh, Até, if thou art
indeed a goddess, fill me with thy direst inspiration l’” The
Egyptian sank into an intent reverie, which did not seem
to present to him any clear or satisfactory suggestions. He
changed his position restlessly, as he 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 2 ”
“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 accompanied
every motion of the peerless Neapolitan; the chaste and
decorous garb, so simple even in the care of its arrange-
ment; the dignified yet bashful step ; the majesty of
womanhood and its modesty ?
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 203
“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 unfort-
unate female who seeks consolation from thy wisdom.”
“Draw near, fair stranger,” said Arbaces; “and speak
without apprehension or reserve.”
Julia placed herself on a seat beside the Egyptian, and
wonderingly gazed around an apartment whose elaborate
and costly luxuries shamed even the ornate enrichment
of her father’s mansion; fearfully, too, she regarded the
hieroglyphical inscriptions on the walls, the faces of the
mysterious images, which at every corner gazed upon her,
the tripod at a little distance, and, above all, the grave and
remarkable 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 impressive 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 ?” -
“Hal” 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 2 Deign, O maiden,
to lift thy veil, that I may see at least if the face corre-
spond in loveliness with the form.”
Not unwilling, perhaps, to exhibit her charms, and think-
ing they were likely to interest the magician in her fate,
Julia, after some slight hesitation, raised her veil, and
204 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
revealed a beauty, which, but for art, had been indeed
attractive to the fixed gaze of the Egyptian.
“Thou comest to me for advice in unhappy love,” said
he ; “well, turn that face on the ungrateful one: what other
love-charm can I give thee ?”
“Oh, cease these courtesies,” said Julia; “it is a love-
charm, indeed, that I would ask from thy skill.”
“Fair stranger,” replied Arbaces, somewhat scornfully,
“love-spells are not among the secrets I have wasted the
midnight oil to attain.”
“Is it indeed so 2 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 ?”
“I am richer than he who disdains me.”
“Strange and more strange And thou lovest him who
loves not thee ?” tº
“I know not if I love him,” answered Julia, haughtily;
“but I know that I would see myself triumph over a rival;
I would see him who rejected me my suitor, – I would see
her whom he has preferred, in her turn despised.”
“A natural ambition and a womanly,” said the Egyptian,
in a tone too grave for irony. “Yet more, fair maiden;
wilt thou confide to me the name of thy lover ? Can he be
Pompeian, and despise wealth, even if blind to beauty ?”
“He is of Athens,” answered Julia, looking down.
“Hal” 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 ?”
THE L.H. ST’ D.H. YS OF POMPE II. 205
“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 him-
self; 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 2
“I see thou canst assist me not,” said Julia, offended by
his continued silence; “guard at least my secret. Once
more, farewell !”
“Maiden,” said the Egyptian, in an earnest and serious
tone, “thy suit hath touched me, – I will minister to thy
will. Listen to me; I have not myself dabbled in these
lesser mysteries, but I know one who hath. At the base of
Wesuvius, 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
home of her whom thou speakest of ; the way, short though
it be, is long to traverse for a girl who leaves, unknown, the
house of her father. The country is entangled with wild
vines, and dangerous with precipitous caverns. I dare not
trust to mere strangers to guide me ; the reputation of
women of my rank is easily tarnished, - and though I care
not who knows that I love Glaucus, I would not have it
imagined that I obtained his love by a spell.”
“Were I but three days advanced in health,” said the
Egyptian, rising and walking (as if to try his strength)
across the chamber, but with irregular and feeble steps, “I
myself would accompany thee. Well, thou must wait.”
“But Glaucus is soon to wed that hated Neapolitan.”
« Wed 1 ''
“Yes; in the early part of next month.”
“So soon | Art thou well advised of this 2 ”
“From the lips of her own slave.”
“It shall not be l’” said the Egyptian, impetuously.
“Fear nothing, Glaucus shall be thine. Yet how, when
thou obtainest it, canst thou administer to him this
potion ?”
206 THE LA ST DAYS OF POMPEII.
“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 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 the garden; and I myself
will guide thee to the witch. Let us wait till, with the
evening star, the goats of the herdsmen are gone to rest, —
when the dark twilight conceals us, and none shall cross
our steps. Go home, and fear not. By Hades, swears Ar-
baces, the sorcerer of Egypt, that Ione shall never wed with
Glaucus !”
“And that Glaucus shall be mine 2" 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 execu-
tion 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 ven-
geance, have ye sent this fair fool for my guide l’” 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 name
and condition. This done, he stepped forth into the por-
tico. The skies were serene and clear; but he, deeply
read in the signs of their various change, beheld in one
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 207
mass of cloud, far on the horizon, which the wind began
slowly to agitate, that a storm was brooding above.
“It is like my vengeance,” said he, as he gazed; “th:
sky is clear but the cloud moves on.”
CHAPTER IX.
A storM IN THE SOUTH. — THE WITCH's CAVERN.
IT was when the heats of noon died gradually away from
the earth, that Glaucus and 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 excur-
sions, 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 commodi-
ously arranged than the modern, inasmuch as the occupant
thereof could lie down at ease, instead of being perpendic-
ularly 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 which could be raised
at pleasure ; and, in short, answering very much the pur-
pose of (though very different in shape from) the modern
britska. It was a vehicle of this description that the lovers,
accompanied by one female slave of Ione, now used in their
excursion. About ten miles from the city, there was at
that day an old ruin, the remains of a temple, evidently
Grecian; and as for Glaucus and 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, wind-
ing 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
* For public festivals and games they used one more luxurious and costly,
called pilentum, with four wheels.
* But they had also the sella, or sedan, in which they sat as we do.
208 THE LA ST DAYS OF POMPEII.
gray and horrent caverns indenting 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 to stir; while on their right they
caught, ever and anon, glimpses of the waveless sea, with
some light bark skimming its surface, and the sunlight
breaking over the deep in, those countless and softest hues
so peculiar to that delicious sea.
“How beautiful,” said Glaucus, in a half-whispered tone,
“is that expression by which we call Earth our Mother
With what a kindly equal love she pours her blessings
upon her children; and even to those sterile spots to which
Nature has denied beauty, she yet contrives to dispense
her smiles, – witness the arbutus and the vine, which she
wreathes over the arid and burning soil of yon extinct vol-
cano. Ah, in such an hour and scene as this, well might
we imagine that the laughing face of the Faun should peep
forth from those green festoons; or that we might trace the
steps of the Mountain Nymph through the thickest mazes of
the glade. But the Nymphs ceased, 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 com-
monplace. 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 Hes-
i. appeared in the rosy heavens; and then returning
omeward in the twilight they were more silent than they
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 209
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 first, a
low and distant thunder gave warning of the approaching
conflict of the elements, and then rapidly rushed above the
dark ranks of the serried clouds. The suddenness of storms
in that climate is something almost preternatural, and might
well suggest to early superstition the notion of a divine
agency, — a few large drops broke heavily among the
boughs that half overhung their path, and then, Swift and
intolerably bright, the forked lightning darted across their
very eyes, and was swallowed up by the increasing darkness.
“Swifter, good Carrucarius !” cried Glaucus to the driver;
“ the tempest comes on apace.”
The slave urged on the mules; they went swift over the
uneven and stony road; the clouds thickened ; near and
more near broke the thunder, and fast rushed the dashing
I’all].
“Dost thou fear 2 ” whispered Glaucus, as he sought ex-
cuse in the storm to come nearer to Ione.
“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 car-
riage 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 snapped asunder,
and the rain poured fast and fiercely into the interior.
In this dilemma, what was to be done 2 They were yet
Some distance from the city, - no house, no aid, seemed
Ilòa,I’.
“There is,” said the slave, “a smith about a mile off; I
could seek him, and he might fasten at least the wheel to
the carruca, - but, Jupiter how the rain beats | my mis.
tress will be wet before I come back.”
210 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
“Run thither at least,” said Glaucus; “We must find the
best shelter we can till you return.”
The lane was overshadowed with trees, beneath the
amplest of which Glaucus drew 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 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 advancing gloom a red and tremulous light at no con-
siderable 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.”
“I 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 steps, and
hid from them, save by imperfect intervals, the guiding
beam. But faster and fiercer came the rain, and the light-
ning assumed its most deadly and blasting form; they were
still, therefore, impelled onward, hoping at last, if the light
eluded them, to arrive at some cottage, or some friendly
cavern. The vines grew more and more intricate, – the
light was entirely snatched from them ; but a narrow path,
which they trod with labor and pain, guided only by the
constant and long-lingering flashes of the storm, continued
to lead them towards its direction. The rain ceased sud-
denly ; precipitous and rough crags of scorched lava frowned
before them, rendered more fearful by the lightning that
THE LA ST DAYS OF POMPE II. 211
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 Mise-
num, with its lofty brow, to the beautiful Sorrentum and
the giant hills behind.
Our lovers stopped in perplexity and doubt, when Sud-
denly, as the darkness that gloomed between the fierce
flashes of lightning once more wrapped them round, they
saw near, but high before them, the mysterious light.
Another blaze, in which heaven and earth were reddened,
made visible to them the whole expanse; no house was
near, but just where they had beheld the light, they thought
they saw in the recess of a cavern the outline of a human
form. The darkness once more returned; the light, no
longer paled beneath the fires of heaven, burned forth
again; they resolved to ascend towards it. They had to
wind their way among vast fragments of stone, here and
there overhung with wild bushes; but they gained nearer
and nearer to the light, and at length they stood opposite
the mouth of a kind of cavern, apparently formed by huge
splinters of rock that had fallen transversely athwart each
other; and, looking into the gloom, each drew back invol-
untarily with a superstitious 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 bris-
tling, and a low growl stealing from between its teeth; in the
centre of the cave was an earthen statue which had three
heads of a singular 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
212 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
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 womant
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 ugli-
ness; on the contrary, her countenance betrayed the remains
of a regular but high and aquiline order of feature. With
stony eyes turned upon them; with a look that met and fas-
cinated theirs, – they beheld in that fearful countenance
the very image of a corpse ! — the same, the glazed and lus-
treless 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 gravel
“It is a dead thing !” said Glaucus.
“Nay; it stirs, – it is a ghost or larva,” faltered Ione, 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 2 ”
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 misgiv-
ing, 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 l’” said the witch; and at the sound of her
voice the beast dropped at once, covering its face with its
brush, and keeping only its quick, vigilant eye fixed upon
the invaders of its repose. “Come to the fire, if ye will,”
said she, turning to Glaucus and his companions. “I never
welcome living thing, — save the owl, the fox, the toad, and
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEI 1. 213
the viper, — so I cannot welcome ye; but come to the fire
without welcome, – why stand upon form 2 ”
The language in which the hag addressed them was a
strange and barbarous Latin, interlarded with many words
of some more rude and ancient dialect. She did not stir
from her seat, but gazed stonily upon them, as Glaucus now
relieved Ione of her outer wrapping garments, and, making
her place herself on a log of wood, which was the only other
seat he perceived at hand, fanned with his breath the embers
into a more glowing flame. The slave, encouraged by the
boldness of her superiors, divested herself also of her long
palla, and crept timorously to the opposite corner of the
hearth.
“We disturb you, I fear,” said the silver voice of Ione, in
conciliation. e
The witch did not reply; she seemed like one who has
awakened for a moment from the dead, and has then re-
lapsed 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 1—ha! haſ hal’’ 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 7" said Glaucus, some-
what sternly, as he concluded his invocation.
“Did I laugh 2 * 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 1” said she, abruptly.
“Thou art an uncourteous welcomer,” returned Glaucus.
“Hush ! provoke her not, dear Glaucus,” whispered
Ione.
“I will tell thee why I laughed when I discovered ye
were lovers,” said the old woman. “It was because it is
a pleasure to the old and withered to look upon young
214 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
hearts like yours, and to know the time will come when
you will loathe each other, — loathe, loathe, – hal haſ
ha, l’” §
It was now Ione'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 2 * returned the hag,
quickly; “and am I old and hideous and deathly now 2
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 2 ” said Glaucus, after a
pause, feeling uncomfortably oppressed beneath a silence
so appalling.
“Ah, long !—yes.”
“It is but a drear abode.”
“Ha! thou mayst well say that. Hell is 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 l’”
“And why the wretched ?” asked the Athenian.
“I am the witch of the mountain,” replied the sorceress,
with a ghastly grin; “my trade is to give hope to the hope-
less: for the crossed in love I have philtres; for the ava-
ricious, promises of treasure; for the malicious, 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 endeav-
ored to draw her into farther conversation. She did not
evince, by any alteration of her locked and rigid features,
that she even heard him. Fortunately, however, the storm,
which was brief as violent, began now to relax; the rain
grew less and less fierce, and at last, as the clouds parted,
THE LA ST DAYS OF POMPEII. 215
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 dis-
tance ; and the ghastly hag resting her deadly eyes upon
them,-yet seemingly serene and fearless (for the compan-
ionship 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.
“Witch 1” cried Glaucus, “ command thy creature, or
thou wilt see it dead.”
“It has been despoiled of its venom l’” said the witch,
aroused at his threat ; but ere the words had left her lip,
the snake had sprung upon Glaucus; quick and watchful,
the agile Greek leaped lightly aside, and struck so fell and
dexterous a blow on the head of the Snake, that it fell pros-
trate and writhing among the embers of the fire. t
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. h
“Thou hast,” said she, in a slow and steady voice, which
belied the expression of her face so much was it passionless
and calm, - “ thou hast had shelter under my roof, and
216 THE LA ST DAYS OF POMPEII.
warmth at my hearth; thou hast returned evil for good;
thou hast smitten and haply slain the thing that loved me
and was mine; nay, more the creature, above all others,
consecrated to gods and deemed venerable by man,” — now
hear thy punishment. By the moon, who is the guardian
of the sorceress; by Orcus, who is the treasurer of wrath, –
I curse thee, and thou art cursed 1 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 rais-
ing her right arm, when Glaucus burst impetuously on her
speech : —
“Hag | * cried he, “forbear ! Me thou hast cursed, and
I commit myself to the gods, – I defy and scorn thee; but
breathe but one word against yon maiden, and I will convert
the oath on thy foul lips to thy dying groan. Beware l’”
“I 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 2 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 Ione, 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 l” said Glaucus, impatiently. “Think-
est thou that the gods above us or below hear the impotent
ravings of dotage 2 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, ths words and
*A peculiar sanctity was attached by the Romans (as, indeed, by perhaps
every ancient people) to serpents, which they kept tame in their houses, and
often introduced at their meals. -
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 217
the laughter of the witch, still fearfully dwelt with Ione ;
and even Glaucus could not thoroughly shake off the im-
pression they bequeathed. The storm had subsided, -
save, now and then, a low thunder muttered at the distance
amidst the darker clouds, or a momentary flash of lightning
affronted the sovereignty of the moon. With some diffi-
culty they regained the road, where they found the vehicle
already sufficiently repaired for their departure, and the car-
rucarius calling loudly upon Hercules 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.
“It is too late for egress,” cried the sentinel to the in-
mate 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, methinks
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 !”
CHAPTER X.
THE LORD OF THE BURNING BELT AND HIs MINION. —
FATE WRITES HER PROPHECY IN RED LETTERs, BUT who
SHALL READ THEM 2
ARBACES 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
confide, he lay extended along his litter, and resigning his
218 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
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 narrow
path which the lovers had not been fortunate enough to
discover, but which, skirting the thick vines, led at once to
the habitation of the witch. Here he rested the litter, and
bidding his slaves conceal themselves and the vehicle among
the vines from the observation of any chance passenger,
he mounted alone, with steps still feeble, but supported
by a long staff, the drear and sharp ascent.
Not a drop of rain fell from the tranquil heaven; but
the moisture dripped mournfully from the laden boughs of
the vine, and now and then collected in tiny pools in the
crevices and hollows of the rocky way.
“Strange passions these for a philosopher,” thought
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 and
Vengeance treading to their goal, can make an Elysium of
a Tartarus.” High, clear, and melancholy shone the moon
above the road of that dark wayfarer, glassing herself in
every pool that lay before him, and sleeping in shadow
along the sloping mount. He saw before him the same
light that had guided the steps of his intended victims, but,
no longer contrasted by the 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 grave-
like and grim repose. By her feet, upon a bed of dry
weeds which half covered it, lay the wounded snake; but
the quick eye of the Egyptian caught its scales glittering
in the reflected light of the opposite fire, as it writhed,
now contracting, now lengthening, its folds, in pain and
unsated anger.
“Down, slave l’” said the witch, as before, to the fox ;
and, as before, the animal dropped to the ground, –
mute but vigilant.
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 219
“Rise, servant of Nox and Erebus !” said Arbaces, com-
mandingly ; “a superior in thine art salutes thee! Rise
and welcome him.”
At these words the hag turned her gaze upon the Egyp-
tian's towering form and dark features. She looked long and
fixedly upon him, as he stood before her in his Oriental
robe and folded arms and steadfast and haughty brow.
“Who art thou?” she said at last, “ that callest thyself
greater in art than the Saga of the Burning Fields, and the
daughter of the perished Etrurian race 2 ”
“I am he,” answered Arbaces, “from whom all cultiva-
tors of magic, from north to South, from east to west, from
the Ganges and the Nile to the vales of Thessaly and the
shores of the yellow Tiber, have stooped to learn.”
“There is but one such man in these places,” answered the
witch, “whom the men of the outer world, unknowing his
loftier attributes and more secret fame, call Arbaces the
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 cinct-
ure 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 evi-
dently not unknown to the saga. She rose hastily, and threw
herself at the feet of Arbaces. “I have seen, then,” said
she, in a voice of deep humility, “the Lord of the Mighty
Girdle, — vouchsafe my homage.”
“Rise,” said the Egyptian ; “I have need of thee.”
So saying, he placed himself on the same log of wood on
which 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
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
1 The Etrurians (it may be superfluous to mention) were celebrated for
their enchantments. Arbaces is wrong in assuming their Egyptian origin,
but the Egyptians arrogated the ancestry of almost every one of the more
illustrious races, and there are not wanting modern schoolmen who, too credu:
lously, support the claim.
220 THE LAST D.4 YS OF POMPEII.
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 * 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 I overrate thy skill ? Speak, and truly 1”
“Mighty Hermes, such lore is, indeed, mine own 1 Deign
to look at these ghostly and corpse-like features; they have
waned from the hues of life merely by watching over the
rank herbs which simmer night and day in yon 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
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 ; in-
stead 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 7" said Arbaces, sneeringly.
* Aaktv2.0puvavreia. 2 Kovºrozouavreia.
* Teppouavreia. * Boravouavreia.
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 221
The witch hid her loathsome face with her hands.
“Oh, years ago,” said she, in a voice unlike her usual
tones, so plaintive was it, and so soft, “I was not the thing
that I am now, - I loved, I fancied myself beloved.”
“And what connection hath thy love, witch, with my
commands 2 ” said Arbaces, impetuously.
“Patience,” resumed the witch, – “patience, I implore.
I loved Another and less fair than I — yes, by Nemesis
less fair — allured from me my chosen. I was of that dark
Etrurian tribe to whom most of all were known the secrets
of the gloomier magic. My mother was herself a saga : she
shared the resentment of her child; from her hands I re-
ceived the potion that was to restore me his love; and from
her, also, the poison that was to destroy my rival. Oh,
crush me, dread walls my trembling hands mistook the
phials; my lover fell indeed at my feet, but dead dead!
Since then, what has been life to me? I became suddenly
old; I devoted myself to the sorceries of my race; still by
an irresistible impulse I curse myself with an awful pen-
ance; still I seek the most noxious herbs; still I concoct the
poisons; still I imagine that I am to give them to my hated
rival; still I pour them into the phial ; still I fancy that
they shall blast her beauty to the dust; still I wake and
see the quivering body, the foaming lips, the glazing eyes
of my Aulus, – murdered, and by me !”
The skeleton frame of the witch shook beneath strong
convulsions.
Arbaces gazed upon her with a curious though contempt-
uous 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 her-
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
222 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
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 in-
sect, this Glaucus, I tell thee, by Orcus and by Nemesis,
he must die l’’ -
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 2 Let
it not be heard as that of a living man three days from
this date l’”
“Hear me !” said the witch, breaking from a short reverie
into which she was plunged after this last sentence of the
Egyptian. “Hear me ! I am thy thing and thy slave 1
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 pro-
tect thyself l’”
“Hal” said Arbaces, stopping suddenly short; and as
a proof of that blindness with which passion darkens the
eyes even of the most acute, this was the first time when
the risk that he himself ran by this method of vengeance
had occurred to a mind ordinarily wary and circumspect.
“But,” continued the witch, “if instead of that which
shall arrest the heart, I give that which shall sear and blast
the brain, which shall make him who quaffs it unfit for the
uses and career of life, – an abject, raving, benighted
thing, Smiting sense to drivelling, youth to dotage, – will
not thy vengeance be equally sated, thy object equally
attained ?”
“Oh, witch no longer the servant, but the sister, the
equal of Arbaces, how much brighter is woman's wit, even
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 223
in vengeance, than ours; how much more exquisite than
death is such a doom l’”
“And,” continued the hag, gloating over her fell scheme,
“in this is but little danger; for by ten thousand methods,
which men forbear to seek, can our victim become mad. He
may have been among the vines and seen a nymph;' or the
vine itself may have had the same effect, — ha, ha! they
never inquire too scrupulously into these matters in which
the gods may be agents. And let the worst arrive, – let it
be known that it is a love-charm, - why, madness is a
common effect of philtres; and even the fair she that gave
it finds indulgence in the excuse. Mighty Hermes, have I
ministered to thee cunningly 7”
“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
in vain the Master of the Flaming Belt. And here, Saga,
carve thee out, by these golden tools, a warmer cell in this
dreary cavern, – one service to me shall countervail a
thousand divinations by sieve and shears to the gaping
rustics.” So saying, he cast upon the floor a heavy purse,
which clinked not unmusically to the ear of the hag, who
loved the consciousness of possessing the means to purchase
comforts she disdained. “Farewell,” said Arbaces, “fail
not ; outwatch the stars in concocting thy beverage, – thou
shalt lord it over thy sisters at the Walnut-tree,” when thou
tellest them that thy patron and thy friend is Hermes the
Egyptian. To-morrow night we meet again.”
He stayed not to hear the valediction or the thanks of
the witch ; with a quick step he passed into the moonlit
air, and hastened down the mountain.
The witch, who followed his steps to the threshold, stood
long at the entrance of the cavern, gazing fixedly on his
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 super-
natural magic had escaped from the dreary Orcus, and, the
foremost of its ghostly throng, stood at its black portals,
*To see a nymph was to become mad, according to classic and popular
superstition. -
*The celebrated and immemorial rendezvous of the witches at Benevento.
The winged serpent attached to it, long an object of idolatry in those parts,
was probably consecrated by Egyptian superstitions.
224 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
vainly summoning his return, or vainly sighing to rejoin
him. The hag then slowly re-entering the cave, groaning:y
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 visible save at a near
approach, closed round as it was with jutting and sharp
crags, yawned before her ; she went several yards along this
gloomy path, which sloped gradually downwards, as if
towards the bowels of the earth, and, lifting a stone, de-
posited her treasure in a hole beneath, which, as the lamp
pierced its Secrets, seemed already to contain coins of
various value, wrung from the credulity or gratitude of her
visitors.
“I 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 l’’ -
She replaced the stone, and continued her path onward
for some paces, when she stopped before a deep, irregular
fissure in the earth. Here, as she bent, strange, rumbling,
hoarse, and distant sounds might be heard, while ever and
anon, with a loud and grating noise which, to use a homely
but faithful simile, seemed to resemble the grinding of
steel upon wheels, volumes of streaming and dark smoke
issued forth and rushed spirally along the cavern.
“The Shades are noisier than their wont,” said the hag,
shaking her gray locks; and, looking into the cavity, she
beheld, far down, glimpses of a long streak of light, in-
tensely but darkly red. “Strange,” she said, shrinking
back ; “it is only within the last two days that dull, deep
light hath been visible, – what can it portend ?”
The fox, who had attended the steps of his fell mistress,
uttered a dismal howl, and ran cowering back to the inner
cave; a cold shuddering seized the hag herself at the cry
of the animal, which, causeless as it seemed, the Super-
stitions of the time considered deeply ominous. She mut-
tered her placatory charm, and tottered back into her
cavern, where, amidst her herbs and incantations, she pre-
pared 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
- - -
"CIE WO10
-¿O EST, OH

THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 225
thing to dote; but when,” she added, with a savage and ex-
ulting 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 ”
On that night, and at the same hour which witnessed the
dark and unholy interview between Arbaces and the saga,
Apaccides was baptized.
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 2 ”
“Why, Nydia,” replied Julia, timidly, “dost thou really
think there is anything to dread 2 These old hags, with
their enchanted mirrors, their trembling sieves, and their
moon-gathered herbs, are, I imagine, but crafty impostors,
who have learned, perhaps, nothing but the very charm for
which I apply to their skill, and which is drawn but from
the knowledge of the field’s herbs and simples. Wherefore
should I dread 2 °
“Dost thou not fear thy companion ?”
“What, Arbaces 2 By Dian, I never saw lover more
courteous than that same magician | And were he not so
dark, he would be even handsome.”
Blind as she was, Nydia had the penetration to perceive
that Julia’s mind was not one that the gallantries of Arbaces
were likely to terrify. She therefore dissuaded her no more;
but nursed in her excited heart the wild and increasing
desire to know if sorcery had indeed a spell to fascinate love
to love.
“Let me go with thee, noble Julia,” said she at length;
“my presence is no protection, but I should like to be be-
side thee to the last.”
“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.”
226 THE LAST DAY'S OF POMPEII.
“Ione 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 l’” said the haughty Julia. “I
stoop to request no favor from the Neapolitan l’”
“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 curvetting 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 2 ”
“I have not seen her this morning,” answered Nydia;
<< but — ”
“But what ? Draw back, - the horses are too near
thee.”
“But think you Ione will permit me to pass the day with
Julia, the daughter of Diomed ? She wishes it, and was
kind to me when I had few friends.”
“The gods bless thy grateful heart 1 I will answer for
Ione's permission.”
“Then I may stay over the night, and return to-mor-
row 2 ” 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.
THE LA ST DAYS OF POMPEII. 227
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 disposition, her enter-
prise brought less of terror than of pleasurable excitement;
above all, she glowed at the thought of her coming triumph
over the hated Neapolitan.
A small but gay group was collected round the door of
the villa, as her litter passed by it to the private entrance
of the baths appropriated to the women.
“Methinks, by this dim light,” said one of the 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 mar-
ried her. She does not.disguise her attachment; and then,
as he gambles freely and with ill success — ”
“The sesterces would have passed to thee, wise Clodius.
A wife is a good thing, — when it belongs to another
man l’’
“But,” continued Clodius, “ as Glaucus is, I understand,
to wed the Neapolitan, I think I must even try my chance
with the dejected maid. After all, the lamp of Hymen will
be gilt, and the vessel will reconcile one to the odor of the
flame. I shall only protest, my Sallust, against Diomed’s
making thee trustee to his daughter's fortune.” I
“Ha! haſ 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. y
“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.
* 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, how.
ever, fallen into disuse before the date of this story.
228 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
Such appointments are the best part of the trade. Hark!
do you not hear the widow Fulvia clapping her hands 2
Run, fool, run ”
Julia and Nydia, avoiding the more public part of the
garden, arrived at the place specified by the Egyptian.
In a small, circular plot of grass the stars gleamed upon
the statue of Silenus, – the merry god reclined upon a
fragment of rock, the lynx of Bacchus at his feet, and over
his mouth he held, with extended arm, a bunch of grapes,
which he seemingly laughed to welcome ere he devoured.
“I see not the magician,” said Julia, looking round;
when, as she spoke, the Egyptian slowly emerged from the
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 !”
“It is but the blind flower-girl, wise magician,” replied
Julia ; “herself a Thessalian.”
“Oh, Nydia l’” said the Egyptian; “I know her well.”
Nydia drew back and shuddered.
“Thou hast been at my house, methinks 1” said he, ap-
proaching his voice to Nydia's ear; “thou knowest the oath !
Silence and secrecy, now as then, or beware
“Yet,” he added, musingly, to himself, “why confide
more than is necessary, even in the blind 2 Julia, canst
thou trust thyself alone with me? Believe me, the magi-
cian 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 assist-
ance 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 af.
frighted; she was moved by the flattery of Arbaces, and she
readily consented to suffer Nydia to await her return, –
nor did Nydia press her presence. At the sound of the
Egyptian's voice all her terror of him returned; she felt a
sentiment of pleasure at learning she was not to travel in
his companionship.
She returned to the bath-house, and in one of the private
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 229
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;
aecursed 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 fancies questioned of the
force of spells and the gifts of magic |
Nature had sown in the heart of this poor girl the seeds
of virtue never destined to ripen. The lessons of adver-
sity are not always salutary, - sometimes they soften and
amend, but as often they indurate and pervert. If we con-
sider 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 confused by a passion to which she had so madly sur-
rendered 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.
“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 fear-
ful incantations ! and the dead face of the hag! But, let us
talk not of it. I have obtained the potion, — she pledges
its effect. My rival shall be suddenly indifferent to his eye,
and I — I alone, the idol of Glaucus !”
230 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
“Glaucus !” exclaimed Nydia.
“Ay | I told thee, girl, at first, that it was not the Athe-
nian whom I loved; but I see now that I may trust thee
wholly, - it is the beautiful Greek l’”
What, then, were Nydia's emotions ! She had connived,
she had assisted, in tearing Glaucus from Ione; but only to
transfer, by all the power of magic, his affections yet more
hopelessly to another. Her heart swelled almost to suffo-
cation; she gasped for breath, – in the darkness of the
vehicle, Julia did not perceive the agitation of her compan-
ion; she went on rapidly dilating on the promised effect of
her acquisition, and on her approaching 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 authority over the dreadful saga.
Meanwhile Nydia recovered her self-possession; a thought
flashed across her; she slept in the chamber of Julia, – she
might possess herself of the potion.
They arrived at the house of Diomed, and descended to
Julia's apartment, where the night's repast awaited them.
“Drink, Nydia, thou must be cold; the air was chill
to-night ; as for me, my veins are yet ice.”
And Julia unhesitatingly quaffed deep draughts of the
spiced wine.
“Thou hast the potion,” said Nydia; “let me hold it in
my hands. How small the phial is Of what color is the
draught 7”
“Clear as crystal,” replied Julia, as she retook the phil-
tre; “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 2 °
“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 crystal
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 * *
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPE II. 231
“ Usually; but sometimes it remains dormant for a few
hours.”
“Oh, how sweet is this perfume !” said Nydia, suddenly,
as she took up a small bottle on the table, and bent over its
fragrant contents.
“Thinkest thou so 2 The bottle is set with gems of
some value. Thou wouldst not have the bracelet yester-
morn. Wilt thou take the bottle 2 ”
“It ought to be such perfumes as these that should
remind one who cannot see of the generous Julia. If the
bottle be not too costly — ”
“Oh, I have a thousand costlier ones; take it, child !”
Nydia bowed her gratitude, and placed the bottle in her
vest.
“And the draught would be equally efficacious, whoever
administered it 2 ”
“If the most hideous hag beneath the sun bestowed it,
such is its asserted virtue that Glaucus would deem her
beautiful, and none but her l’’
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, –
“I will not suffer this holy draught to quit my presence
till the hour comes for its uses. Lie under my pillow,
bright spirit, and give me happy dreams l’’
So saying, she placed the potion under her pillow.
Nydia's heart beat violently.
“Why dost thou drink that unmixed water, Nydia 7
Take the wine by its side.”
“I am fevered,” replied the blind girl, “and the water
cools me. I will place this bottle by my bedside; it re-
freshes in these summer nights, when the dews of sleep fall
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
232 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
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.
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 con-
tained them ; and then, refilling the former reservoir of
the potion with that limpid water which Julia had assured
her it so resembled, she once more placed the phial in its
former place. She then stole again to her couch and
waited — with what thoughts — the dawning day.
The sun had risen; Julia slept still, - Nydia noiselessly
dressed herself, placed her treasure carefully in her vest,
took up her staff, and hastened to quit the house.
The porter, Medon, saluted her kindly as she descended
the steps that led to the street : she heard him not ; her
mind was confused and lost in the whirl of tumultuous
thoughts, each thought a passion. She felt the pure morn-
ing air upon her cheek, but it cooled not her scorching
Veln S.
“ 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 I O joy O trans.
port l — thy fate is in these hands !”
THE LAST DA YS OF POMPEII. 233
BOOK IV.
CHAPTER I.
REFLECTIONS ON THE ZEAL OF THE EARLY CHRISTIANS. —
TWO MEN COME TO A PERILOUS RESOLVE. — WALLS
HAVE EARS, PARTICULARLY SACRED WALLs.
WHoEveR regards the early history of Christianity, will
perceive how necessary to its triumph was that fierce spirit
of zeal which, fearing no danger, accepting no compromise,
inspired its champions and sustained its martyrs. In a
dominant church the genius of intolerance betrays its cause,
— in a weak and a persecuted church, the same genius
mainly supports. It was necessary to scorn, to loathe, to
abhor the creeds of other men, in order to conquer the
temptations which they presented, - it was necessary
rigidly to believe not only that the Gospel was the true
faith, but the sole true faith that saved, in order to nerve
the disciple to the austerity of its doctrine, and to encour-
age him to the sacred and perilous 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 tenets upon the scepticism of some, the repug-
nance of others, the sage contempt of the philosopher, the
pious shudder of the people; his very intolerance supplied
him with his fittest instruments of success; and the soft
Heathen began at last to imagine there must indeed be
something holy in a zeal wholly foreign to his experience,
234 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
which stopped at no obstacle, dreaded no danger, and even
at the torture, or on the scaffold, referred a dispute far other
than the calm differences of speculative philosophy to the
tribunal of an Eternal Judge. It was thus that the same
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 Apacides 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 priest-
hood. He could not, it was evident, profess to worship
God, and continue even outwardly to honor the idolatrous
altars of the Fiend.
Nor was this all; the sanguine and impetuous mind of
Olinthus beheld in the power of Apaecides the means of
divulging to the deluded people the juggling mysteries
of the oracular Isis. He thought Heaven had sent this in-
strument of his design in order to disabuse the eyes of the
crowd, and prepare the way, perchance, for the conversion of
a whole city. He did not hesitate then to appeal to all the
new-kindled enthusiasm of Apaecides, to arouse his courage,
and to stimulate his zeal. They met according to previous
agreement, the evening after the baptism of Apaccides, in
the grove of Cybele, which we have before described.
“At the next solemn consultation of the oracle,” said
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 mechanism
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 Apacides. He was rejoiced at so early an
opportunity of distinguishing his faith in his new sect, and
THE LAST DAYS OF POMP EII. 23;
5
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 overbound
of obstacles (the rashness necessary to all who undertake
venturous and lofty actions), neither Olinthus nor the pros-
elyte perceived the impediments to the success of their
scheme which might be found in the reverent superstition
of the people themselves, who would probably be loth, be-
fore the sacred altars of the great Egyptian goddess, to
believe even the testimony of her priest against her power.
Apaccides then assented to this proposal with a readiness
which delighted Olinthus. They parted with the under-
standing that Olinthus should confer with the more im-
portant of his Christian brethren on his great enterprise,
should receive their advice and the assurances of their sup-
port on the eventful day. It so chanced that one of the
festivals of Isis was to be held on the second day after this
conference. The festival proffered a ready occasion for the
design. They appointed to meet once more on the next
evening at the same spot; and in that 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.
“I 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.
236 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
CHAPTER II.
A CLASSIC HosT, COOK, AND KITCHEN. — APAECIDES SEEKs
IONE. — THEIR CONVERSATION.
IT was then the day for Diomed’s banquet to the most
select of his friends. The graceful Glaucus, the beautiful
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 prodigiously 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, at 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 ostenta-
tious. And we are told, indeed, in history, that one of the
most splendid of these entertainers usually feasted a select
party of three hundred. Diomed, however, more modest,
contented himself with 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 to
know that a master’s eye makes a ready servant. Accord-
ingly, with his tunic ungirdled on his portly stomach, his
easy slippers on his feet, a small wand in his hand, where-
with 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 apartment
in which the priests of the festival prepare their offerings.
On entering the kitchen, his ears were agreeably stunned
by the noise of dishes and pans, of oaths and commands.
Small as this indispensable chamber seems to have been in
all the houses of Pompeii, it was, nevertheless, usually fitted
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 237
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 dex-
terity 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, containing
stoves for four dishes, and an apparatus for heating 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 Con-
grio hath invited a whole legion of cooks to assist him.
They won’t serve for nothing, and this is another item in
the total of my day’s expenses. By Bacchus ! thrice lucky
shall I be if the slaves do not help themselves to some of
the drinking vessels: ready, alas, are their hands, capacious
are their tunics. Me miserum. /*
The cooks, however, worked on, seemingly heedless of
the apparition of Diomed. +
“Ho, Euclio, your egg-pan | What, is this the largest ?
— it only holds thirty-three eggs; in the houses I usually
serve, the smallest egg-pan holds fifty, if need be ”
“The unconscionable rogue !” thought Diomed; “he
talks of eggs as if they were a sesterce a hundred l’”
“By Mercury !” cried a pert little culinary disciple,
scarce in his novitiate; “who ever saw such antique sweet-
meat shapes as these ? — it is impossible to do credit to
one's art with such rude materials. Why, Sallust's com-
monest sweetmeat shape represents the whole siege of
Troy; Hector and Paris, and Helen, – with little Astyanax
and the Wooden Horse into the bargain l’”
“Silence, fool!” said Congrio, the cook of the house,
who seemed to leave the chief part of the battle to his
allies. “My master, Diomed, is not one of those expensive
good-for-noughts, who must have the last fashion, cost what
it, Will l’”
“Thou liest, base slave l’’ cried Diomed, in a great pas-
sion, — “ and thou costest me already enough to have
238 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPERI.
ruined Lucullus himself Come out of thy den, I want to
talk to thee.” -
The slave, with a sly wink at his confederates, obeyed
the command.
“Man of three letters,” “ said Diomed, with his face of
Solemn anger, “how didst thou dare to invite all those
rascals into my house ? I see thief written in every line
of their faces.”
“Yet, I assure you, master, they are men of most re-
spectable 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 2 °
“Nay, master, do not impeach my honesty 1 May the
gods desert me if –” -
“Swear not l” 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 assist-
ants, 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 AEtna ;
as if all the fires of Phlegethon had been scorching out its
juices. Be modest this time, Congrio, - wary and modest.
Modesty is the nurse of great actions; and in all other
things, as in this, if thou wilt not spare thy master's purse,
at least consult thy master's glory.”
“There shall not be such a coena seen at Pompeii since
the days of Hercules.”
1 The common witty objurgation, from the triliteral word “fur,” thief.
* The attagen of Phrygia or Ionia (the bird thus anglicized in the plural)
was held in peculiar esteem by the Romans. “Attagen carnis suavissimae.”
— Athen., lib. ix. cap. 8, 9. It was a little bigger than a partridge,
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 239
“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 ma-
ligned the comeliness of my sweetmeat shapes 2 I would
not be out of the fashion, Congrio.”
“It is but the custom of us cooks,” replied Congrio,
gravely, “to undervalue our tools, in order to increase
the effect of our art. The sweetmeat shape is a fair
shape and a lovely; but I would recommend, my mas-
ter, at the first occasion, to purchase some new ones
of a - *
“That will suffice,” exclaimed Diomed, who seemed re-
solved 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 2 ”
“‘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 l’”
“Oh, unconscionable prodigal what waste what pro-
fusion 1 — I am ruined But go, hasten, – inspect ' taste
perform 1 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
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 2° he asked.
“At the bath.”
“Ah, that reminds me !—time wanes; and I inust
bathe also.”
Our story returns to Apacides. On awaking that day
from the broken and feverish sleep which had followed
1 “Candiduli divina tomacula porci.”— Juvenal, Xi(x). 355. A rich and
delicate species of sausage.
* Archimagirus was the lofty title of the chief cook.
240 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPETI.
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 god-
dess whose ministering robe he wore Slowly he be-
came sensible of the hatred and the horror he should
provoke amongst the pious, even if successful; if frus-
trated 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 sharpest armory of obsolete and inapplicable legisla-
tion, would probably be distorted to meet ! His friends,
the sister of his youth, – could he expect justice, though
he might receive compassion, from them 2 This brave
and heroic act would by their heathen eyes be regarded,
perhaps, as a heinous apostasy, - at the best, as a piti-
able madness. *
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 hereditary
forms might be found in the conquest over both, achieved
by that humble priest. Had the early Christians been more
controlled by “the solemn plausibilities of custom,” — less
of democrats in the pure and lofty acceptation of that per-
verted word, – Christianity would have perished in its
cradle !
As each priest in succession slept several nights together
in the chambers of the temple, the term imposed on Apačcides
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPE II. 241
was not yet completed; and when he had risen from his
couch, attired himself, as usual, in his robes, and left his
narrow chamber, he found himself before the altars of the
temple.
In the exhaustion of his late emotions he had slept far
into the morning, and the vertical Sun already poured its
fervid beams over the sacred place.
“Salve, Apacides l’” 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 º'
“Could she reveal her true self to the people, Calenus,
how incenseless would be these altars l’’
“That,” replied Calenus, “may possibly be true; but the
deity is wise enough to hold commune with none but
priests.”
“A time may come when she will be unveiled without her
own acquiescence.”
“It is not likely; she has triumphed for countless ages.
And that which has so long stood the test of time rarely
succumbs to the lust of novelty. But, hark ye, young
brother, these sayings are indiscreet.”
“It is not for thee to silence them,” replied Apaecides,
haughtily.
“So hot!—yet I will not quarrel with thee. Why, my
Apacides, has not the Egyptian convinced thee of the neces-
sity of our dwelling together in unity ? Has he not con-
vinced thee of the wisdom of deluding the people and
enjoying ourselves 2 If not, oh, brother, he is not that great
magician he is esteemed !”
“Thou, then, hast shared his lessons ?” said Apaecides,
with a hollow smile.
“Ay, but I stood less in need of them than thou. Nature
had already gifted me with the love of pleasure, and the
desire of gain and power. Long is the way that leads the
voluptuary to the severities of life, but it is only one step
from pleasant sin to sheltering hypocrisy. Beware the
vengeance of the goddess, if the shortness of that step be
disclosed.” -
“Beware, thou, the hour when the tomb shall be rent,
and the rottenness exposed,” returned Apaecides, solemnly.
& Wale / ?”
242 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
With these words he left the flamen to his meditations.
When he got a few paces from the temple, he turned to look
back. Calenus had already disappeared in the entry room
of the priests, for it now approached the hour of that repast
which, called prandium by the ancients, answers in point of
date to the breakfast of the moderns. The white and
graceful fane gleamed brightly in the sun. Upon the altars
before it rose the incense and bloomed the garlands. The
priest gazed long and wistfully upon the scene, – it was the
last time that it was ever beheld by him
He then turned and pursued his way slowly towards the
house of 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 sur-
viving relative, his fondest, as his earliest friend.
He arrived at her house, and found her in the garden with
Nydia.
“This is kind, Apaecides,” 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 re-
ceive the expressions of my gratitude Oh, thou hast as-
sisted to preserve thy sister from dishonor What, what
can she say to thank thee, now thou art come at last 7”
“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 arbu-
tus clustering round them, the living fountain before, the
green-sward beneath their feet; the gay cicada, once so dear
to Athens, rising merrily ever and anon amidst the grass;
the butterfly, beautiful emblem of the soul, dedicated to
Psyche, and which has continued to furnish illustrations to
the Christian bard, rich in the glowing colors caught from
Sicilian skies," hovering about the sunny flowers, itself like
a winged flower, — in this spot, and this scene, the brother
* In Sicily are found, perhaps, the most beautiful varieties of the butterfly.
THE LAST DA YS OF POMPEII. 243
and 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 shattered, 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.
“Ione, 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 l’”
“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 Apaecides, with a shudder;
“ thou slightest my request already.”
“Shall I speak then to thee only of Isis 7”
“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 apostate; and I all sorrow
and shame for thee as an idolater. No, my sister, let us avoid
such topics and such thoughts. In thy sweet presence a
calm falls over my spirit. For a little while I forget. As
I thus lay my temples on thy bosom, as I thus feel thy gentle
arm embrace me, I think that we are children once more,
and that the heaven Smiles equally upon both. For, oh, if
hereafter I escape, no matter what peril, and it be permitted
me to address thee on One sacred and awful subject, —
should I find thine ear closed and thy heart hardened, what
hope for myself could countervail the despair for thee ? In
thee, my sister, I behold a likeness made beautiful, made
noble, of myself. Shall the mirror live 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 Baiae, hand in hand together, to pluck
244 THE LA ST' DA YS OF POMPEII.
the flowers of spring 7 Even so, hand in hand, shall we
enter the Eternal Garden, and crown ourselves with im-
perishable asphodel!”
Wondering and bewildered by words she could not com-
prehend, but excited even to tears by the plaintiveness of
their tone, Ione listened to these out-pourings of a full and
oppressed heart. In truth, Apaºcides 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 splenetic humors stagnant
and unheeded at the surface. Unheeding the petty things
around us, we are deemed morose; impatient at earthly in-
terruption to the diviner dreams, we are thought irritable
and churlish. For as there is no chimera vainer than the
hope that one human heart shall find sympathy in an-
other, so none ever interpret us with justice; and none,
no, not our nearest and our dearest ties, forbear with
us in mercy J When we are dead and repentance comes too
late, both friend and foe may wonder to think how little
there was in us to forgive
“I will talk to thee then of our early years,” said Ione.
“Shall yon blind girl sing to thee of the days of childhood 2
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
Apaecides. --
“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 to me!”
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: —
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 245
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 ;
But hope shines bright on everything
That waits us with the morrow.
Like sunlit glades,
The dimmest shades
Some rosy beam can borrow.
II.
It is not that our later years
Of cares are woven wholly,
But smiles less swiftly chase the tears,
And wounds are i. 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
246 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
art is to divert to a milder sadness on the surface the
pain that gnaweth at the core. And so with Apaecides,
yielding to the influence of the silver voice that reminded
him of the past, and told but of half the sorrow borne
to the present, he forgot his more immediate and fiery
sources of anxious thought. He spent hours in making
Ione alternately sing to and converse with him; and
when he rose to leave her, it was with a calmed and
lulled mind.
“Ione,” 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 2 °
“Dost thou think, then, that he who is truly good should
sacrifice every selfish interest in his zeal for virtue 2 ”
“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 2 ”
“So we are taught to hope.”
“Kiss me, my sister. One question more. Thou art to
be wedded to Glaucus; perchance that marriage may sepa-
rate us more hopelessly,– but not of this speak I now,
thou art to be married to Glaucus, dost thou love him 2
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 ? 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 I shall woman feel thus for man, and man feel
less devotion to his God?”
He spoke no more. His whole countenance seemed in-
stinct and inspired with a divine life : his chest swelled
proudly; his eyes glowed; on his forehead was writ the
majesty of a man who can dare be noble. He turned to
meet the eyes of Ione,— earnest, wistful, fearful ; he kissed
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 247
her fondly, strained her warmly to his breast, and in a
tmoment 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 con-
fide to him her alarm and uneasiness for her brother.
CHAPTER III.
A FASHIONABLE PARTY AND A DINNER A LA MoDE IN
POMPEII.
, MEAN while 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 com-
panion. 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 Lep-
idus; and therefore Glaucus liked him the best of his
companions; and he, in turn, appreciating the nobler qual-
ities of the Athenian, loved him almost as much as a
cold muraena, or a bowl of the best Falernian.
“This is a vulgar old fellow, this Diomed,” said Sallust;
“but he has some good qualities, – in his cellar !”
“And some charming ones, – in his daughter.”
“True, Glaucus; but you are not much moved by them, me-
thinks. I fancy Clodius is desirous to be your successor.”
248 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
“He is welcome. At the banquet of Julia's beauty, no
guest, be sure, is considered a musca.” "
“You are severe; but she has, indeed, something of the
Corinthian about her, — they will be well-matched, after
all ! What good-natured fellows we are to associate with
that gambling good-for-nought !”
“Pleasure unites strange varieties,” answered Glaucus.
“He amuses me — ”
“And flatters; but then he pays himself well ! He pow-
ders his praise with gold-dust.”
“You often hint that he plays unfairly, — think you so
really 2”
“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 re-
deem 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 2 There is no wisdom like that which
says enjoy.’”
“By Bacchus ! I doubt sometimes if we do enjoy the ut-
most of which life is capable.”
“I am a moderate man,” returned Sallust, “ and do not
ask “the utmost.” We are like malefactors, and intoxicate
ourselves with wine and myrrh, as we stand 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.” t
“Fie, Scythian l’”
“Pshaw the fate of Pentheus to him who denies Bacchus.”
“Well, Sallust, with all your faults, you are the best
1 Unwelcomed and uninvited guests were called muscae, or flies.
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 249
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 I should not, if it were in the middle of supper.
But, in truth, we Italians are fearfully selfish.”
“So are all men who are not free,” said Glaucus, with a
sigh. “Freedom alone makes men sacrifice to each other.”
“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 instructions for a subur-
ban villa laid down by the Roman architect, it may not be
uninteresting briefly to describe the plan of the apartments
through which our visitors passed.
They entered, then, by the same small vestibule at which
we have before been presented to the aged Medon, and
passed at once into a colonnade, technically termed the
peristyle; for the main difference between the suburban
villa and the town mansion consisted in placing, in the first,
the said colonnade in exactly the same place as that which
in the town mansion was occupied by the atrium. In the
centre of the peristyle was an open court, which contained
the impluvium.
From this peristyle descended a staircase to the offices;
another narrow passage on the opposite side communicated
with a garden; various small apartments surrounded the
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'oeil 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 glowing
250 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
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, communi-
cated 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 these apartments,
though almost on a level with the street, were one story
above the garden; and the terraces communicating with the
gallery were continued into corridors, raised above the pil-
lars, which, to the right and left, skirted the garden below.
Beneath, and on a level with the garden, ran the apart-
ments we have already described as chiefly appropriated to
Julia.
In the gallery, then, just mentioned, Diomed received his
guests.
The merchant affected greatly the man of letters, and
therefore, he also affected a passion for everything Greek;
he paid particular attention to Glaucus.
“You will see, my friend,” said he, with a wave of his
hand, “that I am a little classical here, — a little Cecro-
pian, – eh? The hall in which we shall sup is borrowed
from the Greeks. It is an OEcus 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
Bome; may you, Diomed, combine the viands as well as
the architecture l’”
“You shall see, you shall see, my Sallust,” replied the
merchant. “We have a taste at Pompeii, and we have
also money.” " º
“They are two excellent things,” replied Sallust. “But,
behold, the lady Julia | *
The main difference, as I have before remarked, in the
manner of life observed among the Athenians and Romans,
was, that with the first, the modest women rarely or never
took part in entertainments; with the latter, they were the
eommon ornaments of the banquet: but when they were
present at the feast, it usually terminated at an early hour.
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 251
Magnificently robed in white, interwoven with pearls
and threads of gold, the handsome Julia entered the apart-
ment.
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 tarried.
It was the mode among the courteous ancients to flatter
whenever it was in their power: accordingly, it was a sign
of ill-breeding to seat themselves immediately on entering
the house of their host. After performing the salutation,
which was usually accomplished by the same cordial shake
of the right hand which we ourselves retain, and sometimes,
by the yet more familiar embrace, they spent several min-
utes 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 no-
tions, 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 any.
thing 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 l’” echoed his umbra.
“Trifles trifles | * reiterated the merchant.
Meanwhile Glaucus found himself by one of the windows
of the gallery, which communicated with the terraces, and
the fair Julia by his side.
“Is it an Athenian virtue, Glaucus,” said the merchant's
daughter, “to shun those whom we once sought 2 °
“Fair Julia, – no l’”
“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 2 ”
252 THE LAST D.A. YS OF POMPEII.
“It would be an honor to the emperor to find a friend in
one so lovely.” *
“You evade my question,” returned the enamoured Julia.
“But tell me, is it true that you admire the Neapolitan
Ione 2 °
“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
color comes and goes ; you move away involuntarily, - you
are impatient to join Ione !” -
For at that moment Ione had entered, and Glaucus had
indeed betrayed the emotion noticed by the jealous beauty.
“Can admiration to one woman make me unworthy, the
friendship of another ? Sanction not so, O Julia, the libels
of the poets on your sex l’”
“Well, you are right, — or I will learn to think so.
Glaucus, yet one moment You are to wed Ione; is it
not so 2 ” *.
“If the Fates permit, such is my blessed hope.”
“Accept, then, from me, in token of our new friend-
ship, a present for your bride. Nay, 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 1’’ said Julia, as she joined the
wife of Pansa, and left Glaucus to seek Ione.
The widow Fulvia and the spouse of the aedile 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
THE LAST DA YS OF POMPEII. 253
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 long
faithful, I suspect; those foreigners are very faithless.”
“Oh, Julia 1" said Fulvia, as the merchant’s daughter
joined them; “ have you seen the tiger yet 2 ”
« No.”
“Why, all the ladies have been to see him. He is so
handsome !”
“I hope we shall find some criminal or other for him
and the lion,” replied Julia. “Your husband,” turning
to Pansa’s wife, “is not so active as he should be in this
matter.”
“Why, really, the laws are too mild,” replied the dame
of the helmet. “There are so few offences to which the
punishment of the arena can be awarded; and then, too,
the gladiators are growing effeminate The stoutest bes-
tiarii 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 Julia, in disdain.
“Oh, have you seen the new house of Fulvius, the dear
poet 2" said Pansa's wife.
“No ; is it handsome 2 ”
“Very l—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 l’’
“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 is impossible to
read the old stuff now.”
“I declare I am of your opinion,” replied the lady of
the helmet. “There is so much more force and energy in
the modern school.”
1 Mitres were worn sometimes by men, and considered a great mark of
effeminacy.
254 THE LA ST DAYS OF POMPEII.
The warrior sauntered up to the ladies.
“It reconciles me to peace,” said he, “when I see such
faces.”
“Oh, you heroes are ever flatterers,” returned Fulvia,
hastening to appropriate the compliment specially to her-
self.
“By this chain, which I received from the emperor's own
hand,” replied the warrior, playing with a short chain
which hung round the neck like a collar, instead of descend-
ing to the breast, according to the fashion of the peaceful,
— “ by this chain, you wrong me ! I am a blunt man: a
soldier should be so.”
“How do you find the ladies of Pompeii generally ” ”
said Julia.
“By Venus, most beautiful! They 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.
“I see it: by Hercules it is even disagreeable to be too
celebrated in these cities. At Herculaneum they climb the
roof of my atrium to catch a glimpse of me through the
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 exuviae, in the forum itself,”
returned the poet, with a significant glance at the women.
I have been among the tent-companions, the contubernales,
of the great Mantuan himself.”
“I know no general from Mantua,” said the warrior,
gravely. “What campaign have you served ?”
“That of Helicon.”
“I never heard of it.”
“Nay, Vespius, he does but joke,” said Julia, laughing.
“Joke! By Mars, am I a man to be joked!”
“Yes; Mars himself was in love with the mother of
jokes,” said the poet, a little alarmed. “Know then, O
Vespius ! that I am the poet Fulvius. It is I who make
warriors immortall ”
“The gods forbid!” whispered Sallust to Julia. “If
THE LA ST DAYS OF POMPE II. 255
Vespius were made immortal, what a specimen of tiresome
braggadocio would be transmitted to posterity l’”
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 coruer of the centre table was placed the aedile; 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 cther,
and the more advanced in years be similarly matched. An
agreeable provision enough, but one which must often have
offended those who wished to be thought still young.
The chair of Ione was next to the couch of Glaucus.”
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 ceiling. 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 Ornaments of silver
were ranged, much with the same ostentation (but with
* In formal parties the women sat in chairs, – the men reclined. It was
only in the bosom of ſamilies that the same ease was granted to both sexes,
— the reason is obvious.
256 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
more than the same taste) that we find displayed at a mod.
ern 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,
tied by the rind of the linden-tree, and each intermingled
with the ivy and the amethyst,-supposed preventives
against the effect of wine; the wreaths of the women only
were exempted from these leaves, for it was not the fashion
for them to drink wine in public. It was then that the
president Diomed thought it advisable to institute a basileus,
or director of the feast,- an important office, sometimes
chosen by lot; sometimes, as now, by the master of the
entertainment. .
Diomed was not a little puzzled as to his election. The
invalid senator was too grave and too infirm for the proper
fulfilment of his duty; the aedile Pansa was adequate
enough to the task: but then, to choose the next in official
rank to the senator, was an affront to the senator himself.
While deliberating between the merits of the others, he
caught the mirthful glance of Sallust, and, by a sudden in-
spiration, named the jovial epicure to the rank of director,
or arbiter bibendi.
Sallust received the appointment with becoming humility.
“I shall be a merciful king,” said he, “to those who drink
deep; to a recusant, Minos himself shall be less inexorable.
Beware l’” e
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 whispers, which
are worth all the eloquence in the world. Julia watched
them with flashing eyes. -
“How soon shall her place be mine !” thought she.
But Clodius, who sat at the centre table, so as to observe
well the countenance of Julia, guessed her pique, and re-
solved to profit by it. He addressed her across the table in
set phrases of gallantry; and as he was of high birth and
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 257
of a showy person, the vain Julia was not so much in love
as to be insensible to his attentions.
The slaves, in the interim, were constantly kept upon
the alert by the vigilant Sallust, who chased one cup by an-
other 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 am-
phora was pierced and emptied. The slaves, all under the
age of manhood (the youngest being about ten years old, –
it was they who filled the wine, – the eldest, some five years
older, mingled it with water), seemed to share in the zeal of
Sallust; and the face of Diomed began to glow as he
watched the provoking complacency with which they sec-
onded the exertions of the king of the feast.
“Pardon me, O Senator l’” said Sallust: “I see you
flinch ; your purple hem cannot save you, - drink l’’
“By the gods !” said the senator, coughing, “my lungs
are already on fire; you proceed with so miraculous a swift-
ness, that Phaeton himself was nothing to you. I am in-
firm, O pleasant Sallust: you must exonerate me.”
“Not I, by Vesta! I am an impartial monarch, –
drink | ?”
The poor senator, compelled by the laws of the table,
was 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 l’’ interrupted Sallust; “no stern Brutus here !
—no interference with loyalty ”
“But our female guests — ”
“Love a toper | Did not Ariadne dote upon Bacchus’’’
The feast proceeded; the guests grew more talkative and
noisy; the dessert or last course was already on the table ;
and the slaves bore round water with myrrh and hyssop
for the finishing lavation. At the same time, a small, cir-
cular table that had been placed in the space opposite the
guests suddenly, and as by magic, seemed to open in the
centre, and cast up a fragrant shower, sprinkling the table
and the guests; while, as it ceased, the awning above them
was drawn aside, and the guests perceived that a rope had
been stretched across the ceiling, and that one of those
258 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
nimble dancers for which Pompeii was so celebrated, and
whose descendants add so charming a grace to the festivi-
ties 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 peri-
cranium, and indulging the most vehement leaps, apparently
with the intention of alighting upon that cerebral region,
would probably be regarded with some terror by a party in
May Fair; but our Pompeian revellers seemed to behold
the spectacle with delighted curiosity, and applauded in
proportion as the dancer appeared with the most difficulty
to miss falling upon the head of whatever guest he particu-
larly 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 accustomed herself to this entertainment, the dancer
suddenly paused as a strain of music was heard from with-
out. 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 musi-
cian seemed to hit on the right tune; the dancer gave one
leap, swung himself down from the rope, alighted on the
floor, and vanished.
One art now yielded to another; and the musicians who
were stationed without on the terrace struck up a soft and
mellow air, to which were sung the following words, made
almost indistinct by the barrier between, and the exceeding
lowness of the minstrelsy : —
FESTIVE MUSIC SHOULD BE LOW.
I.
Hark! through these flowers our music sends its greeting
To your loved halls, where Psilas" shuns the day;
When the }. god his Cretan nymph was meeting,
He taught Pan's rustic pipe this gliding lay,
* A dance still retained in Campania. * Bacchus.
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 259
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 of
Pansa. -
“Do you wish Fulvius to sing 2 ” asked the king of
the feast, who had just called on the assembly to drink
the health of the Roman senator, a cup to each letter
of his name.
“Can you ask?” said the matron, with a complimentary
glance at the poet.
Sallust snapped his fingers, and whispering the slave who
came to learn his orders, the latter disappeared, and re-
turned in a few moments with a small harp in one hand, and
a branch of myrtle in the other.
The slave approached the poet, and with a low reverence
presented to him the harp.
“Alas! I cannot play,” said the poet.
“Then you must sing to the myrtle. It is a Greek
fashion: Diomed loves the Greeks, I love the Greeks, you
love the Greeks, we all love the Greeks, and between you
and me this is not the only thing we have stolen from them.
However, I introduced 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 pleas-
ant and well-tuned voice: —
260 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
THE CORONATION OF THE LOWES.
- I.
The . Loves one holiday
Were all at gambols madly;
But Loves too long can seldom play
Without behaving sadly.
They laugh'd, they toy'd, they romp'd about,
And then for change they all fell out.
Fie, fie! how can they quarrel so P
My Lesbia, – ah, for shame, love 1
Methinks 'tis scarce an hour ago
When we did just the same, love.
II.
The Loves, "t is 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,
It frightened all the Lares.
So fine a king was never known, –
Tº placed the helmet on the throne.
y 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.
1 Suggested by two Pompeian pictures in the museum at Naples, which
represent a dove and a helmet enthroned by Cupids.
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 261
If kings themselves thus find the strife
Of earth, unshared, severe, girl;
Why just to halve the ills of life,
Come, take your partner here, girl.
V.
Within that room the Bird of Love
The whole affair had eyed then;
The monarch hail'd the royal dove,
And placed her by his side then:
What mirth amidst the Loves was seen
“Long live,” they cried, “our King and Queen "
Ah Lesbia, would that thrones were mine,
And crowns to deck that brow, love
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 subject 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 P
This song, which greatly suited the gay and lively fancy
of the Pompeians, was received with considerable applause,
and the widow insisted on crowning her namesake with the
very branch of myrtle to which he had sung. It was easily
twisted into a garland, and the immortal Fulvius was
crowned amidst the clapping of hands and shouts of Io
triumphe ' The song and the harp now circulated round
the party, a new myrtle branch being handed about, stop-
ping 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,
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.
262 THE LAST DAYs of POMPEII.
gave the signal for the general dispersion. “Tarry yet a
moment, my friends,” said Diomed; “if you will go so
Soon, you must at least take a share in our concluding
game.”
So saying, he motioned to one of the ministri, and whis-
pering 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 pur-
chase one of these at the nominal price of the lowest piece
of silver: and the sport of this lottery (which was the favor-
ite 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 Her-
cules and the distaff; the widow Fulvia obtained a large
drinking-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 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
thine.”
In order to divert the impression which this incident had
occasioned in an assembly. which, considering the civiliza-
tion of the guests, would seem miraculously superstitious,
if at the present day in a country party we did not often
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. 263
see a lady grow hypochondriacal on leaving a room last of
thirteen, Sallust now crowning his cup with flowers gave
the health of their host. This was followed by a similar
compliment to the emperor; and then, with a parting cup
to Mercury to send them pleasant slumbers, they concluded
the entertainment by a last libation, and broke up the party.
Carriages and litters were little used in Pompeii, partly
owing to the extreme narrowness of the streets, partly to
the convenient smallness of the city. Most of the guests
replacing their sandals, which they had put off in the
banquet-room, and induing their cloaks, left the house on
foot attended by their slaves.
Meanwhile, having seen 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.”
“I pray the gods to grant it ! See, Glaucus, these
pearls are the present I destine to your bride; may Juno
give her health to wear them I ?” *
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 ac
cepting the necklace, though the gallant and proud Athe-
nian 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 l’”
She touched the cup with her lips, and then presented
it to Glaucus. The customary etiquette required that
Glaucus should drain the whole contents; he accordingly
did so. Julia, unknowing the deceit which Nydia had
practised upon her, watched him with sparkling eyes;
although the witch had told her that the effect might
not be immediate, she yet sanguinely trusted to an expe-
264 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
ditious operation in favor of her charms. She was dis-
appointed when she found Glaucus coldly replace the
cup, and converse with her in the same unmoved but
gentle tone as before. And though she detained him as
long as she decorously could do, no change took place in
his manner.
“But to-morrow,” thought she, exultingly recovering
her disappointment, — “to-morrow, alas for Glaucus !”
Alas for him indeed
CHAPTER IV.
THE STORY HALTs For A MOMENT AT AN EPIs ODE.
RESTLEss and anxious, Apaecides 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 dis-
tance no din, no sound, nor “busiest hum of men.”
Amidst the green banks crept the lizard and the grass-
hopper, 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 Apacides 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 rec-
ognized the voice, and, turning, he beheld the old, mysteri-
ous man whom he had seen in the congregation of the
Nazarenes.
The old man was sitting upon a fragment of stone
covered with ancient mosses; beside him were his staff
and scrip; at his feet lay a small, shaggy dog, the com-
panion in how many a pilgrimage perilous and strange.
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 265
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, testified to His servant.”
“Thou hast looked, they tell me, on the face of Christ 2 °
“And the face revived me from the dead. Know, young
proselyte to the true faith, that I am he of whom thou
readest in the scroll of the Apostle. In the far Judea, and
in the city of Nain, there dwelt a widow, humble of spirit
and sad of heart; for of all the ties of life one son alone
was spared to her. And she loved him with a melancholy
love, for he was the likeness of the lost. And the son died.
The reed on which she leaned was broken, the oil was
dried up in the widow’s cruse. They bore the dead upon
his bier; and near the gate of the city, where the crowd
were gathered, there came a silence over the sounds of woe,
for the Son of God was passing by. The mother, who fol-
lowed 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, ‘Is AY UNTO THEE,
AkISE.’ And the dead man woke and looked upon the face
of the Lord. Oh, that calm and solemn brow, that unutter-
able Smile, that careworn and sorrowful face, lighted up
with a God’s benignity, - it chased away the shadows of
the gravel I rose, I spoke, I was living, and in my
mother's arms, – yes, I am the dead revived The people
shouted, the funeral horns rung forth merrily : there was a
cry, ‘God has visited his people !” I heard them not, — I
felt, I saw nothing but the face of the Redeemer l’’
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
266 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
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 wit-
ness of immortality; I drew a new being from the grave.
O faded — 0 lost Jerusalem 1 —Him from whom came my
life, I beheld adjudged to the agonized and parching death!
— Far in the mighty crowd, I saw the light rest and glim-
mer over the cross; I heard the hooting 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 He con-
quered death : it hushed me, and I became calm. He who
had defied the grave for another, — what was the grave
to him 2 The sun shone aslant the pale and powerful
features, and then died away ! Darkness fell over the
earth; how long it endured I know not. A loud cry came
through the gloom, - a sharp and bitter cry ! — and all
was silent.
“But who shall tell the terrors of the night? I walked
along the city; the earth reeled to and fro, and the houses
trembled to their base; the living had deserted the streets,
but not the Dead : through the gloom I saw them glide —
the dim and ghastly shapes, in the cerements of the grave
— with horror, and woe, and warning on their unmoving
lips and lightless eyes! — they swept by me, as I passed;
they glared upon me, – I had been their brother; and they
bowed their heads in recognition; they had risen to tell the
living that the dead can rise !”
Again the old man paused, and, when he resumed, it was
in a calmer tone.
“From that night I resigned all earthly thought but that
of serving HIM. A preacher and a pilgrim, I have trav-
ersed 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 illimit.
able space.”
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 237
It was then that their conversation fell upon the general
and sublime doctrines of immortality; it soothed and ele-
vated 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 intol-
erant, — it was necessary to the part he was destined to
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 leaven of earthlier
and coarser passions, and left to the energy of the hero all
the meekness of the child.
“And now,” said he, rising at length, as the sun’s last
ray died in the west; “now, in the cool of twilight, I pursue
my way towards the Imperial Rome. There yet dwell some
holy men, who like me have beheld the face of Christ; and
them would I see before I die.”
“But the night is chill for thine age, my father, and the
way is long, and the robber haunts it ; rest thee till to-
morrow.”
“Kind son, what is there in this scrip to tempt the rob-
ber ? And the Night and the Solitude 1 — these make the
ladder round which angels cluster, and beneath which my
spirit can dream of God. Oh none can know what the
pilgrim feels as he walks on his holy course; nursing no
fear, and dreading no danger, — for God is with him He
hears the winds murmur glad tidings; the woods sleep in
the shadow of Almighty wings; — the stars are the Script-
ures of Heaven, the tokens of love, and the witnesses of
immortality. Night is the Pilgrim’s day.” With these
words the old man pressed Apaccides to his breast, and taking
up his staff and scrip, the dog bounded cheerily before him,
and with slow steps and downcast eyes he went his way.
The convert stood watching his bended form, till the trees
shut the last glimpse from his view: and then, as the stars
broke forth, he woke from the musings with a start, re.
minded of his appointment with Olinthus.
268 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
CHAPTER W.
THE PHILTEE — ITS EFFECT.
WHEN Glaucus arrived at his own home, he found Nydia
seated under the portico of his garden. In fact, she had
sought his house in the mere chance that he might return
at an early hour: anxious, fearful, anticipative, she resolved
upon seizing the earliest opportunity of availing herself of
the love-charm, while at the same time she half hoped the
opportunity might be deferred. :
It was then, in that fearful, burning mood, her heart
beating, her cheek flushing, that Nydia awaited the possi.
bility 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.”
“It has been warm,” said Glaucus, placing himself also
On one of the seats beneath the colonnade.
“Very.”
“Wilt thou summon Davus 2 The wine I have drunk
heats me, and I long for some cooling drink.”
Here at once, suddenly and unexpectedly, the very oppor-
tunity that Nydia awaited presented itself; of himself, at
his own free choice, he afforded to her that occasion. She
breathed quick, - “I will prepare for you myself,” said
she, “the summer draught that Ione loves, – of honey and
weak wine cooled in snow.”
“Thanks,” said the unconscious Glaucus. “If Ione
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 wor-
shipped 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,
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 269
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 dar-
ing whole ! What petty pique, what small revenge, what
expectation of a paltry triumph, had swelled the attributes
of that sentiment she dignified with the name of love but in
the wild heart of the Thessalian all was pure, uncontrolled,
unmodified passion, — erring, unwomanly, frenzied, but de-
based by no elements of a more sordid feeling. Filled with
love as with life itself, how could she resist the occasion of
winning love in return
She leaned for support against the wall, and her face,
before so flushed, was now white as snow ; and with her
delicate hands clasped convulsively together, her lips apart,
her eyes on the ground, she waited the next words Glaucus
should utter.
Glaucus had raised the cup to his lips, he had already
drained about a fourth of its contents, when his eye sud-
denly glancing upon the face of Nydia, he was so forc-
ibly struck by its alteration, by its intense, and painful, and
strange expression, that he paused abruptly, and still hold-
ing the cup near his lips, exclaimed, -
“Why, Nydia Nydia I say, art thou ill or in pain 2
Nay, thy face speaks for thee. What ails my poor child 2 ”
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 rush-
ing 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
270 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
kind of darkness fell over his eyes, – darkness, but not en-
tire, for through the dim shade he saw the opposite walls
glow out, and the figures painted thereon seemed, ghost-like,
to creep and glide. What was most strange, he did not feel
himself ill, - he did not sink or quail beneath the dread
frenzy that was gathering over him. The novelty of the
feelings seemed bright, — he felt as if a younger health had
been infused into his frame. He was gliding on to mad-
ness, – and he knew it not
Nydia had not answered his first question: she had not
been able to reply, — his wild and fearful laugh had roused
her from her passionate suspense : she could not see his
fierce gesture, — she could not mark his reeling and unsteady
step as he paced unconsciously to and fro; but she heard
the words, broken, incoherent, insane, that gushed from his
lips. She became terrified and appalled, - she hastened to
him, feeling with her arms until she touched his knees, and
then falling on the ground she embraced them, weeping with
terror and excitement.
“Oh, speak to me ! speak | you do not hate me 2 — speak,
speak l’”
“By the bright goddess, a beautiful land this Cyprus !
Ho! how they fill us with wine instead of blood now they
open the veins of the Faun yonder, to show how the tide
within bubbles and sparkles. Come hither, jolly old god
thou ridest on a goat, eh? — what long silky hair he has
FIe 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 1 Not a
breath stirs the leaves, – and I view the Dreams sleeping
with folded wings upon the motionless elm ; and I look
beyond, and I see a blue stream sparkle in the silent
noon; a fountain — a fountain springing aloft Ah my
fount, thou wilt not put out the rays of my Grecian
sun, though thou triest ever so hard with thy nimble and
silver arms. And now, what form steals yonder through
the boughs 2 She glides like a moonbeam, - she has a
garland of oak-leaves on her head. In her hand is a vase
upturned, from which she pours pink and tiny shells, and
sparkling water. Oh, look on yon face | Man never before
saw its like. See we are alone; only I and she in the
THE LA ST DAYS OF POMPEII. 271
wide forest. There is no smile upon her lips, – she moves,
grave and sweetly sad. Ha! fly, it is a nymph ( — it is one
of the wild Napaeae ' ' Whoever sees her becomes mad, -
fly see, she discovers me !”
“Oh, Glaucus ! Glaucus ! do you not know me 2 Rave
not so wildly or thou wilt kill me with a word ' "
A new change seemed 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 unsev-
ered, it seemed that her countenance brought its associa-
tions of Ione ; and with that remembrance his madness
became yet more powerful, and it was swayed and tinged
by passion, as he burst forth, –
“I swear by Venus, by Diana, and by Juno, that I have
now the world on my shoulders, as my countryman Her-
cules (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 outwatched the stars, thinking
thou, my sun, wouldst rise at last, — and thou lovest me
not, thou forsakest me ! Oh! do not leave me now ! I feel
that my life will not be long ; let me gaze on thee at least
unto the last. I am of the bright land of thy fathers; I
have trod the heights of Phyle; I have gathered the hy-
acinth and rose amidst the olive-groves of Ilyssus. Thou
shouldst not desert me, for thy fathers were brothers to
my own. And they say this land is lovely, and these
climes serene, but I will bear with me, —ho dark form,
why risest thou like a cloud between me and mine 2
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 l”
“ Glaucus. Glaucus !” murmured Nydia, releasing hel
* Presiding over hills and woods.
272 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
hold and falling, beneath the excitement of her dismay, re-
morse, and anguish, insensible on the floor.
“Who calls?” said he, in a loud voice. “Ione, it is she
they have borne her off; we will save her, — where is my
stilus 2 Ha, I have it ! I come, Ione, to thy rescue ! I
come ! I come !”
So saying, the Athenian with one bound passed the portico,
he traversed the house, and rushed with swift but vacillating
steps, and muttering audibly to himself, down the starlit
streets. The direful potion 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 wor-
shipped at Pompeii; but they who looked twice upon his
face, started in a nameless fear, and the smile withered
from their lips. He passed the more populous streets; and,
pursuing mechanically the way to Ione's house, he traversed
a more deserted quarter, and entered now the lonely grove
of Cybele, in which Apaecides had held his interview with
Olinthus.
CHAPTER WI.
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 formid-
able weapon. It was with his stilus' that Cassius stabbed
Caesar in the senate-house. Taking, then, his girdle and his
cloak, Arbaces left his house, supporting his steps, which
* From this stilus may be derived the stiletto of the Italians.
THE LA ST D.4 YS OF POMPEII. 273
were still somewhat feeble (though hope and vengeance had
conspired greatly with his own medical science, which was
profound, to restore his natural strength), by his long staff:
Arbaces took his way to the villa of Diomed.
And beautiful is the moonlight of the south ! In those
climes the night so quickly glides into the day, that twilight
scarcely makes a bridge between them. One moment of
darker purple in the sky; of a thousand rose-hues in the
water; of shade half victorious over light: and then burst
forth at once the countless stars; the moon is up, — night
has resumed her reign
Brightly then, and Softly bright, fell the moonbeams over
the antique grove consecrated to Cybele, — the stately trees,
whose date went beyond tradition, cast their long shadows
over the soil, while through the openings in their boughs the
stars shone, still and frequent. The whiteness of the small
sacellum in the centre of the grove, amidst the dark foliage,
had in it something abrupt and startling; it recalled at once
the purpose to which the wood was consecrated, - its holi-
ness and solemnity.
With a swift and stealthy pace, Calenus, gliding under the
shade of the trees, reached the chapel, and gently putting
back the boughs that completely closed around its réar, set-
tled himself in his concealment: a concealment so complete,
what with the fane in front and the trees behind, that no
unsuspicious passenger could possibly have detected him.
Again, all was apparently solitary in the grove; afar off you
heard faintly the voices of some noisy revellers, or the music
that played 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 moon-
light, a milder day.
From the height on which the grove was placed, you saw
through the intervals of the trees the broad and purple sea,
rippling in the distance, the white villas of Stabiaº 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 Apaºcides, also bound to
his appointment with Olinthus, crossed the Egyptian's path.
“Hem, Apacides,” said Arbaces, recognizing the priest
at a glance; “when last we met, you were my foe. I have
274 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
wished since then to see you, for I would have you still my
pupil and my friend.” -
Apa-cides started at the voice of the Egyptian ; and halt-
ing abruptly, gazed upon him with a countenance full of
contending, bitter, and scornful emotions.
“Villain and impostor l’” 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. Retiarius,
I am armed against thee l’”
“Hush !” said Arbaces, in a very low voice, — but his
pride, which in that descendant of kings was great, betrayed
the wound it received from the insulting epithets of the
priest in the quiver of his lip and the flush of his tawny
brow. “Hush more low ! thou mayest be overheard, and
if other ears than mine had drunk those sounds — why—”
“Dost thou threaten ?— what if the whole city had heard
me 2 ”
“The manes of my ancestors would not have suffered
me to forgive thee. But, hold, and hear me. Thou art en-
raged 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 re-
pented 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 2 Wealth unbounded;
birth that in its far antiquity leaves your Greek and Roman
names the things of yesterday; science — but 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 for-
give, – I may pardon thee that thou hast made me a tool
to thy deceits, but never that thou hast seduced me to be-
come the abettor of thy vices, a -polluted and a perjured
man. Tremble ! — even now I prepare the hour in which
thou and thy false gods shall be unveiled. Thy lewd and
Circean life shall be dragged to day; thy mumming Oracles
disclosed; the fane of the idol Isis shall be a by-word and a
scorn; the name of Arbaces a mark for the hisses of execra-
tion | Tremble !”
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 275
The flush on the Egyptian's brow was succeeded by a
livid paleness. He looked behind, before, around, to feel
assured that none were by ; and then he fixed his dark and
dilating eye on the priest, with such a gaze of wrath and
menace, that one, perhaps, less supported than Apaecides
by the fervent daring of a divine zeal, could not have faced
with unflinching look that lowering aspect. As it was, how-
ever, the young convert met it unmoved, and returned it
with an eye of proud defiance.
“Apaecides,” said the Egyptian, in a tremulous and
inward tone, “beware What is it thou wouldst meditate 2
Speakest thou — reflect, pause before thou repliest — from
the hasty influences of wrath, as yet divining no settled
purpose, or from some fixed design º’”
“I speak from the inspiration of the True God, whose
servant I now am,” answered the Christian, boldly ; “ and in
the knowledge that by His grace human courage has already
fixed the date of thy hypocrisy and thy demon’s worship;
ere thrice the sun has dawned, thou wilt know all ! Dark
sorcerer, tremble, and farewell !”
All the fierce and lurid passions which he inherited from
his nation and his clime, at all times but ill concealed
beneath the blandness of craft and the coldness of philosophy,
were 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 had baffled his
designs; the reviler of his name ; the threatened desecra-
tor 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 Apaºcides had adopted the Christian faith:
he knew the indomitable zeal which led on proselytes of
that creed. Such was his enemy; he grasped his stilus, –
that enemy was in his power They were now before the .
chapel; one hasty glance once more he cast around; he saw
none near, – silence and solitude alike tempted him.
“Die, then, in thy rashness ” he muttered; “away,
obstacle to my rushing fates 1’’
And just as the young Christian had turned to depart,
276 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
Arbaces raised his hand high over the left shoulder of
Apaecides, and plunged his sharp weapon twice into his
breast.
Apaecides fell to the ground pierced to the heart, — he
fell mute, without even a groan, at the very base of the
sacred chapel.
Arbaces gazed upon him for a moment with the fierce,
animal joy of conquest over a foe. But presently the full
sense of the danger to which he was exposed flashed upon
him ; he wiped his weapon carefully in the long grass, and
with the very garments of his victim ; drew his cloak round
him, and was about to depart, when he saw, coming up
the path, right before him, the figure of a young man,
whose steps reeled and vacillated strangely as he advanced :
the quiet moonlight streamed full upon his face, which
seemed, by the whitening ray, colorless as marble. The
Egyptian recognized the face and form of Glaucus. The
unfortunate and benighted Greek was chanting a discon-
nected and mad song, composed from Snatches of hymns
and sacred odes, all jarringly woven together.
“Ha,” thought the Egyptian, instantaneously divining
Wils 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 l’’
Quickly, even ere this thought occurred to him, he had
withdrawn on one side of the chapel, and concealed himself
amongst the boughs; from that lurking place he watched,
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 dis-
torted 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
Apaecides, 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 glim-
mering sense. He paused, placed his hand to his brow, as
if to collect himself, and then saying, —
“What ho! Endymion, sleepest thou so soundly 2 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.
THE LA ST DAYS OF POMPEII. 277
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 1’’ As he spoke, he placed his foot on
the breast of Glaucus : an idle and superfluous precaution ;
for the potion operating with the fall, the Greek lay there
motionless and insensible, save that now and then his lips
gave vent to some vague and raving sounds.
As he there stood awaiting the coming of those his voice
still continued to summon, perhaps some remorse, some com-
punctious visitings — for despite his crimes, he was human
— haunted the breast of the Egyptian : the defenceless
state of Glaucus, his wandering words, his shattered reason,
smote him even more than the death of Apaºcides, and he
said, half audibly, to himself, -
“Poor clay poor human reason 1 where is the soul now f
I could spare thee, O my rival, - rival never more But
destiny must be obeyed, - my safety demands thy sacri-
fice.” With that, as if to drown compunction, he shouted
yet more loudly; and drawing from the girdle of Glaucus
the stilus it contained, he steeped it in the blood of the
murdered man, and laid it beside the corpse.
And now, fast and breathless, several of the citizens came
thronging to the place, some with torches, which the moon
rendered unnecessary, but which flared red and tremulously
against the darkness of the trees: they surrounded the
spot.
“Lift up yon corpse,” said the Egyptian, “and guard well
the murderer.”
They raised the body, and great was their horror and
sacred indignation to discover in that lifeless clay a priest
of the adored and venerable Isis; but still greater, perhaps,
was their surprise, when they found the accused in the
brilliant and admired Athenian.
“ Glaucus !” cried the bystanders, with one accord ; “is
it even credible 2 ”
“I would sooner,” whispered one man to his neighbor,
“believe it to be the Egyptian himself.”
278 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
Here a centurion thrust himself into the gathering crowd,
with an air of authority.
“How ! blood spilt who the murderer?”
The bystanders pointed to Glaucus.
“He — by Mars, he has rather the air of being the
victim ' Who accuses him 2 ”
“I," 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 2 * said he.
“Arbaces, – it is well known, methinks, in Pompeii.
Passing through the grove, I beheld before me the Greek
and the priest in earnést 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 for-
ward, – too late to arrest the blow. He had twice stabbed
his victim, and was bending over him, when, in my horror
and indignation, I struck the murderer to the ground. He
fell without a struggle, which makes me yet more suspect
that he was not altogether in his senses when the crime
was perpetrated ; for, recently recovered from a severe ill-
ness, 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 2"
“The charge, – ha, – haſ 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 2 But I
am ill, - I faint, — the serpent’s fiery tongue hath bitten
me. Bear me to bed, and send for your physician; old
AEsculapius himself will attend me if you let him know
that I am Greek. Oh, mercy, mercy, — I burn 1 — marrow
and brain, I burn l’” g . -
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 ?”
“I,” said one of the spectators, “beheld him in the
THE LA ST DAYS OF POMPEII. 279
morning. He passed my shop and accosted me. He
seemed well and sane as the stoutest of us.”
“And I saw him half an hour ago,” said another, “pass-
ing up the streets, muttering to himself with strange gest-
ures, and just as the Egyptian has described.”
“A corroboration of the witness it must be too true.
He must at all events to the praetor; a pity, so young and
so rich But the crime is dreadful: a priest of Isis, in his
very robes, too, and at the base itself of our most ancient
chapel !”
At these words the crowd were reminded more forcibly,
than in their excitement and curiosity they had yet been,
of the heinousness of the sacrilege. They shuddered in
pious horror.
“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 conversation
with Medon has been repeated.
“True, true, – it chances in season for the games l’”
cried several ; and at that thought all pity for the accused
seemed vanished. His youth, his beauty, but fitted him
better for the purpose of the arena.
“Bring hither some planks — or if at hand, a litter — to
bear the dead,” said Arbaces; “a priest of Isis ought scarcely
to be carried to his temple by vulgar hands, like a butchered
gladiator.”
At this the bystanders reverently laid the corpse of
Apačcides 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 Olin-
thus the Christian stood immediately confronting the Egyp-
tian. But his eyes, at first, only rested with inexpressible
grief and horror on that gory side and upturned face, on
which the agony of violent death yet lingered.
280 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
“Murdered l’’ he said. “Is it thy zeal that has brought
thee to this? Have they detected thy noble purpose, and
by death prevented their own shame?”
He turned his head abruptly, and his eyes fell full on the
solemn features of the Egyptian.
As he looked, you might see in his face, and even the
slight shiver of his frame, the repugnance and aversion
which the Christian felt for one whom he knew to be so
dangerous and so criminal. It was indeed the gaze of the
bird upon the basilisk, - so silent was it and so prolonged.
But shaking off the 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 l’”
An anxious and perturbed change might for one moment
be detected on the dusky features of Arbaces; but it gave
way to the frowning expression of indignation and scorn, as,
awed and arrested by the suddenness and vehemence of the
charge, the spectators pressed nearer and nearer upon the
two more prominent actors.
“I know,” said Arbaces, proudly, “who is my accuser,
and I guess wherefore he thus arraigns me. Men and citi-
zens, know this man for the most bitter of the Nazarenes,
if that or Christians be their proper name ! What marvel
that in his malignity he dares accuse even an Egyptian of
the murder of a priest of Egypt 1"
“I know him " I know the dog l’” 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 em-
braced the Christian faith: he revealed to me the dark sins,
the sorceries of yon Egyptian, – the mummeries and delu-
sions of the fame 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 2 Who might fear that testimony the most 2 —
Arbaces, the Egyptian l’’
“You hear him l’” said Arbaces; “you hear him he
blasphemes | Ask him if he believes in Isis?”
THE LA ST" DA YS OF POMAE EII. 281
“Do 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 pol-
luting rites: it is to us, to the followers of Christ, that the
last offices due to a Christian belong. I claim this dust in
the name of the great Creator who has recalled the spirit !”
With so solemn and commanding a voice and aspect the
Christian spoke these words, that even the crowd forbore
to utter aloud the execration of fear and hatred which in
their hearts they conceived. And never, perhaps, since
Lucifer and the Archangel contended for the body of the
mighty Lawgiver, was there a more striking subject for
the painter’s genius than that scene exhibited. The dark
trees, the stately fane, the moon full on the corpse of the
deceased, the torches tossing wildly to and fro in the rear,
the various faces of the motley audience; the insensible
form of the Athenian, supported, in the distance; and in
the foreground, and above all, the forms of Arbaces and
the Christian : the first drawn to its full height, far taller
than the herd around ; his arms folded, his brow knit, his
eyes fixed, his lip slightly curled in defiance and disdain.
The last bearing, on a brow worn and furrowed, the majesty
of an equal command : the features stern, yet frank; the
aspect bold, yet open; the quiet dignity of the whole form
impressed with an ineffable earnestness, hushed, as it were,
in a solemn sympathy with the awe he himself had created.
His left hand pointing to the corpse, – his right hand raised
to heaven.
The centurion pressed forward again.
“In the first place, hast thou, Olinthus, or whatever be
thy name, any proof of the charge thou hast made against
Arbaces, beyond thy vague suspicions?”
Olinthus remained silent — the Egyptian laughed con-
temptuously.
“Dost thou claim the body of a priest of Isis as one of
the Nazarene or Christian sect 2 °
« I do.”
“Swear then by yon fane, yon statue of Cybele, by yon
282 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
most ancient sacellum in Pompeii, that the dead man
embraced your faith !”
“Vain man I disown your idols I abhor your tem-
ples How can I swear by Cybele than 2 ”
“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 /*
“If, O Nazarene, thou disbelievest in Cybele, which of
our gods dost thou own 2 ” resumed the soldier, unmoved
by the cries around.
« NOne | ?”
“Hark to him hark 1" cried the crowd.
“O vain and blind l’ continued the Christian, raising
his voice; “can you believe in images of wood and stone 7
Do you imagine that they have eyes to see, or ears to hear,
or hands to help ye 2 Is yon mute thing carved by man’s
art a goddess 2 — hath it made mankind 2 – alas ! by man-
kind was it made. Lo! convince yourselves of its nothing-
ness, – 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 l’’ cried he, “your goddess cannot avenge herself.
Is this a thing to worship 2 ”
Further words were denied to him : so gross and daring
a sacrilege — of one, too, of the most sacred of their places
of worship — filled even the most lukewarm with rage and
horror. With one accord the crowd rushed upon him,
seized, and but for the interference of the centurion, they
would have torn him to pieces.
“Peace l’” 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 magis-
trates; place the body of the priest on the litter, — carry it
to his own home.”
At this moment a priest of Isis stepped forward. “I
claim these remains, according to the custom of the priest-
hood.”
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 283
“The flamen be obeyed,” said the centurion. “How is
the murderer ?” -
“Insensible or asleep.”
“Were his crimes less, I could pity him. On 1"
Arbaces, as he turned, met the eye of that priest of Isis,
— it was Calenus; and something there was in that glance,
so significant and sinister, that the Egyptian muttered to
himself, -
“Could he have witnessed the deed ?”
A girl darted from the crowd, and gazed hard on the face
of Olinthus. “By Jupiter, a stout knave / I say, we shall
have a man for the tiger now ; one for each beast /*
“Ho!” shouted the mob; “a man for the lion, and another
for the tiger | What luck! Io Paean l’”
CHAPTER VII.
IN WEHICH THE READER LEARNS THE CONDITION OF
GLAUCUS. — FRIENDSHIP TESTED. — ENMITY SOFTENED.
— LOVE THE SAME, - BECAUSE THE ONE LOVING Is
BLINID.
THE 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 suburban villa.
“Holloa l’’ groaned the merchant, recovering with some
difficulty his equilibrium; “have you no eyes 2 or do you
think I have no feeling 2 By Jupiter | you have well-nigh
driven out the divine particle; such another shock, and my
soul will be in Hades l’”
284 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
“Ah, Diomed ! is it you? forgive my inadvertence. I was
absorbed in thinking of the reverses of life. Our poor friend
Glaucus, eh ! who could have guessed it 7”
“Well, but tell me, Clodius, is he really to be tried by the
senate 2 ”
“Yes; they say the crime is of so extraordinary a nature,
that the senate itself must adjudge it; and so the lictors are
to induct him " formally.”
“He has been accused publicly, then 2 °
“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 hap-
pened l’”
“There is no doubt of his guilt,” said Clodius, shrugging
his shoulders; “and as these crimes take precedence of all
little undignified peccadilloes, they will hasten to finish the
sentence previous to the games.”
“The games | Good gods !” replied Diomed, with a
slight shudder; “can they adjudge him to the beasts 7 — so
young, so rich l’”
“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 supersti-
tious; 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 escape the
deadly 0° of his own alphabet. But enough of this gloomy
subject. How is the fair Julia 2”
1 Plin. Ep. ii. 11, 12; v.
4, 13.
* 8, the initial of 66 varos (death), the condemning letter of the Greeks, as
C was of the Romans.
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 285
“Well, I fancy.”
“Commend me to her. But harkſ the door yonder
creaks on its hinges; it is the house of the praetor. 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 induce-
ment to the crime 2 Glaucus was to have married the
priest's sister.”
“Yes: some say Apacides refused the alliance. It
might have been a sudden quarrel. Glaucus was evidently
drunk; — nay, so much so as to have been quite insensible
when taken up, and I hear is still delirious, – whether with
wine, terror, remorse, the Furies, or the Bacchanals, I
cannot say.”
“Poor fellow ! — he has good counsel ?”
“The best, — Caius Pollio, an eloquent fellow enough.
Pollio has been hiring all the poor gentlemen and well-
born 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 acquaint-
ance), 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 Amphitheatre.
All my calculations are confounded by this cursed misfort-
une 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.
“If,” 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 discovered
286 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
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 2 ”
“It is but a few yards hence, wise Arbaces. But does
Sallust entertain to-night 2 ”
“I know not,” answered the Egyptian ; “nor am I, per-
haps, one of those whom he would seek as a boon com-
panion. But thou knowest that his house holds the person
of Glaucus, the murderer.”
“Ay he, good-hearted epicure, believes in the Greek's
innocence 1 You remind me that he has become his surety;
and, therefore, till the trial, is responsible for his appear-
ance." Well, Sallust's house is better than a prison, espe-
cially that wretched hole in the forum. But for what can
gyou seek Glaucus 2 ” -
“Why, noble Clodius, if we could save him from execu-
tion it would be well. The condemnation of the rich is
a blow upon society itself. I should like to confer with
him — for I fear he has recovered his senses — and ascer-
tain the motives of his crime; they may be so extenuating
as to plead in his defence.”
“You are benevolent, Arbaces.”
“Benevolence is the duty of one who aspires to wisdom,”
replied the Egyptian, modestly. “Which way lies Sallust's
mansion ??”
“I will show you,” said Clodius, “if you will suffer me
to accompany you a few steps. But, pray what has become
of the poor girl who was to have wed the Athenian, – the
sister of the murdered priest ?”
“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
* If a criminal could obtain surety (called vades in capital offences), he was
not compelled to lie in prison till after sentence.
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 287
begins again, and again stops short, and mutters awfully to
herself, ‘Yet if it were indeed he 7”
“ 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 dimness
of her senses she scarcely seems aware that Glaucus is
apprehended and on the eve of trial. When the funeral
rites due to Apaccides are performed, her apprehension 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 l’’
“Such scandal should be prevented.”
“I trust I have taken precautions to that effect. I am
her lawful guardian, and have just succeeded in obtaining
permission to escort her, after the funeral of Apačcides, 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 2 Men say
you can be gay, - why not let me initiate you into the
pleasures of Pompeii ? — I flatter myself no one knows
them better.”
“I thank you, noble Clodius: under your auspices I
might venture, I think, to wear the philyra : but, at my
age, I should be an awkward pupil.”
“Oh, never fear; I have made converts of fellows of
seventy. The rich, too, are never old.”
“You flatter me. At some future time I will remind
you of your promise.”
“You may command Marcus Clodius at all times: — and
so, 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 for-
ever to Ione, and forever free me from the chance of dis-
covery; 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 1 — 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
288 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
in his delirium he struck the blow 2 To me it would give .
far greater safety than even his death. Hem we must
hazard the experiment.”
Sweeping along the narrow street, Arbaces now approached
the house of Sallust, when he beheld a dark form wrapped
in a cloak, and stretched at length across the threshold of
the door. º
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 7
Fie! — is this seeming thy sex or years ? Home, girl l’’
“I 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, “Oh,
dread and potent man save him, - save him He is not
guilty, - it is Il 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 l’’
“ Hush, child ! I know all !— thou forgettest that I ac-
companied Julia to the saga's home. Doubtless her hand
administered the draught; but her reputation demands thy
silence. Reproach not thyself, - what must be, must :
meanwhile, I seek the criminal, - he may yet be saved.
Away !”
Thus saying, Arbaces extricated himself from the clasp of
the despairing Thessalian, and knocked loudly at the door.
In a few moments the heavy bars were heard suddenly
to yield, and the porter, half opening the door, demanded
who was there.
"Sº WOL E H L -JO 1338 LS


THE LAST DAYS OF POMPE II. 289
“Arbaces, – important business to Sallust relative to
Glaucus. I come from the praetor.”
The porter, half yawning, half groaning, admitted the
tall form of the Egyptian. Nydia sprang forward. “How
is he 7” she cried; “tell me, tell me!”
“Ho, mad girl is it thou still ? — for shame ! Why,
they say he is sensible.”
“The gods be praised — and you will not admit me?
Ah! I beseech thee — ”
“Admit thee! — no. A pretty salute I should prepare
for these shoulders were I to admit such things as thou.
Go home !”
The door closed, and Nydia, with a deep sigh, laid her-
self down once more on the cold stones; and, wrapping her
cloak round her face, resumed her weary vigil.
Meanwhile Arbaces had already gained the triclinium,
where Sallust, with his 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 2 — they
say in the town that he has recovered sense.”
“Alas! and truly,” replied the good-natured but thought-
less Sallust, wiping the tear from his eyes; “but so shattered
are his nerves and frame that I scarcely recognize the brill-
iant and gay carouser I was wont to know. Yet, strange to
say, he cannot account for the cause of the sudden frenzy
that seized him, - he retains but a dim consciousness of
what hath passed; and, despite thy witness, wise Egyptian,
solemnly upholds his innocence of the death of Apaecides.”
“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 conference this
night with the Athenian. To-morrow, thou knowest, the
trial comes on.”
“Well,” said Sallust, “ thou wilt be worthy of thy Eastern
290 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
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.
“Night wanes,” said the Egyptian; “suffer me to see thy
ward now.” .*
Sallust nodded assent, and led the way to a small chamber,
guarded without by two dozing slaves. The door opened; at
the request of Arbaces, Sallust withdrew, - the Egyptian
was alone with Glaucus. .
One of those tall and graceful candelabra common to that
day, supporting a single lamp, burned beside the narrow
bed. Its rays fell palely over the face of the Athenian,
and Arbaces was moved to see how sensibly that countenance
had changed. The rich color was gone, the cheek was sunk,
the lips were convulsed and pallid; fierce had been the
struggle between reason and madness, life and death. The
youth, the strength of Glaucus had conquered; but the
freshness of blood and soul, - the life of life, its glory
and its zest, were gone 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 Athe-
nian, and the bronzed cheek of the Egyptian grew a shade
more pale. At length, with an inward groan, Glaucus
turned away, drew his hand across his brow, sunk back,
and muttered, -
“Am I still dreaming?”
“No, Glaucus, thou art awake. By this right hand and
my father's head, thou Seest one who may save thy life.
Hark! I know what thou hast done, but I know also its
excuse, of which thou thyself art ignorant. Thou hast
committed murder, it is true, -— a sacrilegious murder;
frown not, start not, — these eyes saw it. But I can save
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 291
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 Apačcides,
and thou shalt avoid the fatal urn.”
“What words are these ? — Murder and Apaccides —
Did I not see him stretched on the ground bleeding and a
corpse ? and wouldst thou persuade me that I 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 re-
fresh thy exhausted and weary memory. Thou knowest
thou wert walking with the priest, disputing about his
sister; thou knowest he was intolerant, and half a Naza-
rene, and he sought to convert thee, and ye had hot words;
and he calumniated thy mode of life, and swore he would
not marry Ione to thee, – and then, in thy wrath and thy
frenzy, thou didst strike the sudden blow. Come, come;
you can recollect this — read this papyrus, it runs to that
effect, — sign it, and thou art saved.”
“Barbarian, give me the written lie, that I may tear it !
I the murderer of Ione's brother I confess to have injured
one hair of the head of him she loved ! Let me rather
perish a thousand times 1’’
“Beware l’” 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 l’”
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 2 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, madness, shame,
death ! And for what ? what have I done 2 Oh, I am
mad still !”
“Sign, and be saved l’” said the soft, sweet voice of the
Egyptian.
292 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
“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 2 who exchange clear thoughts for sullen days 2
who will belie himself to shame, and stand blackened in
the eyes of glory and of love? If to earn a few years of
polluted life there be so base a coward, dream not, dull
barbarian of Egypt 1 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 muti-
lated limbs; thy name degraded; thy corpse unburied; the
shame thou wouldst avoid clinging to thee for aye and
ever ! ”
“Thou ravest thou art the madman I shame is not in
the loss of other men’s esteem, - it is in the loss of our
own. Wilt thou go? — my eyes loathe the sight of thee!
hating ever, I despise thee now !”
“I go,” said Arbaces, stung and exasperated, but not
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.”
“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 l’’
“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 7” she cried, clasping her hands,
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPE II. 293
“Child, follow me home; I would speak to thee, – it is
for his sake I ask it.”
“And thou wilt save him 2 ”
No answer came forth to the thirsting ear of the blind
girl. Arbaces had already proceeded far up the street;
she hesitated a moment, and then followed his steps in
silence.
“I must secure this girl,” said he, musingly, “lest she
give evidence of the philtre; as to the vain Julia, she will
not betray herself.”
CHAPTER VIII.
A CLASSIC FlyNERAL.
WHILE Arbaces had been thus employed, Sorrow and
Death were in the house of Ione. It was the night preced-
ing the morn in which the solemn funeral rites were to be
decreed to the remains of the murdered Apaecides. 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 accusa-
tion 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 cir-
cumstances 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 Egyptian himself was the crim-
inal. But the vast and absorbing importance attached by
the ancients to the performance of every ceremonial con-
nected with the death of a relation, had, as yet, confined her
woe and her convictions to the chamber of the deceased.
Alas ! it was not for her to perform that tender and touch-
ing 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 dis-
torted lips: to watch by the consecrated clay, as, fresh
bathed and anointed, it lay in festive robes upon the ivory
294 THE LA ST DAYS OF POMPEII.
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 twilight; for, as
they strove to give the softest interpretation 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 breath-
less streets; while a chorus of female voices (the Praeficae
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 !
Darkly we woo, and weeping we invite:
Death is thy host, — his banquet asks thy soul;
Thy garlands hang within the House of Night,
º the black stream alone shall fill thy bowl.
No more for thee the laughter and the song,
The jocund night, — the glory of the day !
The Argive daughters * at their labors long;
The hell-bird swooping on its Titan prey, —
The false AEolides,” upheaving slow,
O'er the eternal hill, the eternal stone;
The crownèd Lydian,” in his parching woe,
And green Callirrhoë's monster-headed son," —
* This was rather a Greek than a Roman custom; but the reader will ob-
serve that in the cities of Magna Graecia the Greek customs and superstitions
were much mingled with the Boman.
* The Danaides. * Sisyphus. 4 Tantalus. * Geryon.
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 295
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;
Over 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 Apaecides was carried forth, with the feet foremost.
The designator, or marshal of the sombre ceremonial, accom-
panied by his torch-bearers, clad in black, gave the signal,
and the procession moved dreadly on.
First went the musicians, playing a slow march, – the
solemnity of the lower instruments broken by many a louder
and wilder burst of the funeral trumpet : next followed the
hired mourners, chanting their dirges to the dead; and the
female voices were mingled with those of boys, whose tender
years made still more striking the contrast of life and death,
— the fresh leaf and the withered one. But the players,
the buffoons, the archimimus (whose duty it was to personate
the dead), — these, the customary attendants at ordinary
funerals, were banished from a funeral attended with so
many terrible associations.
The priests of Isis came next in their snowy garments,
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.
1 The most idle novel reader need scarcely be reminded, that not till after
the funeral rites were the dead carried over the Styx.
296 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
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 attend-
ants parting on either side, Ione passed up to the couch,
and stood before the unconscious clay for some 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 con-
test of passion, the awe of religion, the struggle of the past
and present, the hope and the horror of the future 1 – 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 2
The sister gazed, and not a sound was heard amidst the
crowd; there was something terrible, 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 l’’ cried the poor orphan, fall-
ing upon the couch ; “thou whom the worm on thy path
feared not, — what enemy couldst thou provoke 2 Oh, is it
in truth come to this 2 Awake 1 awake We grew
together | Are we thus torn asunder ? Thou art not dead,
— thou sleepest. Awake awake l’”
The sound of her piercing voice aroused the sympathy of
the mourners, and they broke into loud and rude lament.
This startled, this recalled Ione; she looked up hastily and
confusedly, as if for the first time sensible of the presence
of those around.
“Ah / ?” she murmured with a shiver, “we are not then
alone / ?”
With that, after a brief pause, she rose : and her pale
and beautiful countenance was again composed and rigid.
With fond and trembling hands, she unclosed the lids of
the deceased; " but when the dull, glazed eye, no longer
beaming with love and life, met hers, she shrieked aloud, as
if she had seen a spectre. Once more recovering herself,
she kissed again and again the lids, the lips, the brow; and
1 Pliny, ii. 37.
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 297
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.
I.
On thy couch of cloud reclined,
Wake, O soft and sacred Wind |
Soft and sacred will we name thee,
Whosoe'er the sire that claim thee, –
Whether old Auster's dusky child,
Or the loud son of Eurus wild;
Or his who o'er the darkling deeps,
From the bleak North, in tempest sweeps, -
Still shalt thou seem as dear to us
As flowery-crowned Zephyrus,
When, through twilight's starry dew,
Trembling, he hastes his nymph” to woo.
II.
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!
he source of all that breathe and be,
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 !
1 Boreas. * Flora. * Rhodes.
298 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
And crackles, and darts, and leaps
The light on the holy pile !
It rises! its wings interweave
With the flames, – how they howl and heaveſ
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 |
V.
Swing, swing the censer round, –
Tune the strings to a softer sound !
From the chains of thy earthly toil,
From the clasp of thy mortal coil,
From the prison where clay confined thee,
The hands of the flame unbind thee
O Soul thou art free, – all free
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!
Rejoiceſ o'er the sluggard tide
Of the Styx thy bark can glide,
And thy steps evermore shall rove
Through the glades of the happy grove;
Where, far from the loath'd Cocytus,
The loved and the lost invite us.
Thou art slave to the earth no more
O soul, thou art freed — and we ?—
Ah ! when shall our toil be o'er P
Ah! when shall we rest with thee P
And now high and far into the dawning skies broke the
fragrant fire; it flashed luminously across the gloomy cy-
presses, – it shot above the massive walls of the neigh-
boring 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 LA ST DA YS OF POMPE II. 299
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 Smoulder-
ing 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 sepul-
chres beside the road; and they placed within it the phial
full of tears, and the small coin which poetry still con-
secrated to the grim boatman. And the sepulchre was
covered with flowers and chaplets, and the incense 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 Prae-
ficae three times sprinkled the mourners from the puri-
fying branch of laurel, uttering the last word, “Ilicet / " —
Depart 1 – and the rite was done.
But first they paused to utter — weepingly and many
times — the affecting farewell, “Salve Eternum. / " 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 1
300 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
II.
Ilicet — ire licet—
Ah, vainly would we part!
Thy tomb is the faithful heart.
About evermore we bear thee;
For who from the heart can tear thee P
Wainly we sprinkle o'er us
The drops of the cleansing stream;
And vainly bright before us
The lustral fire shall beam.
For where is the charm .#
Thy thought from its sacred dwelling?
Our #. are thy funeral feast,
And Memory thy mourning priest.
Salve — salve'
III.
Ilicet — ire licet !
The spark from the hearth is gone
Wherever the air shall bear it;
The elements take their own, –
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 1
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 1
CHAPTER IX.
IN which AN ADVENTURE HAPPEN’s To Ion E.
WHILE 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 absorption,
and she thought of her affianced, and the dread charge
against him. Not — as we have before said — attaching
even a momentary belief to the unnatural accusation, but
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 301
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 custody, under the roof of Sallust; that
the day of his trial was appointed.
“Averting gods !” she exclaimed; “and have I been so
long forgetful of him 2 Have I seemed to shun him 2 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 sentence him to exile or to death, let me
share the sentence with him l’”
Instinctively she hastened her pace, confused and be-
wildered, scarce knowing whither she went ; now designing
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 1 forgive me if I disturb
thy pious sorrows; but the praetor, solicitous of thy honor,
and anxious that thou mayest not rashly be implicated in
the coming trial; knowing the strange embarrassment of thy
state (seeking justice for thy brother, but dreading punish-
ment to thy betrothed), — sympathizing, too, with thy un,
protected 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 l’’
“Dark Egyptian l’ 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
302 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
they will give the sister ? Ha! thou turnest pale ! thy con-
science Smites thee I thou tremblest at the thunderbolt of
the avenging god l Pass on, and leave me to my woe l’”
“Thy sorrows unstring thy reason, Ione,” said Arbaces,
attempting in vain his usual calmness of tone. “I forgive
thee. Thou wilt find me now, as ever, thy surest friend.
But the public streets are not the fitting place for us to
confer, — for me to console thee. Approach, slaves | Come,
my sweet charge, the litter awaits thee.”
The amazed and terrified attendants gathered round 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 l’’ 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 praetor. This delay is indecorous. Place her in
the litter.” º
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! haſ this is well, - well ! Excellent guardian, –
paternal law Ha, ha!” And, startled herself at the
dread echo of that shrill and maddened laughter, she sunk,
as it died away, lifeless upon the ground. . . . A minute
more, and Arbaces had lifted her into the litter. The
bearers moved swiftly on, and the unfortunate Ione was
soon borne from the sight of her weeping handmaids.
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 303
CHAPTER X.
WHAT BECOMES OF NY DIA IN THE HOUSE OF ARBACES. —
THE EGYPTIAN FEELS COMPASSION FOR GLAUCLJS. — COM –
PASSION IS OFTEN A VERY USELESS VISITOR TO THE
GUILTY.
IT will be remembered that, at the command of Arbaces,
Nydia followed the Egyptian to his home, and conversing
there with her, he learned from the confession of her
despair and remorse, that her hand, and not Julia’s, had
administered to Glaucus the fatal potion. At another time
the Egyptian might have conceived a philosophical interest
in sounding the depths and origin of the strange and ab-
sorbing 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 un-
heeding ears, was noting only the new expediency of detain-
ing Nydia a prisoner until the trial and fate of Glaucus
were decided. For if, when he judged her merely the ac-
complice of Julia in obtaining the philtre, he had felt it
was dangerous to the full success of his vengeance to allow
her to be at large, – to appear, perhaps, as a witness; to
avow the manner in which the sense of Glaucus had been
darkened, and thus win indulgence to the crime of which
he was accused, - how much more was she likely to volun-
teer her testimony when she 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 implicated in the disgrace of pan-
dering 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 Apaº-
cides, as a policy evidently the best both for his own per-
manent safety and his successful suit with Ione, could ever
have led him to contemplate the confession of Julia.
304 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
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 impend-
ing trial. Poor wretch that she was, whom none addressed,
none cared for, what did she know of the senate and the
sentence; the hazard of the law ; the ferocity of the people ;
the arena and the lion’s den 2 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
along the streets, and be spurned from the threshold by the
rude feet of the 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 Nea.
politan, 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 Athe-
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPE II. 305
nian. 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 sus-
picion 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 woe
which he had brought upon her. In that sanguine vanity
common to men who through life have been invariably suc-
cessful, 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 condemnation to death for
the murder of her own brother, — her affection would be
changed to horror; and that his tenderness and his passion,
assisted by all the arts with which he well knew how to
dazzle woman’s imagination, might elect him to that throne
in her heart from which his rival would be so awfully
expelled. This was his hope : but 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 Ione now in his possession, he
secretly resolved, as soon as he had witnessed the last agony
of his rival, to transport 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 inex.
306 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
perienced pleasures. Cheered by my stars, supported by
the Omens of my soul, we will penetrate to those vast and
glorious worlds which my wisdom tells me lie yet untracked
in the recesses of the circling sea. There may this heart,
possessed of love, grow once more alive to ambition, — there,
amongst nations uncrushed by the Roman yoke, and to
whose ear the name of Rome has not yet been wafted, I may
found an empire, and transplant my ancestral creed; renew-
ing 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 dauntlessness of his
brow; for Arbaces was one who had little pity for what was
unfortunate, but a strong sympathy for what was bold.
The congenialities that bind us to others ever assimilate to
the 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 writ-
ten confession of his crime, which would, better than even
the judgment of others, have lost him with Ione, and re-
moved 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 obsta-
cle 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 necessary to the
attainment of his objects; and while, with apparent reluc-
tance 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
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 307
Nydia; he had easily, therefore, lulled any scruple of con-
science 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. Wolatile 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.
CHAPTER XI.
NY DIA AIFFECTS THE SORCERESS.
WHEN the Thessalian found that Arbaces returned to her
no more, — when she was left, hour after hour, to all the
torture of that miserable suspense which was rendered by
blindness doubly intolerable, she began, with outstretched
arms, to feel around her prison for some channel of escape ;
and finding the only entrance secure, she called aloud, and
with the vehemence of a temper naturally violent, and now
sharpened by impatient agony.
“Ho, girl l’” 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 2°
“Where is thy master ? and wherefore am I caged here ?
I want air and liberty: let me go forth !”
“Alas! little one, hast thou not seen enough of Arbaces
to know that his will is imperial 2 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 l’’ cried the girl, wringing her hands;
308 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
“ and why am I thus imprisoned ? What can the great
Arbaces want with so poor a thing as I am 2 ”
“That I know not, unless it be to attend on thy new
mistress, who has been brought hither this day.”
& What Ione here ?”
“Yes, poor lady; she liked it little, I fear. Yet, by the
Temple of Castor | Arbaces is a gallant man to the women.
Thy lady is his ward, thou knowest.”
“Wilt thou take me to her ?”
“She is ill, - frantic with rage and spite. Besides, I
have no orders to do so; and I never think for myself.
When Arbaces made me slave of these chambers," he said,
‘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 2’”
“That I know not; but if thou wantest a companion,
I am willing to talk to thee, little one, for I am solitary
enough in my dull cubiculum. And, by the way, thou art
Thessalian, -knowest thou not some cunning amusement
of knife and shears, some pretty trick of telling fortunes, as
most of thy race do, in order to pass the time 2 ”
“Tush, slave, hold thy peace: or, if thou wilt speak, what
hast thou heard of the state of Glaucus 2 °
“Why, my master has gone to the Athenian’s trial ;
Glaucus will smart for it !”
* For What ?”
“The murder of the priest Apaccides.”
“Ha!” said Nydia, pressing her hands to her forehead;
“something of this I have indeed heard, but understand not.
Yet, who will dare to touch a hair of his head?”
“That will the lion, I fear.”
“Averting gods ! what wickedness dost thou utter ?”
“Why, only that, if he be found guilty, the lion, or maybe
the tiger, will be his executioner.”
Nydia leaped up, as if an arrow had entered her heart;
she uttered a piercing Scream ; then, falling before the feet
of the slave, she cried, in a tone that melted even his 1 ade
heart, — *
“Ah! tell me thou jestest: thou utterest not the truth,
— speak, speak l’’
* In the houses of the great, each suite of chambers had its peculiar slave.
THE LA ST DAYS OF POMPEII. 309
“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 7 Arbaces his ac-
cuser O fate | The people, the people ! Ah ! they can
look upon his face, — who will be cruel to the Athenian
– Yet was not Love itself cruel to him 7”
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 con-
sole her or distract the absorption of her reverie.
When his household cares obliged the ministrant to leave
her room, Nydia began to re-collect her thoughts. Arbaces
was the accuser of Glaucus; Arbaces had imprisoned her
here : was not that a proof that her liberty might be service-
able to Glaucus 2 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 pos-
sessed 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 2 She resolved to practise upon her
keeper; and, calling suddenly to mind his superstitious query
as to her Thessalian art, she hoped by that handle to work
out some method of release. These doubts occupied her
mind during the rest of the day and the long hours of
night; and, accordingly, when Sosia visited her the follow-
ing 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
310 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPE II.
master; but that is not to be expected. Let me know, at
least, whether I shall save enough to purchase my freedom,
or whether this Egyptian will give it me for nothing. He
does such generous things sometimes. Next, supposing
that be true, shall I possess myself of that Snug taberna
among the Myropolia which I have long had in my eye 2
'T is a genteel trade that of a perfumer, and suits a retired
slave who has something of a gentleman about him l’”
“Ay so you would have precise answers to those
questions 2 — 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 also glasses of a peculiar
fashion, to contain the consecrated liquid, which we have
not. I think, therefore, that the simplest method of satis-
fying your desire would be by the Magic of Air.”
“I trust,” said Sosia, tremulously, “that there is nothing
very frightful in the operation ? I have no love for appa-
ritions.”
“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 pre-
viously.”
“Trust me,” replied the unsuspecting Sosia; “I know
what a gentleman’s feelings are when a door is shut in his
face, as the cookshop's hath been in mine many a day; and
I know also, that a person of respectability, as a demon of
course is, cannot but be pleased, on the other hand, with
any little mark of courteous hospitality. Meanwhile, pretty
one, here is thy morning's meal.”
1 The shops of the perfumers.
THE LA ST DAYS OF POMPEII. 311
“And what of the trial ‘’”
“Oh, the lawyers are still at it, — talk, talk; it will last
over till to-morrow.”
“To-morrow 2 — you are sure of that ?”
“So I hear.”
“And Ione 2 °
“By Bacchus ! she must be tolerably well, for she was
strong enough to make my master stamp and bite his lip
this morning. I 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 /*
CHAPTER XII.
A was P venturES INTO THE SPIDER’s web.
THE second night of the trial had set in ; and it was
nearly the time in which Sosia was to brave the dread
Unknown, when there entered, at that very garden-gate
which the slave had left ajar, – not, indeed, one of the
mysterious spirits of earth or air, but the heavy and most
human form of Calenus, the priest of Isis. He scarcely
noted the humble offerings of indifferent fruit, and still
more indifferent wine, which the pious Sosia had deemed
good enough for the invisible stranger they were intended
to allure. “Some tribute,” thought he, “to the garden
god. By my father’s head! if his deityship were never
better served, he would do well to give up the godly 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 2 °
As he thus soliloquized, he crossed through the open
court into the peristyle, where a few lamps here and there
broke upon the empire of the starlit night ; and, issuing
from one of the chambers that bordered the colonnade,
suddenly encountered Arbaces.
312 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
“Ho! Calenus — seekest thou me 2 ” said the Egyp.
tian ; and there was a little embarrassment in his voice.
“Yes, wise Arbaces; I trust my visit is not unseasona-
ble 2 ”
“Nay, - it was but this instant that my freedman Callias
Sneezed thrice at my right hand; I knew, therefore, some
good fortune was in store for me, – and, lo l the gods have
sent me Calenus.” -
“Shall we within to your chamber, Arbaces 2 ”
“As you will; but the night is clear and balmy. I have
some remains of languor yet lingering on me from my
recent illness; the air refreshes me, – let us walk in the
garden: we are equally alone there.”
“With all my heart,” answered the priest; and the two
friends passed slowly to one of the many terraces which,
bordered by marble vases and sleeping flowers, intersected
the garden. -
“It is a lovely night,” said Arbaces, – “blue and beauti-
ful 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 communi-
cate 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, may st
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 ani-
mosity against that unfortunate homicide.”
“Homicide l’’ repeated Calenus, slowly and meaningly;
and, halting, as he spoke, he fixed his eyes upon Arbaces.
The stars shone pale and steadily on the proud face of
their prophet, but they betrayed there no change: the eyes
of Calenus fell disappointed and abashed. He continued
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 313
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, coldy; for he had pre-
pared 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
Apacides. 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 2 ° -
“Alone !” returned Calenus, surprised at the Egyptian's
calmness.
“And wherefore wert thou hid behind the chapel at that
hour 2 ”
“Because I had learned the conversion of Apaecides to
the Christian faith; because I knew that on that spot he
was to meet the fierce Olinthus; because they were to meet
there to discuss plans for unveiling the sacred mysteries of
our goddess to the people, – and I was there to detect, in
order to defeat them.”
“Hast thou told living ear what thou didst witness 2 °
“No, my master; the secret is locked in thy servant's
breast.”
“What even thy kinsman Burbo guesses it not ?
Come, the truth !”
“By the gods — ”
“ Hush we know each other, — what are the gods to
us ! ” -
“By the fear of thy vengeance, then, – no l’”
“And why hast thou hitherto concealed from me this
secret 2 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 famil-
iar gesture, — “ because, my Calenus (see now, I will read
thy heart, and explain its motives), — because thou didst
314 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
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 2 ”
“Arbaces,” replied Calenus, losing all the vulgar audac-
ity of his natural character, “verily thou art a Magian;
thou readest the heart as it were a scroll.”
“It is my vocation,” answered the Egyptian, laughing
gently. “Well, then, forbear; and when all is over, I will
make thee rich.”
“Pardon me,” said the priest, as the quick suggestion of
that avarice, which was his master-passion, bade him trust
no future chance of generosity ; “pardon me; thou saidst
right, — we know each other. If thou wouldst have me
silent, thou must pay something in advance, as an offer to
Harpocrates.' If the rose, sweet emblem of discretion, is to
take root firmly, water her this night with a stream of gold.”
“Witty and poeticall ” 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 2 ”
“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 ?”
* The god of Silence.
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 315
“Arbaces, I have heard that in thy secret treasury below,
bereath those rude Oscan arches which prop thy stately
halls, thou hast piles of gold, of vases, and of jewels, which
might rival the receptacles of the wealth of the deified Nero.
Thou mayst easily spare out of those piles enough to make
Calenus among the richest priests of Pompeii, and yet not
miss the loss.”
“Come, Calenus,” said Arbaces, winningly, and with a
frank and generous air, “thou art an old friend, and hast
been a faithful servant. Thou canst have no wish to take
away my life, nor I a desire to stint thy reward : thou shalt
descend with me to that treasury thou referrest to ; thou
shalt feast thine eyes with the blaze of uncounted gold and
the sparkle of priceless gems; and thou shalt, for thy own
reward, bear away with thee this night as much as thou
canst conceal beneath thy robes. Nay, when thou hast once
seen what thy friend possesses, thou wilt learn how foolish
it would be to 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 injurious
doubts of thy justice, thy generosity ?”
“ Hush one other turn, and we will descend to the Oscan
arches.”
CHAPTER, XIII.
THE SLAVE CONSULTS THE ORACLE. — THEY WHO BLIND
THEMSELVES THE BLIND MAY FOOL. — TWO NEW PEIS-
ONERS 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.”
316 THE LA ST DAYS OF POMPEII.
“Be assured And hast thou left the garden-gate gently
open 2 °
“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 7”
“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 7”
“No; but I must breathe my spell over its ray. There
is a spirit in fire. Seat thyself.”
The slave obeyed ; and Nydia, after bending for some
moments silently over the lamp, rose, and in a low voice
chanted the following rude
INVOCATION TO THE SPECTRE OF THE AIR.
Loved alike by Air and Water
Aye must be Thessalia's daughter;
To us, Olympian hearts, are given
Spells that draw the moon from heaven.
All that Egypt's learning wrought —
All that Persia's Magian taught—
Won from song, or wrung from flowers,
Or 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 sou
In the shadowy things that lie
Dark in dim futurity.
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 317
Come, wild demon of the air,
Answer to thy votary's prayerſ
Come! oh, come !
And no god on heaven or earth, –
Not the Paphian Queen of Mirth,
Nor the vivid Lord of Light,
Nor the triple Maid of Night,
Nor the Thunderer's self, shall be
Blest and honored more than thee I
Come! oh, come !
“The spectre is certainly coming,” said Sosia. “I feel
him running along my hair l’’
“Place thy bowl of water on the ground. Now, then,
give me thy napkin, and let me fold up thy face and eyes.”
“Ay! that’s always the custom with these charms. Not
so tight, though : gently, gently l’’
“There, — thou canst not see ?”
“See, by Jupiter | No 1 nothing but darkness.”
“Address, then, to the spectre whatever question thou
wouldst ask him, in a low-whispered voice, three times. If
thy question is answered in the affirmative, thou wilt hear
the water ferment and bubble before the demon breathes
upon it; if in the negative, the water will be quite silent.”
“But you will not play any trick with the water, eh?”
“Let me place the bowl under thy feet, — so. Now thou
wilt perceive that I cannot touch it without thy knowl-
edge.”
“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 pur-
chase my freedom next year 2 Thou knowest : for, as thou
livest in the air, the birds have doubtless acquainted thee
with every secret of this house, – thou knowest that I
have filched and pilfered all that I honestly — that is,
safely — could lay finger upon for the last three years, and
I yet want two thousand sesterces of the full sum. Shal.
I be able, O good Spirit ! to make up the deficiency in the
‘Who are supposed to know all secrets. The same superstition prevails in
the East, and is not without example also in our northern legends.
318 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
course of this year 2 Speak, - haſ 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 2 Ill fortune to you, friend demon
You are not a lady, that's clear, or you would not keep
silence so long. Five, six, — sixty years ? and may Pluto
seize you ! I’ll ask no more.” And Sosia, in a rage, kicked
down the water over his legs. He then, after much fum-
bling, and more cursing, managed to extricate his head from
the napkin in which it was completely folded, stared round,
— and discovered that he was in the dark.
“What, ho! Nydia; the lamp is gone. Ah, traitress;
and thou art gone too; but I’ll catch thee, – thou shalt
smart for this l’”
The slave groped his way to the door; it was bolted
from without: he was a prisoner instead of Nydia. What
could he do 2 He did not dare to knock loud — to call
out — lest Arbaces should overhear him, and discover how
he had been duped; and Nydia, meanwhile, had probably
already gained the garden gate, and was fast on her escape.
“But,” thought he, “she will go home, or, at least, be
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
THE LA ST DAYS OF POMPE II. 319
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 probably passing to
that very door. She sprang onward, and felt herself in un-
known ground. The air grew damp and chill; this reas-
sured 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 2 No aper-
ture ? no cavity ? There was none ! She stopped, and
wrung her hands in despair; then again, nerved as the
voices neared upon her, she hurried on by the side of the
wall; and coming suddenly against one of the sharp but-
tresses that here and there jutted boldly forth, she fell to
the ground. Though much bruised, her senses did not leave
her: 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,
320 THE LA ST DAYS OF POMPEII.
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, 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 luxuries 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 2 ” 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
alae 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, completely
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,” con-
tinued Arbaces, slowly, and very deliberately, — “to think
that a word of thine could save him, and consign Arbaces
to his doom l’”
“That word shall never be spoken l’” said Calenus.
“Right, my Calenus ! it never shall,” returned Arbaces,
familiarly leaning his arm on the priest's shoulder: “ and
now, halt, — we are at the door.”
The light trembled against a small door deep set in the
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THE LA ST DAYS OF POMPEII. 321
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 Tesenting
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
riest.
P Calenus had been precipitated down several steps, but
not feeling at the moment the pain of his fall, he sprung
up again to the door, and beating at it fiercely with his
clenched fist, he cried aloud in what seemed more a beast's
howl than a human voice, so keen was his agony and de-
spair : “Oh, release me, release me, and I will ask no gold !”
The words but imperfectly penetrated the massive door,
and Arbaces again laughed. Then, stamping his foot
violently, rejoined, perhaps to give vent to his long-stifled
passions, –
“All the gold of Dalmatia,” cried he, “will not buy thee
a crust of bread. Starve, wretch thy dying groans will
never wake even the echo of these vast halls: nor will the
air ever reveal, as thou gnawest, in thy desperate famine,
thy flesh 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.”
322 THE LA ST DAYS OF POMPEII.
The cries of Calenus, dulled and choked by the barrier
that confined him, yet faintly reached the ear of the Egyp-
tian. 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 !—I long for a deep draught of the spiced
Falernian.”
With that the remorseless Egyptian drew his gown closer
around him, and resought the upper air.
CHAPTER XIV.
NYTDIA ACCOSTS CALENUS.
WHAT 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 praetor, 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.
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 323
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
alarm; “what spectre, — what dread larva, calls upon
the lost Calenus 2 ° * -
“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.”
“I want not thy gold, - I want thy secret. Did I
hear aright °– Canst thou save the Athenian Glaucus
from the charge against his life 2 ”
“I can, I can 1–therefore (may the Furies blast the
foul Egyptian l) hath Arbaces snared me thus, and left
me to starve and rot l”
“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 aquit the innocent man. But if I perish, he dies
also. Dost thou interest thyself for him 2 Oh, blessed
stranger, in my heart is the urn which condemns or frees
him I ?”
“And thou wilt give full evidence of what thou
knowest ?”
“Will 1 — Oh I were hell at my feet, — yes | Revenge
on the false Egyptian | – revenge revenge revenge l’’
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 ? “Enough,” said she ;
“the powers that conducted me hither will carry me through
all. Yes, I feel that I shall deliver thee. Wait in patience
and hope.” -
“But be cautious, be prudent, sweet stranger. Attempt
not to appeal to Arbaces, – he is marble. Seek the praetor
324 THE LA ST DA YS OF POMPEII.
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, starvel if you are not
quick! Go, go ! Yet stay, - it is horrible to be alone !—
the air is like a charnel, - and the scorpions, – haſ and
the pale larvael Oh! stay, stay !”
“Nay,” said Nydia, terrified by the terror of the priest,
and anxious to confer with herself, - “may, for thy sake,
I must depart. Take Hope for thy companion, — fare-
Well | *
So saying, she glided away, and felt with extended arms
along the pillared space until she had gained the farther
end of the hall, and the mouth of the passage that led to
the upper air. But there she paused ; she felt that it
would be more safe to wait awhile, until the night was so
far blended with the morning that the whole house would
be buried in sleep, and so that she might quit it unobserved.
She, therefore, once more laid herself down, and counted
the weary moments. In her sanguine heart, joy was the
predominant emotion. Glaucus was in deadly peril, - but
she should save him
CHAPTER, XV.
ARBACES AND IONE. — NYDIA. GAINS THE GARDEN. — WILL
SHE ESCAPE AND SAVE THE ATHENIAN ?
WHEN Arbaces had warmed his veins by large draughts
of that spiced and perfumed wine so valued by the luxuri-
ous, 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 priesthood for the
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 325
disappearance of Calenus; and this he imagined it would
not be difficult to do. Calenus had often been employed
by him in various religious missions to the neighboring
cities. On some such errand he could now assert that he
had been sent, with offerings to the shrines of Isis at
Herculaneum and Neapolis, placatory of the goddess for the
recent murder of her priest Apaecides. When Calenus had
expired, his body might be thrown, previous to the Egyp-
tian’s departure from Pompeii, into the deep stream of the
Sarnus; and when discovered, suspicion would probably
fall upon the Nazarene atheists, as an act of revenge for
the death of Olinthus at the arena. After rapidly running
over these plans for screening himself, Arbaces dismissed
at once from his mind all recollection of the wretched
priest ; and, animated by the success which had lately
crowned 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
enboldened once more to renew that interview ; for his
passion for her was like similar feelings in other men, –
it made him restless for her presence, even though in that
presence he was exasperated and humbled. From delicacy
to her grief he laid not aside his dark and unfestive robes,
but, renewing the perfumes on his raven locks, and arrang-
ing his tunic in its most becoming folds, he sought the
chamber of the Neapolitan. Accosting the slave in attend-
ance 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 in-
truder, shut them with an expression of pain, but did not
stir.
326 THE LA ST D.4 YS OF POMPE II.
“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 gladly 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 2 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 counte-
nance 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. I 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.”
“I forgive thee. Save but Glaucus, and I will renounce
him. O mighty Arbaces ! thou art powerful in evil or in
good: save the Athenian, and the poor Ione will never see him
more.” As she spoke, she rose with weak and trembling
limbs, and falling at his feet, she clasped his knees: “Oh! if
thou really 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 7”
THE LA ST DAYS OF POMPEII. 327
“Thine 2 * repeated Ione, rising: “thine !—thy bride 7
My brother's blood is unavenged: who slew him 2 O
Nemesis, can I even sell, for the life of Glaucus, thy
solemn trust 2 Arbaces, – thine 2 Never.”
“Ione, Ione !” cried Arbaces, passionately; “why these
mysterious words 2 — why dost thou couple my name with
the thought of thy brother's death ?”
“My dreams couple it, — and dreams are from the gods.”
“Wain 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 1 Yes, – thou mayst put the knife and the
poison from my reach ; thou mayst imprison; thou mayst
chain me, but the brave soul resolved to escape is never
without means. These hands, naked and unarmed though
they be, shall tear away the bonds of life. Fetter them,
and these lips shall firmly refuse the air. Thou art learned,
— thou hast read how women have died rather than meet
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 l’’
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 I 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, foresees with a prophet's vision. With
a resolution equal to thine own, I defy thy threats of an
328 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
inglorious suicide. I hail thee as my own Queen of
climes undarkened by the eagle's wing, unravaged by his
beak, I bow before thee in homage and in awe, – but I
claim thee in worship and in love 1 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 market-
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 unfor-
getful Hades. Atone, then, O Arbaces ! — atone the past:
convert hatred into regard, – vengeance into gratitude ;
preserve one who shall never be thy rival. These are acts
suited to thy original nature, which gives forth sparks of
something high and noble. They weigh in the scales of
the Kings of Death ; they turn the balance on that day
when the disembodied soul stands shivering and dismayed
between Tartarus and Elysium ; they gladden the heart in
life, better and longer than the reward of a momentary
passion. Oh, Arbaces ! hear me, and be swayed l’”
“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 popu-
lace excited — have saved the Athenian. Still, made san-
guine 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,
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 329
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 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 attend-
ance upon my ward, and caution them not to inform her
that the blind girl is under my roof. Go, - quick l’”
The freedman hastened to obey. After having discharged
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 1” interrupted Sosia, impa-
tiently; “she will be my ruin l’ And he forthwith im-
parted 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 1’’
“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.”
“I will do all that friendship can, consistent with my
own safety. But are you sure she has left the house ? —
she may be hiding here yet.”
“How is that possible 2 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
330 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
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
all seen that expression of pain, of uncertainty, of fear,
which a sudden disappointment of touch, if I may use
the expression, casts over the face of the blind. But
what words can paint the intolerable woe, the sinking of
the whole heart, which was now visible on the features
of the Thessalian 2 Again and again her small, quivering
hands wandered to and fro the inexorable door. Poor
thing that thou wert 1 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 when she has convinced herself that the door is
honest.”
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 331
“Look! she raises her face to the heavens; she
mutters, – she sinks down despondent 1 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 1 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.
“Gods ! that cry will alarm the house ! Arbaces sleeps
full lightly. Gag her l’ 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.
CHAPTER XVI.
THE SORROW OF BOON COMPANIONS FOR OLTR, AFFLIC-
TIONS.— THE DUNGEON AND ITS VICTIMS.
IT was now late on the third and last day of the trial of
Glaucus and Olinthus. A few hours after the court had
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 7” said Clodius,
332 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
“Yes, but the testimony of Arbaces was convincing.
he saw the blow given,” answered Lepidus.
“What could have been the cause ?”
“Why, the priest was a gloomy and sullen fellow.
He probably rated Glaucus soundly about his gay life
and gaming habits, and ultimately swore he would not
consent to his 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
and forbearing in his testimony.”
“Yes; he has made himself generally popular by it.
But, in consideration of these extenuating circumstances,
the senate should have relaxed the sentence.”
“And they would have done so, but for the people; but
they were outrageous. The priest had spared no pains to
excite them ; and they imagined — the ferocious brutes —
because 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 for-
mally 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 2 ” -
“The blasphemer | Yes,” said Lepidus, with pious
wrath, “no wonder that one of the decurions was, but two
days ago, struck dead by lightning in a serene sky." The
gods feel vengeance against Pompeii while the vile dese-
crator is alive within its walls.”
* Pliny says that, immediately before the eruption of Vesuvius, one of the
decuriones municipales was — though the heaven was unclouded — struck dead
by lightning.
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPE II. 333
“Yet so lenient was the Senate, that had he but expressed
his penitence, and Scattered a few grains of incense on
the altar of Cybele, he would have been let off. I doubt
whether these Nazarenes, had they the state religion, would
be as tolerant to us, supposing we had kicked down the
image of their Deity, blasphemed their rites, and denied
their faith.”
“They give Glaucus one chance, in consideration of the
circumstances; they allow him, against the lion, the use of
the same stilus where with he smote the priest.”
“Hast thou seen the lion; hast thou looked at his teeth
and fangs, and wilt thou call that a chance 2 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 there-
fore 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
grim tiger naked-handed. Well, these combats are past
betting on. Who will take the odds?”
A peal of laughter announced the ridicule of the question.
“Poor Clodius !” said the host; “to lose a friend is
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 con-
solation 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.
334 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
“Well,” observed Lepidus, “it would have been assuredly
dangerous to have been merciful at the eve of a beast-fight.
If ever I, though a Roman bred and born, come to be tried,
pray Jupiter there may be either no beasts in the vivaria,
or plenty of criminals in the 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 l’”
“Oh,” returned Clodius, “she is safe under the protection
of her guardian, Arbaces. It was natural she should go to
him when she had lost both lover and brother.”
“By sweet Venus, Glaucus was fortunate among the
women They say the rich Julia was in love with him.”
“A mere fable, my friend,” said Clodius, coxcombically;
“I was with her to-day. If any feeling of the sort she ever
conceived, I flatter myself that I have consoled her.”
“Hush, gentlemen I’” said Pansa; “do you not know that
Clodius is employed at the house of Diomed in blowing hard
at the torch 2. It begins to burn, and will soon shine bright
on the shrine of Hymen.”
“Is it so 7” said Lepidus. “What Clodius become a
married man 2 — Fie!”
“Never fear,” answered Clodius; “old Diomed is de-
lighted at the notion of marrying his daughter to a noble-
man, 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 2 ” cried Lepidus; “ come, then, a full cup
to the health of the fair Julia | *
While such was the conversation — one not discordant to
the tone of mind common among the dissipated of that day,
and which might perhaps, a century ago, have found an
echo in the looser circles of Paris — while such, I say,
was the 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
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 335
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 ex-
cited his haughty valor, and he was left to loneliness and
silence. He felt the damps of the dungeon sink chillingly
into his enfeebled frame. He, – the fastidious, the luxu-
rious, the refined, - he who had hitherto braved no hardship
and known no sorrow. Beautiful bird that he was 1 why
had he left his far and sunny clime, – the olive-groves of
his native hills, the music of immemorial streams ? Why
had he wantoned on his glittering plumage amidst these
harsh and ungenial strangers, dazzling the eyes with his
gorgeous hues, charming the ear with his blithesome song,
—thus suddenly to be arrested, caged in darkness, a victim
and a prey, - his gay flights forever over, his hymns of
gladness forever stilled ! The poor Athenian his very
faults the exuberance of a gentle and joyous nature, how
ſittle had his past career fitted him for the trials he was
destined to undergol The hoots of the mob, amidst whose
plaudits he had so often guided his graceful car and bound-
ing 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
336 THE LA ST DAYS OF POMPEII.
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 2 — 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 him-
self, 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 convinced of his innocence; and yet who,
to the latest time, long after his mangled remains were
mingled with the elements, would believe him guiltless, or
uphold his fame 7 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 mys-
terious 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 2 That
thought cut him more deeply than all; and his noble heart
was more stung by jealousy than appalled by fear. Again
he groaned aloud.
A voice from the recess of the darkness answered that
burst of anguish. “Who” (it said) “is my companion in
this awful hour 2 Athenian Glaucus, is it thou?”
“So, indeed, they called me in mine hour of fortune:
they may have other names for me now. And thy name,
stranger ?”
“Is Olinthus, thy co-mate in the prison as the trial.”
“What I he whom they call the atheist? Is it the in-
justice of men that hath taught thee to deny the providence
of the gods?” -
“Alas!” answered Olinthus: “ thou, not I, art the true
atheist, for thou deniest the sole true God — the Unknown
One — to whom thy Athenian fathers erected an altar. It
is in this hour that I know my God. He is with me in
the dungeon; His smile penetrates the darkness; on the
"HE_Lldinſ -30 Bld Wºl

THE LA ST DAYS OF POMPEII. 337
eve of death my heart whispers immortality, and earth
recedes from me but to bring the weary soul nearer unto
heaven.”
“Tell me,” said Glaucus, abruptly, “ did I not hear thy
name coupled with that of Apaecides in my trial 2 Dost
thou believe me guilty ?”
“God alone reads the heart but my suspicion rested not
upon thee.”
“On whom, then 7°
“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 con-
version of Apacides, the plan they had proposed for the
detection of the impostures of the Egyptian priestcraft,
and of the seductions practised by Arbaces upon the youth-
ful 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.”
“It must have been so l’ cried Glaucus, joyfully. “I
am happy.”
“Yet what, O unfortunate avails to thee now the dis-
covery 2 Thou art condemned and fated; and in thine
innocence thy 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 2 ”
“God is just, and abandons not His creatures for their
mere human frailty. God is merciful, and curses none but
the wicked who repent not.”
“Yet it seemeth to me as if, in the divine anger, I had
been smitten by a sudden madness, a supernatural and
solemn frenzy, wrought not by human means.”
“There are demons on earth,” answered the Nazarene,
fearfully, “as well as there are God and his Son in heaven;
338 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
and since thou acknowledgest not the last, the first may
have had power over thee.”
Glaucus did not reply, and there was a silence for some
minutes. At length the Athenian said, in a changed, and
soft, and half-hesitating voice, “Christian, believest thou,
among the doctrines of thy creed, that the dead live again,
— that they who have loved here are united hereafter ;
that beyond the grave 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 2''
“Believe I that, O Athenian 2 No, I do not believe, – I
know / and it is that beautiful and blessed assurance which
supports me now. O Cyllene !” continued Olinthus, pas-
sionately, “bride of my heart 1 torn from me in the first
month of our nuptials, shall I not see thee yet and ere
many days be past 2 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 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.
THE LA ST DAYS OF POMPEII. 339
CHAPTER XVII.
A CHANGE FOR GLAUCUS.
THE hours passed in lingering torture over the head of
Nydia from the time in which she had been replaced in
her cell.
Sosia, as if afraid he should be again outwitted, had
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 susceptible 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 intol-
erable 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 2 was
she not nearly rich enough to purchase it 2 Her slender
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.
340 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
“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 nobody to talk
with, – it 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, -
“I am sure I do not wish to be churlish ; and so far as a
little innocent chat goes, I have no objection to indulge you.
But mind, no tricks, – no more conjuring !”
“No, no ; tell me, dear Sosia, what is the hour 2 ”
“It is already evening, — the goats are going home.”
“O gods ! how went the trial 2 ”
“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 en-
dure 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 injustice 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 2 Why, about two thousand sesterces.”
“The gods be praised not more ? Seest thou these
THE LA ST DAYS OF POMPE II. 341
bracelets and this chain 2 They are well worth double that
sum. I will give them thee if–’”
“Tempt me not : I cannot release thee. Arbaces is a
severe and awful master. Who knows but I might feed the
fishes of the Sarnus ! Alas! all the sesterces in the world
would not buy me back into life. Better a live dog than a
dead lion.”
“Sosia, thy freedom Think well ! If thou wilt let me
out, only for one little hour ! — let me out at midnight, — I
will return ere to-morrow’s dawn; nay, thou canst go with
me.”
“No,” said Sosia, sturdily; “a slave once disobeyed
Arbaces, and he was never more heard of.”
“But the law gives a master no power over the life of a
slave.”
“The law is very obliging, but more polite than efficient.
I know that Arbaces always gets the law on his side.
Besides, if I am once dead, what law can bring me to life
again 2 °
Nydia wrung her hands. “Is there no hope, then 7°
said she, convulsively.
“None of escape, till Arbaces gives the word.”
“Well, then,” said Nydia, quickly, “thou wilt not, at
least, refuse to take a letter for me: thy master cannot
kill thee for that.”
« To Whom ?”
“The praetor.”
“To a magistrate 2 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 praetor, – it was a word that
escaped me unawares; I meant quite another person, — the
gay Sallust.”
“Oh I and what want you with him 2 °
“ Glaucus was my master; he purchased me from a cruel
lord. He alone has been kind to me. He is to die. I
shall never live happily if I cannot, in his hour of trial and
doom, let him know that one heart is grateful to him.
Sallust is his friend; he will convey my message.”
“I am sure he will do no such thing. Glaucus will have
enough to think of between this and to-morrow without
troubling his head about a blind girl.”
342 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
“Man,” said Nydia, rising, “wilt thou become free ?
Thou hast the offer in thy power; to-morrow it will be too
late. Never was freedom more cheaply purchased. Thou
canst easily and unmissed leave home : less than half an
hour will 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 2 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 con-
jectured it would do, - what then 2 It need never be
known to Arbaces that he had carried the letter. At the
worst the bribe was enormous, – the risk light, the tempta-
tion irresistible. He hesitated no longer, — he assented to
the proposal.
“Give me the trinkets, and I will take the letter. Yet
stay : thou art a slave, – thou hast no right to these orna-
ments, they are thy master’s.”
“They were the gifts of Glaucus; he is my master.
What chance hath he to claim them 2 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 language of her
childhood, and which almost every Italian of the higher
ranks was then supposed to know. She carefully wound
round the epistle the protecting thread, and covered its
knot with wax ; and ere she placed it in the hands of Sosia,
she thus addressed him : —
“Sosia, I am blind and in prison. Thou mayst think to
deceive me, – thou mayst pretend only to take the letter
to Sallust; thou mayst not fulfil thy charge; but here I
THE LA ST DAYS OF POMPEII. 343
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 Olympian Jupiter,
the all-seeing, — I swear that I will honestly discharge my
trust, and faithfully deliver into the hands of Sallust this
letter And if I perjure myself in this oath, may the full
curses of heaven and hell be wreaked upon me !’ 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 disguis-
ing-cloak, and slipped out by the back way undisturbed and
Ullſ).S60]].
The streets were thin and empty. He soon gained the
house of Sallust. The porter bade him leave his letter, and
be gone; for Sallust was so grieved at the condemnation of
Glaucus, that he could not on any account be disturbed.
“Nevertheless, I have sworn to give this letter into his
hands, – do so I must 1” And Sosia, well knowing by ex-
perience 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 dis-
turbs 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 atri-
ensis, – I see him coming.”
Sallust was too sad to receive company; he was too sad,
344 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
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 7 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
bel Shut up the house to-morrow : not a slave shall stir
forth, – none of my people shall honor that cursed arena,
no, no l’” .
“Taste the Falernian, – your grief distracts you. By
the gods it does, – a piece of that cheesecake.”
It was at this auspicious moment that Sosia was admitted
to the presence of the disconsolate carouser.
“HO ! — what art, thou ?”
“Merely a messenger to Sallust. I give him this billet
from a young female. There is no answer that I know of.
May I withdraw 2°
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 7 Go! — and the curses of Pandaras
with you !”
Sosia lost not a moment in retiring.
“Will you read the letter, Sallust 7” said the freedman.
“Letter 1 — 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 2 °
“ Eat another tartlet.”
“No, no My grief chokes me !”
“Take him to bed,” said the freedman; and, Sallust's
head now declining fairly on his breast, they bore him off
to his cubiculum, still muttering lamentations for Glaucus,
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 345
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 some-
thing in the word which the toughest stomach in the world
would rise against. A knave is a knave for his own pleas-
ure, and a thief a thief for his own profit; and there is
something honorable and philosophical in being a rascal
for one's own sake : that is doing things upon principle, –
upon a grand scale. But a pimp is a thing that defiles
itself for another, — a pipkin that is put on the fire for an-
other man’s pottage a napkin, that every guest wipes his
hands upon l 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, l’
and ‘worthy man l’ I warrant. Nevertheless, the trinkets
have been won easily, - that's some comfort 1 and, O god-
dess Feronia I shall be a freedman Soon l and then I
should like 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, gesticulating ; and,
ere he was aware of it, the worthy Sosia was borne away
with the noisy stream.
“What now 2° he asked of his nearest neighbor, a young
artificer, — “what now 7 Where are all these good folks
thronging 2 Does any rich patron give away alms or viands
to-night 2 ”
“Not so, man, – better still,” replied the artificer; “the
noble Pansa — the people's friend—has granted the public
leave to see the beasts in their vivaria. By Hercules they
will not be seen so safely by some persons to-morrow !”
“”T is a pretty sight,” said the slave, yielding to the
throng that impelled him onward; “and since I may not
346 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
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. Neverthe-
less, 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 com-
plaint 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 compan-
ions, “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! hoſ for the merry, merry show,
With a forest of faces in every row !
Lo the swordsmen, bold as the son of Alcmaena,
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 hand-
some youth, – “yes,” replied he, enviously; “the women
love a gladiator. If I had been a slave, I would have soon
found my schoolmaster in the lanista l’”
“Would you, indeed ?” said Sosia, with a sneer.
“People's notions differ l’”
The crowd had now arrived at the place of destination;
but as the cell in which the wild beasts were confined was
extremely small and narrow, tenfold more vehement than it
hitherto had been was the rush of the aspirants to obtain
admittance. Two of the officers of the amphitheatre,
placed at the entrance, very wisely mitigated the evil by
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 347
dispensing to the foremost only a limited number of tickets
at a time, and admitting no new visitors till their prede-
cessors had sated their curiosity. Sosia, who was a toler-
ably 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. t
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 yawn, testi-
fied any emotion at his confinement, or at the crowd
which honored him with their presence.
“I have seen no fiercer beast than yon lion even in the
amphitheatre of Rome,” said a gigantic and sinewy fellow
who stood at the hand of Sosia.
“I feel humbled when I look at his limbs,” replied, at
the left of Sosia, a slighter and younger figure, with his
arms folded on his breast.
The slave looked first at one, and then at the other.
“ Virtus in medio / — virtue is ever in the middle !”
muttered he to himself; “a goodly neighborhood for thee,
Sosia, – a gladiator on each side l’’
“That is well said, Lydon,” returned the huger gladia-
tor; “I feel the same.”
“And to think,” observed Lydon, in a tone of deep feel-
ing, — “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 l’’
348 THE LAST DA YS OF POMPEII.
“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 7”
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. º
“Well !” said Lydon, turning away, “I thank the gods
that it is not the lion or the tiger I am to contend with ;
even you, Niger, are a gentler combatant than they.”
“But equally dangerous,” said the gladiator, with a fierce
laugh; and the bystanders, admiring his vast limbs and
ferocious countenance, laughed too.
“That as it may be,” answered Lydon, carelessly, as he
pressed through the throng and quitted the den.
“I may as well take advantage of his shoulders,”
thought 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 l’”
“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-
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 349
hearted, he was already imbued with the pride of a profes-
sion 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 importance; his step grew
yet lighter, and his mien more elate.
“Niger,” said he, turning suddenly, as he had now
threaded the crowd: “we have often quarrelled; we are
not matched against each other, but one of us, at least, may
reasonably expect to fall, - give us thy hand.”
“Most readily,” said Sosia, extending his palm.
“Ha! what fool is this 2 Why, I thought Niger was at
my heels l’”
“I forgive the mistake,” replied Sosia, condescendingly:
“don’t mention it; the error was easy, — I and Niger are
somewhat of the same build.”
“Ha! haſ that is excellent Niger would have slit thy
throat had he heard thee l’’
“You gentlemen of the arena have a most disagreeable
mode of talking,” said Sosia: “let us change the conversa-
tion.”
“ 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, I am sure you will die
bravely 1 °
“May thy words fall on thine own head I’” 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.
“I 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 not con-
templated 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 all
opposite street, he beheld the very object of his thoughts,
350 THE LA ST DAYS OF POMPEII.
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 pict-
uresquely into light the crowd around the amphitheatre at
a distance, murmuring, and swaying to and fro), the influ-
ence 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
hiº revels. The doors were open for coolness, and the
gladiator beheld the numerous and festive group gathered
round the tables in the atrium ; * while behind them, clos-
ing 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.
* In the atrium, as I have elsewhere observed, a larger party of guests thau
ordinary was frequently entertained.
THE LAST DAYS OF PHOMPEII. 35]
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
'T is 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 P
In counting the girls that we kiss, eh?
Or the cups that we empty at dinner?
Content with the soft lips that love us,
This music, this wine, and this mirth, boys,
We care not for gods up above us, –
We know there 's no god for this earth, boys
While Lydon's piety (which, accommodating as it might
be, was in no slight degree disturbed by these verses, which
embodied the fashionable philosophy of the day) slowly
recovered itself from the shock it had received, a small
party of men, in plain garments and of the middle class,
passed by his resting-place. They were in earnest conver-
sation, and did not seem to notice or heed the gladiator as
they moved on. -
“Oh, horror on horrors l’” said one ; “Olinthus is snatched
from us ! our right arm is lopped away ! When will Christ
descend to protect His own 7”
“Can human atrocity go farther ?” said another : “to
sentence an innocent man to the same arena as a murderer ?
But let us not despair; the thunder of Sinai may yet be
heard, and the Lord preserve His saint. ‘The fool has
said in his heart, There is no God.’”
At that moment out broke again, from the illumined
palace, the burden of the revellers’ song: —
“We care not for gods up above us, -
We know there 's no god for this earth, boys 1”
*See note (a) at the end.
352 THE LA ST DAYS OF POMPEII.
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 GOD — shall mark and hear thee
On His car of storm He sweeps
Bow, ye heavens, and shrink, ye deeps
Woe to the proud ones who defy Him —
Woe to the dreamers who deny Him
Woe to the wicked, woe
The proud stars shall fail—
The sun shall grow pale —
The heavens shrivel up like a scroll —
Hell's ocean shall bare
Its depths of despair,
Each wave an eternal soul |
For the only thing, then,
That shall not live again,
Is the corpse of the giant TIME!
Hark, the trumpet of thunder
Lo, earth rent asunder
And, forth, on his Angel-throne,
He comes through the gloom,
The Judge of the Tomb,
To summon and save His own
Oh, joy to Care, and woe to Crime,
He comes to save His own
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 Cam-
panian skies ' Yet this was the last night for the gay
：lv： H.L1HdW：

THE LAST DAYS OF POMPE II. 353
Pompeii! the colony of the hoar Chaldean the fabled city
of Hercules l the delight of the voluptuous Roman Age
after age had rolled, indestructive, unheeded, over its head;
and now the last 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 Vesu-
vius, darkly visible at the distance, there shot a pale, mete-
oric, 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 "
354 THE LAST' DA YS OF POMPEII.
BOOK W.
CHAPTER. I.
THE DRYºAM OF ARBACES. — A VISITOR AND A WARNING
TO THE EGYPTIAN.
THE awful night preceding the fierce joy of the amphi-
theatre rolled drearily away, and grayly broke forth the
dawn of THE LAST DAY OF POMPEII | 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 Vesuvius had suddenly vanished, and its rugged
and haughty brow looked without a frown over the beau-
tiful 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 numer-
ous pedestrian groups, clad in holiday attire, rose high in
joyous and excited merriment; the streets were crowded
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 355
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 sequestered
mansion. At the sight of her quaint and primeval garb, -
of her wild gait and gestures, – the passengers she encoun-
tered touched each other and smiled; but as they caught a
glimpse of her countenance, the mirth was hushed at once,
for the face was as the face of the dead; and what with
the ghastly features and obsolete robes of the stranger, it
seemed as if one long entombed had risen once more
amongst the living. In silence and awe each group gave
way as she passed along, and she soon gained the broad
porch of the Egyptian's palace.
The black porter, like the rest of the world, astir at an un-
usual hour, started as he opened the door to her summons.
The sleep of the Egyptian had been unusually profound
during the night; but, as the dawn approached, it was dis-
turbed by strange and unquiet dreams, which impressed
him the more as they were colored by the peculiar philoso-
phy he embraced.
He thought that he was transported to the bowels of the
earth, and that he stood alone in a mighty cavern, sup-
ported 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.
356 THE LAST DAYs of Pompeii.
And in the space between these columns were huge wheels,
that whirled round and round unceasingly, and with a rush-
ing and roaring noise. Only to the right and left extremi-
ties of the cavern, the space between the pillars was left
bare, and the apertures stretched away into galleries, – not
wholly dark, but dimly lighted by wandering and erratic
fires, that, meteor-like, now crept (as the snake creeps)
along the rugged and dank soil; and now leaped fiercely to
and fro, darting across the vast gloom in wild gambols,
— suddenly disappearing, and as suddenly bursting into
tenfold brilliancy and power. And while he gazed wonder-
ingly upon the gallery to the left, thin, mist-like, aerial
shapes passed slowly up ; and when they had gained the
hall, they seemed to rise aloft, and to vanish, as the smoke
vanishes, in the measureless ascent.
He turned in fear towards the opposite extremity, — and
behold ! there came swiftly, from the gloom above, similar
shadows, which swept hurriedly along the gallery to the
right, as if borne involuntarily adown the tides of some
invisible stream; and the faces of these spectres were more
distinct than those that emerged from the opposite passage ;
and on some was joy, and on others sorrow, - some were
vivid with expectation and hope, some unutterably dejected
by awe and horror. And so they passed swift and con-
stantly on, till the eyes of the gazer grew dizzy and blinded
with the whirl of an ever-varying succession of things im-
pelled 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 number-
less wheels, as if it guided the machinery of their move-
ments. 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 counte-
nance of the giantess was solemn and hushed, and beauti-
fully serene. It was as the face of some colossal sculpture
of his own ancestral sphinx. No passion, no human emo-
tion, 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 sympa-
thize. The mystery of mysteries rested on its beauty, - it
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 357
awed, but terrified not; it was the Incarnation of the Sub-
lime. 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?”
“I am That which thou hast acknowledged,” answered,
without desisting from its work, the mighty phantom. “My
name is NATURE These are the wheels of the world, and
my hand guides them for the life of all things.”
“And what,” said the voice of Arbaces, “are these gal-
leries, 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 2 ”
“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 l’”
Arbaces felt himself tremble as he asked again, “Where-
fore am I here ?”
“It is the forecast of thy soul, - the prescience of thy
rushing doom; the shadow of thy fate lengthening into
etermity as it declines from earth.”
Ere he could answer, Arbaces felt a rushing wiND sweep
down the cavern, as the winds of a giant god. Borne aloft
from the ground, and whirled on high as a leaf in the storms
of autumn, he beheld himself in the midst of the Spectres
of the Dead, and hurrying with them along the length of
gloom. As in vain and impotent despair he struggled
against the impelling power, i.e. thought the WINP grew
into something like a shape, – a spectral outline of the
358 THE LAST DA YS OF POMPEII.
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 remorselessly on his own.
“What art thou?” again said the voice of the Egyptian.
“I am That which thou hast acknowledged ; ” and the
spectre laughed aloud, - “ and my name is NECEssITY.”
“To what dost thou bear me 2 °
“To the Unknown.”
“To happiness or to woe 2 °
“As thou hast sown, so shalt thou reap.”
“Dread thing, not so ! If thou art the Ruler of life,
thine are my misdeeds, not mine.”
“I am but the breath of God!” answered the mighty
WIND.
“Then is my wisdom vain ” groaned the dreamer.
“The husbandman accuses not Fate, when, having sown
thistles, he reaps not corn. Thou hast sown crime; accuse
not Fate if thou reapest not the harvest of virtue.”
The scene suddenly changed. Arbaces was in a place of
human bones; and lo! in the midst of them was a skull, and
the skull, still retaining its fleshless hollows, assumed slowly,
and in the mysterious confusion of a dream, the face of
Apa-cides; and forth from the grinning jaws there crept a
small worm, and it crawled to the feet of Arbaces. . He
attempted to stamp on it and crush it; but it became longer
and larger with that attempt. It swelled and bloated till
it grew into a vast serpent: it coiled itself round the limbs
of Arbaces; it crunched his bones; it raised its glaring eyes
and poisonous jaws to his face. He writhed in vain; he
withered — he gasped — beneath the influence of the blight-
ing breath; he felt himself blasted into death. And then
a voice came from the reptile, which still bore the face of
Apaecides, and rang in his reeling ear, –
“THY VICTIM Is THY JUDGE | THE WORM THOU woul, DST
CRU's H. 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
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPE II. 359
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 2 ”
“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
agaln.
“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 ?” -
“I came to warn thee,” answered the sepulchral voice
of the saga.
“Warn me ! The dream lied not, then 2 Of what
peril?”
“Listen to me ! Some evil hangs over this fated city.
Fly while it be time. Thou knowest that I hold my
home on that mountain beneath which old tradition saith
there yet burn the fires of the river of Phlegethon; and in
my cavern is a vast abyss, and in that abyss I have of late
marked a red and dull stream creep slowly, slowly on; and
heard many and mighty Sounds hissing and roaring through
the gloom. But last night, as I looked thereon, behold the
stream was no longer dull, but intensely and fiercely lumi-
nous; 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
* We may suppose that the exhalations were similar in effect to those of the
Grotta del Cane.
360 THE LA ST DAYS OF POMPEII.
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 hollow 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 habitation of many years; for I remembered the dark
Etruscan prophecy which saith, ‘When the mountain opens,
the city shall fall, - when the smoke crowns the Hill of
the Parched Fields, there shall be woe and weeping in the
hearts of the Children of the Sea.” Dread master, ere I
leave these walls for some more distant dwelling, I come to
thee. As thou livest, know I in my heart that the earth-
quake 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 l’”
“Witch, I thank thee for thy care of one not ungrateful.
On yon table stands a cup of gold; take it, it is thine. I
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,” con-
tinued 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 pre-
pare my departure. Daughter of Etruria, whither wendest
thou ?”
“I shall cross over to Herculaneum this day, and, wan-
dering 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 I’”
“Ay,” said the Egyptian, “I have promised thee. But
woman,” he added, lifting himself upon his arm, and gaz-
ing curiously on her face, “tell me, I pray thee, wherefore
thou wishest to live 2 What sweets dost thou discover in
existence 2 ”
“It is not life that is sweet, but death that is awful,”
replied the hag, in a sharp, impressive tone, that struck
forcibly upon the heart of the vain star-seer. He winced
THE LAST DAYs of Pompeii. 361
at the truth of the reply: and, no longer anxious to retain
so uninviting a companion, he said, “Time wanes; I must
prepare for the Solemn spectacle of this day. Sister, fare-
well ! 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 2 — 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 amphi-
theatre in festive robes, and Arbaces arrayed himself that
day with more than usual care. His tunic was of the most
dazzling white ; his many fibulae were formed from the most
precious stones; over his tunic flowed a loose Eastern robe,
half-gown, half-mantle, glowing in the richest hues of the
Tyrian dye; and the Sandals, that reached half way up
the knee, were studded with gems and inlaid with gold.
In the quackeries 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 accompanied to
the shows of the amphitheatre by a procession of their slaves
and freedmen; and the long “family’’ of 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 con-
demned 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 know.
362 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
est 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 | T is well. Arbaces shall be obeyed; — and
his ward, Ione 7”
“Accompanies me. Enough !—Is the morning fair 2 °
“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 cord-
age, 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 fol-
lowed by joyous laughter, — they were making merry at
the hungry impatience of the royal beast.
“ Brutes 1’’ muttered the disdainful Arbaces, “are ye less
homicides than I am ? I slay but in self-defence, — ye
make murder pastime.”
He turned, with a restless and curious eye, towards Vesu-
vius. 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 de-
crees since I passed the danger and the crisis they foretold.
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 Ionel”
THE LAST' DA YS OF POMPEII. 363
-CHAPTER II.
THE AMPHITHEATRE.
NYDIA, assured by the account of Sosia, on his return
home, and satisfied that her letter was in the hands of Sal-
lust, 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 commanding 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 distinguished 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.
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 eques-
trian 1 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.
1 The equites sat immediately behind the senators.
364 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
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 grad.
ually 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
crimson. 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 circumfer-
ence, 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 remark-
ably 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 aedile Pansa, at whose expense the exhibition was
given, looked particularly annoyed at the defect, and vowed
bitter vengeance on the head of the chief officer of the
show, who, fretting, puffing, perspiring, busied himself in
idle orders and unavailing threats.
The hubbub ceased suddenly: the operators desisted,
the crowd were stilled, the gap was forgotten, – for now,
with a loud and warlike flourish of trumpets, the gladiators,
marshalled in ceremonious procession, entered the arena.
They swept round the oval space very slowly and deliber-
ately, 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 excite-
ment of the moment might suggest.
“Oh l’’ cried the widow Fulvia to the wife of Pansa, as
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 365
they leaned down from their lofty bench, “do you see that
gigantic gladiator 2 how drolly he is dressed l’’
“Yes,” said the aedile'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 fearless it is — by and
by he will fight with his vizor down.”
“But Surely a net and a spear are poor arms against a
shield and sword ‘’”
“That shows how innocent you are, my dear Fulvia; the
retiarius has generally the best of it.”
“But who is yon handsome gladiator, nearly naked, –
is it not quite improper ? By Venus ! but his limbs are
beautifully shaped l’”
“It is Lydon, a young, untried man he has the rashness
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 l’exclaimed the widow, as
two gladiators, armed cap-à-pie, rode round the arena on
light and prancing steeds. Resembling much the combat-
ants 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.”
366 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
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 cther. Amongst these, the skill of two
Roman gladiators, hired for the occasion, was the most
admired; and next to them the most graceful combatant
was Lydon. This sham contest did not last above an hour,
nor did it attract any very lively interest, except among
those connoisseurs of the arena to whom art was preferable
to more coarse excitement; the body of the spectators were
, rejoiced when it was over, and when the sympathy rose to
terror. The combatants were now arranged in pairs, as
agreed beforehand; their weapons 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, was slain first, as an initiatory sacrifice. But
in the present instance, the experienced Pansa thought it
better that the sanguinary drama should advance, not
decrease, in 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 miniature, the micro.
cosm of Rome. Still, it was an awful and imposing spec-
tacle, 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
THE LAST DA YS OF POMPEII. 367
thousand in number, intent upon no fictitious representa-
tion, 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 l’ cried the praetor, giving the first
vent to the popular excitement.
“Bravely struck, my Berbix l’” 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 l’” shouted the populace.
“I have lost ten sestertia,” “ said Clodius, between his
teeth.
“Habet / — he has it,” said Pansa, deliberately.
The populace, not yet hardened into cruelty, made the
signal of mercy ; but as the attendants of the arena ap-
proached, they found the kindness came too late; — the
heart of the Gaul had been pierced, and his eyes were set
in death. It was his life’s blood that flowed so darkly over
the sand and sawdust of the arena.
“It is a pity it was so soon over, — there was little
enough for one’s trouble,” said the widow Fulvia.
“Yes; I have no compassion for Berbix. Any one might
1 A little more than £80.
368 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
have seen that Nobilior did but feint. Mark, they fix the
fatal hook to the body: they drag him away to the spolia.
rium, - they scatter new sand over the stage 1 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 com-
plete steel, and evenly matched with immense bucklers and
pointed swords.
The initiatory contest between Lydon and Tetraides
being less deadly than that between the other combatants,
no sooner had they advanced to the middle of the arena,
than, as by common consent, the rest held back, to see how
that contest should be decided, and wait till fiercer weapons
might replace the cestus, ere they themselves commenced
hostilities. They stood leaning on their arms and apart
from each other, gazing on the show, which, if not bloody
enough thoroughly to please the populace, they were still
inclined to admire, because its origin was of their ancestral
Greece.
No person could, at first glance, have seemed less evenly
matched than the two antagonists. Tetraides, though not
taller than Lydon, weighed considerably more; the natural
size of his muscles was increased, to the eyes of the vulgar,
by masses of solid flesh; for, as it was a motion that the
contest of the cestus fared easiest with him who was
plumpest, Tetraides had encouraged to the utmost his he-
reditary 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 meagre-
ness, was beautifully and delicately proportioned ; and the
skilful might have perceived that, with much less compass
of muscle than his foe, that which he had was more seasoned,
— iron and compact. In proportion, too, as he wanted flesh,
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 369
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 cry 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 to
bestow — may easily understand how much that happy
facility would be increased by a band carried by thongs of
leather round the arm as high as the elbow, and terribly
strengthened about the knuckles by a plate of iron, and
sometimes a plumpet of lead. Yet this, which was meant
to increase, perhaps rather diminished, the interest of the
fray: for it necessarily shortened its duration. A very few
blows, successfully and scientifically planted, might suffice
to bring the contest to a close; and the battle did not, there-
fore, often allow full scope for the energy, fortitude, and
dogged perseverance, that we technically style pluck, which
not unusually wins the day against Superior science, and
which heightens to so painful a delight the 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. Te-
traides 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 1
— a Tetraides 1’’
“But Lydon is not disheartened. By Pollux how well he
keeps his temper. See how dexterously he avoids those
* Above £800.
370 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
hammer-like hands ! — dodging now here, now there, — cir-
cling round and round. Ah, poor Lydon he has it again.”
“Three to one still on Tetraides | What say you, Lepi-
dus 2 °
“Well; nine sestertia to three, – be it so ! What again,
Lydon ? He stops, – he gasps for breath. By the gods,
he is down l No, - he is again on his legs. Brave Lydon |
Tetraides is encouraged; he laughs loud, - he rushes on
him.”
“Fool 1 — success blinds him, - he should be cautious.
Lydon’s eye is like a lynx’s l’” said Clodius, between his teeth.
“Ha, Clodius ! saw you that ? Your man totters Another
blow, - he falls, he falls l’”
“Earth revives him, then. He is once more up ; but the
blood rolls down his face.”
“By the thunderer! Lydon wins it. See how he presses
on him That blow on the temple would have crushed an
ox it has crushed Tetraides. He falls again ; he cannot
move, – habet / — habet /*
“ Habet / " repeated Pansa. “Take them out and give
them the armor and swords.”
“Noble editor,” said the officers, “we fear that Tetraides
will not recover in time; howbeit, we will try.”
“ DO SO.”
In a few minutes the officers, who had dragged off the
stunned and insensible gladiator, returned with rueful coun-
tenances. They feared for his life ; he was utterly incapaci-
tated from re-entering the arena.
“In that case,” said Pansa, “ hold Lydon a 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 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 celebrated, or are they merely ordinarii ?”
“Eumolpus is a good second-rate swordsman, my Lepidus.
Nepimus, the lesser man, I have never seen before; but he
is the son of one of the imperial fiscales,' and brought up in
a proper school; doubtless they will show sport, but I have
* Gladiators maintained by the emperor.
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 371
no heart for the game; I cannot win back my money, - I
am undone. Curses on that Lydon who could have Sup-
posed he was so dexterous or so lucky 2 °
“Well, Clodius, shall I take compassion on you, and ac-
cept your own terms with these Romans ?”
“An even ten sestertia on Eumolpus, then 7°
“What when Nepimus is untried ? Nay, nay; that is
too bad.”
“Well, - ten to eight 2'
“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 popu-
lace, — 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; uncon-
scious, alas ! of the more fearful battle to which that victory
was but a prelude.
“My gallant boyſ' said he, and wiped his eyes.
“Is he thy son 2 ” 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 Ro-
mans ! nor, next to them, the giant Niger.”
The old man sat down again and covered his face. The
fray for the moment was indifferent to him, - Lydon was
not one of the combatants. Yet, — yet, the thought flashed
across him, the fray was indeed of deadly interest, — the
first who fell was to make way for Lydon | He started,
and bent down, with straining eyes and clasped hands, to
view the encounter.
The first interest was attracted towards the combat of
Niger with Sporus; for this species of contest, from the
fatal result which usually attended it, and from the great
science it required in either antagonist, was always pecul.
iarly inviting to the spectators.
872 THE LA ST DAYS OF POMPEII.
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 com-
pressed 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 re-
treated as his antagonist advanced, gathering up his net
with his right hand, and never taking his small, glittering
eye from the movements of the swordsman. Suddenly,
when Sporus had approached nearly at arm’s length, the
retiarius threw himself forward, and cast his net. A quick
inflection of body saved the gladiator from the deadly
snare he uttered a sharp cry of joy and rage, and rushed
upon Niger; but Niger had already drawn in his net,
thrown it across his shoulders, and now fled round the lists
with a swiftness which the secutor" in vain endeavored to
equal. The people laughed and shouted aloud, to see the
ineffectual efforts of the broad-shouldered gladiator to over-
take the flying giant : when, at that moment, their atten-
tion 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 prevented
any warmth of engagement, and allowed the spectators full
leisure to interest themselves in the battle between Sporus
and his foe. But the Romans were now heated into full
and fierce encounter: they pushed, returned, advanced on,
retreated from, each other, with all that careful yet scarcely
perceptible caution which characterizes men well experi-
enced and equally matched. But at this moment, Eumol-
pus, 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; Lepi-
dus turned pale.
“Ho!” said Clodius, “the game is nearly over. If
Eumolpus fights now the quiet fight, the other will gradu-
ally bleed himself away.”
1 So called, from the office of that tribe of gladiators, in following the foe
the moment the met was cast, in order to smite him ere he could have time to
rearrange it.
THE LAST DA YS OF POMPEII. 373
“But, thank the gods ! he does not fight the backward
fight. Seel — he presses hard upon Nepimus. By Mars
but Nepimus had him there ! the helmet rang again —
Clodius, I shall win l’”
“Why do I ever bet but at the dice 2'' groaned Clodius
to himself: —“ or why cannot one cog a gladiator ?”
“A Sporus ! — a Sporus !” shouted the populace, as
Niger, having now suddenly paused, had again cast his
net, and again unsuccessfully. He had not retreated this
time with sufficient agility, - the sword of Sporus had in-
flicted a severe wound upon his right leg; and, incapac-
itated to fly, he was pressed hard by the fierce swordsman.
His great height and length of arm still continued, however,
to give him no despicable advantages; and steadily keeping
his trident at the front of his foe, he repelled him success-
fully for several minutes. Sporus now tried, by great
rapidity of evolution, to get round his antagonist, who
necessarily moved with pain and slowness. In so doing,
he lost his caution : he advanced too near to the giant, —
raised his arm to strike, and received the three points of
the fatal spear full in his breast ! He sank on his knee.
In a moment more, the deadly net was cast over him, - he
struggled against its meshes in vain; again, again, again
he writhed mutely beneath the fresh strokes of the tri-
dent, — his blood flowed fast through the net and redly
over the sand. He lowered his arms in acknowledgment
of defeat.
The conquering retiarius withdrew his net, and leaning
on his spear, looked to the audience for their judgment.
Slowly, too, at the same moment, the vanquished gladiator
rolled his dim and despairing eyes around the theatre.
From row to row, from bench to bench, there glared upon
him but 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 mimic fight had ceased to charm ; the interest had
mounted up to the desire of sacrifice and the thirst of
death !
374 THE LA ST" DA YS OF POMPEII.
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 re-
ceive the fatal stroke. And now, as the spear of the retia-
rius was not a weapon to inflict instant and certain death,
there stalked into the arena a grim and fatal form, brandish-
ing a short, sharp sword, and with features utterly concealed
beneath its vizor. With slow and measured steps, this dis-
mal headsman approached the gladiator, still kneeling; laid
the left hand on his humbled crest; drew the edge of the blade
across his neck; turned round to the assembly, lest, in the
last moment, remorse should come upon them. The dread
signal continued the same ; the blade glittered brightly in
the air, fell,— and the gladiator rolled upon the sand;
his limbs quivered, were still, - he was a corpse."
His body was dragged at once from the arena through the
gate of death, and thrown into the gloomy den termed tech-
nically 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 combatant. A new victim
was added to the receptacle of the slain.
Throughout that mighty assembly there now ran a uni-
versal movement; the people breathed more freely, and
resettled themselves in their seats. A grateful shower was
cast over every row from the concealed conduits. In cool
and luxurious pleasure they talked over the late spectacle
of blood. Eumolpus removed his helmet, and wiped his
brows; his close-curled hair and short beard, his noble,
Roman features and bright dark eye, attracted the general
admiration. He was fresh, 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.
“Yet, 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 hon-
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.
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 375
orable 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 1 the conquest of the cestus was not suf-
ficient; he had not yet won the prize of victory, - his father
was still a slave
“Noble aedile !” he replied, in a firm and deep tone, “I
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 l’” said Clodius to Lepidus.
“I would not take twenty to one ! Why, Eumolpus is a
very Achilles, and this poor fellow is but a tyro /*
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 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 impossi-
ble ! — the man must be drunk, even in the morning, to
dream of such follies l’” — threw it carelessly aside, and
gravely settled himself once more in the attitude of atten-
tion 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
876 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
was a home thrust – well averted, by Pollux . At him
again, Lydon! — they stop to breathe What art thou
muttering, old boy 2 °
“Prayers l’” answered Medon, with a more calm and
hopeful mien than he had yet maintained.
“Prayers 1—trifles | The time for gods to carry a man
away in a cloud is gone now. Ha, Jupiter 1– what a blow !
Thy side, thy side 1 — take care of thy side, Lydon l’’
There was a convulsive tremor throughout the assembly.
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 !” -
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 !”
“I wish he were, if only to spite old surly Medon,”
muttered the girl. -
Meanwhile Lydon, who had hitherto defended himself
with great skill and 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, “ desist;
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 1 death or his freedom.”
At that thought, and seeing that, his strength not being
equal to the endurance of the Roman, everything depended
on a sudden and desperate effort, he threw himself fiercely
on Eumolpus; the Roman warily retreated, - Lydon thrust
again; Eumolpus drew himself aside, — the sword grazed
his cuirass; Lydon’s breast was exposed, - the Roman
plunged his sword through the joints of the 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 mechani.
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 377
cally 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
breathed : his eyes rolled fiercely on his foe; the savageness
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.
“Look to him,” said the aedile; “he has done his duty l’”
The officers dragged him off to the spoliarium.
“A true type of glory, and of its fate l’ 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.
378 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
CHAPTER III.
SALLUST AND NYDIA’s LETTER.
THRICE 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 ?”
“Long since, O Sallust Did you not hear the trumpets
and the trampling feet 2 ”
“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 2 ”
“The wretches | None of my people have gone to the
spectacle 2 ” f
“Assuredly not ; your orders were too strict.”
“That is well, - would the day were over ! What is
that letter yonder on the table 2"
“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 2"
“Do : anything to divert my thoughts. Poor Glaucus !”
The freedman opened the letter. “What Greek 7" 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
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 379
noble Sallust what have we done not to attend to this
before ? Hear me read.
“Nydia, the slave, to Sallust, the friend of Glaucus ! I am a
prisoner in the house of Arbaces. Hasten to the praetor procure
my release, and we shall yet save Glaucus from the lion. There
is another prisoner within these walls, whose witness can exon-
erate the Athenian from the charge against him; — one who saw
the crime, who can prove the criminal in a villain hitherto unsus-
pected. Fly! hasten quick quick! Bring with you armed
men, lest resistance be made, — and a cunning and dexterous
smith; for the dungeon of my fellow-prisoner is thick and
strong. Oh! by thy right hand, and thy father's ashes, lose not
a moment!”
“Great Jovel ” exclaimed Sallust, starting, “ and this
day, - nay, within this hour, perhaps he dies. What is to
be done 7 I will instantly to the praetor.”
“Nay; not so. The praetor (as well as Pansa, the editor
himself) is the creature of the mob; and the mob will not
hear of delay; they will not be balked in the very moment
of expectation. Besides, the publicity of the appeal would
forewarn the cunning Egyptian. It is evident that he has
some interest in these concealments. No ; fortunately thy
slaves are in thy house.”
“I seize thy meaning,” interrupted Sallust; “arm the
slaves instantly. The streets are empty. We will 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 praetor, 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
praetor, at the amphitheatre. See it given to his own hand.
Now then, O ye gods ! whose providence Epicurus denied,
befriend me, and I will call Epicurus a liar !”
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 writtea
semetimes on tablets, sometimes on papyrus.
380 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
CHAPTER IV.
THE AMPHITHEATRE ONCE MORE.
GLAUCUs and Olinthus had been placed together in that
gloomy and narrow cell in which the criminals of the arena
awaited their last and fearful struggle. Their eyes, of late
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 re-
ligion of the one, the pride of the other, the conscious inno-
cence of both, and it may be the support derived from their
mutual companionship, elevated the victim into the hero.
“Hark! hearest thou that shout 2 They are growling
over their human blood,” said Olinthus.
“I hear : my heart grows sick; but the gods support
me.”
“The gods ! O rash young man in this hour recognize
only the One God. Have I not taught thee in the dungeon,
wept for thee, prayed for thee ? — in my zeal and in my
agony, have I not thought more of thy salvation than my
own 2 ”
“Brave friend l’” answered Glaucus, solemnly, “I have
listened to thee with awe, with wonder, and with a secret
tendency towards conviction. Had our lives been spared,
I might gradually have weaned myself from the tenets of my
sown 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 l Think we of
each other with equal charity: I honoring thy sincerity,
— thou pitying my blindness or my obdurate courage. As
have been my deeds, such will be my reward; and the
Power or Powers above will not judge harshly of human
error, when it is linked with honesty of purpose and truth
of heart. Speak we no more of this. Hush | Dost thou
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 381
hear them drag yon heavy body through the passage 7 Such
as that clay will be ours soon.”
“O Heaven I O Christ already I behold ye l’’ cried the
fervant 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 distinc-
tion between his fortitude and that of his fellow-sufferer.
The heathen did not tremble; but the Christian exulted.
The door swung gratingly back, - the gleam of spears
shot along the walls.
“ Glaucus the Athenian, thy time has come,” said a loud
and clear voice; “the lion awaits thee.”
“I am ready,” said the Athenian. “ Brother and co-
mate, one last embrace | Bless me, – and, farewell !”
The Christian opened his arms; he clasped the young
heathen to his breast; he kissed his forehead and cheek;
he sobbed aloud, - his tears flowed fast and hot over the
features of his new friend.
“Oh ! could I have converted thee, I had not wept. Oh
that I might say to thee, ‘We two shall sup this night in
Paradise ! ” ” -
“It may be so yet,” answered the Greek, with a tremu-
lous voice. “They whom death parts not, may meet yet be-
yond 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 l’” 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, completely
naked save by a cincture round the loins, placed the stilus
(vain weapon () in his hand, and led him into the arena.
And now when the Greek saw the eyes of thousands and
tens of thousands upon him, he no longer felt that he was
mortal. All evidence of fear — all fear itself — was gone.
A red and haughty flush spread over the paleness of his
382 THE LA ST DAYS OF POMPEII.
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 corporeal, 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 had
greeted his entrance, died into the silence of involuntary
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 spectators
turned from the Athenian to a dark, uncouth object in the
centre of the arena. It was the grated den of the lion 1
“By Venus, how warm it is l’” 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 l’” 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 amphi-
theatre.
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 383
Glaucus had bent his limbs so as to give himself the firm-
est 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 signs; 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 fail-
ing, 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 2 Take the goad, prick him forth, and then
close the door of the den.”
As the keeper, with some fear, but more astonishment,
was preparing to obey, a loud cry was heard at one of the
entrances of the arena; there was a confusion, a bustle, –
voices of remonstrance suddenly breaking forth, and Sud-
denly silenced at the reply. All eyes turned, in wonder at
the interruption, towards the quarter of the disturbance;
the crowd gave way, and suddenly Sallust appeared on the
senatorial benches, his hair dishevelled, - breathless, heated,
half-exhausted. He cast his eyes hastily round the ring.
“Remove the Athenian | " he cried; “ haste, – he is in-
nocent l Arrest Arbaces the Egyptian, – HE is the mur.
derer of Apaecides 1’’
384 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
“Art thou mad, O Sallust 1” said the praetor, rising from
his seat. “What means this raving 2*
“Remove the Athenian | – Quick! or his blood be on
your head. Praetor, delay, and you answer with your own
life to the emperor I bring with me the eye-witness to
the death of the priest Apaecides. Room there ! — stand
back — give way ! People of Pompeii, fix every eye
upon Arbaces, – there he sits Room there for the priest
Calenus !”
Pale, haggard, fresh from the jaws of famine and of
death, his face fallen, his eyes dull as a vulture's, his broad
frame gaunt as a skeleton, — Calenus was supported into
the very row in which Arbaces sat. His releasers had given
him sparingly of food; but the chief sustenance that nerved
his feeble limbs was revenge
“The priest Calenus ! — Calenus !” cried the mob. “Is
it he 7 No, - it is a dead man l’”
“It is the priest Calenus,” said the praetor, gravely.
“What hast thou to say ?”
“Arbaces of Egypt is the murderer of Apaecides, the
priest of Isis; these eyes saw him deal the blow. It is
from the dungeon into which he plunged me, – it is from
the darkness and horror of a death by famine, – that the
gods have raised me to proclaim his crime ! Release the
Athenian, – he is innocent l”
“It is for this, then, that the lion spared him. — A
miracle ! a miracle !” cried Pansa.
“A miracle ; a miracle !” shouted the people; “remove
the Athenian, – Arbaces to the lion / ?”
And that shout echoed from hill to vale, – from coast to
sea, – “Arbaces to the lion /*
“Officers, remove the accused Glaucus, – remove, but
guard him yet,” said the praetor. “The gods lavish their
wonders upon this day.”
As the praetor gave the word of release, there was a cry
of joy, - a female voice, a child’s voice, and it was of
joy It rang through the heart of the assembly with elec-
tric force, — it was touching, it was holy, that child’s voice
And the populace echoed it back with sympathizing congrat-
ulation 1
“Silence l’” said the grave praetor, — “who is there ?”
“The blind girl, -r Nydia,” answered Sallust; “it is her
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THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 385
hand that has raised Calenus from the grave, and delivered
Glaucus from the lion.”
“Of this hereafter,” said the praetor. “Calenus, priest
of Isis, thou accusest Arbaces of the murder of Apae-
cides 2 ”
« I do | ?”
“Thou didst behold the deed ?”
“Praetor, with these eyes — ” *
“Enough at present, — the details must be reserved for
more suiting time and place. Arbaces of Egypt, thou hear-
est the charge against thee: thou hast not yet spoken, –
what hast thou to say ?”
The gaze of the crowd had been long riveted on Arbaces,
but not until the confusion which he had betrayed at
the first charge of Sallust and the entrance of Calenus
had subsided. At the shout, “Arbaces to the lion l’’ he had
indeed trembled, and the dark bronze of his cheek had
taken a paler hue. But he had soon recovered his haugh-
tiness and self-control. Proudly he returned the angry
glare of the countless eyes around him ; and replying now
to the question of the praetor, he said, in that accent so
peculiarly tranquil and commanding, which characterized
his tones, –
“Praetor, this charge is so mad that it scarcely deserves
reply. My first accuser is the noble Sallust, — the most in-
timate 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 ! Praetor, I am innocent l”
“Sallust,” said the magistrate, “where found you Ca-
lenus 2 ”
“In the dungeons of Arbaces.”
“Egyptian,” said the praetor, 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 praetor, – and ye, O
386 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
people ! I was a stranger in the land, - I knew myself
innocent of crime; but the witness of a priest against me
might yet destroy me. In my perplexity I decoyed him to
the cell whence he has been released, on pretence that it
was the coffer-house of my gold. I resolved to detain him
there until the fate of the true criminal was sealed, and his
threats could avail no longer; but I meant no worse. I may
have erred, - but who amongst ye will not acknowledge the
equity of self-preservation ? Were I guilty, why was the
witness of this priest silent at the trial 2 — then I had not
detained or concealed him. Why did he not proclaim my
guilt when I proclaimed that of Glaucus 2 Praetor, this
needs an answer. For the rest, I throw myself on your
laws. I demand their protection. Remove hence the ac-
cused and the accuser. I will willingly meet, and cheerfully
abide by the decision of the legitimate tribunal. This is no
place for further parley.”
“He says right,” said the praetor. “Ho! guards, –
remove Arbaces, guard Calenus ! Sallust, we hold you
responsible for your accusation. Let the sports be re-
sumed.” g
“What l” cried Calenus, turning round to the people,
“shall Isis be thus contemned ? Shall the blood of
Apačcides yet cry for vengeance 2 Shall justice be delayed
now, that it may be frustrated hereafter ? Shall the lion
be cheated of his lawful prey ! A god a god 1–I feel
the god rush to my lips | To the lion — to the lion 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.
“It is a god that inspires the holy man l— To the lion
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
aedile command; in vain did the praetor lift his voice and
proclaim the law. The people had been already rendered
savage by the exhibition of blood: they thirsted for more,
their superstition was aided by their ferocity. Aroused
THE LA ST DAYS OF POMPEII. 387
– 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 constitu-
tion of the Roman provinces so frequently 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 had been
left in the velaria, he beheld a strange and awful appari-
tion, — he beheld, and his craft restored his courage 1
He stretched his hand on high ; over his lofty brow and
royal features there came an expression of unutterable
solemnity and command. -
“Behold !” he shouted with a voice of thunder, which
stilled the roar of the crowd, - “behold how the gods pro-
tect the guiltless The fires of the avenging Orcus burst
forth against the false witness of my accusers l’”
The eyes of the crowd followed the gesture of the
Egyptian, and beheld, with ineffable dismay, a vast vapor
shooting from the summit of Vesuvius, in the form of a
gigantic pine-tree; the trunk, blackness, – the branches,
fire 1 — 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 terrifically forth with intoler-
able glare
There was a dead, heart-sunken silence, — through which
there suddenly broke the roar of the lion, which was echoed
back from within the building by the sharper and fiercer
yells of its fellow-beast. Dread seers were they of the
Burden of the Atmosphere, and wild prophets of the wrath
to come !
Then there arose on high the universal shrieks of women ;
the men stared at each other, but were dumb. At that
moment they felt the earth shake beneath their feet; the
walls of the theatre trembled : and, beyond, in the distance,
1 Pliny.
388 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
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
showerl
No longer thought the crowd of justice or of Arbaces;
safety for themselves was their sole thought. Each turned
to fly, - each dashing, pressing, crushing, against the other.
Trampling recklessly over the fallen, – amidst groans, and
oaths, and prayers, and sudden shrieks, the enormous crowd
vomited itself forth through the numerous passages.
Whither should they fly 2 Some, anticipating a second
earthquake, hastened to their homes to load themselves
with their more costly goods, and escape while it was yet
time; others, dreading the showers of ashes 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 protection from the terrors of
the open air. But darker, and larger, and mightier, spread
the cloud above them. It was a sudden and more ghastly
Night rushing upon the realm of Noon |
CHAPTER W.
THE CELL OF THE PRISONER AND THE DEN OF THE DEAD.
— GRIEF UN CONSCIOUS OF HORROR.
STUNNED by his reprieve, doubting that he was awake,
Glaucus had been led by the officers of the arena into a
small cell within the walls of the theatre. They threw a
loose robe over his form, and crowded round in congratu-
lation and wonder. There was an impatient and fretful
cry without the cell; the throng gave way, and the blind
girl, led by some gentler hand, flung herself at the feet of
Glaucus. . .
“It is I who have saved thee l’” she sobbed; “now let
me die l’”
THE LA ST DAYS OF POMPEII. 389
“Nydia, my child !— my preserver !”
“Oh, let me feel thy touch, – thy breath ! Yes, yes,
thou livest We are not too late | That dread door, me-
thought it would never yield ! and Calenus !— oh, his voice
was as the dying wind among tombs: — we had to wait, —
gods ! it seemed hours ere food and wine restored to him
something of strength. But thou livest ! thou livest yet !
And I — I have saved thee!”
This affecting scene was soon interrupted by the event
just described.
“The mountain the earthquake l’’ resounded from side
to side. The officers fled with the rest; they left Glaucus
and Nydia to save themselves as they might.
As the sense of the dangers around them flashed on the
Athenian, his generous heart recurred to Olinthus. He,
too, was reprieved from the tiger by the hand of the gods;
should he be left to a no less fatal death in the 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 cried. “Save thyself,
and fly I See Nature is thy dread deliverer l’” 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 l’” said
Olinthus, devoutly.
“Fly! seek thy brethren! Concert with them thy escape.
Farewell | ?”
Olinthus did not answer, neither did he mark the re-
treating form of his friend. High thoughts and solemn
absorbed his soul; and in the enthusiasm of his kindling
heart, he exulted in the mercy of God rather than trembled
at the evidence of His power.
At length he roused himself, and hurried on, he scarce
knew whither.
The open doors of a dark, desolate cell suddenly appeared
on his path ; through the gloom within there flared and
flickered a single lamp; and by its light he saw three grim
and naked forms stretched on the earth in death. His feet
were suddenly arrested; for, amidst the terrors of that
390 THE LA ST DAYS OF POMPEII.
drear recess, – the spoliarium of the arena, – he heard a
low voice calling on the name of Christ !
He could not resist lingering at that appeal ; he entered
the den, and his feet were dabbled in the slow streams of
blood that gushed from the corpses over the sand.
“Who,” said the Nazarene, “calls upon the Son of God?”
No answer came forth; and turning round, Olinthus
beheld, by the light of the lamp, an old, 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 despairl The tears of the
old man fell fast and hot, but he did not feel them ;
and when his lips moved, and he mechanically uttered the
prayer of his benign and hopeful faith, neither his heart
nor his sense responded to the words: it was but the invol-
untary emotion that broke from the lethargy of his mind.
His boy was dead, and had died for him — and the old
man’s heart was broken
“Medon l’” 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 1 — he cannot be dead
Come, hither 1 — place your hand on his heart 1 – sure it
beats yet 2"
“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 1 —
hark lyon agonizing cries Not a moment is to be lost ! —
Come !”
“I hear nothing !” said Medon, shaking his gray hair.
“The poor boy, his love murdered him l’”
“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
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 391
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 l’”
The old man smiled very calmly. “No, no, no!” he mut-
tered, his voice growing lower with each word, “Death has
been more kind l’”
With that his head dropped 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 Arba-
ces. Thither he fled, to release, – to save her | The few
slaves whom the Egyptian had left at his mansion when he
had repaired in long procession to the amphitheatre, had
been able to offer no resistance to the armed band of Sal-
lust; 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 for-
saken 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 in-
creased so rapidly, that it was with difficulty he could guide
his steps. The flower-wreathed columns seemed to reel and
tremble; and with every instant he heard the ashes fall
cranchingly into the roofless peristyle. He ascended to
the upper rooms, – breathless he paced along, shouting out
aloud the name of 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 rec-
ognized the voice of Arbaces, who had returned to seek his
wealth and Ione ere he fled from the doomed Pompeii. But
so dense was already the reeking atmosphere, that the foes
saw not each other, though so near, – save that, dimly in
392 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
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 be-
came utter. They were encompassed with doubt and hor-
ror l—and the death he had escaped seemed to Glaucus
only to have changed its form and augmented its victims.
CHAPTER VI.
CALENUS AND BUIRIBO. — DIOMED AND CLODIUS. — THE
GIRL OF THE AMPHITHEATRE AND JULIA.
THE 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
praetor had consigned him. And when the darkness and
the crowd separated the priest from his attendants, he
hastened with trembling steps towards the temple of his
goddess. As he crept along, and ere the darkness was com-
plete, he felt himself suddenly caught by the robe, and a
voice muttered in his ear, –
“Hist! — Calenus ! — an awful hour ! ”
“Ayl by my father's head ' Who art thou ? — thy face
is dim, and thy voice is strange l’”
“Not know thy Burbo 2 — 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 !”
tº Ha 12”
“Listen Thy temple is full of gold and precious mum-
meries — let us load ourselves with them, and then hasten
to the sea and embark | None will ever ask an account of
the doings of this day.”
“Burbo, thou art right ! Hush and follow me into the
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 so imperfectly described.
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 393
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 fol-
lowed 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 a time.” He seized
on the food, and devoured it greedily. Nothing could, per-
haps, be more unnaturally horrid than the selfish baseness
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 2 " said Burbo, impatiently;
“thy face purples and thine eyes start already.”
“It is not every day one has such a right to be hungry.
Oh, Jupiter what sound is that ? — the hissing of fiery
water | What I does the cloud give rain as well as flame 2
Hal — what shrieks 2 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 altars, on which
they had vainly sought to kindle fires and pour incense, one
of the fiercest of those deadly torrents, mingled with im-
mense 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 concealed the quivering corpses of the priests
“They are dead,” said Burbo, terrified for the first time
and hurrying back into the cell. “I thought not the danger
was so near and fatal.”
The two wretches stood staring at each other, — you
might have heard their hearts beat Calenus, the less bold
by nature, but the more griping, recovered first.
394 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
“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 suffocatingly, - deathly vapors steamed
from them. The wretch gasped for breath; he sought in
despair again to fly, - the ashes had blocked up the thresh-
old; he shrieked as his feet shrank from the boiling fluid.
How could he escape 2 — 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 chamber : he seized it. With
the desperate strength of his gigantic arm, he attempted to
hew his way through the walls.
Meanwhile the streets were already thinned; the crowd
had hastened to disperse itself under shelter; the ashes
began to fill up the lower parts of the town; but, here and
there, you heard the steps of fugitives cranching them
warily, or saw their pale and haggard faces by the blue
glare of the 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, myste-
rious and gusty winds, rising and dying in a breath, extin-
guished 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
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 395
ean gain the open country,” thought he, “doubtless there
will be various vehicles beyond the gate, and Herculaneum
is not far distant. Thank Mercury | I have little to lose,
and that little is about me !”
“Holla l— help there, — help !” cried a querulous and
frightened voice. “I have fallen down; my torch has gone
out, — my slaves have deserted me. I am Diomed, - the rich
Diomed; — ten thousand sesterces to him who helps me!”
At the same moment, Clodius felt himself caught by the
feet. “Ill fortune to thee, – let me go, fool!” said the
gambler.
“Oh, help me up ! — give me thy hand!”
“There, — rise !”
“Is this Clodius 2 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 2 Thou
knowest the long range of subterranean cellars beneath the
basement, — that shelter, what shower can penetrate 2 ”
“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 l’’ 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
whose ominous voice had been raised so often and so gladly
in anticipation of “the merry show !”
1 The skeletons of more than one sentry were found at their posts.
396 THE - LAST 1) A YS OF POMPE II.
“Oh, Diomed !” she cried, “shelter 1 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 remember I am a
mother | I have plucked it from the cradle of its nurse:
she had fled ! Who could think of the babe in such an
hour but she who bore it 2 Save it ! save it !”
“Curses on thy shrill voice Away, harlot!” muttered
Clodius between his ground teeth.
“Nay, girl,” said the more humane Diomed; “follow if
thou wilt. This way—this way, to the vaults l’”
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 fright-
ened visitors and clients of the neighborhood, sought their
shelter.
CHAPTER VII.
THE PROGRESS OF THE DESTRUCTION.
THE cloud, which had scattered so deep a murkiness over
the day, had now settled into a solid and impenetrable
mass. It resembled less even the thickest gloom of a night
in the open air than the close and blind darkness of some
narrow room.” But in proportion as the blackness gathered,
did the lightnings around Vesuvius increase in their vivid
and scorching glare. Nor was their horrible beauty con-
fined 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,
1 Pliny.
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 397
— then suddenly dying into a sickly paleness, like the
ghost of their own life
In the pauses of the showers, you heard the rumbling of
the earth beneath, and the groaning waves of the tortured
sea; or, lower still, and audible but to the watch of intens-
est fear, the grinding and hissing murmur of the escaping
gases through the chasms of the distant mountain. Some-
times the cloud appeared to break from its solid mass, and,
by the lightning, to assume quaint and vast mimicries of
human or of monster shapes, striding across the gloom,
hurtling one upon the other, and vanishing swiftly into the
turbulent abyss of shade; so that, to the eyes and fancies
of the affrighted wanderers, the unsubstantial 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, endeav-
ored to place rows of torches; but these rarely continued
long; the showers and the winds extinguished them, and the
sudden darkness into which their sudden birth was converted
had something in it doubly terrible and doubly impressing
on the impotence of human hopes, the lesson of despair.
* Dion Cassius.
398 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
Frequently, by the momentary light of these torches,
parties of fugitives encountered each other, some hurrying
towards the sea, others flying from the sea back to the land;
for the ocean had retreated rapidly from the shore, — an
utter darkness lay over it, and, upon its groaning and toss-
ing 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 fre-
quently, though not continuously, 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 elements of civilization were broken up. Ever
and anon, by the flickering lights, you saw the thief has-
tening by the most solemn authorities of the law, laden
with, and fearfully chuckling over, the produce of his sud-
den gains. If in the darkness, wife was separated from
husband, or parent from child, vain was the hope of re-
union. 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 discover her, — it was evident she
had been swept along some opposite direction by the human
current. Their friend, their preserver, was lost ! And
hitherto Nydia had been their guide. Her blindness ren-
dered the scene 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 with-
out a clew. Wearied, despondent, bewildered, they, how-
ever, passed along, the ashes falling upon their heads, the
fragmentary stones dashing up in sparkles before their feet.
THE LAST DA YS OF POMPEII. 399
“Alas! alas !” murmured Ione, “I can go no farther; my
steps sink among the scorching cinders. Fly, dearest —
beloved, fly and leave me to my fate l’”
“Hush, my betrothed my bride Death with thee is
sweeter than life without thee! yet, whither, — oh! whither,
can we direct ourselves through the gloom ? Already it
seems that we have made but a circle, and are in the very
spot which we quitted an hour ago.”
“O gods ! yon rock, - see, it hath riven the roof before
us! It is death to move through the streets l’’
“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 unselfish-
ness 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.”
Ione turned at the sound of the voice, and, with a faint
shriek, cowered again beneath the arms of Glaucus: and he,
looking in the direction of the voice, beheld the cause of
her alarm. Through the darkness glared forth two burning
eyes; the lightning flashed and lingered athwart the tem-
ple, – 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 gladi-
ator, 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 nearer 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
400 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
and unearthly emotion had not, indeed, quelled their awe,
but it had robbed awe of fear. They had long believed,
according to the error of the early Christians, that the
Last Day was at hand; they imagined now that the Day
had come.
“Woe! woel” cried, in a shrill and piercing voice, the
elder at their head. “Behold ! the Lord descendeth to
judgment He maketh fire come down from heaven in the
sight of men Woe! woe ye strong and mighty Woe
to ye of the fasces and the purple ! Woe to the idolater
and the worshipper of the beast ! Woe to ye who pour
forth the blood of Saints, and gloat over the death-pangs
of the sons of God! Woe to the harlot of the sea —woe
woe ( ?”
And with a loud and deep chorus, the troop chanted forth
along the wild horrors of the air, “Woe to the harlot of the
sea — woe woe l’’
The Nazarenes paced slowly on, their torches still flick-
ering 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 Ione 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. Glau-
cus 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 1”
“Fly, boy, then, and leave thy sire l’”
“But I cannot fly to starve; give me thy bag of gold !”
And the youth snatched at it. -
“Wretch I Wouldst thou rob thy father ?”
“Ay! who can tell the tale in this hour 2 Miser,
perish l’”
The boy struck the old man to the ground, plucked the bag
from his relaxing hand, and fled onward with a shrill yell.
“Ye gods !” cried Glaucus: “ are ye blind, then, even
in the dark & Such crimes may well confound the guiltless
with the guilty in one common ruin. Ione, on 1 — on l’
------
'38.Lv3 Hl. Olºwael （OI！= L.N.

THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 401
CHAPTER VIII.
ARBACES EN COUNTERS 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 presented to
them cheer or encourage their path. In parts, where the
ashes lay dry and uncommixed with the boiling torrents,
cast upward from the mountain at capricious intervals, the
surface of the earth 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 helpless-
ness and the uncertainty of the perils around; and clear
and distinct through all were the mighty and various noises
from the fatal mountain; its rushing winds; its whirling
torrents; and, from time to time, the burst and roar of
some more fiery and fierce explosion. And ever as the
winds swept howling along the street, they bore sharp
streams of burning dust, and such sickening and poisonous
vapors, as took away, for the instant, breath and conscious-
ness, followed 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
402 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
profoundly still, - the mountain seemed at rest, gathering,
perhaps, fresh fury for its next burst : the torch-bearers
moved quickly on. “We are nearing the sea,” said, in a
calm voice, the person at their head. “Liberty and wealth
to each slave who survives this day. Courage 1 — I tell you
that the gods themselves have assured me of deliverance,
— on 1 °
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 l’’ 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 l’ cried Glaucus, glaring upon his
foe, “Nemesis hath guided thee to my revenge 1– a just
sacrifice to the shades of Hades, that now seem loosed on
earth. Approach, touch but the hand of Ione, and thy
weapon shall be as a reed, - I will tear thee limb from
limb l’”
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 contend-
ing 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 stupen-
dous 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 cata-
racts, – darkening, for one instant, the spot where they fell,
1 See note (a) at the end.
THE LA ST DAYS OF POMPEII. 403
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 stilus
which was to have been his weapon in the arena, and which
be still fortunately bore about him; with his brow knit, his
lips apart, the wrath and menace of human passions ar-
rested 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 2 Did not the
stars foretell the only crisis of imminent peril to which I
was subjected ? Is not that peril past?”
“The soul,” cried he aloud, “can brave the wreck of
worlds and the wrath of imaginary gods ! By that soul will
I conquer to the last ! Advance, slaves | — Athenian,
resist me, and thy blood be on thine own head | Thus, then,
I regain 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 shivered bronze and col-
umn ! 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
eyes were fixed upon a ghastly face that seemed to emerge,
without limbs or trunk, from the huge fragments of the
shattered column, – a face of unutterable pain, agony, and
despair The eyes shut and opened rapidly, as if sense
404 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
were not yet fled; the lips quivered and grinned, -— then
sudden stillness and darkness fell over the features, yet
retaining that aspect of horror never to be forgotten
So perished the wise Magician, the great Arbaces, the
Hermes of the Burning Belt, the last of the royalty of
Egypt.
CHAPTER IX.
THE DESPAIR OF THE LOVERs. – THE CONDITION OF THE
MULTITUDE.
GLAUCUs turned in gratitude but in awe, caught 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 mountain, and
behold ! one of the two gigantic crests, into which the sum-
mit 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 Tone
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 thousand shrieks of more selfish terror.
Again and again she returned to the spot where they had
been divided, to find her companions gone; to seize every
fugitive ; to inquire of Glaucus, – to be dashed aside in
the impatience of distraction. Who in that hour spared
one thought to his neighbor ? Perhaps in scenes of univer-
sal horror, nothing is more horrid than the unnatural selfish-
ness they engender. At length it occurred to Nydia, that
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 405
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 dexterity, to avoid the masses of ruin that en-
_etimbered the path ; to thread the streets, – and unerringly
Tº (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 torrents
touched her not, save by the general rain which accompanied
them ; the huge fragments of scoria shivered the pavement
before and beside her, but spared that frail form ; and when
the lesser ashes fell over her, she shook them away with a
slight tremor, and dauntlessly resumed her course.
Weak, exposed, yet fearless, supported but by one wish,
she was a very emblem of Psyche in her wanderings; of
Hope, walking through the Valley of the Shadow; of the
Soul itself, -lone but undaunted, amidst the dangers and
the snares of life
Her path was, however, constantly impeded by the crowds
that now groped amidst the gloom, now fled in the tempo-
rary 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 l” said the voice of one of the party, “is this
the brave blind girl 7 By Bacchus, she must not be left
here to die! Up! my Thessalian | So, so. Are you hurt 2
That’s well ! Come along with us ! we are for the shore l’”
“O Sallust 1 it is thy voice The gods be thanked
Glaucus ! Glaucus ! have ye seen him 7”
“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 con-
tinued to shriek out that beloved name, which, amidst all
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. .
406 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
the roar of the convulsed elements, kept alive a music at
her heart. -
The sudden illumination, the bursts of the floods of lava,
and the earthquake, which we have already described,
chanced when Sallust and his party had just gained the
direct path leading from the city to the port; and here
they were arrested by an immense crowd, more than half
the population of the city. They spread along the field
without the walls, thousands upon thousands, uncertain
whither to fly. The sea had retired far from the shore; and
they who had fled to it had been so terrified by the agitation
and preternatural shrinking of the element, the gasping
forms of the uncouth sea things which the waves had left
upon the sand, and by the sound of the huge stones cast
from the mountain into the deep, that they had returned
again to the land, as presenting the less frightful aspect of
the two. Thus the two streams of human beings, the one
seaward, the other from the sea, had met together, feeling a
sad comfort in numbers; arrested in despair and doubt.
“The world is to be destroyed by fire,” said an old man
in long, loose robes, a philosopher of the Stoic school : “Stoic
and Epicurean wisdom have alike agreed in this prediction;
and the hour is come !”
“Yea; the hour is come !” cried a loud voice, solemn but
not fearful.
Those around turned in dismay. The voice came from
above them. It was the voice of Olinthus, who, surrounded
by his Christian friends, stood upon an abrupt eminence on
which the old Greek colonists had raised a temple to Apollo,
now timeworn and half in ruin. -
As he spoke, there came that sudden illumination which
had heralded the death of Arbaces, and glowing over that
mighty multitude, awed, crouching, breathless, – never on
earth had the faces of men seemed so haggard never had
meeting of mortal beings been so stamped with the horror
and sublimity of dread! — never till the last trumpet sounds,
shall such 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 LAST DA YS OF POMPEII. 407
“The hour is come !”
The Christians repeated the cry. It was caught up, — it
was echoed from side to side : woman and man, childhood
and old age repeated, not aloud, but in a Smothered and dreary
murmur, –
“THE HOUR Is ComE | *
At that moment, a wild yell burst through the air ; —
and, thinking only of escape, whither it knew not, the
terrible tiger of the desert leaped amongst the throng, and
hurried through its parted streams. And so came the earth-
quake, – and so darkness once more fell over the earth !
And now new fugitives arrived. Grasping the treasures
no longer destined for their lord, the slaves of Arbaces
joined the throng. One only of all their torches yet flickered
on. It was borne by Sosia; and its light falling on the face
of Nydia, he recognized the Thessalian.
“What avails thy liberty now, blind girl?” said the
slave.
“Who art thou ? Canst thou tell me of Glaucus 2 ”
“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 join Arbaces, who is no more l’”
Nydia uttered not a word; she slid from the side of
Sallust: silently she glided through those behind her, and
retraced her steps to the city. She gained the forum, -
the arch; she stooped down, she felt around, - she called
on the name of Glaucus.
A weak voice answered, - “Who calls on me? Is it the
voice of the Shades 7 Lo / I am prepared!”
“Arise, follow me! Take my handl 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 blest him for his thought of 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
f
408 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
rest, resolved to hazard any peril rather than continue in
such a scene. In darkness they put forth to sea; but as
they cleared the land and caught new aspects of the moun-
tain, its channels of molten fire threw a partial redness 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."
CHAPTER X.
THE NEXT MORNING. — THE FATE OF NY DIA.
AND 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 deli-
cious sea. Around the east, thin mists caught gradually
the rosy hues that heralded the morning; Light was about
to resume her reign. Yet, still, dark and massive in the
distance, lay the broken fragments of the destroying cloud,
from which red streaks, burning dimlier and more dim,
betrayed the yet rolling fires of the mountain of the
“Scorched Fields.” The white walls and gleaming col-
umns 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 cen-
tury shall the mighty Mother stretch forth her azure arms,
and know them not, — moaning round the sepulchres of the
Lost -
There was no shout from the mariners at the dawning
light, — 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;
* Dion Cassius.
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 409
they took heart; they felt once more that there was a world
around, and a God above them And in the feeling that
the worst was passed, the over-wearied ones turned round,
and fell placidly to sleep. In the growing light of the
skies there came the silence which night had wanted: and
the bark drifted calmly onward to its port. A few other
vessels, bearing similar fugitives, might be seen in the ex-
panse, apparently motionless, yet gliding also on. There was
a sense of security, or companionship, and of hope, in the
sight of their slender masts and white sails. What 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, Athe-
nian l’” she murmured: “may you be happy with your be-
loved one !—may you sometimes remember Nydia Alas !
she is of no further use on earth !”
With these words she turned away. Slowly she crept
along by the fori, or platforms, to the farther side of the
vessel, and, pausing, bent low over the deep ; the cool
spray dashed 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, exact-
ing 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 2 —it is the last glad thought I can
ever know. Oh! sacred Sea I hear thy voice invitingly,
— it hath a freshening and joyous call. They say that in
thy embrace is 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 for a heart like mine !”
410 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
A sailor, half dozing on the deck, heard a slight splash
on the waters. Drowsily he looked up, and behind, as the
vessel merrily bounded on, he fancied he saw something
white above the waves; but it vanished in an instant. He
turned round again, and dreamed of his home and children.
When the lovers awoke, their first thought was of each
other, — their next of Nydial 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. Myste-
rious 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 for a departed sister.
CHAPTER THE LAST.
WHEREIN ALL THINGS CEASE.
LETTER FROM GLAUCUS TO SALLUST, TEN YEARS AFTER THE
DESTRUCTION OF POMPEII.
ATHENS.
GLAUCUs to his beloved Sallust, — greeting and health ! —
You request me to visit you at Rome, – no, Sallust, come rather
to me at Athens! I have forsworn the Imperial City, its mighty
tumult and hollow joys. In my own land henceforth I dwell
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 1 — 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 imperial court. My Sallust, — “non sum
qualis eram,” — I am not what I was . The events of my life
have sobered the bounding blood of my youth. My health has
never quite recovered its wonted elasticity ere it felt the pangs of
disease, and languished in the damps of a criminal's dungeon.
My mind has never shaken off the dark shadow of the Last Day
THE LA ST DAYS OF POMPEII. 411
of Pompeii, - the horror and the desolation of that awful ruin —
Our beloved, our remembered Nydia I have reared a tomb to
her shade, and I see it every day from the window of my study.
It keeps alive in me a tender recollection, a not unpleasing sad-
ness, 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 1– 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 dissolved, 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 immortality
drinks happiness from virtue, which is the smile upon the face of
God . Visit me, then, Sallust; bring with you the learned scrolls
of Epicurus, Pythagoras, Diogenes: arm yourself for defeat; and
let us, amidst the groves of Academus, dispute, under a surer
guide than any granted to our fathers, on the mighty problem of
the true ends of life and the nature of the soul.
Ione, – at that name my heart yet beats | – Ione is by my side
as I write: I lift my eyes and meet her smile. The sunlight
quivers over Hymettus: and along my garden I hear the hum of
the summer bees. Am I happy, ask you ? Oh, what can Rome
give me equal to what I possess at Athens? Here, everything
awakens the soul and inspires the affections: the trees, the
waters, the hills, the skies, are those of Athens!— fair, though
mourning, — mother of the Poetry and the Wisdom of the World.
In my hall I see the marble faces of my ancestors. In the
Ceramicus, I survey their tombs In the streets, I behold the
hand of Phidias and the soul of Pericles. , Harmodius, Aristogi-
ton, — they are everywhere, but in our hearts — in mine, at
least, they shall not perish ' If anything 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 ; a love which none of
our poets, beautiful though º be, had shadowed forth in
description: for mingled with religion, it partakes of religion;
it is blended with pure and unworldly thoughts; it is that which
we may hope to carry through eternity, and keep, therefore,
* See note (b) at the end.
412 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
white and unsullied, that we may not blush to confess it to our
God! This is the true type of the dark fable of our Grecian Eros
and Psyche, – it is, in truth, the soul asleep in the arms of love.
And if this, our love, support me partly against the fever of the
desire for freedom, my religion supports me more; for whenever
I would grasp the sword and sound the shell, and rush to a new
Marathon (but Marathon without victory), I feel my despair at
the chilling thought of my country's impotence, — the crushing
weight of the Roman yoke; comforted, at least, by the thought
that earth is but the beginning of life, – that the glory of a few
years matters little in the vast space of eternity; that there is no
perfect freedom till the chains of clay fall from the soul, and all
space, all time, become its heritage and domain. Yet, Sallust,
some mixture of the soft Greek blood still mingles with my faith.
I can share not the zeal of those who see crime and eternal wrath
in men who cannot believe as they. I shudder not at the creed
of others. I dare not curse them,--I pray the Great Father
to convert. This lukewarmness exposes me to some suspicion
amongst the Christians: but I forgive it; and, not offending
openly the prejudices of the crowd, I am thus enabled to protect
my brethren from the danger of the law, and the consequences
of their own zeal. If moderation seem to me the natural creature
of benevolence, it gives, also, the greatest scope to beneficence.
Such, then, O Sallust! is my life, – such my opinions. In
this manner I greet existence and await death. And thou, glad-
hearted and kindly pupil of Epicurus, thou — But come hither,
and see what enjoyments, what hopes are ours, – and not the
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 uninterrupted happi-
ness 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
* Destroyed A. D. 79; first discovered A. D. 1750.
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 413
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 amphorae for a prolongation of agonized life. The
sand, consolidated by damps, had taken the forms of the
skeletons as in a cast; and the traveller may yet see the
impression of a female neck and bosom of young and round
proportions, – the trace of the fated Julia It seems to
the inquirer as if the air had been gradually changed into
a sulphurous 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 suffo-
cated 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 of 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 tem-
ple was found a huge skeleton with an axe beside it : two
walls had been pierced by the axe, – the victim could pene-
trate 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
* See note (c) at the end.
414 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
it has excited the constant speculation of every itinerant
believer in the theories of Spurzheim who has gazed upon
that ruined palace of the mind. Still, after the lapse of
ages, the traveller may survey that airy hall within whose
cunning galleries and elaborate chambers once thought, rea-
soned, 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 ! :
THE LAST DA YS OF POMPEII. 415
N O T E S.
|NOTES TO BOOK I.
(a) p. 4.— “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. 23. – “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 Alciphron
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 him
a bladder filled with blood, which burst on his face and covered
him with the stream. The manner in which these parasites repaid
the hospitality of their hosts was, like that of modern diners-out,
by witty jokes and amusing stories; sometimes they iºuſ;
practical jokes on each other, “boxing one another's ears.” The
magistrates at Athens appear to have looked very sternly upon
these humble buffoons, and they complain of stripes and a prison
with no philosophical resignation. In fact, the parasite seems at
Athens to have answered the purpose of the fool of the Middle Ages;
but he was far more worthless, and perhaps more witty,+the asso-
ciate of courtesans, uniting the pimp with the buffoon. This is a
character peculiar to Greece. The Latin comic writers make in-
deed prodigal use of the parasite; yet he appears at Rome to have
held a somewhat higher rank, and to have met with a somewhat
milder treatment, than at Athens. Nor do the delineations of
Terence, which, in portraying Athenian manners, probably soften
416 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
down whatever would have been exaggerated to a Roman audience
present so degraded or so abandoned a character as the parasite of
Alciphron and Athenaeus. The more haughty and fastidious Ro-
mans often disdained indeed to admit such buffoons as companions,
and hired (as we may note in Pliny’s “Epistles”) fools or mount.
ebanks, 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 interpre-
tation 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. 26. —“The dice in summer, and I an aedile !”
All games of chance were forbidden by law (“Vetitā legibus
aleå.”— Horat. 0d. xxiv. l. 3), except “in Saturnalibus ” during
the month of December; the aediles were charged with enforcing
this law, which, like all laws against gaming in all times, was
wholly ineffectual.
(d) p. 33. — “The small but graceful temple consecrated to
Isis.”
Sylla is said to have transported to Italy the worship of the
Egyptian Isis." It soon became “the rage,” and was peculiarly
in vogue with the Roman ladies. Its priesthood were sworn to
chastity, and, like all such brotherhoods, were noted for their
licentiousness. Juvenal styles the priestesses º a name (Isiacae
lenae) 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-
mence 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 god-
dess, – namely, credulity. The priests of Isis arrogated a knowl-
º of magic and of the future. Among women of all classes—
and among many of the harder sex — the Egyptian sorceries were
consulted and revered as oracles. Voltaire, with much plausible
ingenuity, 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 im-
postors had lost their dignity and importance; despised and poor,
they wandered from place to place, selling prophesies and curing
disorders; and Voltaire shrewdly bids us remark that Apuleius
* In the Campanian cities the trade with Alexandria was probably more effica-
cious than the piety of Sylla (no very popular example, perhaps) in establishing the
worship of the favorite deity of Egypt.
HOUSE OF PANSA,

THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 417
has not forgot their peculiar skill in filching from outhouses and
courtyards, - afterwards they practised palmistry and singular
dances (query, the Bohemian dances?). “Such,” says the too-
conclusive Frenchman, – “such has been the end of the ancient
religion of Isis and Osiris, whose very names still impress us with
awe " At the time in which my story is cast, the worship of Isis
was, however, in the highest repute; and the wealthy devotees
sent even to the Nile, that they might sprinkle its mysterious
waters over the altars of the goddess. I have introduced the ibis
in the sketch of the temple of Isis, although it has been supposed
that that bird languished and died when taken from Egypt. But
from various reasons, too long now to enumerate, I incline to be-
lieve that the ibis was by no means unfrequent in the Italian
temples of Isis, though it rarely lived long, and refused to breed
in a foreign climate.
NOTE TO BOOK II.
(a) p. 134. — “The marvels of Faustus are not comparable to
those of Apollonius.”
During the earlier ages of the Christian epoch, the heathen phl-
losophy, especially of Pythagoras and of Plato, had become de-
based 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 ex-
actly formed to be the great father of a school of magicians.
Pythagoras himself either cultivated magic or arrogated its attri-
butes, and his followers told marvellous tales of his writing on
the moon's disc, and appearing in several places at once. His
golden rules and his golden thigh were in especial veneration in
Magna Graecia, and out of his doctrines of occult numbers his fol-
lowers extracted numbers of doctrines. The most remarkable of
the later impostors who succeeded 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 trans-
formation 1 Apollonius knew the language of birds, read men's
thoughts in their bosoms, and walked about with a familiar spirit.
He was a devil of a fellow with a devil, and induced a mob to
stone a poor demon of venerable and mendicant appearance, who,
after the lapidary operation, changed into a huge dog. He raised
the dead, passed a night with Achilles, and, when Domitian was
murdered, he called out aloud (though at Ephesus at the mo-
ment), “Strike the tyrant!” The end of so honest and great a
418 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
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 rec-
ommend to him Apollonius.
But the magicians of this sort were philosophers (!), — excel-
lent men and pious; there were others of a far darker and dead-
lier knowledge, the followers of the Goethic magic; in other
words, the Black Art. Both of these, the Goethic and the Theur-
㺠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 in-
timately connected with astrology. In attributing to Arbaces the
knowledge and the repute of magic, as well as that of the science
of the stars, I am, therefore, perfectly in accordance with the
spirit of his time, and the circumstances of his birth. He is a
characteristic of that age. At one time, I purposed to have de-
veloped and detailed more than I have done the pretensions of
Arbaces to the mastery of his art, and to have initiated the reader
into the various sorceries of the period. But as the character of
the Egyptian grew upon me, I felt that it was necessary to be
sparing of that machinery which, thanks to the march of knowl-
edge, every one now may fancy he can detect. Such as he is,
Arbaces is become too much of an intellectual creation to demand
a frequent repetition of the coarser and more physical materials
of terror. I suffered him, then, merely to demonstrate his capac-
ities in the elementary and obvious secrets of his craft, and leave
the subtler magic he possesses to rest in mystery and shadow.
As to the Witch of Vesuvius, – her spells and her philtres, her
cavern and its appliances, however familiar to us of the North, are
faithful also to her time and nation. A witch of a lighter 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. 151. – “The influence of the evil eye.”
This superstition, to which I have more than once alluded
throughout this work, still flourishes in Magna Graecia, 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
suddenly observed her change color, and make a rapid and singu-
lar motion with her finger. “My God, that man "she whispered,
tremblingly.
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 419
“What man P’’
“See the Count — he has just entered 1"
“He ought to be much flattered to cause such emotion; doubt.
less he has been one of the Signora's admirers P”
* Admirerſ Heaven forbidi He has the evil eye | His look
fell full upon me. Something dreadful will certainly happen.”
“I see nothing remarkable in his eyes.”
“So much the worse. The danger is greaterfor being disguised.
He is a terrible man. The last time he looked upon my husband,
it was at cards, and he lost half his income at a sitting; his ill-luck
was miraculous. The count met my little boy in the gardens, and
the poor child broke his arm that evening. Oh! what shall I do?
something dreadful will certainly happen, – and, Heavens ! he is
admiring my cap !”
“Does every one find the eyes of the count equally fatal, and
his admiration equally exciting P”
“Every one, – he is universally dreaded: and what is very
strange, he is so angry if he sees you avoid him 1"
“That is very strange indeed! the wretch "
At Naples the superstition works well for the jewellers, – so
many charms and talismans as they sell for the ominous fascina-
tion of the mal-occhio ! In Pompeii, the talismans were equally
numerous, but not always of so elegant a shape, nor of so deco-
rous 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 charming 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 different from the eyes of other people
But persons, especially of the fairer sex, with double pupils to
the organ, were above all to be shunned and dreaded. The Illyr-
ians were said to possess this fatal deformity. In all countries,
even in the North, the eye has ever been held the chief seat of fas-
cination; 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. 351.
“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, Welleius (the
defender and explainer of his philosophy in Cicero's dialogue on
the nature of the gods) asserts “that Epicurus was the first who
420 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
saw that there were gods, from the impression which Nature her-
self makes on the minds of all men.” He imagined the belief of
the Deity to be an innate or antecedent notion (Tpéâmpic) of the
mind, - a doctrine of which modern metaphysicians (certainly
not Epicureans) 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 vengeance, or awe of their power: a sublime and fearless
philosophy, suitable perhaps to half-a-dozen great and refined
spirits, but which would present no check to the passions of the
mass of mankind. According to him, the gods were far too agree-
ably 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 unsympathizing abstractions: —
“Wrapt up in majesty divine,
Can they regard on what we dine?”
Cotta, who, in the dialogue referred to, attacks the philosophy
of Epicurus with great pleasantry, and considerable, though not
uniform, success, É. 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 P. He
cannot be propitious, – since, according to you, favor and benevo-
lence are only the effects of imbecility.” Cotta, indeed, quotes
from Posidonius (De Naturd Deorum), to prove that Epicurus did
not really believe in the existence of a God; but that his conces-
sion of a being 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 doing nothing.” And whether this be true
or false concerning Epicurus, it is certain that, to all effects and
purposes, his later disciples were but refining atheists. The sen-
timents 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 perverted the morals of Epicurus, which are
at once pure and practical, found it a much easier task to corrupt
his metaphysics, which are equally dangerous and visionary.
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 421
NOTES TO BOOK W.
(a) p. 402. — “Rivers of the molten lava.”
Various theories as to the exact mode by which Pompeii was
destroyed have been invented by the ingenious; I have adopted
that which is the most generally received, and which, upon in-
specting the strata, appears the only one admissible by common
sense; namely, a destruction by showers of ashes, and boilin
water, mingled with frequent irruptions of large stones, an
aided by partial convulsions of the earth. Herculaneum, on the
contrary, appears to have received not only the showers of ashes,
but also inundations from molten lava; and the streams referred
to in the text must be considered as destined for that city rather
than for Pompeii. The volcanic lightnings introduced in my
description were evidently among the engines of ruin at Pompeii.
Papyrus, and other of the more inflammable materials, are found
in a burnt state. Some substances in metal are partially melted;
and a bronze statue is completely shivered, as by lightning.
Upon the whole (excepting only the inevitable poetic 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
TOIſla, Ince. -
(b) p. 411. — “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
acknowledged out of Christendom. It is a feeling intimately con-
mected 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.
(c) p. 413. – “And everywhere the bones and skeletons of
those who once moved the springs of that minute yet gorgeous
machine of luxury and of life?"
At present (1834) there have been about three hundred and
fifty or four hundred skeletons discovered in Pompeii; but as a
great part of the city is yet to be disinterred, we can scarcely
422 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
calculate the number of those who perished in the destruction.
Still, however, we have every reason to conclude that they were
very few in proportion to those who escaped. . The ashes had
been evidently cleared away from many of the houses, no doubt
for the purpose of recovering whatever treasures had been left
behind. The mansion of our friend Sallust is one of those thus
revisited. The skeletons which, 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 beguile the
most painful, gloomy, and despondent period of a life, in the
web of which has been woven less of white than the world may
deem | But like most other friends, the Imagination is capricious,
and forsakes us often at the moment in which we most need its
aid. As we grow older, we begin to learn that, of the two, our
more faithful and steadfast comforter is — Custom. But I should
apologize for this sudden and unseasonable indulgence of a
momentary weakness, – it is but for a moment. With returning
health returns also that energy without which the soul were
given us in vain, and which enables us calmly to face the evils
of our being, and resolutely to fulfil its objects. There is but
one philosophy (though there are a thousand schools), and its
name is Fortitude, –
“TO BEAR IS TO CONQUER OUR FATE l’”
THE END,
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