Glfi Ui IJlr, N.J. Pitush THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII BY SIR E. BULWER LYTTOS NEW YORK iKTEB NATIONAL BOOK COMPANY $10-318 Sixth Avenue . JC ■m ) THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. BOOK THE FIRST. CHAPTER I. THE TWO GENTLEMEN OP POMPEH. " Ho, DioT^ed -Tf 11 -31ft I Do you sup with Glauous to-night ?" said a younfe iiiau 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 1 dear Clodius ; he has not invited me," rephed Diomed, a man of portly frame and of middle age. " By Pol- lux, 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 pre- tends that wine makes him dull the next morning." "There may be another reason for that thrift," said Dioraed, raising his brows. " With all hie ©onceit and extravagance he is not so rich, I fancy, as ne affects to be, and perhaps loves to save his amphorae better than his wit." "An additional reason for supping with him while the sester- ces 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 7^^??^," " 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 tolerable murasnae* in my reservoir, and I will ask Pansa the sedille to to meet you." " O, no state with me I — Persicos odi apparatus, I am easily c*:>ntented. Well, the day wanes; I am for the baths— and y ou " ^ _ *Mi^r(vii(» — iampreys. , , . ^Mv^rmnoe — lamp; M103729 • TES LAST DAYS OF POMPEIT. " To the questor — business of state — afterward to the temple of Isis. ValeP' *' An ostentatious, bustling, ill-bred fellow,** muttered Clodiua to himself, as he sauntered slowly away. " He thinks with hia feasts and his wine-cellars to make us forget tliat he is the son of a freedman — and so we will, when we do liim 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 exhibited all that gay and animated exuberance of life and motion which we find at this day in thf^ Ktie^td o>' Naples. The beli^ of thdk OaVs AiH ;they rapidly glided by each other, jingled merrily on the ear, and Clodius with smiles or nods claimed fmi;.iliar acquaiiitance with, whatever equipage was most elejj;aat'o^' fantjtstio:' ;int fact-j; no idler was better known in Poaii>eii. . I ; , . i , ' '. • , * *' What, Clodius! and how have you slept on your good for- tune?" cried, in a pleasant 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 work- manship of Greece, reliefs of the Olympian games: the two horses that drew the car were of the rarest breed of Partliia; their slender limbs seemed to disdain the ground and court the air, and yet at the slightest touch of the charioteer, who stood behind the young owner of the equipage, they paused motion- less, as if suddenly transformed into stone — ^Ufeless, but life-like, as one of the breathing wonders of Praxiteles. The owner himself was of that slender and beautiful symme- try from which the sculptors of Athens drew their models; hia Grecian origin betrayed itself in his light but clustering locks, and the perfect harmony of his features. He wore no toga, which in the time of the emj^erors had indeed ceased to be the gen- eral distinction of the Romans, and was especially ridiculed by the pretenders to fasliiom; but his tunic glowed in the richest hues of the Tyrian dye, and the fibulas, or buckles, by wliich it was fastened, sparkled ^^'ith emeralds; around his neck was a chain of gold, which in the middle of his breast t^s-isted itself into the form of a serpent's head, from the mouth of which hung pendent a large signet ring of elaborate and most exquisite workmanship; the sleeves of the tunic were loose, and fringed at the hand with gold; and across the waist a girdle wrought in araVjesque designs, and of the same material as the fringe, served in lieu of pockets for the receptacle of the handkerchief and tlie purse, the stilus and the tablets. "My deivr Glaucusl" sahl Clodius, '* I rejoice to see that your losses have so little affec^txi your mien. Why, you seem as if you havinner, and me for the loser." *' And what is there in the loss or gain of those dull piec^>« o/ metal that should change our 8|)irit, my Clodius? By Venus, while yet young, w© can cover our fuJl looks with c^ia|>i©ts^ THE LAST DA 7'S OF POMPEII, 8 while yet the cithara sounds on unsated years— 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 deUght in the sunny air, and make bald time itself but the treasurer of our joys. You sup with me to-night, you know." " Who ever forgets the invitation of Glaucus? '• But which way go you now?" "Why, I thought of visiting the baths, but it wants an hour to the usual tune." "Well, I will dismiss my chariot, and go ^rith you. So so, my PhyUas," stroking the horse nearest to him, which, by a low neigh and with backward ears, playfully acknowledged the courtesy : "a holiday for you to-day. Is he not handsome, Clo- dius?" "Worthy of Phoebus." returned the noble parasite, "or of Glaucus." CHAPTER II. THE BLIND FLOWER-GIRL, AND THE BEAUTY OP FASHION.— THE ATHENIAN'S CONFESSION.— THE READER'S INTRODUCTION TO ARBACES OP EGYPT. Talking lightly on a thousand matters, the two young men sauntered through the streets: they were now in the quarter which was filled with the gayest shops their open interiors all and each radiant with the gaudy yet harmonious colors of frescoes, inconceivably varied in fancy and design. The spark- ling fountams, that at every vista threw upward their grateful spray in the summer air ; the crowd of passengers or rather loiterers, mostly clad in robes of the Tyriau dye ; the gay groups 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 blusliing fruit, and flowers more allur- ing to the ancient Itahans than to their descendants (w^th 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 cafes and clubs at this day ; the shops, where on shelves of marble were ranged the vases of wine and oil, and before whose thresholds, seats, protected from the sun by a pui-ple awTiing, invited the weaiy 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. " Pleasm-e 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 dul- ness of magnificence — the eye aches — the spirit is wearied ; be- sides, my Clodius, we are discontented when we compare the onor- mous luxury and wealth of others with the mediocrity of our own state. But here we surrender ourselves easily to pleasure. 4 THE LAST DA T8 OF POMPEH^ and we have the brilliancy of luxury without the lassitude of its pouip." *' It was from that feeling that you chose your summor retreat at Pompeii?" " It was. I prefer it to Balas; I grant the charms of the latter, but I love not the pedants who resort there, and who seem to weigh out their pleasures by the drachm." "Yet you are fond of the learned, too; and for ix)etry, why your house is literally eloquent with ^schylus and Homer, the epic and the drama." "Yes, but those Romans who mimic my Athenian ancestors do everything so heavily. Even in the chase they make their slaves carry Plato with them; and whenever the boar is lost, out they take their books and their papyrus, in order not to lose their time too. When the dancing-girls swim before them in all the blan- dishment of Persian manners, some drone of a freedman, with a face of stone, reads them a section of Cicero " De Officiis." Un- skilful pharmacistsi pleasure and study are not elements to be thus mixed together — they must be enjoyed separately; the Ro- mans lose both by this pragmatical affectation of refinement, and prove that they have no soul for either. Oh, my Clodius, how little your couiatrymen know of the ti-ue versatility of a Pericles, or 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 I wliip me, such philosophical coxcombs!) was read- ing Thucydides' description of the plague, and nodding his con- ceited little head in time to the music, while his lips were repeat- ing all the loathsome details of that terrible delineation. Tho jmppy saw nothing incongruous in learning at the same time a ditty of love and a description of the plague." *' Why they are much the same thing," said Clodius. "So I told him, in excuse for his coxcombry— but my youth stared me rebukingly in the face without taking the jest, and answered, that it was only the insensate ear tliat the music pleased, whereas the lx)ok (the description of the plague, mind 3'ou!) elevated the heart. * Ah!' quotn the fat uncle, wheezing, * my boy is quite an Athenian, always mixing the utile with the diih-eJ' O Slinerva, how I laughed in my sleeve! While I was there, tbey came to tell the boy-sophist that his favorite freed- man was just dead of a fever. 'Inexorable death!' cried he — ' get me my Horace. How beautifully the sweet poet consoles us for these misfortunes!' Oh, can these men love, my Clodius? Scarcely even with the senses. How seldom a Roman has a heartl He is but the mechanism of genius — he wants its bon«sand flesh. Though Clodius was a little sore at these remarks on his coun- trymen, he affected to sympjathize with his friend, partly be- cause he was by nature a j)arasite, and partly ^jecause it was the fashion among the dissolute young Romans to affect a little con- tempt for the very birth which, in reality, made them so arro- gant; it was the mode to imitate the Greeks, and yet to laugh at iLeir own clumsy imitation. THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 5 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 thi-ew their shade, there stood a young girl, with a flower basket on her right ai-m, 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 I her voice is »weet; let us listen." THE BLIND FLOWER-GIRL'S SONG. Buy my flowers— buy — I pray The blind girl comes from afar; If the earth be as fair as I hear them say, These flowers her children are? Do they her beauty keep? They are fresh from her lap, I know; For I caught them fast asleep In her arms an hour ago! With the air which is her breath — Her soft and delicate breath — Over them murmuring! 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 lovel 11. Te have a world of light, Where love in the loved rejoices; But the blind girl's home is the House of Niglrt» And its beings are empty voices. As one in the realm below, I stand by the streams of woel I hear the vain shadows glide, 1 feel their soft breath at my side. And I thirst the loved forms to see, And I stretch my fond arms around. And I catch but a shapeless sound, For the living are ghosts to me. Come buy— come buy! — Hark! how the sweet things sigU <|For they have a voice hke ours), Tlie breath of the blind girl closes 6 THE LAF^T DAYS OF POMPEH. The leaves of tlie saddeninj? roses "We are tender, we sons of liKlit. "We shrink from thiseliild of iiiRlit; From tlH^ prasp of the blind pirl free us^ We yoarn for th(' eyes that see us — "NVe are for niirht too pay In your eyes we ln'hold the day — O buy— O buy the flowers! "I must have yon bunch of violets, sweet Nydia," Faid Glau- cus, pressing through tlie crowd, and dropping a small handful of small coins into the basket ; "your voice is more charming than ever." The blind girl started forward as she heard the Athenian's voice ; then as suddenly paused, while the blood rushed violently over neck, cheek, and tomplos. **So you are returned !" said she, in a low voice ; and then re- peated half to herself, *' Glaucus is returned 1" "Yes, child, I have not been at Pompeii above a few days. My garden wants your care, as before ; you ^vill visit it, I trust, to-morrow. And nfind, 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, plao^ ing in his breast the violets he had selected, turned gayly and carelessly from the crowd. "So, she is a sort of a client of yours, this child?" said Clo- dius. " Ay — does she not sing prettily? She interests me, the poor slave I Besides, she is from the land of the Gods' hill — Olympus frowned upon her cradle — she is of Thessaly." "The ^^^tches' country." " True : but for mj^ part I find every woman a witch ; and at Pompeii, by Venus ! the very air seems to have taken a love- philter, so handsome does every face without a beard seem in my eyes." " And lo I one of the handsomest in Pompeii, old Diomed's daughter, the rich Julia?" said Clodius, as a young lady, her face covered by a veil, and attended by two female slaves, approached them, in her way to the bath. "Fair Julia, we salute thco 1" said Clodius. Julia partly raised her veil, so as with some coquetry to dis- j)lay a bold Roman profile, a full dark bright eye, and a cheek over wliose natural olive art shod a fairer and softer rose. "And Glaucus, too. is returned!" said she glancing meaningly at the Athenian. "Has ho forgotten," she added, in a half- whisper, " his friends of tho last year?" Beautiful Julia! even Lethe ilself, if it disappear in one part of the earth, rises again in another. Jupiter does not allow us ever to forget for more than a moment; but Venus, more harsh still, vouchsafes not even a moment's oblivion." • Glaucus is never at a loss for fair words." "Who is, when the object of them is so fair?" " We shall see you both at my father's villa, soon," said Julia, turning to Clodius THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 1 •* 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 reap- ed on the Athenian with affected timidity and real boldness; the glance bespoke tenderness and reproach. The friends passed on. "Julia is certainly handsome," said Glaucus. "And last year you would have made that confession in a warmer tone." " True: I was dazzled at the first sight, and mistook for a gem that which was but an artful imitation." "Nay," retui-ned Clodius, "all women are the same at heart. Happy he who weds a handsome face and a large dower. What more can he desire?" Glaucus sighed. They were now in a street less crowded than the rest, at the end of which they beheld that broad and most lovely sea, which upon those delicious coasts seems to have renounced its preroga- tive 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 Aphrodite 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 wliile the noon yet laughs along its billows." " Wilti all my heart," said Clodius; "and the bay, too, is al- ways 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 contained, as it were, a specimen of every gift which luxury offered to power. In its minute but glittering shops, its tiny palaces, its paths, 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 seem- ed pleased to keep the representation of the gi^eat monarchy of earth, and which they afterward 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 baj^ were the vessels of commerce and the gilded galleys for the pleasures of the rich citizens. The boats of the fishermen glided rapidly to and fro; and afar off you saw the tall masts of the fleet under the command of Pliny. Upon the shore sat a Sicilian, who, with vehement gestures and flexile features, was narrating to a group of fishermen and peas- ants a strange tale of shipwrecked mariners and friendly dol- phins; just as at tins day, in the modern neighborhood, you may hear upon the Mole of Naples. Drawing ]iis comrade from the crowd, the Greek bent his steps toward a solitary part of the beach, .and the two friends, seated 8 THE LAST BAYS OF POMPEII. on a small crag which rose amid the pebbles, inhaled the volu]>« tuous and cooling breeze, which, dancing over the waters, kep* music with its invisible feet. There was, perhaps, something in the scene tliat invited them to silence and reverie. Clooiua, shading his eyes from the burning skv, 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 reins were filled, gazed upon the broad expanse, and envied, per- haps, every wind tliat bent its pinions toward the shores of Greece. "Tell me, Clodius,** said the Greek at last, "hast thou evor been in love?" •* Yes, very often." "He who has loved often," answered Glaucus, "has loved never. There is but one Eros, though there are many counter- feits of him." " The counterfeits are not bad little gods, upon the whole," an- swered 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 theater, and write elegies? I should never have thought it. You dissemble well." "I am not far gone enough for that," returned Glaucus, smil- ing; " or rather I say with TibuUus; "ITe whom love rules, where'er his path may be, Walks safe and sacred." In fact, I am not in love; but I could be if there were but occa- sion to see the object. Eros would light his torch, but the priests have given him no oU." " Shall I guess the object? — 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 vdth golden fillets." " No, I do not desire to sell myself. Diomed's daughter is handsome, I grant; and at one time, had slie not been the grand- cliild of a freedman, I might have Yet no — she carries all her beauty in her face; her manners are not maidenlike, and hei mind knows no culture save that of pleasure." "You are ungrateful. Tell me, then, who is the fortunate virgin?" *' You shall hear, my Clodius. Several months ago T was so- journing at Neapolis,* a cit}" utterly to my own Yieart, for it still retains the manners and stamp or its Grecian origin — and it vet merits the name of Parthenope, from its delicious air and its beautiful sliores. One day I entered the temple of Minerva, to offer up my prayers, not lor myself more than for the city on which Pallas smiles no longer. The temple was empty and de- , — • Naples. \ TSE LAST DA T8 OF POMPmt 9 serted. The recollections of Athens crowded fast and meltingly upon me; imagining myself still alone in the temple, and ab- sorbed 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 smiliug orbs at once into my soul. Never, my Clodius, have I seen mortal face more exquisitely molded; a certain melancholy softened and yet ele- vated its expression; that unutterable something which springs from the soul, and which our sculptors have imparted to the aspect of Psyche, gave her beauty I know not what of divine and noble; tears were rolling down her eyes. I guessed at once that she was also of Athenian lineage; and that in my prayer for Athens her heart had responded to mine. I spoke to her, though with a faltering voice — ' Art thou not, too, Athenian?' said I, ' O beautiful virgin I' At the sound of my voice she blushed, and half drew her veil across her face — ' My forefathers' ashes,' said she, ' repose by the waters of Ilyssus; my birth is of Neapolis; but my heart, as my lineage, is Athenian.' *Let us, then,' said I, ' make our offerings together;' and, as the priest now apjpeared, we stood side by side, while we followed the priest in his cere- monial 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 oui- 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 resemblance 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 threatened me with litigation con- cerning 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 country- woman, and, hoping to lose in gayety all remembrance of that beautiful apparition, I hastened to plunge myself amid the luxu- ries of Pompeii. This is all my history, I do not love; but I re- member and regret." As Clodius was about to reply, a slow and stately step 8»- proached them, and at the sound it made among 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 nervoHS and sinewy frame. His skin, dark and bronzed, betrayed his Eastern origin; and his features had something Greek in their outline, (especially in the » THE LAST DA YS OF POMPEII. chin, the lip, and the brow,) save that the nose was somewhat raised and aquiline; and the bones, hard and visible, forbade that fleshy and waving contour which on the Grecian physiognomy preserved even in manhood the round and beautilul curves of youth. His eyes, large and black as the deepest night, shone with no varying and uncertain luster. A deep, thoughtful, and half-melancholy calm, seemed unalterably fixed in their majestic and commanding gaze. His step and mien were peculiarly se- date and loftv, and something foreign in the fashion and the sober hues of nis sweeping garments added to the impressive ef- fect of his quiet countenance and stately form. Each of the young men, in saluting the new-comer, made mechanically, and with care to conceal it from him, a slight gesture or sign with their fingers; for Arbaces, the Egyptian, was supposed to possess the fatal gift of the evil eye. ** The scene must, indeed, be beautiful," said Arbaces, with a cold though courteous smile, " which draws the gay Clodius, and Glaucus the aU-admired, from the crowded thoroughfares of the city." **Is Nature ordinarily so unattractive?" asked the Greek. "Tothe dissipated — yes." " An austere reply, but scarcely a wise one. Pleasure dellghta 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 ^ou 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 among the feverish haunts of men, but on the still mountains and in the solitary valleys of the hunter." " Beautiful simile I" cried Glaucus; "most unjust application! Exhaustion! that word is for age, not youth. By me, »t least, one moment of satiety has never been known." Again the Egyptian smileil, but his smile was cold and blight- ing, and even the unimaginative Clodius froze beneath its light. He did not, however, reply to the passionate exclamation of Glaucus, but, after a pause, he said, in a soft and melancholy voice — "After all, you do right to enjoy the hour while it smiles for you; the rose soon withers, the i^erfume soon exhales. And we, O Glaucus! strangers in the land, and far from our fathers' ashes, what is there left for us but pleasure or regret? — for you the first, perhaps for me th6» last." The briglit eyes of the Grook were suddenly suffused with tears. "Ah, speak not. ArJ>aces," he cried — "speak not of om- ancestors. Let us forget that there were ever other liberties THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 11 thaii those of Rome I And glory I — oh, vainly wonld we call her ghost from the fields of Marathon and Thermopylae 1" "Thy heart rebukes thee while thou speakest," said ttie Egyptian; " and in thy gayeties this night, thou wilt be mcHre mindful of Leasna* than of Lais. VaieP* Thus saying, he gathered his robe around him, and slowly iwept away. "1 breathe more freely," said Clodius. "Imitating the Egyptians, we sometimes introduce a skeleton at our feasts. Xn truth, the presence of such an Egyptian as yon gliding shadow were specter enough to sour the richest grape of the Falemian.** "Strange man!" saidGlaucus, 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 I 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 among us, and teach him the charms of dice? Pleasure of pleasures 1 hot fever of hope and fear! inexpressible, un jaded passion! how fiercely beautiful thou art, Oh Gaming!" "Inspired — ^inspired!" cried Glaucus, laughing; "the oracle speaks poetry in Clodius. What miracle next?" CHAPTER in. PARENTAGE OF GLAUCUS.— DESCRIPTION OP 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. Suc- ceeding early to an ample inheritance, he had indulged that in- clination for travel so natural to the young, and had drunk deep of the intoxicating draught of pleasure amid the gorgeous luxuries of the imperial court. He was an Alcibiades without ambition. He was what a man of imagination, youth, fortune, and talents, readily becomes when you deprive him of the inspiration of glory. His house at Rome was the theme of the debauchees, but also the lovers of art; and the sculptors of Greece delighted to task their skill in adorning the porticos and exedra of an Athenian. His retreat in Pompeii — ^alasl the colors are faded now, the walls stripped of their paintings! — ^its main beauty, its elaborate finish of grace and ornament, is gone; yet when first given once more to the day, what eulogies, what wonder, did its minute and glowing decorations create — its paintings — its mosaics I Passionately en- amored 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 .^Eschylus and Homer. And antiquaries, * Lesena, the heroic mistress of Aristogiton, when put to the torture, bit out her tongue, that the pain might not Induce her to betray the con- spiracy against the sons of Pisistratus. The statue of a lioness, ereotef| m her honor, was to be seen in Atheus in the time of FausaniaSt 13 THE LAST DA Y8 OF POMPEII, who resolve taste to a trade, have turned the patron to the pro feasor, 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 DR^\.JiA.Tia POET." Previous to our description of this house, it may be as well to convey to the reader a general notice of the houses of Pompeii, which we will find to resemble the plans of Vitruvius; but with all those differences in detail, of caprice and taste, which, heinp; natural to mankind, have always puzzled antiquaries. We shall endeavor to make this description as clear and unpedantic as pos- sible. You enter then usually by a small entrance passage (called c^sti- hulum)y into a hall, sometimes with (but more frequently without) the ornament of columns; around three sides of this hall are doors communicating A\ith several * bed-chambers (amon^ wliich 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 re- cesses, rather than chambers, generally devoted to the ladies of the mansion; and in the center of the tesselated pavement of the hall is invariably a square, shallow reservoir for raiu-water (clas- sically termed inipbivium), which was admitted by an aperture in the roof above; the said aperture being covered at will by an awning. Near this impluvium, which had a pecuUar sanctity in the eyes of the ancients, were sometimes (but at Pompeii more rarely than at Rome) placed images of household gods— the hos- pitable hearth, often mentioned by Roman poets, and conse- crated to the Lares, was, at Pompeii, almost invariably formed by a movable brazUr: while in some corner, often the most ostenta- tious 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 drtach it from its position. It is supposed that this cliest 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 classicallv) the client* and visi- tors of inferior ranks were usually received. In the housw? of the more "respectable," an dtrietixifi, or slave i>eculiarly devoted to the service of the hall, was invariably detained, and his rank among his fellow-slaves was high and important. The reservoir in the center must have Ix'en rather a dangerous ornament, but the center of the hall was like the grass-plot of a college, and in- terdicted to the pafisers to and fro, who round ample space in the margin. Right opposite the entrance, at the otner end of the haU, was an apartment {taXMnum), in which the pavement wae usually adorned with rich moeaice, and the wallt covered with elaborate imintings. Here were usually kept the records of the family, or those of any public office that had been filled by the owner; on one side of thi? saloon, if wq may so ^sH it, was often a dinlng-roomj or \ THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEH, 18 tricthiium; on the other side, perhaps, what we should now term a cabinet of gems, containing whatever curiosities were deemed most rare and costly; and invariably a small passage for the slaves to cross to the further parts of the house, without passing the apart- ments thus mentioned. These rooms all opened on a square or oblong colonnade, technically termed peristyle. If the house was Bmall, its boundary ceased with this colonnade; and in that case its center, however diminutive, was ordinarily appropriated to the purpose of a garden, and adorned with vases of flowers, placed upon pedestals, while, under the colonnade, on the right and left, were doors, admitting to bed-rooms,* to a second triclinium, or eating room (for the ancients generally appropriated tvyo rooms at least to that purpose, one for summer and one for winter— <)r, 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 collection of books. At the end of the peristyle was generally the kitchen. Suppos- ing the house was large, it did not end with the peristyle, and the center thereof was not in that case a garden, but might be, per- haps, adorned with a fountain, or basin for fish; and at its end, exactly opposite to the taUinum, was generally another eating- room, on either side of which were bed-rooms, 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 Uke the peristyle, and very much re- sembling the peristyle, only usually longer. This was the proper viridarium, or garden, being commonly adorned with a f oimtain, or statues, and a profusion of gay flowers; at its extreme end was the gardener's house; on either side, beneath the colonnade, were sometimes, if the size of the family required it, additional rooms. At Pompeii, a second or third story was rarely of importance, being built only above a small part of the house, and containing rooms for the slaves; differing in this respect from the more magnificent edifices of Rome, which generally contamed the principal eatmg-room (or coenaciUuni) on the second floor. The apartments themselves were ordinarily of small size; for in those delightful climes they received any extraordmary nunaber of visitors in the peristyle (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 propor- tions; 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.f But the suite of rooms seen at once from the entrance, niust have had a very imposing effect: you beheld at once the ha ll rich- * The Romans had bedrooms appropriated not only to the sleep of night, but also to the day siesta {cublcule diurna). + When they entertained very large parties, the feast was usually ferved in the haXL 14 TEE LAST DAYS OF POMPEIT, ly paved and painted— the t(ibllnu)n—tho pinceful peristyle, and (if the house exteuded farther) the opposite haucjuet-rooDi and the garden, which closed the view with some gushing fount or marble statue. The reader will now have a tolerable notion of Pompeian houses, which resembled in some respects the Grecian, but mostly the Roman fashion of domestic architecture. In almost every house there is some difference in detail from the rest, but the priuciijal outline is the same iii all. In all you find the hall, the taWinum, and the peristyle, communicating with each other; in all you find the walls ricldy painted; and in all the evidence of a people ft)nd of the retiuing elegancies of life. The pm-ity of the taste of the Pomj^eians in decoration is, however, questionable: they were fond of the gaud- iest colors, of fantastic designs; they often painted tlie lower Jialf of their columns bright red, leaving the rest uucolored; and where the garden was small, its wall was frequently tinted to de- ceive the eye as to its extent, imitating trees, birds, temples, etc., in perspective — a meretricious delusion wliich the graceful pedantry of Pliny himself adopted, with pride in its ingenuity. But the house of Glaucus was at once one of the smallest, and yet the most adorned and finished of all the private mansions of Pompeii I it would be a model at this day for the house of ** a single man inMayfair" — the envy and despair of the ccelibian 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 cham- ber of some size; for the interior part of the house not beiug large enough to contain the tw^o great divisions of private and public apartments, these two rooms were set apart for the re- ception of visitors who neither by rank nor familiarity were entitled to admission in the penetralia of tlie mansion. Advancing up the vestibule you enter an atrium, that when first discovered w^as rich in paintings, which, in point of expres~ sion, w^ould scarcely disgrace a Rafaele. You may see them now transplanted to the Neapolitan Museum; they are still the ad- miration of connoisseurs — they depict the parting of Achilles and Briseis. Who docs not acknowledge tue force, the vigor, the beauty, employed in delineating the forms and faces of Achil- les and the immortal slave? On one aide tlie atrium, a small staircase admitted to the apartments for the slaves on the second floor; there also were two or three small bed-rooms, the walls of which ix)rtrayed the rape of Europa, the battle of the Amazons, etc. You now enter the tablinurn, across which, at either end, hung rich draperies of Tyrian purnle, 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, tvpical of the instructions given by the director or the stage to his comedians. You passed through this saloon and entered the peristyle; and here (as I have before said, was usually the caee with the smaller \ TEE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 1% houses of Pompeii) the mansion ended. From each of the seen columns that adorned this court hung festoons of garlands; the center, supplying the place of a gai'den, bloomed with the rarest flowers placed in vases of white marble. At the left hand of this small garden was a diminutive fane, resembling one of those email chapels placed at the side of roads in Catholic countries, and dedicated to the Penates; before it stood a bronze kipod; to the left of the colonnade were two small cubicula, orbed-rooms; to the right was the triclinium, in which the guests were now as- sembled. This room is usually termed by the antiquaries of Naples, " The Chamber of Leda;" and in the beautiful work of Sir Will- iam Gell, the reader will find an engraving from that most deli- cate and graceful painting of Leda presenting her new-born to her husband, from which the room derives its name. This charming apartment opens upon the fragrant garden. Round the table of citrean wood, highly polished and dehcately 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 luxuriously to the pressure. *' Well, I must own," said the sedile Pansa, '' that your house, though scarcely larger than a case for one's fibula, is a gem of its kmd. How beautifully painted is that parting of Achilles and Briseis! — what a style! — what heads — what a — -hem!" " Praise from Pansa is indeed valuable on such subjects," said Clodius, gravely. *' Why, the paintings on /r/s walls!— Ah! there is, indeed, the hand of a Zeuxis!" "You flatter me, my Clodius; indeed you do;" quoth theaedile, who was celebrated through Pompeii for having the worst paint- ings in the world; for he was patriotic, and patronized none but Pompeians. *'You flatter me; but there is something pretty— uEdepol, yes — in the colors, to say nothing of the design;— and then, for the kitchen, my friends— ah! that was all my fancy." '♦What is the design?" said Glaucus. "I have not yet seen your kitchen, though I have often witnessed the excellence of its cbeer." "A cook, my Athenian — a cook sacrificing the trophies of his skill on the altar of Vesta, with a beautiful mursena (taken from the life) on a spit at a distance; there is some invention there!' At that Instant the slaves appeared, bearing a tray covered with the first preparative initia of the feast. Amid delicious figs, fresh herbs sti-ewed 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) tlie silv^er basin of perfumed water, and napkins edged with a purple fringe. But the eedile ostentatiously drew forth his own napkin, which was not, indeed, of so fijie 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. li THE LAST DA Y8 OP POMPEIL "A pplendid nappa, that of yours,** said Clodius; "why, the fringe is as broad as a girdle I" ♦* A trifle, my Clodius: a trifle! They tell me that this stripe is the latest fashion at Rome; but Glaucus attends to "these things more than I." '*Be propitious, O Baochusl'* said Glaucus, inclining reveren- tially to a beautiful image of the god placed in the center of the table, at the comers of which stood the Lares and tlie salt-holders. The guests followed the nrayer, and then sprinkling the wine on the table, they performed the wonted libation. This over, the convivalists reclined themselves on the couclies, and the business of the hour commenced. "May this cupbemylastl" said the young Sallust, as the table, cleared of its first stimulants, was now loaded with tlie substan- tial part of the entei'tainment, and the ministering slave poured forth to him a brimming cyathus — *' May this cup be my last, but it is the best wine I have drank at Pompeii 1" " Bring hither the amphora," said Glaucus, ** and read its date and character.'* The slave hastened to inform the party that the scroll fasten- ed to the cork betokened its birth from Chios, and its age a ripe fifty years. ** How deliciously the snow has cooled it I" said Pansa. ** It is just enough.'* *' It is like the experience of a man who has cooled his pleas- ures sufliciently to give them a double zest," exclaimed Sallust. *' 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 Pan- sa; "on the dav after the Vulcanalia; we have a most lovely young lion for the occasion." *' Whom shall we get for him to eat?" asked Clodius. ** Alasf there is a great scarcity of criminals. You must positively find some innocent or other to condemn to the lion, Pansa!" "Indeed I have thought very seriously about it of late," replied the 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 infringe- ment on property itself." " Not so in tlie good old days of the Republic," sighed Sallust. ** And then this pretended mercy to the slaves is sucli a disap- pointment 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 tliis cursed law!" "What can be worse policy," said Clodius. sententiously, *'than to interfere with the manly amusements of the people?" "Well, thank Jupiter and the Fates! we have no Nero at pres- ent," said Sallust. " He was indeed a tyrant; Ke shut up our amphitheater for ten years.*' ** I wonder it did not create a rebellion,'* said Sallust. THE LAST DA TS OF POMPEII, 11 ** 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. *' Ahl what delicacy hast thou in store for us now, my Glau- cus?" cried young SaUust, with sparkUng 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 Bome talent, and an excellent heart — as far as it went. **Iknow its face, by Pollux I" cried Pansa. " It is an Am- bracian Kid. Hoi [snapping his fingers, a usual signal 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?" asked Lepidus, loosening to a yet more luxurious ease his ungirdled tunic. " Why, in truth, I suspect it is the distance that gives the flavor; they want the richness of the Brundusium oyster. But at Rome, no supper is complete without them." *' The poor Britons I There is some good in them after all," said Sallust. "They produce an oyster 1" " I wish they would produce us a gladiator," said the sedile, whose provident mind was musing over the wants of the amphitheater. "By Pallas I" 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 bim. The yells of the populace seem to be more dire than the voices of the Furies chasing Orestes. I rejoice that there is so little chance of that bloody exhibition for our next show I" 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 "Herclel" The parasite Clodius muttered "JEdepoll" and the sixth banqueter, who was the umbra of riodius, and whose duty it was to echo his richer friend, when ^e could not praise him — ^the parasite of a parasite — ^muttered also"JEdepoII" •♦Well, you Italians are used to these spectacles; we Greeks are more merciful. Ah, shade of Pindar I — the rapture of a true Grecian game — the emulation of man against man — ^the gen^ous strife— the half -mournful triumph— so proud to contend with a noble foe, so sad to see him overcome I But ye understand me not." " The kid is excellent," said Sallust. The slave, whose duty i* was to carve, and who valued hhiiself on his science, had just performed that o^ce on the kid to the sound of musk), his knif o It THE LAST DA TS OF POMPEII, keeping time, beginning -with a low tenor and accomplishing the arduous feat amid a magnificent diapason. ** Your cook is, of course, from Sicily?*' Baid Pansa. "Yes, of Syracuse." " I will play you for him," said Clodius. " "We will have a game between tlie courses." •* Better that sort of game, certainly, than a beast fight; but J cannot stake my SicUian — ^you have nothing so precious to stake me in return. * " My Phillida — my beautiful dancing- girll" " I never buy women," said the Greek, carelessly re-arranging his chaplet. The musicians who were stationed in the portico without, had commenced their office witli tlie kid; they now directed the melody into a more soft, a more gay, yet it may be a more intel- lectual strain; and they chanted that soug of Horace beginuing, ** Persicos odi,^^ etc., so impossible to translate; and which they imagined applicable to a feast that, effeminate as it seems to us, was simple enough for the gorgeous revelry of the time. We are witnessing the domestic, and not the princely feast— the enter- tainment of a gentleman, not an emperor or a senator. "Ah, good old Horace!" said Sallust, compassionately; "he sang well of feasts and girls, but not like our modern poets." •' The immortal Fulvius, for instance," said Clodius. ** Ah, Fulvius the immortal!" said the umbra. " And Spuraena; and Caius Mutius, who wrote three epics in a year — could Horace do that, or Virgil either?" said L.epif the mind, the animal frame was well fitted to execute tliem; the wiry muscles of the throat, the broad chest, the nervous hands and lean, gaunt arms u Mi li were bared above the elbow, TBE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 2? betokened a form capable alike of great active exertion and pass- ive 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 ful- fiUment." " 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 blest to be at rest? — for rest prays the mariner in the ^gean sea, or at least so says Horace; can the mariner be more at rest in the sea than when he is at the bottom of it?" '* Right, my Calenus; I wish Apaecides would take a lesson from your wisdom. But I desire to confer with you relative to him and to other matters; you can admit me into one of your less sacred apartments?" ''Assuredly," replied the priest, leading the way to one of the small chambers which surrounded the open gate. Here they seated themselves before a small table spread with dishes containing fruit and eggs, and various cold meats, with vases of excellent wine, of which w^Mle the companions partook, a curtain, drawn across the entrance opening to the court, con- cealed them from view, but admonished them by the thinness of the partition to speak low, or to speak no secrets; they chose the former alternative. " Thou knowest," said Arbaces, in a voice that scarcely stirred the air, so soft and inward was its sound, " that it has ever been my maxim to attach myself to the young. From their flexile and unformed minds I can carve out my fittest tools. I weave, I warp, I mould them at my wall. Of the men I make merely followers or servants; of the women " "Mistresses," said Calenus, as a livid grin distorted his ungain- ly features. " Yes, I do not disguise it; woman is the main object, the great appetite of my soul. " As you feed the victim for the slaughter, I love to rear the votaries of my pleasure. I love to train, to ripen their minds — to unfold the sweet blossom of their hidden passions, In order to prepare the fruit to my taste. I loathe your ready- made and ripened courtesans; it is in the soft and unconscious progress of innocence to desire that I find the true charm of love; it is thus that I defy satiety; and by contemplating the freshness of others, I sustain the freshness of my own sensations. From the young hearts of my victims I draw the ingredients of the caldron in which I re-youth myself. But enough of this; to the subject before us. You know, then, that in Neapolis some time since I encountered lone and Apaecides, brother and sister, the children of Athenians who had settled at Neapolis. The death of their parents, who knew and esteemed me, constituted me their guardian. I was not unmindful of the trust. The youth, docile and mild, yielded readily to the impression I sought to stamp upon him. Next to woman, I love recollections of my ancestral l^d; I lore to ke€p *liTe— to propagate on distsmt shores (whioh 38 THS LAST DA YS OF POMPEII, her oelenies perchance yet people), her dark and mystic creeds, jt xnay be thatjit pleases me to delude mankind while I thus serve the deities. To Apascides I taught the solemn faith of Isis. I un- folded to him something of those sublime allegories, which are couched beneath her worship. I excited in a soul peculiarly ahve to religious fervor tliat enthusiam which imagination begets on faith. I have placed him among you; he is one of you." " He is so," said Calenus: "but in thus stimulating his faith, you have robbed him of wisdom. He is horror struck that he is no longer duped; oiu* sage delusions, our speaking statues and secret staircases dismay and revolt him; he pines; he wastes away; he mutters to himself; he refuses to share our ceremonies. He has been known to frequent the company of men suspected of adher- ence to that new and atheistical creed which denies all our gods, and terms our oracles the inspirations of that malevolent spirit of wliich tradition speaks. Our oracles — alas! we know well whose inspirations they are!" •' This is what I feared," said Arbaces musingly, "from various reproaches he made me when I last saw lim. 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 yom either, I tliink, my Arbaces." "You err," replied the Egyptian, gravely. "I believe at this day (not indeed that which I teach, but that which I teach not). Natiire has a sanctity against which I can not (nor would I) steel conviction. I believe in mine own knowledge, and that has re- vealed to me — but no matter. Now to earthlier and more invit- ing themes. If I thus fulfilled my object nn ith Apreeides, what was my design for lone? Thou knowest already I intend to make her my queen — my bride— my heart's Isis. Never till I saw her knew I all the love of wliich ray 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 the notion it is not easy to decide. " Yes, she is a beauty that Greece itself never excelled," re- sumed Arl)ace8. "But that is not all; she has a soul worthy to match with mine. She has a genius beyond that of women — keen — dazzling — bold. Poetry flows spontivueous to her li[)s; utter but a truth, and how intricate and profound her mind seizes and commands it. Her imagination and reason are not at war with each other; they harmonize and direct lier course as the winds and the waves direct some lofty bark. With this slie unites a daring independence of thought; she can stand alone in the world; she can be as l)rave as she is gentle; this is the nature I have sought all my life in woman, and never found till now. lone must \ye mine ! In her I have a double passion; I wish to enjoy a l)eauty of si)irit as of form." Meanwhile, Arbaces haents that lay coiled behind. One evening, the fifth after their first meeting at Pompeii, Glaucus and lone, with a small party of chosen friends, were re- turning from an excursion round the bay; their vessel skimmed lightly over the twilight waters, whose lucid mirror was only broken by the dripping oars. As the rest of the party conversed gayly with each other, Glaucus lay at the feet of lone, and he would have looked up in her face, but he did not dare. lone broke the pause between them. ** My poor brother." said she, sighing, '*how once he would have enjoyed this hour." " Your brother," said Glaucus, -'I have not seen him. Occu- pied with you, I have thought of nothing else, or I should have asked if tliat Avas not your brother for whose companionship you left me at the Temple'of Minerva, in Neapolis?"' "It was." ** And is he here?" *♦ He is." *' At Pompeii, and not constantly with you? Impossible!" "He has other duties," answered lone, sadly; "he is a priest of Isis." "So young, too; and that priesthood, in its laws at least, so severe," said the warm and bright-hearted Greek, in surprise and pity. " What could have been his inducement?" " He was always enthusiastic and fervent in religious devo- tion; and the eloquence of an Egyptian — our friend and guard- ian — kindled in him the jnous 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 i>e- culiar attraction." " And he does not repent his choice?— I trust he is happy." lone sighed deeply, and lowered her veil over her eyes. " I wish," said slie, altfr a ])ause, " that he had not been so hasty. Perhaps, like all Avho ex])ect too much, he is revolted too easily." " Then he is not happy in his new condition. And this Egyp- tian, Mas he a ])ricst himself? V/aa h« interested in recruits t9 the sacrecides the whole aspect betokened the fervor and passion of his temperament, and the intellectual portion of his nature seemed, by the wild fire of his eyes, the great breadth of the temples when compared with the hight of the brow, the trem- bling restlessness of the lips, to be swayed and tyrannized over by the imaginative and tiie i;leal. Fancy, with the sister, had stopped short at the golden goal of poetry; with the brother, less liappy and less restrained, it had wandered into visions more intangible and unembodied; and the faculties which gave genius to the ono 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 amid the priests of Isis — you are revolted at their trickeries and Im- postures — you think that I too have deceived you — the purity of your mind is offended — you imagine I am one of the deceit- ful " "You knew the juggUngs of that impious craft," answered Apaecides; " why did you disguise them from me? "When you excited my desire to devote myself to tho office whoso garb !I wear, you spoke of the lioly life of men resigning themselves to knowledge — you have given me for com]ianions an ignorant and sensual herd, who have no knowled^re but that of the grossest frauds — you spoke to mo of men sacrificing the earthlier pleas- ures to the sublime cultivation of virtue — you place me among men reeking with all the filthiuess of vice — you s]X)ke to me of the friends, the enlightenei-s of our common kind— I see but their cheats and dcluders 1 Oh ! it was basely done 1 — you have robbed-me of the glo-y of youth, of the convictions of virtue, of the Siinctifying thirst after wisdom. Young as I was, rich, fer- THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 91 vent, the sunny pleasures of earth before me, I resigned all with- out a sigh, nay, with happiness and exultation 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 fortlithe brigliter for thy novitiate — think no more of those dull cheats — assort no more with those menials of the goddess, the atrienses of her hall — you are worthy to enter into the penetralia. I hencefoi-th 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 earaest and solemn voice, casting first his searching eye 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 Eomulus swept over the plains of Italy, and in the eternal cycle of events drove back civilization into barbarism and darkness), possessed all the arts of %visdom and the graces of intellectual lite. From Egypt came the rites and grandeur of that solemn Caere, whose inhabitants taught their iron vanquishers of Rome all that they yet know of ele- vated in religion and sublime in worship. And how deemest thou, young man, that that dread Egypt, the mother of count- less nations, achieved her greatness and soared to her cloud- clapped eminence of wisdom — it was the result of a profound and holy policy. Your modern nations owe your greatness to Egypt — Egypt her greatness to her priests. Rapt in themselves, coveting a sway over the noblest part of man, his soul and his belief, those ancient ministers of God were inspired with the grandest thought that ever exalted mortals. From the revolu- tions 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 Gov- ernment they named Religion. Isis is a fable — start not! — ^that for which Isis is a type is a reality, an immortal being; Isis is nothing. Nature, which she represents, is the mother of all things— dark, ancient, inscrutable, save to the gifted few. * None among mortals hath ever lifted up my veil,' so saith the Isis that you adore; but to the wise that veil hathheeji removed, and we have stood face to face with the solemn loveliness of Nature. The priests then were the benefactors, the civilizers of mankind; tiTie, they were also cheats, impostors if you will. But think you, young man, that if they had not deceived their kind tiiey could have served them ? The ignorant and sei'\ile vulgar must be blinded to attain their proper good; they would not believe a 8e THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. maxim— they revere an oracle. The Emperor of Rome sway* the vast and various tribes of eartli, and harmonizes the con- flicting and disunited elements; tlienco come ]>eace, order, law, the blessings of life. Think you it is tlio man, the emperor, tbat thus sways? No; it is tlie pomp, the awe, the majesty that sur round him — tha^o are his impostures, his delusions; our oraclea and our divinations, our rites and our ceremonies, are the means of our sovereignty and the engines of our power. They are th© same means to the same end, the welfare and harmony of man- kind. You listen to me rapt and intent— the light begins to fall upon you." ApsDcides remained silent, but the changes rapidly passmg 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," said Arbaces, "our fathers of the Nile thus achieved the first elements by whose life chaos is destroyed, namely, the obedience 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 re- turned the gift by civilization. Were not theii- very cheats a vir- tue? Trust me, whosoever in yon far heavens of a diviner and more l>eneficeut nature look down upon our world, smile approv- ingly 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 goddess of our ancient faith nnist be served, and served too by others tlian the stolid and soulless things that are but as pegs and hooks whereon to hang the fillet and the robe. Remember two sayings of Sextusthe Pythagorean, sayings borrowed from the lore of Egypt. The first is, ' Speak not of God to the multitude;' the second is, * The man worthy of God is a god among men.' As Genius gave to the ministers of Egypt worshi]), that empire in late ages so fearfully decayed, thiis by Genius only can the dominion be restored. I saw in you, ApjBcides, a pui)il worthy of my lessons— a minister worthy of tlie great ends wliicli may yet be wrought; your energy, your I talents, your purity of faith, your earnestness of enthusiasm, all /fitted you for that caUing which demands so impenously high and ardent qualities; I fanned, therefore, your sacred desires; I / stimulated vou to the step you have taken. But you blame me / that I did not revoal to you tb.e little souls and the juggling tricks of 5'our companions. Had I done so, Ap:i?cidcs, I had de- feated my own ol)j<'ct: your noble nature would have at once re- volted, and Isis would have lost her priest." A]>cTcid(>s groaned aloud. The Egyptian continued without heeding tlie interruption. " I placed you, ther'^fore, without preparation, in the temple; I left vou suddenly to discover and to be sickened of those mum- meries which ckizzle the herd. I desired tliat you should per- ceive liow those engines are moved by whiA TS OF POMPEIT. trembling voice; "I know you are my friend, that you desird only my honor and my welfare. What is it you would say?" "Your friend — ah, how sincerelyl May I speak then as a friend, without reserve and without offense?" " I beseech you to do so." *' This young profligate, this Glaucus, how didst thou know him? Hast thou seen him often?" And as Arbaces spoke, h« fixed his gaze steadfastly upon lone; 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 hesita- tion — "He was brought to my house as a countryman of my father's, and I may say of mine. I have known him only within the last week or so; but why these questions?" "Forgive me," said Arbaces; *' I thought you might have known him longer. Base insinuator that he isl" '* Howl what mean you? Why the term?" " It matters not; let me not rouse your indignation against one who does not deserve so great an honor." '*I implore you speak. What has Glaucus insinuated? or ra- ther, in what do you suppose he has offended?" Smothering his resentment at the last part of Tone's question, Arbaces continued — " You know his pursuits, his companions, his habits; the conissatio and the alea (the revel and the dice) make his occupation; and among the associates of vice, how can he dream of virtue?" *' Still you speak riddles. By the godsl I entreat you, say the worst at once.^' *• Well, then, it must be so. Kjiow, my lone, that it was but yesterday that Glaucus boasted openlj — yes, in the public baths, of your love to him. He said it amused liini 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 \vith flowers?" " Impossible! How heard you this base slander?" '• Nay, would you have me to relate to you all the comments of the insolent coxcombs with which the story has circled tlirough the town? Be assured that I myself disbelieved at first, andthat I have now painfully been convinced by several ear-witnesses of the truth of what I have reluctantly told thee." lone sank back, and her face was whiter than the pillar against which she leaned for support. " I own it vexed — it irritated me, to hear your name thus light- ly pitched from lip to lip, like some mere danciug-girl's fame. I hastened this morning to seek and to warn you. I found Glau- cus here. I was stung from my self-possession. I could not conceal my feelings; nay, I was uncourteous in thy presence. Canst thou forgive thy friend, lone?" lone plaoed her hand in his, but replied not. "Think no more of this," said he; " but let it be a warning voice, to tell thee how much prudence thy lot requires. It can not hurt thee, lone, for a moment; for a gay thing 15 ke this THE LAST DA TS OF POMPEII. 43 could never have been honored by even a serious thought from lone. These insults only wound when they came from one we love; far different is he indeed whom the lofty lone shall stoop to love." "Love!" muttered lone, with a hysterical laugh. "Ay, in- deed." It is not without interest to observe in those remote times, and under a social system so widely different from the modem, 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 fabricat- ed retailings of petty gossip, which so often now suffice to break the ties of the truest love, and counteract the tenor of circum- stances most apparently propitious. When the bark sails on over the smoothest wave, the fable tells us of the diminutive fish that can cling to the keel and arrest its progress; so is it ever with the great passions of mankind; and we should paint life but ill if, even in times the most prodigal of romance, and of the romance of which we must largely avail ourselves, we do 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 lone's ruling foible — most dexterously had he applied the poisoned dart to her pride. He fancied he had arrested what he hoped, from the short- ness of the time she had known Glaucus, was, at most, but an incipient fancy ; and hastening to change the subject, he now led her to talk of her brother. Their conversation did not last long. He left her, resolved not again tc trust so much to absence, but to visit — to watch her — every day. No sooner Jiad his shadow glided from her presence, than wo- Joan's pride— her sex's dissimulation — deserted his intended vio- tim, and th© haughty lone burst into passionate tears. CHAPTER Vn. THE GAT T-UTE OF THE POMPEIAN LOUNGER.— A MINIATUIIE LIKE- NESS OF THE ROMAN BATHS. When Glaucus left lone, he felt as if he trod upon air. In the interview with which he had just been blessed, he had for the first time gathered from her distinctly that his love was not un- welcome to, and would not be unrewarded by, her. This hope filled him with rapture for which earth and heaven seemed too narrow to afford a vent. Unconscious of the enemy he had left behind, and forgetting not only his taunts but his very existence, Glaucus passed through the gay streets, repeating to himself, in the wantonness of joy, the music of the soft air to which lone had listened with such intentness; and now he entered the Street «f Fortune, with its raised foot-path — its houses painted without, and the open doors admitting the view of the glowing frescoes witliin. Each end of the street was adorned with a triumphal arch; and as Glaucus now came before the Temple of Fortune^ 44 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPETT. the jutting portico of that beautiful fane (which is supposed to have been built by one of the family of Cicero — perhaps by thd author himself) imparted a dignilied and venerable feature to tlie scene otherwise more brilliant than lofty in its character. That temple was one of the most graceful specimens of Roman archi- tecture. It was raised on a somewhat lofty podium ; and between two flights of steps ascending to a i)latform stood the altar of the goddess. From this platform another flight of broad stairs led to the portico, from the hight of whose fluted columns hung fes- toons of the richest flow^ers. On either side the extremities of the temple were placed statues of Grecian workmansliip ; and at a little distance from the temple rose the trimnphal arch crowned with an equestrian statue of Caligula, which was flanked by tro- phies of bronze. In the space before the temple a lively throng were assembled — some seated on benches and discussing the poli- tics of the empire, some conversing on the approaching spectacle of the amphitheater. One knot of young men were lauding a new beauty, another discussing the merits of the last play; a third group, more stricken in age, were speculating on the chance of the trade with Alexandria, and amid these were many merchants in the Eastern costume, whose loose and peculiar robes, painted and gemmed slippers, and composed and serious coimtenances, 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 inexpres- sibly significant and vivacious: their descendants retain it, and the learned Jorio iiath written a most entertaining work on that species of hieroglyphical gesticulation. Sauntering through the crowd, Glaucus soon found himself amid a group of his merry and dissipated friends. ** Ah!" said Sallust, with a sigh, *'it is a lustrum since I saw you." "And how have you spent the lustrum? "What new dishes have you discovered?" "I have been scientific," returned Sallust, "and have made some experiments in the feeding of lampreys; I confess I despair of bringing them to the perfection which our Roman ancestors attained." ** J.Iiserablc man. And why?" •• Because,"' returned Sallust, with a sigh, *' it is no longer law- ful to give tliem a slave to eat. I am very often tempted to nudce away witli a very fat carptor (l^utler) whom I possess, and i)op him slyly into the reservoir. He would give the fish a most oleaginous flavor! But slaves are not slaves now-a-days, and have no sympathy Avith their masters interest— or Davus would destroy himself to oblige me!" " What news from Rome?" said Lepidus, as he languidly joined the group. " The emperor has been giving a splendid supper to the sena- tors," aiiswcrod Sallust. "lie is a good creature," quoth Lepidus; "they say he never sends a man away without granting his request." THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 45 "Perhaps he would let me kill a slave for my reservoir?'' re- turned 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 Eromised my brother a qusestorship, because he had rim through is fortune." "And wishes now to enrich himself among the people, my t*ansa," 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 serarium — 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 a servility to a patron), the sedile fidgeted fussily away. " Poor Pansa I" said Lepidus ; "he never has time for pleasure. Thank Heaven I am not an sedile !" "Ah, Glaucus I how are you? gay as ever!" said Clodius joining the group. " Are you come to sacrifice to Fortune ?" said Sallust. " I sacrifice to her every night," retui-ned the gamester. " I do not doubt it. No man has made more victims !" " By Hercules, a biting speech ! " cried Glaucus, laughing. "The dog's letter is never out of your mouth, Sallust," said Clodius, angrily ; " you are always snarling." " I may as 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 gi-and feast next week," said Sallust; "are you invited, Glaucus?" " Yes, I received an invitation this morning." "And I, too," said Sallust, drawing a square piece of papyrus from his girdle : " I see that he asks us an hour earlier than usual : an earnest of something sumptuous." " Oh I ho is as 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 r©r 46 TBE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. Borted to them, it was a fiiYorite place for conversatiou, and fo- that indolent lounging so dear to gay and thouglitlcss people. The baths at Pompeii differed, of course, in i)lan and construc- tion from the vast and complicated thermeo of Rome ; and, in- deed, it seems that in each city of the empire there was always Bome slight modification of arrangement in the general arcliir tecture of the public baths. This mightily puzzles tlie learned — as if architects and fashion were not capricious before the nine- teenth century I Our party entered by the in-iucii)al 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 disi:K3nsed. Round the walls of the portico were seats crowded with persons of all ranks; while others, as the regimen of the jjliysicians prescribed, were walking briskly to and fro the portico, stojjping every now and then to gaze on the innumerable notices of shows, games, sales, exliibitions, which were painted or inscribed upon the walls. The general subject of conversation was, however, the spectacle announced in the ampliitheater; and each new-comer was fas- tened upon by a group eager to know if Pompeii had been so fortunate as to produce some monstrous criminal, some happy case of sacrilege or of murder, which would allow the asdiles to provide a man for tho jaws of the lion: all other more common exhibitions seemed dull and tame when compared with the pos- sibility of this fortunate occurrence. " For my part," said a 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?*' said a Jhilosopher. "I am not cruel: but an atheist, who denies upiter himself, deserves no mercy." " I care not how many gods a man may like to believe in," said the goldsmith; " but to deny all gods is something mon- strous." "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 ar(3 a few: but they meet so privately that it is impossible to discover who they are." As Glaucus turned away, a sculptor, wlio was a great en- thusiast in his art, looked after liim admiringl5\ "All!" said lie, "if we could get Jiim on the arcn?., — there would be a model for you! Y\liat limbs! wljat'aheaul ho ought to have been a glndiatOr! A subject — a subject — worthy of our artl Why don't they give hiui to' the lion?" Meanwhile Fuhius, tlic Roman poet, whom his contemporaries declared iuiniortal, and who, but for this history, would never have been heard of in our neglectful age, came eagerly up to i'HE LAST DAYS OF POMPMl 4? Glaucus: " Oh, my Athenian, my Glaucus, you hare come to hear my ode! That is indeed an honor; you, a Greek — to whoni the very language of common life is poetry. How I thank you! It is but a trifle; but if I secure your approbation, perhaps I may get an introduction to Titus. Oh, Glaucus! a poet without a patron is an amphora without a label; the wine may be good, but nobody will laud it! And what says Pythagoras? — 'Frank- incense tothe gods, but praise to man.'' A patron, then, is the poet's priest: he procures him the incense, and obtains hun 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 wdthin?" " Certainly; for 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 paneled in white compartments bordered with 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 win- dows which Vitruvius attributes to his more magnificent frigida- rium. 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 darkness. Two windows of glass alone admitted the soft and shaded ray; and the compartment in which one of these casements was placed was adorned with a large rehef of the destruction of the Titans. In this apartment Fulvius seated himself with a magisterial air, and his audience, gathering round him, encouraged him to commence his recital. The poet did not require much pressing. He drew forth from his vest a roll of papyrus, and after hemming three times, as much to command silence as to clear his voice, he began that wonderful ode, of which, to the great mortification of the author of this history, no single verse can be discovered. By the plaudits he received, it was doubtless worthy of his fame; and Glaucus was the only listener who did not find it eX' eel the best odes of Horace, 48 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII The poem concluded, those who took only the cold bath begafl to undress; they suspended their garments on liooks fastened in the wall, receiving, according to their condition, either from their ovm slaves or those of the therraa?, loose robes in exchange, withdrew into that graceful and circular building which yet ex- ists, to shame the unlaving posterity of the south. The more luxurious departed by another door to the tepidari- um, a place which was heated to a voluptuous warmth, pai'tly by a movable fire-place, principally by a suspended pavement, beneath which was conducted the caloric of the laconicum. Here this portion of the intended bathers, after unrobing them- belves, 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 gi'ound glass, admitted but Avandering 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 tesselated in white mosaics. Here the habituated bathers, men who bathed seven times a day, w^ould 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 list- less eyes on the new-comers, recognizing their friends with a nod, but dreading the fatigue of conversation. From this place the party again diverged, according to their several fancies, some to the sudatorium, w^hich answered the purpose of our vapor batlis, 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 cali- darium, or water bath. In order to comjilete this sketch, and give to the reader an ad- equate notion of this, tlie main luxury of the ancients, we will accompany Lepidus, wlio regularly underwent the whole pro- cess, save only the cold bath, which liad gone lately out of fash- ion. Being then gradually warmed in the tepidarium, which haa just been described, the delicate steps of the Fompeiau elegant were conducted to the sudatorium. Here let the reader de]iict to himself the gradual process of the vapor bath, accompanied by an exhalation of spicy perfumes. After our bather had undergone this operation, he was seized by liis slaves, who alwavs awaited him at the baths, and the dews of heat were removed by a kind of scraper, whicli (by the way) a modern traveler has gravely declared to be used only to remove the dirt, not one particle of which could ever sett-^e on the polished skin of the practiced bather. Tiience, somewhat cooled, he passed into the water-bath, over which fresh perfumes were profusely scattered, and on en.erging from the opposite part of the room, a cooling shower })layed over his head and form. Then wrapping himself in a light rol)e, he returaed once more to the tepidarium, where he found Glaucus, who had not encountered the suditorium; and now, the main delight and ex- travagance of the bath commenced. Their slaves anointed tho THE LA&T If A FS GF POMPEItk 49 |f>athers from the phials of gold, cf alabaster, or of crystal, stud" ded 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, Nardam — omne quod exit in ttm: while soft music played in an adjacent chamber, and such as used the bath in moderation, refreshed and restored by the grateful cere- mony, 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 cusliions) which the visitor to Pompeii sees at this day in that same tepidarium. "Whether he were Hercules or Bacchus, be deserved deification." "But tell me," said a corpulent citizen, who was groaning and wheezing under the operation of being rubbed down, "tell me, O Glaucus! — evil chance to thy hands, O slave! why so rough? — tell me — ugh — ugh! — are the baths at Rome really so magnificent?" Glaucus turned, and recognized Diomed, though not without some difl&culty, so red and so inflamed were the good man's cheeks by the sudatory and the scraping he had so lately undergone. " I fahcy they must be a great deal finer than these. Eh?" Suppressing a smile, Glaucus replied. ' ' Imagine all Pompeii converted into baths, and you will then form a notion of the size of the imperial thermae of Rome. But a notion of the size only. Imagine every entertainment for mind and body— enumerate all the gymnastic games our fathers in- vented — repeat all the books Italy and Greece have produced — supi^ose places for all these games, admirers for all these works — add to this, baths of the vastest size, the most complicated con- struction — intersperse the whole with gardens, with theaters, 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 ideas of the glories of the great baths of Rome." " By Hercules!" said Diomed, opening his eyes; " why, it would take a man's whole life to bathe!" " At Rome, it often does so," rephed Glaucus, gravely. "There are many who live only at the baths. They repair there the first hour in which the doors are opened, and remain till that in which the doors are closed. They seem as if they knew nothing of the rest of Rome, as if they despised all other existence." " By Pollux! you amaze me." " Even those who bathe only thrice a day contrive to consume their lives in this occupation. They take their exercise in the tennis-court or the porticos to prepare them for the first bath, they lounge into the theaters, 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 hbrary to sleep over an old one. Then comes the supper, which they still consider but a part of 50 TBE LA^T DA TS OF POMPEIt the bath; and then a third time they bathe again, as the bei* place to converse with tlieir friends." "Per Uercle! but we have their imitators at Pompeii." "Yes, and without their excuse. The magnificent|voluptuarie8 of the Roman baths are happy; they see nothing but gorgoousnesa and splendor; tliey 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 tnie philoso- phers." While Glaucus was thus conversing, Lepidus, with closed eyes and scarce perceptible breath, was undergoing all the mystic oper- ations, not one of which he ever suffered his attendants to omit. After the perfumes and the unguents, they scattered over him the luxurious powxler which prevented any farther accession of heat; and this being rubbed away by the smooth surface of the pumice, he began to indue, not the garments he had put off, but those more festive ones termed "the synthesis," with which the Romans marked their respect for the coming ceremony of supper, if rather, from its hour (three o'clock in our measurement of time), it might not be more fitly denominated dinner. This done, he at length opened his ej^es and gave signs of returning life. At the same time, too, Sallust betokened by a long yawn the ervidence of existence. *' It is supper-time," said the epicui-e; " you, Glaucus and Lepi- dus, come and suf) with me." " Recollect you are all three engaged to my house next week," cried Diomed, who was mightily proud of the acquaintance of men of fashion. "Ah, ah! we recollect," said Sallust; "the seat of memory, my Diomed, is certainly in the stomach." Passing now once again into the cooler air, and so into the street, our gallants of that day concluded the ceremony of a Pompeian bath CHAPTER VIII. ARBACES COGS HIS DICE WITH PLEASURE, AND WINS THE GAME. The evening darkened over the restless city, as Apaecides took his way to the house of the Egyptian. He avoided the more lighted and pojmlous streets; and as he strode onward with hia head buried in his bosom, and his arras folded witliin his rol>e, there was something startling in the contrast, which liis solemn mien and wasted form presented to the tliouglitless bn^wa and animated air of those who occasionally crossed his path. At length, lunvever, a man of a more soher and staid demean- or, and who had twice passed him with a curious but doubting look, touched liim on the shoulder. " Apa-cides." said he, as 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 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 51 meditations; but the last time we met I seemed not to be so un- welcome." "You are not unwelcome, Olinthus; but I am sad and weary, nor am I able this evening to disca^s with von those themes which are most acceptable to you." "O backward of heart!" said Olinthus, with bitter fervor; *' and art thou sad and weary, and wilt thou turn from the very springs that refresh ^nd heal?'' " O eai-th!" cried the young priest, striking his breast passion- ately, " from what regions shall my eyes open to the true Olym- pus, where tliy gods really dwell? Am I to believe with this man, that none whom for so many centuries my fathers wor- shiped have a being or a name? Am I to break doVn, as some- thing blasphemous and profane, the very altars which I have deemed most sacred? or am I to think with Ai-baces— what?" He paused, and strode rapidly away in the impatience of a man who strives to get rid of himself. But the Nazarene was one of those hardy, vigorous, and enthusiastic men, by whom God in all times has worked the revolutions of earth, and those, above all, in the establishment and in the reformation of His own religion; men who were formed to convert, because formed to endure. It is men of this mold whom nothing discourages, nothing dismays; in the fervor of belief they are inspired and they ins]Dire. 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 judg- ment. Nothing is so contagious as enthusiasm; it is the real allegory of the tale of Orpheus— it moves stones, it charms brutes. Enthusiasm is the genius of sincerity, and truth accom- plishes no victories without it. Olinthus did not then suffer Apaecides thus easily to escape him. He overtook, and addressed him thus: " I do not wonder, Apsecides, 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 be- nighted 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 billows, to the delivery of your soul. Ours is a reUgion jealous in its demands, but how infinitely prodigal in its gifts! It troubles you for an hour, it repays you by im- mortahty." *'Such promises," said Apaacides, sullenly, "are the tricks by which man is ever gulled. Oh, glorious were the promises which led me to the shrine of Isis I" "But," answered the Nazarene, "ask thy reason, can that religion be sound which outrages all morality ? You are told to worship your gods. What are those gods, even according to yourselves? What their actions, what their attributes? Are they not all represented to you as the blacker^t of criminals ? yet you are asked to serve them as the holiest of divinities. Jupiter himself is a parricide and an adulterer. What are the meaner deities but imitators of his vices ? You are told not to murder. 52 THE LAST DAY8 OF POMPEIL but you woreliip murderers; you are told not to commit adul- tery, and you make your prayers to an adulterer. Oh! what is this l)ut a mockery of the holiest jmrt of man s nature, which is faith? Turn now'^to the God, the one, the true God, to whose shiine I would lead you. If He seem to you too sublime, too shekd- owy for those human associations, those touching connections between Creator and creature, to wliich the weak heart clings — contemplate Him in His Son, wlio put on mortality like our- selves. 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 austcrest 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 disciples, 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 ? 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 bright- ened 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 \vill give you test I' " ** I cannot now," said Apaecides; "another time." "Now — now!" exclaimed Olinthus, earnestly, and cltisping bim by the arm. But Apascides, yet unprepared for the renunciation of that faith— that life, for which he had sacrificed so much, and still haunted by the promises of the Egyptian, extricated himself forcibly from the grasp, and feeling an effort necessary to con- quer 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 Egy])tian stood before him. As he paused to recover himself, the moon emerge'l from a silver cloud, and shone full upon the walls of that mysterious habitation. No other house was near— the darksome vines clustered far and wide in front of the building, and behind it rose a copse of lofty forest trees, slee])ing in the jnelancholy moonlight ; l^yond, stretched the dim outline of the distnnt hills, and, among them, the quiet crest of Vesuvius, not then so lofty as the tmveler beholds it now. ApiTfcides jmssed through the arching vines, and arrived at the broare it, on either side of the steps, rei)0sed the image of an Egyptian sphinx, aiid the moon- light gave an additional, and yet more solemn calm, to thoA« THJ^ LAST DAYS OF POMPJEtT. m large, and harmonious, and passionless features, in whicii 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 massy 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. Sonaething 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 stejDs, as he ascended to the threshold. He knocked at the door, over which was wrought an inscrip- tion 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 elaborate bronze, and round the walls were wrought vast liieroglyphics, in dark and solemn colors, which contrasted strangely v/ith 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 hj many shades than the usual color of the south, advanced to meet him. " I seek Arbaces," said the priest; but his voice trembled in his own ear. The slave bowed his head in silence, and leading Apae- cides to a wing without the hall, conducted him up a narrow staircase, and then, traversing several rooms, in which the stern and thoughtful beauty of the sphinx still made the chief and most impressive object of the priest's notice, Apgecides 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, imjDressed 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, de- picting the signs of heaven; and upon another table lay several instruments, of cm'ious and quaint shape, whose uses were un- known to Apascides. The farther extremity of the room was con- cealed 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, Apsecides," said the Egyptian, without rising. The young man obeyed. "You ask me," resumed Arbaces, after a short pause, in which he seemed absorbed in thought — " You ask me, or would do so, the mightiest secrets which the soul of man is fitted to receive; it is the enigTua 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 specters 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, 64 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII blindly, we Btumble upon some hidden danger; not knowing the limits of our boundary, now feeling them sufToeate us with com- pression, now seeing them extend far away till tliey vanisli into eternity. In this state, all wisdom consists necessarily in the solution of two questions — * What are we to believe? and wliat are ■we to reject?' These questions you desii'o me to decide?" Apaecides bowed his heaii in assent. " Man )iiust have some belief," continued the Egyptian, in a tone of sadness. " He must fasten his hope to soinething; it is our common nature that you inherit when, aghast and terrified to see that in which you have been tauglit to place your faith swept away, you float over a dreary and shoreless sea of incerti- tude, you cry for help, you ask for some plank to cling to, some land, however dim and distant, to attain. Well, then, listen. You have not forgotten our conversation of to-day?'' "Forgotten!" **I confessed to you that those deities for whom smoke so many altars were but inventions. I confessed to you that our rites and ceremonies were but mummeries 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 tlie world, the power of the wdse; that power is in the obedience of the xvd- gar. Continue we then these salutary delusions — if man must have some belief, continue to him that which his fathers have made dear to hmi, 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 otliers that support which crumbles from ourselves. This is wise— it is benevolent." "Proceed." '• This being settled," resumed the Egyptian, "the old land- marks being left uninjured for those whom we are about to 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, and an un- written scroll, fit to receive impressions for the first time. Look round the world — observe its order — its regularity — its design. Something must have created it — the design speaks a designer; in that certainty we first touch land. But what is that some- thing? — A god, you cry. Stay — no confused and confusing names. Of that which created the world, we know, we can know, nothing, save these attributes — power and unvarying reg- ularity — stern, crushing, relentless regularity — heeding no indi- vidual cases — rolling — sweeping — burning on; — no matter what scattered hearts, severed from the general mass, fall ground and scorclied beneath its wheels. The mixture of evil with good — the existence of suffering and of crime — in all times have perplex- ed the wise. They created a god — they su])posed him benevol- ent. How then came tliis evil? why did he permit— nay, why invent, why perpetuate it? To account for tliis, the Persian creates a second spirit, whose nature is evil, and supposes a con- tinual war l>etween that and the god of good. In our own shad- owy and tremendous Typhon, the Egyptians linage a similar demon. Perplexing blunder that yet more bewilders us — folly TEE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII, 55 that arose from the vain delusion that makes a palpable, a cor- poreal, a human being, of this unknown power — that clothes the Invisible with attributes and a nature similar to tlic Seen, No:, to this designer let us give a name that does not command our bewildering associations, and the mystery becomes more clear — the name is Necessity. Necessity, say the Greeks, comiDels the gods. Then why the gods? — their agency becomes unnecessary — dismiss them at once. Necessity is tlie ruler of all we see — power, regularity — these two qualities make its nature. Would you ask more? — you can learn nothing: whether it be eternal — whether it compel us, its creatures, to new careers after that darkness which we call death — we cannot tell. There leave we this ancient, unseen, unfathomable power, and come to that which, to our eyes, is the great minister of its functions. This we can task no more, from this we can learn no more, its evi- dence is around us— its name is Nature. The eiTor of the sages has been to direct their researches to the attributes of necessity, where all is gloom aud blindness. Had they confined their re- searches to Nature —what of knowledge might we not already have achieved? Here patience, examination, are never du-ected in vain. We see what we explore; our minds ascend a palpable ladder of eauses and effects. Nature is the great _ agent of the external universe, and necessity imj)oses upon it the laws by which it acts, and imparts to us tb.e powers by which we ex- amine; those powers are curiosity and memory — their union is reason, their perfection is wisdom. Well, then, I examine by the help of those powers this inexhaustible Nature. I examine the earth, the air, the ocean, the heaven: I find that all have a mystic sympathy with eacli other — that the moon sways the tides — that the air maintains the earth, and is the medium of the life and sense of things — that by the knowledge of the stars we measure the limits of the earth — that we portion out the epochs of time — that by their pale light we are guided into the abyss of the past— that in their solemn lore we discern the destinies of the future. And thus, while we know not that whJch necessity is, we learn, at least, her decrees. And now, what morally do we glean from this re- ligion? for rehgion it is. I beheve in two deities. Nature and Necessity; I worship the last by reverence, the first by investi- gation. What is the morality my religion teaches? This: all things are subject but to general rules; the sun shines for the joy of the many; it may bring sorrow to the few; the night sheds Bleep on the multitude, but it harbors murder as well as rest; the forests adorn the earth, but shelter the serpent and the lion; the ocean sui)ports a thousand barks, but it engulfs the one. It is only thus for the general, and not for the universal benefit, that Nature acts, and necessity speeds on her awful course. This is the morality of the dread agents of the world— it is mine, who am their creature. I woii»ld impart to man the arts I discover, 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 iiidi vidual exception; I claim it for the wise, satisfied that my indi- vidual actions are nothing in the great balance of good *nd Qvii,* 56 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEIL satisfied that the product of my knowledge can give greatef blessings to tlie mass tiian my desires can operate e^^l on the few (for the first can extend to remotest regions and humanize nations yet unborn), I give to the world wisdom, to myself free- dom. 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 dehght. Soon comes the hour when the wine-cup is shattered, and the garlands shall cease to bloom. Enjoy wliile you may. Be still, O Aprecides, ray pupil and my follower! I will teach thee the mechanism of Nature, her darkest and her wildest secrets — the lor© wliicli fools call magic — and the mighty mysteries of the stars. By this shalt thou enlighten thy race. But I will lend thee also to pleasures of which the vidgar do not dream; and the day which thou gi vest 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 perfected. It came like a stream of sound, bathing the senses unawares; ener- vating, subduing with delight. It seemed the melodies of invisi- ble spirits, such as the shepiierd might have heard in the golden age, floating through the vales of Thessal}', or in the noontide glades of Paphos. The words which had rushed to the lip of Aposcides, in answer to the sophistries of the Egyptian, died trembling away. He felt it as a profanation to break upon that enchanted strain — the susceptibility of his excited nature, tlie Greek softness and ardor of his secret soul, were swayed and captured by surprise. He sank on the seat with parted lips and thirsting ear; wliile 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 Cephsius flows, A voice sail'd trembling down the waves of air; The loaves blushed brighter in the Teian's rose, The doves couch'd breathless in their summer lair: While from their hand the purple flowerets fell, The lauijhing Hours stood listening in the sky; From Pan's green cave to Ogle's haunted cell. Headed the charm'd earth in one delicious sigh. Love, sons of earth ! I am the power of Love ! P^ldest of all the erods, with Cliaos born; My smile sheds light alone the courts above, My kisses wake the eyelids of the morn. Mine ,ve the stars — there, ever as ye gaze, Ye meet the deep spell of my haunting eyes; Mine is the moon— and, mournful if her rays, 'Tis that she lingers where her Carian lies. The flowers are mine— tlie blushes of the rose, The violet-charmincr Zcpliyr t<> the shade; Mine the (juirk liu'lit fliat in tlie Maybeam glows, ,^nd njine the day-dream in the lonely glade, THE LAST DA YS OF POMPEIZ OT Love, sons of earth — for love is earth's soft lore, Look where ye will — earth overflows with ME. Learn from the waves that ever kiss the shore, And the winds nestling on the heaving sea. All teaches love ! The sweet voice, like a dream, Melted in light; yet still the airs t*bove, The waving sedges, and the whispering stream, And the green forest rustling, murmur'd LOVE I As the voices died away, the Egyptian seized the hand of Apsecides, and led him wondering, intoxicated yet half -reluctazit, across the chamber toward the curtain at the far end; and now, from behind that curtain, there seemed to burst a thousand sparkling stars; the veil itself, liitherto dark, was now lighted by these fires beliind into the tenderest blue of heaven. It repre- sented heaven itself — such a heaven, as in the nights of June might have shone down over the streams of Castaly. Here and there were painted rosy and aerial clouds, from which smiled, by the limner's art, faces of divinest beauty, and on which reposed the shapes of wliich Phidias and Apelles dreamed. And the stars Avhich studded the transparent azure rolled rapidly as they shone, wliile the music, that again woke with a livelier and lighter sound, seemed to imitate the melody of the joyous spheres. ''O! what miracle is this, Arbaces?" said Apaecides in falter- ing accents. "After having denied the gods, art thou about to reveal to me " " Their pleasures !" interrupted Arbaces, in a tone so different from its usual cold and tranquil harmony that Apaecides started, and thought the Egyptian himself transformed; and now, as they neared the cui-tain, a wild — a loud — an exulting melody burst from behind its concealment. With that sound the veil was rent in twain — it parted — it seemed to vanish into air; and a scene, which no Sybarite ever more than rivaled, broke upon the dazzled gaze of the youthful priest. A vast banquet room stretched beyond, blazing with countless Ughts, which filled the warm air with the scents of frankincense, of jasmine, of violets, of myjffh; all that the most odorous flowers, all that the most costly spices could distil, seemed gathered in one ineffable and ambrosial essence: from the light columns that sprang upward to the airy roof hung di-aperies 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, ghttered like countless diamonds. In the center of the room as they en- tered there rose slowly from the floor, to the sound of unseen tninstrelsy, a table spread with all the viands which sense ever devoted to fancy, and vases of that lost Myrrhine fabric, so glow- ing in its colors, so transparent in its material, were crowned with the exotics of the East. The couches, to which this table was the center, 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 sph-its of wave and fire disputed whicl^ elencient could furnish forth the most delicious colors. And uoWi 58 : THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. from behind the snowy draperies, trooped such forms as Adonis beheld when he lay on the lap of Venus. Thej' came, some with garlands, others with lyres; tliey surrounded the youth, they led his steps to the banquet. Tliey flunj]j the chaplets round him in rosy chains. Tlie earth — the thought of earth vanished from his soul. He imagined himself in a dream, and suY)pressed his breath lest he should wake too soon; the senses, to wliich he had never yielded as yet, beat in his burning pulse, and confused his dizzy and reeling sight. And while thus amazed and lost, onco again, but in brisk and Bacchic measures, rose the magic strain; ANACRENOTIC. In the veins of the calix foams and glows The blood of the niantHng vine, But oh! in the bowl of Youth there glows A Lesbiura more divine! Bright, bright, As the liquid light, Its waves through thine eyelids shinel Fill up, fill up, to the sparkling brim, The juice of the young Lvffus; The grape is the key that we owe to him From the goal 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 ej'es. The wine of a softer tree: Give the smiles to the god of the grape— thy sighg, Beloved one, give to me. Turn, turn, My glances burn, And thirst for a look from thee! As the song ended, a gi'oup of three maidens, entwined with a chain of starred flowers, and who, while they imitated, might have shamed the Graces, advanced toward him in the gliding measures of the Ionian dance; such as the Nereids wreathed in moonlight on the yellow sands of the ^gean wave — such as Cy- therea taught her hand-maids in the maniage feast of Pysche and her son. Now approaching, they wreathed their chaplet round his head; now kneeling the youngest of the three proffered him the bowl, from which the wine of Lesbos foamed and sparkled. The youth resisted no more, lie grasped the intoxicating cup, the blood mantled fiercely through liis veins. He sank upon the breast of the nymph who sat beside him, and turning with swim- ming eyes to seek for Arbac(.'s, whom lie had hist in the whirl of his emotions, he beheld him seated lienenth a canopy at the upper end of the table, and gating upon him with a smile that encour- aged him to pleasur*'. He beheld liiin. but not as lie had liitherto seen, with dark and sable garmiMits, witli a brooding and solemn brow; a robe that dazzled the siglit. so stinUhd was its wJiitest surface with gold and gems, hlazed upon his majestic form; white roses, alternated with tlie emerald and the ruby, and THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 59 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 amid the loveliness that suiTOunded him, in all the beaming and relaxing benignity of the Olympian god. "Drink, feast, love, my pupil!" said he: " blush not that thou art passionate and young. That which thou art, thou feelest in thy veins: that which thou shalt be, survey!" With this he pointed to a recess, and the eyes of Apaecides, fol- lowing 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 ad- monishes us both of the shortness of life. Fi'om its jaws I hear a voice that summons us to enjoy." As he spoke a group of nymphs surrounded the statue ; they laid chaplets on its pedestal, and, while the cups were emptied and refilled at that glowing board, they sang in the following strain : BACCHIC HYMNS TO THE IMAGE OF DEATH 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 had 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 the heart rejoice When night eclipse the day. Here a new group advancing, turned the tide of the music into a quicker and more joyous strain : Death, death, is the gloomy shore. Where we all sail — Soft, soft, thou gliding oar; Blow soft, sweet gale! Chain with bright wreaths the Hours Victims if all, Ever, 'mid song and flowers, Victims should fall! Pausing for a moment, yet quicker and quicker danced the sil- ver-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 itl «0 THE LAST DAVS OF POMPEII Athirdbandnow approached with brimming cups, which they poured in libation upon that strange altar; and once more, slow and Bolemn rose the changeful melody : Thou art welcome, Guest of gloom, From the far and fearful seal When the last rose sheds its bloom, Our board shall be spread with thoe! All hail, dark GuestI Who hath so fair a plea Our welcome Guest to be. As thou, whose solemn hall At last shall feast us all In the dim and dismal coast? Long yet be we the Host! And thou. Dead Shadow, thou, All joyless though thy brow, Thou— but ('Ur passing Gnestf At this moment, she who sat beside Apaecides suddenly took mp the song: Happy is yet our doom. The earth and the sun are oursl And far from the dreary tomb Speed the wings of the rosy Hours — Sweet is for thee the bowl, Sweet are thy locks, my love; I fly to thy tender soul. As the bird to its mated dove! Take me, ah, take! Clasp'd to thy guardian breast, Soft let me sink to rest; But wake me— ah, wakel And tell me with words and sighs, But more with thy melting eyes. That my sun is not set- That the Torch is not quench'd at the Ura, That we love, and we breathe, and bui'n, Tell me thou lov'st me yet! BOOK THE SECOND, CHAPTER I. A FLASH HOUSE IN POMPEH, AND THE GENTLEMEN OF THE CLAS- SIC RINQ. To one of those parts of Pomjieii, which were tenanted not by the lords of pleasure, but by 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 tlie confined and crowded lane. Before the tlirtshold was a group of men, whose iron and well-strung muscles, whose short and Herculean necks, THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII 61 whose hardy and reckless countenances, indicated the cham- pions 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 course painting, which exhibited gladiators drinking — so an- cient and so venerable is the custom of signs I Within the room were placed several small tables, arranged somewhat in the mod- ern 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 " duedecimce script," which some 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 modem city. The gay disposition of all the Pompeians, who sought, at least, to gratify the sense even where they neglected the mind, was typified by the gaudy colors which decorated the walls, and the shapes, fantastic, but not inelegant, in which the lamps, the drinking-cups, the commonest household utensils, were wrought. "By Pollux I" said one of the gladiators, as he leaned against the wall of the threshold, " the wine thou sellest us, oldSilenus" — and as he spoke he slapped a portly personage on the back — "k enough to thin the best blood in one's veins." The man thus caressingly saluted, and whose bared arms, whit«> apron, and keys and napkin tucked carelessly VTlthin 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 sincTvy shape be- side 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 the shade the 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 spoUarium."* "Croakest thou thus, old raven?" returned the gladiator, laughing scornfully: " thou shalt live to hang thyself with despite when thou seest me win the palm crown; and when I get the purse at the amphitheather, as I certainly shall, my first vow to Hercules shall be to forswear thee and thy vile potations ever- more." "Hear to him — hear to this modest Pyrgopolinices! He haa certainly served under Bombochides Cluninstaridysarchides,"t cried the host. "Sporus, Niger, Tetraides, he declares he shall * The place in which the klUed or mortally wounded were dragged from the arena. t " Miles Gloriosus," Act I.; as much as to say, in modem phrase: *' H« kas served under Bombastes Furioso." e» THE LAST DA 78 OF POMPEH, win the purse from you. Why, by the Godsl each of your mug cles is strong enough to stifle all his body, or I know nothing of the arenal" "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. "Or me, who have conquered in fifteen fights?" said the gigan- tic Niger, stalking up to the gladiator. " Or me?" grunted Sporus, with eyes of fire. "Tushl" said Lydon, folding his arms, and regarding his rivals with a reckless air of defiance. "The time of trial vnW. soon come; keep your valor till then." " Ay, do," said the surly host; " and if I press down my thumD to save you, may the fates cut my thread!" "Your rope, you mean," said Lydon, sneeringly; "here is a sesterce to buy one." Tl^e Titan wine-vender seized the hand extended to him, and gripped it in so stem a vise that the blood spurted from the fin- gers^ end over the garments of the bystanders. They set up a savage laugh. "I will teach thee, young braggart, to play the Macedonian with me? I am no puny Persian, I warrant theel What, man I have I not fought twenty years in the ring, and never lowered my arms once? And have I not received the rod from the ae- dile's own hand as a sign of victory, and as a grace to retirement on laurels! And am I now to be lectured by a boy?" So saying, he flung the hand from him in scorn. Without changing a musele, but witli the same smiling face with which he had previously taunted mine host, did the gladia- tor brave the painful task 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 impulse that threw him. vast and sturdr as he was, from his balance — and down, with the crash of a fall- ing 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 liad hitherto kept in an inner apartment, rushed to the scene of battle. Tliis new ally was in herself a match for the gladiator; she was tall, lean, and with arms tliat could give other than soft embraces. In fact, the gentle helpmate of Burbo the wino seller had, like himself, fought in the lists* — nay, under the Emperor's eye. And Burbo himself — Burbo, tlie 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 which nature * Not only did women soinctinics light in the amphith«>ater8, but eve« those of noble birth participated in that meek ambition. THE LAST DA JS OF POMPEIL 63 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 hand still cHnging 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 the air — passive and offenseless — while the other half, head, teeth, eyes, claws, seemed buried and engulfed in the mangled and prostrate enemy. Meanwhila the gladiators, lapped, and pampered, and glutted upon blood, crowded delightedly round the combatants— their nostrils dis- tended — their lips grinning — their eyes gloatingly fixed on the bloody thi'oat of the one, and the indented talons of the other. *' Hdbet! (he has got it) habetr cried they, with a sort of yell, rubbing their nervous hands. " Hon habeo, ye Uars; I have not got it I" shouted the host, as with a mighty effort he wrenched himself from those deadly hands, and rose to his feet, breathless, panting, lacerated, bloody; and fronting with reelmg eyes, the glaring look and grinning teeth of his baffled foe, now stmggling (but strugghng with disdain) in the grip 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 of his present position, and en- deavoring in vain to shake off the grasp of the virago, slipped his hand into his girdle, and drew a short knife. So menacing Vas 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 weaponsi Is that fair? Is that like a gentleman and a gladiator? No, in- deed, I scorn such fellows!" With that she contemptuously turned her back on the gladiator, and hastened to examine the condi- tion of her husband. But he, as much inured to the constitutional exercise as aa English bull-dog is to a contest with a more gentle antagonist, h^d already recovered himself. The purple hues receded from the surface of his cheek, the veins of the forehead retired into their wonted size. He shook himself with a complacent grunt, satisfied that he was still alive, and then looking at his foe from head to foot with an air of more approbation than he had ever bestowed upon him before — " By Castor!" said he, " thou art a stronger feUow than I took thee for! I see thou art a man of merit and virtue; give me thy hand, my hero!" " Jolly old Burbo!" cried the gladiators, applauding; ** stanch to the backbone! Give him thy band, Lydon." *' Oh, to be sure," said the gladiator; " but now I have tasted his blood, I long to lap the whole." " By Hercules!" returned the host, quite unmoved, "this is the true gladiator feehng. Pollux! to think what good training may make a man; why a beast could not be fiercerl" 64 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEIL "A beast I O dullard I we beat them hollow," cried Tetraides. **Well, well," said Stratonice, who was now emplo.yed in fmootLin;:^ 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 tlie bets on the great fight at the amphitheater. So they ahvays come to my house for that purpose; they know we only receive the best gladiators in Pompeii — our society is very select, prais- ed be the godsl" ** 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 Uke mine!'' "Come here," said Stratonice, drawing her husband to her af- fectionately by the ears, in tliat caress which Tibullus has so prettily described—" Come here!" " Not so hard, she wolfl thou art worse than the gladiator," murmured the huge jaws of Burbo. "Hist!" said she, whispering him; " Calenus has just stole in, disguised, by the back way. I hope he has brought the sesterces." "Ho! hoi 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 penetraha of his house. "So those soft patrons are coming to look at our muscles," said Niger. " Who sent to previse thee of it, my mistress?" " Lepidus. He brings with him Clodius, the surest better in Pompeii, and the young Greek, Glaucus." " A wager on a wager," cried Tetraides; " Clodius bets on me, for twenty sesterces! What say you, Lydon?" " He bets on mer said Lydon. " No, on meP^ grunted Sporus. "Dolts! do you think he would prefer any of you to Niger?" said the athlete, 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 youi'selves, 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 saft^ly, I think, encounter the lion." " But tell me," said Tetraides, "where is that pretty young slave of yours— the blind girl, with bright eyes? I have not seen her in a long time." " Oh! she is too delicate for you, my son of Neptune,"* said the ♦ Son of Neptune— a Latin phrase for a boisterous, ferocious fellow. THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 65 hostess, " and too nice for us, I think. We send her into the town to sell flowers and sing to the ladies; she makes us more money so than she would by waiting on you. Besides, she has often other employments which lie under the rose." " Other employments!" said Niger; " you think there is no play but the Corinthian, If Nydia were twice the age she is at pres- ent, she would be equally fit for Vesta— poor girl!" "But, hark ye, Stratonice," said Lydon; "how didst thou come by so gentle and delicate a slave? She were more meet for the handmaid of some rich matron of Rome than for thee." " That is true," returned Stratonice; " and some day or other I shall make my fortune by selling her. How came I by Nydia, thou askest?" " Ay!" "Why, thou seest, my slave — Staphyla — thou rememberest Staphyla, Niger?" " Ay, a large-handed wench, with a face like a comic mask. How should I forget her, by Pluto, whose hand -maid she doubt- less is at this moment!" " Tush, brute! Well, Staphyla died one day, and a great loss she was to me, and I went into the market to buy me another slave. But, by the gods! they were all grown so dear since I had bought poor Staphyla, and money was so scarce, that I was about to leave the place in despair, when a merchant plucked mo by the robe. ' Mistress,' said he, ' dost thou want a slave cheap? I have a child to sell — a bargain. She is but little, and almost an infant, it is true; but she is quick and quiet, docile and clever, sings well and is of good blood, I assure you.' ' Of what country?' said I. ' Thessalian.' Now I knew the Thessalians were acute and gentle; so I said I would see tbe girl. I found her just as you see her now, scarcely smaller and scarcely younger in appearance. She looked patient and resigned enough, with her hands crossed on her bosom, and her eyes downcast. I asked the merchant his price; it was moderate, and I bought her at once. The merchant brought her to my house and disappeared in an instant. Well, my friends, guess my astonishment when I found she was blind! Hal hal 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 too. But it was not her fault that she was blind, for she had been so from her birth. " By degrees, we got reconciled to our purchase. True, she had not the strength of Staphyla, and was of very little use in the house, but she could soon find her way about the town as well as if she had the eyes of Argus; and v.^ben one morning sLe brought us home a handful of sesterces, vrhich she said she had got for selhng 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 Avreathes 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 otb.er flower-^rl, and she brings all of it home to us, vv-hich is more 66 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEU, than any other slave would do. Bo I work for myself, but I shall Boon afford from her earuings to buy a second Staphyla; doubt- less, the ThessaUan kidnapper had stolen the bluid 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." '* TJiat is a secret 1 What?" cried Lydon; " art thou turned Sphinx?" "Sphinx, no — why Sphinx?" '• Cease thy gabble, good mistress, and bring us our meat — I am hungry," said Sponis, impatiently. ** Andl, too," echoed the grim Niger, whetting his knife on the palm of his hand. The amazon stalked away to the kitchen, and soon returned with a tray laden with large pieces of meat half-ra^ ; for so, as now, did the heroes of a prize-fight imagine they best sustained their hardihood and ferocity; they drew round the table with tlie eye of famished wolves — the meat vanished, the wine flowed. So leave we those important personages of classic life to follow the steps of Burbo. CHAPTER n. 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- ward, 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 gener- ally, but of peculiar gods. Even the priest of Jupiter (the Fla- men Dialis), preceded by a lictor, and entitled by his office to the entrance of the senate, at first the especial dignity of the patri- cians, was subsequently the choice of the people. The less na- tional 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 pov- erty. Thus Calenus, the priest of Isis, wae of the lowest origin. His relations, though not of his parents, were freedmen. He had received from them a liberal education, and from his father a small patrimony, which he had soon exhausted. He embraced the priesthood as a last resource from distress. Whatever the state emolimients 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 1*0 lucrative as that which practices on the sui^erstition 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 their hearts and interests ; and often the minister of Isis stole disguised and furtively from the supposed •liBterity of his devotions: and gliding througrli the back door of THE LaIST days of POMPEII, 6? the retired gladiator, a man infamous alike by vices and by pro- fession, rejoiced to thi-ovv off the last rag of hypocrisy whicli, but for the dictates of avarice, his ruUng passion, would at all times have sat clumsily upon a nature too brutal for even the mimicry of virtue. Wrapped in one of these large mantles which came in use among the Romans in propoi-tion 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 the 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 wliich the priest had just poured from his purse — for purses were as common then as now, with this difference — they were usually better furnished I " You see," said Calenus, " that we pay you handsomely, and you ought to thank me for recommending you to so advantage- ous a market." *' I do, my cousin, I do," replied Burbo, affectionately, as he swept the coins into a leathern receptacle, which he then deposi- ted 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 Hes- perides — a garden or gold to me." ** She sings well, plays like a muse," returned Calenus; *' those are virtues that he who employs me always pays liberally." " He is a god," cried Burbo, enthusiastically; "every rich man who is generous deserves to be worshiped. But come, a cup of wine, old friend; tell me more about it. What does she do? she is frightened, talks of her oath, and reveals nothing." " Nor will I, by my right hand! I, too, have taken that terri- ble oath of secrecy." " Oath! what are oaths to men like us?" "True, oaths of a common fashion; but this!" — and the stal- wart priest shuddered as he spoke. "Yet," he continued, in emptying a huge glass of unmixed wine, ' ' I will own to thee, that it is not so much the oath 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 ban- quets are which I enjoy with him, I am never quite at my ease there. I love, my boy, one jolly hour with thee, and one of the glain, unsophisticated, laughing girls that I meet in this cham- er, all smoke-dried though it be, better than whole nights of those magnificent debauches." "Ho! sayest thou so? To-morrow night, please the gods, wfl 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 on© foeling the handle. The priest lowered the hood over his head. 68 THE LAST DA TS OF POMPETI. "Tush!" whisi)ered the host, "it is but the blind girl/' as Nydia opened tlie door, and entered the apartment. "Ho! girl, and how doest thou? thou lookest pale — thou hast kept late revels? No matter, the young must be always the young," said Burbo, encouragingly. The girl made no answer, but she dropped on one of the seats \vith an air of lassitude. Her color came and went rapidly; she beat the floor impatiently Avith her small feet, then she suddenly raised her face, and said, Avith a determined voice: '• Master, you may starve me if you will — you may beat me — you may threaten me with death — but I will go no more to that unholy place!" " How, fool! " said Burbo, in a savage voice, and his heavy brows met darkly over his fierce and bloodshot eyes; "how, re- bellious! Take care." "I have said it," said the poor girl, crossing her hands on her breast. "What! my modest one, sweet vestal, thou wilt go no morel Very well, thou shalt be carried." " I will raise the city with my cries," said she, passionately, 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 unfortunate girl; she clasped her hands imploringly. " Wretch that I am! " she cried, and burst violently into sobs. Whether or not it was the sound of that vehement sorrow which brought the gentle Stratonice to the spot, her grisly form at this moment appeared in the chamber. " How now? what hast thou been doing with my slave, brute?" said she, angrily, to Burbo. "Be quiet, wife," said he, in a tone half sullen, half timid; "you want new girdles and fine clothes, do you? Well, then, take care of your slave, or you may want them long. Vce copiti iuo — 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 up at her with those sight- 'less 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-^ve me I I Avill go to those horrible feasts no more! " "Stuff! " said the liag, 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 Bcruples are not for slaves." " Hark ye," said Burbo. drawing forth his purse, and chinking its contents: "you hear this music, wife; by Pollux! if you do not break in yon colt with a tight rein, you will hear it no more." THE LAST DA IS OF POMPEII. 69 "The girl is tired," said Stratonice, nodding to Caleniis; " she will be more docile wlien 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 7?iust see with those eyes," muttered he. "Who is here? Speak, in Heaven's name! Ah, if you were blind like me, you would be less cruel," she said; and slie again burst into tears. "Take her away," said Burbo, impatiently; "I hate these whimperings." " Gomel" said Stratonice, pushing the poor child by the shoul- ders. Nydia drew herself aside, with an air to which resolution gave dignity. " Hear me," she said; "I have served you faithfully — I, who was brought up. — Ah! my mother, my poor mother! didst thou dream I should come to this?" She dashed the tear from her eyes, and proceeded: "Command me in aught else, and I will obey; but I tell you now, hard, stem, inexorable as you are — I tell you that I will go there no more; or, if I am forced there, thai 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 other, that formidable right hand, the least blow of which seemed cap- able to crush the frail and delicate form that trembled in her grasp. That though itself appeared to strike her, for she sus- pended 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 slirill, the agonized shrieks of the blind girl rang piercingly through the house. CHAPTER III. GLAUCUS MAKES A PURCHASE THAT AFTERWARD COSTS HDI DEAR. "Holla, my brave fellows!" said Lepidus, stooping his head, as he entered the low doorway of the house of Bm'bo. " We have come to see which of you most honors your lanista." The gladi- ators rose from the table in respect to three gallants known to he among the gayest and richest youths of Pompeii, and whose voices were therefore the dispensers of amphitheatrical reputation. "What fine animals!" said Clodius to Glaucus: " worthy to be gladiators?" " It is a pity they are not warriors," returned Glaucus. A singular tiling it was to see the dainty and fastidious Lepi- dus, whom in a banquet a ray of daylight seemed to blind — whom in a bath a breeze of air seemed to blast — in whom Nature seemed twisted and perverted from every natural impulse, and curled into one dubious thing of efl'eminacy and art — a singular thing it was to see this Lepidus, now all eagerness, and energy, and life, patting the vast shoulders of the gladiators with a blanched and girlish hand, feeling with a mincing grip theii- great brawn and 70 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII, iron muscles, and lost in calculating admiration at that manhood which he had spent his life in carefully banishing from himself. So have we seen at this day the beardless flutterers of the Baloous of London thronging round the heroes of the Fives-court; so we have seen them admire, and gaze, and calculate a bet; so have we seen them meet together, in ludicrous yet in melancholy assemblage, the two extremes of civilized society — the patrons of pleasure and its slaves: vilest of all slaves; at once ferocious and mercenary; male prostitutes, who sell their strength as wo- men their beauty; beasts in act, but baser than beasts in motive, for the last, at least, do not mangle themselves for moneyl "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 do 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," cned Niger exultingly. " The noble Claudius knows me; count yourself dead already, my Sporus." Claudius 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 some thing of graces and something even of nobleness, in his face, which his profession had not yet wholly destroyed. " It is Lydon, a youngster, practiced only with the wooden sword as yet," answered Niger, condescendingly. "But he haa the true blood in him, and has challenged Tertraides." "//e challenged me.'' said Lydon: "I accept the offer." " And how do you fight?" asked Lepidus. "Chut, my boy, wait a while before you contend with Tetraides." Lydon smiled disdainfully. " Is lie a citizen or a slave?" said Clodius. "A citizen — w^e 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, ex- tended 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 /ts 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 ; aft<*rward, ii both kSH»^ * A Uttle more than $400. THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII, 71 Vive, with swords," returned Tetraides, sharply, aiwd with an en- vious scowl. " With the cestus!" cried Glaucus; *' there you are wrong, Lv- don; the cestus is the Greek fashion; I know it well. You should have encouraged flesh for that contest; you are far too tliin 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? — even betting, with swords." " If you give me three to one, I will not take the odds," said Lepidus: "Lydon will never come to the swords. You are mighty courteous." " What say you, Glaucus?" said Clodius. • I will take the odds three to one." *' Ten sestertia to thirty." " Yes." Clodius wrote the bet in his book. "Pardon me, noble sponsor mine," said Lydon, in a low voice to Glaucus; " but how much tliink you the victor will gain?" ' " How much? why, perhaps seven sestertia." " You are sure it will be as much?" " At least. But out on you! — a Greek would have thought of the honor, and not the money. O Italians! everywhere ye are Italians!" A blush mantled over the bronzed cheek of the gladiator. " Do not wrong me, noble Glaucus; I think of both, but I should never have been a gladiator but for the money." " Base! may est thou fall! A miser never was a hero." "I ain not a miser," said Lydon, haughtily, and he withdrew to the other end of the room. "But I don't see Burbo; where is Burbo? I must talk with Burbo," cried Clodius. " He is within," said Niger, pointing to the door at the extrem- ity of the room. "And Stratonice, the brave old lass, where is she?" quoth Lep- idus. "Why, she was here just before you entered; but she heard something that displeased her yonder, and vanished. Pollux! old Burbo had perliaps caught hold of some girl in the back room, I heard a female's voice crying out; the old dame is as jealous as Juno." " Ho! excellent!" cried Lepidus, laughing. " Come, Clodius^ let us go shares with Jupiter; perhaps he has caught a Leda." At this moment a loud cry of pain and terror startled the group. " Oh, spare me! spare me! I am but a child, I am blind — is not t/iaf punishment enough?" " Oh, Pallas! I know that voice, it is my poor flower girl!" ex- ■?« TBE LAST DA TS OF POMPEIL claimed Glaucus, and he darted at once into the quarter whence the cry rose. He burst the door; he beheld Nydia writhing in the grasp of the infuriated hag; the cord, already dabbled with blood, was raised in the air — it was suddenly arrested. '* Fury I" 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 I My Nydia, my poor infant I" " OhI is that you — is that Glaucus?" exclaimed the flower-girl, in a tone almost of transport; the tears stood arrested on her cheek; she smiled, she clung to his breast, she kissed his robe as she clung. "And how dare you, pert stranger I interfere between a free woman and her slave. By the godsl despite your fine tunic and your filthy perfumes, I doubt whether you are even a Roman citizen, my manikin." ** Fair words, mistress — fair words!" said Clodius, now enter- ing with Lepidus, **This is my friend and sworn brother; he must be put under shelter of your tongue, sweet one; it rains stones 1" " Give me my slave!" shrieked the virago, placing her mighty grasp on the breast of the Greek. '* Not if all your sister Furies could help you," answered Glau- cus. "Fear not, sweet Nydia; an Athenian never forsook dis- tress!" " Holla!" said Burbo, rising reluctantly, " what turmoil is all this about a slave? Let go the young gentleman, wife — let him go; for his sake the pert thing shall be spared this once." So saying, he drew, or rather dragged off, his ferocious helpmate. " Methought when we entered," said Clodius, "there was an- other man present?" "He is gone." For the priest of Isis had indeed thought it high time to van- ish. "Oh, a friend of mine! a brother cupman, a quiet dog, who does not love these snarlings," said Burbo, carelessly. " But go, cliild, you will tear the gentleman's tunic if you cling to him so tight; go, you are pardoned." " Oh, do not — do not forsake mel" cried Nydia, clinging yet closer to the Athenian. Moved by her forlorn situation, her appeal to him. her own in- numerable and touching graces, the Greek seated himself on one of the rude chairs. He held her on his knees— he wiped the blood from her shoulders with his long hair— he kissed the tears from her cheeks — he whispered to her a thousand of those soothing words with which we calm the grief of a child; and so beautiful did he seem in his gentle and consoling task, that even the fierce heart of Stratonice was touched. His presence seemed to shed light over that base and obscene haunt— young, beautiful, glori- ous, he was the emblem of all that earth made most happy, com- forting one that earth had abandoned! " Well, who could have tliought our blind Nydia had been so honored?" said the virago, wiping her heated brow. THE LAST DA TS OF POMPEII, 78 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 pres- ent 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 de- light; she started up, she put her disheveled hair from her eyes, she looked around, as if, alas! she had the power to see! '* Sell our Nydia! no, indeed," said Stratonice, gruffly. Nydia sank back with a long sigh, and again clasped the rob« of her protector. " Nonsense I" said Clodius, imperiously; '* you must oblige me. What, man! what, old dame! offend me, and your trade is ruined. Is not Burbo my kinsman Pansa's client? Am I not the oracle of the amphitheater and its heroes? If I say the word, break up your wine- jars — you sell no more. Glaucus, the slave is yours." Burbo scratched his huge head in evident embarrassment. " The girl is worth her weight in gold to me." "Name your price, I am rich," said Glaucus. The ancient Italians were like the modern, there was nothing they would not sell, much less a poor blind girl. " I paid six sestertia for her, she is worth twelve now," mutter- ed 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 amphitheater, noble Clodius? it would just suit me." " Thou shalt have it," said Clodius; adding in a whisper to Burbo, " Yon Greek can make your fortune; money runs thi'ough him like a sieve; mark to-day with white chalk, my Priam." '^An dahis f said Glaucus, in the formal question of sale and barter. "Dabetur,^^ answered Burbo. " Then, then, I am to go with you — with you ? O happiness !" murmured Nydia. " Pretty one, yes; and thy hardest task henceforth shall be to sing thy Grecian hymns to the loveliest lady in PompeiL" 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 no time." CHAPTER IV. THE RIVAL OF GLAUCUS PRESSES ONWARD IN THE RACE. lONE was one of those brilliant characters which, but once or twice, flash across our career. She united in the highest perfec- tion the rarest of earthly gifts— Genius and Beauty. No one ever possessed superior intellectual qualities without knowing them — th© alliteration of modesty and merit is pretty enough, but where H THE LAST DA YS OF POMPEII merit is great, the veil of that modesty you admire never dis- guises its extent from its possessor. It is the proud consciousness of certain qualities that it cannot reveal to the every-day world, that gives to genius that shy, and reserved, and troubled air, which puzzles and flatters you when you encounter it. lone, then, knew her genius; but, with that charming versa- tility that belongs of right to women, she had the faculty, so few of a kindred genius in the less malleable sex can claim — the faculty to bend and model her graceful intellect to all whom it encountered. The sparkling fountain tlirew its waters alike upon the strand, the cavern, and the flo^vers; it refreshed, it smiled, it dazzled e very wl lere. That pride, which is the necessary result of superiority, she wore easily — in her breast it concentra- ted itself in independence. She pursued thus her own bright and solitary path. She asked no aged matron to direct and guide her, she walked alone by the torch of her o^;nti unflickering purity. She obeyed no tyrannical and absolute custom. She molded custom to her own will, but this so delicately and with so femi- nine a grace, so perfect an exemption from error, that you could not say she outraged custom, but commanded 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 com- mon-place 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; and you were steeped in that sentiment which has so little of earth in it, that which music so well inspires— that intoxication which so well exalts, which seizes, it is true, the senses, but gives them the character of the soul. She was peculiarly formed, then, to command and fascinate the less ordinary and the bolder natures of men; to love her was to unite two passions, that of love and of ambition — you aspired when you adored her. It was no wonder that she had com- pletely chained and subdued the mysterious but burning soul of the Egyptian, a man in whom dwelt the fiercest passions. Her beauty and her soul ahke enthralled him. Set apart himself from the common world, he loved that dar- in^ess of character which also made itself, among common things, aloof and alone. He did not, or he would not, see that the very isolation put her yet more from him than from the vul- gar. Far as the poles — far as the night from day, his solitude was divided from hers. He was solitary from his dark and sol- emn vices — she from her beautiful fancies and her purity of ^^r- tue. If it was not strange that lone thus enthralled the Egyptian, far less strange was it that she had captured, as suddenly as irrevo- cably, the bright and sunny heart of the Athenian. The glad- ness of a temperament which seemed woven from the beams of light had led Olaucus into ]>leasure. He obeyed no more vicious dictates when he wandered into the dissipations of his time, than the exhilarating voices of youtli and health. He threw the brightness of his nature over everjr al^a#» and cavern through THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII, W which he strayed. His imftgination dazzled him, but his heart? never was coiTupted. Of far more peneti-ation than his com- panions deemed, he saw that they sought to prey upon his riches and his youth; but he despised wealth save as the means of en- joyment, 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 vii-tues, which in the free days of Athens would have made him ambitious, in the slavery of earth made him inactive and supine. For in that unnatural and bloated civilization, all that was noble in emulation was forbidden. Am- bition 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 li- cense 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 citi- zens is hke the caresses of your friends. But in large states the city is but the court; the provinces— unknown to you, unfamiHar in customs, perhaps in language — have no claim on your patri- otism, the ancestry of their inhabitants is not yours. In the court you desire favor instead of glory; at a distance from the coui-t public opinion has vanished from you, and self-interest has no counterpoise. Italy— Italy, while I write your skies are over me — your seas flow beneath my feet; listen not to the blind policy which would unite all your crested cities, mourning for their republics, into one empire; false, pernicious delusion! your only hope of regen- eration 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 center of the system, the blood must circulate freely everywhere; and in vast communities you behold but a bloated and feeble giant, whose brain is imbecile, whose limbs are dead, and who pays in disease and weakness the penalty of transcending the natural proportions of health and vigor. Thus thrown back upon themselves, the more ardent qualities of Glaucus found no vent, save in that overflowing imagination which gave grace to pleasui-e, 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 enno- bled. But all that was best and brightest in his soul woke at once when he knew lone. Here was an empire worthy of demi- gods 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 Btate, 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 heart? 7« TSE LAST J) AYS OF POMPEII, And whether it was that this sentiment inspired him, his ideas glowed more briglitlj, liis soul seemed more awake and visible in lone's presence. If natural to love her, it was natural that ehe should return the passion. Young, brilliant, eloquent, en- amored and Athenian, he was to lier as the incarnation of the poetry of lier father's land. They were not like creatures of a world in which strife and sorrow are the elements; they were like things to be seen only in the holiday of nature, so glorious and so fresh were their youth, their beauty, and their love. They seemed out of place in the harsh and every-day earth; they be- longed of right to the Saturnian age, and the dreams of demigod and nymph. It was as if the poetry of life gathered and fed itself in them, and in their hearts were concentrated the last rays of the sun of Delos and of Greece. But if lone was independent in her choice of life, so was her modest pride proportionately vigilant and easily alarmed. The falsehood of the Egyptian was invented by a deep knowledge of her nature. Tlie story of coarseness, of indelicacy, in Glaucus, stimg her to the quick. She felt it a reproach upon her character and lier career; a punishment above all, to her love. She felt, for the fu-st time, how suddenly she had yielded to that love; she blushed with shame at a weakness, the extent of which she was startled to perceive. She imagined it was that weakness which had incurred the contempt of Glaucus; she endured the bitterest curse of noble natures — humiliation! Yet her love, perhaps, was no less alarmed than her pride. If one moment she murmm-ed re- {)roaches upon Glaucus — if one moment she renounced, she almost lated 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 shutout her handmaids, she had denied lierself to the crowds that besieged her door. Glau- cus was excluded with the rest; he wondered, but he guessed not wliy! He never attnbuted to his lone — his queen — his goddess — tliat woman-like caprice of which the love-poets of Italy so un- ceasingly complain. He imagined her, in the majesty of her candor, above all the arts that torture. He was troubled, but liis hopes were not dimmed, for he knew already that he loved and A\aH beloved; what raore could ho desire as an amulet against fear? At deepest night, then, when the streets were hushed, and the high moon only beheld his devotions, he stole to the temple of hia heart — her home; and wooed her after the beautiful fashion of his c» untry. He covered her threshold with the richest garlands, in wl ich every flower was a volume of sweet passion; and he charn ed the long summer night with the sound of the Lycian lute, a id verses which the inspiration of the moment sufficed to weave. But . he window above opened not ; no smile made yet more holy thr shining air of night. All was still dark, He knew not if his verse was welcome and liis suit was heard. Yet lone slept not, nor disdained to hear. Those soft strains THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 77 ascended to her chamber, they soothed, they subdued her. While she listened she believed nothing against her lover; but when they were stilled at last, and his step departed, the spell ceased ; and, in the bitterness of her soul, she almost conceived in that delicate flattery a new affront. I said she was denied to all; but there was one exception, there was one person who would not be denied, assuming over her actions and her house something like the authority of a parent; Arbaces, for himself, claimed an exemption from all the ceremonies observed by others. He entered the threshold with the license of one -jvho feels that he is privileged and at home. He TQade his way to her solitude, and with that sort of quiet and un- apologetic air which seemed to consider the right as a thing of course. With all the independence of Tone's character, his art 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 fasci- nated by his serpent eye. He aiTested, he commanded her, by the magic of a mind long accustomed to awe and to subdue. Utterly imaware of his real character or his hidden love, she felt for him the reverence which genius feels for wisdom, and virtue for sanctity. She regarded him as one of those mighty sages of old, who attained to the mysteries of knowledge by an exemption from the passions of their kind. She scarcely con- sidered him as a being, Uke herself, of the earth, but as an oracle at once dark and sacred. She did not love him, but she feared. His presence was unwelcome to her; it dimmed her spirit even in its brightest mood; he seemed, with his chilling and lofty aspect, like some eminence which casts a shadow over the sun. But she never thought of forbidding his visits, She was passive under the influence which created in her breast, not the repugnance, but something of the stillness of terror. Arbaces himself now resolved to exert aU 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 fete, which we have described, he felt his empire over the young priest triumphant and insured. He knew that there is no victim so thorougMy subdued as a young and fervent man for the first time delivered to the thralldom of the senses. When Apgecides recovered, with the morning light, from the profound sleep which succeeded to the delirium of wonder and of pleasure, he was, it is true, ashamed — terrified, appalled. His vows of austerity and celibacy echoed in his ear; his thirst after holiness — had it been quenched at so unhallowed a stream? But Arbaces knew well the means by which to confirm his conquest. From the ai"ts of pleasure he led the young priest at once to those of his mysterious wisdom. He bared to his amazed eyes the initiatory secrets of the somber philosophy of the Nile: those secrets plucked from the stars, and the wild chemistry, which, in those days, when Reason herself was but the creature of Imagination, might well pass for the lore of a diviner magic, ge seemed to the young eyes of the priest as a being abov^ 7S THE LAST DA TS OF POMPEII, mortality, and endowed with supernatural p^ifts. That yearn- ing and intense desire for the knowledge which is not of earth, which had burned from his boyhood in the heart of the priest, was dazzled, until it confused and mastered his clearer sense. He gave himself to the art which thus addressed at once the two strongest of human passions, that of pleasure and that of knowledge. He was loth to believe that one so wise could err, that one so lofty could stoop to deceive. Entangled in the dark web of metaphysical moralities, he caught at the excuse by which the Egyptian converted vice into a virtue. His pride was insensibly flattered that Arbaces had deigned to rank him with himself, to set him apart from the laws which bound the vulgar, to make him an august participator, both in tlie mystic studies and the magic fascinations of tlie 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 faitli, and who soon learned from his pupil the effect whicli had been produced upon him by its believers, sought, not unskilfully, to undo that effect, by a tone of reasoning half-sarcastic and half-earnest. " This faith," said he, "is but a borrowed plagiarism from one of the many allegories invented by our priests of old. Observe," he added, pointing to a hieroglyphical scroll, "observe in these andent figures the origin of the Cliristian's Trinity. Here are also the three gods— the Deity, the Spirit, and the Son. Observe that the epithet of the Son is ' Saviour.' Observe, that the sign by which his human qualities are denoted is the cross. Note here, too, the mystic liistory of Osiris, how he put on death; how heiay in the grave; and how, tluis fulfilling a solemn atone- ment, he rose again from the dead! In these stories we but design to paint an allegory from the operations of nature, and the evolutions of the eternal heavens. But, the allegory un- known, the types themselves have furnished to credulous nations the materials of many creeds. They liave traveled 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 un- conscious repeaters of one of the superstitions of the Nile!" This was the last argument which completely subdued the priest. It was necessary to him, as to all, to believe in some- thing; and undivided and, at last unrcluctant, he surrendered himself to that belief wliich Arbaces inculcated, and which all that was human in passion — all that was flattering in vanity — all that was alluring to pleasure, served to invite to, and contrib- uted to confirm. This conquest, thus easily made, the Egyptian could not give himself wholly up to the pursuit of a far dearer and mightier object; and he hailed, in his success with the brother, an omen of his triumph over the sister. He had seen lone on the day following the revel w© have wiir THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII, 79 neesed; and which was also the day after he had poisoned her mind against liis 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 princi- pally to prepare her for the impressions he desired her to receive. The proud lone took care to conceal the anguish she endured, and the pride of woman has an hypocrisy which ©an deceive the most penetrating, and shame the most astute. But Arbaces was no less cautious not to refer to a subject which he felt 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 dig- nity in the eyes of your mistress; the wisest plan is, neither loudly to hate, nor bitterly to contemn; the wisest plan is to lower him by an indifference of tone, as if you could not dream that he could be loved. Your safety is in concealing the wound to your own pride, and imperceptibly alarming that of the um- pire, whose voice is fatel Such, in all times, will be the policy of one who knows the science of the sex — it was now the Egyp- tian's. He recurred no more, then, to the presumption of Glaucus; he mentioned his name, but not more often than that of Clodius or Lepidus. He affected to class them together, as things of a low and ephemeral species; as things wanting nothing of the butterfly, save its innocence and its grace. Sometimes he slightly alluded to some invented debauch, in which he declared them companions; sometimes he adverted to them as the anti- podes of those lofty and spiritual natures, to ■whose order that of lone belonged. Blinded alike by the pride of lone, and, perhaps, by his own, he dreamed not that she already loved; but he dreaded lest she might have fonned for Glaucus the first fluttering prepossessions that lead to love. And, secretly, he ground his teeth with rage and jealousy, when he reflected on the youth, the fascinations, and the brilUancy of that formidable rival whom he pretended to undervalue. It was on the fourth day from the date of the close of the pre- vious book, that Arbaces and lone 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 lone, who, indeed, had cast the veil over her features to conceal eyes red with weeping — "to Arbaces, who looks only to the mind, what matters it that the face is concealed?" " I do look only to the mind," replied the Egyptian; " show me then your face — for there I shall see it!" "You grow gallant in the air of Pompeii," said lone, with a forced tone of gayety. "Do you think, fair lone, that it is only at Pompeii that I have learned to vahie you?" The Egyptian's voice trembled — be 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 enamor«}d of soul. The countryman of thy ancestors, the cave- 80 THE LAST DA TS OP POMPEIL 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 affec- tion; wrinkles do not revolt it — homeliness of feature does not deter; it asks youth, it is time, but it asks it only in the freshness of tiie emotions; it asks beauty, it is true, but it is the beauty of the thought and of the spirit. Such is the love, O lone, wliich is a worthy offering to thee from the cold and austere. Austere and cold thou deemest me — sucli is the love that I venture to lay upon thy shrine — thou canst receive it without a blush." "Ajid its name is Frendship!" replied lone; her answer was innocent, yet it sounded like the reproof of one conscious of tbs design of the speaker. •' Friendship!" said Arbaces, vehemently. "No; that is a woiy^ too often profaned to apply to a sentiment so sacred. Friend'- ehipl it is a tie that binds fools and profligates! Friendship! it vt the bond that unites the frivolous hearts of a Glaucus and (^ Clodiusl Friendship! no, that is an affection of the earth, of vul* far habits and sordid sympathies; the feeling of which I speak id orrowed from the stars — it partakes of that mystic and ineffable yearning, which we feel when we gaze on them — it burns, yet it purifies — it is the lamp of naphtha in the 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 tot lone. Give it no name — earth has no name for it — it is not of earth — why debase it with eartlily epithets and earthly associa- tions?" Never before had Arbaces ventured so far, yet he felt his ground' step by step; he knew that he uttered a language which, if at this day of affected platonisms it would speak unequivocally to the ears of beauty, was at that time strange and unfamiliar, to which no precise idea could be attached, from which he could imper^ ceptibly advance or recede, as occasion suited, as hope encour- aged or fear deterred. lone trembled, though she knew not why; her veil liid her features, and masked an expression, which, i/ seen by the Egyptian, would have at once damped and enraged him; in fact, he never was more displeasing to her— the bar* monious 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 sl^e did not conceive that any passion more ardent than that platonism which Arbaces expressed lurked Ixnieatb his words. Shetliought that he, in truth, spoke only of the affection and sympathy of the soul; but was it not i^recisely that affection and that sym- pathy 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 lieart?" Anxious at once to change the conversation, she replied, there- fore, 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 o" to hues; THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII, 81 it is natural that his friendship should be purer than that of others, whose pursuits and errors he does not deign to share. But tell me, Arbaces, hast thou seen my brother of late? He has not visited me for several days; and when I last saw him, his manner disturbed and alarmed me much. I fear lest he was too precipitaije in the severe choice he has adopted, and that h© repents an irrevocable step." " Be cheered, lone," replied the Egyptian. *' It is true, thaifc 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, lone, he came to me in his anxieties and his distress; he sought one who pitied and loved him ; I have calmed his mind — I have removed his doubts — I have taken him from the threshold of Wisdom into its temple; and before the majesty of the goddess Ms soul is hushed and soothed. Fear not, he will repent no more; they who trust themselves to Arbaces never repent for a moment." " You rejoice me," answered lone. " My dear brother: in his contentment I am happy." The conversation then turned upon lighter subjects; the Egyp- tian exerted himself to please; he condescended even to enter- tain; the vast variety of his knowledge enabled him to adorn and light up every subject on which he touched: and lone, for- getting the displeasing effect of his former words, was carried away, despite her sadness, by the magic of his intellect. Her manner became unrestrained and her language fluent; and Arba- ces, who had waited his opportunity, now hastened to seize it. " You have never seen," said he, '' the interior of my home; it may amuse you to do so; it contains some rooms that may ex- plain to you what you have often asked me to describe — the fashion of an Egyptian house; not, indeed, that you will per- ceive in the poor and minute proportions of Roman architecture the massive strength, the vast space, the gigantic magnificence, or even the domestic construction of the palaces of Thebes and Memphis; but something there is, here and there, that may serve to express to you some notion of that antique 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 graced with the pres- ence of the admired lone." Unconscious of the pollutions of the mansion, of the danger that awaited her, lone readily assented to the proposal. The next evening was fixed for the visit; and the Egyptian, with a serene countenance, and a heart beating with fierce and unholy joy, departed. Scarce had he gone, when another visitor claimed Admission. But now we return to Glaucus. CHAPTER V. THE POOR TORTOISE — NEW CHANGES FOR NT1>IA. The morning sun shone over the small and odorous garden in- closed within th« peristyle of the house of the Athenian. He es THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII, lay reclined, sad and listlessly, on the smooth grass which inte^ Bected 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 tlie pleasures of life, save life's passive and dream-like i)erception, had been the guest of the place for years before Glaucua purchased it; for years, indeed, which went beyond the memory of man, and to which tradition assigned an almost incredible date. The house liad been built'and rebuilt — its possessors had changed and fluctuated — generations had flourished and decayed — and still the tortoise dragged on its slow and unaympathizing 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 terri- bly shattered. Tlie possessors deserted it for many days; on their return they cleared away the ruins which encumbered the viridarium, and found still the tortoise, unharmed and uncon- scious of the surroimding destruction. It seemed to bear a charmed life in its languid blood and imperceptible motions; yet it was not so inactive as it seemed; it held a regular and monot- onous course; inch by inch it traversed the little orbit of its do- main, taking months to accomplish the whole gyration. It was a restless voyager, that tortoisel — patiently, and with pain, did it perform its self-appointed journeys, evincing no interest in the thmgs around it — a philosopher concentrated in itself. There was something grand in its solitary selfishness! — the sun in which it basked — tlie waters poured daily over it — the air, which it insensibly iidialed, were its sole and unfailing luxuries. The mild changes ot the season, in that lovely clime, affected it not. It covered itself with its shell — as the saint in his piety — as the sage in his wisdom — as the lover in his hope. It was impervious to the shocks and mutations of time— it was an emblem of time itself; slow, regular, perpetual; unwitting of the passions that fret themselves around — of the wear and tear of mortality. The ix)or tortoise! notliing less than the bursting of volc^'iuoos, the convulsions of the riven world, could have quenched its sluggish spark! The inexorable Death, that spared not ]>omp or beauty, passed unheedinglj^ l)y a thing to which death could l>ring so insignificant a chanjjo. For this animal, the mercurial and vivid Greek felt all the wonder and affection of contrast. He could spend hours in sur- veying it.s 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: " The eagle dropped a 8t<)ne from his talons, thinking to break thy shell: the stone crushed the head of a poet. This is the alle- gorv of Fate 1 Dull thing ! Thou hadst a father and a mother ; perhaps, ages ago, thou thyself liadst a mate. Did thy parents THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 88 love, or didst thou? Did thy slow blood cu-culate more gladly wlien thou didst creep to the side of thy wedded one? Wert thou capable of affection? Could it distress thee if she were away from thy side ? Couldst thou feel when she was present? What would I not give to know the history of thy mailed breast — to gaze upon tlie mechanism of thy faint desires — to mark what hairbreadth difference separates thy sorrow from thy joy I Yet, methinks, thou wouldst know if Ion© 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 I What doubt, what presentiment, haunts me ! why will she not admit me ? Days have passed since I heard her voice. For the first time, life grows flat to me. I am as one who is left alone at a banquet, the lights dead, and the flowers faded. Ah ! lone, couldst thou dream how I adore thee I" From these enamored 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 thirsty 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 goddes<§ of the garden. " Nydia, my child I" said Glaucus. At the sound of his voice she paused at once — listening, blush-- ing, breathless; with her lips parted, her face upturned to catch the sound, she laid down tne vase — she hastened to him; and wonderful it was to'see how unerringly she threaded her dark wa^ through the flowers, and came by the shortest path to the side oi her new lord. " Nydia," said Glaucus, tenderly stroking back her long and beautiful hair, " it is now three days since thou hast been rmdef the protection of my household gods. Have they smiled on thee? Art thou happy?' * ' Ah ! so happy !" replied 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 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 lone?" The blind girl gasped for breath, and turning pale as one of the statues which shone upon them from the peristyle, she answered with an effort, after a moment's pause: 84 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEH. •* YesI I have heard that she is of Neapolis, and beautiful.*' " Beautiful 1 her beauty is a thing to dazzle the day! Neapolis! nay, she is Greek by origin; Greece only could furnish forth such ■hapes, Nydia, I love herl" ** I thought so," replied Nydia, calmly. •' I love her, and thou shalt tell her so. I am about to send thee to her. Happy Nydia, thou wilt be in her chamter— thou wilt drink the music of her voice— thou wilt bask in the sunny air of her presence 1" *' Whatl whatl wilt thou send me from thee?" " Tliou wilt go to lone," answered Glaucus, in a tone that said, "What more canst thou desire?" Nydia burst into tears. Glaucus, raising himself, drew her toward him with the sooth- ing caresses of a brother. " My child, my Nydia, thou weepest in ignorance of the happi- ness I bestow on thee. She is gentle and kind, and soft as tlie breeze of spring. She will be a sister to thy youth — she will ajv preciate thy winning talents — she will love thy simple graces as none other could, for they are like her own. Weepest thou still, fond fool? I will not force thee, sweet. AVilt thou not do for me this kindness?" " Well, if I can serve thee, command. See, I weep no longer — I am calm." " That is my own Nydia," continued Glaucus, kissing her hand. '* Go then, to her; if thou art disappointed in her kindness — if I have deceived thee, return when thou wdlt. I do not give thee to another; I but lend. My home ever be thy refuge, sweet one. Ahl would it could shelcer all the homeless and distressed! But if my heart whispers truly, I shall claim thee again soon, my child. My home and Tone's will become the same, and thou shaft dwell with both."' A shiver passed through the slight frame of the bUnd girl, but she wept no more — she w^as resigned. " Go, then, my Nydia, to Tone's house — they shall show thee the way. Take her the fairest flowers thou canst pluck; the vase wliich contains them I will give thee; thou must excuse its un- worthiness. 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 wliich, after a hundred efforts, I have embodied something of my thoughts. Let thy car catch every accent — every modulation of her voice, and tell me, when wo meet again, if its music should flatter me or discourage. It is now, Nydia, some days since I have been admitted to lone; there is something mysterious in this exclusion. I am distracted with doubts and fears; learn — for thou art ([uick, and thy care for me will shaii>en ten-fold thy acuteness — learn the cause of this unkindness; speak of nae as often as thou canst; let ni}- name come ever to thy lips; insinuate how I love, rather than proclaim it; watch if she sighs whil« thou speakest, if she answer thee; or, if she reproves, in what accents she reproves. Be my friend plead for me; and ohl how TM-E LAST DA YS OF POMPEII. ^5 Tastly wilt thou overijay the little I have done for theel Thou comprehendest, Nydia; thou art yet a child — have I said more than thou canst understand?" "No." "And thou wilt serve me?" "Yes." " Come to me when thou hast gathered the flowers, and I will give thee the vase I speak of; seek me in the chamber of Leda. Pretty one, thou dost not grieve new?" " Glaucus, 1 am a slave; what business have I with grief or joy?" " Sayest thou so? No, Nydia, be free. I give thee freedom; enjoy it as thou wilt, and pardon me that I reckoned on thy de- sire to serve me." " You are offended. Oh! I would not, for that which no freed- dom can give, offend you, Glaucus. My guardian, my savior, my protector, forgive the poor bhnd girll She does not grieve even on leaving thee if she can contribute to thy happiness." " May the gods bless this grateful heart!" said Glaucus, greatly moved; and unconscious of the fires he excited, he 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 that 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 jeweled 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 hps, dropped her veil over her face, and passed at once from his presence. She paused again as she reached the threshold; she stretched her bands toward it, and murmured: "Three happy days— days of unspeakable delight, have I known since I passed thee — blessed threshold! may peace ever dwell with thee when I am gone! And now, my heart tears it- self from thee, and the only sound it utters bids me — die!" CHAPTER VI. THE HAPPY BEAUTY AND THE BLIND SLAVE. A SLAVE entered the chamber of lone. A messenger from Glaucus desired to be admitted. loue hesitated an instant. "She is blind, that messenger," said the slave; "she will do her commission to none but thee." Base is that heart which does not respect afllictionl The mo- ment she heard the messenger was bhnd lone felt the impossi- bihty of returning a chiUing reply. Glacus 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 lone beat quick. The curtain across the door 8« TBE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. was withdrawn; a soft and eclioless step fell upon the marbld; and Nydia, led by one of the attendants, entered with her pre- cious gift. She stood still a moment, as if listening for some sound that might direct her. " Will the noble lone," said she, in a soft and low voice, "deign to speak, that I may know whither to steer these benighted steps, and that I may lay my offerings at her feet?" " Fair child," said lone, touched and soothingly, "give not thyself the pain to cross these slippery floors, my attendant will bring to me what thou hast to present;" and she motioned to the handmaid to take the vase. " I may give these flowers to none but thee," answered Nydia; and, guided by her ear, she walked slowly to the place where lone sat, and, kneeling when she came before her, proffered the vase. lone took it from her hand, and placed it on the table at her side. She then raised her gently, and would have seated her on the couch, but the girl modestly resisted. " I have not yet discharged my office," said she, and she drew the letter of Glaucus from her vest. "This will perhaps, ,ex- {•lain why he who sent me chose so unworthy a messenger to one." The Neapolitan took the letter with a hand, the trembling of which Nydia at once felt and sighed to feel. With folded arms and downcast looks she stood before the proud and stately form of lone— no less proud, perhaps, in her attitude of submission, lone waved her hand, and the attendants withdrew; she gazed again upon the form of the young slave in surprise and beauti- ful compassion: then retiring a little from her, she opened and read the following letter: " Glaucus to lone sends more than he dares to utter. Is lone ill? thy slaves tell me ' No,' and that assurance comforts me. Has Glaucus offended lone ? — ah ! that question I may not ask from them. For five days I have been banished from thy pres- ence. Has the sun shone ? — I know it not. Has the sky smiled ? — it has had no smile for me. My sun and my sky are lone. Do I offend thee? Am I too bold? Do I say that on the tablet wliich my tongue has hesitated to breathe? Alas ! it is in thine absence that I feel most the spells by which thou hast subdued me. And absence, that deprives me of joy, brings me courage. Thou wilt not see me; thou hast banished also the common flat- terers 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 wore I of the humblest mold, the fragrance of tlie rose has penetrated me, and the spirit of thy nature has passed within me, to embalm, to sanctify, to inspire. Have thev slandered me to thee, lone ? Thou wilt not believe (hem. bid 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 sung to thee— of the look thou gavest me in return. TEE LAST DA YS OF POMPEII. Si Disguise it as thou wilt, lone, there is something kindred be- tween us, and our eyes acknowledge it, though our lips are si lent. 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 first met at the shrine of Pallas; shall we not meet before a softer and a more ancient altar ? " Beautiful 1 adored lone ! If my hot youth and my Athenian blood have misguided and allured me, they have but taught my wanderings to appreciate the rest — the haven they have attained. I hang up my dripping robes on the Sea-god's shrine. I have escaped shipwreck. I have found thee. lone, deign to see me; thou art gentle to strangers, wilt thou be less merciful to those of thine own land? I await thy reply. Accept the flowers which I send — their sweet breath has a language more eloquent than words. They take from the sun the odors they return — they are the emblem of the love that receives and repays ten- fold — the emblem of the heart that drank the 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 Nvdia ! I seek as much as possible to repair to her the cruelties or Nature and of Fate, in asking permission to place her with thee. She is gentle, quick, and docile. She is skilled in music and the song; and she is a very Chloris to the flowers. She thinks, lone, that thou wilt love lier; if thou dost not, send her back to me. " One word more — let me be bold, lone. Why thinkest thou so highly of yon dark Egyptian ! he hath not about him the air of honest men. We GreeKs learn mankind from our cradle; we are not the less profound, in that we affect no somber 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 sa west how my presence stung him; since then thou hast not admitted me. Believe nothing that he can say to my disfavor; if thou dost, tell me so at once: for this lone owes to Glaucus. Farewell I this letter touches thy hand; these char- acters meet thine eyes — shall they be more blessed than he who is their author? Once more, farewell ?" It seemed to lone, as she read this letter, as if a mist had fallen from her eyes. What had been the supposed offense of Glaucus — that he had not really loved! And now, plainly, and in no dubious terms, he confessed that love. From that moment his power was fully restored. At every tender word in that letter, BO 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 defense? The tears rolled down her cheeks, she kissed the letter — she placed it in her bcJ6(*m; and, turning to Nydia, who stood in the same place and ia ^h* 8am« posture; 88 THE LAST DA YS OF POMPEU, ** "Wilt thou sit, my child," said she, " while I write an answei to this letter?" " You will answer it, then!" said Nydia, coldly. "Well, the slave that accompanied me will take back your answer." " For vou," said lone, " stay with me— trust me, your service shall be light." Nydia bowed her head. ** What is your name, fair girl?" '♦ They call me Nydia." " Your country?" ♦♦ The land of Olympus— Thessaly.** "Thou shalt be to me a friend," said lone, caressingly, "as thou art already half a countrywoman. Meanwhile, I beseech thee, stand not on these cold and glassy marbles. There I now that thou art seated, I can leave thee for an instant. "lone to Glaucus greeting — Come to me, Glaucus, [wrote lone] come to me to-morrow. I may have been unjust to thee, but 1 will tell thee, at least, the fault that has been imputed to thy charge. Fear not, henceforth, the Egyptian — fear none. Thou say est thou hast expressed too much — alas! in these hasty words I have already done so. Farewell!" As lone reappeared with the letter, which she did not dare to read after she had written (Ah! common rashness, common timidity of love!>— Nydia started from her seat. "You have written to Glaucus?" "I have." " And will he thank the messenger who gives him the letter?" lone forgot that her companion was blind; she blushed from the brow to the neck, and remained silent. "I mean this," added Nydia, in a calmer tone; "the lightest word of coldness from thee will sadden him — the hghtest kind- ness will rejoice. If it be the first, let the slave take back thine answer; if it be the last, let me — I will return this evening." "And why, Nydia," asked lone, evasively, "wouldstthou be the bearer of my letter?" "It is so, then," said Nydia. "How could it be otherwise; who could be unkind to Glaucus?" " My child," said lone, a little more reservedly than before, "thou speakest warmly — Glaucus, then, is amiable in thine eyes?" " Noble lone! Glaucus has been that to me which neither fortune nor gods have been — a frieiidr The sadness mingled with dignity with which Nydia uttered these simple words, affected the beautiful lone; she bent down and kissed her. "Thou art grateful, and deservedly so; why should I blush to say that Glaucus is worthy of thy gratitude? Go, my Nydia — take to him thyself this letter, but return again. If I am from home when thou returnest — as this evening, per- haps. I shall be — thy chamber shall be prepared next my own. Nydia, I have no sister; wilt thou be one to me?" The Thessalian kissed the hand of lone, and then said with some embarrassment: ♦* Ose favor, fair lone — may I dare to ask it?" THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII, 8^ " Thou canst not ask what I will not grant," replied the Nea- politan. " They tell me," said Nydia, '* that thou art beautiful beyond the loveliness of earth. Alas! I cannot see that which gladdeng the world. Wilt thou suffer me, then, to pass my hand over thy face? — that is my sole criterion of beauty, and I usually guess aright." She did not wait for the answer of lone, but, as she spoke, gently and slowly passed her hand over the bending and half- averted features oi the Greek — features which but one image in the world can yet depicture and recall — that image is the mutil- ated, but all-wondrous, statue in her native city — her own Ne- apolis; that Parian face, before which all the beauty of the Flor- entine 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 beau- tiful," she said; " aad I can picture thee to my darkness hence- forth, and forever." When Nydia left her, lone sank into a deep but delicious revery. 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 assui'ed that he had been so. She wondered how she had ever believed a syllable against him; she wondered how the Egyptian had been enabled to exercise a power against Glaucus; she felt a chill creep over her as she again turned to his warning against Arbaces, and her secret fear of that gloomy being darkened into awe. She was awakened from these thoughts by her maidens, who came to announce to her that the hour appointed to visit Arbaces was arrived; she started, she had forgotten the promise. Eer first impression was to renounce it; her second, was to laugh at her own fears of her eldest surviving friend. She hastened to add the usual ornaments to her dress, and doubtful whether she should yet question the Egyptian more closely with respect to his accusation of Glaucus, or whether she should wait till, with- out citing the authority, she should insinuate to Glaucus the ac- cusation itself, she took her way to the gloomy mansion of Ar- CHAPTER VII. lONE ENTRAPPED.— THE MOUSE TRIES TO GNAW THE NET. *' O DEAREST Nydia!" exclaimed Glaucus, as he read the letter of lone, " whitest-robed messenger that ever passed between earth and heaven — how, how shall I thank thee?" * The wonderful remains of the statue so called in the Musee Borbonio. The face, for sentiment and for featui-e, is the most beautiful of all wbich ancient sculpture has bequeathed to U8. W THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. "I am rewarded," said tho poor Tliessalian. "To-morrow — to-morrow! bow shall I while the hours till then?" The enamored 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 con- versation that had taken place between her and lone; a thousaad times, forgetting her misfortune, he questioned her of the looks, of the countenance of his beloved; and tlien quickly again ex- cusing his fault, he bade her recommence the whole recital which he had thus inteniipted. The hours Ihus painful to Nydia passed rapidly and delightfully to him, and the twilight had already darkened ere he once more dismissed her to lone with a fresh letter and with new flowers. Scarcely had she gone, than Clodius and several of his gay companions broke in upon him; they rallied him on his seclusion during the whole day, and his absence from his customaiy haunts; they invited him to accom- pany them to the various resorts in that lively city, which night and day proffered diversity to pleasure. Tlien, as now, in the south (for no land, perhaps, losing more of greatness has retained more of custom), it was the delight of the Itahans to assemble at the evening; and, under the porticos of temples or the shade of the groves that interspersed the streets, listening to music or the recitals of some inventive tale-teller, they hailed the rising moon with libations of wine and the melodies of song. Glaucus was too happy to be unsocial; he longed to cast off the exuber- ance of joy that oppressed him. He willingly accepted the pro- posal of his comjrades, and laughingly they sallied out together down the populous and glittering streets. In the mean time Nydia once more gained the house of lone, who had long left it; she inquu*ed indifferently whither lone had gone. The answer arrested and appalled her. " To the house of Arbaces— of the Egyptian? Impossible!'* ** It is true, my little one," said the slave, who had replied to her question. "She has known the Egyptian long." "Long! ye gods, yet Glaucus loves her!" murmured Nydia to herself. "And has," asked she aloud— "has she often %Tsited him be- fore?" "Never till now," answered the slave. " If all the rumored Bcandal 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 veetibu- lum 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?" Nj'dia hesitated a moment, and then, putting down the flowers >vith which she had been charged, she called to the slave who had accompanied her, and left tlie liouse without saying another word. Not till she had got half-way back to the house of Glaucus did ehe break silence, and even tlu*n she only murmured inly: "She does not dream — she can not — of the danger into which THE LAST DAYS OF POMP EI t 91 she has plunged. Fool that I am — shall I save her? — yea, 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 kne^ whither. He probably would not be home before midnight. The Thessalian groaned; she sank upon a seat in the hall, and covered her face with feer hands as if to collect her thoughts. '* There is no time to be lost," thought she, starting up. She turned to the slave who accompanied her. "Knowest thou," said she, " if lone has any intimate friend at Pompeii?" "Why, by Jupiter!" ans^^ered the slave, "art thou silly enough to ask the question? jj^very one in Pompeii knows that lone has a brother who, young and rich, has been — under the rose I speak — so foolish as to become a priest of Isis." " A priest of Isis I O Gods! liis name?" " Apsecides." "I know it all," muttered Nydia; " brother and sister, then, are to be both victims! Apaecides! yes, that was the name I heard in Ha! he well, then, knows the peril that surrounds his sister; I will go to him," She sprang up at that thought, and taking the staff which al- ways guided her steps, she hastened to the 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 fre- quented parts, was familiar to her; and as the inhabitants enter- tained tender and half -superstitious veneration for those sub- ject 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 protec- tion, and a guide far safer than the keenest eyes! But since she had been under the roof of Glaucus, he had or- dered a slave to accompany her always; and the poor devil thus appointed, who was somewhat of the fattest, and who, after having twice performed the journey to lone's house, now saw himself condemned to a third exi)edition (whither the gods only knew), hastened after her, deploring his fate, and solemnly as- suring Cast«r and Pollux that he believed the blind girl had th© talaria of Mercury as well as the infirmity of Cupid. Nydia, however, required but little of his assistance to find her way to the popular Temple of Isis; the space before it w^as now deserted, and she won without obstacle to the sacred rails. " There is no one here," said the fat slave. " What dost thou want or whom? Kjiowest thou not that the jH'iests do not live in the temple?" " Call out," said she, impatiently; " night and day there is al- ways one flamen, at least, watching in the shrines of^Isis." The slave called — no one appeared. ** Seest thou no one?" "No one." " Thou mistakest; I hear a sigh; look again." The slave, wondering and grumbling, cast round his heavy &^ THE LAST D. \ YS OF POMPEII. 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 Isisl'* cried Nydia; ** servant of the Most Ancient, hear me r* '' Who calls?" said a low and melancholy voice. " One who has no common tidings to impart to a member of TOur b«dy; 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 I thou art he whom I seek; yet I have heard thee speak but once before. Art thou not the priest Apaecides?'' " I am that man," replied the priest, emerging from the altar, and approaching the rail. '' Thou art! the gods be praised!" Waving her hand to the slave, she bade him withdraw to a distance; and he, who natural- ly imagined some superstition connected, perhaps, with the safety of lone, could alone lead her to the temple, obeyed, and seated himself on the ground at a little distance. "Hush!" said she,* speaking quick and low; ** art thou indeed Apajcides?" *' If thou knowest me, canst thou not recall my features?'' *' I am bUnd," 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!" "Hush, speak low — bend near — give me thy hand; knowest thou Arbaces? Hast thou laid flowers at the feet of the dead? Ah! thy hand is cold— hark yet!— hast thou taken the awful vow?" " Who art thou, whence comest thou, pale maiden?" said Apaecides, fearfully; "I know thee not, thine is not the breast on which this head hath lain; I have never seen thee before." " But thou hast heard my voice; no matter, these recollections it should shame us both to recall. Listen, thou hast a sister." " Speak! speak! wliat of her?" " Thou knowest the banquets of the dead, stranger — it pleases thee, perhaps, to share them— would it please thee to liave thy sister a partaker? Would it please thee that Arbaces was her host?" " O gods, he dare not! Girl, if thou mockest me, tremble! I will tear thee limb from limb!" "I speak the truth; and while I speak, lone is in the halls of Arbaces — for the first time his j^uest. Thou knowept if there bo peril in that first time! Farewell! I have fulfilled my charge." "Stay! stay!" cried the priest, passing his wan hand over his brow. "If t'his be true, what — what can be done to save her? They may not admit me. I know not all the mazes of that in- tricate mansion. O Nemesis! justly am I punislied!" " I will dismiss yon slave, be thou my guide and comrade; I will lead thee to tne private door of the house; I will whisper to THE LAST DA 78 OF POMPEIL 92 thee the word which admits. Take some weapon; it may be needful!" "Wait an instant," said Apascides, 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, grindiug his teeth, *' if Arbaces hath dared to— but he dare not I he dare not! Why should I suspect him? Is he so base a villain? I will not think it — yet, sophist! dark bewilderer that he is! O gods, protect! — hush! are there gods? Yes, there is one goddess, at least, whose voice I can command; and that is — Vengeance!" Muttering these disconnected thoughts, Apaecides, foUowed by his silent and sightless companion, hastened thi'ough the most solitary path to the house of the Egyptian. The slave, abruptly dismissed by Nydia, shrugged his shoulders, muttered an adjuration, and, nothing loth, rolled off to his cubiculum. CHAPTER VIII. THE SOLITUDE AND SOLILOQTJY OF THE EGYPTIAN. — HIS CHARAO- TER ANALYZED. We must go back a few hours in the progress of our story. At the first gray dawn of tlie day which Glaucus had ah-eady 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 con- spired with the bight of the edifice and the gloomy trees that girded the mansion, to defy the prying eyes of curiosity or obser- vation. 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, Uke a gigantic lake, bounded by the circhng shores that, covered with vines and foli- age, and gleaming here and there with the white walls of sleep- ing cities, sloped to the scarce rippling waves. It was an hour above all otliers 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 this calculation had excited. ''Again do the stars forewarn me! Some danger, then, as- suredly awaits me!" said he, slowly; "some danger, violent stud sudden in its nature. The stars wear for me the same mocking menace which, if our cln-onicles do not err, they once wore for Pyrrhus — ^for him doomed to strive for all tilings, to enjoy none — ^aii attacking, nothing gaining — battles without fruit, laurels without success; at last made craven by his own superstitions, and slain like a dog by a tile from the hand of an old vromanl U THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. Verily, the stars flatter when they give me a type in this fool of xvar — when they promise to the ardor of my wisdom the same results as to the madness of liis ambition — perpetual exercise — no certain goal — the Sisyphus task, the mountain and the stone, a gloomy image! — it reminds me that I am threatened -with some- what of the same death as the Epirote. Let me look again. * Be- ware,' say the shining prophets, ' how thou passest under ancient roofs, or besieged walls or overhanging cliffs — a stone, hurled from above, is charged by the curses of destiny against thee I' 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 ray existence. I see honors, happiness, success, shining upon every billow of the dark gulf be- neath which I must sink at last. What, then, with such destinies beyond the peril shall I succumb to the peril? My soul whispers hope, it sweeps exultingly beyond the boding hour, it revels in the future, its own courage is its fittest omen. If I were to per- ish 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 sohloquy, the Egyptian involuntarily rose. He paced rapidly the narrow space of that star-roofed floor, and, pausing at the parapet, looked again upon the gray and melancholy heavens. The chills of the faint dawn came refreshingly upon his brow, and gradually his mind resumed its natural and collected calm. He withdrew his gaze from the stars, as, one after another, they receded into the depths of heaven; and his eyes fell over the broad expanse below. Dim in the silenced port of the citv rose the masts of the galleys; along that mart of luxury and of labor was stilled the nightly hum. No lights, save here and there before the columns of a temple, or in the porticos of the voiceless forum, broke the wan and fluctu- ating light of the struggling morn. From the heart of the tor- pid 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 amphitheater, 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 traveler— a city of the dead.* The ocean itself — that serene and tideless sea — lay scarce less hushed, save that from its deep bosom came, softened by the distance, a faint and regular murmur, like the breathing of its sleep; and curving far, as with outstretched arms, into the green * When Sir Walter Scott visited Poiupeii with Sir William Gell, almost his only remark was the exclamation, ** The City of the Dead— the City of the Deadl" TBU LAST DATS OF POMPEII. 9d And beautiful land, it seemed unconsciously to clasp to its breast the cities sloping to its margin — Stabise, and Herculaneum, and Pompeii — ^those children and darlings of the deep. *' Ye slum- ber," said the Egyptian, as he scowled over the cities, the boast and flower of Campania; " ye slumber! — would it were the eter- nal repose of death 1 As ye now — jewels in the crown of empire — so once were the cities of the NUe! Their greatness hath per- ished from them, they sleep amid ruins, their palaces and their shrines are tombs, the serpent coils in the grass of their streets, the lizard basks in their sohtary halls. By that mysterious law of nature, which humbles one to exalt the other, ye have thriven upon their ruins; thou, haughty Rome, hast usurped the glories of Sesostris and Semiramis — thou art a robber, clothing thyself with their spoils I And these — slaves in thy triumph — that I (the last son of a forgotten monarch) survey below, reservoirs of thine all-pervading power and luxury, I curse as I behold! The time shall come when Egypt shall be avenged! when the barbarian's steed shaU make his manger in the Golden House of Nero! and thou that hast sown the wind with conquest shall reap the har- vest in the whirlwind of desolation!" As the Egyptian uttered a prediction which fate so fearfully fulfilled, a more solemn and boding image of ill omen never occurred to the dreams of painter or 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 arm outstretched from that Joftv eminence, and the glittering eyes, fierce with a savage gladness — haK prophet and half fiend! He turned his gaze from the city and the ocean; before him lay the vineyards and meadows of the rich Campania. The gate and walls — an(!ient, half Pelasgic — of the city, seemed not to bound its extent. Villas and villages stretched on every side up the ascent of Vesuvius, not nearly then so steep or so lofty as at present. For as Rome itself is built on an exhausted volcano, so in similar security the inhabitants of the South tenanted the green and vine-clad places aroimd a volcano whose fires they believed at rest for ever. 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 rock^ 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 • Or I^legrai Campi: viz., scorched or burn»d fieldg, 96 TBE LAST DAYS OF POMPEIT. heaven — save, indeed, that yet, in yon seared and blasted summit, fancy mip;ht think to read the characters of the Olvrnpiaa tnunderbolt. But it was neither the rupiged hight 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 tbe 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 crags and copses of wild foliage. At the base of this lay a marshy and unwl}olesome pool; and the intent gaze of Arbaces caught the outline of some hving form moving by the marshes, and stooping ever and anon as if to pluck its rank produce. **Ho!" said he, aloud, "I have, then, another companion in these unworldly night-watches. The witch of Vesuvius is abroad. Whatl doth she, too, as the credulous imagine — doth she, too, learn the lore of the great stars? Hath she been uttering foul magic to the moon, or culling (as her pauses betoken) foul herbs from the venomous marsh? Well, I must see this fellow-laborer. Whoever strives to know learns that no hmnan lore is despicable. Despicable only you — ye fat and bloated tilings — slaves of luxury — sluggards in thought — ^%vho cultivating nothing but the barren sense, dream that its poor soil can produce alike the myrtle and the laurel. No, the wise only can enjoy — to us only true luxury is given, when mind, brain, invention, experience, thought, learning, imagination, all contribute like rivers to swell the seas of sense! — lone!" As Arbaces uttered that last and charmed word, his thoughts sunk at once into a more deep and profound channel. His steps paused; he tookmot his eyes from the ground; once or twice he smiled joyously, and then, as lie turned from his place of vigil, and sought his couch, he muttered, "If death frowns so near, I will say at least that I have lived — lone shall be mine!" The character of Arbaces was one of those intricate and varied webs, in which ev^en 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 {)ride, which ever rankles in one of a sterner mold, who feels limself inexorably shut from the sphere in which his fathers shone, and to which Nature as well as birth no less entitles him- self. This sentiment has no benevolence; it wars with society, it sees enemies in mankind. But with this sentiment did not go its companion, poverty. Arbaces possessed wealth which equaled that of most of the Roman nobles; and tliis enabled him to gratify to the utmost the passions which had no outlet in business or ambition. Traveling from clime to clime, and beholding still Rome everjrvrhere, he increased both his hatred of society and his passion for pleasure. He was in a vast prison, which, how- ever, he could fill with the ministers of luxury. He could not escape from the prison, and his only object there- fore, was to give it the characlor of a palace. The Egyp- tians, from the earliest time, were devoted to the joy of sense-; THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. ft Ailjaces inherited both their appetite for sensuality p.n?' tlie pfiow of imagination which struck light from its rottenness, buv stiff, unsocial in his pleasures as in his graver pursuits, i*nd brooking neither superior nor equal, he admitted few to his companionship, save the willing slaves of his profligacy. He was tne solitary lord of a crowded harem; but, with all he felt condemned to that satiety which is the constant nurse 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 culti- vation of knowledge; but as it was not his object to serve man- kind, so he despised that knowledge which is practical and useful. His dark imagination loved to exercise itself in those more vision- ary and obscure researches which are ever the most delightful to a wayward and solitary mind, and to which he himself was in- vited by the daring pride of his disposition and the mysterious traditions of his clime. Dismissing faith in the confused creeds of the heathen world, he reposed the greatest faith in the power of human wisdom. He did not know (perhaps no one in that age distinctly did) the limits which Nature imposes on 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 appointed boundaries, into the land of perplexity and shadow. From the truths of astronomy he wandered into astro- logical fallacy; from the secrets of chemistry he passed into the spectral labyrinth of magic; and he who could be skeptical as to the power of tho gods, was credulously superstitious as to the power of man. The cultivation of magic, carried at that day to a singular hight among the would-be wise, was especially Eastern in its origin; it was ahen to the early philosophy of the Greeks, nor had it been received by them with favor until Oethanes, who accom- panied the army of Xerxes, introduced, among the simple credu- lities of Hellas, the solemn superstitions of Zoroaster. Under the Eoman emperors it had become, however, naturahzed 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 ApoUonius. Kings, courtiers and sages, all trembled before the professors of the dread science. And not the least remarkable of his tribe was the formidable and profound Arbaces. His fame and his discoveries were known to all the cultivators of magic; they even survived 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 appella- tion, whicViu the admixture and unsettlement of the ancient 98 THE LAST DA TS OF POMPEH. race J, had become common in the valley of the Nile; and there were various reasons, not only of pride, but of policy (for in youth he liad conspired against the majesty of Eome), which in- duced him to conceal his real name and rank. But neither by Hie name he had borrowed from the Mede, nor by that which in the colleges of Egypt would have attested his origin from kings, did the cultivators of magic acknowledge the potent master. He received from their homage a more mystic appellation, and was long remembered in Magna Grsecia and the Eastern plains by the name of " Hermes, the Lord of the Flaming Belt.' Hig subtle speculations and boasted attributes of wisdom, recorded in various volumes, were among those tokens "of the curious arts " which the Christian converts most joyfully, yet most fear- fully, burned at Ephesus, depriving posterity of the proofs of tlie 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 reasonep] I have the genius to im- pose laws, have I not the right to command my own creations? Still more, have I not the right to control — to evade — to scorn — the fabrications of yet meaner intellects than my own?" Thus, if he were a villain, he justified his villany by what ought to have made him virtuous — namely, the elevation of his capaci- ties. Most men have more or less the passion for power; in Arbaces that passion corresponded exactly to his character. It was not the passion for an external and brute authority. He desired not the purple and the fasces, the insignia of vulgar command. His youtnful ambition once foiled and defeated, scorn had supplied its place — ^his pride, his contempt for Rome — Eome, which had become the synonym of the world (Rome, whose haughty name he regarded with the same disdain as that which Rome herself lavished upon the barbarian), did not 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 Ms power from another I — 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 eartlily gifts, he loved to feel that power pal- ?ably in himself, by extending it over all wliom he encountered, 'hus had he ever fascinated and controlled tliem. He loved to find subjects in men's souls; to rule over an in^isible and imma- terial empirel had he been less sensual and less wealthy he might have sought to become the founder of a new religion. As it was, his energies were checked by his pleasures. Besides, however, the vague love of this moral sway (vanity so dear to sages!) he was influenced ])y a singular and dream-like devotion to all that belonged to the mystic Land his ancestors had swayed. Al- though he disbelieved in her deities, he believed in the allegories they represented (or rather he interpreted these allegories anew). He loved to keep alive the worship of Egypt, because he thua THE LAST DA. TS OF POMPEII. 99 maintained the shadow and the recollection of her power. He loaded, therefore, the altars of Osiris and of Isis with regal do- nations, and was ever anxious to dignify their priesthood by new and wealthy converts. The vow taken — the priesthood em- braced — he usually chose the comrades of his pleasures from those whom he had made his victims, partly because he thus se- cured to himself their secrecy, partly because he thus yet more confirmed to himself his peculiar power. Hence the motives of his conduct to Apaecides, strengthened as these were, in that in- stance, by his passion for lone. He had seldom lived long in one place; but as he grew older, he grew more wearied of the excitement of new scenes, and he had sojourned among the dehghtful cities of Campania for a period which sui-prised even himself. In fact, his pride somewliat crip- pled his choice of residence. His unsuccessful conspiracy exclud- ed him from those cKmes 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 rivaled by the minions of the court, and cast into comparative poverty by the mighty magnificence of the court itself. The Campanian cites proffered to him all that nature craved — the lux- uries of an unequaled climate— the imaginative refinements of a voluptuous civilization. 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 tiU 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 with- out attaining the object of his desires. The beauty of to-morrow succeeded the beauty of to-day, and the shadows bewildered him in his pursuit of the substance. When, two years before the present date, he beheld lone he saw, for the first time, one whom he imagined he could love. He stood, then, upon that bridge of life, from which man sees before him distinctly a wasted youth on one side, and the darkness of approaching age upon the other; a time in which we are more than ever anxious, perhaps, to se- cure 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 lone. It did not content him to love, he de- sired 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 culti- vate the mind, he had contributed willingly to form the genius and enlighten the intellect of lone, in the hope that she would then be able to appreciate what he felt would be his best 100 THE LAST DA Y8 OF POMPEH. claim to her affection; viz., a character which, however criminal and perverted, was rich in its original elements of strength and grandeur. When he felt that character to be acknowledged, he willingly allowed, nay, encouraged her, to mrx among the idle votaries of pleasure, in behef that her soul, fitted for higher commune, would miss the companionship of his own, and that, in com- parison with others, she would learn to love himself. 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 eiTor. 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 controled. Nothing kindles the fire of love like a sprinkling of the anxieties of jealousy; it takes then a wilder, a more resistless flame; it forgets its softness; it ceases to be tender; it assumes something of the intensity — of the fer- ocity — of hate. Arbaces resolved to lose no further time upon cautious and perilous preparations; he resolved to place an irrevocable barrier between himself and his rivals: he resolved to possess himself oi the person of lone; not that in his present love, so long nursed and fed by hopes purer than those of passion alone, he would have been conteated with that mere possession. He desired the heart, the soul, no less than the beauty of lone; but he imagined that once separated by a daring crime from the rest of mankind — once bound to lone by a tie that memory could not break, she would be bound to concentrate her thoughts on him — that his arts would complete his conquest, and that, according to the tnie moral of the Roman and the Sabine, the empke obtained by force would be cemented by gentler means. This resolution was yet more confirmed in him by the belief in the prophecies of the stars; t^.ey had long foretold to him this year, and even the present month, as the epoch of some dread disaster, meaning life itself. He was driven to a certain and limited date. He resolved to crowd, monarch-like, on his funeral pyre all that his soul held most dear. In his own words, if he were to die, he resolved to feel that he had lived, and that lone should be his own. CHAPTER IX. WHAT BECOMES OF lONE IN THE HOUSE OF ARBACES— THE FIRST SIGNAL OF THE W^RATH OF THE DREAD FOE. When lone entered the spacious hall of the Egyptian, the same awe which had crept over her brother impressed itself also upon her; there seemed to her as to him something ominous and warning in the still and mournful faces of those dread Theban monsters, whose majestic and passionless features the marble so well portrayed: Their look, with the reach of past ages, was wise, And the soul of eternity thought in their eyes. The tall Ethiopian slave grinned as he admitted her and mo- tioned her to proceed. Half-way up the hall she was met by Ar- THE LAST DAYS QF POMPEIL >, . < . 101 baces liimself, in fedtive robes, wjii-^li ^Jittered Wittnjev^els." »^1A though 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 lone," said Arbaces, as he bent to touch her hand, " it is you that have eclipsed the day— it is your eyes that light up the halls— it is your breath that fills them with perfumes." "You must not talk to me thus," said lone smiling: " you for- get that your lore has sufiiciently instructed my mind to render these graceful flatteries to my person unwelcome. It was you who taught me to disdain adulation; will you unteach your pupil?" There was something so frank and charming in the manner of lone, as she thus spoke, that the Egyptian was more than ever enamored, and more than ever disposed to renew the offense he had committed; he, however, answered quickly and gayly, and hastened to renew the conversation. He led her through the various chambers of a house, which seemed to contain to her eyes, inexperienced to other splendor than the minute elegance of Campanian cities, the treasures of the world. In the walls were set pictures of inestimable art, the lights shone over statues of the noblest age of Greece. Cabinets of gems, each cabinet itself a gem, filled up the interstices of the columns; the most precious woods lined the threshholds and com- posed 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 pass- ed, proffered to her offerings of bracelets, of chains, of gems, which the Egyptian vainly entreated her to receive. "I have often heard," said she, wonderingly, "that you were rich; but I never dreamed of the amount of your wealth." " Would I could coin it all," replied the Egyptian, " into one crown, which I might place upon that snowy brow!" "Alas! the weight would crush me; I should be a second Tar- peia," answered lone, laughingly. " But thou dost not disdain riches, O lone! they know not what life is capable of who are not wealthy. Gold is the great magician of earth— it realizes our dreams— it gives them the power of a god— there is a grandeur, a sublimity, in its posses- sion; it is the mightiest, yet the most obedient of our slaves." The artful Arbaces sought to dazzle the young Neapolitan by his treasures and his eloquence; he sought to awaken in her the desire to be mistress of what she surveyed ; he hoped that she would confound the owner with the possessions, and that the charms of his wealth would be reflected on himself. Meanwhile, lone was secretly somewhat uneasy at the gallantries which escaped from those lips, which; till lately, had seemed to disdain the common homage we pay to beauty; and with that delicate sub- tlety, which woman alone possesses, she sought to ward off shafts deliberately aimed, and to laugh or to talk away the Cieanij ig from his warming language. Nothing in the world ia m ^^ LAST DATS OF POMPEII. ^iove*piwtrtJ\^ tbf\it tliat'8ame*epeci^s of defense; it is the charm 6t the African necromancer who professed with a feather to turn aside the winds. The Egyptian was intoxicated and subdued oj her grace even more than by her beauty; it was with difficulty that he suppress- ed his emotions; alasl the feather was only powerful against the summer breezes — it would be the sport of the storm . Suddenly, as the\' stood in one hall, wliich 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 crimson canopy, ascended simultaneously at the feet of lone— and at the same instant from behind the curtains swelled the invisible and softest music. Arbaces placed himself at the foot of lone, and children, young and beautiful as Loves, ministered to the feast. The feast was over, the music sank into a low subdued strain, and Arbaces thus addressed his beautiful guest: ** Has thou never in this dark and uncertain world — hast thou never aspired, my pupil, to look beyond — hast thou never wished to put aside the veil of futurity, and to behold on the shores of Fate the shadowy images of things to be? For it is not the past alone that has its ghosts; each event to come has also its spec- trum — its shade; when the hour arrives, life enters it, the sha- dow becomes corporeal, and walks the world. Thus, in the land beyond the grave, are ever so impalpable and spiritual hosts — the things to be, the tilings 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." "As thou hast learned! — Can wisdom attain so far?'' "Wilt thou prove my knowledge, lone, and behold the repre- sentation of thine own fate? It is a drama more striking than those of ^schylus; it is one I have prepared for thee, if thou wilt see the shadows perform their part." The Neapolitan trembled; she thought of Glaucus, and sighed as well as trembled; were their destinies to be united? Half in- credulous, half believing, half awed, half alarmed by the words of her strange host, she remained for some moments silent, and then answered: "It may re volt — it may terrify; the knowledge of the future will perhaps only imbitter the present!"' "Not so, lone. I liave myself looked upon thy future lot, and the ghosts of thy Future bask in the gardens of Elysium; amid tlie 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 mayest enjoy it beforehand?" Again the heart of lone murmured " Glaneiis:'^ she uttered a half audible assent; the Egyptian rose, and taking her by the hand he led her across the banquet-room — tlie curtain 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 founteiins cast aloft their fragrant waters; they descended THE LAST DATS OF POMPEII. 103 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 amid alleys cut through the star-lit foli- age; or, gathered in baskets, lay like offerings at the feet of the frequent statues that gleamed along their path. ' ' Wliither wouldst thou lead me, Arbaces?" said lone, wonder- ingly. " 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 requke such holy ground." They passed into a narrow hall, at the end of which hung a sable curtain. Arbaces lifted it; lone entered, and found herself in total darkness. "Be not alarmed," said the Egyptian, *' the light will rise in- stantly." While he spoke, a soft, and warm, and gradual light diffused itself around, as it spread over each object, lone per- ceived that she was in an apartment of moderate size hung with black; a couch with draperies of the same hue was beside her. In the center of the room was a small altar, on which stood a tripod of bronze. At one side, upon a lofty column, was a colos- sal head of the blackest marble, which she perceived by the crown of wheat-ears that encircled the brow, represented the great Egyptian goddess. Arbaces stood before the altar; he had laid his garland on the shrine and seemed occupied with pouring into the tripod the contents of a brazen vase: suddenly from that tripod leaped into life a blue, quick, darting, irregular flame; the Egyptian drew back to the side of lone, and muttered some words in a language unfamiliar to her ear; the curtain at the back of the altar waved tremulously too and fro— it parted slow- ly, and in the aperture that was thus made, lone beheld an in- distinct 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 rich- est earth. At length, before the landscape, a dim shadow glided; it rested opposite to lone, slowly the same charm seemed to ope- rate upon it as over the rest of the scene; it took form and shape, and lo! — in its feature and in its form lone beheld herself! Then the scene behind the specter faded away, was succeeded by the representation of a gorgeous palace; a throne was raised in the oenter of its hall — the dim forms of slaves and guards were ranged around it, and a pale hand held over the throne the likeness of a diadem. A new actor now appeared : he was clothed from head to foot in a dark robe— his face was concealed — he knelt at the feet of the shadowy lone — he clasped her hand — he pointed to the throne, as if to invite her to ascend it. The Neapolitan's heart b6at violently. ** Shall the shadow dis- close itself?" whispered a voice beside her — ^the roice of Arbaces. *' Ah, yes!" answered lone, softly. Arbaces raised his hand — the specter seemed to drop the man- tle that concealed his form — and lone shrieked — iS ivas Arbaces kimself that thus knelt before her. 104 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. " This is indeed thy fate I" whispered again the Egyptian's voice in her ear. " And thou art d!estined to be the bride of Arbaces." lone started — the black curtain closed over the phantasmago- ria: and Arbaces himself — the real, the living Arbaces — was at her feet. "Oh, lone," said he. passionately gazing upon her; " listen to one who has long struggled vainly with his love. I adore theel The Fates do not He — 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 tiU I saw thee— .1 wake, and I behold thee. Turn not away from me, lone; think not of me as thou hast thought; I am not that being — cold, insensate, and morose, which I have seemed to thee. Never woman had lover so devoted — so passionate as I will be to lone. Do not struggle in my clasp: see — I release thy hand. Take it from me if thou wilt — well, be it sol But do not reject me, lone — do not rashly reject — judge of thy power over him whom thou canst thus transform. I who never knelt to mortal being, kneel to thee. I who have commanded fate, receive from thee my own. lone, tremble not, thou art my queen — my god- dess — be my bride! All the wishes thou canst form shall be ful- filled. The ends of the earth shall minister to thee — pomj), power, luxury, shall be thy slaves. Arbaces sliall have no ambi- tion, save the pride of obeying thee. lone, turn upon me those eyes — shed upon me thy smile. Dark is my soul when thy face is hid from it — shine over me, my sun — my heaven — ^my day- light! lone, lone — do not reject my love!" Alone, and in the power of this singular and fearful man, lone was not yet terrified; the respect of his language, the softness of his voice, reassured her; and, in her own purity, she felt protec- tion. But she was confused, astonished, it was some moments before she could recover the power to reply. " Rise, Arbaces!" said she at length; and she resigned to him ouce 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 " " r/r said he, tenderly. "Well, then, listen to me: you have been my guardian, my friend, my monitor; for this new character I was not pre- pared; think not," she added quickly, as she saw his dark eyes glitter with the fierceness of his passion — " think not that I scorn — that I am untouched — that I am not honored by this homage; but, say, canst thou hear me calmly?" " Ay, though thy words were lightning, and could blast me!" " I love another!'' said lone, blushingly, but in a firm voice. •'By the gods — by liell!" shouted Arbaces, rising to his fullest height; *' dare not tell me tliat — dare not mock me — it is im- possible! Whom Iiast thou seen — whom known! Oli, lone! 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 no* that Uiou loveet anotherl" • \ THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEIL 106 '•Alas!" began lone; and then, appalled before bis sudden and anlooked-for violence, she burst into tears. Arbaces came nearer to her— his breath glowed fiercely on her cheek; he wound liis arm round her — she sprang from his embrace. In her struggle a tablet fell from her bosom on the ground: Arbaces perceived, and seized it — it was the letter that morning received from Glaucus. lone sank upon the couch haK dead with terror. Eapidly the eyes of Arbaces ran over the writing; the Nea- pohtan 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 calm- ness — *' Is the writer of this the man thou lovest?* lone sobbed, but answered not. " Speak!" he rather shrieked than said. *' It is— it is!" "And his name — it is written here — his name is Glaucus!" "lone, clasping her hand, looked round as if for succor and escape. "Then hear me," said Arbaces, sinking his voice into a whisper; "thou shalt go to thy tomb rather than to his arms! What! thinkest thou Arbaces will brook a rival such as this puny Greek? What! thinkest thou that he has watched the fruit ripen, to yield it to another! Pretty fool— no! Tliou art mine— aU— only mine: and thus — thus I seize and claim thee!" As he* spoke he caught lone in his arms; and, in that ferocious grasp, was all th« energy — less of love than of revenge. But to lone despair gave supernatural strength; she again tore herself from him— she rushed to that part of the room by which Bhe 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 goddess. Arbaces paused for a moment, as if to regain his breath; and then once more darted upon his prey. At that instant the curtain was rudely torn aside, the Egyptian felt a fierce, strong grasp upon liis shoulder. He turned — he be- held before him the flashing eyes of Glaucus, and the pale, worn but menacing countenance of Apa&cides. " Ah 1" he muttered, as he glared from one to the other, what fury hath sent thee hither?" "Ah," answered Glaucus, and he closed at once with the Egyptian. Meanwhile, Apgecides raised his sister, now lifeless, /rom the ground; his strength, exhausted by a mind long over- wrought, did not suffice to bear her away, light and delicat« though her shape; he placed her, therefore, on the couch, and stood over her wdth a brandishing knife, w^atcliing the contest be- tween Glaucus and the Egyi^tian, and ready to plunge his weapon in the bosom of Arbaces should he be victorious in the struggle. There is, perhaps, nothiosj on earth so terrible as the naked and iOb TEE LAST DAYS OP POMFEtl, unarmed contest of animal strength, no weapon biit thoBe whiok Nature supplies to rage. But the antagomsts were now locked in eaxjh other's grasp — the hand of each seeking the throat of the other — tlie face drawn back — the fierce eyes flashing — the mus- cles strained — the veins swelled — the lips apart — the teeth set. Both were strong beyond the ordinary power of men, both ani- mated by relentless wrath. They coiled ; they wound round each other ; they rocked two and fro; they swayed from end to end of tlieir confined arena ; they uttered cries of ire and revenge. They were now before the altar, now at the base of the colunm M'here the struggle had commenced ; they drew back for breath, Arbaces leaned against the column, Glaucus a few paces apart. *' O ancient goddess I" exclaimed Arbaces, clasping the column, and raising his eyes toward the sacred image it supported, *' pro- tect thy chosen, proclaim thy vengeance against this tiling 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; tliroughthe black marble, as through a transparent veil, flushed luminously a crimson and burning hue ; around the head played and darted coruscations of livid lightning ; the eyes became like balls of lurid fire, and seemed fixed in withering and intolerable wrath upon the countenance of the Greek. Awed and appalled by this sudden and m^ystic answer to the prayer of his foe, and not free from the hereditary Buperstitions 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 munanned before his foe t Arbaces gave him not breathing time to recover his stupor : " Die, wretch,-" he shouted, in a voice of thunder, as he sprang upon the Greek ; " the Mighty Mother claims tb*^e as a living sacrifice 1" Taken thus by surprise in the first consternation of his superstitious fear, the Greek lost his footing — the marble floor was as slippery as glass — he slid — he fell. Arbaces planted his foot on the breast of his fallen foe. ApaBcides, taught by his sacred profession, as well as by his knowledge of Arbaces, to distrust all miraculous intei-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 MTench of his powerful hand tore the weapon from the weak grasp of the priest— one sweeping blow stretched him to the earth — >\ith a loud and exulting yell Arba- ces brandished the knife on high. Glaucus gazed upon his im- pending fate with unwinking eyes,*and in the stern and scornful resignation of 'a fallen gladiator, when, at that instant, the floor shook under them with a rapid and convulsive throe. A might- ier ^^pirit than that of the Egyptian was abroad — a giant and crushing power, before which sank into sudden impotence his passions and his arts. It wcke — it stirred — that Dread Demon of the Earthquake — laughing to scora 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 H^oved on its toi'tured couch — the caverns below moaned an4 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII, lOT trembled beneath the motion of one of its limbs. In the moment of his vengeance and his power, the self -prized demigod wajs 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 Avaved 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 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 divinitv he had impiously animated and invokedl " The Earth has preserved her children," said Glaucus, stagger- ing to his feet. " Blessed be the dread convulsion 1 Let us wor- ship the providence of the gods! He assisted Apaecides to rise, and then turned upward the face of Arbaces; it seemed locked as if in death; blood gushed from the Egyptian's lips over his glit- tering robes; he fell heavily from the arms of Glaucus, and the red stream trickled slowly along the marble. Again the earth shook beneath their feet; they were forced to cling to each other; the convulsion ceased as suddenly as it came; they tarried no longer; Glaucus bore lone lightly in his arms, and they fled from the unhallowed spot. But scarce had they entered the garden when they were met on all sides by flying and disordered groups of women and slaves, whose festive and glittering gar- ments contrasted in mockery the solemn terror of the hour; they did not appear to heed the strangers— they were occupied only with their oyvn fears. After the tranquillity of sixteen years, that burning and treacherous soil again menaced destruction; they uttered but one cry, '* the earthquake! the earthquake!" and passing unmolested from [the midst of them Apaecides and his companions, without entering the house, hastened down one of the alleys, passed a small open gate, and there, sitting on a little mound over which spread the gloom of the dark ?green aloes, the moonlight fell on the bended figure of the blind girl— she was weeping bitterly.] BOOK THE THIRD. 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 porticos, the baths, the temples themselves might be considered their real homes; it was no wonder that they dec- orated so gorgeously these favorite places of resort— they felt for them a soii; of domestic affection as well as a public pride. And animated was, indeed, the aspect of the forum of Ppn^eii at that m THE LA^iT DA TS OF POMPEII. rime. Along its broad pavement, composed of large flagp o^ marble, were assembled various groups, conversing in that ener- getic fashion which appropriates a gesture to every word, and •t^hich is still the characteristic of the people of the south. Here, In seven stalls en one side the colonnade, sat the money-changers, with their glittering heaps before them, and mercliauts and sea- men in various costumes crowding around the stalls. On one Bide 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 center 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 architec- ture; and there several, whose business drew them early to the place, were taking the slight morning repast which made an Italian breakfast, talking vehemently on the earthquake of the preceding night as they dipped pieces of bread in their cups of diluted wine. In the open space, too, you might perceive various traders exercising the arts of their calling. Here one man was holding out ribands to a fair dame from the country; another man was vaunting to a stout farmer the excellence of his shoes; a third, a kind of stall-restaurateur, still so common in the Italian cities, was supplying many a hungry mouth with hot messes from his small and itinerant stove, while — contrast strongly typi- cal of the mingled bustle and intellect of the time — close by, a schoolmaster was expounding to his puzzled pupils the elements of the Latin grammar. A gallery above the portico, which was ascended by small wooden staircases, had also its throng; though, as here the immediate business of the place was mainly carried on, its groups wore a more quiet and serious air. Every now and then the crowd below resi)ectfully 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 among the throng. Ming- ling amid the gay dresses of the better orders you saw the hardy forpas 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 bevond swarming with in- habitants; in one of the niches of the arch a fountain played, cheerily sparkling in tlie sunbeams; and above its cornice rose the bronzed and equestrian statue of Caligula, strongly contrast- ing 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 vesti- bule which admitted to the interior, with panniers under their arms, pressing on toward a platform, placed between two col- umns, where such provisions as the priests had rescued from sacrifice were exposed for sale. ^ At one of the public edifices appropriated to the business of the dty, workmen were employed upon the columns, and you heard t|ie noise of their labor every riow and then rising ei,bgv^ th^ THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 1C9 hum of the multitude : the columns arg unfinished to this day I iVll, then, united, nothing could exceed in variety the costumes, the ranks, the manners, the occupations of the crowd; nothing could exceed the bustle, the gayet}^ the animation, the flow and flush of life all around. You saw there all the myriad signs of a heated and feverish civilization — where pleasure and commerce, idleness and labor, avarice and ambition, mingled in one gulf their motley, rushing, yet harmonious, streams. Facing the steps of the Temple of Jupiter, Math folded arms, and a knit and contemptuoi:s 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 eflacacious 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 a 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 popular hue with the Pompeians; all the usual admixtures of scarlet or purple seemed carefully excluded. His belt, or girdle, contained a small recep- tacle for ink, which hooked on the girdle, a stilus (or instrument of writing), and tablets of no ordinary size. What was rather remarkable, the cincture held no purse, which was the almost indispensable appurtenance of the girdle, even when that purse had the misfortune to be empty! It was not often that the gay and egotistical Pompeians busied themselves with observing the countenances and actions of their neighbors; but there was that in the lip and eye of this by-stander 80 remarkably bitter and disdainful, as he surveyed the religious procession sweeping up the stairs of the temple, that it could not fail to arrest the notice of many. "Who is yon cynic?" asked a merchant of his companion, a jeweler. *'It is Olinthus," replied the jeweler; "a reputed Nazarene." The merchant shuddered. "A di*ead sect!" said he, in a whispered and fearful Toice. '*Itis said, that when they meet at nights they always commence their ceremonies by the murder of a new born babe: they profess a community of goods, too — the wretches ! A community of goods ! What would become of merchants, or jewelers either, if such notions were in fashion." " That is very true," said the jeweler; "besides, they wear no jewels — they mutter imprecations when they see a serpent; and at Pompeii all our ornaments are serpentine." *' Do but observe,' said a thu-d, who was a fabricant of bronze, *'how yon Nazarene scowls at the piety of the sacrificial process sion. He is murmuring curses on "the temple, be sure. Do you know, Celcinus, that tliis 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 broB?:© wa& too strong iov \mi' * ^ye^ a goddess I ' mid 110 THE LAST DA YS OF POMPEJT. I. *A goddess I' answered the atheist; *it is a demon— an evil spirit 1 ' Then lie passed on his way cursing. Are such things to be borne? What marvel that the earth heaved so fearfully kist night, anxious to reject the atlieist from her bosom? An atheifet, do I say? worse still — a scorner of the Fine Arts 1 Woe to us fabricants of bronze, if such fellows as this give the law to society I " "These are the incendiaries that burned Rome under Nero," groaned the jeweler. 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 afterward of compassion, he gathered his cloak round him and passed on, muttering audibly, "Deluded idolaters I — did not last night's convulsion warn ye? Alas ! how will ye meet the last day?" The crowd that heard these boding words gave them different interpretations, according to their different shades of ignorance and of fear; all, however, concurred in imagining them to con- vey some awful imprecation. They regarded the Christian as the enemy of mankind; the epithets they lavished upon him, of w hich " Atheist " was the most favored and frequent, may serve, perhaps, to warn us, believers of that same creed now triumph- ant, how we indulge the persecution of opinion Olinthus then underwent, and how we apply to those whose notions differ from our own the terms at that day lavished on the fathers of our faith. As Olinthus stalked through the crowd, and gained one of the more private places of egress from the fonmi, he perceived gaz- ing 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 Apaecides surveyed the disciple of that new and mys- terious 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 auster- ity the robe of the sensualist? Does the veil of Vesta hide the vices of the prostitute?" Olinthus, accustomed to men of all classes, and combining with the enthusiasm of his faith a profound experience of his kind, guessed, i)erhaps, by the index of the countenance, some- thing 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!" said he, saluting Apeecidee. " Peace!" echoed the priest, in so liollow a tone that it went at once to the heart of the Nazarene. •* In that wish," continued Olinthus, " all good things are com- bined — without vii-tue thou canst not have peace. Like the rain- bow. Peace rests upon the earth, but its arch is lost in heaven! Heaven bathes it in hues of light— it springs up amid tears and THE LAST DaXS OF POMPEII 111 clouds— it is a reflection of the Eternal Sun— it is an assurance of •aim— it is the sign of a great covenant between Man and God. Such peace, Oh, young man I is the smile of the soul; it is an emanation from the distant orb of immortal light. Peace be with you I" , , - A.1. " Alas I" began Apsecides, when he caught the gaze of the cu- rious loiterers, inquisitive to know what could possibly be the theme of conversation between a reputed Nazarene and a priest of Isis. He stopped short, and then added in a low tone—" We cannot converse here. I will follow thee to the banks of the river; there is a walk which at tliis time is usually deserted and solitary. . OUnthus 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 shght sign, with some pas- senger, whose garb usually betokened the wearer to belong to the humbler classes; for Christianity was in this the type of all other and less mightv revolutions— the grain of mustard-seed was in the hearts of the lowly. Amid the huts of poverty and labor, the vast stream which afterward poui'ed its broad waters beside the cities and palaces of earth, took its neglected source. CHAPTER n. THE NOONDAY EXCURSION ON THE CAMPANIAN SEAS. " But teU me, Glaucus," said lone, as they glided down the rippling Samus in their boat of pleasure, *' how earnest thou with Apaecides to my rescue from that bad man?" *' Ask Nydia yonder," answered the Athenian, pointing to the bhnd girl, who sat at a little distance from them, leaning pen- sively over her lyre; '' she must have thy thanks, not we. It seems that she came to my house, and finding me from home, sought thy brother in his temple; he accompanied her to Arbaces; on their way they encountered me, with a company of friends, whom thy kind letter had given me a spirit cheerful enough to join. Nydia's quick ear detected my voice— a few words sufficed to make me the companion of Apascides; I told not my associ- ates why I left them— could I trust thy name to their light tongues and gossiping opinion? Nydia led us to the garden-gate, by which we afterward bore thee — we entered, and were about to plunge into the mysteries of that evil house, when we heard thy cry in another diiection. Thou knowest the rest." lone blushed deeplv. 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 Thessahan. "Did I not tell thee that thou shouldst be my sister and friend? Hast thou not abready been more?— my guardian, my preserver I" " It is nothing," answeted Nydia coldly, and without stirring. " Ahl I forgot," continued lone, "I should come to thee;" and she moved along the benches till she reached the place where Nydia sat, and flinging her arms c?are«singly around her, covered her cheeks with kisses. |1« THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. Nydia was that morning paler than her wont, and her counte- uance grew even more wan and colorless as she submitted to the embrace of the Neapolitan. *' But how earnest thou, Nydla," whispered lone, "to surmise so faithfully the danger I was ex- posea to? Didst thou know aught of the Egj-ptian?" " Yes, I knew of his vices." " And how?" " Noble lone, I have been a slave to the vicious— those whom I served were his minions." " And thou hast entered his house, since thou knewest so well that private entrance?" " I have played on my lyre to Arbaces," answered the Thesssr lian with embarrassment." " And thou hast escaped the contagion from which thou hast saved lone!" returned the NeapoUtan, in a voice too low for the 9ar of Glaucus. " Noble lone, I have neither beauty nor station; I am a chUd, and a slave, and blind. The despicable are ever safe." It was with a pained, and proud, and indignant tone that Nydia made this humble reply; and lone felt that she only wounded Nydia by pursuing the subject. She remained silent, and the bark now floated into the sea. "Confess that I was right, lone," said Glaucus, "in prevailing on thee not to waste this beautiful noon in thy chamber — confess that I was right," " Thou wert right, Glaucus," said Nydia abruptly. " The dear child speaks for thee," returned the Athenian. "But permit me to move opposite to thee, or our light boat will be overbalanced." So saying, he took his seat directly opposite to lone, and lean- ing forward, he fancied that it was her breath, and not the winds of summer, that flung fragrance over the sea. " Thou wert to tell me," said Glaucus, " why for so many days thy door was closed to me." "Oh, think of it no morel" answered lone quickly; "I gave my ear to what I know was the malice of slander." " And my slanderer was the Egyptian?" lone's silence assented to the question, " His motives are sufficiently obvious." "Talk not of him," said lone, covering her face with her hands, as if to shut out his very thought. ' 'Perhaps he may be already by the banks of the slow Styx," resumed Glacus; " yet in that case we should have heard of his death. Thy brother, methinks, hath felt the dark influence of his gloomy soul. When we aiTived 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 lone, tear- fully. "Would that we could lure him from himself 1 Let us join in that tender office." " He shall be my brother," returned the Greek. " How calmly," said lone, rousing herself from the gloom into which her thoughts of Apa3cides had plunged her, " how calmly the clouds seem to repose in th« heaven; and yet you tell me, for THE LAST BAYS OF POMPEH, 113 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 earthquake, Nydia, wh^e thou wert seated last night? and was it not the fear that it occasioned thee that made thee weep?" *' I felt the soil creep and heave beneath me, like some mons- trous serpent?" answered Nydia; "but as I saw nothing, I did not fear, I imagined the convulsion to be a spell of the Egyptian's. They say he has power over the elements." " Thou art a Thessalian. my Nydia," replied Glaucus, "and hast a national right to believe in magic." "Magic! — who doubts it?" answered Nydia, simply; "dost thou?" "Until last night (when a necromantic prodigy did indeed appal me), methinks I was not credulous in any other magic save that of love!" said Glaucus, in a tremulous voice, and fixing his eyes on lone. "Ah!" said Nydia, with a sort of shiver, and she awoke me- chanically 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 own old Thessalian songs, whether it be of magic or not, as thou wilt — let it, at least, be of love!" " Of love!" repeated Nydia, raising her large, wandering eyes, that ever thrilled those who saw them with a mingled fear and pity; you could never famiharize yourself to the 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 im- pression, 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 lone, still cast round her, as if that soft embrace embarrassed ; and placing her light graceful instrument on her knee, after a short prelude, she sang the following strain: NTDIA'S LOVE SONG. The "Wind and the Beam loved the Rose, And the Rose loved one; For who recks the wind where it blows? Or loves not the sun? None know whence the humble wind otolo. Poor spirit of the skies— lU THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEH None dreamt that the wind had a eonl In its mournful sighs 1 Oh, happy Beam! how can't thou proT* That bright love of thine? Im thy light is the proof of thy love, Thou hast but — to shine 1 How its love can the Wind revealf Unwelcome its sigh; Mute — mute to the rose let it steal — Its proof is— to diel "Thou singest but sadly, sweet girl," said Glaucus; "thy youth only feels as yet the dark shadow of Love; far other in- spiration doth he wake, when he himself bursts and brightens upon us." "I sing as I was taught," replied Nydia, sighing. ** Thy master was love-crossed then — try thy hand at a gayer air. Nay, girl> gi^e tt^e instrument to me." As Nydia obeyed, her hand touched his, and vvith that slight touch, her breast heaved — her cheek flushed. lorie and Glaucus, occupied with each other, perceived not those signs of strange and premature emotions, which preyed upon a heart that, nourished by imagination, dis- pensed with hope. And now, broad, blue, bright before them, spread that halcyon sea, fair as at this moment, seventeen centuries from that date, I behold it rippling on the same divinest shores. Clime that yet enervates with a soft and Circean spell— that molds us insensibly, mysteriouslv, into harmony with thyself, banishing the thought of austerer labor, the voices of wild ambition, the contests and the roar of life; filling us with gentle and subduing dreams, making necessary to our nature that which is its least earthly por- tion, so that the very air inspires us with a 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 breatliing time. Flower of the world^s gar- den — Fountain of Delight — Italy of Italy — beautiful, benign Campania! — vain were, indeed, the Titans, if on this spK)t they yet struggled for another Heaven. Here, if God meant this working- day life for a perpetual holiday, who would not sigh to dwell forever — asking notning, hoping nothing, fearing nothiag, while thy skies shine over him — while thine air brought him sweet messages from the violet and the orange, and while the heart, resigned to — beating with — but one emotion, could find the lips and the eyes, which flatter it (vanity of vanities!) that love can defy custom, and be eternal? It was then in this clime, on these shores, that the Athenian gaaed upon a face that might have suited the nymph, the spirit of the place; feeding his eyes on the changeful ro86B of that soft TEE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 115 est cheek, happy beyond the happiness of common life, loving and knowing himself beloved. In the tale of the human passion, in past ages, there is some- thing of interest even in the remoteness of the time. We love to feel within us the bond which unites the most distant eras — men, nations, customs, perish; the affections are immortal! — they are the sympathies which unite the ceaseless generations. The past lives again, when we look upon its emotions — it lives in our own! That which was, ever is! The magician's gift, that revives the dead — that animates the dust of forgotten graves, is not in the author's skill — it is in the heart of the reader! Still vainly seeking the eyes of lone, as half downcast, half- averted, they shunned his own, the Athenian, in a low and soft voice, thus expressed the feelings inspired by happier thoughts tlian those winch had colored the song of Nydia. THE SONG OF GLAUCUS. As the bark floateth on o'er the summer-lit sea, Floats my heart o'er the deeps of its passion for thee; All lost in the space, without terror it glides, For bright with thy soul is the face of the tides. Now heaving, now hush'd, is that passionate ocean, As it catches thy smile or thy sighs; And the twin-stars* that shine on the wanderer's devotion. Its guide and its god— are thine eyes! The bark may go down, should the cloud sweep above, For its being is bound to the light of thy love. As thy face 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 tim» 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!" ^s the last words of the song trembled over the sea, lone I wised her looks — they met those of her lover. Happy Nydia! — happy in thy aflfliction, 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 impossibiUty 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 mirth- ful in your strain!" "Yet I meant it to be so, when I took up the lyre, pretty one. Perhaps happiness will not permit us to be mirthful." '* How strange is it," said lone, changing a conversation which oppressed her while it charmed — " that for the last several days * In allusion to the Dioscuri, or twin-stars, the guardian deity of the seamen. 116 TEE LAST DAYS OF POMPEIL yonder cloud has hung motionless over Vesuvius! Yet not In- deed motionless, for sometimes it changes its form; and now methinks it looks like some vast giant, with an arm out- stretched over the city. Dost thou see likeness — or is it only to my fancy?" "Fair lonel I see it also. It is astonishingly distinct. The giant seems seated on the brow of the mountain, the different •hades of the cloud appear to form a white robe that sweeps over its vast breast and nmbs; 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?) toward the higher heaven. It is like the ghost of some huge Titan brooding over the beautiful world he lost; sorrowful for the past — yet with something of menace for the future." *' Could that mountain have any connection with the last night's earthquake? They say that, ages ago, almost in the earli- est era of tradition, it gave forth fires as ^tna still. Perhaps the flames yet lurk and dart beneath." '* It is possible," said Glaucus, musingly. '^* Thou sayest thou art slow to believe in magic?" said Nydia suddenly. "I have heard that a potent witch dwells among the scorched caverns of the mountain, and yon cloud may be the dim shadow of the demon she confers with." *' Thou art full of the romance of thy native Thessaly," said Glaucus; "and a strange mixture of sense and all conflicting superstition." *' "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 beauti- ful, and lone also. Are your faces the same? I fancy not, yet it ought to be so!" "Fancy no such grievous wrong to lone." answered Glaucus, laughing. "But we do not, alas! resemble each other, as the homely and beautiful sometimes do. lone's hair is dark, mine light; lone's eyes are — what color, lone? I cannot see, turn them to me. Oh, are they black? no, they are too soft. Are they blue? no, they are too deep; they change with every ray of the sun — 1 know not their color; but mine, sweet Nydia, are gray, and bright only when lone shines on them! lone's cheek is " " I do not understand one word of thy description." inter- rupted Nydia, peevishly. " I comprehend only that you do not resemble each other, and I am glad of it." "Why, Nydia?" said lone. Nydia colored slightly. "Because," she replied coldly, "I have always imagined you under different forms, and one likes to know one is right, you knc^v." " And what hast thou imagined Glaucus to resemble?' said lone, softly. " Music!" rephed Nydia, looking down. ** Thou art right," thought lone. ** And what likeness hast thou ascribed to lone?" ** I cannot tell yet," answered the blmd girl; " I have not yei THE LAST DATS OP POMPEII lit 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— hke tiie wave that refreshes." '•The sun sometimes scorches, and the wave sometimes drowns," answered Nydia. " Take, then, these roses," said Glaucus; " let their fragrance suggest lone." " Alas, the roses will fade," said the Neapolitan, with a sigh. Thus conversing, they wore away the hours: the lovers, con- scious only of the brightness and smiles of love; the blind girl feehng only its darkness— its tortures— the fierceness of jealousy and all its woe! And now, as they drifted on, Glaucus once more resumed the lyre, and woke its strings with a careless hand to a strain so wildly 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 re- deem the character of love's music, and that I was wrong in say- ing happiness could not be gay. Listen, Nydia I listen, dear lone I and hear: THE BIRTH OF LOVE.* I. Like a Star in the seas above, Like a Dream to the waves of sleep, Up— up — THE INCAKNATE LOVE— She rose from the charmed deepi And over the Cyprian Isle The skies shed their silent smile; And the Forest's green heart was rife With the stir of the gushing life — The life that had leap'd to birth, In the veins of the happy earth! Hail! oh, hail! The dimmest sea-cave below thee, The farthest sky-arch above, In their innermost stillness know thee, And heave with the Birth of Love. Gale! soft Gale! Thou comest on thy silver winglets, From thy home in the tender west; f Now fanning her golden ringlets, Now hush'd on her heaving breast. And afar on the murmm-ing sand. The Seasons shall wait hand in hand To welcome thee, Birth Divine, To the earth which is henceforth thine. II. Behold! how she kneels in the shell. * Suggested by a picture of Venus rising from the sea taken from Pom- peii, and now in the Museum of Naples. t According to the ancient mythologists. Venus rose from the sea near Cyprus, to which island she was wafted by the Zephyrs. The sea- «ons waited to welcome her on the searshore. 118 THE LAST DATS OF POMPEII. Bright pearl in its floating cell! Behold I how the .shell's rose-hues, The cheek and the breast of snow, And the delicate limbs sjiflfuse Like a blush, with a bashful glow. Sailing on, slowly sailing O'er the wild water: Ml hail! as the fond light is hailing Her daughter All hail I We are thine, all thine evermore; Not a leaf on the laughing shore, Not a wave on the heaving sea, Nor a single sigh In the boundless sky, But is vow'd evermore to theel III. And thou, my beloved one — then, 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; Seel she breaks from the mystic shell. She comes from the tender eyesl 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 haill CHAPTER nX THE CONGREGATION. Followed by Apaecides, the Nazarene gained the side of the Samus — that nver, 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, tlie vines, the palacea and the temples of Pompeii. From its more noisy and frequent- ed banks, OUnthus directed his steps to a path which ran amid 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 Egyptian pyramids, sometimes into the let- ters that composed the name of a popular or eminent citizen. Thus the false ta.ste is equally ancient as the pure; and the retired traders of Hackney and Paddington, a centurv ago, were little twar«, perhaps, tiiat in their tortured yews and sculptured bos THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEIt 119 they found their models in the most polished period of Ro- man 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 sohtude. 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 smgular and contrasted pair; the believer in the latest— the pnest of the most ancient— worsliip of the world' '' Since thou leftst me so abruptly," said Olinthus, ''hast thou been happy? has thy heart found contentment under these priest- ly robes? hast thou, still yearning for the voice of God, heard it whisper comfort to thee from the oracles of Isis? That sigh, that averted countenance, give me the answer my soul predicted." ♦'Alas!" answered Apsecldes, 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 hoHness of men who, in caves and lonely temples, have been admitted to companionship of beings above the world; my days have been consumed with feverish and vague desires, my nights with mock- mg but solemn visions. Seduced by the mystic prophecies of an impostor, I have indued these robes— my nature (1 confess it to thee frankly)— my nature has revolted at what I have seen and been doomed to share in! Searching after truth, I have become but the minister of falsehoods. On tne evening in which we last ^, ., perjury and sin to rashness and to sorrow. The veil is now rent from my eyes; I behold a villain where I obeyed a demigod; the earth darkens in my sight; I am in the deepest abyss of gloom; I know not if there be gods above; if we are the things of chance; if beyond the bounded and mel- ancholv present there is annihilation or a hereafter— tell me, then, thy faith; solve me these doubts, if thou hast indeed the power I" **I do not marvel," answered the Nazarene, *' that thou hast thus erred, or that thou art thus skeptic. Eighty years ago there was no assurance to man of God, or of a certain and definite fu- ture beyond the grave. New laws are declared to him who has ears— a heaven, a tme Olympus, is revealed to him who has eyes —heed, then, and listen." And with all the earnestness of a man beHeving ardently him- self, and zealous to convert, the Nazarene poured forth to Apse- cides the assurances of Scriptural promise. He spoke first of the sufferings and miracles of Christ— he wept as bespoke; he turned next to the glories of the Saviour's ascension— to the clear pre- dictions of Revelation. He described that pure and unsensual heaven destined to the virtuous— those fires and torments that were the doom of guilt. The doubts which spring up to the minds of later reasoners, m the immensity of the sacrifice of Qod to man, were oot 120 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. such as would occur to an early heathen. He had been accus- tomed to believe that the gods had lived upon earth, and taken upon themselves the forms of men; had shared in human pas- sions, in human labors, and in hmnan 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. Had not the great Dorian Apollo expiated a mystic sin by descend- ing to the grave? Those who were the deities of heaven had been the law-givers or benefactors on eai'th, 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 after 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 tlirough the gates of death! Was it not worthy of a God to descend to these dim vaUeys, in order to clear up the clouds gathered over the dark mount beyond — to satisfy the doubts of sages — to convert speculation into certainty — by example to point out the rules of life — by revelation to solve the enigma of the grave — and to prove that the soul did not yearn in vain when it dreamed of an immortality ? In this last was the great argument of those lowly men destined to convert the earth. As notliing is more flattering to the pride and the hopes of man than the belief in a future state, so nothing could be more vague and con- fused than the notions of the heathen sages upon the mystic subject. Apaecides had already learned that the faith of the philosophers was not that of the herd; that if they secretly pro- fessed a creed in some diviner power, it was not the creed which they thought it wise to impart to the community. He had already learned, that even the priest ridiculed what he preached to the people — that the notions of the few and the many were never united. But, in this new faith, it seemed to him that the philosopher, priest and people, the expounders of the religion and its followers, were alike accordant: they did not speculate and debate upon immortality, they spoke of it as a thing certain and assured; the magnificence of the promise dazzled him — its consolations soothed. For the Cliristian faith made its early converts among sinners! may 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 assui'ances of this heahng faith invited to repentance — they were peculiarly adapted to the bruised and sore in 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 selec and a chosen few; listen there to our prayers; note the sincerity of our repentant tears; mingle m our simple sacrifice — not of victims, nor of garlands, Imt offered by wliite-robed thought, upon the altar of the heart. The flowei*s that we lay there are THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 191 imperisliable — they bloom over us when we are no more; nay, they accompany us beyond the grave, they spring up beneath our feet in Heaven, they delight us with an eternal odor, for they are of the soul, they partake of its nature; these offerings are temptations overcome, and sins repented. Come, oh, come! lose not another moment; prepare already for the great, the awful journey, from darkness to hght, from sorrow to bliss, from corruption to immortaUty! 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 among us are gathered together even now. What joy, what triumph, will be with us all, if we can hi-ing one stray lamb int<:" the sacred fold!" There seemed to Apseoides, so naturally pure of heart, some- thing ineffably generous and benign in that spirit of conversion 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 liis benefit, for his salvation! He drew his cloak round him, so as wholly to cx)nceal his robes, and said, *' Lead on, I follow thee." Olinthus pressed his hands joyfully, and then descended to the river side, hailed one of the boats that phed there constantly; they entered it; an awning overhead, whUe 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 ghding toward the sea. " So," said Olinthus, sadly, "unconscious and mirthful in their delusions, sail the votaries of luxmy 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 lone. The lovers were embarked on th« excursion at which we have been made present. The priest sighed, and once more sank back upon his seat. They reached the shore where, in the suburbs, an alley of small and mean houses stretched toward the bank; they dismissed the boat, landed, and Olinthus, preceding the priest, tlireaded 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 ApsBcides followed his guide across the threshold. They passed a deserted ati'ium, 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 sorbed reverie and absent eyes of a man in love, and did not note the form of the poor blind girl, bendiug 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 bad been counting the moments to his return. He had scarcely entered his favorite chamber, which opened on the peristyle, and seated liimself musingly on his couch, wlien he felt his robe timorously touclieil, and turning, he beheld Nydia kneeling before liim, and holding up to him a handful of flowors — a gentle and appro])riate i)eace offering — hec eyes, darkly upheld to liis own, stnamtMl with tears. "I have offended thee," said she, sobbing, "and for the first time. I would die rather than cause thee a moment's pain — say * Several bracelets, chains, and jewels were found in the houiSQ, THE LAST DA TS OF POMPEII. 129 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^vhy,my child, wert thou so suddenly angry? I could not divine tb*» cause!" " Do not ask!" 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 wUl 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 necessar}^ alike to man and to woman: it is the tme senatorial toga, the badge of the dignity it covers." "Self-control! self-control! Well, weU, what you say is rightl When I hsten 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 I 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 your- self? Can you conceal, can you even regulate, your love for lone?" " Love! dear Nydia: ah! that is quite another matter," an- swered the young preceptor. "I thought so!" returned Nydia, with a melancholy smile. " Glaucus, wilt thou take my poor flowers? Do with them aa thou wUt— thou canst give them to lone," added she, with a little hesitation. "Nay, Nydia," answered Gaucus kindly, divining something of jealousy in her language, though he imagined it only the jeal- ousy 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 liight; it is not the first those delicate fingers have woven for me." The poor girl defightedly sat down beside Glaucus. She drew from her girdle a ball of the many-colored threads, or rather slender ribands, used in the weaving of garlands, and which (for it was her professional occupation) she carried constantly with her, and began quickly and gracefully to commence her task. Upon her young cheeks the tears were already dried, a faint but happy smile played round her lips; — child-hke, indeed, she was sensible only of the joy of the ptreseut hour; she was reconciled tp Glaucus; he had forgiven her — she wge beside lum — he played 130 ^HE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. caressingly Trith her silken hair — his breath fanned her cheek—* lone, the cruel lone, was not by — none other demanded, divided, his care. Yes, she was happy and forgetful; it was one of the few moments in her brief and troubled life that it w^as sw^eet 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 sliall blast it before the eve — she rested beneatii a beam, which, by contrast with the wonted skies, was not chilling; and the instinct which would have warned her of its briefness, bade her only gladden in its emile. " Thou hast beautiful locks," said Glaucus. ** they were once, I ween weU, a mother's delight." Nydia sighed ; it would seem that she had not been born a slave; but she ever shunned the mention of her parentage, and, whether obscure or noble, certain it is that her birth was never known by her benefactors nor by any in those distant shores, even to the last. The child of sorrow and of mystery, she came and went as some bird that enters our chamber for a moment; we see it flutter for a while before us, w^e know not whence it flew or to what region it escapes. Nydia sighed, and after a short pause, without answering the remark, said — . " But do I weave too many roses in my wreath, Glaucus? Th^y tell me it is thy favorite flower." "And ever favored, my Nydia, belt 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 Morth the having; it is scattered above our sepulcher when we are no more." *' Ayl would," said Nydia, " instead of this perishable wreath, that I could take thy web from the hand of the Fates, and insert the roses ihere"^ *' 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? ]\Iy wish was vain. The Fate will be as tender to thee as I should." *' It might not be so, Nydia, w^ere it not for love. While youth lasts, I may forget my country for a while. But what Atlienian, in his gi-aver miinhood, can think of Athens as she was, and be contented tliat he is happy while she is fallen? — fallen, and forever!" "And why forever?*' "As ashes cannot be rekindled — as love once dead never can revive, so freedom departed from a people is never regained. But talk we not of these matters unsuited to thee." "Tome, oil! tliou errest. I, too, liave 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 liearts of their worshipers, seen in the In^auty of thi'ir clime; they tell me it is beautiful, and I have felt its airs, to which even tbfi«» aje harsh— its sun, to wlu'cli thet'e skies &re chilL ph! tekUi \o mo The last days op pompeit. m of Greece! Poor fool that I am, I can comprehend thee, and methinks, had I yet Hngered on those shoi'es, 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 Platoea. 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 en- thusiasm of the blind Thessalian, and half rising. " But no; the sun has set, and the night only bids us be forgetful — and in for- getfulness 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 afterward, by the voice of Nydia, as she sang in a low tone the following words, which he had once taught her: THE APOLOGY FOR PLEASURE. Who will assume the bays That the hero wore ? Wreaths on the Tomb of Days Gone evermore ! Who shall disturb the brave, Or one leaf of their holy grave ? The laurel is vow'd to them. Leave the bay on its sacred stem I But this, the rose, the fading rose, Alike for slave and freeman grows ! If Memory sits beside the dead With tombs her only treasure j;/ If Hope is lost and freedom fled, The more excuse for Pleasure. Come, weave the wreath, the roses weave, The rose at least is our.?; To feeble hearts our fathers leave, In pitying scorn, the flowers ! 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 I Glaucopis forsakes her own, The angry gods forget us ; Biit yet, the blue streams along^ Walk the feet of the silver Song; And the night-bird wakes the noon; And the bees in the blushing moon Haunt the heart of the old Hymettus I We are fallen, but not forlorn. If something is left ho cherish; As Love was th^ earliest born; So Love is the last to perish. Wreathe then the roses, wreathe The Beautifdx, still is ours. While the stream shall flow, and the sky shall glow. The Beautiful still is ours ! Whatever is fair, or soft, or Toright, I8ft ^HE LAST DA tS OF P03fPETl In the lap of day or the arms of night, Whispers oiir soul of Greece — of Greece, And hushes our care with a voice of peace. Wreathe tlicii tlie roses, wreathe I They tell me of earlier hours; And I hear the heart of my Country breathe From the lips of the Stranger's flowers. CHAPTER V. NYDIA ENCOUNTERS JITLIA. — INTERVIEW OP THE HEATHEN SISTER AND CONVERTED BROTHER.— AN ATHENIAN'S NOTION OP CHRIS- TIANITY. " What happiness to lone 1 what bhss to be ever by the side of Glaucus, to hear his voice I And she too can see him 1" Such was the soliloquy of the blind girl, as she walked alone and at twilight to the house of her new mistress, whither Glaucus had already preceded her. Suddenly she was interrupted in her fond thoughts by a female voice. "Blind flower-girl, whither goest thou? There is no pannier under thine arm; hast thou sold all thy flowers?" The person thus accosting Nydia was a lady of a handsome, but a bold and unmaidenly, countenance; it was Julia, the daughter of Diomed. Her veil was half raised as she spoke; she was accompanied by Diomed himself, and by a slave carrying a lantern before them — the merchant and his daughter were re- turning home from a supper at one of their neighbor's. "Dost thou not remember my voice?'' continued Julia. *'I am the daughter of Diomed the wealthy." '* Ah! forgive me; yes, I recall the tones of your voice. No, noble Julia, I have no flowers to sell." *' I heard thou wert purchased by the beautiful Greek, Glau- cus; is that ti-ue, pretty slave?" asked Julia. " I serve the Neapolitan, lone," replied Nydia, evasively. "Ah! and it is true, then — " " Come, come!" interrupted Diomed, with his cloak up to his mouth, " the night grows cold; I can not 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 Juha. with an air of one not accustomed to be refused; " I have much to ask of thee; come." " I cannot this night, it grows late," answered Nydia. " I must be at home; I am not free, noble Julia." " What! the meek lone will chide thee? Ay, I doubt not she is a second Thalestris. But come, then, to-morrow; do — remem- ber I have been thy friend of old." " I will obey thy wishes," answered Nydia; and Diomed again impatiently summoned liis daughter; she was obliged to proceed, with the main question she had desired to put to Nydia, un- asked. Meanwhile we return to lone. The interval of time that had elaiised that day between the first and second visit of Glaucus Jjad not been too gayly spent; she had received a letter from her THE LAST DATS OF POMPEII, 133 brother. Since the night he had assisted in saving her from the Egjrptian, she had not before seen liim. Occupied with his own thoughts — thoughts of so serious and intense a nature — the young priest had thought little uf Ills sis- ter; in truth, men perhaps of that fervent order of mind which is aspiring above earth, are but little prone to the earthlier affec- tions; and it had been long since Apaecideshad sought those soft and friendly interchanges of thought, those sweet confidences, which in his earUer youth had bound him to lone, and which are so natural to that endearing connection which existed be- tween them. lone, however, had not ceased to regret liis estrangement; she attributed it, at present, to the engrossing duties of liis severe fraternity. And often, amid all her bright hopes, and her new attachment to her betrothed — often, when she thought of her betrothed — often, when she thought of her brother's brow pre- maturely fun-owed, his unsmiling lip, and bended frame, she sighed to think that his service of the gods could tlirow so deep a shadow over that earth which the gods created. But this day when he visited her there was a strange calm- ness on his features, a more quiet and self-possessed expression on his sunken eyes, than she had marked for years. This appar- ent improvement was but momentary — it was a false calm, which die least breeze could ruffle. ''May the gods bless thee, my brother 1" said she, embracing him. "The gods I Speak not thus vaguely; perchance there is but one God!" *' My brother!" " What if the sublime faith of the Nazarene be true? What if God be a monarch — One — Invisible — Alone? What if these num- erous, countless deities, whose altars fill the earth, be but evil demons, seeking to wean us from the true creed? This may be the case, lone!" " Alas! can we believe it? or if we believed, would it not be a melancholy faith?" answered the Neapolitan. *'WhatI all this beautiful world made only human! — ^the mountain disenchanted of its Oread — the waters of their Nymph — that beautiful prodi- gality 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, Apsecides; all that is brightest in our hearts is that very credulity which peoples the universe with gods. lone answered as a believer in the poesy 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 humble, action of their lives was entwined with it — it was a portion of life itself, as the flowers are apart of the thyrsus. At every incident they recurred to a god, every cup of wine was prefaced by a libation, the very garlands on then- thresholds were to some divinity; their ancestors themselves, made holy, presided i»s I^ares evtejc their hearth and hall. So abundant was belief with 134 THE L^iSr DA YS OF POMPElt them, that ^n their ovra climes, at this hofur, idoLitry has neve* thoroughly been outrooted; it changes but its objects of worship, it appears to innuiiicrable saiuts where once it resorted to divin- ities: and it pours its crowds, iu listening reverence, to the oracles at the shrines of St. Januarius or St. Stephen, instead of to those of Isis or Ai)ollo. But these superstitions were not to the early Cliristians the object of contempt so much as of horror. TJiey did not believe, with tlie quiet skepticism of the heathen philoso])hcr, that the gods were inventions of the priests; nor even, with the vidgar, that, according to the dim light of history, they had been mortals like themselves. They imagined the heathen divinities to be evil spirits — they transplanted to Italy and to Greece the gloomy demons of India and the East; and in Jupiter or in Mars they shuddered at the representative of Moloch or of Satan. Apaecides had not yet adopted formally the Christian faith, but he was ah-eady on the brink of it. He already participated the doctrines of Olinthus — he already imagined that the lively imaginations of the heathen were the suggestions of the arch- enemy of mankind. The innocent and natuial answer of lone made him shudder. He hastened to reply vehemently, and yet BO confusedly, that lone feared for his reason more than she dreaded his violence. ** Ah, my brother," said she, " these hard duties of thine have shattered thy very sense. Come to me, Apoecides, my brother, my own brother; give me thy hand, let me wipe the dew from thy brow; chide me not now, I understand thee not; think only that lone could not offend thee." *' lone," said Apsecides. drawing her toward him, and regard- ing her tenderly, " can I think that this beautiful form, this kind heart, may be destined to an eternity of torment?" "Diimelioral the gods forbid!" said lone, in the customary form of words by which her contemporaries thought an omen might be averted. The words, and still more the superstition they implied, wounded the ear of Apaecides. He rose, muttering to himself, turned from the chamber, then, stopping haK-way, gazed wist-" fully on lone, and extended his arms. lone flew to them in joy; he kissed her earnestly, and then he said: ''Farewell, my sister 1 when we next meet, thou mayest l>e to me as nothing; take thou, then, this embrace— full yet of all the tender reminiscences of childhood, when faith and hope, creeds, customs, interests, objects, were the same to us. Now, the tie is to be broken." With these strange words he left the house. The great and severest trial of the primitive Christians was in- deed this; tlieir 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 theii 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 fM:B LAST DATS OF POMPElt 13S 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 fomid lone in tears; he had ah-ea^y assumed the sweet privilege to console. He drew from her a recital of her interview with her brother; but in her confused account of lan- guage, itself so confused to one not iDrepared for it, he was equal- ly at a loss with lone to conceive the intentions or the meaning of Apgecides. " Hast thou ever heard much," asked she, " of this new sect of the Nazarenes, of which my brother spoke?" " I have often heard enough of the votaries," returned Glau- cus, " but of their exact tenets know I naught, save that in their doctrine there seemeth something preternaturally chilling and morose. They Uved ajjart from their kind; they affect to be shocked even at our simple uses of garlands; they have no sym- pathies with the cheerful amusements of life; they utter awful threats of the coming destruction of the world; they appear, in one word, to have brought their unsmiling and gloomy creed out of the cave of Trophonius. Yes," continued Glaucus, after a sKght pause, "they have not wanted men of great power and genius, nor converts, even among the Areopagites of Athens. Well do I remember to have heard my father speak of one strange guest at Athens many years ago; methinks his name wa3 Paul. My father was among a mighty crowd that gathered on one of our immemorial hills to hear this sage of the East ex- pound: thi'ough the wide throng there rang not a single murmur — ^the jest and the roar, with which our native orations are re- ceived, were hushed for him — and when on the loftiest summit of that hill, raised above the breathless crowd belovv-, stood this mysterious visitor, his mien and his countenance awed every heart, even before a sound left his hps. He was a man, I have heard my father say, of no tall stature, but of noble and impres- Bive mien; his robes were dark and ample; the declining sun, for it was evening, shone aslant upon his form as it rose aloft, mo- tionless and commanding; liis countenance was much worn and marked, as of one who had braved alike misfortune and the sternest vicissitudes of many climes; but his eyes were bright with an almost uneai-thly fire, and when he raised liis 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 among ye an altar with this inscription, To the UNKNOWisr God. Ye wor- ship in ignorance the same Deitv 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 — earth and the universal heaven, dwelt not in temples made with hands; tliat His presence, His spirit, were in the air we breathed — our life and our being were with Him. ' Think you,' he cried, * that the Invisible is like your statues of gold and marble? Think you that He needeth sacri- fice from you; He who made heaven and earth?' Then spoke h© 1S8 TIIE LA^T TiAYS OP POMpETT, of fearful and cominj:? 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 cliilUng frown of the Stoic, and the Cynic's sneer; and the Epicurean, wlio believeth not even in our own Elysium, muttered a pleasant jest, and swept laughingthrough 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 com- mitted the preaching of His faith." lone listened ^\^th rapt attention, and the serious and earnest manner of tlie narrator betrayed the impression that he himself had received from one who had been among the audience that on the hill of the heathen Mars had heard the first tidings of the word of Christ I CHAPTER VI. THE PORTER, THE GHIL, AXD THE GLADIATOR. The door of Diomed's house stoon open, and Medon, the old slave, sat at the bottom of the steps by wl dch you ascended to the mansion. That luxurious mansion of the rich merchant of Pompeii is still to be seen just without the gates of the city, at the commencement of the Street of Tombs; it was a gay neigh- borliood, despite the dead. On the opposite side, but at some yards nearer the gate, was a spacious hostelry, at which those brought by business or by pleasure to Pompeii often stopped to refresh themselves. In the space before the entrance of the inn now stood wagons, and caris, and chariots, some just arrived, Bome just quitting, in all the bustle of an animated and popular resort of public entertainment. Before the door, some farmers, seated on a bench by a small circular table, were talking over their morning cups, on the affairs of their calling. On the side of the door itself was painted gayly and freshly the eternal sign of tlie chequers.* By the roof of the inn stretched a terrace, on which some females, wives of the farmers above mentioned, were, some seated, some leaning over the railing, and conversing with their friends below. In a deep recess, at a little distance, was a covered seat, in which some two or three poorer travelers were resting tliemselves, and shaking the dust from their garments. On the other side stretched a wide space, originally the burial- ground of a more ancient race than the present denizens of Pom- Eeii, and now converted into the Ustrinum, or place for the uming 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 melancholv feature in the prospect. Hard by the gate of the city, in a small niche, stood the still form of the well- m • ♦ There is another inn within the walls similarly adorned. ^HE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. m divided into three arches, the center one for vehicles, *tb© others for foot-passengers, and on either side rose the maaeive walls which girt the city, composed, patched, repaired at a thousand different epochs, according as war, time, or the earthquake, had shattered that vain protection. At frequent intervals rose square towers, whose summits broke in picturesque rudeness the regular line of the wall, and contrasted well with the modern buildings gleaming whitely by. The curving road, wliicli in that direction leads from Pompeii to Herculaneum, wound out of sight amid banging vines, above which frowned the sullen majesty of Vesuvius. " Hast thou heard the news, old Medon?" said a young wo- man, 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 neigh- boring inn to fill the vessel, and coquet the travelers. *' The news I what news?" said the slave, raising his eyes mood- ily from the ground. " Why, there passed through the gate this morning, no douW; ere thou were well awake, such a visitor to Pompeiil" ^' Ay," said the slave, indifferently. *' Yes, a present from the noble Pomponianus." ^' A presentl I thought thou said a visitor!" *' It is both visitor and present. Know, O dull and stupid! that it is a most beautiful young tiger, for our approaching games in the amphitheater. Hear you that, Medon? Oh, what pleasiu-e! I declare I shall not sleep a wink till I see it; they say it has such a roar I" "Poor fool!" said Medon, sadly and cynically. " Fool, me no fool, old churl! It is a pretty thing, a tiger, es- pecially if we could but find somebody for him to eat. We have now a lion and a tiger; only consider that, Medon! and, for want of two good criminals, perhaps we shall be forced to see them €at each other. By the by, your son is a gladiator, a handsome man and strong; can you not persuade him to fight the tiger?. Do now, you w^ould oblige me mightily; nay, you would be a benefactor to the whole tow^n." "Vah! vah!" said the slave, with great asperity; "think of thine own danger ere thou thus pratest of my poor boy's death." "My own danger!" said the girl, frightened and looking has- tily round — " Avert the omen! let thy words fall on thine own head!" And the girl as she spoke touched a talisman suspended round her neck. *' ' Thine own danger!' what danger threatens me?" "Had the earthquake but a few nights since no warning?'* said Medon. " Has it not a voice? Did it not say to us all: ' Prepare for death; the end of all things is at hand?' " " Bah, stuff!" said the young woman, settling the folds of her tunic. " Now thou talkest, as they say the Nazarenes talk — ^me- thinks thou art one of them. Well, I can prate with thee, gray croker, no more; thou growest worse and w^orse — Yale! O Her- cules, send us a man for the lion — and another for the tij]:err' _ disciplined Roman sentry, the sun shining brightly on his polish* ed crest, and the lance on which he leaned. The gate itself was ISd THE LAST DA TS OF POMPEII, Hof hoi for the nieiTy, merry show, With a forest of faces in every rowl Lo, the swordsmen, bold as tlio 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! Hoi hoi 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 tliis thou art to be butchered? Oh! faith of Christ, I could "svor- Bhip thee in all sincerity, were it but for the horror which thou inspirest for these bloody lists." The old man's head sank dejectedly on his breast. He re- mained sUent and absorbed, but every now and then with the comer of liis sleeve he wiped his eyes. His heart was with liis son; he did not see the figure that now approached from tlie 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 — "Fatherl" " My boy I my LydonI it is indeed thou?' said the old man, joy- fully. "Ah, thou wert present to my thoughts." " I am glad to hear it, my father." said the gladiator, respect- fully touching the knees and beard of the slave; " and soon may I be always present with thee, not in thought only." "Yes, my son — but not in this world," replied the slave, mourn- fully. "Talk not thus, Omy sire! look cheerfully, for I feel so— I am sure that I shall ■v\'in the day; and then the gold I gain buys thy freedom. Oh! my fatlier, it w^as but a few days since that I was taunted, by one to 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 \vas taunted with the lust of gain — when I demanded what sum was the prize of victory. Alas, he little knew the soul of Lydon!" "My boy! my boy!" said the old slave, as, slowly ascending the steps, he conducted his son to liis own httle chamber, com- municating with the entrance hall (wliich 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 is a statue of bronze.) "Generous, affectionate, pious as are thy motives," said Medon, when they were thus seciu-ed from observation, " thy deed itself is guilt; thou art to risk thy blood for tljy father's freedom— tliat might be forgiven; but the prize of victory is the blood of another. Oh, that is a deadlv sin; no object can purify it. Forbear! forlx'ar! rather would I be a slave forever than purchase liberty on such terms!" THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII, 139 "Hush, my father!" replied Ly don, somewhat impatiently; *' thou Las picked up in tliis new creed of thine, of which I pray thee not to speak to me, for the gods that gave me strength denied me wisdom, and I understand not one word of what thou often preachest to me— thou hast picked up, I say, in this new creed, some singular fantasies of right and wrong. Pardon me, if I offend thee: but reflect! Against whom shall I contend? Oh! couldst thoi know those wretches with whom, for thy sake, I assort, thoL would think I purified earth by removing one of them. Beasts, whose very lips drop blood; things, all savage, unprincipled in their very courage; ferocious, heartless, sense- less; 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 thexr own career, to slaughter without pity, to die witho'it dread I 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 agec parent by the piety of a grateful son?" The poor old plave, himself deprived of the lights of knowl- edge, and only iate a convert to the Christian faith, knew not with what arf^lnents to enlighten an ignorance at once so dark, and yet a) beautiful in its error. His first impulse was to throw himself on Ms son's breast— his next to start away— to wring his hand?; and in the attempt to reprove, his broken voice lost itself in V/eping. "And i," resumed Lydon— ""thy Deity (methinks thou wilt own but one?) be indeed that benevolent and pitying Power which thou assertest Him to be, He will know also that thy very faith in Him first confirmed me in that determination thou blamest.' " Ho\^? what mean you?" said the slave. " Whj, thou knowest that I, sold in my childhood as a slave was set free at Eome 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 % capricious and pampered lord— thou hadst lately adopted this new faith, and its adoption made the slavery doubly painful to tliee: it took away all the softening charm of custom, which reconciles us 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 guiltv as a Nazarene? Didst thou not tell me that thy soul shook with remorse when thou wert compelled to place even a crumb of cake before the Lares that watch over yon im- pluvium? that thy soul was torn by a perpetual struggle? Didst thou not tell me, that even by pouring wine before the threshold, and calling on the name of some Grecian deity, thou didst fear thou wert incurring penalties worse than those of Tantalus, an eternity of tortures more terrible than those of the Tartarian fields? Didst thou not tell me this? I wondered, I could not comprehend: nor, by Hercules! can I now: but I was thy son, and my sole task was to compassionate and relieve. Could I hear thy groans, could I witneiss thy mysterious horrors, thy 140 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. constant anguish, and remain inactive? Nol by the i/nmortal godsl the thought struck me like light from Olympus! I had no money, but I had strength and youth — these were n^ gifts— I could sell these in my turn for thee! I learned the ^mouut of thy ransom — I leanaed that the usual prize of a victoiious gladia- tor would doubly pay it. I became a gladiator — I liiiked myself ■with those accursed men, scorning, loathing while I joined — I acquired their skill — blessed be the lesson! — for it shill teach me to free my father." j "Oh, that thou couldst hear Olinthus!" sighed tie old man, more and more affected by the virtue of his son, but not less Btrongly convinced of the criminality of his purpose. " I ^\'ill hear tlie whole world talk^ if thou wilt," amwered the gladiator, gay ly; "but not till thou art a slave no mi)re. Be- neath thy own roof, my father, thou shalt puzzle thisfdull brain all day long, ay, and all night, too, if it give thee x^i^amre. Oh, such a spot as 1 have chalked out for thee! — it is one ♦f the nine hundred and ninety-nine shops of old Julia Felix, inthe sunny Sart of the city, where thou mayst bask before the door in the ay — 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 sa^, perhaps thou mayst have a daughter, too, to tend thy gray laii's, and hear shrill voices at thy knee, that shall call thee * Lydon's fa- ther!' Ah, we shall be so happy — the prize can purchase all. Cheer thee! cheer up, my su*e. And now I must a^ay; day wears, the lanista waits me. Come, thy blessing!'' As Lydon thus spoke, he had already quitted the darkchamber of his father; and speaking eagerly, though in a whispered tone they now stood at the same place in which we introcuced the porter at his post. *' O bless thee! bless thee, my brave boy!" said Medon, fervent- ly; "and may the great Power that reads all hearts see the noble- ness of thine, and forgive its error!" The tall shape of the gladiator passed swiftly down the path; the eyes of the slave followed its light but stately steps, till the last ghmpse was gone; and then sinking once more on his stat, his eyes again fastened themselves on the ground. His fonn, mute and unmoving, as a thing of stone. His heart! who in cur hapi)ier age, can even imagine its struggles, its commotion?" "Mav I enter?" said a sweet voice. " Is thy mistress Julia witliin?" The slave mechanically motioned to the visitor to enter, bu^ she who addressed him could not see the gestiue; she repeated her rmestiou timidly, but in a louder voice. " Have I not told thee?" said the slave, peevishly; " enter.'* "Thanks," said the si>eaker, plaintively; and the slave, roused by the tone, looked up, and recognized the blind flower-girl. Sorrow can sympathize with affliction; he raised himself, and guided her steps to the head of the adjacent staircase (by which you descended to Julia's apartment), where, summoning a femala Wave, he consigned to her the charjfO of the blind girh THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. U\ CHAPTER Vn. THE DEBSSINGhROOM OF A POMPEIAN BEAUTY.— IMPORTANT CONVERSATION BETWEEN JULIA AND NYDIA. The elegant Julia sat in her chamber, with her slaves around her— like the cubiculuin 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 i the petty pigeon-holes in which the citizens of Pompeii evidently thought it desirable to pass the night. But, in fact, " bed" with the ancients was not that grave, serious, and important part of domestic mysteries wldch it is with us. The couch itself was more like a very narrow and small sofa, light enough to be transport- ed 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 tlie 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 fastidi- ous apprehension of too muchdayhght; their darkened chambers, which first appear to us the result of a negligent architecture, 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 the level. The wide door which was glazed, alone admitted the morning rays; yet her eye, accustomed to a certain darkness, was sufficiently acute to perceive exactly what colors were the most becoming — what shade of the delicate rouge gave the brightest beam to her dark glance, and the most youthful freshness to her cheek. On the table, before which she sat, was a small and circular mirror of the most pohshed 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, wliich were destined to add to the natural attractions of beauty the assistance of art and the capricious allurements ol fashion. Through the dimness of the room glowed brightly the vivid and various colorings of the wall, in all the dazzling fres^ coes of Pompeian taste. Before the dressing-table, and under the feet of Julia, was spread a carpet, woven from the looms of the East. Near at hand, on another table, was a silver basin and ewer; an extinguished lamp, of most exquisite workmanship, in which the artist had rei^resented a Cupid reposing under the spreading branches of a myrtle tree; and a small roll of papyrus, contain- ing the softest elegies of Tibullus. Before the door, which com- Bauaicated with the cubiculum, hu»g a curtain ricltty Iwciwdered m THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. with gold flowers. Such was the dressing-room of a baauty eighteen centuries ago. Tlie fair Julia leaned indolently back on hor seat, while the or- natrix {i.e. hair-dresser) 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 higlit that seemed to place the head rather at the center than the summit of the human form. Her tunic, of a deep amber, which well set olf her dark hair and somewhat imljrowned complexion, swept in ample folds to Iier feet, which were cased in slippers, fastened round the slender ankle by white thongs; while a profusion of i>earls were em- broidered in the slipper itself, whicli was of purple, and turned slightly upward, as do the Turkish slippers at this day. An old slave, skilled by long experience in all the arcana of the toilet, stood beside the hair-dresser, with the broad and studded gu'dlo 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 tliat pin rather more to the right — lower — stupid onel Do you not observe how even those beautiful eyebrows are? One would think you were dressing Corinna, whose face is all of one side. Now, put in the flowers — wliat, fool! — not that dull pink — you are not suiting colors to the dim cheek of Chloris; it must be tha brightest flowers that can alone suit the cheek of the young Julia." "Gently!" said the lady, stamping her small foot violently: " you pull my hair as if you were plucking u}) a weed!" " Dull thing!" continued the directress of the ceremony. *' Do j'ou not know how delicate is your mistress? — you are not dress- ing 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?" When after innumerable comments, difficulties and delays, the intricate tower was at length completed, tlie next preparation was that of giving to the eyes the soft languish, produced by a black powder applied to the lids and brows; a small patch cut in the form of a crescent, skilfully placed by the rosy lips, attract- ed attention to their dimples, and to the teeth, to which already every art had bee»> apphed in order to highten the dazzle of their natural whit-mess. To anotlier slave, hitherto idle, was now consigned the charge of arranging the jewels — the earrings of pearl (two to each ear)— the massive bracelets of gold — the chain formed of rings of the same metal, to wliich 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, ricldy wrought with threads' of gold, and clasped by interlacing ser- pents — and lastly, the various rings fitted to every joint of the white and slender fiu;;ers. Tlie toilet was now arranged, accord- ing to the last mode of Rome. The fair Julia regarded herself with a last gaze of comj^lacent vanity, and reclining again \\\)on her seat, she bade the youngest of her slaves, in a listless tone, read to her the enauiored couplets of Tibullus. This lecture fJHH LAST DAYS OF POMPETT, ^ U% Was sfill proceeding, when a female slave admitted Nydia into the presence of the lady of the place. ""^ Salve, JuHal" said the flower girl, arresting her steps within a few paces from the spot where Julia sat, and crossing her arms upon her breast. " I have obeyed your commands." " You have done well, flower-girl," answered the lady. " Approach — you may take a seat." One of the slaves placed a stool by Julia, and Nydia seated herself. Julia looked hard at the Thessalian for some moments in rather an embaiTassed silence. She then motioned her attendants to withdraw, and to close the door. When they were alone, she said, looking mechanical]}^ from Nydia, and forgetful that she was with one who could not observe her countenance " You serve the Neapohtan, lone?" *'I am with her at present," answered Nydia. " Is she as handsome as they say?" ** I know not," repKed Nydia. '" How can I judge?*' *' Ahl I should have remembered. But thou hast ears, if not eyes. Do thy fellow slaves tell thee she is handsome? Slaves talking with one another forget to flatter even their mistress." *' They tell me that she is beautiful." *'Hem — say they that she is tall?" "Yes." *'Why, soaml. Dark-haired?'* *'I have heard so." *' So am I. And doth Glaucus visit her much?" " Daily," returned Nydia, with a half -suppressed sigli. " Daily, indeed! Does he find her handsome?" *' I should think so, since they are soon to be wedded." *' Vv^edded!" cried JuHa, turning pale even through the false roses on her cheek, and starting from her couch. Nydia did not, of course, perceive the emotion she had caused. Julia remained a long time silent; but her heaving breast and flashing eyes would have betrayed her to one who could have seen the wound her vanity sustained. *' They tell me thou art a Thessalian," said she, at last break- ing silence. "And truly!" " Thessaly is the land of magic and of witches, of talismans and of love-philters," said Julia. "It has ever been celebrated for its sorcerers," retiu-ned Nydia, timidly. " Knowest thou then, blind Thessalian, of any love charms?" "I!" said the flower-girl, coloring; "I.' how should I? No, as- suredly not!" " The worse for thee; I could have given thee gold enough to have purchased thy freedom, hadst thou been more wise." "But what," asked Nydia, "can induce the beautiful and wealthy Julia to ask that question of her servant? Has she not money and youth and loveliness? Are they not love charms enough to dispense witli magic?" ** To all but one person in the world," answered Julia, haught- 144 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPmi. ily; ** but metliinks tliy blindness is infectious; and^ but 116 matter." *'• And that one person?" said Nydia, eagerly. ** Is not Glaucus," replied Julia, with the customary deceit o her sex. *' Glaucus — no!" Nydia drew her breath more freely, and after a short pause Julia recommenced. "But talking of Glaucus, and his attachment to this Neapoli- tan, reminded me of the influence of love-spells, wliicli, for aught I know or care, she may have exercised upon him. Blind girl ; I love, and — shall Julia live to say it?— -am loved not in return I This humbles — nay, not humhles — but it stings my pride. I would Bee this ingrate at my feet — not in order that I might raise, but that I might spurn him. When they told me thou wert Tlies- Balian, I imagined thy young mind might have learned the dark secrets of thy clime." '* Alas 1 no," murmured Nydia ; " would it had I" "Thanks, at least for that kindly wish," said Julia, uncon* Bcious of what was passing in the breast of the flower-girL ** But tell me — thou hearest the gossip of slaves, always prone to these dim beliefs ; always ready to apply to sorcery for their own low loves — hast thou ever heard of any Eastern magician in this city, who possesses the art of which thou art ignorant ? No vain chiromancer, no juggler of the market-place, but some more potent and mighty magician of India or Egypt ?" *' Of Egypt ?— yes !" said Nydia, shuddering. "What Pom- peian has not heard of Arbaces ?" "Arbacesl true," replied Julia, grasping at the recollection. " 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?" "If there be one magician living whose art is above that of others it is that dread man," answered Nydia ; and she felt her talisman while she spoke. "He is too wealthy to divine for money?" continued Julia, sneeringly. " Can I not visit him ?" " It is an evil mansion for the young and the beautiful," replied Nydia. "I have heard, too, that he languishes in " " An evil mansion I" said Julia, catching only the first sentence. "Why so?** " The orgies of his midnight leisure are impure and polluted— at least, so says rumor." " By Ceres, by Pan, and by Cybele I thou dost but provoke my curiosity, instead of exciting my fears," returned the wayward and pampered Pompeian. '* I %vill seek and question him of his lore. If to these orgies love be admitted, why, the more likely that he knows its secrets I" Nydia did not answer. "I will seek hLin this very day," resumed Julia; '* nay, why not this very hour?" " At daylight, in his present state, thou hast assuredly the less ^ fear," answered Nydia, yielding to her sudden and secret wiali TSE LAST DATS OT POMPEII. 149 tb leam if the dark Egyptian wero indeed possessed of tliose spells to rivet and attract love, of wliich 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 afterward to learn the result?" asked Nydia, anxiously. *♦ Kiss me for thy interest in Julia's honor," answered the lady. "Yes, assuredly. This eve we sup abroad — come hither at the same hour to-morrow, and thou shalt know all; I may have to employ thee too; but enough for the present. Stay, take this bracelet for the new thought thou liast inspired me with; remem- ber, 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?" returned JuUa. " Thou speakest like a free "^^oman, and thou shalt yet be free — fare well I" CHAPTER Vin. JTILIA. SEEKS AUBACES — THE RESULT OP THAT INTERVIEW. Arbaces was seated in a chamber^ wliich opened on a kind of balcony or portico, that fronted his garden. His cheek was pale and worn with the sufferings he had endured, but his iron frame had already recovered from the severest effects of that accident which had frustrated his fell designs in the moment of victory. The air that came fragrantly to his brow revived his languid senses, and the blood circulated more freely than it had done for days tlu-ough his shrunken veins. "So, then," thought he, "the storm of fate has broken and blown over — the evil which my lore predicted, threatening life itself, has chanced — and yet I hve! It came as the stars foretold; and now the long, bright, and prosperous career which was to succeed that evil, if I survived it, smiles 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 — unteirified 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 — bafSed me even when the blade was about to drink his accursed blood — shall not a second time escape me! But for the method of my vengeance? Of that let me ponder well? Oh! Ate, if thou art indeed a goddess, fill me with thy direst inspiration!" The Egyptian saiik into an intent revery, 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 dis- missed; several times he struck his breast and groaned aloud, with the desire of vengeance and a sense of his impotence to ac- complish it. While thus absorbed a boy slave timidly entered the chamber. A female, evidently of rank, from her dress aiid that of a sis m THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII gle slave ^vho attended her, waited below and sought an ajudienoA with Arbaces. *• A female!" his heart beat quick. " Is she young ?" " Her face is concealeartment whose elaborate and costly luxuries shamed even the oniate enrichment of her father's mansion; fearfully, too, she regarded the hieroglyphical inscrip- tions on the walls — the faces of tlie mysterious images, which at every corner gazed upon lier — the tripod at a little distance — and, above all, the grave and remarkable countenance of Arba- ces liimself; a long white robe, Hke 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 pene- trating eyes seemed to pierce the slielter of her veil, and explore the secrets of her vain and unfeminine soul. ** And what," said his low, deep voice, " brings thee, O maidenl 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 Ar})achs? Is not thy knowledge the Tery gossip theme of Pompeii ?" "Some little lore have I, indeed, treasured up," replied Arba- ces; " 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 thev who love unrcquitedly, are not they the chosen victims of grief?" " Ha !" said Arbaces, " can unrequited love be the lot of so fair a form, whose modeled proportions are visible even beneath the folds of thy graceful robe? Deign, O maiden! to lift thy veil, that I may see at least if the face correspond in loveliness With the form," THE LAST DA YS OF POMPEII, UT Not unwilling', perhaps, to exhibit her charms, and thinking they were likely to interest the magiciau in her fate, Juha, after some slight hesitation, raised her veil, and revealed a beauty "which, but for art, had been indeed attractive to the fixed gaze of the Egyptian. "Thoucomest to me for advice in unliappy love," said he; " well, turn that face on the ungrateful one; what other charm can I give thee?" *' Oh, cease these courtesies!" said Julia; " it is a love-charmj indeed, that I would ask from thy skill." "Fair stranger," replied Arbaces, somewhat scornfully, ** love-spells are not among the secrets I have wasted the mid- night oil to attain." "Is it indeed so? Then pardon me, great Arbaces, and fare- well." "Stay," sail Arbaces, who, despite his passion for lone, was not unmoved by the beauty of his visitor; and had he been in the Ihish of a more assured health, might have attempted to console the fair Julia by other means than those of supernatural wis- dom " Stay; although I confess that I have left the witchery of phil- ters and potions to those w^hose trade is in such knowledge, yet am I myself not so dull to beauty but that in earlier yoii "- 1 may have employed them in my own belialf . I may giv 3 thee advice, at least, if thou will be candid with me. Tell me then, first, art thou unmarried, as thy dress betokens?" "Yes," said Julia. " And, being unblest with foi*tune, wouldst thou allure some wealthy suitor?' " I am richer than he who disdains me." " Strange and more strange I And thou lovest him who loves not thee?" " I know not if I love liim," 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 tm-n 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 Egyptain, impetuously, as the blood rushed to his cheek; "there is but one Athenian, young and noble, in Pompeii. Can it be Glaucus of whom thou speakest?" " Ah! betray me not — so indeed they call him." The Egyptian sank back, gazing vacantly on the averted face jf the mercliant's daughter, and muttering inly to himself; this conference, with which he had hitherto only trifled, amusing himself with the credulity and vanity of his visitor — might it not minister to his revenge? "I see thou canst assist me not," said Julia, offended by Ms continued silence; "guard at least my secret. Once more, far©' Weill" 148 THE LAST DA YS OF POMPEH, ** 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 liave not myself dabbled in these lesser mysteries, but I know one who hath. At the base of Vesuvius, less than a league from the city, there dweUs a powerful witch; beneath the rank dews of the new moon, she lias gatiiered the herbs which pos- sess the virtue to cljaiu 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 philters." ♦' 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 ^vild \dnes, and danger- ous precijDitous 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 Neapolitanr «'Wedr •* Yes; in the early part of next month." ** So soon I Art thou well advised of this?" ** From the lips of her own slave." "It shall not be!" said the Egyptian, impetuously. "Fear nothing, Glaucus shall be thine. Yet how, when thou obtainest it, canst thou administer to him this potion?" " My father has invited him, and, I believe, the Neapolitan also, to a banquet, on the day following to-moiTOw; I shall then have an opportunity to administer it." "So be it!" said the Egyptian, with eyes flasliing such fierce joy, that Julia's gaze sank trembling 'beneath them. "To- morrow eve, then, order thy litter — thou hast one at thy com- mand?" " Surely — ^yes," returned the purse-proud Julia. " Order thy litter— at two miles' distance from the city is a house of entertainment, frequented by the wealthier Pompeians, from the excellence of its baths and the beauties 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 Bkirts 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 ehall cross thy steps. Go homo and fear not. By Hades, swears Arbaces, the sorcerer of Eg}'|)t, that lone shall never wed with Glaucus!" " And that Glaucus shall be mine?" added Julia, filling up the incomplete sentence. " Thou hast said it!" replied Arbaces; and Julia, half frighten- ^ fl^t tJbis «nl*aU9w«d iippoint»»ent, but urged Qn h^ jealousy 7!^"^ LAST DAYS OF POMPEII, 140 and the pique of rivalsliip, even more than love, resolved to ful filit. Left alone, Arbaces burst forth: *' Bright stars that never lie, ye already begin ihe execution of your promises — success in love, and victoiy over foes for the rest of my smooth existence. In the very hour when my mind could devise no clew to the goal of vengeance, have ye sent this fair fool for my guide." He paused in deep thought. " Yes," said he again, but in a calmer voice; "I could not my- self have given her the poison, that shall be indeed a philter— his death might be traced to my door. But the witch— ay, there is the fit, the natural agent of my designs 1" He summoned one of Ms slaves, bade him hasten to track <\\e steps of Julia, to acquaint himself with her name and condition, riiis done he stepped forth into the portico. The skies were se- rene and clear; but he, deeply read in the signs of their various changes, beheld in one mass of cloud, far on the horizon, which, the wind began slowly to agitate, that a storm was brooding above. " It is like my vengeance," said he, as he gazed; "the sky is iRlear, but the clouds move on." CHAPTER IX. A STORM IN THE SOUTH.— THE WITCH'S CAVERN. It was when the heat of noon gradually died away from the '^ith, that Glaucus and lone went forth to enjoy the cooled and grateful air. At that time various carriages were in use among the Eomans; the one most used by the richer citizens, when they required no companion in their excursions, was the higa, already described in the early part of this work ; that appropriated to the matrons, was termed carjjentum, which had commonly two wheels; the ancients used also a sort of htter, a vast sedan-chair, more commodiously arranged than the modern, inasmuch as the occupant thereof could lie down at ease, instead of being perpendicularly and stiffly jostled up and down. There was an- other carriage, used both for traveling and excursions in the country; it was commodious, containing three or four persons with ease, having a covering which could be used at pleasure; and, in short, answering very much the purpose of (though very different in shape from) the modern britska. It was a vehicle of this description that the lovers, accompani- ed by one female slave of lone, now used in their excursion. About ten miles from the city, there was at that day an old ruin, the remains of a temple, evidently Grecian; and as for Glaucus and lone everything Grecian possessed an interest, they had agreed to visit these ruins: it was thither they were now bound. The road lay among vines and olive-groves; till, winding more and more toward the higher ground of Vesuvius, the path grew rugged; the mules moved slowly, and with labor; and at every opening in the wood they beheld those gray and horrent caverns indenting the parched rock, which Strab(> has described; but IW THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEIt which the various revolutions of time and the volcano have re- moved from the present aspect of the mountain. The sim, slop" ing toward his descent, cast long and deep shadows over the mountain; here and there they stiJl heard the rustic reed of the shepherd among copses of the beechwood and wild-oak. Some- times they marked the form of the silk-haired and graceful ca- Eella, with its wreathing horn and bright gray eve— wiiich, still eneath Ausonian skies, recalls the eclogues of Maro — browsing half-way up the hills; and the giapes already purpling with the smiles of deepening summer, glowed out from the arched fes- toons, which hung pendent from tree to tree. Above them, light clouds floated in the serene heavens, sweeping so slowly athwart the fiiTaamentthat they scarcely seemed to stir; while, on their right they caught, ever anon, glimpses of the waveless sea, with some hght bark skimming its surface; and the simlight breaking over the deep in those countless and softest hues so peculiar to that delicious sea. '* How beautifull" said Glaucus, in a half -whispered tone, ** is that expression by wliich 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 JSature has denied beau- ty, she yet contrives to dispense her smiles; witness the aibutus and the vine, which she wreathes over the arid and burning soil of yon extinct volcano. Ah! in such an hour and scene as this, well might we imagine that the laughing face of the Faun Bliould 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 lone, when thov wert created!" There is no ton^e that flatters like a lover's; and yet, in the exaggeration of his feelings, flattery seems to him commonplace. Strange and prodigal exuberance, which soon exhausts itself by overflowing! They arrived at the ruins, they examined them with that fond- ness with which we trace the hallowed and household vestiges of our own ancestry — they lingered there till Hespenis appeared in the rosy heavens and tlien returning homeward in the twilight, they were more silent than they had been ; for, in the shadow and beneath the stars, they felt more oppressively their mutual love. It was at this time that the storm which the Egyi^tian had pre* ill ted began to creep visibly over them. At first a low and dis- tant thunder gave warning of the approiachiug conflict of the elements; and then rapidly rushed above the dark ranks of the serried clouds. The Buddenneas of the storms in that climate is something almost jireternatural, and might well suggest to early superstition the notion of a divine agency — a few large drops broke heavily among the boughs that half overhung their path, and then, swift and intolerably bright, the forked lightning darted across their very eyes, and was swallowed up by the in- creasing darkness. "Swifter, good Camicarius T* cried Glaucus to the driver "the tempest comes on apace." THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII, 151 The slave surged on the mules; they went swift over the un- even and stony road; the clouds thickened, near and more near broke the thunder, and fast rushed the dashing rain. *' Dost thou fear?" whispered Glaucus, as he sought excuse iu the storm to come nearer to lone. ''Not with thee," she said, softly. At tliat instant, the carriage, fragile and ill-contrived (as, de- spite 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, stiniu- Jated liis mules yet faster for tlie obstacle, the wheel was torn from the socket, and the carriage suddenly overset. Glaucus, quickly extricating himself from the vehicle, has- tened to assist lone, who was fortunately unhurt; with some difficulty they raised the carruca (or carriage), and found that it ceased any longer even to afford them shelter; the springs that fastened the covering uere snapped asunder, and the rain poured fast and fiercely into the interior. In this dilemma, what was to be done ? They were yet some distance from the city; no house, no aid, seemed near. " There is," said the slave, " a smith about a mile off; I could seek him, and he might fasten at least the wheel of the carruca; but Jupiter! how the rain beats! my mistress wUi be wet before I come back!" " Run thither at least," said Glaucus; " we must find the best shelter we can till you return." The lane was overshadowed with trees, beneath the amplest of which Glaucus drew lone. He endeavored by stripping his own cloak to shield her yet more from the rapid raiti; but it descended with a fury that broke through all puny obstacles: and suddenly, while Glaucus Avas yet whispering courage to his beautiful charge, the lightning struck one of the trees immediately before them, and split with a mighty crash the huge trunk in twain. This awfuT incident apprized 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 wliich the deserting Nymphs have left a shelter." Wliile thus saving he moved from the trees, and look- ing wistfully toward the mountain, discovered tln'ough the advancing gloom a red and tremulous light at no considerable distance. *' That must come," said he, " from the hearth of some shepherd or vine-dresser — it will guide us to some hospitable re- treat. Wilt thou stay here while I — yet no — that would be to leave thee to danger." '*I will go \Aath you cheerfully," said lone, ^' Open as the space seems, it is better than the treacherous shelter of these boughs." Half leading, half carrying lone, Glaucus, accompanied by the trembling female slave, advanced to\v^ard the light, which yet burned red and steadfastly. At length the space was no longer «^pe»j wilcl vines entangled their steps, ^d lUd from them, gcivg 152 THE LAST DA 73 OF POMPEH, by imperfect intervals, the guiding beam. But faster and fierce! came the rain, and the liglitning 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 liglit was entirely snatched from them; but a narrow patli which they trod with labor and pain, guided only by the constant and long-lingering flashes of the storm, continued to lead them toward its direction. The rain ceased suddenly: precipitous and rough crags of scorched lava frowned before them, rendered more fearful br the lightning that illumined the dark and dangerous soil. Sometimes the blaze lingered over the iron-gray heaps of scoria, covered in part with ancient moss 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 tlie more distant windings of the bay, from the eternal Misenum, with its lofty brow, to the beautiful Sorrentum and the giant hill behind. Our lovers stopped in perplexity and doubt, when suddenly, as the darkness that gloomed between the fierce flashes of light- ning once more wrapt them round, they saw near, but high, be- fore them, the mysterious light. Another blaze, in wliich heaven and earth were reddened, made visible to them the whole expanse; no house was near, but just where they had beheld the lignt 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 toward it; they had to wind tlieir 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 transverselv athwart each other, and, looking into the gloom, each drew back involuntarily 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 eyes — its hair bristling — and a low gi'owl stealing from between its teeth ; in the center of the cave was an earthen statue, which had tliree heads of a singular and fan- tastic cast: they were formed by the red skulls of a dog, a horse, and a boar; a low tripod stood before this wild representation of the popular Hecate. But it was not these appendages and appliances of the cave that thrilled tlie blood of tliose who gazed fearfully therein — it was the face of its inmate. Before the fire, with the light shin- ing full upon her features, sac a woman of considerable ag** THE LAST DA IS OF POMPEII, 158 Perhaps xn no couiitry are there seen so many hags as in Italy; in no country does beauty so awfully change, in age, to hideous- ness the most appalling and revolting. But the old woman now before them was not of these specimens of the extreme of human ugliness; on the contrary, her countenance betrayed the remains of a regular but high and aquUine order of feature: with stony eyes turned upon them: with a look that met and fascinated theirs — they beheld in that fearful coimtenance th.e very image of a corpse! — the same, the glazed and lusterless regard, the blue and shrunken lip, the drawn and hollow jaw; the dead, lank hair, of pale gray — the livid, green, ghastly skin, which seemed aU surely tinged and tainted by the gravel •' It is a dead thing!" said Glaucus. "Nay; it stirs; it is a ghost or /arva," faltered lone, as she clung to the Athenian's breast. " Oh, away, awayl" groaned the slave, •' it is the witch of Ve- suvius!'* " Who are ye?" said a hoUow and ghostly voice. "And what do ye here ?" The sound, terrible and death-like as it was; suiting well the countenance of the speaker, and seeming i-ather the voice of some bodiless wanderer of the Styx than living mortal, would have made lone shrink back into the pitiless fury of the storm, but Glaucus, though not without some misgivings, drew her into the cavern. " We are storm-beaten wanderers from the neighboring city," said he, "and decoyed hither by youi* light: we crave shelter and the comfort of your hearth." As he spoke, the fox rose from the ground and advanced toward the strangers, showing from end to end its white teeth, and deepening in its menacing growl. " Down, slave!" said the witch; and at the sound of her voice the beast dropped at once, covering its face with its brush, and keepiag 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 Uving thing; save the fox, the toad and the viper; so I cannot welcome ye; but come to the fire without welcome; why stand upon form?" The language in which the hag addressed them was a strang«i and barbarous Latin, infcerlarded^with many words of some mor«» rude and ancient dialect. She did not stir from her seat, bui gazed stonily upon them as Glaucus now released lone of he* outer wrapping garments, and making her place herself on a log of wood, which was the only 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 lone, in con- ciliation. The witch did not reply — she seemed like one who has awak- ened for a moment from the dead, stud has then relapsed QU9e ©iQre m the eteiiiaj slunabfir. 154 TBE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. " Tell me," said she suddenly, and after a long pauso, ** are yi brother and sister?" *' No," said lone, blushing. ** Are ye married?" " Not so," replied Glaucus. *' Ho, lovers!— lia!— ha!— hal" and the witch laughed so loud and so long tliat the caverns rang again. The heart of lone stood still at that sti'ange mirth. Glaucus muttered a rapid counter-spell to the omen — and the slave turn'?d as pale as the cheek of the witch herself. *' Why dost thou laugh, old crone?" said Glaucus, somewhat sternly, as he concluded his invocation. " Did I laugh?" said the hag, absently. *'She is in her dotage," wliispered Glaucus: as he said this, he caught the eye of the hag fixed upon him with a malignant and vivid glare. *'Tliou hQstI" said she abruptly. *' Thou art an unconscious welcomer," returned Glaucus. ** HushI provoke her not, dear Glaucus!" whispered lone, ** I will tell thee wliy I laughed when I discovered ye were lovers," said the old woman. *' It ^^■as because it is a pleasure to the old and withered to look upon young hearts like yours — and to know the time will come when you will loathe each other — loathe — loathe — ha!— ha!— ha! " It was now lone's turn to pray against the unpleasing prophecy. " The gods forbid!" said she. **Yet, poor woman, thou knowest little of love, or thou wouldst know that it never changes." "Was I young once, think ye?" returned the hag, quickly; " and am I not old, and hideous, and deathly now? Such as is the form, so is the heart." With these words slie saiik again into a stillness profound and fearful, as if the cessation of life itself. *' Hast thou dwelt here long?" said Glaucus, after a pause, feel- ing imcomfoi-tably oppressed beneath a silence so appalling. ** Ah, long! — yes." " It is but a drear abode." *' Ha! thou mayst well say that— Hell is beneath usi" replied the bag, 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, the thoughtless, and the beautiful." " Thou utterest but evil words, ill-becoming the hospitable,** said Glaucus; " and iu future I will brave the tempest rather than thy welcome.** " Thou wilt do well. None should ever seek me — save the wretched!" *' And why the wretched?" asked the Athenian. •*I am the witch of the mountain," replied the sorceress, with a ghastly grin; " my tiade is to give hope to the hopeless; for th« crossed in love I have philters; for the avaricious, promises of treasure; for the malicious, potions of revenge; for the happy and the good, I have only what life has — cur.sesl Trouble me no more." With this the grim tenant of the cave relapsed into a silence so obstinate and evillen, that Glaucus iu vain endeavored to draw TtlE LAST DAYS O.T POMPEIT. im lier intnsely but darkly red. ** Strangel" she said, shrinking back; "it is only within the last two days that dull deep light hath been visible — what can it portend?" The fox, who had attended the steps of his fell mistress, uttered a dismal howl and ran cowering back to the inner cave; a cold shuddering seized the hag herself at the cry of the animal, which, causeless as it seemed, the superstitions of the time considered deeply ominous. She muttered her placatory charm, and tot- tered back into her cavern, where, amid her herbs and incanta- tions, she prepared to execute the orders of the Egyptian. *' He called me dotard," said she, as the smoke curled from the hissing caldron; " when the jaws drop, and the grinders fall, and the heart scarce beats, it is a pitiable thing to dote; but when,** she added, with a savage and exultant 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 I" On that night, and at the same hour which witnessed the dark and unholy interview between Arbaces and the saga, Apaecides was baptized. CHAPTER XL PROGRESS OP EVENTS. — THE PLOT THICKENS. — ^THB WEB IS WOVEN, BUT THE NET CHANGES HANDS. *' And you have the courage ,then, Julia, to seek the Witch of Vesuvius this evening; in company, too, with that fearful man?'' "Why, Nydia?" replied Julia, timidly; '* dost thou really think there is anything to dread? These old hags, with their enchanted mirrors, their trembling sieves, and their moon-gathered herbs, are, I imagine, but crafty impostors, who have learned, perhaps, nothing but the very charm for which I apply to their skill, and which IS drawn but from the knowledge of the fields' herbs and simples. Wherefore should I dread?" *' Dost thou not fear thy companion?" " What, Arbaces? By Dian, I never saw lover more courteous than that same magician I And were he not so dark, he would be even handsome." Blind as she was, I^ydia 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 imrsed in her excited heart the wild and increasing desire to know if sorcery had indeed a sj)ell to fascinate love to love. "Let me go with thee, noble Julia," said she at length; *'my THE LAST DATS OF POMPEIL 163 preeence is no protection, but I should like to be beside tliee to the last." "Thine offer pleases me much," replied the daughter of Dio- med. *' Yet how canst thou contrive it? we may not return un- til late — thejy will miss thee." ' lone is indulgent," rephed Nydia. ** If thou wilt permit me to sleep beneath thy roof, I will say that thou, an early patroness and friend, hast invited me to pass the day with thee, and sing thee my Thessalian songs; her courtesy will readily grant to thee so light a boon." "Nay, ask for thyself!" said the haughty Julia. " I stoop to ask no favor from the NeapoUtan!" "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 lone she was met by the chariot of Glau» cus, on whose fiery and curveting steeds was riveted the gaze of the crowded street. He kindly stopped for a moment to speak to the flower-girl. *' Blooming as thine own roses, my gentle Nydia! and how is thy fair mistress? — recovered, I tmst, from the effects of the storm!" "I have not seen her this morning," answered Nydia, "but — ^* " But what? draw back — the horses are too near thee." "But, think you lone will permit me to pass the day with Julia, the daughter of Diomed? — she wishes it and was kind to me when I had few friends." " The gods bless thy grateful heart! I will answer for lone'a permission." " Then I may stay over the night, and return to-morrow?" said Nydia, shrinking from the praise she so little merited. " As thou and fair Julia please. Commend me to her; and, hark ye, Nydia, when thou hearest her speak, note the contrast of her voice with that of the silver-toned lone. Vale /" His spirits entirely recovered from the effect of the past night, his locks waving in the wind, his joyous and elastic heart bounding with every spring of his Parthian steed, a very proto- type of his country's god, full of youth and of love — Glaucus was borne rapidly to his mistress. Enjoy while ye may the present — ^who can read the future? As the evening darkened, Julia, reclined within her litter, which was capacious enough also to admit her blind companion, took her way to the rural baths indicated by Arbaces. To her natural levity of disposition, the enterprise brought less of terror than of pleasurable excitement; above all, she glowed at the thought of her coming ti'iumph over the hated Neapolitan. A small but gay group was collected around the door of the villa, as her litter passed by it to the private entraynce of the baths appropriated to the women. " Methinks, by this dim light," said one of the bystanders, " I recognize the slave of Diomed." "True, Clodius," said Sallust: " it is probably the litter of hia lU THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEIL daughter Julia. She Is rich, my friend; why dost thou not prof- fer suit to her?" *' Why, I had once hoped that Glaucus would have married her. She does not disguise her attachment; and then as lie gam- bles freely and with ill-success " *♦ The sesterces would have passed to ihee, wise Clodius. A wife is a good thing — when it belongs tcJfetuother man I" *• But," continued Clodius, ** as GlaucUJ is, I understand, to wed the Neapolitan, I think I must even try my cliance 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 trus- tee to his daughter's fortune."* *' Hal hal let us within, my commissator: the wine and the garlands wait us." Dismissing her slaves to that part of the house set apart for their entertainment, Julia entered the bath with Nydia, and de- clining the offers of the attendants, passed by a private door into the garden behind. ** She comes by appointment, be sure," said one of the slaves. ** What is that to thee?" said a superintendent, sourly: ** she pays for the baths, and does not waste the saffron. Such ap- pointments are the best of the trade. Hark I do you not hear the widow Fulvia clapping her hands? Run, fool — rim!" 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 SUenus: the merry god reclined upon a fragment of rock, the lynx of Bacchus at liis feet, and over his mouth he held, with ex- tended arm, a bimch 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. •* Sdlve, sweet niaiden — ^but hal whom hast thou here? we must have no companions!" "It is but the blind flower girl, wise magician,** replied Julia: •' herself a Thessalian." " Ohl Nydial'* said the Egyptian; *' I know her well." Nydia drew back and sluiddered. "Thou hast been at my house, methinks?" said he. approach- ing his voice to Nydia's ear; '• thou knowest the oath!— Silence and secresy, now as then, or beware!" "Yet," he added, musingly to himself, "why confide more than is necessary, even in the blind— Julia, canst thou trust thyself alone with me? Believe me, the magician is less formidable than he seems." ♦ft was an ancient Roman law, that no one should make a woman his heir. The law was evaded by the parent's asslgnina: his fortune to a friend in trust for his dnutrliter, Imt the trusteie might keep it if he liked. The law had, however, fallen into disuse before the date of this stoiy. THE LAST DATS OF POMPEII, 165 As he spoke, he gently drew Julia aside. " The witch loves not many visitors at once," said he; " leave Nydia here till your return; she can be of no assistance to us: and, for protection — your own beauty suffices — your own and your rank; yes, Julia, I know thy name and bhth. Come, trust thyself with me, fair rival of the youngest of the Naiads I" The vain Julia was not, as we have seen, easily affrighted; she was moved by the flattery of Arbaces, and she readily consented to suffer Nydia to await her return; nor did Nydia press her presence. At the Egyptian's voice all her terror of him returned; she felt a sentiment of pleasure at learning she was not to travel in liis companionship. She returned to the bath-house, and in one of the private cham- bers waited their return. Many and bitter were the thoughts of this wild girl as she sat there in her eternal darkness. She thought of her own desolate fate, far from her native land, far from the bland cares that once assuaged the April sorrows of childhood; deprived of the light of day, with none but strangers to guide her steps, accursed by the one soft feeling of her heart, loving and without hope, save the dim and unholy ray which shot across her mind, as her ThessaUan fancies questioned of the force of spells and the gifts of magic I Nature had sown in the heart of this poor girl the seeds of vir- tue never destined to ripen. The l^'ssons of adversity are not al- ways salutary; sometimes they soften and amend, but as often they indurate and pervert. If we consider ourselves more harshly treated by fate than those around us, and do not acknowl- edge in our own deeds the justice of the severity, we become too apt to deem the world our enemy, to case ourselves in defi- ance, to wrestle against our softer self, and to indulge the darker gassions which are so easily fermented by the sense of injustice, old early into slavery, sentenced to a sordid task-master, ex- changing her situation, only yet more to imbitterher lot; the kindlier feelings, naturally profuse in the breast of Nydia, were nipped and blighted. Her sense of right and wrong was con- fused by a passion to which she had so madly surrendered her- self; 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 m her breast. Time nassed: 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 the terrible cavern I Come, Nydia, let us away forthwith I" " Oh I" said she, tremblingly, " such a scene I such fearful in- cantations I and the dead face of the hag I But, let us not talk 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 I'» ^s* '*'orlaucus!" exclaimed Nydia. . «'Tv.if ••Ay I I told thee, gurl, at tot, that it w^s mt fclie Ather**^ ^^ 166 TEE LAST DAYH OF POMPEII. whom I loved: but I see now that I may trust thee wholly; it if the beautiful Greek I" What, then, were Nydia's emotions? She had connived, she had assisted, in tearing Glaucus from lone; but only to transfer, by all the power of magic, his affections yet more hopelessly to another. Her heart swelled almost to suffocation; she gasped for breath. In the darkness of the vehicle, Julia did not perceive the agitation of her companion; she went on rapidly dilating on the promised effect of her acquisition, and on her approaching tri- imiph over lone, ever now and then abruptly digi-essing to the horror of the scene she had quitted, the unmoved mien of Arba- ces, 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; **letme hold it in my hands. How small the phial is? of what color is the draught?" *' Clear as crystal," replied Julia, as she retook the philter; *• thou couldst not tell it from this water. The witch asvsures m© it is tasteless. Small though the phial, it suffices for a life's fidelity; it is to be poured into any liquid; and Glaucus will only know what he has quaffed by the effect." ** Exactly like this water in appearance?"* " Yes, sparkling and colorless as this. How bright it seemsl it is as the very essence of moonlit dews. Bright thingi how thou shinest on my hopes through thy crystal vasel" ** And how is it sealed?" " But by one little stopper — I withdraw it now — the draught eives no odor. Strange, that which speaks to neither sense should uius command all I" " Is the effect instantaneous?'* *' Usually — but sometimes it remains dormant for a few hours.** " Oh, how sweet is this perfume!" said Nydia, suddenly, as she took up a small bottle on the table, and bent over its fragrant contents. •* Thinkest thou so? the bottle is set ^vith gems of some value. Thou wouldst not have the bracelet yestermorn; wilt thou take the bottler *• It ought to be such ]>erfumes as these that should remind one who cannot see of the generous Julia. If the bottle be not too costly " " Oh I I have a thousand costlier ones: take it, child I** Nydia bowed her gratitude, and placed the bottle in her vest. .^ '* And the draught would be equally efficacious, whoever ad- ministers it ?" * If tb© woet bldeo\i9 hag beneath the sun bestow^ it, euch ig THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 167 Its asserted virtue that Glaucus would deem her beautiful, and none but her !" Julia, warmed by wine, and the reaction of her spirits, was now all animation and delight; she laughed loud, and talked on a hundred matters— nor was it till the night had advanced far to- ward 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 use. Lie under my pillow, bright spirit, and give me happy dreams 1" So saying, she placed the potion under her pillow. Nydia's heart beat violently. " Why dost thou drink that unmixed water, Nydia ? Take the wine by its side." "I am fevered," replied the blind girl, " and the water cools me. I will place this bottle by my bedside; it refreshes in these summer nights, when the dews of sleep fall not on our lips. Fair Julia, I must leave thee very early— so lone bids; perhaps before thou art awake; accept, therefore, now, my congratula- tions." "Thanks; when next we meet, you may find Glaucus at my feet." ^ ^ They had retired to their couches, and Julia, worn out by the excitement of the day, soon slept. But anxious and burning thoughts rolled over the mind of the wakeful Thessahan. She listened to the calm breathing of Julia; and her ear, accuslomed to the finest distinctions of sound, speedily assured her of the deep slumber of her companion. *' Now befriend me, Venus I" said she softly. She rose gently, and poured the perfume from the gift of Julia unon the marble floor — she rinsed it several times carefully with the water that was beside her, and then easily finding the bed of JuKa (for night to her was as day), she pressed her hand under the pillow and seized the potion. Julia stirred not, her breath regularlv fanned the burning cheek of the blind girl. Nydia, then, opening the phial, poured its contents into the bottle, wliicli easily contained them; and then refilling the former res- ervoir of the potion with limpid water which JuUa had assured her it so resembled, she once more placed the phial in its fornaer place. She then stole again to her couch, and waited — with what thoughts I — the dawning day. The sun had risen— Juha 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 whiii of tumultuous thoughts, each thought a passion. She felt the pure morning air upon her cheek, but it cooled not her scorching veins. *' Glaucus," she murmured, ** all the love-charms of the wildest magic could not make thee love me as I love thee. lone'— ah, away hesitationl away remorsel Glaucus, my fate is in thjf 168 THE LAST DA T8 OF POMPEIL emUe; and tliinel O hope I O joy I O transport— f/iy fate k ti these bauds." BOOK THE FOURTH. CHAPTER L KEFLECTIONS ON THE ZEAL OF EARLY CHRISITANS— TWO MEH COME TO A PERILOUS RESOLVE— WALLS HAVE EAR&— PAB« TICULARLY SACRED WALLS. Whoever regards the early history of Christianity, will per- ceive 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 persecuted church, the same genius mainly supports. It was necessary to scorn, to loathe, to abhor the creeds of other men, in order to conquer the temptations which they presented. It was necessary rigidly to believe not only that the Gospel was the true faith, but the sole true faith that saved, in order to nerve the disciple to the austerity of its doctrine, and to encourage him to the sacred and perilous chivalry of converting the Polytheist and the Heathen. The sectarian sternness wliich confined virtue and heaven to a chosen few, wliich saw demons in other gods, and the penalties of hell in another religion — made the beUever naturally anxioua to convert all to whom he felt tlie ties of human affection; and the circle thus traced by benevolence to man was yet more wid- ened by a desire for the glory of God. It was for the honor of the Christian faith that the Cliristian boldly forced his tenets upon tlie skepticism of some, the repug- nance of othei-s, 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, which stopped at no ob- Btacle, 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 early days a hero without fear. Of these more fiery, daring, and earnest natures, not the least earnest was Olinthus. No sooner had Apcecides been received by the rites of baptism into the bosom of the church, than the Nazarene hastened to make him conscious of the impossibility to retain the office and robes of priesthood. He could not, it was evident, profess to worship God, and continue even outwardly to honor the idolatrous altars of tlie Fiend. Nor was this all: the sanguine and impetuous mind of Olin- thus beheld in the power of Apt^cides the means of divulging to the deluded people the juggling mysteries of the oracular Isis. B« thought Heaven had sent this instrument of his design ia ]THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEXL lift order to disabuse the eyes of the crowd, and prepare the waj;. perchance, for the conversion of a whole city. He did not hesi» tate then to appeal to all the new-kindled enthusiasm of Apeeci- des, to arouse his courage and to stimulate his zeal. They met, according to previous agreement, the evening after the baptism of Apsecides, in the grove of Cybele, which we have before de- Bcribed. '* At the next solemn consultation of the oracle," said Olin- thus, as he proceeded in the warmth of his address, *' advance yourself to the railing, proclaim aloud to the people the deception they endure, invite them to enter, to be themselves the witness of the gross but artful mechanism of imposture thou hast de- scribed to me. Fear not — the Lord, who protected Daniel, shall protect thee; ive, the community of Christians, will be among the crowd; ive 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 pahn-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 un» pleasing to Apsecides. He was rejoiced at so early an opportu- nity of distinguishing his faith in his new sect, and to his holier feelings were added those of a vindictive loathing at the impo- sition he had himself suffered, and d desire to avenge it. In that sanguine and elastic overbouud of obstacles (the rashness necessary to all who undertake venturous and lofty actions), neither OHnthus nor the proselyte perceived the impediments to the success of their scheme, which might be found in the rever- ent superstition of the people themselvea, who would probably be loath, before the sacred altars of the great Egyptian goddess, to believe even the testimony of her priest against her power. Apsecides then assented to this proposal with a readiness which delighted Olinthus. They parted with the understanding that Olinthus should confer with the more important of his Christian brethren on his great enterprise; should receive their advice and the assurance of their support on the eventful day. It so chanced that one of the festivals of Isis was to be held on the second day after this conference. The festival proffered a ready occasion for the design. They appointed to meet once more on the next evening at the same spot; and in that 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 th© Christian and the priest had disappeared from the grove, a dark and ungainly figure emerged from behind the chapel. **Ihave tracked you with some effect, my brother flamen," soliloquized the eaves-dropper; ''you, the priest of Isis, have not for mere idle discussion conferred with this gloomy Christian. Alas I that I could not hear all your precious plot; enough 1 I find, at least, that you meditate reveahng the sacred mysteries, and that to-morrow you meet again at this place to plan tbe how and the when. May Osiris sharpen my ears then, to detect the wholt m TEE LAST DA TS OF POMPEIL of your unheard-of audacity I When I have learned more I musi conf esr at once witb Arbaces. We will frustrate you, my friends, deep as you think yourselves. At present my breast is a locked treasury of yoiir secret." Thus muttering, Calenus, for it was he, wrapped bis rob© round him, and strode thoughtfully homewaid. CHAPTER n. i CLASSIC HOST, CX)OK, AM) KITCHEN— APJECTDES SEEKS lONB— THEIR CONYERSATION. It was then the day for Diomed's banquet to the most select of his friends. The graceful Glaucus, the beautiful lone, the official Pansa, the high-born Clodius, the immortal Fulvius, the ex- quisite Lepidus, the epicurean Sallust, were not the only honor- ers 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 Herfculaneum, who had fought with Titus against the Jews, and having enriched himself prodigiously in the wars, was always told by his friends that liis country was eternally indebted to his disinterested exertions! The party, however, extended to a yet greater number: for although, criti- cally speaking, it was, at one time, thought inelegant amoujg the Romans to entertain less than three or more than nine at ^heir banquets, yet this rule was easily disregarded by the osteutatious. And we are told, indeed, in history, that one of the most splen- did 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 greatlv affected the gentleman and the scholar, re- tained enough of his mercantile experience to know that a mas- ter's eye makes a ready servant. Accordingly, with his tunic imgirdled on his portly stomach, his easy sHppers on his feet, a small wand in his hand, wherewith he now directed the gaze, and now corrected the back, of some duller menial, he went from chamber to chamber of his costly villa. He did not disdain even a visit to that sacred apartment in which the priests of the festival prepare their offerings. On en- tering the kitchen, his ears were agreeablj^ stunned by the noise of dishes and pans, of oaths and commands. Small as this in- disix^nsable chamber seems to have been in all the houses of Pompeii, it was, nevertheless, usually fitted up with all that amazing variety of stoves and shai>es, stew-pans and sauce-pans, cutters and molds, without wliich a cook of spirit, no matter whether he be an ancient or a modern, declares it utterly impos- sible that he can give you anything to eat. And as fuel wai then, as now, dear and scarce in those regions, great seems to have been the dexterity exercised in preparing as many things as possible with as little lire. An admirable contrivance of this nature may still be seen in the NeapoUtan Musemn, viz., a port- able kitchen, about the size of a folio volume, containing stoveb THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEIL 171 for four dishes, and an apparatus for heating water and other beverages. Across the small kitchen flitted many forms which the quick eye of the master did not recognize. " Oh!" grumbled he to himself, *' that cursed Congrio hath in- vited 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 ex- penses. 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 miserumP' The cooks, however, worked on, seemingly heedless of the ap- parition of Diomed. " Ho, Euclio, your egg-pan I What, is this the largest? it only holds thirty-three eggs; in the houses I usually serve, the small- est egg-pan holds fifty, if .need be!" * ' The unconscionable rogue!" thought Diomed; ** he talks of eggs as if they were a sesterce a hundred!" " By Mercury!" cried a pert Uttle disciple, scarce in his noviti- ate; " whoever saw such antique sweetmeat shapes as these? — it is impossible to do credit to one's art with such rude materials. Why, Sallust's commonest sweetmeat shape represents the whole siege of Troy; Hector and Paris, and Helen — with little Astyanax and the Wooden Horse into the bargain!" *' Silence, fool!" said Congrio, the cook of the house, who seem- ed to leave the chief part of the battle to his alKes. " My mas- ter, Diomed, is not one of those expensive good-for-naughts, who must have the last fashion, cost what it will!" " Thou liest, base slave!" cried Diomed, in a great passion — " and thou costest me already enough to have ruined Lucullus himself! Come out of thy den, I want to talk to thee." The slave, with 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, that they are men of most respect- able character — the best cooks of the place; it is a great favor to get tliem. But for my sake " *' Thy sake, unhappy Congrio!" inteiTupted Diomed; " and by what purloined moneys of mine, by wliat reserved filchings from marketing, by what goodly meats converted into grease, and sold in the suburbs, by what false charges for bronzes marred, and earthenware broken — hast thou been enabled to make them serve thee for thy sake?" " Nay, master, do not impeach my honesty I May the gods de- sert me if " *' Swear not!'* again interrupted the choleric Diomed, *'for then the gods will smite thee for a perjurer, and I shall lose my cook on the eve of dinner. But, enough of tliis at present; keep a sharp eye on thy ill-favored assistants, and tell me no tales to- morrow of vases broken, and cups miraculously vanished, or thy whole back shall be one pain. And hark theel thou knowest that thou hast made me pay for those Phrygian attagens enoug;b^ in TBM LAST DAYS OF POMPElt by Hercules, to have feasted a sober man for a year torether; 8e« that they be not one iota over-roasted. The last time, 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 ^Etna, as if alJ the fires of Phlegethon had been scorching out its juices. Be mod- est this time, Congrio, wary and modest. Modesty is the nurse of great actions; and in all other things, as in tliis, 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 dajB of Hercules." " Softly, softly — thy cursed boasting again 1 But I say, Congrio, yon Jiomununculus — yon pigmy assailant of my cranes — ^^on pert- tongued neophyte of the Idtchen, was there aught but insolence on his tongue when he maligned the comeliness of my sweet- meat shapes? I would not be out of the fashion, Congrio." ** It is but the custom of our cooks," replied Congrio, grave- ly, *' to undervalue our tools, in order to increase the effect of our art. The sweetmeat shape is a fair shape, and a lovely; but I would recommend my master, at the first occasion, to purchase some new ones of a ^" " That will suflSce," exclaimed Diomed, who seemed resolved never to allow his slave to finish his sentences. *' Now, resume thy charge — shine — eclipse thyself. Let men envy Diomed his cook, let the slaves of Pompeii style thee Congrio the great! Gol yet stay, thou hast not spent all the moneys I gave thee for the marketing?" ** * Alir — alas I the nightingales' tongues and the Roman toma" eula* and the oysters from Britain, and sundry other things, too numerous now to recite, are yet left unpaid for. But what mat- ter? every one trusts the Arcliimagiris] of Diomed the wealthy!" " Oh, unconscionable prodigal! — what waste! what profusion! I am ruined! But go, hasten— inspect! taste! perform! surpass thyself! Let the Roman senator not despise the poor Pompeian. Away, slave, and remember the Phrygian attagens." The chief disappeared within his natural domain, and Diomed rolled back liis portly presence to the more courtly chambers. All was to his liking, the flowers were fresh, the fountains play- ed briskly, the mosaic pavements were as smooth as mirrors. ** Where is my daughter Julia?" he asked. **Atthebath.'» "Ah! that reminds mel— time wanesl— and I must batb« also." Our story runs to Apascides. On awakening that day from the broken and feverish sleep which had followed his adoption of a faith so strikingly and sternly at variance with that in which his youth had been nurtured, the young priest could scarcely imagine that he was not yet in a dream; he had crossed the fatal river — the past was henceforth to have no sympathy ♦ " candldiUl divlna tomacula VorcV^— Juvenal^ ss, t 855w A rlc^i and delicate species of sausage. f ^rchtmaglris was the lofty title of the chief cook. THE LAST BAYS OF POMPEII. 175 with the future; 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 altai-s he had served— to denounce the goddess whose ministering robe he wore! Slowly he became sensible of the hatred and the hon-orhe should provoke among the pious, even if successful; if frustrated in his daring attempt, what penalties might he not incur for an offense hitlierto 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 legislation, would probably be distorted to meet! His friends— the sister of his youth— could he expect justice, though he might receive compassion, from them? This brave and heroic act would by their heathen eyes be regarded, perhaps, as a heinous apostasy— at the best, as a pitiable 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 in- vaded 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 trumphed over his old; and a mighty argument in favor of wrest- ling 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 plausibihties of custom" — less of democrats in the pure and lofty acceptation of that preverted word— Chris- tianity 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 Apsecides v/as not yet completed; when he had risen from his couch, attired himself, as usual, in his robes, and left his narrow chamber, ho 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 poured its fervid beams over the sacred place. ''Salve, Apsecides!" said a voice, whose natural asperity was smoothed by long artifice into an almost displeasing softness of tone. " Thou art late abroad; has the goddess revealed herself to thee in visions?" " Could she reveal her true self to the people, Calenus, how incenseless would be these altars!" "That," rephed 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 novelt7. But hark ye, YOung brother! these gayuigs are indiscveet.* 174 THE LAST DAYS OF P03IPEIL **It is not for thee to silence them," replied ApsBcidees, haughtily. •'Sohotl— -yet I will not quarrel with thee. "Why, my Apae- cides, has not the Egyptian convinced thee of the necessity ol our dwelling together in unity? Has he not convinced thee of the wisdom of deluding the people and enjoying ourselves? If, not, oh brother I he is not the great magician he is esteemed.** *' Thou, then, hast shared his lessons?" said Apaecides, with a hollow smile. •'Ay I 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 I" " Beware, thou, the hour when the tomb shall bo rent, and the rottenness exposed," returned Apaecides, solemnly. *' Vale^ 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 nrandium by tlie ancients, answers in point of date to the oreakfast of the moderns. The white and graceful fane gleamed brightly in the sun. Upon the altar 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 Ms way slowly toward the house of lone; for before, possibly, the last tie that united them was cut in twain — before the imcertain peril of the next day was incur- red, he was anxious to see his last surviving reLitive, his fondes't as his earliest friend. He arrived at her house, and found her in the garden with Nydia. "This is kind, Apaecides,'* said lone, joyfully; "and how eagerly have I wished to see theel — what thanks do I not owe thee? How churlish hast thou been to answer none of my letters —to abstain from coming hither to receive the expression of my gratitude! Oh, thou hast assisted to preserve thy sister from dis- honor! What, what can she say to thank thee, now thou art come at last?" " My sweet lone, thou owest me no gratitude, for thy cause was mine. Let us avoid that subject; let us recur not to that impious man— how hateful to both of us! I may have i speedy opportunity to teach the world the nature of his pretended wisdom and h}^)ocritical severity, But let us sit down, my sister; I am wearied with the heat of the sun; let us sit in yonder shade, and for a little while longer, be to each other what we have been." Beneath a wide plane-tree with the cistus and the arbutus clustering around tnem, the living fountain before, the green- sward beneath their feet; the gay cicada, once so dear to Athens, rising merrily ever and anon amid the grass; the butterfly, beai?tiful emblem of t)ie soul, dedicated to Psyche, and which haa TBE LAST DATS OF POMPEII. 178 continued to furnish illustrations to the Christian bard, rich iu 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 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 traveler search among the ruins of Pompeii for the house of lone. Its remains are yet visible; but I will not betray them to the gaze of common-place tourists. He who is more sensitive than the herd will discover them easily; when he has done so, let him keep the secret. They sat down, and Nydia, glad to be alone, retired to the farther end of the garden. "lone, my sister," said the young convert, "place your 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!" " Alasl and what then shall I say? Our lanaoiage of affection is so woven up with that of worship, that the words grow chilled and trite if I banish from them allusion to our gods." ^' Our gods r murmured Apaecides, with a shudder; "thou slightest my request already." " Shall I speak then to thee only of Isis ?' "The Evil Spirit! No, rather be dumb forever, unless, at least thou canst— but away, away this talk I 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 Uttle 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 us 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. ShaU 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 Baise, hand in hand together, to pluck the flowers of the spring? Even so, hand in hand, shaU we enter the Eter- nal Garden, and crown ourselves with imperishable asphodel!" Wondering and bewildered by words she could not compre- hend, but excited even to tears by the plaintiveness of their tone, lone hstened to these outpourings of a full and oppressed heart. In truth, Apsecides himself was softened much beyond his ordi- nary mood, which to outward seeming was usually either suUen or impetuous. For the noblest desires are of a jealous nature-— they ingress, they absorb the soul, and often leave the splenetio humors stagnant and unheeded at the surface^ Uiiheeamg tho 176 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEIL petty things around us, we are deemed morose: impatient at earthly interruption to the diviner dreams, we are thought irri- table and churlish. For as there is no chimera vainer than the hope that one human heart shall find sympathy in another, so none ever interpret us with justice; and none, no, not our near- est and our dearest ties, forbear with us in mercy! When we pre dead and repentance comes too late, both friend and foe may wonder to think how little there was in us to forgive I " I will talk to thee then of our early years," said lone. "Shall j'on blind girl sing to thee of the days of childhood ? Her voice IS sweet and musical, and she hath a song on that theme which contains none of those allusions it pains thee to hear." '*Dost thou remember the words, my sister?" asked ApaBcides. "Methinks yes; for the tune, which is simple, fixed them on my memory." *' Sing to me then thyself. My ear is not in unison with un- familiar voices; and thine, lone, full of household associations, has ever been more sweet than all the hireling melodies of Lycia or Crete. Sing to me I" lone beckoned to a slave that stood in the portico, and sending for her lute, sang, when it arrived, to a tender and simple air, the following verses: A REGRET FOR CHILDHOOD. It is not that our earlier Heaven Escapes its April showers Or that the childhood's heart is given No snake amid 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 soitow; But hope shines bright on every thing That waits us with the morrow. Like sun-lit glades • The dimmest shades Some rosy beam can borrow. It Is not that our later years Of cares are woven wholly, But smiles less swiftly chase the tears, And wounds are heal'd more slowtjr. And Memory's vow To lost ones now Make joy too bright, unholy. And ever fled the Iris bow That smiled when clouds were o*«r as. If storms should burst, uncheer'd we go, A drearier waste before us; And with the toj's Of childish joys, We've broke the staff that bore us. "Wisely and delicately had lone chosen that song, sad tSMugh Its burden seemed; for when we are deeplv mournful, discordant above all others is the voice of mirth; the fittest spell is that borrowed from melancholy itself, for dark thoughts can. tMI THE LAST DA YS OF POMPEIL ITI softened down when they cannot be brightened: so they lose the precise and rigid outlines of their truth, and tneix 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 rank- ling festers of the mind, our art is to divert to a milder sadness on the surface the pain that gnaweth at the core. And so with Apsecides; yielding to the silver voice that reminded him of the past, and told but of half the sorrow born to the present, he for« got his more immediate and fiery sources of anxious thought. He spent hours in making lone alternately sing to, and converse with him; and when he rose to leave her, it was with a calmed and lulled mind. " lone," said he, as he pressed her hand, " should you hear my name blackened and maligned, will you credit the aspersion?" " Never, my brother, never I" " Dost thou not imagine, according to thy belief, that the evil-doer is punished hereafter, and the good rewarded?" " Can you doubt it?" " Dost thou think, then, that he who is truly good should sac- rifice every selfish interest in his zeal for virtue?" " He who doth so is the equal of the gods." "And thou belie vest that, according to the purity and courage with which he thus acts, shall be his portion of bliss beyond the grave?" " So we are taught to hope." " Kiss me, my sister. One question more. Thou art to be wedded to Glaucus: perchance that marriage may separate us more hopelessly — but not of this speak I now; thou art to be married to Glaucus: dost thou love him? Nay, my sister, answer me by words." " Yesl" murmured lone, blushing. ** Dost thou feel that, for his sake, thou couldst renounce pride, brave dishonor, and incur death? I have heard that when wo- men 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 instinct and inspired with a divine life: his chest swelled proudly, his eyes glowed; on his forehead was writ the majesty or a man who can dare to be noble! He turned to meet the eyes of lone— earn- est, wistful, fearful — he kissed her fondly, strained her warmly to his breast, and in a moment more he had left the house. Long did lone remain in the same place, mute and thoughtful The maidens came again and again to warn her of the deepening noon, and her engagement to Diomed's banquet. At length she woke from her revery 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 Glaucusd* 178 TBE LAST DA TS OF P0MPE2Z 8lie should confide to liim her alaxm and uneaainees for het brother. CHAPTER HL A FASHIONABLE PAETY AND A DINNER A LA MODE IN POMPEIL Meanwhile Sallust and Glaucus were slowly strolling toward tl-e houKe of Diomed. Despite the habits of his life, Sallust \\ as not devoid of many estimable qualities. He would hav« i;een 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 worshiped the echo of Grecian wisdom, he had imbued himself with these doctrines by wliich the late Epicureans corrupted the simple maxims of their gTeat master. He gave himself altogether up to pleasure, and imagined there was no sage like a boon companion. Still, however, he had a considerable degree of learning, wit, and good- nature; and the hearty frankness of his very vices seemed like virtue itself beside the utter corruption of Clodius and the pros- trate effeminacy of Lepidus; and therefore Glaucus liked him the best of his companions; and he, in turn, appreciating the nobler qualities of the Atheoian, loved him almost as much as a cold muraena, or a bowl of the best Falemian. *' This is a vulgar old fellow, this Diomed," said Sallust; *' but he has some good quahties — in his cellar I" '* 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." 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 Corin- thian about her — they will be well-matched, after all! What good-natured fellows we are, to associate with that gambling good-f or-naught 1" '• Pleasme unites strange varieties," answered Glaucus. " H« amuses me " " And flatters; but then he pays himself welll He powders hi« praise with gold-dust." " You often hint that he plays unfairly — think you so really?" ** My dear Glaucus, a Roman noble has his dignity to keep up — dignity is very expensive — Clodius must cheat like a scoundrel, in order to live like a gentleman." ' *' Ha ha! — well, of late I have renounced the dice. Ah! Sallust, when I am wedded to lone. I trust I may yet redeem a youtli of follies. We are both born for better tilings than those in which we sympathize now— born to render our worship in nobler tem- ples than the sty of Epicurus." " Alas!" returned Sallust, in rather a melancholy tone, ** what do we know more than this — life is short, beyond the grave aU is dark? There is no wisdom like that wliich says * enjoy.' " ♦ UnwelGome and uninvited guests were called muscas or flies. THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEIL 179 "B^ Bacchus I I doubt sometimes if we do enjoy the utmost 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 myiTh, 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." '* Fie, Scythian!" *' Pshaw! the fate of Pentheus to him who denies Bacchus." *' Well, Sallust, with all your faults, you are the best profligate I ever met; and verily, if I were in danger of life, you are the only man in all Italy who would stretch out a finger to save me." " Perhaps 1 should not if it were in the middle of supper. But, in truth, we Itahans are earfully 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 Epicu- rean," answered Sallust. "But here we are at om- 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 insti-uotions for a suburban villa laid dowTi by the Roman architect, it may not be uninteresting briefly to describe the plan of the apartments tlirough which oui- visitors passed. They entered, then, by the 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 differ' ence 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 center 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 smaU triangular portico, which belonged to the baths; and behind was the wardrobe, in which were kept the vests of the holiday suits of tlie slaves, and, perhaps, of the master. Seventeen centuries afterward 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 ©f the whole suite of apartments, which im- mediately stretched before the steps of the visitors. Let th(?m first imagine the columns of the poi-tico, hung with festoons of flowers; th? columns themselves in the lower part 180 TEE LAST DAYS OF POMPEIt painted red, and the walls around glowing with various frescoes; then, loooking 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 tabhnum, were small rooms, one of which was a kind of cabinet of gems; and these apartments, as well as the tablinum, commimicated with a long gallery, wliich opened at either end upon terraces; and between the terraces, and communicating ■«dth the central part of the gallery, was a hall, in which the banquet was that day prepared. All these apartments, thougli •Iniost on a level with the street, were one story above the garden ; and the terraces communicating with the gallery were con- tinued into corridors, raised above the pillars, wliich to the right and left skirted the garden below. Beneath, and on a level with the garden, ran the apartments We have already described as appropriated to him. In the gallery, then, just mentioned, Diomed received his guests. The merchant affected greatly the man of letters, and, there- fore, he also affected a passion for everything Greek; he paid particular attention to Glaucus. " You w^ill see, my friend," said he, with a wave of his hand, •* that I am classical here — a little Cecropian — eh? The hall in which we shall sup is bonow ed from the Greeks. It is an CEcus Cyzicene. Noble Sallust, they have not, I am told, this sort of an apartment in Rome." " Oh!" replied Sallust, with a half-smile, *' you Pompeians com- bine all that is most eligible in Greece and Rome; may you, Di- omed, combine the viands as well as the architecture!" "You shall see — you shall see, my Sallust," replied the mer- chant. " We have a taste at Pompeii, and we have also money." " They are two excellent things, ' replied Sallust, '* but behold, the lady Julia!" The main difference, as I have before remarked, in the manner of life observed among the Athenians and Romans was, that with the first, the modest woman rarely or never took pai-t in the en- tertaiimients; with the latter, they were the common ornaments of the ban(|uet; but when they were present at the feast, it usual- ly terminated at an early hour. Magnificently robed in white, interwoven with pearls and threads of gold, the handsome Julia entered the apartment. Scarcely bad she received the salutation of the two guests ere Pansa and his wife, Lepidus, Clodius and the Roman senator en- tered 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, accomixinied by his umbra, next stalked in; afterward the less eminent of the guests. lone yet tarried. It was the mode among the courteous ancients to flatter when- ever it was in their power; accordingly it was a sign of ill-breed- ing to seat themselves immediately on entering the house of their host. After performing the salutation, which was usually ac- complished by the same cordial shake of the right hand which THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII, I8l We ourselves retain, and sometimes by the y6t more familiar em- brace, they spent several minutes in sm-veying the apartment, and admiring the bronzes, the pictures, or the furniture with which it was adorned — a mode very impolite according to our re- fined English notions, which place good breeding in indifference. We would not for the world express much admiration of another man's house, for fear it would be thought we had never seeu anything so fine before I " A beautiful statue this of Bacchus I" said the Roman senator^ ^ A mere trifle 1" repUed Diomed. " What charming paintingsl" said Fulvia, " Mere trifles I" answered the o^vner. " Exquisite candelabral" cried the warrior. " Exquisite I" echoed his umbra. ** Trifles I trifles I" reiterated the merchant. Meanwhile, Glaucus found himself by one of the windows of the gallery which communicated \\ith the terraces, and the fair Julia by his side, "Is it an Athenian vu-tue, Glaucus," said the merchant's daugh- ter, " to shun those whom we once sought?" " Fair Julia — no!" " Yet, methinks, it is one of the qualities of Glaucus." "Glaucus never shuns a friend."^ replied the Greek, with some emphasis on the last word. " May Julia ranMamong the number of his friends?" "It would be an honor to the emperor to find a friend in one so lovely." "You evade my question," returned the enamored Julia, " But tell me, is it true that you admii-e the Neapolitan lone?" "Does not beauty constrain our adnuration?" " Ahl subtle Greek, still do you flvthe meaning of my words. But say, shall Julia be indeed your friend?" " If she will so favor me, blessed be the gods I The day in which I am thus honored shall ever be marked in white." " Yet, even wliile you speak, your eye is restless — your color comes and goes — you move away involuntarily — ^you are impa- tient to join lonel" For that moment lone had entered, and Glaucus had indeed betrayed the emotion noticed by the jealous beauty, " Can admiration of one woman make me unworthy the friend- ship of another? Sanction not so, oh, Julia, the libels of the poets on your sex." " Well, you are right, or I will learn to tliink so. Glaucus, yet one moment. You are to wed lone; is it not so?" " If the Fates permit, such is my blessed hope." " Accept them from me, in token of our new friendship, a present for your bride. Nay, it is the custom of friends, you know, always to present to bride and bridegroom some such little marks of their esteem and favoring wishes." " Julia, I cannot refuse any token of friendship from one like you. I will accept the gift as an omen from Fortune itself." " Then, after the feast, when the guests retire, you will descend with me to my apartment, and receive it from my hands, Ec 182 fBB LAST DA T3 OF POMPEH. member," said Julia, as she ^ined the wife of Pansa, and left Glaucus to seek lone. The widow Fulvia and the si)ouse of the aedile were engaged in grave and high discussion. *' Oh, 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 fasliion, like mine, you Bee, it has a fine effect, I think. I assure you, Vespius (Vespius was the name of the Herculaneum hero) admires it greatly." *' And nobody wears the hair like yon Neapolitan, in the Greek way." *' What, parted in front, with the knot behind? Oh, no! how ridiculous it is I it reminds one of the statue of Diana I Yet thia lone is handsome, eh?" "So the men say: but then she is rich; she is to marry the Athenian — ^I wish her joy. He will not be long faithful, I sus- pect; those forei^ers are very faithless." "Oh, Juliarsaid Fulvia, as the merchan t's daughter joined them; ""have you seen the tiger yet?" "Nor " Why, all the ladies have been to see him. He is so hand- some!" "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 offenpes to which the punishment of the arena can be awarded; and then, too, the gladiators are Rowing effeminate. The stoutest bestiarii declare they are will- mg 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 miter.** replied Julia, In disdain, " Oh, have you seen the new house of Fulvius, the dear poet?" said Pansa's wife. "No; is it handsome?" " Very; such good taste. But they say, my dear, that he has such improper pictures. He won't show them to the women; how ill-bred!" " Those poets are always odd," said the widow. " But he is an interesting man; what pretty verses he writes. We improve very much in poetry: it is impossible to read the old stuff now." " I declare I am of your opinion," returned the lady of the hel- met. " There is so much more force and energy in the modem BchooL" The warrior sauntered up to the ladies. " It reconciles me to peace," said lie, "when I see such faces." " Oh, you heroes are ever flatterers,' returned Fulvia, hasten- ing to appropriate the compliment specially to herself. "By this chain, wliich I received from he Emperor's own hand,'* replied the warrior, playing with a short chain which hnng aroond the neck like ^ coila^- instead of descending to the THB LAST DA IS OF POMPEIt 188 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 generaDy?'* said Julia. " By Venus, most beautiful I 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 cele- brated 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 burden- some afterward." *' True — true, oh, VespiusI" cried the poet, joining the group; *' I find it so myself." *' You I" 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," re- turned the poet, with a significant glance at the women. "I have been among the tent-companions, the contiibernales, 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 himseK was in love with the mother of jokes," said the poet, a little alarmed. " Know, then, O Vespius, that 1 am the poet Fulvius. It is I who make warriors immortal!" "The gods forbid!" wliispered Sallust to Julia. "If Vespius were made immortal, what a specimen of tiresome braggadocio would be transmitted to posterity!" The soldier looked puzzled; when, to the infinite relief of himself and his companions, the signal for the feast was given. As we have already witnessed at the house of Glaucus the or- dinary routine of aPompeian 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 nomen- clator, or appointer of places, to each guest. The reader understands that the festive board was composed of three tables; one at the center, and one at each -sving. 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 tho waiters or ministri. The extreme comer of one of the wings was appropriated to Julia as the lady of the feast; that next her, to^ Diomed. At one corner of the center-table was placed the aedile; at the opposite corner, the Eoman senator — these were the posts of honor. The other guests were arranged, so that the young (gentleman or lady) Bhould sit next each other, and thf> wore advanced in years be similaxly matched. An agreeabli* 184 TBS LAST DAYS OF POMFBIt provision enough, but one which mxist often have offended those who wished to be thought still young. The chair of lone ^vas next to tlie oouch of Glaucus. Tlio seats were veneered with tortoise-shell, and covered with quilts Btuffed with feathers, and ornamented with costly embroideries. Tlie modern ornaments of epergne or plateau were suppUed by images of the gods, \^Tought in bronze, ivory, and silver. The sacred salt-cellar and the famihar Lares were not forgotten. Over the table and the seats a rich canopy was suspended from the ceiling. At each corner of the table were lofty candelabra — for though it was early noon, the room was darkened — while from tripods, placed in different parts of the room, distilled the odor of myrrh and frankincense; and upon the abacus, or side- board, large vases and various ornaments of silver were ranged, much witli the same ostentation (but Avith more than the same taste) that we find displayed at a modem feast. The custom of grace was invariably suppHed by that of liba- tion to the gods; and Vesta, as queen of the household gods, usually received first that graceful homage. The 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 Imden-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 the leaves, for it was not the favshion for them to drink ■wdne in public. It was then that president Diomed thought it advisable to institute a basileuSf or director of the feast — an important office, sometimes chosen by lot; sometimes, as now, by the master of the enter- tainment. 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 eedile 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 glances of Sal- lust, and bv a sudden inspiration, named the jovial epicm*e to the rank of director, or arbiter hihendi. Sallust received the appointment with becoming humility. *'I shall be a merciful king," said he, "to those who drink; to a recusant, Minos liimself shall be less inexorable. Beware I " The slaves lianded round basins of perfumed water, by which lavation the feast commenced: and now the table groaned under the i litiatory course. The conversation, at first desultory and scattered, allowed lone and Glaucus to carry on those sweet whispers, which are worth all the eloquence in the world. Juha watched them with flash- ing eyes. *• How soon shall her place be mine?" thought she. But Clodius, who sat at the center table, so as to observe well the countenance of Julia, guessed her pique, and resolved to profit by it. He addressed lier across the table in set phfases of gallantry; and as he was of high birth and of ft ekQ'W^ fiOCaO^ TEE LAST DA YS OF POMPEIL 18ft tihe vain Julia was not so much in love as to be insensible to his attentions. The slaves, in the interim, were constantly kept on the alert b^ the vigilant Sallust, who chased one cup by another with a celerity which soemed as if he were resolved upon exhausting those capacious cellars which the reader may yet see beneath the nouse of Diomed. The worthv merchant began to repeat his choice, as amphora after amphora was pierced and emptied. The slaves, all under the age of manhood (the youngest oeing 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 seconded the exertions of the king of the feast. " Pardon me, O senatorl" said Sallust; ** I see you flinch; your purple hem cannot save you — drink!" "By the gods!" said the senator, coughing, "my lungs are already on fire; you proceed with so mii'aculous a swiftness, that Phaeton himself was nothing to you. I am infirm, O pleasant Sallust; you must exonerate me." " Not I, by Vestal 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! gentlyl my king!" groaned Diomed; "we already begin to " " Treason!" interrupted Sallust; " no stem Brutus here!-— no interference with royalty!" "But our female ^ests ^'* " 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 finisliing lavation. At the same time, a small circular table that had been placed in the space opposite the guests, suddenly, and as by magic, seemed to open in the center, 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 per- ceived that a rope had been stretched across the ceiling, and that one of those nimble dancers for which Pompeii was so celebrated, and whose descendants add so charming a grace to the festivities of Astley's or Vauxhall, was now treading his airy measures right over their heads. This apparition, removed but by a cord from one's pericranium, and indulging the most vehement leaps, apparently with the in- tention of alighting upon that cerebral region, would probably be regarded with some terror by a party in May Fair; but our Pompeian revelers 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 what- ever guest he particularly selected to dance above. He paid the senator, indeed, the peculiar compliment, for literally falling from the rope, and catching it a^ain with his hand, just as the wholt 181 THE LAST DAY8 OF POMPEIt party Imagined the skull of the Roman was aa much fractured as ever that of the poet whom the eagle took for a tortoise. At length, to the great relief of at least lone, who had not much accustomed herself to this entertainment, the dancer suddenly paused as a strain of music w^as heard from without. He danced again still more wildly; the air changed, the dancer paused again; no, it could not dissolve the charm which was supposed to x>ossess him I He represented one who by a strange disorder is compelled to dance, and whom only a certain air of music can cure. At length the musician seemed to hit on the right tune; the dancer gave one leap, swung himself down from the rope, ahghted on the floor and vauislied. 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 exceediiig lowness of the min- strelsy: FESTIVE MUSIC SHOULD BE LOW. Hark, through these flowers our music sends its greetfaig To your loved halls, where Pallas shuns the day; "When the young god his Cretan nymph was meeting;, He taught Pan's rustic pipe this gliding lay, Soft as the dews of wine Shed in this banquet hour, The rich libation of Sound's stream divine, O reverent harp, to Aphrodite pourl 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 a woman's half-heard tone. So that whoe'er shall hear, shall tnink to feel In thee the voice of lips that love his own. At the end of that song Tone's cheek blushed more deepV than before, and Glaucus had contrived, under cover of the table, to steal her liand. "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?" asked the king of the feast, who had just called on the assembly to drink the health of the Roman eenator, 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 wliispering the slave who came to learn his orders, the lattei disappeared, and returned in a few moments w ith a small harp in one hand and a brauch of myrtle in tlie other. The slave approached the poet, and with a low reverence pre- sented to him the liarp. ** Alas! I cannot play,'* said the poet. "Then you must sing to the myrtle. It is a Greek fashion-, Diomed loves the Greeks— I K)ve the Greeks— you love th« TBE LAST DAYS OF POMPBIL tm Greeks— we all love the Greeks— and between you and me this is not the only thing we have stolen from them. However, I in- troduce this custom— I, the king. Sing, subject, singl" The poet, with a bashful smile, took the myrtle in his handa^ and after a short prelude sang as follows in a pleasant and we4> tuned voice: THE CORONATION OF THE LOVES. The merry Loves one holiday Were all at gambols madly; But loves too long can seldom play Without behaving sadly. They laugh'd, they toy'd, they romp'd abont| And then for change they all fell out. Fie, fie! how can they quarrel so? My Lesbia— ah, for shame, love! Methinks 'tis scarce an hour ago When we did just the same, love. The loves, 'tis thought, were free till then They had no king or laws, dear; But gods, like men, should subject be. Say all the ancient saws, dear. And so our crew resolved, for quiet, To choose a king to curb their riot. A kiss: ah! what a grievous thing For both, methinks, 'twould be, child, If I should take some prudish king, And cease to be j>o free, childl Among their toys a Casque they found. It was the helm of Ares; With horrent plumes the crest was crown'^ It frighten'd all the Lares. So fine a king was never known^ — Then placed the helmet on the throne. My girl, since Valor wins the world. They chose a mighty master; But thy sweet flag of smiles unfurl'd Would win the world much fasterl The Casque soon found the Loves too wild A troop for him to school them* For warriors know how one such child Has aye contrived to fool them. They plagued him so, that in despair He took a wife the plague to share. If kings themselves thus find the striiSB Of earth, unshared, severe, girl: Why just to halve the ills of life, Come, take your partner here, gid. Within that room the Bird of Love The whole affair had eyed them; The monarch hail'd the royal dove. And placed her by his side then; What mirth amid the Loves was seeni •♦Long live," they cried, " our King and Queeol*^ m TBS LAST DATS OF POMFmt Ah! LesTblft, would that thrones -^ere mlM^ And crowns to deck tliatbrow, lorti And yet I know that heart of thin* For me is throne enow, lovel The urchins hoped to tease tho matt As they had teased the hero; But when the Dove In judgment sati^ Tliey found her worse than Nerol Each look a frown, each word a law; The little subjects shook with awe. In thee I find the same deceit: Too late, alas! a learnerl For where a mein more gently sweetf And where a tyrant sterner? This song, wliicli greatly suited the gay and lively fancy of the Pompeians, was received with considerable applause, and the widow insisted on cro^vning 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 amid the clapping of hands and shouts of To triumphe ! The song and the harp now circulated round the party, a new myrtle branch being handed about, stopping at each person who could be prevailed upon to sing. The sun began now to dech'ne, though the revelers, who had won away several hours, perceived it not in their darkened chamber; and the senator, who was tired, and the warrior, who had to return to Herculaneum, rising to depart, gave the signal for the general dispersion. *' Tarry yet a moment, my friends,'* Baid Diomed; *' if you go so soon, you must at least take a share in our concluding game." So saying, he motioned to one of the ministri, and whispering him, the slave went out and presently returned with a small bowl, containing various tablets carefully sealed, and, apparent- ly, exactly similar. Each guest was to purchase one of those at the nominal price of the low^est piece of silver; and the sport of this lottery (which was the favorite diversion of Augustus, who introduced it) consisted in the inequality and sometimes the incongruity of the prizes, the nature and amount of which were specified within the tablets. For instance the poet, with a wry face, drew one of his owti poems (no physician ever less willing- ly swallow^ed his own draught); the warrior drew a case of bod- kins, which gave rise to several 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 Clo- dius, who redden ' with anger on being presented a set of cogged dice. A certain c imp was thrown upon the gayetv which these various lots created by an accident that'was considered ominous; Glaucus drew tho most valuable of all the prizes, a small marble statue of Fortune, of Grecian workmansliip; on handing it to him, the slave suffered it to drop, and it broke in pieces. A shiver went round the assembly, and each voioe cried spoil* taneously on the gods to avert the omen. TJSE LAST DA TS OP FOMPEU. »«t Olaucus alone, though perhaps as superstitious as tlie rest, at* rected to be unmoved. "Sweet Neapolitan," whispered he tenderly to lone, who had turned pale as the broken marble itself, * ^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 occa- sioned in an assembly which, considering the civiKzation of the guests, would seem miraculously superstitious, if at the present day in a coui}try party we did not often see a lady grow hypo- chondriacal on leaving a room last of thirteen, Sallust now crown- ing his cup with flowers, gave the health of theii- host. This was followed by a simihar compliment to the Emperor; and then, with a parting cup to Mercury to send them pleasant slumbers, they concluded the entertainment by a last libation, and broke up the party. Carriages and litters were little used in Pompeii, partly owing to the extreme narrowness of the streets, partly to the convenient smallness of the city. Most of the guests replacing their sandals, which they had put off in the banquet-room, and induing their cloaks, left the house on foot attended by their slaves. Meanwhile, having seen lone depart, Glaucus, turning to the staircase which led down to the rooms of Julia, was conducted by a slave to an apartment in which he found the merchant's daugh- ter already seated. *' Glaucus!" said she, looking down, *' I see that you really love lone— she is indeed beautiful." " Juha is charming enough to be generous," replied the Greek. "Yes, I love lone; amid all the youth that court you, may you have one worshiper as sincere." " I pray the gods to grant it! See, Glaucus, these pearls are the present I destine to your bride: may Juno give her health to wear them!" So saying, she placed a case in his hand, containing a row of pearls of some size and price. It was so much the custom for persons about to be married to receive these gifts, that Glaucus could have little scruple in accepting the necklace, though the gallant and proud Athenian inly resolved to requite the gift by one of thrice its value. Julia then stopping short his thanks, poured forth some wine into a small bowl, " You have drunk many toasts with my father," said she smil- ing — " one now with me. Health and fortune to your bride!" She touched the cup with her lips and then presented it to Glau- cus. The customary etiquette required that Glaucus should drain the whole contents; he accordingly did so. Julia, unknow- ing the deceit which Nydia had practiced upon her, watched him with sparkling eyes; although the witch had told her that the effect might not be immediate, she yet sanguinely trusted to an expeditious operation in favor of her charms. She was disap- pointed when she found Glaucus coldly replace the cup, and con- verse 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. \ itfO THE LAST DA Y3 OF POMPEIt "But to-morrow,*' thought slie, exultiagly, recovering her dim appointment — *' to-moiTow, alas for GlaucusI" Alas for him indeed I CHAPTER rV. THE STORY HALTS FOR A MOlfENT AT AN EPiaODE. Restless and anxious, Apaecides consumed the day in wander ing through the most sequestered walks in the vicinity of tha city. The sun was slowly setting as he paused beside a lonely part of the Sarnus, ere yet it wound amid tlie evidences of lux- ury and power. Only fclirough openings in the woods and vines were caught glimpses of the white and gleaming city, in which were heard in the distance no din, no sound, no " busiest hum of men." Amid the green banks crept the lizard and the grass- hopper, and here and there in the brake, a solitary bu'd burst into sudden song as suddenly stilled. There was a 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 white capella passed browsing through the herbage, and paused at the wave to drink. As Apaecides stood musingly gazing upon the waters, he heaxd beside him the low bark of a dog. *♦ Be still, poor friend," said a voice at hand; *' the stranger's step harms not thy master." The convert recognized the voice, and, turaing, he beheld the mysterious man whom he had seen in the congregation of the Nazarenes. The old man was sitting upon a fragment of stone covered with ancient mosses: beside him were his staff and scrip; at his feet lay a small shaggy dog, the companion in how many a pilgrim- age perilous and sti-ange. The face of the old man was as balm to the excited spirit of the neophyte; he approached, and craving his blessing, sat down be- side him. "Thou art provided as for a journey, father," he said; "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, travel- ing from place to place comforting those whom God has gathered together in His name, and proclaiming the glory of His Son, as testified by His servant." " Thou hast looked, they tell, on the face of Christ?" "And the face revived me from the dead. Know, young pros- elyte 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 sjiared 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 crowds were gathered, there came a silence over the sounds of THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 191 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, ' I say unto thee, arise.' And the dead man woke and looked upon the face of the Lord. Oh that calm and solemn brow, that unutterable smile, that careworn and sorrowful face, lighted up with a God's benignity; it chased away the shadows of the grave! I rose, I spoke, I was living and m my mother s arms; yes, I am the dead revivedl Thi people shouted, the funeral horns rang forth merrily, there was a cry, ' God hath visited his people!' I heard them not; I felt J saw, nothing but tlie face of the Redeemer! " The old man paused, deeply moved; and the youth felt his blood creep, and bis hair stir. He was in the presence of on© who had known the Mystery of Death! '• Till that time," renewed the widow's son, *' I had been as other men: thoughtless, not abanoned; taking no heed but of the things of love and hfe: nay. I had inchned to the gloomy faith of the earthly Sadduces. But, raised from the dead, from awful and desert dreams that these lips never dare reveal; recaUed upon earth to testify the power of Heaven; once more mortal, the witness of immortality; I drew a new being from the gi-ave. \! T? ®i •' V * Jerusalem! Him from whom came my life, I be- held adjudged to the agonized and parching death! Far in the mighty crowd, I saw the light rest and glimmer over the cross, I heard the hooting mob, I cried aloud, I raved, I threatened none heeded me; I was lost in the whii-1 and the roar of thous- ands. But even then, in my agony and His own, methought the glazing eye of the Son of Man sought me out. His lip smU- ed as when it conquered death; it hushed me, and I became Si^; f ■^?T^^'' ^m^ ^^^^^ ^^^ S^^^^ f«^ another-what was the crave to Him? The sun shone aslant the pale and powerful features, and then died away! Darkness feU over the earth; how long It endured, I know not. A loud cry came through the gloom; a sharp and bitter cr7, and all was silent. thP ri^t^i^^ ^^'""il *®^^ ^^\ ^'^''T! ^^ *^'^ ^^^1^*? I talked along Ihtwil' *^^, ^^^*^ "-'^i^i ^o and fro, and the houses trembled tS fw,^w^ *^? ^'""""t^ ^^^^ deserted the streets, but not the dead; i^H.c? ^ gloom I saw them glide; the dim and ghastly shapes m the cerements of the gi-ave; with horror, and woe, and wam- J.^f o^^^T }^moYing hps 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, ccm rise!" cal^ei^onl ^^^ ^^^ paused, and, when he resumed, it was in a «Prlw r™^^'^^^* \ resigned all earthly thought but that of r«^if£f • ^ preacher and a pilgrim, I have traversed the remotest comers of the earth, proclaiming His Divinity, and bringing new converts into his fold. I commas the wind, aid as |he world. '^ sowing, as the wind sows, the seeds that enrich ^ 'Son, on earth we sliall meet no more. Forget not this hou?^ 193 THE LAST DA Y8 OF POMPEIL wbai are the pleasures and the pomps of life? As the lamp shines, so life gutters for an hour; but the soul's light is the star that bums forever, in the heart of illimitable space." It was then that their conversation fell upon the general and sublime doctrines of immortality: it soothed and elevated the young mind of the convert, which yet clung to many of the damps and shadows of that cell of faith which he had so lately left — it was the air of keaven breatliing on the prisoner released at last. There was a strong and marked distinction between the Christianity of the old man and that of OUnthus; that of the first was more soft, more gentle, more divine. The liard heroism of Olinthus had something in it fierce and intolerant — it was necessary to the part lie 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 lieart 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 twilight, I pursue my way toward 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-moiTOw. ' " Kind son, what is there in tliis scrip to tempt the robber? And the Night and the Solitude ! — these make the ladder round which angels cluster, and beneath wliich my spirit can dream of God. Oh ! none can know what the pilgrim feels as he walks on his holy course, nursing no fear, and dreading no danger — for God is with him ! he hears the winds murmur glad tidings; the woods sleep in the shadow of Almighty wings — the stars are the Scriptures of Heaven, the tokens of love, and the witnesses of immortahty. Night is the Pilgrim's day." With these wordi the old man pressed Apaecides 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 liis way. The convert stood watching his bended form, till the tree shut the last glimpse from his own view; and then, as the stars broke forth, he woke from the musings with a start, reminded of hia appointment with Olinthus. CHAPTER V. THE PHILTKR.— ITS EFFECT When Glaucus arrived at his own home, he found Nydia seated under the portico of his garden. In fact, slie had sought his house in the mere chance that lie 7night return at an early hour; anxious, fearful, anticipative, she resolved upon seizing the ear^ liest opportunity of availing herself of the love-charm, while at the same time she half hoi)ed the opi)ortuuity might be deferred. ^t was then, in that fearful buraiug mood, her heart beating THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 198 her cheek flushing, that Nydia awaited the poisibility of Glaii- cus' return before the night. He crossed the portico just as the first stars began to rise, and the heavens above had assumed it3 most purple robe. *' Ho, my child, wait you for me ?" '* Nay, I have been tending the flowers, and did but linger a while to rest myself." " It has been very warm," said Glaucus, placing himself also on one of the seats beneath the colonnade. *'Very." "Wilt thou summon Davus? The wine I have drunk heats me, and I long for some cooling drink." Here at once, suddenly and unexpectedly, the very opportun- ity that Nydia awaited presented itself; of himself, at his own free choice, he afforded to her that occasion. She breathed quick — "I will prepare for you myself," said she, " the summer draught that lone loves — of honey and weak wine cooled in snow." *' Thainks," said the unconscious Glaucus. " If lone loved it, enough; it would be grateful were it poison." Nydia frowned and then smiled; she withdrew for a few mo- ments, and returned with the cup containing the beverage. Glau- cus 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 im- agined love — to have worshiped with more than Persian adora- tion the rising of that sun which her credulous soul believed was to break upon her dreary night I Far different as she stood then and there, were the thoughts, the emotions of the blind girl, from those of the vain Pompeian under a similar suspense. In the last, what poor and frivolous passions had made up the dangerous whole ! What petty pique, what small revenge, what expecta- tion of a paltry triumph, had swelled the attributes of that senti- ment she dignified with the name of love ! but in the wild heart of the Thessalian all was pure, uncontrolled, unmodified passion; erring, unwomanly, frenzied, but debased by no elements of a more sordid feeling. Filled with love as with life itself, how could she resist the occasion of winning love in return ? She leaned for support against the wall, and her face, 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 suddenly glancing upon the face of Nydia he was so forcibly struck by its altera- tion, by its intense and painful, and strange expression, that he paused abmptly and still holding the cup near his lips, ex- claimed — "Why, Nydia I Nydia I I say, art thou ill or in pain? Nay, thy face speaks for thee. What ails my sweet child ?" As he spoke, he put down the cup and rose from his seat to approacli lier, when a sudden pang shot coldly to his heart, aud was lol- lowed by a wild, confused, di.-^zy sensation at the brain. Th© I W THE LAST DA YS OF POMPEII floor seemed to glidbfrom under liim — liis feet seemed to move on air — a mighty and uneart/ily 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 invcluntarily into a loud and thrilling laugh. He clapped his hands — he bounded aloft — he was as a Pythoness inspired. Suddenly as it came this preternatural transport passed, though only partially, away. He now felt his blood ruBh- lug loudly and rapidl3' through his veins ; it seemed to swell, to exult, to leap along, as a siream that has burst its bounds, and limTies to the ocean. It throbbed in his ear with a mighty sound; he felt it mount to his brow, he felt the veins in the temples stretch and swell as if they could no longer contain the violent and increasing tide — then a kind of darkness fell over his eyes — darkness, but not entire ; for through the dim shade he saw the opposite walls glow out, and the figm-es 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 gatheriag over him. The novelty of the feelings seemed bright and vivid — he felt as if a younger health had been infused into liis frame. He was gliding on to madness — and he knew it not I 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 liis reeling and unsteady step as he paced uncon- sciously to and fro; but slie heard the words, broken, incoherent, insane, that gushed from his lips. She became terrified and ap- palled — 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 excitemenit. *' Oh, speak to mel speak! you do not hate me? — speak, speak 1" " By the bright goddess, a beautiful land this Cyprusl Hoi how they fill us with wine instead of blood! now they open the veins of the Faun yonder, to show how the tide within bubbles and sparkles. Come hither, jolly old god! thou ridest on a goat, eh? — what long silky hair he has! He is worth all the coursers of Parthia. But a word with thee — this wine of thine is too strong for us mortals. Oh! beautiful! the boughs are at rest! tlie green waves of the forest have caught the Zephyr and drowned himi 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 tlie boughs? she glides like a moonbeam! she has a gar- land of oak leaves on her lioad. In her hand is a vase upturned, from which she pours pink and tiny shells, and sparkUng water. Oh I look on yon face! Man never before saw its like. Seel we are alone; only I and she in the wide forest. Tliere is no smile upon her lips — she rapves, ^ave and sweetly sad. Hal fly, it ip THE LAST DATS OF POMPEP:: 195 k nymph; it is one wild Napseas. Whoever sees her becomes mad; fly I see, she discovers ine." " Oh, Glaucus, Glaucus! do you not know me? Rave not so wildly, or thou wilt kill me with a word." A new change seemed now to operate upon the jarring and disordered mind of the unfortunate Athenian. He put his handn, upon Nydia's silken hair; he smoothed the locks — he looked \vi t fully upon her face, and then, as in the broken chain of thought one or two links were yet unsevered, it seemed that her counte- nance brought its associations of lone; and with that remembrance his madness became yet more powerful, and it was swayed and tinged by passion, as he burst forth : " I swear by Venus, by Diana, and by Juno, that though I have now the world on my shoulders, as my countryman Hercules (ah, dull Eome, whoever was truly great was of Greece; why, you would be godless if it were not for us) — I say, as my countryman Hercules had before me, I would let it fall into chaos for one smile from lone. Ah, beautiful, adored," he added, in a voice inexpressibly fond and plaintive, "thou lovest me not. Thou art unkind to me. The Egyptian hath belied me to thee; thou know- est not what hours I have spent beneath thy casement; thou knowest not how I have outwatched the ^tars, 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 hights of Phyle; I have gatliered the hyacinth and rose amid 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 chmes serene, but I will bear thee with me — Ho! dark form, why risest thou like a cloud between me and mine? Death sits calmly dread upon thy brow, on thy lip is the smile that slays: thy name is Orcus, but on earth men call thee Arbaces. See, I know thee; fly, dim shadow, ihy spells avail not." "Glaucusl Glaucus!" murmured Nydia, releasing her hold and falhng, beneath the excitement of her dismay, remorse, and anguish, insensible on the floor. *' Who calls?" he said, in a loud ^oice. " lone, it is she! they have borne lier off— we will save her— where is my stilus? Ha, I have it! I come, lone, to thy rescue! I come! I come!" So saying, the Athenian with one bound passed the portico, he traversed the house, and rushed with swift and vacillating steps, and muttering audibly to himself, dov.r. tlie star-lit 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 excess of noctiurnal revelers, the citizens, with smiles and winks, gave way to his reehng steps; they natur- ally imagined him under the influence of the Bromian god, not vainly worshiped at Pompeii; but they looked twice upon his face started in a nameless fear, and the smile withered from theii lips. He passed the more populous streets; and, pursuing me- chanically the way to lone's house, he traversed a more deserted 198 -TlfE LAST DAYS OF POMfETT, quarter, and entered now tiie lonely grove of Cybele, in which Apaecides bad held his interview with Plinthus. CHAPTER VL A REUNION OP DIFFERENT ACTORS — STREAMS THAT FLOWED AP- PARENTLY APART RUSH INTO ONE GULF. Impatient to learn whether the fell drug had yet been admin- istered by Julia to his hated rival, and with what effect, Ai-bace« resolved, as the evening came on, to seek her house, and satisfy J lis 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 in- strument, the Romans carried about with them in that same stilus a very sharp and formidable weapon. It was with his stilus* that Cassius stabbed Caesar in the senate-house. Taking, then, his girdle and his cloak, Arbaces left his house, supporting his steps, which were still somewhat feeble (though hope and vengeance had conspired greatly with his o^^^l 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 tlie night so quickly glides into the day that twihght 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 dates went beyond tradition, cast their long shadows over the soil, wliile tln-ough the openings in their boughs the stars shone, still and frequent. The whiteness of the small sacellum in the center of the grove, amid the dark foUage, had in it sometliing abrupt and startling; it recalled at once the purpose to which the wood was consecrated— its holiness and solemnity. With a swift and stealthy pace, Calenus, gliding under the shade of the trees, reached the cliapel, and gently putting back the boughs that completely closed around its rear, settled himself in his concealment; a concealment so complete, wiiat with the fane in front and the trees behind, that no unsuspicious passen- fjer could possibly have detected him. Again, all was apparent- y solitary in the grove; afar off you heard faintly the voices of some noisy revelers, or the music that played cheerily to the groups th.it then, as now in those cUmates during the nights of summer, lingered in the streets, and enjoyed, in the fresh air and the liquid moonlight, a milder day. From the hight on which the grove was placed, you saw througli the intervals of the trees the broad and purple sea, rip- pling in the distance, the white villas of Stabia^ in the curving shore, and thedimLectiarian hills mingling \^ith thedelicoussky. * From this stilus may be derived the stiletto of the Italians. THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 197 Presently the tall figure of Arbaces, on his way to the house of Dioraed, entered the extreme end of the grove; and at the same instant Apaecides, also bound to his appointment with Olinthus, crossed the Egyptian's path. " Hem! Apaecides," said Arbaces recognizing the priest at a glance; " when last we met, you were my foe. I have wished since then to see you, for I would have you still my pupil and my friend." Ap^cides started at the voice of the Egyptian; and halting abruptly, gazed upon him with a countenance full of contending, bitter, and scornful emotions. "Villain and impostor!"' said he at length; " thou hast recov- ered then from the jaws of the grave. But tliink not again to weave around me thy guilty meshes. Betiarius, I am armed ftgainst thee!" "Hush!" said Arbaces, in a very low voice — but his pride, which in that descendant of kings was great, betrayed the wound it received from the insulting epithets of the priest in the quiver of his lip and the flush of his tawny brow. ' " Hush! more low! thou mayest be overheard, and if other ears than mine had drunk those sounds — why " " Dost thou threaten?— what if the whole city had heard me?" "The manes of my ancestors would not have suffered me to forgive thee. But, hold, and hear me. Thou art enraged that I would have offered violence to thy sister — Nay, peace, peace, but one instant, I pray thee. Thou art right; it*^ was the frenzy of passion and of jealousy — I have repented bitterly of my madness. Forgive me; I, who never implored pardon of Uving man, be- seech thee now to forgive me. Nay, I will atone the insult— I ask thy sister in marriage — start not, consider — what is the alli- ance of yon holiday Greek compared to mine? Wealth unbound- ed — birth that in its far antiquity leaves your Greek and Roman names the things of yesterday — science — but that thou knowest! Give me thy sister, and my whole life shall atone a moment's error." " Egyptian, where even I to consent, my sister loathes the very air thou breathest ; but I have my own \\T:ongsto forgive — I may pardon thee that thou hast made me a tool to thy deceits, but never that thou hast seduced me to become the abettor of thy vices ; a polluted and a perjui-ed man. Tremble ; even now I prepare the hour in which thou and thy false gods shall be un- veiled. Thy Ipwd 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 execration I Tremble I " The flush on the Egyptian's brow was succeeded by a livid pale- ness. He looked behind, before, around, to feel assiu:ed that none were by ; and then he fixed liis dark and dilating eye on the priest, with such a gaze of wrath and menace, that one, perhaps, less supported than Apgecides by the fervent daring of divine zeal, could not have faced vnth unflinching look that lowering aspect. As it was, however, the young convert met it unmoved, and returned it with an eye of proud defiance. 108 THE LAST DATS OF POMPEIT. " Apaecides," said the Ep^yptian, in a tremulous and inward tone, "beware 1 Wliat is it thou wouldst meditate? Speakast thou ; reflect, pause before thou repliest ; from the hasty influ- ences of A\Tath, as yet divining no settled puri>ose, or from some fixed design ? " "I speak from the inspiration of the True God, whose servant I now am," answered the Christian, boldly ; *' and in the knowl* edge 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 1 Dark sorcerer, tremble, and farewell ! " All the fierce and lurid passions which he inherited from his nation and his cfime, at all times but ill concealed beneath the blanduess of craft and the coldness of philosophy, were released in the breast of the Eg>T3tian. Rapidly one thought chased another ; he saw before him an obstinate barrier to even a law- ful alliance with lone — the fellow-chamiDion of Glaucus in the struggle which had baffled his designs — the re viler of his name — the threatened desecrator of the goddess he served while he dis- believed, the avowed and approacliing revealer of his own impos- tures 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 con- vert that Apaecides had adopted the Christian faith ; he knew the indomitable zeal which led on the proselytes of that creed. Such Avas 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 soli- tude alike tempted him. "Die, then, in thy rashness!" he muttered; "away, obstacle to my rushing fates!" And just as the young Christian had turned to depart, Arba- ces raised his hand high over the left shoulder of Apascides, and I>lunged his weapon twice into his breast. Apaecides fell to the ground pierced to the heart — he fell mut«, without even a groan, at the vei7 base of the sacred chapel. Ai'baces 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 hun; he wiped his weapon carefully in tlje long grass, and with the very garments of his victim; drew his cloak around him, and was about to de- part, when he siiw coming up the path, right before him, the figure of a young man, whose stops reeled and vacillated strange- ly as he advanced: the quiet moonlight streamed full upon his face, which seemed, by the whitening ray, colorless as marble. Tlie Egyptian recognized the face and form of Glaucus. The unfortunate and benighted Greek was chanting a disconnected and mad song, composed from snatches of hymns and sacred odes, all jarringly woven together. "Hal" thought the Egj-ptian, instantaneously divining his state and its terrible cause; " so, then, the hell-draught works, an<* destiny hath sent thee hither to crusli two of my foes mt oncet" Quickly, even ere this thoujjht occurred to hiai. he had witlk TBE LAST DAYS JF POMhjDII m drawn on one side of the chapel, and concealed himself among the boughs; from that lurking-place he watched, as a tiger in his lair, the advance of his second victim. He noted the wandering and restless fire in the bright and beautiful eyes of the Athenian; the convulsions that distorted his statue-like features, and writhed his hueless lip. He saw that the Greek was utterly deprived of reason. Nevertheless, as Glaucus came up to the dead body of Apsecides, from which the dark red stream flowed slowly over the grass, so strange and ghastly a spectacle could not fail to arrest him, benighted and erring as was his glimmering sense. He paused, placed his hand to his brow, as if to collect himself, and then saying: *' What, ho! Endymiou, sleepest thou so soundly? What has the moon said to thee? Thou makest me jealous; it is time to wake " — he stooped down with the intention of lifting up the body. Forgetting— feeling not — ^his own debility, the Egyptian sprang from his hiding-place, and, as the Greek bent, struck him forci- bly to the ground, over the very body of the Christian; then, raising his powerful voice to its loudest pitch, he shouted: *' Ho, citizens — ho! help me — run hither — hither! A murder — a murder before your very fane! Help, or the murderer escapes!" As he spoke he placed his foot on the breast of Glaucus, an idle and superfluous precaution; for the potion operating with the fall, the Greek lay there motionless and insensible, save that now and then his lips gave vent to some vague and raving sounds. As he stood there awaiting the coming of those his voice still continued to summon, perhaps some remorse, some compunc- tious visitings — for despite his crimes he was human — haunted the breast of the Egyptian; the defenseless state of Glaucus, his wan- dering words, his shattered reason, smote him even more than the death of Apaecides, and he said, half audibly, to himself " Poor clay, poor human reason! Wliere is the sold noivf. 1 could spare thee, O my rival — rival never more! But destiny must be obeyed; my safety demands thy sacrifice." With that, fts if to drown compunction, he shouted yet more loudly; and Jrawijig from the girdle of Glaucus the stilus it contained, he steeped it in the blood of the jnurdered man, and laid it beside ^Jie corpse. And now, fast and breathless, several of the citizens came thronging to the place, some with torches, which the moon ren- dered unnecessary, but which flared red and tremulously against she darkness of the trees; they surrounded the spot. ** Lift up the corpse," said the Egyptian, *'and guard well the murderer.^' They raised the body, and great was their horror and sacred indignation to discover in tliat lifeless clay a priest of the adored ana venerable Isis; but still greater, perhaps, was their surprise, when they found the accused in the brilliant and admired Athenian. ** GlaucusI" cried the bystander i writh one accord; " is it even credible?" flOO THE LAST DA TS OF POMPEII *• I would sooner," whispered one man to another, " believe It to be the Egyptian liimseli.' Here a centurion thrust himself into the gathering crowd, with an air of authority. •• Howl blood spilt I Who's the murderer?^ The bystanders pointed to Glaucus. " He I by Mars, he has rather the air of being *he victim! "^^o accuses him?" *'i," said Arbaces, drawing himself up h«-ughtily; and th« jewels which adorned his dress flashing in the eyes of the sol- dier instantly convinced that worthy warrior of the witness' re- spectability. " Pardon me — your name?" said he. "Arbaces; it is well known, methinks, in Pompeii. Passing through the grove, I beheld before me the Greek and the priest in earnest conversation. I was struck by the reeling motions of the first, his violent gestures, and the loudness of his voice: he seemed to me either drunk or mad. Suddenly I saw him raise his stilus; I darted forward — too late to arrest the blow. He had t-wice 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 per- petrated; for, recently recovered from a severe illness, my dIow was comparatively feeble, and the frame of Glaucus, as you see, is strong and youtliful." *' His eyes are open now, his lips move," said the soldier. ** Speak, prisoner, what sayest thou to the charge?" " The charge — ha — hal Why, it was merrily done; when the old hag set her serpent at me, and Hecate stood by laughing from ear to ear, what could I do? But I am ill, I faint; the ser- pent's fiery tongue hath bitten me. Bear rae to bed, and send for yoiu" physician; old ^sculapius himself wiU attend me, if you let him know that I am Greek. Oh, mercy, mercy— I bum! marrow and brain, I burn I" 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 de- lirium he has struck the priest. Hath any one present seen him to-day?" •*I," said one of the spectators, ''beheld him in the 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, **passmg up the streets, muttering to himself with strange gestures, and just as the Egyptian has described." '*A corroboration of the witnessl it must be too true. He must at all events to the prastor; a pity, so young and bo 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 1" At these words the crowd were reminded more forcibly, than in then* excitement and curiosity they had yet been, of the hein- Ousness of the sacrilege. They shuddered in pious horror. TBE LAST DAYS OF POMPEIL ^ ** No wonder the earth has quaked," said oue, "when it held Buch a monster I" "Away with him to prison, away I" cried they all. And one solitary voice was heard shrilly and joyously abova the rest — Ho, ho! for the merry, merry sliowl It was the voice of the young woman whose conversation with liedon has been repeated. " True, true, it chances in season for the games I" cried several; and at that 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 hkna, a litter to bear the dead," said Arbaces; "a priest of Isis ought scarcely to be car- ried to his temple by A-ulgar hands, like a butchered gladiator." At this the bystanders reverently laid the corpse of Apaecides on the ground, with the face upward; and some of them went in search of some contrivance to bear the body, untouched by th« hands of the profane. It was just at that time that the crowd gave way to right and left as a sturdy form forced itself through, and Olinthus the Chris- tian stood immediately confronting the Egyptian. But his eyes, at first, only rested with inexpressible grief and horror on that gory side and upturned face, on which the agony of violent death yet lingered. " Murdered!" he said. " Is it thy zeal that has brought thee to this? Have they detected thy noble purpose, and by thy death prevented their own shame?" He turned liis 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 liis right arm toward Arbaces, and said, in a deep, loud voice: " Murder has been done upon this coi*pse! Where is the mur- derer? Stand forth, Egyptian! For, as the Lord liveth, I beUeve thou art the man!" An anxious and perturbed change might for one moment be de- tected on the dusky features of Arbaces; but it gave way to the frowning expression of indignation and scorn, as, awed and ar- rested by the suddenness and vehemence of the charge, the v=;pef> tators pressed nearer and nearer upon the two more prominent actors. '* I know," said Arbaces, proudly, " who is my accuser, and I guess wherefore he thus arraigns me. Men and citizens, know tliis man for the most bitter of the Nazarenes, if that or Chris- tians be their proi)er name! What marvel that in his malignity he dares accuse even an Egyptian of the murder of the priest t of his guilt," said Clodius, shrugging his shoulders; " and as these crimes take precedence of all little un- dignified peccadilloes, they will hasten to finish the sentence pre- vious to the games.'' " The games ! Good gods !" replied Diomed, with a slight shud- der; " can they adjudge him to the beasts ? — so young, so rich !" "True; but, then, he is a Greek. Had he been a Roman, it would have been a thousand pities. These foreigners can be borne with in their prosperity; but in adversity we must not for- get that thev are in reality slaves. However, we of the upper classes are always tender-liearted; 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 suj)erstitious; tliey clamor for the blood of the sacri- ligeous one. It is dangerous not to give way to public opinion." " And the blasphemer — the Christian, or Nazarene, or what* ever else he be called?" THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEIL 205 " Oh, poor dog I 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 thcta of his own alphatet. But enough of this gloomy subject. How is the fair Julia?" "Well, I fancy." ** Commend me to her. But hark I the door yonder creaks on its hinges; it is the house of the prastor. Who comes forth? By Pollux! it is the Egyptian I What can he want with oui- official friend?" "Some conference touching the murder, doubtless," replied Diomed; "but what was supposed to be the inducement to the crime? Glaucus was to have married the priest's sister." " Yes; some say Apaecides refused the alliance. It might have been a sudden quarrel. Glaucus was evidently drunk — nay, so much so as to have been quite insensible when taken up, and I hear is still delirious — whether with wine, terror, remorse, the Furies, or the Bacchanals, I cannot say." "Poor fellow! — he has good counsel?" "The best — Caius Pollio, an eloquent fellow enough. Pollio has been hiring all the poor gentlemen and well-born spend- thrifts of Pompeii to dress shabbily and sneak about, swearing their friendship to Glaucus (who would not have spoken to them to be made Emi^eror! I will do him justice, he was a gentleman in his choice of acquaintance), and trying to melt the stony citizens into pity. But it ^vill not do; Isis is mightily popular just at this moment." " And, by-the-by, I have some merchandise at Alexandria. Yes, Isis ought to be protected." "True; so*farewell, old gentleman: we shall meet soon; if not, we must have a friendly bet at the Amphitheater. AU my cal- culations are confounded by this cursed misfortune of GlaucusI He had bet on Lydon the gladiator; I must make up my tables elsewhere. ValeP^ Leaving the less active Diomed to regain his villa, Clodius strode on, humming a Greek air, and perfuming the night with tlie odors that streamed from his snowy garments and flowing locks. " If," thought he, " Glaucus feed the lion, Julia will no longer Jiave a person to love her 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 cheat- ing; and if he discovered that the ivory is cogged, why, farewell to the merry supper and the perfumed"^ billet— Clodius is undone! Better maiTy, then, while I may, renounce gaming, and push my fortune (or rather the gentle JuKa'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 himseK suddenly accosted; he turned and beheld the dark brow of Arbaces. )tion; and inform me, ' "Hail, noble Clodius! pardon my interrupt 3, 1 pray you, which is the house of Sallust?" 305 TEE LAST DAYS OF POMPEH. *< It is but a few yards hence, wise Arbaces. But does SalluBt entertain tonight?" ♦'I know not," answered the Egyptian; **nor ami, perhaps, one of those whom he would seek as a boon companion. But thou knowest that his house holds the person of Glaucus, the murderer." •*AyI he, good-hearted epicure, believes in the Greek's inno- cencel You remind me that he has become his surety; and, ikerefor^, till the trial, is responsible for his appearance.* Well, Sallust's house is better than a prison, especially that wretched hole in the forum. But for what can you seek Glaucus? ' *' Why, noble Clodius, if we could save him from execution, it would be well. The condemnation of the rich is a blow upon society itself. I should like to confer with liim— for I hear he has recovered his senses — and ascertain the motives of his crime; they may be so extenuating as to plead in his defense." "You are benevolent, Arbaces." "Benevolence is the duty of one who aspires to wisdom," re- plied the Egyptian, modestly. "Which way lies Sallust's man- sion?" " I will show you," said Clodius, " if you will suffer me to ac- company you a few steps. But, pray, wliat 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 imprecations on the murderer— then suddenly stops short— then cries, ' But 2chy curse? Oh, my brother! Glaucus was not thy murderer— never will I believe it!' Then she begins again, and again stops short, and mutters awfully to herself, ' Yet if it were, indeed, he?'" " Unfortunate lone!" ' ' But it is well for lier that those solemn cares to the dead which religion enjoins have Mtherto 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 fimeral rites due to Apaecidee are performed, her apprehensions 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 brotlier." *' Such scandal should be prevented." " I trust I hare taken precautions to that effect. I am her law- ful guardian, and have just succeeded in obtaining ])ermi86ion to escort her, after the funeral of Apa^cidos, to my own liouse; there, please the gods ! she will be secure." " You have done well, sage Arbaces. And now, yonder is the house of Sallust. The gods keej) you ! Yet, hark you, Arbaces — wliy so gloomy and unsocial? ]\Ien say yf)u can he gay — why not let me initiate you into the pleasures of Pompeii ? — I flatter my- self no one knows them better." *' I thank you, noble Olodius; under your ausploes I might * If a criminal could obtain security (called vades\ in capital offeni** he was not compelled to lie in prison till after sentence, THE LAST DA TS OF POMPEII. 907 ▼enture, 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 con- fessing the crime, he will lose himself forever to lone, and for- ever free me from the chance of discovery; and I can save him by persuading Julia to own the philter, 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 I — die, lest he prove my rival with the living — die, that he may be my proxy with the dead. Will he confess ? — can he not be persuaded that in his dehrium he struck the blow ? To me it would give far greater safety than even death. Hem 1 we must hazard the experi- ment." Sweeping along the narrow street, Arbaces approached the house of Sallust, when he beheld a dark form wrapped in a cloak, and stretched at length across the threshold of the door. So still lay the figure, and so dim was its outline, that any other than Arbaces might have felt a superstitious fear, lest he beheld one of those grim lemurcs, who, above all other spots, haunted the threshold of the homes they formerly possessed. But not for Arbaces were such dreams. "Risel" said he, touching the figure with his foot; *' thou ob- stinictest the way I "Ha! who art thou?" cried the form, in a sharp tone; and as she raised herself from the ground, the star-light 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 doest thou here at this late hour? Fie! is tills seeming thy sex or years? Home, girl," " 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 II 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 himi thou knowest some herb— some spell — some counter-charm, for it is a potion that hath wrought this frenzy!" " Hush, child ! I know all! Thou forgettest that I accompanied 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 Thessalian, and knocked loudly at the door, Xn a few moments the heavy bars were heard suddenly to yield. aOtS THE LAST DA TS OF POMPEII. and the porter, half opening the door, demanded who was ther^i *'Arbaces — important business to Sallust, relative to Glaucus. I come from the praetor." The porter, half yawning, half groaning, admitted the tall fora* of the Egyptian. Nydia sprang forward. *' How is he?" she cried. " tell me^tell me I" •♦Hoi mad girl I is it thou still? For shame! Why, they say he is sensible." *' The gods be praised I And you will not admit me? Alil I be- seech thee " "Admit thee! no. A pretty salute I should prepare for these shoulders, were I to admit such things as thou! Go home!" The door closed, and Nydia, with a deep sigh, laid herself down once more on the cold stones; and, wrapping her cloak round her face, resumed her weary vigil. Meanwhile, Arbaces had already gained the triclinium, where Ballust, 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? — they say in the town that he has recovered sense." " Alas! and tinily," replied the good-natured but thoughtless Sallust, wiping the tear from his eyes; " but so shattered are his nerves and frame, that I scarcely recognize the brilliant and gay carouser I was wont to know. Yet, strange to say; he cannot ac- count for the sudden frenzy that seized him — he retains but a dim consciousness of what liath passed; and, despite thy witness, wise Egyptian, solemnly upholds his innocence of the death of ApsBcides." ** 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 yet be hoped from the mercy of the Senate; for the Senate, thou knowestjhath 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 confer- ence this night with the Athenian. To-morrow, thou knowest, the trial comes on." "Well," said Sallust, "thou M-ill be worthy of thy Eastern name and fame if thou canst learn aught from him; but thou mayst try. Poor Glaucus! — and he had such an elegant 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 wav 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, Bupjxjrting a single lamp, burned beside the narrow bed. Its mys fell palely over the race of the Athenian, and Arbaces waa THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEtt 209 tnoved 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 mad- ness, 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 or 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 abnipt voice, the sudden apparition of his foe. Their eyes jaet, and neither, for some mo- ments, had power to withdraw his gaze. The flush went and came over the face of the Athenian, and the bronze 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 seestonewho may save thy life. Hark! I know what thou hast done, but I know also its excuse, of which thou thyself art ignorant. Thou hast committed murder, it is true — a sacrilegious murder; frown not, start not, these eyes saw it. But I can save thee — I can prove how thou weii; 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 Apaecides, and thou shalt avoid the fatal urn." " What words are these? Murder and Apaecides! Did I not see him stretched on the ground bleeding and a corpse? and wouldst thou persuade me that I did the deed? Man, thou liestl 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 sense would have shunned even to contemplate. But let me try to refresh thy ex- hausted and weary memory. Thou knowest thou wert walking with the priest, disputing about his sister; thou knowest he was intolerant, and half a Nazarene, and he sought to convert thee, and ye had hot words; and he calumniated Ihy mode of life, and swore he would not marry lone to thee — and then, in thy wrath and thy frenzy, thou didst strike the sudden blow. Come, come: you can recollect this! read this papyrus, it runs to that effect — sign it, and thou art saved." '* Barbarian, give me the written lie, that may tear it! I the murderer of lone's brother! I confess to have injured one hair of the head of him she loved! Let me rather perish a thousand times!" " Beware!" said Arbaces, in a low and hissing tone; " there is but one choice — thy confession and thy signature, or the amphi- theater and the lion's mawl" $10 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEH. As the Egyptian fixed his eyes upon the sufferer, be 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 eve. " Great gods," ne taid, in a low voice, "what reverse is this? It seems but a little day since life laughed out from amid roses — lone mine — youth, health, love, lavishing on me their treas- ures; and now— pain, madness, shame, death! And for what? what have I done? O, I am mad still!" **Sign, and be saved!" said the soft, sweet voice of the Egyp- tian. "Tempter, never!" cried Giaucus, in the reaction of rage "Thou kno west me not; thou ^no west not the haughty soul of an Athenian! The sudden face of death might appal me for a moment, but the fear is over. Dishonor appals forever! Who will debase his name to save his life? who exchange clear thoughts for sullen days? who will belie himself to shame, and stand blackened in the dyes 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 E^ypt, to find him in one who has trod the same sod as Harmodius, and breathed the same air as Socrates. Go! leave me to live without self-reproach — or to perish without fear!"* " Bethink thee well! the lion's fangs, the hoots of the brutal mob; the vulgar gaze on thy dying agony and mutilated limbs; thy name degraded; thy corpse unburied; the shame thou wouldst avoid clinging to thee for aye and ever!" "Thou ravesti thou art the madman! shame is not in the loss of other men's esteem — it is in the loss of our own. Wilt thou go? — my eyes loathe the sight of thee! hating ever, I despise thee now!'' "I go,'* said Arbaces, stung and exasperated, but not 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 resentment against the Athenian's accuser, for he possessed no great austerity of virtue, and was rather moved by nis friend's reverses than persuaded of his innocence — " say not so, my Egyptian! so good a drinker shall be saved if possible. Bacchus against Isis!" We shall see," said the Egyptian. Subsequently the bolts were again withdrawn — the door un- closed; Arbaces was in the open street; and poor Nydia once more started from her loug watch. " Wilt thou save liim?"' she cried, clasping her hands. " Child, follow me home; I would si)eak to thee — it is for his Bake I ask it." " And thou wilt save him?" No answer came forth to the thirsting ear of the blind girif THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII'. 211 Arbaces had already proceeded up the street; she hesitated a moment, and then followed liis steps in silence. "I must secure this girl," he said, musingly, "lest she give evidence of the- philter; as to the vain Julia, she will not betray herself." CHAPTER Vni. A CLASSIC FUNERAL. While Arbaces had been thus employed, Sorrow and Death were in the house of lone. It was tlie night preceding the morn in which the solemn funeral rites were to be decreed to the re- mains of the murdered Apsecides. The corpse had been removed from the temple of Isis to the nearest surviving relative, and lone had heard, in the same breath, the death of her brother and the accusation against her betrothed. That first violent anguish which blunts the sense to all but itself, and the forbearing si- lence of her slaves, had prevented her learning minutely the circumstances attendant on the fate of her lover. His illness, his frenzy, and his approaching trial, were unknown to her. She learned only the accusation against him, and indignantly re- jected it; nay, on hearing that Arbaces was the accuser, she required no "^ more to induce her firmly to believe that the Egyptian himself was the crinmial. But the vast and absorbing importance attached by the ancients to 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 I it was not for her to perform that tender and touching office, which obliged the nearest relative to endeavor to catch the last breath, the parling soul of the beloved one; but it was hers to close the straining eyes, the distorted lips; to watch by the con- secrated clay, as, fresh bathed and anointed, it lay in the festive robes upon the ivory bed; to strew the couch with leaves and flowers, and to renew the solemn cypress-branch at the thresh- old of the door? And in these sad offices, in lamentations and in prayer, lone forgot herself. It was among the lovehest customs of the ancients to bury the young at morning twihght; 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 the 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 before lone's door. High and slender torches, made paler by the unmellowed da^vn, cast their fight over various countenances, hushed for the moment in one solemn and intent expression. And now there arose a slow and dismal music, which accorded sadly with the rite, and floated far along the desolate and breathless streets: while a chorus of female voices (the prseficae so often cited by the Roman poets), accompanying the Tibicen and the Mysian flute, woke the following strain: 212 THE LAST DA 78 OF P03IPEIT. THE FUNERAL DIRGE. 0*er the sad threshold, where the cypress bongh Supplants the rose that should adorn thy hom«^ On the last pilgrimage on earth that now Awaits thee, wanderer to Cocytus, come I Darkly we woo, and weeping we invite — Death is thy host — his banquet asks thy sonl; Thy garlands hang within the House of Night, And the black stream alone shall fill thy bold. No more for thee the laughter and the song, The jocund night — the glory of the day 1 The Argive daughters at their labors long: The hell-bird swooping on its Titan prey — The false ^Eolides upheaving slow, O'er the eternal hill, the eternal stone; The crowned Lydian, in his parching woe, And green Callirrhoe's monster-headed son — These shall thou see, dim shadow'd through the dark. Which makes the sky of Plato's dreary shore; Lo ! where thou stand'st, pale-gazing on the bark. That waits our rite to bear thee trembling o'er 1 Come, then ! no more delay !— the phantom pines Amid the unburied for its latest home; O'er the gray sky the torch impatient shines- Come, mourner, forth ! — the lost one bids thee come I 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. Tlie desig- nator, or marshal of the somber ceremonial, accompanied by h^ torch-bearers, clad in black, gave the signal, and the procession moved dreadly on. First went tlie musicians, playing a slow march — the solem- nity of the lower instruments broken by many a louder and wilder burst of the funeral trumpet: next followed the hired mourners, clianting 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 arch- imimus (whose duty it was to personate the dead) — these, the customary attendants at ordinary funerals, were banished from a funeral attended with so many terrible associations. The priests of Isis came next in their snowy garments, bare- footed, and supporting sheaves of corn; while before the corpse were carried the images of the deceased and his many Athenian forefathers. And behind tlie bier followed, amid 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 tliought, awakened by the music, flashed upon the dark lethargy of woe, she covered that countenance with her hands, and sobbed unseen; for hers was not the noisy sorrow, the shrill lament, the ungoveriied gesture, which characterized those who honored less faithfully. In* that age, as in all, the channels of deep grief flowed hushed and stiU. Ajid so the procession swept on, till it had traversed the streets. TH^ LAST DA TS OF POMPEII m passed the city gate, and gained the Place of Tombs without the wall, which the traveler yet beholds. Raised in the form of an altar — of unpolished pine, amid whose interstices were placed preparations of combustible matter — stood the funeral pyre; and around it drooped the dark and gloomy cypresses so consecrated by song to the tomb. As soon as the bier was placed upon the pile, the attendants parting on either side, lone passed up to the couch, and stood be- fore the unconscious clay for some moments motionless and silent. The features of tlie dead had been composed from the tirst agonized expression of violent death. Hushed forever the teiTor and the doubt, the contest of passion, the awe of religion, the struggle of the past and present, the hope and the horror of the future! — of all that racked and desolated the breast of that young aspirant to the Holy of Life, what trace was visible in the awful serenity of that impenetrable brow and unbreathing lip? The sister gazed, and not a sound was heard amid 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!" cried the poor orphan, falling on the couch; "thou whom the worm on thy path feared not — what enemy couldst thou provoke? Oh, is it in truth come to this? Awake! awake! awake! We grew together! Are we thus torn asunder! Thou art not dead — thou sleepest. Awake! awake!" The sound of her piercing voice aroused the sympathy of the mourners, and they broke into loud and rude lament. This startled, this recalled lone; she looked up hastily and confusedly, as if for the fii-st time sensible of the presence of those around. *' Ahr she murmured with a shiver, ''we are not then alone!" With that, after a brief pause, she rose, and her pale and beau- tiful countenance was again composed and rigid. With fond and trembUng hands, she unclosed the Uds 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 specter. Once more recovering herself, she kissed again and again the lids, the lips, the brow; and with mechanic and unconscious hand re- ceived 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. 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 swecpe» Still Shalt thou seem as dear to us As flowery-crowned Zephyrus, iU THE LAST DA YS OF POMPEn. When, through twilight's starry dew, Trembling, he hastes his nymph to woo. Lol our silver censers swinging, Ferfumes e'er the path are flinging— Ne'er o'er Tempe's breathless valleys, Ne'er o'er Cypria's cedarn alleys, Or the Rose-isle's moon-lit sea. Floated sweets more worthy thee. Lol around our vases sending Myrrh and nard with cassia blending; Paving air and odors meet, For thy silver-sandal' d feet! August and everlasting air! The source of all that breathe and be, From the mute clay before thee bear The seeds it took from theel Aspire, bright Flame! aspire! Wild, wind!— awake! awake! Thine own, O solemn Fire! O Air, thine own retake! It comes! it comes! Lo! it sweeps. The Wind we invoke the while; And crackles, and darts, and leaps The light on the holy pile! It rises; its wings interweave With the flames— how they howl and heare* Toss'd, whirl'd to and fro, How the flame-serpents glowl Rushing higher and higher, On — on, fearful Fire. Thy giant limbs twined With the arms of the Wind. Lol the elements meet on the throne Of death — to reclaim their own. Swing, swing the censer round — Tune the strings to a softer sound; From the chains of thy fearful toil, From the clasp of thy mortal coil, From the prison wliere clay confined thee, The hands of the flame unbind theel 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 spaofl^ No fetter is forged for thee! Rejoice! o'er the sluggard tide Of the Styx thy bark can glide. And thy steps evermore shall rove Through the glades of the happy grove; Wh"re far from the loath'd Cocytus, The loved and the lost invite us. Thou art s ave to *he. earth no more. O soul, tliou art freed!— and we? Ah! wlien sliall our toil be o'er? Ah! whi'u shall we rest with thee? And now high and far into the dawning skies broke the fnk THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 215 grant fire; it flashed luminously across the gloomy cypresses — it shot above the massive walls of the neighboring city; and the early fishermen started to behold the blaze reddening on the waves of the creeping sea. But lone 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 ar- rived to that hallowing sense of comfort, when we know that we are not alone — that the dead are with us! The breeze rapidly aided the effect of the combustibles placed within the pile. By degrees the flame wavered, lowered, dimmed, and slowly, by fits and unequal starts, died away — emblem of life itself; where, just before, all was restlessness and flame, now lay the dull and smoldering ashes. The last sparks were extingiiished by the attendants — the em- bers were collected. Steeped in the rarest wine and the costliest odors, the remains were placed in a silver urn, which was sol- emnly stored in one of the neighboring sepulchers beside the road ; and they placed within it the phial full of tears, and the small coin which poetry still consecrated to the grim boatman. And the sepulcher was covered with flowers and chaplets, and incense kindled on the altar, and the tomb hung round with many lamps. But the next day, when the priest returned with fresh offerings to the tomb, he found that to the relics of heathen superstition some unknown hands had added a green palm-branch. He suf- fered it to remain, unknowing that it was the sepulchral emblem of Christianity. When the above ceremonies were over, one of the Praeficse three times sprinkled the mourners from the purifying branch of lam*el, uttering the last word, ** llicet I" — Depart 1 — and the rite was done. But first they paused to utter — weepingly and many times — the affecting farewell, " Salve EternumP' And as lone yet lingered, they woke the parting strain. SALVE ETERNUM. Farewell! O soul departed: Farewell! O sacred urn I Bereaved and broken-hearted, To earth the mourners tWhil To the dim and dreary shore, Thou art gone our steps before! But thither the swift Hours lead usi And thou dost but a while precede usI Salve— salve! Loved urn, and thou solemn cell, Mute ashes— farewell, farewell! Salve — salve! Hicit — 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 theef Yg-inly we sprinkle o'w ug> B16 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEH. Tlie drops of the cleansing stream; And vainly bright before us The lustral fire shall beam, For where is the charm expelling Thy thought from its sacred dwellingt Our griefs are thy funeral feast, And Memory thy mourning priest, Salve— salrtl nicet— ire licet! The spark from the hearth is gone "Wherever the air sliall 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 Riverl If love may in life be brief, In death it is fixed forever. Salve — ealre! 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— salrel CHAPTER IX. IN WHICH AN ADVENTURE HAPPENS TO lONE. While some stayed behind to share with the priests the funeral banquet, lone and her handmaids took homeward their melan- choly way. And now (the last duties to her brother performed), her mind awoke from its absorption, and she thought of her af- fianced, and the dread charge against him. Not — as we have be- fore said — attaching even a momentary belief to the uimatural accusation, but nursing the darkest suspicion against Arbaces, she felt that justice to her lover and to her murdered relative de- manded her to seek the praetor, and communicate her impression, unsuppoi-ted as it might be. Questioning her maidens, who had hitherto — kindly anxious, as I have said, to save her the addi- tional agony — refrained from informing her of the state of Glau- cus. she learned that he had been dangerously ill; that he was in custody, under the roof of Sallust; that the day of his trial was appointed. "Averting gods!" she exclaimed; "and have I been so long forgetful of him? Have I seemed to shun him? Ohl let me has- ten to do him justice — to sliow 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 sen- tence him to exile or to death, let me share the sentence with himl" Instinctively she hastened her pace, confused and bewildered, scarce knowing whither she went; now designing first to seek the praetor, and now to rush to tlie chamber of Glaucus. She hurried on — she passed the gate of the city — she was in the long ptreet leading up the town. The houses was opened, but none THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII 217 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 stand- ing beside a covered litter. A tall figure stepped from the midst of them, and lone shrieked aloud to behold Arbaces. " Fair lone!" said he, gently, and appearing not to heed her alarm: "my ward, my pupil! forgive me if I disturb thy pious sorrows; but the praetor, solicitous of thy honor, and anxious that thou mayst not rashly be implicated in the coming trial; knowing the strange embarrassment of thy state (seeking justice for thy brother, but dreading punishment to thy betrothed)— sympathizing, too, with thy unprotected and friendless condi- tion, 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 chai'ge. "Dark Egyptian!" cried lone, drawing herself proudly aside; *' begone! It is thou that hast slain my brother! Is it to thy care, thy hands yet reeking with his blood, that they will give the sis- ter? Hal thou turnest pale! thy conscience smites thee I thou tremblest at the thunderbolt of an avenging god! Pass on, and leave me to my woe!" "Thy sori'ows unstring thy reason, lone," said Arbaces, at- tempting in vain his usual calmness of tone. " I forgive thee. Thou wilt find me now, as ever, thy surest friend. But the pub- lic streets are not the fitting place for us to confer — for me to console thee. Approach, slaves! Come, my sweet charge, the litter awaits thee."^ The amazed and terrified attendants gathered round lone, and clung to her knees. " Arbaces," said the eldest of the maidens, "this is surely not the law! For nine days after the funeral, is it not written that the relatives of the deceased shall not be molested in their houses, or interrupted in their solitary grief?" "Woman!" returned Ai'baces, imperiously waving his hand, " to place a ward under the roof of her guardian is not against the fimeral laws. I tell thee I have tbe fiat of the praetor. Thia delay is indecorous. Place her in the litter." So saying, he threw his arm firm]y round the shrinking form of lone. She drew back, gazed earnestly in his face, and then burst into hysterical laughter: " Ha, ha! this is well — well! Excellent guardian — paternal law! Ha, ha!" And, startled herself at the dread echo of that shrill and maddened laughter, she sank as it died away, lifeless upon the ground A minute more, and Arbaces had lifted her into the fitter. The bearers moved swiftly on, and the unfortunate lone was soon borne from the sight of h^s weepiog haiidw9.M» 318 THE LAST DA TS OF POMPEIt CHAPTER X. WHAT BECOMES OP NTDIA IN THE HOUSE OP ARBACES.— THl EGYPTIAN FEELS COMPASSION FOR GLAUCUS.— COMPASSION IS OP- TEN A VERY USELESS VISITOR TO THE GUILTY. It will be rememl^ered that, at the command of Arbaces, Nydia followed the Egyptian to his home, and conversing tliere with her, he learned from tlie confession of her deej^air and re- morse, that her hand, and not Julia's, had administered to Glaii- cus the fatal potion. At another time the Egyptian miglit have conceived a philosophical interest in soimding the depths and origin of the strange and absorbing passion whicli, in blindness and in slavery, this singular girl had dared to cherish; but at present he spared no thought from himself. As, after her con- fession, the poor Nydia threw herself on her knees before him, and besought him to restore the health and save the life of Glau» cus — for in her youth and ignorance she imagined the dark ma- gician all-powerful to effect both — ^Arbaces, with unheeding ears, was noting only the new expediency of detaining Nydia a prison- er until the trial and fate of Glaucus were decided. For if, when he judged her merely the accomplice of Julia in obtaining the philter, 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 hkely to volunteer her testimony when she herself had administered the draught, and, inspired h\ love, would be only anxious, at any expense of shame, to retrieve her error and preserve Ijcr beloved. Besides, how unworthy of the rank and repute of Arbaces to be implicated in the disgrace of pandering to the passion of Julia, and assisting in tlie unholy rites of the Saga of Vesuvius I Nothing less, indeed, than his desire to induce Glaucus to o^vn the murder of Apaecides, as a policy evidently the best both for his own permanent safety and his successful suit with lone, could ever have led him to contemplate the confession of Julia. As for Nydia, who was necessarily cut off by her blinduesa from much of the knowledge of active life, and who, a slave and a stranger, was naturally ignorant of the perils of the Roman Jaw, slie thought rather of tlie illness and delirium of her Athe- nian, than the crime of which she had vaguely heard hun ac- cused, or the chances of the impending trial. Poor wretch that she was, whom none addressed, none cared for, what did she know of the senate and the sentence; the hazard of the law; the ferocity of the people; the arena and the lion's den? She was ac- customed only to associate Avith the tliought of Glaucus every- thing tliat 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. ^S^^' only had disturbed the current of his felicity; she knew not, she dreamed not, that the stream, once so bright, was dasliing o^ to darkness and to death. It was therefor© to restore th© THE LAST DA TS OF POMPEII, 2l9 brain that she had marred, to save the life that sJie had endan- gered, that she implored the assistance of the great Egyptian. "Daughter," said Arbaces, waking from his revery, "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 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 re- ply, he hastened from the room, drew the bolt across the door, and consigned the care and wants of liis prisoner to the slave who had the charge of that part of the mansion. Alone, then, and musingly, he waited the morning light, and with it repaired, as we have seen, to possess himself of the person of lone. His primarj'^ object, with respect to the unfortunate Neapolitan, was that which he had really stated to Clodiiis, viz., to prevent her interesting herself actively in the trial of Glaucus, and also to guard against her accusing him (which she would, doubtless, have done) of his former act of perfidy and violence toward her, his ward — denouncing his causes of vengeance against Glaucus — unveihng the hypocrisy of his character — and casting any doubt upon his veracity in the charge which he had made against the Athenian. Not till he had encountered her that morning — not till he had heard her loud denunciations — was he aware that he had also another danger to apprehend in her suspicion of his crime. He hugged himself now in the thought that these ends were effected; that one, at once the object of his passion and his fear, was in his power. He believed more than ever the flattering promises of the stars; and when he sought lone in the chamber, in the in- most recesses of his mysterious mansion to which he had consign- ed 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 loveh- ness wliicli no frenzy could distort, than of the woe which he had brought upon her. In the sangxiine vanity common to men who through life have been invariably successful, whether m for- tune or love, he flattered liimself that when Glaucus had perished — when his name was solemnly blackened by the award of a legal judgment, his title to her loVe forever forfeited by con- demnation to death for the murder of her own brother — her affection would be changed to horror; and that his 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 ex- pelled. This was his hope; but should it fail, his unholy and fervid passion whispered, "At the worst, 7}0w 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 consequences — that vague terror of the consequences of crime itself. The buoyant air of Campania weighed heavily upon his breast; he longed to hurry from a m THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII, scene where danp:er might not sleep eternally with the dead; and, ha\ing lone now in liis possession he secretly resolved, aa soon as he had witnessed the last agony of his rival, to transport liis wealth — and her. the costUest creature of all, to some distant shore. '*Yes," said he, striding to and fro his solitaiy chamber— "yes, the law that gave me the person of my ward gives me the possession of my bride. Far across the broad main will we sweep on our search after novel luxuries and inexperienced pleasures. Cheered by my stars, supported by the onjens of my soul, we will penetrate to tliose vast and glorious worlds whicli my wisdom tells me lie yet un- tracked in the recesses of the circling sea. There may this heart, possessed of love, grow once more alive to ambition — there, among nations uncrushed by the Roman yoke, and to whose ear the name of Rome has not yet been wafted, I may found an em- pire, and transplant my ancestral creed; renewing the ashes of the dead Theban rule; continuing on yet grander shores the dy- nasty of my crowned fathers, and waking in the noble heart of lone Idle grateful consciousness that she shares the lot of one who, from the aged rottenness of the slavish civihzation, restores the primal elements of greatness, and unites in one mighty soul the attributes of the prophet and the king." From the exultant soliloquy Arbaces was awakened to attend the trial of the Athenian. The worn and palUd clieek of his victim touched him less thaiL the firmness of his nerves and tlie 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 quaUties 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 liis share of our common feelings and our mother-clay. Had he but obtained from Glaucus the written confession of his crime, which would, better than even the judgment of others, have lost him with lone, and removed from Arbaces the chance of future detection, the Egyptian would liave strained every nerve to save his rival. Even now liis hatred was over — liis desire of revenge was slaked; he crushed his prey, not in enmity, but as an obstacle in his path. Yet was he not the less resolved, tlie less crafty and persevering, in the course he pursued, for the destiiiction of one whose doom was become necessary to the attainment of his objects; and while, with ap- parent reluctance and comi)assion, he gave against Glaucus the evidence which condemnetl liim, he secretly, and through tl)e medium of tlie priesthood, fomented that i)opular indignation which made an effectual obstacle to the ])it.v of the senate. He had sought Julia; he had detailed to her the confession of Nydia; he had easily, therefore, lullod any scruple of conscience which might have led her to extenuate the offense of Glaucus by avowing lu'r share in her frenzy: and the more readily, for lier vain heart had loved the fame and prosjierity of Glaucus — not Glaucus himself; she felt no affection for a disgraced man — ^nay. I'^JS LAST DATS OF POMPEII 221 slie almost rejoiced in a disgrace that humbled the hated lone. If Glaucus could not be her slave, neither could he be the adorer of her rival. This was sufficient consolation for any regret at his fate. Volatile and fickle, she began again to be moved by the sudden and earnest suit of Clodius, and was not willing to hazard the loss of an alliance with that base but high- born noble by any public exposure of her past weakness and im- modest passion for another. All things then smiled upon Ai'baces —all things frowned upon the Athenian. CHAPTER XI. NYDIA AFFECTS THE SORCERESS. When the Thessalian found that Arbaces returned to her ne more — when she was left, hour after hour, to all the torture of that miserable suspense which was rendered by blindness doubly intolerable, she began, with outstretched arms, to feel around her prison for some channel of escape; and finding the only entrance secure, she called aloud, and with the vehemence of a temper naturally violent, and now sharpened by impatient agony. "Ho, girl!" said the slave in attendance, opening the door; ** art thou bit by a scorpion? or thinkest thou that we are dying of silence here, and only to be preserved, like the infant Jupiter, by a hullabaloo?" " Where is thy master? and wherefore am I caged here? I want air and liberty; let me go forth!" " Alas! little one, hast thou not seen enough of Arbaces to know that his will is imperial? He hath ordered thee to be caged; and cagod 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." " Proli Jupiter!" cried the girl, wringing her hands; " and why am I thus imprisoned? What can the great Arbaces want with so poor a thing as I am?" "That I know not, unless it be to attend on thy new mistress, who has been brought hither this day." " What! lone here?" " Yes, poor lady; she liked it little, I fear. Yet, by the Temple i)f Castor! Arbaces is a gallant man to the women. Thy lady is his wai'd, thou knowest." " Wilt thou take me to her?" " She is ill— frantic with rage and spite. Besides, I have nq orders to do so; and I never think of myself. When Arbacei made me slave of these chambers, he said, ' I have but one lessoii to give thee; while thou servest me, thou must have neither ears^ eyes nor thought; thou must be one quality— obedience.' " * ' But what harm is there in seeing lone?" " That I know not; but if thou wan test a companion, I fxm willing to talk with thee, little one, for I am solitary enough m my diAll cubiculuQi. And, by tlie way, thou art Thessa]ian->' knowest thou not some cunning amusement of knife and shearer, somo pretty trick of telling fortunes, as mos't of thy rat;e do, 1^ orde/ to pass tlie time?" d?2 THE LAST DA YS OF POMPEH, ** Tush, slave, hold thy peace! or, if thou wilt speak, what hast thou heard of tlie state of Glaucus?" ' ' Why, my master has gone to the Athenian's trial; Glaucus will smart for itl" "For what?'* ** The murder of the priest Apagcides." "Ha!" said Nydia, pressing her handy to her forehead, ** something of this I have indeed heard, but understand not. Yet, who \vi\\ dare to touch a hair of his head?" " That \%-ill be the lion, I fear." *' Averting gods! what wickedness dost thou utter?" " Why, only that, if he be found guilty, the lion, or may be tbeiiger, \^ill be his executioner." Nydia leaped up as if an an-ow had entered her heart; she uttered a piercing scream; then, falling before the feet of the slave, she cried, in a tone that melted even his rude heart: **Ah! tell me thou jestest; thou utterest not the truth; speak, speak !" "Why, by my faith, blind girl, I know nothing of the law; it may not be so bad as I say. But Arbaces is his accuser, and the people desire a victim for the arena. Cheer thee I but what hath the fate of the Athenian to do with thine?" " No matter, no matter, he has been kind to me; thou knowest not, then, what they will do? Arbaces his accuser! O fate! The people, the people. Ah! they can look upon his face; who will be cruel to the Athenian. Yet was not love itself cruel to him?" So saying, her head dropped upon her bosom: she sank into silence; scalding tears flowed down her cheeks; and aU the kindly efforts of the slave were unable either to console her or distract tlie absorption of her revery. When his household cares obliged the ministrant to leave her room, Nydia began to re-collect her thoughts. Arbaces was the accuser of Glaucus; had imprisoned her here; was not tliat a proof that her liberty might be serviceable to Glaucus? Yes, she was evidently inveigled into some snare; she was contributing to the destruction of her beloved! Oh, how she panted for release! Fortunately, for her sufferings, all sense of pain became merged in the desire of escape; and as she began to resolve the possibiUty of dehverance, she grew calm and thoughtful. She possessed much of the craft of her sex, and it had been increased in her breast by her early servitude. What slave was ever destitute of cunning? She resolved to practice 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 the night, and, accordingly, when Sosia visited her the following morning, she hastened to divert his garrulity into that channel in which it had before evinced a natural disposition to flow. She was aware, however, tliat her only chance of escape was at night ; and accordingly she was obliged, with a bitter pang at Ibe d«lay, to defer till then her purposed attempt. THE LAST DA YS OF POMPEII. 223 •*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 desire thou to learn ? " "By Pollux ! I should like to know as much as my master * but that is not to be expected. Let me know, at least, whethez 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, suppose that be true, shall I possess myself of that snug taberna among the Myropoha which I have long had in my eyes ? 'Tis a genteel trade that of a perfumer, andsuits areth'ed slave who has something of a gentleman about him I" " Ah ! so you would have precise answers to those questions? There are various ways of satisfying you. There is the Litho- manteia, 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 apparitions." '* Fear not ; thou wilt see nothing ; thou wilt only hear by the bubbling of water whether or not thy suit prospers. First, then, be sure, from the rising of the evening star, that thou leavest the garden-gate somewhat open, so that the demon may feel himself invited to enter therein ; and place fruits and water near the gate as a sign of hospitahty ; then, three hours after twilight, come here with a bowl of the coldest and purest water, and thou shalt learn all, according to the Thessalian lore my mother taught me. But forget not the garden-gate — all rests upon that ; it must be open when you come, and for three hours previously." " Trust me," repHed the unsuspecting Sosia ; " I know what a gentleman's feelings are when a door is shut in his face, as the cook-shop's hath been in mine many a day ; and I know also, that a person of respectability, as a demon of course is, cannot but be pleased, on the other hand, with any little mark of courteous hospitality. Meanwhile, pretty one, here is thy morning's meal." "And what of the trial?" " Oh, the lawyers are still at it — talk, talk — ^it will last over till to-mon*ow." " To-morrow?— you are sure of that?'* " So I hear." " And lone?" " By Bacchus I she must be tolerably well, for she was strong enough to make my master stamp and bite his Up this morning. I saw him quit her apartment with a brow like a thunder- storm." " Lodges she near tliis?'* " No— in the upper apartments. 5ut I must not stay prating bere longer— Fa|^/" 334 THE LAST DA YS OF POMPEIL CHAPTER XIL A WASP VENTURES INTO THE SPIDER'S WEB. The second night of tlie trial had set in; and it was neany the time in which Sosia was to brave the dread Unknown, when there entered, at that very garden-gate which the skive had left ajar — not, indeed, one of the mysterious spirits of earth or air, but the heavy and most human form of Caleuus, tlie priest of Lsis. 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 al- mre. '* Some tribute," thought he, " to the garden god. By my father's head! if this deityship were never better served, he would do well to give up the godly profession. Ah! were it not for us priests, the gods would have a sad time of it. And now for Ai'baces — I am treading a quicksand, but it ought to cover a mine. I have the Egyptian's life in my power — what will he value it at?"' As he thus soliloquized, he crossed through the open court into the peristyle, where a few lamps here and there broke upon the empire of the star-Ut night, and, issuing from one of the chambers that bordered the colonnade, suddenly encountered Arbaces. *' Ho! Calenus — seekestthou me?" said the Egyptian; and there was a little embarrassment in his voice. *' iTes, wise Arbaces — I trust my visit is not unreasonable?" "Nav — 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, lol the gods have sent me Ca- lenus." "Shall we within to your chamber, Arbaces?" "As you \vi\l; 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 Uvo friends passed slowly to one of tlie many terraces which, bordered by marble vases and sleeping flowers, intersected the garden. "It is a lovely night," said Arbaces — blue and lieautiful as that on wMch, 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 bave lived." "Tliou, at least, mayst airogate that boast," said Calenus, beating about, as it were, for an opportunity to communicate tlie secret wliich weighed upon him, and feeling liis unusual awe of Arbaces still more impressively that niglit. from the quiet and friendly tone of dignified condescension wliich the Egyptian as- sumed — "Thou hast had counth^ss wealth — a frame on whose close- woven fibers disease can find no sjxice to enter — prosperous love — inexhaustible pleasure — and, even at this hour, triumphant revenge." **Tbou alludest to the Athenian. Ay, to-morrow's sun the fi£^ THE LAST DAYS OF POMFEll 225 of bis death will go forth. The senate does not relent. But thou roistakest: his death gives me no ot]ier gratification than that it releases me from a rival in the affection of lone. I entertain no other sentiment of animosity against that unfortunate homicide." "•Homicide!" repeated Caleuus, slowly and meaningly; and, halting as he spoke, he fixed his eyes ui)on Arbaces. The stars ehone pale and steadily on the proud face of their prophet, but they betrayed there no change; the eyes of Calenus fell disap- pointed and abashed. He continued rax)idly — "Homicide I it is well to charge him with that crime; but thou, of all men, know- est that he is innocent." "Explain thyself," said Arbaces coldly; for he had prepared himself for the hint his secret fears had foretold. "Arbaces," answered Calenus, sinking his voice into a wliisper, "I was in the sacred grove, sheltered by the chapel and the sur- rounding foliage; I overheard — I marked the whole. I saw thy weapon pierce the heart of Ap. ^^'nat are the gods to us?" " By the fear of thy vengeance, ohen — no !" " And why hast thou hitherto concealed from me this secret? Why hast thou waited till the eve of the Athenian's condemna- tion before thou hast ventured to tell me that Arbaces is a mur- derer ? And, having tarried so long, why revealest thou now that knowledge ? " " Because — because" — stammered Calenus, coloring and in con- fusion. "Because," interrupted Arbaces, with a gentle smile, and tap- ping the priest on the shoulder with a kindly and familiar ges- ture—*' because, my Calenus (see now, I will read thy heart, and explain its motives) — because thou didst wish thoroughly to com- mit and entangle me in the trial, so that I might stand firmly Eledged to perjury and to malice, as well as to homicide ; that aving 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 in- ^locent condemned, to show what a desperate web of viUany thj 226 THE LAST DA YFi OF POJSWEIL •word to-morrow could destroj^; to enhance in this, the ninth hoir?, the price of thy forbearance ; to show that my own arts, in arous- ing the popular wrath, would, at thy witness recoil upon myself ; and that, if not for Glaucus, for me would gape the jaws of the lion ! Is it not so ?'' ** Arbaces," replied Calenus, losing all the vulgar audacity of his natural character, " verily thou art a magician; 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 a 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 sdent, thou must pay something in advance, as an offer to HariDOcrates. If the rose, sweet emblem of discretion, is to take root firmly, water her this night with a stream of gold." "Witty and poetical!' answered Arbaces, still in that bland voice which lulled and encouraged, when it ought to have alarm- ed and cliecked, his gripping comrade. " Wilt thou not wait the morrow?" "Why this delay? Perhaps, when I can no longer give my testimony without shame for not having given it ere the inno- cent 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," re- turned the priest, grinning. " Wittier and more witiby. But speak out — what shall be the simi?" "Arbaces, I have heard that in thy secret treasury below, be- neath those rude Oscan arches which prop thy stately halls, thou hast piles of gold, of vases, and of jewels, wliich might rival the rer'eptacles of tlie wealth of the deified Nero. Though 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, winuingly, and with a frank and generous air, "thou art an old friend, and hast been a faith- ful servsmt. Tliou canst have no wish to take away my Hfe, nor I a desire to stint thy reward; thou shalt descend vAih me to that treasury tliou 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 wliat thy friend possesses, thou wilt learn how foolish it would be to injure one who has so much to bestow. Wlieu ClaiK'UH is no more, thou shalt ])ay the treasury another visit. Speak I frankly and as a friend?" " Oh, greatest, Ix^st of men!*' cried Calenus, ahnost weeping witli joy, " canst thou thus forgive my injurious doub/-e of thy .justice, thy generosity?" The last days of po^ipml i^s: "HusliI one other turn, and we will descend to tlie Oscan srches." CHAPTER XIII. THE SLAVE O^NSULTS THE ORACLE.— THEY WHO BLIND THEMSELVES THE BLIND MAY FOOL. — TWO NEW PRISONERS MADE IN ONE NIGHT. laiPATiENTLY Njdia awaited tlie 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 minis- trant stole into the blind girl's chamber. "Well, Sosia, and art thou prepared? Hast thou the bowl of pure water?" " Verily, yes; but I tremble a little. You are sure I shall not see the demon? I have heard that those gentlemen are by no means of a handsome person or a civil demeanor." " Be assured! And hast thou left the garden-gate gently open?" "Yes; and placed some beautiful nuts and apples on a little table close by." "That's well. And the gate is open now, so that the demon may pass through it?" " Sm-ely it is." "Well, then, open this door; there — leave it just ajar. And now. Sosia, give me the lamp." " What! you will not extmg-uish it?'* "No; but I must breathe my spell over its ray. There is a spirit in fire. Seat thyseK." The slave obeyed; and Nydia, after bending for some momenta silently over the lamp, rose, and in a low voice chanted the fol- lowing rude INVOCATION TO THE SPECTER OF THE AIR. Loved alike by Air and Water, Aye must be Thessalia's daughter; To us, Olympian hearts, are given Spells that dr^v the moon from heaven. All that Egypt's learning wrought — All that Persia's Magi taught — Won from song, or wrung from flowers, Or whispered low by fiend— are ours. Specter 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, Summon'd from the shadowy throng. At the muse-son's magic song — By the Colchian's awful charms, When fair-haired Jason left her arms; Specter of the airy halls, One who owns thee duly calls I SS^ THE LAST DA TS OF POMPEtt Breatlio along tlie bi-iinining bowl. And instruct the fearful soul In tlie shadowy things that lio Dark in dim futurity. Come, wild demon of the air, Answer to thy votary's prayer; Come! oh, cornel 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 honor'd more than theel Come! oh, come! '* The specter is certainly coming," said Sosia. " I feel him running along my hair." "Place the bowl of water on the ground. Now, then, give me the napkin, and let me fold up thy face and eyes." *'Ah! That's always the custom with these charms. Not so tight, though; gently — gently." "There— thou canst not see?" ** See, by Jupiter! No, nothing but darkness." ** Address then, to the specter whatever question thou would st 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 tlie water, eh?" "Let me place the bowl under tliy feet — so. Now thou wilt perceive that I cannot touch it\vitl)Out thy knowledge." "Very fair. Now, then. O Bacchus! befriend me. Thou knowest that I have ahNays loved thee better than all the other gods, and 1 \^^ll 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, hsten and hear mel Shall I be enabled to purchase my freedom next year? Thou knowest, for, as thou livest in air, tlie' birds have doubtless acquainted tliee with every secret of this house — thou knowest that I have filched and pilfered all that I lionestly — that is, safely — coiUd lay finger upon for the last throe years, and I yet w^ant two tliousand sesterces of the full sum. Shall I be able, O good Spirit, to make up the deficiency in tlie course of this year? Speak — lia, does the water bubble? No; all is still as a tomb. Well, then, if not tliis year, in two years? Ah! I hear something; the demon is scratchine: at the door; he'll be here, presently — in two years, my good fellow? Come now, two: that's a very rea- sonable time. What, dumb still! Two years and a half— three —four? Ill fortune to you, friend demon! You are not a lady, that's clear, or you would not keep silence so long. Five— six — sixty years, and may Pluto seize you! I'll ask no more." And Sosia, in a rage, kicked down the water over liis legs. He then, after much fumbUng and more cursing, managed to extri- THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 22ft cate 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 — tbou shalt smart for this!" The slave gi-oped his way to the door; it was bolted from ^vith^ out; he was a prisoner instead of Nydia. What could he do? H© did not dare to knock loud — to call out — lest Arbaces should over, hear him, and discover how he had been duped; and Nydia. meanwhile, had probably ali-eady gained the garden-gate, and was fast on her escape, *' But," thought he, " she will go home, or at least, be some- where in the city. To-morrow, at dawn, when the slaves are at work in the peristyle, I can make myself heard; then I can go forth and seek her. I shall be sure to find and bring her back, before Arbaces knows a word of tlie matter. Ah! that's the best plan. Little traitress, my fingers itch at thee; and 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 re- volving 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 toward the gate, when she suddenly heard the sound of ap- proaching steps, and distinguished the dreaded voice of Arbaces nimself. She paused for a moment in doubt and terror; then sud- denly it flashed across her recollection that there w^as 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 tow^ard a door which also communicated with the garden. By good fortune it might be open. At that thought, she hastily retraced her steps, descend- ing 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 w^as 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 unknown ground. The air grew damp and chill; this reassured her. She thought she might be among the cellars of the luxurious mansion, or, at least, in some rude spot not Hkely to be visited by its haughty lord, when, again, her quick ear caught steps and the sound of voices. On, on, she hur- ried, extending her arms, which now frequently encoimtered pil- lars of thick and massive form. With a tact, doubled in acute- ness 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 wWch »he could hide? No anerture? no ca,vity? 230 THE LAST DA YS OF POMPEII, There was nonel She st(ipped, and wrunpj her hands in de» Bjmir; then again, nerved a.s the voices neared upon her, she hur- ried on by the side of the wall; and coming suddenly against one of the sharp buttresses that here and there jutted boldly forth, she fell to the groimd. Tliough much bruised, her senses did not leare 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 shght and small form into its smallest compass, and breathlessly awaited her fate. Meanwhile Arbaces and the priest were taking their way to that secret chamber whose stores were so vaunted by the Egyptian. They were in a vast subterranean atrium, or hall ; the low roof was supported by short, thick pillars of an archi- tectiu-e far remote from the Grecian graces of that luxuriant period. The single and pale lamp, which Arbaces bore, shed but an imperfect ray over the bare and rugged walls, in which the huge stones, without cement, were fitted curiously and un- couthly into each other. The disturbed reptiles glared dully on the intruders, and then crept into the shadow of the walls. Calenus shivered as he looked aroimd 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?" asked Calenus; "in the depth of gloom it seems without limit, as if winding into Hades." " On the contrary, it does but conduct to the upper day," an- swered Arbaces, carelessly, " it is to the right that we steer to our bourne." The hall, like many in the more habitable regions of Pompeii, branched off at the extremity into U\o wings or passages; the length of wliich. 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 alca the two comrades now directed their steps. " Tlie gay Glaucus will be lodged to-morrow in apartments not much drier and far less spacious than this," said Calenus, as they passed by the very spot where, completely trapped in the shadow of the broad, projecting buttress, cowered the Thessaliau. "Ay, but then he will have dry room, and ample enough, in the arena on the following day. And to think," continued Ar^ bares, slowly and very deliberately — "to think that a word of thine could save liim; and consign Arbaces to his doom I" "Tliat word shall never be spoken," said Calenus. " Right, my Calenns! it never shi\ll," returned Arbaces, famil- iarly leaning his arm on the priest's shoulder; " and now, halt — we are at the door." The light trembled against a small door deep set in the wall. S'M; LAST DAYS OF POMPEIt SM Stod 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 gripping heart of Calenus, as he heard the rusty wards growl, as if resenting the admission to theitreas- ures 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 toward the aperture. Scarce had he crossed the threshold, when the strong hand of Arbaces plunged him forward. " The ivoni shall never he spoken^ said the Egyptian, with a loud, exultant laugh, and closed the door upon the priest. Calenus had been precij)itated down several steps, but not feel- ing at the moment tlie pain of his fall, he sprang up again to the door, and beat at it fiercely with his clinched fist; he cried aloud in what seemed more a beast's howl than a human voice, so keen was his agony and despair: "Oh, release me, release me, and I will ask no gold!" The words but imperfectly penetrated the massive door, and Arbaces again laughed. Then, stamping his foot violently, re- joined, perhaps to give vent to Ms iong-stifled passions — "All the gold of Dalmatia," cred he, "vdll not buy tliee a crust of bread. Starve, wretch I thy dying groans will never wake even the echo of these vast halls, nor will the air ever re- veal, as thou guawest, in thy desperate famine, thy flesh from thy bones, that so perishes the man who threatened, and could have undone, Arbaces! Farewell!" " O, pity— mercy I Inhuman villain; was it for tliis " 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 tui-ned aside that he might not harm it. "Thou art loathsome and obscene," he muttered, "but thou canst not injure me; therefore thou art safe in my path." The cries of Calenus, dulled and choked by the barrier that confined him, yet faintly reached the ear of the Egyptian. He paused and listened intently. " Tills is unfortimate," 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 smwive, liis accents, by my father's beaid, must be weak enough, then! — no, they could not pierce even through his tomb. By Isis, it is cold! — 1 long for a deep draught of the spiced Falernian." With that the remorseless Egyptian drew his gown closer rouu4 him, and resought the upper air. 2S5 The LASi" DATs OP POMPEtL CHAPTER XrV. JTYDIA ACCOSTS CALENUS. What words of terror, yet of hope, had Nydia overheard I flifl next day Glaucus was to be condemned; yet there lived one w ho could save him, and adjudge Arbaces to his doom, and that oiae breathed within a few steps of her hiding-placel She caught his cries and slirieks— his imprecations — his prayers, though they fell choked and muffled on her ear. He was imprisoned, but slie knew the secret of his cell; could she but escape — could she but seek the prastor, he might yet in time be given to light, and pre- serve 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 min- utes, till she was convinced that Arbaces had left the space to dolitude and herself, she crept on as her ear guided her to the very door that closed upon Calenus. Here she more distinctly caught his accents of terror and despair. Thrice she attempted to speak, and tlirice her voice failed to penetrate the folds of the heavy door. At length finding the lock, she applied her lips to the small aperture, and the prisoner distinctly heard a soft tone breathe his name. His blood curdled— his hair stooa on end. That awful solitude, what mysterious and preternatural being could penetratel ** Who's there?" he cried in new alarm; *' what dread larva, calls upon the lost Calenus?" " Priest," replied the Thessalian, "unknown to Arbaces, I have been, by the permission of the gods, a witness to his perfidy. If I myself can escape from these walls, I may save thee. But let thy voice reach my ears through this narrow passage, and an- swer 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 sttve the Athenian Glaucus from the charge against his hfe?" '*I can— I cant— therefore (may the Furies blast the foul Egyptian!) hath Arbaces snared me thus, and left me to starve and rot!" ** They accuse the Athenian of murder, canst thou disprove the accusation?" "Only free me, and the proudest head of Pompeii is not more safe than his. I saw the deed done — I saw Arbaces strike the blow; lean convict the true murderer and acquit the innnocent man. But if I perish he dies also. Dost thou interest thyself for Mm? Oh, blessed stranger, in my heart is the urn which con- demns or frees him 1" " And thou wilt give full evidence of what thou knowest?" "Will! Ohl were hell at my feet— ves! Revenge on the false Egyptian! revenger revenge! revenge!*' As tluough his ^wound teeth Calenus shrieked forth those las^ r THE LAST DAYS OF POMPE-n. 288 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 Ai-baces— he is marble. Seek the prastor — say what; thou knowest, — obtain his writ of search^ bring soldiers, and smiths of cunning — tbese locks are wondrous strong! Time flies — I may starve — starve! if you are not quick! Go — gol Yet stay — it is horrible to be alone! the air is like a charnel — and the scorpions — ha! and the pale larvae! Oh! stay, stay!" "Nay," said Nydia, terriiied by the terror of the priest, and anxious to confer with herself — "nay, for thy sake, I must de- part. Take Hope for thy companion; farewell!" So saying, she glided away, and felt with extended arms along the pillared space until she had gained the farther end of the hall and the mouth of the passage that led to the upper air. But there she paused; she felt that it would be more safe to wait a,while, 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 «/k3 would save him I CHAPTER XV. ARBACES AND lONE.— NYDIA GAINS THE GARDEN.— WILL SHE ES» CAPE AND SAVE THE ATHENIAN? When Arbaces had warmed his veins by large draughts of that spiced and perfumed wine so valued by the luxurious, he felt more than] unusually 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 con- sciousness of superior craft and self-obtained success — afterward comes the horrible reaction of remorse. But remorse was not a feehug 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 linger- ing death; he felt only that a great danger was passed, and a possible foe silenced; all left to him now would be to account rx> the priesthood for the disappearance of Calenus; and this he imagined it would not be difficult to do. Calenus had often been employed by him in various religious missions to the 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 NeapoUs, placatory of the goddess for the recent murder of lier priest Apaecides. When Calenus had expired, liis body might be tlu'own, previous to the Egyi^tian's departure for Pompeii, into the deep stream of the Saruus; and when discovered suspicion would |>robabIy fail upon the Nazarene atheists, as an act of revenge fox 2^4 THE LAST DA YS OF POMPEtT. %\e death of Olinthus at the arena. After rapidly running ovel these plans for screening himself, Arbaces dismissed at once from liis mind all recollection of the wretched priest; and, animated by the success which had lately crowned all his schemes, he surren- dered all his thoughts to lone. The last time he had seen her, she had driven him from her presence by a reproachful and bitter Bcorn, which his arrogant nature was unable to endure. He now felt emboldened once more to renew that interview; for his Eassion for her was like similar feelings in other men — it made im restless for her presence, even though in that presence he was exasperated and humbled. From delicacy to her grief he laid not aside his dark and unfestive robes, but, renewing the per- fumes on his raven locks, and arranging his tunic in its most be- coming folds, he sought the chamber of the Neapolitan. Ac- costing the slave in attendance without, he inquired if lone had yet retired to rest; and learning that she was still up, and unu- sually c^uiet 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 Pysche-like expression of sweet intelligence; the hps were apart— the eye vacant and unlieeding — and the long dark hair, falling neglected and disheveled upon her neck, gave by the contrast additional paleness to a cheek which had already lost the roundness of its contour. Arbaces gazed upon her a moment ere he advanced. She, too, lifted up her eyes, and when she saw who was the intruder, shut them with an expression of pain, but did not stir. *• Ah!" said Arbaces, in a low and earnest tone, as he respect- fully, nay, himably, advanced and seated himself at a little dis- tance from the table — "Ah, that my death could remove tliy hatred, then would I gladly die. Thou wrongest me, lone; but I will bear the wrong without a murmur, only let me see thee sometimes. Chide, reproach, scorn me, if thou wilt — I will teach myself to bear. And is not thy bitterest tone sweeter to me than the music of the most artful lute ? In thy silence the world seems to stand still — a stagnation curdles up the veins of the earth — there is no earth, no life, without the light of thy coun- tenance and the melody of thy voice." '* Give me back ray brother and my betrothed," said lone, in a calm and imploring tone, and a few large tears rolled unlieeded 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 lone, that I would follow thee longer with a prayer of love. I know it is in vain. Suffer me only to weep — to mourn with thee. Forgive a violence deeply repented, and that shall offend no more. Let me be to THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEIT. 235 thee only what I once was — a friend, a father, a protector. Ah, lone, spare me and forgive." " I forgive thee. Save but Glaucus, and I will renounce him. O mighty Arbaces! thou art powerful in evil or in good: save the Athenian, and the poor lone will never see him more." As she spoke she rose with weak and trembling limbs, and falhng 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 eould rescue and set him free— wouldst thou be mine — my bride ?" "Thine?" repeated lone, rising: " thine!— thy bride? My brother's blood is unavenged: who slew him? O Nemesis, can I even sell, for the life of Glaucus, thy solemn trust ? Arbaces — thine f Never." '•lone, lone!" cried Arbaces, passionately, " why these myster- ious words? — why dost thou couple my name with the thought of thy brother's death?" "My dreams couple it — and dreams are from the gods." "Vain fantasies all! Is it for a di'eam that thou wouldst wrong the innocent, and hazard thy sole chance of saving thy lover's life?" "Hear me!" said lone, speaking fh'mly, and with a deliberate and solemn voice; " if Glaucus be saved by thee, I will never be borne to his home a bride. But I cannot master the horror of other rites: I cannot wed with thee. Interrupt me not; but mark me, Arbaces! — if Glaucus die, on that same day I baffle thine arts, and leave to thy love only my dust! Yes — thou mayst put the knife and the poison from my reach — thou mayst imprison — thou mayst chain me, but the brave soul resolved to escape is never without means. These hands, naked and unarmed though they be, shall tear away the bonds of life. Fetter them, and these lips shall firmly 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 heaven, and the ocean, and the earth, I devote my- self to death! I have said!" High, proud, dilating in her stature, like one inspired, the air and voice of lone struck an awe into the breast of her listener. "Brave heart!" said he, after a short pause; "thou art indeed worthy to be mine. Oh! that I should have di-eamed of such a partner in my lofty destinies, and never found it but in thee I lone," 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-de- pendent soul? We are 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 resolu- 206 TEE LAST DAYS OF POMPEIt tion equal to thine own, I defy tliy threats of an inglorious sui» ride. I hail thee as my ownl Queen of climes undarkened by the eagle's wing, unravaged by Iiis beak, I bow before thee in homage and in awe — but I claim thee in worship and in love! Together we will cross the ocean — together we will found our realm; and far distant ages shall acknowledge the long race of kings born from the marriage-l)ed of Arbaces and lone!" " Thou ravest! These mystic declamations are suited rather to some palsied crone selling charms in tlie market-plaae than to the wise Arbaces. Thou hast heard my resolution— it is fixed as the Fates themselves. Orcus has heard my vow, and it is written in the book of the unforgetful Hades. Atone, tlien, O Arbaces! — atone the past: convert hatred into regard — vengeance into grati- tude; preserve one who will never be thy rival. These are acts suited to thy original nature, which gives forth sparks of some- thing high and noble. They weigh in the scales of the King of Death: they turn the balance on that day when the disembodf^d soul stands shivering and dismayed between Tartarus and Ely- sium: they gladden the heart in life, better and longer than the reward of a momentary passion. Oh, Arbaces! hear me, and be swayed I" " Enough, lone. All that I can do for Glaucus shall be done; but blame me not if I fail. Inquire of my foes, even, if I have not sought, if I do not seek, to turn aside the sentence from his head; and judge me accordingly. Sleep, then, lone. Night wanes; I leave thee to rest — and may est thou have kinder dreams of one who has no existence but in thine." "Without waiting a reply, Arbaces hastily withdrew; afraid, perhaps, to trust himself further to the passionate prayer of lone, which racked him with jealousy, even while it touched him to compassion. But compassion itself came too late. Had lone even pledged him her hand as his reward, he could not now — his evidence given — the populace excited — have saved the Athenian. Still, made sanguine by his very energy of mind, he threw him- self on the chances of the future, and believed he could 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 necesssary that lone should never learn of her lover's frenzy, lest it might excuse his imputed crime: and it was possible that lierattendantei 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 tliat on no pretense is he to suffer the blind slave Nydia out of her chamber. But. stay — first seek those in attendance upon my ward, and caution them not to inform her that the blind girl is under my roof. Go, quick!'' The frcttdman hnstened to obey. After having discharged his coininission with respect to loiie's attendant^!, he sought the worthy Sosia. lie found him not in the little cell wliich was ap- portioned for IMS cubiculuiu; Ue called hi« name aloud, aixd f rona THE LAST DATS CF POMPEII, 287 KyvliA*& chamber, close at hand, he heard the voice of Sosia re^ " Ob, Callias, is it you that I hear? the gods be praisedl Open the door, I pnay you!" Callias withdrew the bolt and the rueful face ot 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 thaW; thou must tamper with such green *' " Name not the little witch!" interrupted Sosia, impatiently; " she will be my ruin!" And he forthwith imparted to Callias the history of the Air Demon, and the escape of the Thessahan. " Hang thyself, then, unhappy Sosia. I am just charged with a message to thee; on no account art thou to BuHer her, even for a moment, from that chamber." "MemiserumP' exclaimed the slave. "What can I do? By this time she may have visited half Pompeii. But to-morrow 1 will undertake to catch her in her old haunts. Keep but my counsel, my dear Callias." "I will do all that friendship can, consistent with my own safety. But are you sm-e she has left the house? She may be hiding here yet." ' ' How is that possible? She could easily have gained the gar- den, and the door, as I told thee, was open." "Nay, not so; for, at that very hour thou specifiest, Arbaces was in the garden with the priest Calenus. I went there in search of some herbs for my master's bath to-morrow. I saw the table set out; but the gate I am sure was shut; depend upon it, that Calenus entered by the garden, and naturally closed the door af- ter liim." " But it was not locked." "Yes; for I myself, angry at a negligence that mi^ht 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 actua]- ly is, still in my girdle." " Oh, merciful Bacchus! I did not pray 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 af- ter 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 hid- ing-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 tesselated center — now ascending the terrace of tlie garden — now gliding amid the gloomy and breathless trees, she gained the fatal door— to find it locked! AVe have all seen that expression of pain, of uncertainty, of fear, which a sudden drisappoiT>tm©nt of touch, if I may use the expression, casts over ^8 THE LAST DA TS OF POMPEII, the face of the blind. But what words can paint the intolerable woe, the sinking of the whole heart, wliich was now visible on the features of the Tliessaliau? Again and again her small, quivering hands wandered to and fro tlie inexorable door. Poor tning that thou wert! in vain had been all thy noble courage, thy Innocent craft, thy doublings to escape the hound and hunts- tnan? Witliin but a few yards from thee, laughing at thy en- deavors — thy despaii- — knowing thou w^ert now their own,"^ and tvatching with cruel patience their own moment to seize their own prey — thou art saved from seeing thy pursuers! "Hush, Callias! — let lier go on. Let us see what she will do Tvhen she has convinced herself that the door is honest." " Look! she raises her face to the heavens — she mutterg — she sinks down despondent! No! by Pollux, she has some new scheme! She will not resign herself! By Jupiter, a tough spirit! See, she springs ujd — she retraces her steps — she thinks of some other chance! I advise thee, Sosia, to delay no longer; seize her ere she quit the garden— now!" •* Ah! runaway! I have thee — eh?" said Sosia, seizing upon the imhappy 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 awaken- ed — broke the shriek of the blind girl,- when she felt the abrupt grip of her jailer. It was a shriek of such utter agony, such entii-e despair, that it might have rung hauntingly in your ears forever. She felt as if the last gasp of the sinking Glaucus were torn from his clasp. It had been a suspense of life and death; and death had won the game. " God! tliat cry will alarm the house! Arbaces sleeps full lightly. Gag her!" cried Callias "Ahl here is the very napkin with which the young witch conjured away my reason! Come! that's right; now thou art dumb as w^ell as blind." And, catching the light weight in his arms, Sosia soon gained the house, and reached the chamber from which Nydia had es- caped. Tliere, removing the gag, he left her to a"^ solitude so racked and terrible, that out of Hades its anguish could scarcely be exceeded. CHAPTER XYT. THE SORROW OF BOON COJIPANIONS FOR GUI* AFFLICTIONS — THE DUNGEON AND ITS VICTIMS. It was now late on the third and last day ^i the trial of Glau- cus and Olinthus. A few hours after the ccnit had broke up and i'udgjnent been given, a small party of the fashionable youth of *omi)eii were assembled round the fastidious board of Lepi- dus. *'So Glaucus denies his crime to the last?" said Clodius. "Yes; but the testimony of Arbaces w^as convincing; he saw the blow given," answered Lepidus "What could have l)een tlie cause?" " Why, tlie priest w^as a gloomy and sullen fellow. He proba- THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII 23^ bly rated Glaiicus soundly about his gay life and gaming habits, and ultimately swore he Avould not consent to his marriage with loue. High words arose; Glaucus seems to have been full of the passionate god, and struck in sudden exasperation. The excite- ment of wine, the exasperation of abrupt remorse, brought on the delirium under which lie suffered for some days; and I can readily imagine, poor fellow! that, yet confused by that delirium, he is even now unconscious of the crime he committed! Such, at least, is the shrewd conjecture of Arbaces, who seems to have been most kind and forbearmg 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 bad 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, tliat he was never formally enrolled as a Roman citizen ; and thus the Senate is deprived of the power to resist the people, though, after all, there was but a maiority of three against him. Ho! tiie Chian!" "He looks sadly altered; but how composed and fearless!" " Ay, we shall see if Ms firmness will last over to-morrow. But what merit in courage, when that atheistical hound, Ohnthus, manifested the same?" " The blasphemer! Yes," said Lepidus, with pious wrath, "no wonder that one of the decurions was, but two days ago, struck by lightning in a serene sky. The gods feel vengeance against Pompeii while the vile desecrator is alive within its w^alls." " 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 Naza- renes, had they the state religion, would be as tolerant to us, sup- posing we had kicked down the image of theii" Deity, blasphemed their rites, and denied their faith." " They give Glaucus one chance, in consideration of the circum- stances; they allow him, against the lion, the use of the same stilus wherewith he smote the priest." " Hast thou seen the lion? hast thou looked at his teeth and fangs, and wilt thou call tJiat a chance? Why, sw^ord and bucklei would be mere reed and papyrus against the rush of the mighty beast! No, I tliink the true mercy has been, not to leave him long in suspense; and it was therefore fortunate for him that our benign laws are slow^ to pronotmce, but swift to execute; and that the games of the ampliitheater had been, by a sort of pro- vidence, so long fixed for to-morrow. He who awaits death, dies twice." * As for the Atheist," said Clodius, " he is to cope with the grim tiger naked-handed. Well, these combats are past betting oru Who will take the odds?" A peal of laughter announced the ridicule of the questioa; 240 TBE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. *' Poor Clodiusl" said the host; ** to lose a friend is something; but to find no one to bet on the chance of his escape is a worse misfortune to thee." " Why, it is provoking; it would have been some consolation to him and to me to think he was useful to the last." '* The people," said the gTave Pansa, *' are all delighted with the result. They were so much afraid the sports at the amphitheater would go off without a criminal for the beasts; and now, to get two .^i(ch criminals, is indeed a joy for the poor fellowsl They •work hard; they ought to have some amuseme^it." •'There speaks the popular Pansa, who never moves without a string of clients as long as an Indian triumph. He is alw^ays prat- ing about the people. Gods! he will end by being a Gracchus!" " Certainly I am no insolent patrician," said Pansa, with a generous air. "Well," observed Lepidus, "it w^ould have been assuredly dangerous to have been merciful at the eve of a beast-fight. If ever I, though a Roman l)red and born, come to be tried, pray Jupiter there may either be 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 manied? A widow without having been a bride — that is hard." "Oh," returned Clodius, "she is safe under the protection of her guardian, Arbacos. It was natural she should go to him when she had lost both lovei* and brother." "By sweet Venus, Glaucus was fortunate among the woment The say the rich Julia was in love w-ith him." " A mere fable, my friend," said Clodius, coxcombically; " I was with her to-day. If any feeling of the sort she ever conceiv- ed, I flatter myself that /have consoled her." "Hush, gentlemen!" said Pansa, "do you not know that Clodius is employed at the house of Diomed in blowing hard at the torch? It begins to burn, and will soon shine bright on the shrine of Hymen." "Is it so?" said Lepidus. " What! Clodius become a married man?— Fie!" "Never fear," answered Clodius; " old Diomed is delighted at the notion of marrying his daughter to a nobleman, and will come down largely with the sesterces. You will see that I shall not lock them up in the atrium. It will be a white day for his jolly friends, when Clodius marries an heii*ess." "Say you so?" cried Lepidus; "come, then, a full cup to the health of the fair Julia!" While such was tho 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 Bcowlea 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 mE LAST DAYS OP POMPEII. 241 by the side of the temple of Jupiter. You may seethe place still. The door opened in the center in a somewhat singular fashion, revolving round on its liinges, as it were, hke 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 dark- ness, and, as he thought, to solitude. So sudden had been that revolution of fortune wliich had prostrated him from the palmy hight 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 conscious- ness, but still a dim and misty depression clung to his nerves and darkened his mind. His natural courage, and the Greek nohihty of pride, enabled him to vanquish all mibecoming apprehension, and in the judgment-court, to face his awful lot with a steady mien and unquailing eye. But the consciousness of mnocence scarcely sufficed to support him when the gaze of men no longer excited his haughty valor, and he w-as left to lonelmess and silence. He felt the damps of the dungeon smk chillingly into his enfeebled frame. ^ , , i -, ^ -, '^^ He— the fastidious, the luxurious,the refined— he who had hith- erto braved no hardship and known no sorrow. Beautiful bird that he was! whv had he left his fair and sunny cHme— the oUve groves of his native hills— the music of immemorial streams? Why had he wantoned on his gUttering plumage amid these harsh and ungenial strangers, dazzling the eyes with his gorgeous hues, charming the ear wdth his bhthesome song— thus suddenly 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 little had his past career fitted him for the trials he was destined to undergo! The hoots of the mob, amid whose plaudits he had so often guided his graceful car and bounding steeds, still rang gratingly in his ear. The cold and stony faces of his former friends (the co-mates of his merry revels) still rose before his eye. None now were by to soothe, to sustain, the ad- mired, the adulated stranger. These walls opened but on the dread arena of a violent and shameful death. And lone! of her, too, he had heard naught; no encouraging word, no pitying mes- sage; she, too, had forsaken him; she believed him guilty— and of what crime?— the murder of a brother! 'He ground his teeth— he groaned aloud— and ever and anon a sharp fear shot across him. In that fell and fierce dehrium which haxi so unaccountably seized his soul, which had so ravaged the disor- dered brain, might he not, indeed, unknowing to himself , have committed the crime of which he was accused? Yet, as the thought flashed upon him, it was suddenly checked: for, amid 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 made beside the corpse, and the sudden shock that 243 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEIL felled him to the eartli. He felt convinced of his innocence? and yet who, to the latest time, long after liis mangled remains were mingled with the elements, would believe him guiltless or uphold his fame? As he recalled his interview witli Arbaces, and the cause of revenge which liad been excited in the heart of that dark and fearful man, lie could not but believe that he wjia the victim of some deep-laid and mysterious snare — the clew and train of which he was lost in attempting to discover: and lone — Arbaces loved her — might his rival's success be founded upon his ruin? Tliat thought cut him more deeply than all; and his noble heart was more stung by jealousy than appalled by fear. Again he groaned aloud. A voice from the recess of the darkness answered that burst of anguish. " Who [it said] is my companion in this awful hour? Athenian Glaucus, is it thouV" "So, indeed, they called me in mine hour of fortune: they m.ay have other names for me now. And thy name, stranger?'^ " Is Olinthus, thy co-mate in the i:)rison as the trial." *' What, he whom they call the Atheist? Is it the injustice 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 God, the Unknown one, to whom thy Athenian fathers erected an altar. It is in this hour that I know my God. He is with me in the dungeon; his smile penetrates the darkness; on the eve of death my heart whispers immortality, and earth recedes from me but to bring the weary soul nearer unto heaven." " Tell me," said Glaucus, abruptly, *' did I not hear thy name coupled with that of Apaecides in my trial? Dost thou beUeve me guilty?" •' God alone reads the heart! but my suspicion rested not upon thee." " On whom, then?" *' Thy accuser, Arbaces." ** Ha! thou cheerest me: and wherefore?" ** 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, wliich the reader already knows, the conversion of Apaecides, the plan they had proposed for the detection of the impostures of the Egyptian priestcraft, and of the seductions practiced by Arbaces upon the youthful weakness of the proselyte. " Therefore,*' concluded Olinthus, '* had the deceased encountered Arbaces, reviled his treasons, and threatened detection, the place, the hour, might have favored the wrath of the Egyptian, and passion and craft alike dictated the fatal blow." " It must have been so!" cried Glaucus, joyfully. " I am happy." " Yet what, O unfortunate! avails to thee now the discovery' Thou art condemned and fated; and in thine innocence thou wilt perish." **But I shall know myself guiltless; and in mymystexioud TEE LAST DAYS OF POMPEIT. 243 madness I had fearful, though momentary, doubts. Yet tell me, man of a strange creed, thiukest thou that, for small errors, or for ancestral faults, we are forever abandoned and accursed by the powers above, whatever name thou allottest to them?" "God is just, and abandoas not his creatures for their mere human frailty. God is merciful, and cui'ses none but the wicked who repent not."' "Yet it seemeth to me as if, in the divijie anger, I had been smitten by a sudtlen madness, a supernatural and solemn frenzy, wrought not by human means." " There are demons on earth," answered the Nazarene, f ear- full j% "as well as there are God and His Son in Heaven; and since thou acknowledgest not the last, the fii-st 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, behevest 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 mi justly dim it in the gross-eyed world, and that the streams which are divided by the desert and the rock meet in the solemn Hades, and flow once more into one ? " "Believe I that, O Athenian? No, I do not believe ; I hnow! and it is that beautiful and blessed assurance which supports me now. O Cyllene I" continued Olinthus, passionately, "bride of my heart ! torn from me in the first mouth of our nuptials, shall I not see thee yet, and ere many days be past ? Welcome, wel- come 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 affection be- tween him and his companion. He crept nearer toward Olin- thus ; for the Italians, fierce in some points, were not unneces- sarily cruel in others : they spared the separate cell and the super- fluous chain, and allowed the victims of the arena the sad com- fort of such freedom and such companionship as the prison would afford. "Yes," continued the Christian with holy fervor, "the im- mortality of the soul — the resurrection — the reunion of the dead — is the great principle of our creed — the great truth a God suffered death itself to attest and proclaim. No fabled Elysium — no poetic Orcus — but a pure and radiant heritage of Heaven itself, is the portion of the good." I' 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 often- times in the early ages of the Christian creed— it was in the dark- ness of the dungeon, and over the approach of death, that th© dawning Gospel shed its soft and consecrating rays. S44 THIS tA8T DAYS OF POMPEII, CHAPTER XVII. A CHANCE FOR GLAUCUS. The hours passed in lingering torture over the head of Nydia from the time in ^vllich 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 ho but thrust in the periodical basket of food and wine, and hastily reclosed the door. That day rolled on, and Nydia felt herself pent — barred — inexorably confined when that day was the judgment day of Glaucus, and -when her release would have saved him! Yet knowing, almost 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 oi3portunity might occur. She kept her senses whenever, beneath the whirl of intolerable thought, they reeled and tottered; nay, she took food and wine that she migiit sustain her strength, that she might be prepared! f She revolved scheme after scheme of escape, and was forced to dismiss aU. Yet Sosia was her only hope, the only instrument with which she could tamper. He had been superstitious in the desne of ascertaining whether he could eventually purchase his freedom. Blessed gods! might lie not be won by the bribe of freedom liimself? Her slender arms were covered with bracelets, the presents of lone; and on her neck she yet wore that very chain which, it may be remembered, had occasioned her jealous quarrel with Glaucus, and which she had afterward promised vainly to wear forever. She waited burningly till Sosia should again ax)pear; but as hour after hour had passed, and he came not, she grew impatient. Every nerve beat with fever; she could endure the solitude no longer — she gi'oaned, she shrieked aloud — she beat iierself against tiie door. Her cries echoed along the hall, and Sosia, in peevish anger, hastened to see what was the matter, and silence his prisoner if possible. "Ho! ho! wliat is thisy*' said he, surlily. "Young slave, if thou screamest out thus, we must gag thee again. My shoulders will smart for it if thou art heard by my master." "Kind Sosia, chide me not— I cannot endure to be so long alone," answered Nydia; "the solitude appals me. Sit with me, I pray, a little while. Nay, fear not that 1 should attemjit to es- cape; place tliy seat before the door. Keep thine eye on me — I will not stir from tliis spot." Sosia, who was a considerable gossip liimself . was moved by this address. He pitied one wiio Juid nobody to talk with — it was his case too; he pitied— and resolved to relieve A msc//. He took the liint of Nydia, placed a stool before the door, leaned his back against it, and replied. " I am sure I do not wisli to be churlish; and so far as a little innocent chat goes, I liavo no objection to indulge you. But mind, no tricks — no n\ore conjuring!'' " No, no; tell me, dear Soiiia, what is the hour?'* ^ TBE LAST t)A TS OF POMPEtT, 245 *'It is already evening— the goats are going home." ** O gods! how went the trial?" *' Both condemned!*' Nydia repressed the shriek. " Well— weU, I thought it would be so. When do they suffer?" *' To-morrow, in the amphitheater. If it were not for thee, little wretch! I should be allowed to go with the rest and see it." Nydia leaned back for some moments. Nature could endure no more— she had fainted away. But Sosia did not perceive it, for it was the dusk of eve, and he was fuU of his own privations. He went on lamenting the loss of so deUghtful a show, and ac- cusing 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 cona- fort. 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 requu-e to make up the purchase of thy freedom?"' " How much? Why, about two thousand sesterces. ''The gods be praised! not more? Seest thou these bracelets and tliis chain? They are well worth double that sum. I will give them thee if " . " Tempt me not; I cannot release thee, Arbaces is a severe and awful master. Who knows but I might feed the fishes of the Sarnus? Alas! -all the sesterces in the world would not buy me back into life. Better a live dog than a dead lion." "Sosia, thy freedom! Think weU! If thou will 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,"saidSosia, sturdily, "a slave once disobeyed Arbaces, andhe was never more heard of." "But the law gives a master no power over the lire or a " The law is very obliging, but more polite than efficient. I kno\r that Arbaces always gets the law on his side. ^^ Besides, if I am once dead, what law can bring me to life again! Nydia wrung her hands. " Is there no hope then? said she, convulsively. " None of escape, till Arbaces gives the word. " Well,-then," said Nvdia, quickly, " thou wilt not, at least, re- fuse to take a letter for me; thy master cannot kill thee for that." " To whom?" " The praetor." , ,^ " To a magistrate? No— not I. I should be made a witness in court, for what I know: and the way they cross-examme the slave is by the torture." " Pardon; I meant not the prsetor; it was a word that escaped me unawares; I meant another person — the gay Sallust. " Oh I and what want you ^^'ith Mm?" *' Glaucus was my master; he purchased me from a cniel lord. ^6 TBE LAST DAYS OF POMPEtL He alone has been kind to me. lie is to die. I shall never live happily if I cannot in his hour of trial and doom, let liim 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 liead about a blind girl." **Man," said Nydia, rising, "wilt thou become free? Thou hast the offer in thy power; to-morrow it will be too late. Never was freedom more cheaply purchased. Thou canst easily and unmissed leave home; less than half an hour will suffice for thine absence. And for such a trifle wilt thou refuse liberty?" Sosia was greatly moved. It was true that the request was remarkably silly; but what was that to him? So much the better. He could lock the door on Nydia, and, if Arbaces should leam his absence, the offense was venial, and would merit but a reprimand. Yet, should Nydia's letter contain something more than what she had said; should it speak of her imprisonment, as he shrewdly conjectured it ^vould do; what then? It need never be known to Arbaces that lie had carried the letter. At the worst the bribe was enormous; the risk light, the temptation irresistible. He hesitated no longer; he assented to the pro- posal. " Give me the trinkets, and I will take the letter. Yet stay — thou art a slave — thou hast no right to these ornaments — they are thy masters." " They were gifts of Glaucus; he is my master. What chance hath he to claim them? Who else will know they are in my possession?" " Enough — I will bring thee the papyrus." ** No, not papyiiis — 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 whicli lier 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 every Italian of the higher ranks w\as then supposed to know. She carefully wound round the epistle the protecting thread; and covered its knot with wax; and ere slie placed it in the hands of Sosia, she thus addressed him: "Sosia, lam blind and in prison. Thou mayst think to de- ceive me — thou mayst ])retend only to take the letter to Sallust — thou mayst not fultil thy charge: but here I solemnly dedi- cate thy liead to vengeance, thy soul to tlie infernal powers, if tliou wrongest thy trust; and I call upon thee to place thy right hand of faith in mine, and repeat after me these %vords: ' By the giound on which we stand — by the elements wdiich contain life and can ciu'se life — l)y Orcus, the all-avenging — by the Olympian Juintor, tiie all-seeing — I swear that I will honestly discharge my trust, and faithfully deliver into the hands of Sal- ^HE LAST BAYS OF POMPEII. 247 lust 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 ter- ribly; 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 bet- ters." With this Sosia withdrew, carefully passing the heavy bolt athwart Nydia's door — carefully locking its wards; and, hang- ing the key to his girdle, he retired to his own den, enveloped himself from head to foot in a huge disguising cloak, and sUp^ed out by the back way imdisturbed and unseen. The streets were still and empty. He soon gained the house of Sallust. The porter bade him* leave his letter and be gone; for Sallust was so grieved at the condemnation of Glaucus that he could not on any account be disturbed. " Nevertheless, I have sworn to give this letter into his own hands — do so I must!" And Sosia, well knowing by experience 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 anytbing disturbs him. He orders a capital supper, the best wine, and does not give over till everything else 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 gi'ief or another every day. But just say a kind word for me with the atriensis — I see him coming." Sallust was too sad to receive the company; he was too sad, also, to drink alone: so, as was his wont, he admitted his favor- ite freedman to liis 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 re-filled goblet. " My good fellow," said he to his companion, " it was a most awful judgment — heigho!— it is not bad that kid, eh? Poor, dear Glaucus! — what a jaw the lion has, too! Ah, ah, ah!" And Sallust sobbed loudly; the fit was stopped by a counterac- tion of hiccups. " Take a cup of wine," said the freedman. " A thought too cold; but then how cold Glaucus must be! Shut up the house to-morrow; not a slave shall stir forth; none of my people shall honor that cursed arena— No. no!" " Taste the Falernian; your grief distracts you. By the gods it does — a piece of that cheesecake." It was at this auspicious moment that Sosia was admitted to the presence of the disconsolate carouser. " Ho! whatart thou?" <' Merely a messenger to Sallust. I ^ive him this billet frpm ^ 248 TEE LAST DA 78 OF POMPEII, young female, fhere is no answer that I know of. May I with* draw?" Thus paid the discreet Sosia, keeping his face muffled in Ids cloak, and speaking in a feigned voice, so that he might not here- after be recognized. " By the gods — a pimp! Unfeeling wretch I do you not sjee my sorrows? Go! and the curses of Pandarus w4th you!" Sosia lost not a moment in retiring. " Will you read the letter, Sallust?" said the freedman. ** Letter! — which letter?" said the epicure, reeling, for he began to see double.. " A curse on the«e wenches, say I! Am I a man to think of {hiccup) pleasure when — when my friend is going to be eat up?" " Eat another tartlet." ** No, no! My grief chokes me!" "Take him to bed," said the freedman; and, Sallust's head now declining fairly on his breast, they bore him off to his cubic- ulum, still muttering lamentations for Glaucus, and impreca- tions on the unfeeling overtures of ladies of pleasure. " Meanwhile Sosia strode indignantly homeward. " Pimp, in- deed!" quoth he to himself. "Pimp! a scurvy-tongued fellow tliat Sallust! Had I been called knave, or thief, I could have forgiven it; but pimp! Faugh! there is something in the word which the toughest stomach in the world would rise against. A knave is a kuave for his own pleasm-e, 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 gj-and scale, But a pimp is a thing that defiles itself for another — a pipkin that is put on the fire for another man's pottage! a napkin, that every guest wipes his hands upon! and the scullion says, ' by your leave,' too. A pimp! I would rather he liad called me parricide! But the man was drunk, and did not know what he said: and, besides, I disguised myself. Had he seen it had been Sosia who addressed him, it would have been ' honest Sosia!' and, ' worthy man!' I warrant. Neverthe- less, the trinkets have been won easily — that's some comfort! and O goddess Feronia! I shall be a freedman soon! and then I should like to see who'll call mo a pimp! unless, indeed, he pay me pretty handsomely for it!" While Sosia was soliloquizing in this high-minded and gener- ous vein, his path lay along a narrow lane that led toward the amphitheater and its adjacent palaces. Suddenly, as he turned a sharp corner he found iiimseli in the midst of a considerable crowd. Men, women, and children, all were hurrying on, laugh- ing, talking, gesticulating; and, ere he was aware of it, the worthy Sosia was borne away with the noisy stream. "What now?" he asked of his nearest neighbor, a young artificer; "what now? Where are all these good folks throng- ing? Does any rich patron give away alms or viands to-night?" " Not so, man — better still,'' replied the artificer; "the noble Pansa — the peo}.)le's friend — has granted the public leave to see the beasts in their viatrln. By Hercules! they will not h^ seen eafely by some persons to-morrow I" THE LAST DAYS OF POMPELt 249 ♦' 'lis a pretty sigbt," said the slave, yielding to the throng that impelled him onward; " and since I may not go *)0 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 wliich, as it was only lighted scantily and from a distance, the press became dangerous to those whose Umbs and shoulders were not fitted for the mob. Nevertheless, the women especially— many of them with children in theu' arms, or even at the breast— were the most resolute in forcing their way; and their slmll exclamations of complaint or objurgation were heard loud above the more jovial and masculine voices. Yet, amid them was a young and gu'lish voice, that appeared to come from one too happy in her excitement to be alive to the incon- venience of the crowd. "Aha!" cried the young woman, to some of her companions, ** I always told you so; I always said we should have a man for the lion; and now we have one for the tiger tool I wish to-mor- row were come I" 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 deathl Tramp! tramp! how gayly they go! Ho! ho! for the merry, merry show! *'A jolly girl!" said Sosia. *' Yes," replied the young artificer, a curly- headed, handsome youth. "Yes," replied he, enviously; " the women love a glad- iator. If I had been a slave, I would have soon found my school-master in the lanista!" "Would you, indeed?" said Sosia, with a sneer. *' People's notions differ!" The crowd had now arrived at the place of destination; but as^ the cell in which the wild beasts were confined was extremely small and narrow, tenfold more vehement than it hitherto had been was the rush of the aspirants to obtain admittance. Two of the officers of the amphitheater, placed at the entrance, very wisely mitigated the evil by dispensing to the foremost only a limited number of tickets at a time, and admitting no new visit- ors till their predecessors had sated their cmiosity. Sosia, who was a tolerably stout fellow, and not troubled with any remark- able scruples of diffidence or good-breeding, contrived to be among the first of the initiated. Separated from his companion the artificer, Sosia found him- self 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^ ^&m now, for the greater entertainment of the visitors, placed ia one . but equally indeed divided from each other by stronjg ca^es pw tected by iron bars. 250 THE LAST DA 78 OF POMPEH. There they were, the fell ana gilm wanderers of the desert, who have now become almost the i)rincipal agents of tliis story. The lion, who, as being more gentle by nature than liis fellow- beast, had been more incited to ferocity by hunger, stalked rest- lessly and fiercely to and fro his narrow confines; his eves were lurid with rage and famine; and as, every now and then, he paused and glared arouud, the spectators fearfully pressed back- ward and drew their breath more quickly. But the tiger lay quiet and extended at full length in his cage, and only by au oc- casional play of his tail, or a long, impatient yawn, testified 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 amplii- theater of Rome," said a gigantic and sinewy fellow who stood at the right hand of Sosia. " I feel humbled when I look at his limbs," replied at the left of Sosia a slighter and younger filgure with his arms folded on his breast. The slave looked first at one, and then at the other. ^'Virtus in medio! — virtue is ever in the middle!" muttered he to himself; " a goodly neighborhood for thee, Sosia— a gladiator on each side!" " That is well said, Lydon," returned the huger gladiator; **1 feel the same." "And to think," observed Lydon, in a tone of deep feeling, *' to think that the noble Greek, he whom we saw but a day or two since before us, so full of youth, and health, and joyousness, is to feast you monster!" " Why not?" growled Niger savagely; ** many an honest gladi- ator has been compelled to a like combat by the Emperor — why not a wealthy murderer by the law?" Lydon sighed, shi-ugged 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— tlie men and the brutes— whis- pering their comments and anticipating the morrow. "Well!" said Lydon. turning away, " I thank the gods that it is not the lion or the tiger / am to contend with; even you, Niger, are a gentler combatant than they." "But equally dangerous," said the gladiator, with a fierce laugh; and the bystanders, admiring his vast limbs and fero- cious countenance, lauglicd too. "That's as it may be, "answered Lydon, carelessly, as he pressed through the throng and cpiitted 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 consoquenco." The son of Mcdon strode quickly through the mot), many of whom recognized his features and ])rotession. " That is young Lydou, q, brave fellow; he fights to-moiTOW," paiii one, THE LAST DA TS OF POMPEII, 251 "Ah! I haTe a bet on IiIdi,' said another; "see how firmly te walks!" "Good luck to thee, Lydon!" said a third. "Lydon, you have my wishes," half whispered a fourth, smil- ing (a comely woman of the middle class) — " and if you win, why, you may hear more of me." " A haudsome man, by Venus ! " cried a fifth, who was a girl scarcely in her teens. " Thank you," retm-ned 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 alto- gether unmoved by the notice he excited. He forgot that the voices now raised in commendation might, on the morrow, shout over his death-pangs. By nature fierce and reckless, as well as generous and warm-hearted, he was already imbued with the pride of a profession that he fancied he disdained, and affected by the influence of a comjDanionship that in reahty he loathed. He saw himself now a man of importance; his step grew Ughter, and liis mien more elate. "Niger," said he, turning suddenly, as he had now threaded the crowd, "we have often quarreled; we are not matched against each other, but one of us, at least, may reasonably ex- pect to faU — give us thy hand." " Most readily," said Sosia, extending his palm. "Ha! what fool is this? Why, I thought Niger was at my heels!" "I forgive the mistake," said Sosia, condescendingly; " don't mention it; the error was easy — I and Niger are somewhat of the same build." " Ha ! ha ! that is excellent ! Niger would have slit thy throat had he heard thee !" " You gentlemen of the arena have a most disagreeable mode of talking," said Sosia: " let us change the conversation." " Vah! Vahr said Lydon, impatiently; "I am in no humor to converse wil h thee I " "Why, truly," returned the slave, "you must have serious thoughts enough to occupy your mind; to-morrow is, I think, your first essay in the arena ? Well, I am sure you will die bravely ! " "May thy words fall on thine own head !" said Lydon, super- stitiously, for he by no means liked the blessing of Sosia. " Die! No — I trust my hour is not yet come." "He who plays at dice with death must expect the dog's throw," replied Sosia, maliciously. " But you are a strong fellow, and I wish you all imaginable luck; and so, vale!" With that the slave turned on liis heel, and took his way home- ward. "I trust the rogue's words are not ominous," said Lydon, mus- ingly. " In my zeal for my father's liberty, and my confidence in my omti thews and sinews, I have not contemplated the pos- sibihty of death. My poor father! I am thy only son!— if I wer© to fall " fm THE LAST t)A YS OF POMPEIt, As tlie thought crossed hirn, the gladiator strode on with a more rapid and restless pace, when suddenly, in an opposite street, he beheld the very object of his thougiits. Leaning on his stick, his form bent by care and age, his eyes downcast, and his steps trembhng, the gray-haired Medon slowly approached toward 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 tlie condemnation of Olinthus — he more than ever es» teems the arena criminal and hateful — he comes again to dis- suade 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 Ku:ned abruptly and fled swiftly in an oppo- site direction. He paused not till, almost spent and breathless, he found himseK on the summit of a small acclivity which over- looked the most gay and splendid part of that miniature city; and as there he paused, and gazed along the trtmquil streets glittering in the rays of the moon (which had just arisen, and brought partially and i:»icturesquely into light the crowd around the amphitheater at a distance, murmuring, and swaying to and fro), the influence of the scene affected him, rude and unimaginative though his nature. He sat himself down to rest upon the steps of a deserted portico, and felt the calm of the hour quiet and restore him. Opposite and near at hand, the lights gleamed from a palace in whicli the master now held his revels. The doors were open for coolness, and the gladiator be- held the numerous and festive group gathered round the tables in the atrium;* while behind them, closing the long vista of the illumined rooms beyond, the spray of the distant fountain spark- led in the moonbeams. There, the garlands wreathed around the columns of the hall — there, gleamed still and frequent the marble statue — there, amid peals of jocund laughter, rose the music and the lay. EPICUREAN SONG. Away with your stories of Hades, Which tlie Flainen has forged to affright »»— We laugh at your three Maiden Ladies, Your Fates — and your sullen Cocytus. Poor Jove has a troublesome life, sir, Could we credit your tales of his portals— In shutting his curs 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 Land cut the terrihle cables. If, then, there's a Jove or a Juno, They vex not their heads about us, man: *In the atrium, as I have elsewhere observed, a larger party of gueets than ordinary was frequently entertained. THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEIL 'i^'^ Besides, if they did, 1 and you know 'Tis the life of a god to live thus^ mani What! think you the gods place their bliss — ek? In plajing the spy on a sinner? In counting the girls that we kiss, eh? Or the cups that we empty at dinner? Content with the soft lips that love us, This music, this wine, and this mirth, boys. We care not for gods up above us — We know there's no god for this earth, boys I "WKi^e I^ydon's piety (which, accommodating as it might be, Was ?n no slight degree disturbed by those verses, which embod- ied the fasliionable philosophy of the day) slowly recovered it- self from the shock it had received, a small party of men, in plain garments and of the middle class, passed by Ms resting- place. They were in earnest conversation, and did not seem to notice or heed the gladiator as they moved on. " O horror on horrors!" said one; " Olinthus is snatched from us! our right arm is lopped away! When will Christ descend to protect his own!" " Can human atrocity go farther?" said another; "to 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 revelers' song: We care not for gods up above us — We know there's no god for this earth, boys!" Ere the words died away, the Nazarenes, moved by sudden in- dignation, caught up the echo, and, in the words of one of their favorite hymns, shouted aloud — THE WARNING HYMN OF THE NAZARENES. Around — about — for ever near thee, God — OUR God — shall mark and hear thee I On His car of storm He sweeps! Bow, ye heavens, and shrink, ye deepsi Woe to the proud ones who defy HimI Woe to the dreamers who defy HimI Woe to the wicked, woe! The proud stars shall f ail— The sun shall grow pale— The heavens shrivel up like a scroll — Hell's ocean shall bear 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 TimbI Hark, the trumpet of thunder! Lo, earth rent asunder! And, forth, on his Angel-throne, He comes through the gloom. «54 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEH, The Judge of the Tomb, To summon and save His own! Oh, joy to Care, and woe to Crimt, He comes to save His own! Woe to the proud ones who defy Him, Woe to the dreamers who deny JHim, Woe to the wicked, woe I A sudden silence from the startled hall of revel succeeded these ominous words; the Christians swept on, and were soon hidden from the sight of the gladiator. Awed, he scarce knew why, by the mystic denunciations of the Christians, Lydon, after a short pause, now rose to pursue his way homeward. Before him, how serenely slept the star-light on that lovely- city! how breathlessly its pillared streets reposed in their securityi how softly rippled the dark green waves beyond! how cloudless spread, aloft and blue, the dreaming Campanian skies! Yet this was the last night for the gay Pompeii! the colony of the hoar Chaldean! the fabled city of Hercules! the delight of the volup- tuous 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 am- phitheater. As he turned, his eye was arrested by a strange aad sudden apparition. From the summit of Vesuvitis, darkly visible at the distance, there shot a pale, meteoric, livid light — it trembled an instant and was gone. And at the same moment that his eye caught it, the voice of one of the youngest of the women broke out hilariously and shrill: Tramp! tramp! how gayly they go! Ho, ho! for the morrow's merry show! BOOK THE FIFTH, CHAPTER I. THE PREAM OF ARBACES. — A VISITOR AND A WARNXNG 'fO THW EGYPTIAN. The awful night preceding the fierce joy of the amphitheater rolled drearily away, and grayly broke forth the dawn of the Last Day of Pompeii! The air was uncommonly calm and sultry — a thin and dull mist gathered over the valleys and hol- lows of the broad Campanian fields. But yet it was remarked in surprise by the early fishermen, that, despite tlie exceeding still- ness 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 traveler 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 wealtliy 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 Fonraa and THE LAST DAYS OF POMPBIl 25o tihe Arch of Triumph. Far in the distance, the outline of the oir- cling hills soared above the vapors, and mingled with the change- ful hues of the morning sky. The cloud that had so long rested over the crest of Vesuvius had already vanished, and its rugged and haughty brow looked down without a frown over the beau- tiful scenes below. Despite the earliness of the hour, the gates of the city were al- ready opened. Horseman upon horseman, vehicle after vehicle, poured rapidly in: and the voices of numerous pedestrian groups, clad in holiday attire, rose high in joyous and excited merriment; the streets were crowded with citizens and strangers f ron/ the populous neighborhood of Pompeii; and noisily — fast — confusedly swept the many streams of life toward the fatal show. Despite the vast size of the amphitheater, seemingly so dispro- portioned to the extent of the city, and formed to include nearly the whole population of Pompeii itself, so great, on extraordi- nary occasions, was the concourse of strangers from all parts of Campania, that the space before it was usually crowded for sev- eral hours previous to the commencement of the sports, by such persons as were not entitled by rank to appointed and especial 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, amid all their eagerness, preserving, as is now the wont with Italians in such meetings, a wonderful order and unquarrelsome good-humor— a strange visitor to Arbaces was threading her waj^ to his sequestered mansion. At the sight of her quaint and pri- meval garb — of her wild gait and gestures — the passengers she encountered touched each other and smiled; but as they caught a glimpse of her countenance, the mirth was hushed at once, foi 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 on© long entombed had risen once more among the living. In silence and awe each group gave way as she passed along, and she soon gained the broad porch of the Egyptian s palace. The black porter, like the rest of the world, astir at an unusual hour, started as he opened the door to her summons. The sleep of the Egyptian had been unusually profound during the night ; but, as the dawn approached, it was disturbed by strange and unquiet dreams, which impressed him the more aj? they were colored by the pecuhar philosophy he embraced. He thought that he was transported to the bowels of the earth, and that he stood alone in a mighty cavern, supported by enoT' mous columns of rough and primeval rock, lost, as they ascended in the vastness of a shadow athwart whose eternal darkness no beam of day had ever glanced. And in the space between these columns were huge wheels, that whirled round and round un- ceasingly, and with a rushing and roaring noise. Only to the right and left extremities of the cavern, the space between the pillars was left bare, and the apertures stretched away into gal- J^rwfl— not wholly dark, but dimly lighted by wandering an4 SS'V THE LAST DA YS OF POMPEII. erratic fires, that, meteor-like, now crept (as the snake creeps) along the rugged and dank soil, and now leaped fiercely to and fro, darting across the vast gloom in wild gambols — suddenly- disappearing, and as suddenly bursting into tenfold brilliancy and power. And while he gazed wonderingly upon the gallery to the left, thin, mist-like aerial shapes passed slowly up ; anc 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 toward 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 specters 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 in awe and horror. And so they passed swift and constantly on, till the eyes of the gazer grew dizzy and blind 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 on a pile of skulls, and her hands were busy upon a pale and shadowy woof communicated with the numberless wheels, as if it guided the machinery of their movements. He thought his feet, by some secret agency, were impelled toward the female, and that he was borne onward till he stood before her, face to face. The countenance of the giantess was solemn and hushed ; and beautifully serene. It was as the face of some colossal sculpture of his ow^n ancestral sphinx. No passion — no human emotion, disturbed her brooding and un% wrinkled brow; there was neither sadness nor joy, nor memory, nor hope; it was free from all with which the wild human heart can sympathize. The mystery of mysteries rested upon its beauty, — it awed, but terrified not; it w^as the incarnation of the Sublime. And Arbaces felt the voice leave his lips, without an impulse of his own; and the voice asked: ** Who r.rt thou, and what is thy task?" " I am That Tvhich thou hast acknowledged," answered, with- out desisting from its work, the mighty phantom. " My name is Nature! These are the wheels of the world, and my hand guides them for the life of all things." '* And what," said the voice of Arbaces, ** are these galleries, that, strangely and fitfully illumined, stretch on either hand into the abyss of gloom?" ** That," answered the giant-mother, '* which thou beholdest to the left, is the gallery of the Unborn. The shadows that flit on- ward and upward into the world, are the souls that past from the long eternity of being to their destined pilgrimage on the earth. That which thou beholdest to thy right, wheiein 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 hreakt tKA reveair THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII, 25? "Dark fool of the human sciences! dreamer of thw jtars, 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 wo A: her way, to trace enough of the past and future to give providence to her designs. Judge then, puppet as thou art, what lights are reserved for thee!" Arbaces felt liit^self tremble as he asked again, "Wherefore am I here?" "It is the forecast of the soul — the prescience of thy rushing doom — the shadow of thy fate lengthening into eternity as it de- clines from earth." Ere he could answer, Arbaces felt a rushing wind sweep down the cavern, as the wings 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 Specters of the Dead, and hurrying with them along tlie length of gloom. As in vain and Impotent despair he struggled against the impeJling power, he thought the WIND grew into something hke a shape — a spectral outUne of the wings and talons of an eagle, with limbs floating far and indistinctly along the air, and eyes that, alone, clearly and vividly seen, glared stonily and remorselessly on his own. " What art thou?" again said the voice of the Egyptian. "I am that which thou hast acknowledged;" and the specter laughed aloud, "and my name is Necessity." "To what dost thou bear me?" "To the Unknown." "To happiness or to woe?" "As thou hast sown, so shalt thou reap." "Dread thing, not so? If thou art the Ruler of life, thine are my misdeeds, not mine." "I am but the breath of God!" answered the mighty WIND. "Then is my wisdom vain!" groaned the dreamer. " The husbandman accuses not fate, when, having sown thistles, he reaps not corn. Thou hast sown crime, accuse not fate if thou reapest not the harvest of vii-tue. The scene suddenly changed. Arbaces was in a place of human bones; and lo! in the midst of them was a skull, and the skuJl still retaining its fleshless hollows, assumed slowly, and in the mysterious confusion of a dream, the face of Apaecides; 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 s^\•eiled and bloated till it grew into a vast serpent; it coiled itself round the Umbs of Arbaces; it crunched his Tbones; 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, wliich still bore the face of Apaecides, and rang in his reeling ear — " Thy victim is thy judge ! the worm thou wouldst crush becomes the serpent that devours thee i" With a shriek of wrath, and woe, and despairing resistancje, 358 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. Arbaces awoke — his hair on end — his brow bathed in dew — his eyes glazed and staring — his mighty frame quivering as an in- fant's, beneath the agony of that dream. He awoke — he collect- ed himself — he blessed the ^ods whom he disbelieved, that he was in a dream — he tm:Tied his eyes from side to side— he saw the dawDing light break through his small but lofty window — he was in the Precincts of Day — he rejoiced — he smiled — his eyes fell, and opposite to him he beheld the ghastly features, the life- less eye, the livid lip — of the Hag of Vesuvius! " Hal" he cried, placing his hands before his eyes, so as to shut out the grisly vision, "do I dream still? Am I with the dead?" ** Mighty Hermes — no! Thou art with one death-like, but not dead. Recognize thy friend and slave." There was a long silence. Slowly the shudders that passed over the limbs of the Egyptian chased each other away, faintlier and faintlier dying till he was himself again. *' It was a dream, then," said he. "Well — let me dream no more, or the day cannot compensate for the pangs of night. Woman, how camest thou here, and wherefore?" " I came to warn thee," answered the sepulchral voice of the Warn me! The dream lied not then? Of what peril?" *' Listen to me. Some evil hangs over this fated city. Fly while it be time. Thou knowest that I hold my home on that mountain beneath which old tradition sayeth there yet bum the fires of the river of Phlegethon; and in my cavern is a vast abyss, and in that abyss I have of late marked a red and dull stream creep slowly, slowly on; and heard many and mighty sounds hissing and roaring through the gloom. But last night, as I looked thereon, behold the stream was no longer dull, but intensely and fiercely luminous; and wliile 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 of wheels, beneath the gi'ound. So, when I rose this morning at (lie very birth of dawn, I looked again down the abyss, and I saw vast fragments of stone borne black and floatingly over the lurid stream ; and the stream itself was broader, fiercer, redder than the night before. Then I went forth, and ascended to the summit of the rock; and in that sum- mit there appeared a sudden and vast hollow, which I had never perceived before, from wiiicli curled a dim, faint smoke; and the vapor w^as 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 vears; for I remembered the dark Etiiiscan prophecy which saitn, ' When the mountain opens, the city shall fall — when the smoke crowns the Hill of the Parched Fields, tlicre shall be woe and weeping in the hearths of the Children of the Sea.' Dread master, ere I leave theee walls for some more distant dwelling, I come to thee. As thou livest, know I in my heart that the earthquake that sixteen years ago shook this city THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEIL 259 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 I" *' 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 hved one, out of the priesthood of Isis, who would have saved Arbaces from destruction. The signs thou hast seen in the bed of the extinct volcano," continued the Egyptian, mus- mgly, " sm-ely teU of some coming danger to the city; perhaps another earthquake fiercer than the last. Be that as it may there IS a new reason for my hastening from these walls. After this day I will prepare my departure. Daughter of Etruria, wliither wendest thou?" I shall cross over to Herculaneum this day, and, wandering thence along the coast, shall seek out a new home. I am friend- less; my two companions, the fox and the snake, are dead. Great Hermes, thou hast promised me twenty additional years of '\y^"^^^\ *}^® Egyptian, *' I have promised thee. But, wom- an, he added, hftmg himself upon his arm, and gazing curiously on her face, "tell me, I pray thee, wherefore thou wishest to uve:' What sweets dost thou discover in existence?" 4.x!' P ^® ^^* *^^* ^^® ^^ sweet, but that death is awful," replied :?® ^^^l2^A. ®^^^' impressive tone, that struck forcibly upon the heart of the vam star-seer. He winced at the truth of the re- ply; and, no longer anxious to retain so uninviting a companion ^1- !,"^"^^^^^^®^' I must prepare for the solenm spectacle of this day. Sister, fareweUl enjoy thyself as thou canst over the ashes of life. The hag, who had placed the costly gift of Arbaces in the loose tolds of her vest, now rose to depart. Wlien she had gained the door she paused, turned back, and said, "This may be the last tune we meet on earth; but whither flieth the flame when it leaves the ashes? Wandering to and fro, up and down, as an exhalation on the morass, the flame may be seen in the marshes of the lake below; and the witch and the Magian, the pupil and the master, the great one and the accursed one, may meet agam. FareweU!" \..J^fl^''''^}^''l ^^**F^d Arbaces, as the door closed on the hags tattered robes; and, impatient of his own thoughts, not yet sfavJs^''^ ^^^* ^''^''^' ^® ^^^^^^ suSmioned his ' It was the custoni to a,ttend the ceremonials of the amphitheater m festive robes, and Arbaces arrayed hmiself that day with more than usual care. His tunic was of the most dazzling white; his many fibulae were formed from the most precious ftones; over HnJ^i""- .r^'^-V'^?!' ^^^*®^^ ^'^b®' lialf-gown, half-mantle, fh«7i^fo'ifJ\^V/^^'*^ ^^!f ^^ the Tyrian dye; and the sandals that reached half-way up the knee, were studded with gems, and mlaid with gold. In the quackeries that belonged to his priestly Sf^il^'^ 1 ^^^^^ ^^''^^ neglected, on great occasions the arts wmch dazzle and impose upon the vulgar; and on this day, that was forever to release him, by the saciifice of Glaucus, from the ^0 THE LAST DA T8 OF POMPEIT. fear of a rival and the chance of detection, he felt that ^e vai arraying liimself as for a triumph or a nuptial feast. It was customary for men of rank to be accompanied to the shows of the amphittieater by a procession oi their slave b and freedmen; and the long "family" of Ai-baces were already arranged in order, to attend the litter of their lord. Only, to their great chagrin, the slaves in attendance on lone, and the worthy Sosia, as jailer to Nydia, were condemned to remain at home. " Callias," said Arbaces, apart to his freedman, who was buck- ling on Ms girdle, " I am weary of Pompeii; I propose to quit it in three days, should the wind favor. Thou knowest the vessel that lies in the harbor which belonged to Narses, of Alexandria; I have purchased it of him. The day after to-morrow, we shall begin to remove my stores." "So soon! ^Tis well. Arbaces shall be obeyed; and his ward, lone?" *' Accompanies me. Enoughl Is the morning fair?" " Dim and oppressive; it will probably be intensely hot in the forenoon." " The poor gladiators, and more wretched criminals! Descend, and see that the slaves are marshaled." Left alone, Arbaces stepped into his chamber of study, and thence upon the poi-tico without. He saw the dense masses of men pouring fast into the amphitheater, and heard Uie cry of the assistants, and the cracking of the cordage, as they were straining aloft the huge awning under which the citizens, molested by no discomforting ray, were to behold, at luxurious ease, the agonies of their fellow-creatures. Suddenly a wild, strange sound went forth and as suddenly died away; it was the roar of the lion. There was a silence in the distant crowd; but the silence was followed by joyous laughter; they were making meriy at the hungry impatience of the royal beast. ** Brutes!'' muttered the disdainful Arbaces, " are ye less homi- cides than I am? I slay but in self-defense — ye make murder pastime." He turned, with a restless and curious eye, toward Vesuvius. Beautifully glowed the green vineyards round its breast, and tranquil as eternity lay in the breathless skies the form of the mighty hill. " We have time yet, if tlie earthquake be nursing," thought Arbaces; and he turned from the spot. He passed by the table which bore his mystic scrolls and Chaldean calculations. " August art!" he thought, " I have not consulted thy decrees •ince 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 futuro, but twip i^ lages— Empire and lone I" THE LAST DA YS OF POMPEII. 261 CHAPTER II. THE AMPHITHEATER. ' Nydia, assured by the account of Sosia, on his return home, and satisfied that her letter was in the hands of Sallust, gave herself up once more to hope. Sallust would surely lose no time in seeking the praetor — in coming to the house of the Egyptian — in breaking the prison of Calenus. That very night Glaucus would be free. AlasI the night passed — the dawn broke; she heard noth- ing but the hurried footsteps of the slaves along the hall and peristyle, and their voices and preparation for the show. By- and-by, the commanding voice of Arbaces broke on her ear — a flourish of music rang out cheerily as the processions were sweep- ing to the amphitheater to glut their eyes on the death-pangs of the Athenian! The procession of Arbaces moved along slowly, till now, ar- riving at the place where it was necessary for such as came in litters or chariots to ahght, Arbaces descended from his vehicle, and proceeded to the entrance by which the more distinguished spectators were admitted. His slaves mingling with the humblfer crowd, were stationed by officers who received their tickets (not much unlike our modern Opera ones), in place in the popular ia (the seats apportioned the vulgar). And now, from the spot where Arbaces sat, his eyes scanned the mighty and unpatient crowd that filled the stupendous theater. 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 that were directed up to them, especially from the benches that were appropriated to the young and unmarried men. On the lower seats round the arena sat the more high-born and wealthy visitors — ^the magistrates and those of the senatorial or equer,trian dignity; the passages which, by corridors at the right and left, gave access to these seats, at either end of the oval arena, were also the entrances for the combatants. Strong palings at these passages prevented any unwelcome eccentricity in the movements of the beasts, and con- fined them to their appointed prey. Around the parapet, which was raised above the arena, and from which the seats gradually rose, were gladiatorial inscriptions, and paintings wrought in fresao, typical of the entertainments for which the place was de- iigntd. Tliroughout 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 am- phitheater were still employed m the task of fixing the vast awn- ing (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, frona th^ immeu^e space of the circumfereiice, the task was al- 263 THE LAST DA YS OF POMPEII. ways one of great (Jifficulty and art — so much so that it could seldom be adventured in rough or windy w^eather. But the present day was so remarkably still, that there seemed to the spectators no excuse for the awkwardness of the artificers; and when a large gap in the back of the awning was still visible, from the obstinate refusal of one part of the velaria to ally itself with the rest, the murmurs of discontent were loud and general. The aedile Pansa, at whose expense the exhibition was given, looked particularly annoyed at the defect, and vowed bitter venge- ance on the head of the chief officer of the show, who, fret- ting, puffing, perspirmg, busied himself in idle orders and una- vailing 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, marshaled with ceremonious procession, entered the arena. They swept around the oval space very slowly and deliberately, in order to give the spectators full leisure to admire their stern serenity of feature — their brawny limbs and various arms as well as to form such wagers as the excitement of the moment might suggest. " Oh!" cried the w4dow Fulvia to the wife of Pansa, as they leaned down from their lofty bench, " do you see that gigantic gladiator ? how drolly he is dressed !" "Yes," said the sedile's wife with complacent, importance, for she knew all the names and qualities of each combatant; *' he is a retiarius or netter; he is armed only, you see, with a three- pronged spear, like a trident, and a net; he wears no 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 I — 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 re- tiarius has generally the best of it." " But who is yon liandsome gladiator, nearl}-- naked — is it not quite improper ? By Venus 1 but his limbs are beautifully shaped !" "ItisLydon, a young untried man! he has the rashness to fight yon other gladiator similarly dressed, or rather undressed — Tetraides. Tliey fight first in the Greek fashion, with the cestus; afterward they put on annor, and try sword and shield." " He is a proper man this Lydon; and the women, I am sure, are on his side." " So are not the experienced betters; Clodius offers three to one against him." " Oh, Jove! how beautiful!" exclaimed the widow, as two gladiators, armed cap-a-pie, rode round the arena on light and prancing steeds. Resembling much the combatants in the tilts of the middle age, they bore lances and round shields beautifully inlaid ; theij" armor was woven intricately with bands of iron, but THE LAST DATS OF POMPEIL 263 it covered only the thighs and the right arms; short cloaks ex- tending 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, beautifull Who are these?" asked the widow. "The one is named Berbix; he has conquered twelve times; the other assumes the arrogant Nobilior. They are both Gauls." While thus conversing, the first formalities of the show were over. To these succeeded a feigned combat with wooden swords between the various gladiators matched against each other. Among 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 prefer- able to more coarse excitement; the body of the spectators were rejoiced when it was over; and when the sympathy rose to ter- ror. The combatants w^ere now arranged in pairs, as agreed beforehand; theii* weapons examined; and the grave sports of the day commenced amid the deepest silence — broken only by an ex- citing and prehminary 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 in- stance, the experienced Pansa thought better that the sanguinary drama should advance, not decrease, in interest; and, accord- ingly, 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 uidiscriminately 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 specta- cles of Pompeii, the reader of Roman history must limit Ms imagination, nor expect to find those vast and wholesale exhibi- tions of magnificent slaughter with which a Nero or a Caligula re- galed the inhabitants of the Imperial City. The Roman shows, wliich absorbed the more celebrated gladiators, and the chief pro- portion of foreign beasts were indeed the very reason why, in the lesser towns of the empire, the sports of the amphitheater vrere comparatively humane and rare; and in this, as in other re- spects, Pompeii was the miniature, the microcosm of Rome. Still, it was an awful and imposing spectacle, with which modem times have, happily, nothing to compare; a vast theater, rising row upon row, and swarming with human beings, from fifteen to eighteen thousand in number, intent upon no fictitious repre- sentation — no tragedy of the stage — but the actual victory or de- feat, the exultant life or the bloody death, of each and all who entered the arenal 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 coUision, each ad- vancing his round buckler, each poising on high his sturdy jave- lin; but just when within thi-ee paces of his opponent, th© steed 264 THE LAST J) AYS OP POMFEIL of Berbix suddenly baited, wheeled around, and, as Nobilior was borne rapidly by, liis antagonist spurred upon him. Tlie budwler of Nobilior, quickly and skilfully extended, received a blow which otherwise would have been fatal. *' Well done, Nobilior!" cried the praetor, giving the first vent to the popular excitement. " Bravely struck, my Berbix!" answered Clodius from his seat. And the wild murmur, swelled by many a shout, echoed from side to side. The vizors of both the horsemen were completely closed (like those of the knights in after times), but the head was, neverthe- less, the great point of assault; and Nobilior, now wheeling his charger \\dth no less adroitness than his opponent, directed his spear full on the helmet of his foe. Berbix raised his buckler to sliield himself, and his quick-eyed antagonist, suddenly lowering his weapon, pierced him through the breast. Berbix reeled and fell. " Nobilior! Nobilior!" shouted the populace. *' I have lost ten sestertia," * said Clodius, between his teeth. " Hdbet! — 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 approached, they found the kindness came too late — the heart of the Gaul had been pierced, and his eyes were set in death. It was liis life's blood that flowed so darkly over the sand and sawdust of the arena. '* It is a pity it was so soon over — there was little enough for one's trouble," said the widow Fulvia. " Yes — I have no compassion for Berbix. Any one might have seen that Nobilior did but feint. Mark, they fix the fatal hook to the body — they drag him away to the spoliarium — they scatter new sand over the stage! Pansa regrets nothing more than that he is not rich enough to strew the arena with borax and cin- nabar, as Nero used to do." " Well, if it has been a brief battle, it is quickly succeeded. See my handsome Lydon on the arena — ay, and the net-bearer too, and the swordsmen! Oh, charming!" Tliere were now on the arena six combatants: Niger and his net, matched against Sporus wiih his shield and his short broad- sword; Lydon and Tetraides, naked save by a cincture round the waist, each armed only with a heavy Greek cestus — and two gladiators from Rome, clad in complete steel, and evenly match- ed with immeuse bucklers and pointed swords. Tlie initiatory contest between Lydon and Tatraides 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 sliow, which, if not bloody enough thoroughly to please the populace, ♦ A little more than $400. TBE LAST DAYS OF POMPMI. M tlierewere still inclined to admire, because its origia wis of their ancestral Greece. No person could, at first glance, have seemed less evenly match- ed than the two antagonists. Tetraides, though no taller than Lydon, weighed considerably more; the natural size of his mus- cles was mcreased, to the eyes of the vulgar, by masses of solid flesh; for, as it was a notion that the contest of the cestus fared easiest with him who was plumpest, Tetraides had encouraged to the utmost his hereditary predisposition to the portly. His shoulders were vast, and his lower limbs thickset, double-jomted, and shghtly 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 meagerness, was beautifuUy and dehcately proportioned; and the skilful might have perceived that, with much less compass of muscle than Jus foe, that which he had was more seasoned— hon and compact. In proportion, too, as he wanted flesh, he was likely to possess activity; and a haughty smile on his resolute face, which strong- ly contrasted the solid heaviness of Ins 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 ot 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 dhected, hath the power to bestow— may easily un- derstand how much that happy faciUty would be increased by a band carried by throngs 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 brmg the contest to a close; and the battle did not, therefore, often allow full scope for the energy, fortitude, and dogged perseverance, that we technically style pluch, which not usually wins the day against superior science, and which hightens to so painful a de- light the interest in the battle and the sympathy for the brave. *' Guard thyself 1" 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 vise; Lydon sank suddenly on one knee— the blow passed over nis head. Not so harmless was Lvdon's retaliation; he <3fiic'^ly snrang to his feet, and aimed Ms cestus full on the broad chest of his antagonist. Tetraides reeled— the populace shouted. "You are unlucky to-day," said Lepidus to Clodius: "you have lost one bet; you will lose another." "By the gods I my bronzes go to the auctioneer if that is the case. I have no less than a hundred sestertia* upon Tetraides. ♦Above $4,000. see TBE LAST DA TS OF POMPEII. Ha, hal see how he rallies I That was a home stroke; he cut open Lydon's shoulder. A TetraidesI — a Tetraidesl" '•ButLydon is not disheartened. By Pollux I how well h« keeps his temperl See how dexterously he avoids those ham- mer-like hands 1— dodging now here, now there — circling round and round. Ah, poor Lydonl he has it again." " Three to one still on Tetraidesl What say you, Lepidus?** ** Well — nine sestertia to three — be it so! What? again, Lydon? lie stops — he gasps for breath. By the gods, he is downl No — lie is again on his legs. Brave Lydonl Tetraides is encouraged — he laughs loud — he rushes on him." "Fool — success blinds him — he should be cautious. Lydon's eye is like a lynx's 1' said Clodius, between his teeth, "Ha, Clodiusl saw you that? Your man totters I Another blow— he falls— he falls I" " Earth revives him, then. He is once more up; but the blood rolls down his face." "By the thundererl Lydon wins it. See how he presses on himl That blow on the temple would have crushed an oxl it has crushed Tetraides. He falls again — he cannot move — habet! —habetr '* Habetr repeated Pansa. "Take them out and give them the armor and swords." " Noble aedile," 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 stun- ned and insensible gladiator, returned with rueful countenances. They feared for his life; he was utterly incapacitated from re- entering the arena. " In that case," said Pansa, " hold Lydon a suhditins; 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 sank into deep silence. The trumpet sounded loudly. The four combatants stood against each other 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 a son of one of the imperial fiscales,* and brought up in a proper school; doubtless they will show sport, but I have no heart for the game; I cannot win back my money — I am undone. Cursee on that Lydon! who would have supposed he was so dexterous or so lucky ?" "Well, Clodius, shall I take compassion on you, and accept your own terms with these Romans ?" " A.n even ten sestertia on Eumolpus, then?" "What! when Nepimus is untried? Nay, nay; that Is i»9 bed." ^ ' r . .■ . ■< ♦ Gladiators maintained by the Emperor, \ THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 267 "Well-ten to eight?" *' A^eed." Wlule the contest in the amphitheater had thus commenced, there was one in the loftier bench.^s for whom it had assumed, indeed, a poignant, a stifling interest. The aged father of Lydon, desj)ite his Christian horror of the spectacle, in his agonized anxiety for his son, had not been able to resist being the spec- tator of his fate. Once amid a fierce crowd of strangers, the lowest rabble of the populace, the old man saw, felt nothing, but the form, the presence of his brave son! Not a sound had escaped his lips when twice he had seen liim fall to the earth; only he had turned paler, and his limbs trembled. But he had uttered one low cry when he saw him victorious, unconscious, alas! of the more fearful battle to which that victoiy was but a prelude. " My gallant boy!" said he, and wiped his eyes. "Is he thy son?" said a brawny fellow to the right of the Nazarene; "he has fought well: let us see how he does by-and- by. Hark! he is to fight the first victor. Now, old boy, pray the gods that that victor be neither of the Romans 1 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 I He started, and bent down, with straining eyes and clasped hands, to view the encounter. The first interest was attracted toward the combat of Niger with Sporus; for this spectacle of contest, from the fatal result which usually attended it, and from the great science it required in either antagonist, was always peculiarly inviting to the spectators. They stood at a considerable distance from each other. The singular helmet which Sporus wore (the vizor of which was down) concealed his face; but the features of Niger attracted a fearful and universal interest from their compressed and vigilant feroc- ity. Thus they stood for some moments, each eying each, until Sporus began slowly, and with great caution, to advance, hold- ing his sword pointed, like a modern fencer's, at the breast of his foe. Niger retreated as his antagonist advanced, gathering up his net with his right hand, and never taking his small, glitter- ing eye from the movements of the swordsman. Suddenly, when Sporus had approached nearly at arm's length, the re- tiarius tlirew himself forward, and cast his net. A quick inflection of body saved the gladiator from the deadly snare; be uttered a sharp cry of joy and rage, and rushed upon Niger; but Niger had already drawn in his net, thrown it across his shoul- ders, and now fled around 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-shoul- dered gladiator to overtake the flying giant; when, at that mo- * So called, from the office of that tribe ot gladiators in foUowirtg the foe the moment the net waa cast, in order to smite him ere he could hav-^ time to re-arrange it. 2t)8 TBE LAST DA YS OF POMPEII ment, their attention was turned from these to the two Bomm combatants. They had placed themselves at the onset face to face, at the distance of modem 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 charac- terizes men well experienced and equally matched. But at this moment, Eumolpus, the elder gladiator, by that dexterous back- stroke wliich was considered in the arena so difficult to avoid, had wounded Nepimusin the side. The people shouted; Lepidus turned pale. "Hoi" said Clodius, "the game is nearly over. If Eumolpiis fights now the quiet fight, the other will gradually bleed himself away." *' But, thank the gods, he does not fight the backward fight. See, he presses hard upon Nepimus. By Mars, but Nepimus had him there; the helmet rang again — Clodius, I shall win!" "Why do I ever bet but at the dice?" groaned Clodius to him- self; " or why cannot one cog a gladiator?" " A Sporus I a Sporus I " shouted the populace, as Niger, hav- ing now suddenly paused, had again cast his net, and again un- successfully. He had not retreated this time with sufficient agility ; the sword of Sporus had inflicted a severe wound upon his right leg ; and, incapacitated to fly, he was hard pressed by the fierce swordsman. His great hight 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 hiTTi successfully 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 I He sank on his knee. In a moment more, the deadly net was cast over him — he struggled against its meshes in vain ; again— again— again he writhed mutely beneath the fresh strokes of the trident — his blood flowed fast through the net and redly over the sand. He lowered his arms in acknowledgment of de- feat. The conquering retiarius withdrew his net, and leaning on his spear looked to the audience for their judgment. Slowly, too, at the same moment, tlie vanquished gladiator rolled his dim and despairing eyes around the theater. Fi'om row to row, from bench to bench, there glared upon liim but merciless and unpity- ing eyes. Hushed was the roar — the murmur 1 The silence was dread, for in it was no sympathy ; nor not a hand — no ; not even a woman's hand— gave the signal of charity and life I Sporus had nevei l>een popular in the arena ; and, latel;>^, the interest of the com- \ THE LAST BAYS OF POMPEII. 260 bat had been excited on behalf of the wounded Niger. The peo* pie 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 ! The gladiator felt that his doom was sealed : he uttered no prayer — no groan. The people gave the signal of death ! In dogged but agonized submission, he bent his neck to receive the fatal stroke. And now, as the spear of the retiarius was not a weapon to inflict instant and certain death, there stalked into the arena a grim and fatal form, brandishing a short, sharp sword, and with features utterly concealed beneath its vizor. With slow and measured step, this dismal headsman approached the gladiator, still kneeUng — laid the left hand on his humbled crest —drew the edge of the blade across his neck — ^turned round to the assembly, Test, in the last moment, remorse should come upon them ; the dread signal continued the same; the blade glittered bright J in the air — fell — and the gladiator rolled upon the sand ; his limbs quivered — were still — he was a corpse. His body was dragged at once from the arena through the gate of death, and thrown into the gloomy den termed technically the spoHarium. And ere it had well reached that destination, the strife between the remaining combatants was decided. The Bword of Eumolpus had inflicted the death- wound upon the less experienced combatant. A new victim was added to the re- ceptacle of the slain. Throughout that mighty assembly there now ran a universal movement; the people breathed more freely, and settled them- selves 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 Ms 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 aedile paused, and proclaimed aloud that, as Niger's wound disabled him from again entering the arena, Lydon was tc be the successor to the slaughtered Nepimus, and the new comba° tant 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 Avith him. If thou failest thy doom is honorable death; if thou conquerest, out of my own purse I will double the stipulated prize.'' The people shouted applause. Lydon stood in the lists, he gazed around; high above he beheld the pale face, the straining eyes, of his father. He turned away irresolute for a moment. No I the conquest of the cestus was not sufficient — he had not yet won the prize of victory — his father was still a slave I •* Noble 89dile!'' he replied, in a fii-m and deep tone, " I shrink not from this combat. For the honor of Pompeii, I demand that •ne trained by its long-celebrated lanista sh^ do battle with this Roman." The people shouted louder than before. 270 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEIt *' Four to one against Lydon!'* said Clodius to Lepidus. "I would not take twenty to one I Why, Eumolpus is a very Achilles, and this poor fellow is but a tyroP^ 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 prae- tor by one of the attendants of the arena; he removed the cinc- ture — glanced over it for a moment — his countenance betrayed surprise and embarrassment. He re-read the letter, and then mutterinff — "Tush! it is impossible — the man must be drunk, even in the morning, to di-eam of such follies!" threw it careless- ly aside, and gravely settled himself once more in the attitude of attention to the sports. ■ The interest of the public was wound up very liigh. 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 af- terward 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 asdile will not permit him to be slain — ^no, nor the people neither, he has behaved too bravely for that. Ha! that was a home thrust! well averted, by Pollux I At him again, Lydon; they stop to breathel What art thou muttering, old boy?" " Prayers," answered Medon, with a more calm and hopeful mien than he had yet maintained. "Prayers! — trifles! The time for gods to carry a man away in a cloud is gone now. Ha, Jupiter! what a blow! Thy side — thy side! — take care of thy side, Lydon!" There was a convulsive tremor throughout the assembly. A fierce blow from Eimiolpus, full on the crest, had brought Lydon to his knee. " Hahet! — he has it!" cried a shrill female voice; "he has it!" It was the voice of the girl who had so anxiously anticipated the sacrifice of some criminal to the beasts. " Be silent, child!" said the wife of Pansa, haughtily, "ifo/i hahet! — 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 greaf skill and valor, began to give way before the vigorous as- saults of the practiced Romau; his arm grew tired, his eye dizzy, he breathed hard and painfully. The combatants paused again for breath. " Young man," said Eiunolpus, in a low voice, " desist; I will wound thee slightly — then lower thy arms; thou hast propitiated the sedile and the mob — thou wilt be honorably saved." "And my father still enslaved!'' groaned Lydon to himselt " Nol death or hjs freedom." \ \ THE LAST J) AYS OF POMPEn. 271 At that thought, and seeing that, his strength not being equal to the endurance of the Roman, everything depended on a sud- den and desperate effort, he threw himself fiercely on Eumolpus; the Roman warily retreated— Ly don thrust again— Eumolpus drew himself aside — the sword grazed his cuirass — Ly don's breast was exposed— the Roman plunged his sword through the joints of the armor, not meaning, however, to inflict a deep wound; Lydon, weak and exhausted, fell forward, fell right on the point; it passed through and through, even to the back. Eumolpus drew forth his blade; Lydon still made an effort to regain his balance — his sword left his grasp — he struck mechanically at the gladia- tor with his naked hand, and fell prostrate on the arena. With one accord, aedile and assembly made the signal of mercy; the oflficers of the arena approached, they took off the lielmet of the vanguished. 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 aedile nor on the pitying brows of the 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, amid 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 I 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!" The officers dragged him off to the spoliarium. ** A true type of glory, and of its fate I" murmured Arbaces to himself; and his eye, glancing round the amphitheater, 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 theater; the at- tendants sprinkled fresh sand over the arena. "Bring forth the lion and Glaucus the Athenian," said the aedile. And a deep and breathless hush of overwrought interest, and intense (yet, strange to say, not unpleasing) terror lay, lik« a mighty and awful dream, over the assembly. CHAPTER HI. SALLtrST AND NYDIA'S LETTER. Thrice had. Sallust wakened from his morning sleijp, 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 recumbent posture, and dis- 27S THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEH. covered his favorite freedman sitting by his bedside as usual: for Sallust, who, as I have said, had a gentleman-like taste for the polite letters, was accustomed to be read tojf or an hour or so previous to his rising in the morning. *' No books to-dayl no more Tibullus! no more Pindar for mel Pindar! alas, alasl the very name recalls those games to which our arena is the savage successor. Has it begun — the amphithea- ter? are its rites commenced?" *' Long since, O SallustI Did you not hear the trumpets and the trampling feet?" *' Ay, ay; but the gods be thanked, I was drowsy, and had only to turn round to fall asleep again." "The gladiators must have been long in the ring." "The wretches 1 None of my people have gone to the spec- tacle?" "Assuredly not; your orders are too strict." " That is well; would the day were overl What is that letter yonder on the table?" "Thatl Oh, the letter brought to you last night, when you were too — too " " Drimk to read it, I suppose. No matter! it cannot be of much importance." "Shall I open it for you, Sallust?" "Do; anything to divert my thoughts. Poor Glaucus!'* The freedman opened the letter. "What! Greek!" said he; " some learned lady, I suppose." He glanced over the letter, and, for some moments the irregular lines traced by the fair girl's hand puzzled him. Suddenly, however, his countenance ex- hibited emotion and surprise. "Good gods! noble SallustI 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 exone- rate the Athenian from the charge against liim; one who saw the crime — who can prove the criminal in a villain hitherto im- suspected. 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 fatner's ashes, lose not a moment!' " "Great Jove!" exclaimed Sallust, starting, "and this day — nay, within this hour, i)erhaps he dies. What is to be done? I will instantly to the praetor." "Nay; not so. The praetor (as well as Pansa, the aedile lum- eelf,) is the creature of the mob; and the mob will not hear of delay; they will not be balked in the very moment of expecta- tion. Besides, the publicity of the appeal would forewarn the cunning Egyptian. It is evident that he has some interest in these concealments. Nay, fortunately thy slaves are in thy house." "I seize thy meaning," interrupted Sallust; "arm the slaves instantly. The streets are empty. W« will ourselves hasten ta THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 27S the house of Arbaces, and release the prisoners. Quickl qnickl What hoi Davus there I My gown and sandals, the papyrus and a reed.* I will write to the praetor to beseech him to delay the Bentence of Glaucus, for that, within an hour, we may yet prove him innocent. So, so; that is well. Hasten with this, Darus, to the praetor at the amphitheater. See it given to his own hand. Now then, O ye gods I whose providence Epicurus denied, befriend me and I will call Epicurus a liarl" CHAPTER IV. THE AMPHITHEATER ONCE MORE. GliAUCUS 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 that 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 hmbs did not tremble— tlieir Ups were compressed and rigid. The religion of the one, the pride of the other, the con- scious innocence of both, and it may be the support derived from their mutual companionship, elevated the victim into the hero. "Hark! hearest thou that shout? They are growhng 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 T not taught thee in the dungeon, wept for thee, prayed for thee?— in my zeal and in my agony, have I not thought more of thy salvation than my own?" *' Brave friend!" answered Glaucus, solemnly, " I have listened to thee with awe, with wonder, and with a secret tendency toward conviction. Had our lives been spared, I might gradu- ally have weaned myself from the tenets of my own faith, and inclined to thine; but in this last hour, it were a craven thing, and a base, to yield to hasty terror what should only be the result of lengthened meditation, Were I to embrace thy creed, and cast do^v^l my father's gods, should I not be bribed by thy piomise of heaven, or awed by thy threats of hell? Olinthus, no. Think we of each other with equal .charity — I honor thy sincerity — thou pitying my blindness or my obdiurate 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 wa no more of this. Hush! dost not hear them drag yon heavy body through the passage? Such as that clay will be ours Boon." •* O Heaven! O Christ! already I behold ye!" cried the fervent * The reed (caZamws) Avas iised for writing on papyrus and parchment; the stylus, for writing on Waxen tablets, plates of metal, etc. Letters were written aometimes on tablets, sometimes on papyrus. 274 TEE LAST DA Y8 OF POMPEII Olintbus, lifting up his hands; " I tremble not~T rejoice that the prison-houee shall oe soon broken." Glaucus bowed his head in silence. He felt the distinction between his fortitude and that of his fellow-sufferer. The heath- en did not tremble; but the Christian exulted. The door swung gratingly back — the gleam of spears shot along the wall. "Glaucus the Athenian, thy time has come," said a loud and clear voice; " the hon 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 liis new friend. *'0h! 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 tremulous voice. *' They whom deatii parts now, may yet meet beyond the grave; on the earth — on the beautiful, the beloved earth, fare- well for ever! Worthy officer, I attend you." Glaucus tore himself away; and when he came forth into the air, its breath, which, though sunless, was hot and arid, smote witheringly upon him. His frame, not yet restored from the effects of the deadly draught, shrank and trembled. The officers supported him. *'Couragel" said one; "thou art young, active, well knit. They give thee a weapon! despair not, and thou mayst yet con- quer." 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 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 liigh dis- dain, and in the indomitable soul, which breathed visibly, w^hich 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 admir- ation and half -compassionate respect; and, with a quick and con- vulsive sigh, that seemed to move the wliole mass of hfe as if it were one body, the gaze of the spectators turned from the Athen- ian to a dark uncouth object in the center of the arena. It waa the grated den of the lion. "By Venus, how warm it is!" said Fulvia; "yet there is no Bun. Would that those stupid sailors could have fastened up that gap in the awning!" TBE LAST DA YS OF POMPEII. 275 " OhI it is warm indeed. I tuin sick — I faint I" said the vnfe of Pansa; even her experienced stoicism giving way at the strag- gle 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 luieasiness which the keeper had attributed to the pangs of hunger. Yet its bearing was rather that of fear than of rage; its roar was painful and distressed; it hung its head — snuffed the au* 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 heavy breath, the sand below on the arena. The aedile's lip quivered, and his cheek grew pale; he looked anxiously around — hesitated — delayed; the crowd became im- patient. Slowly he gave the sign; the keeper, who was behind the den, cautiously removed the grating, and the lion leaped fortli with a mighty and glad roar of release. The keeper hastily retreated through the grated passage leading from the arena, and left the lord of the forest — and his prey. Glaucus had bent his limbs so as to give himself the firmest posture at the expected rush of the lion, with his small and shin- ing weapon raised on high, in the faint hope that one well-di- rected 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 im- patient sighs; then suddenly it sprang forward, but not on the Athenian. At half-speed it circled round and round the space, turning its vast head from side to side with an anxious and per- turbed gaze, as if seeking only some avenue of escape; once or twice it endeavored to leap up the parapet that divided it from the audience, and, on failing, uttered rather a baffled howl than its deep-toned and kingly roar. It evinced no sign, either of wrath or hunger; its tail drooped along the sand, instead of lash- ing its gaunt sides; and its eye, though it wandered at times to Glaucus, rolled again listlessly from him. At length, as if tired or 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 sedile called to the keeper. "How is this? Take the goad, prick him forth, and then close the door of the den." As the keeper, with some fear, but more astonishment, was preparing to obey, a loud cry was heard at one of the entrances to the arena; there was a confusion, a bustle; voices of remon- strance suddenly breaking forth, and suddenly silenced at the reply. All eyes turned in wonder at th§ interruntion, toward 276 TBE LAST DA TS OF POMPEH, the quarter of the disturbance; the crowd gave way, and suA. denly Sallust appeared on tlie senatorial benches, his hair dis- heveled; breathless, heated, half-exliausted. He cast his eyes hastily round the ring. "Remove the AthenianI" he cried; *• haste; he is innocent!" AiTest Arbaces the Egyptian; HE is the murderer of ApsecidesI" *'Art thou mad, O Sallust?" said the praetor, rising from his Beat. " What means this raving?" " Remove the Athenian. Quickl or his blood be on your head. Prsetor, delay, and you answer with your own life to the Em- peror I 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 I Room there for the priest CalenusI" Pale, haggard, fresh from the jaws of famine and of death, his face f aUen, his eyes dull as a vulture's, his broad frame gaunt as a skeleton, Calenus was supported into tlie 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 I "The priest Calenus — Calenus!'* cried the mob. **Ifc is he? No — it is a dead man!" " It is the priest Calenus," said the prastor, 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!" "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 sliout 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 prsetor. "The gods lavish their wonders upon this day." As the praetor gave the word of release, there was a cry of joy; a female voice, a child's voice; and it was of joy! It rang through the heart of the assembly with electric force; it was touching, it was holy, that child's voice. And the populace echoed it back with sympathizing congratulation. " Silence!" said the g^^ave praetor; " who is there?" "The blind girl— Nydia," answered Sallust; "it is her hand that has raised Calenus from the grave, and delivered Glaucus from the lion." " Of this hereafter," said the praetor. " Calenus, priest of Isis, thou accusest Arbaces of the murder of Apaecides?" "I do!" "Thou didst behold the deed?" ** Praetor — with these eyes " *• Enough at present — tne details must be reserved for more TBB LAST DAYS OF POMPEtl. 2t1 suiting time and place. Arbaces of Egypt, thou hearest the charge against thee — thou hast not yet spoken — wliat 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 lionl" he had indeed trembled, and the dark bronze of his cheek had taken a paler hue. But he had soon recovered his haughtiness and self-control. Proudly he re- turned the angry glare of the countless eyes around him; and re- plying 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 intimate friend of Glaucus! my second is a priest; I revere his garb and calling — but, people of Pompeii! ye know somewhat of the character of Calenus — he is griping and gold-thirsty to a proverb; the witness of such men is to be bought! Praetor, I am innocent!" " Sallust," said the magistrate, "where found you Calenus?" " In the dungeon of Arbaces." "Egyptian," said the praetor, frowning, "thou didst, then, dare to imprison a priest of the gods — and wherefore?" "Hear me," answered Arbaces, rising calmly, but with 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 haK my fortune: I remon- strated — in vain. Peace there— let not the priest interrupt me! Noble praetor — and ye, O people! I was a stranger in the land — I knew myself innocent of crime — but the witness of a priest against me might yet destroy me. In my perplexity I decoyed him to the cell whence he has been released on pretense 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 among ye "will not acknowledge the equity of self- preservation? Were I guilty, why was the witness of this priest silent at the trial? — then I had not detained or concealed him. Why did he not proclaim my guilt when I proclaimed that of Glaucus? Praetor, this needs an answer. For the rest, I throw myself on your laws, I demand their protection. Remove hence the accused and the accuser. I will willingly meet, and cheer- fully 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 he resumed." "What!" cried Calenus, turning round to the people, "shall Isis be thus contemned? Shall the blood of Apaecides yc t cry for vengeance? Shall justice be delayed now, that it may be frustrated hereafter? Shall the lion be cheated of lawful prey? A god I a god! I feel the god rush to my lips! To the lion— to the *wn mth Arbacesr «78 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII, His exhausted frame could su])port no longer the ferocious malice of the priest; he sank on the ground In strong con- vulsions; the foam gathered to his mouth; he was as a man, indeed, whom a supernatural power had entered I The people saw, and shuddered. "It is a god that inspires the holy man! To the lion with the Egyptianr With that cry up sprang, on moved, thousands upon thousands! They rushed from the hights; they noured down in the direc- tion of the Egpytian. In vain did the eedile command ; in vain did the praetor lift his voice and proclaim the law. The people had been already rendered savage by the exhibition of olood; they thirsted for more; their superstition was aided by their ferocity. Aroused, inflamed by the spectacle of their victims, they forgot the authority of their rulers. It was one of those dread popular convulsions common to crowds wholly ignorant, half free and half servile, and which the peculiar constitution of the Roman provinces so frequently exhibited. The power of the praetor was 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 mo- ment, to enable Arbaces to count the exact moment of his doom! In despair, and in a terror which beat down even pride, he glanced his eyes over the rolling and rushing crowd; when, right above them, through the wide chasm which had been left in the velaria, he beheld a strange and awful apparition; he beheld; and his craft restored his courage! He stretched his hand on high; over his lofty brow and royal features there came an expression of unutterable solemnity and command. "Behold!" he shouted with a voice of thunder, which stilled the roar of the crowd: "behold how the gods protect the guilt- less! The fires of the avenging Orcus burst forth against the false witness of my accusers!" The eyes of the crowd followed the gesture of the Egyptian, and beheld, with dismay, a vast vapor shooting from the summit of Vesuvius in tlie form of a gigantic pine-tree; the tnmk, black- ness — the branches fire! — a fire that shifted and wavered in its hues with every moment, now fiercely luminous, now of a dull and dying red, that again blazed 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 tliere arose on high the universal shrieks of women; the men stared at each other; but were dumb. At that moment they felt tlie earth shake under their feet; the walls of the theater trembled; and, beyond in the distance, they heard the crash of falling roofs; an instant more, and the mountain cloud seemed to roll toward them, darh^nd rapid, hke a torrent: at the Earn? THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEIT. 27d time, it ca^ forth from its bosom a shower of ashes mixed with vast fragments of burning stone I over the crushing vines, over the desolate streets, over the amphitheater itself; far and wide, with many a mighty splash in the agitated sea, fell that awful shower I No longer thought the crowd of "justice or of Arbaces; safety for themselves was their sole thought. Each turned to fly — each dasliing, pressing, crushing against the other. Trampling reck- lessly over the fallen; amid groans, and oaths and prayers, and sudden slirieks, the enormous crowd vomited itself forth through the numerous passages. Whither should they fly? Some antici- pating 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 1 CHAPTER V. THE CELL OP THE PRISONER AND THE DEN OF THE DEAD.—KJEIEF UNCONSCIOUS OF HORROR. Stunned by his reprieve, doubting that he was awake, Glaucus had been led by the officers of the arena into a small cell within the walls of the theater. They threw a loose robe over his form, and crowded round in congratulation and wonder. There was an impatient and fretful cry without the cell; the throng gave way, and the blind girl, led by some gentler hand, flung herself at the feet of Glaucus. "It is /who have saved thee," she sobbed; "now let me die I" "Nydia, my child I my preserver I " *' Oh, let me feel thy touch, thy breath I Yes, yes, thou livest 1 "We are not too late! That dread door, methought it would never yidd ! and Calenus, oh I 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 I thou Uvest yet I and I— I have saved thee I " This affecting scene was soon interrupted by the event just described, " The mountain! the earthquake!" resovmded from side to side. The officers fled with the rest; they left Glaucus and Nydia to save themselves as best they might. As the sense of tlie dangers around them flashed on the Athen- ian, his generous heart recurred to Olinthus. He, too, was re- prieved 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," lie cried= " Save thyself, and fly! Seel Nature is thy dread delivererl" He led forth the bewilder- 280 THE LAST DA 78 OF POMPEH. ed Christian, and pointed to a cloud which advanced darkei and darker, disgorging forth showers of ashes and pumice stonesi— and bade him hearken to the cries and trampling rush of the scattered crowd. " This is the hand of God — God be praisedl" said Olinthus, de« Toutly. "Fly I seek thy brethren I Concert with them thy escape. Farewell I" Olinthus did not answer, neither did he mark the retreating form of his friend. High thoughts and solemn absorbed his soul: and in the enthusiasm of his kindling heart, he exulted in the mercy of God rather than trembled at the evidence of His power. At length he roused himself, and hurried on, he scarce knew whither. The open doors of a dark, desolate cell suddenly am)eared on his path; through the gloom within there flared and mckered a single lamp; and by its light he saw the grim and naked forms stretched on the earth in death. His feet were suddenly arrest- ed; for amid the terrors of that dread recess— the spoliarium of the arena — he heard a low voice calling on the name of Christ I He could not resist lingering at that appeal; he entered a den, and his feet were dabbled in the slow streams of blood that gush- ed 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 de- fiance. Yet on the face still lingered the beautiful roundness of early youth. The hair curled thick and glossy over the un- wrinkled brow; and the down of manhood but slightly shaded the marble of the hueless cheek. And over this face bent one of such unutterable tenderness — of such fond, and such deep de- spairl 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 involuntary 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 I "MedonI*' said Olinthus, pityingly, "arise and flyl God is forth upon the wings of the elements 1 The new Gomorrah is doomed! Fly, ere the fires consume thee!" ♦• He was ever so full of life I he can not be dead 1 Come hither I place your hand on this heart ! sure it beats yet ! " "Brother, the soul has fled! we will remember it in our prayers! Tliou canst not reanimate the dumb clay! Come, come — hark ! while I speak, yon crashing walls ! hark 1 yon agonizing cries I Not a moment is to be lost 1 Come !" " I hear nothing !" said Medon, shaking his gray hair. ** The poor boy, his love murdered him I " THE LAST DAIS OF POMPEII, 281 ** Come ! come I forgive this friendly force." *' What I who would sever the father from the eon?" And Medon clasped the body tightly in his embrace, and covered it up with passionate kisses. " Go ! " said he, lifting up his face for one moment. *' Go ! We must be alone ! " "Alasl" said the compassionate Nazarene. "Death hath severed ye already !" The old man smiled very calmly. '* No, no, no ! " he muttered, his voice growing lower with each word, "Death hath been more kind I " With that his head dropped on his son's breast— his arms re- laxed their grasp. Olinthus caught him by the hand— the pulse had ceased to beat I The last words of the fainted father were the words of trutli— Death hath been more kind. Meanwhile Glaucus and Nydia were pacing swiftly up the perilous and fearful streets. The Athenian had learned from his preserver that lone was yet in the house of Arbaces. Thither he fled, to release— to save her ! The few slaves whom the Egyptian had left at his mansion when he had repaired in long procession to the amphitheater, had been able to offer no resistance to the armedbandofSallust; and when afterward the volcano broke forth, they huddled together, stunned and frightened, in the in- most recesses of the house. Even the tall Ethiopian had forsaken his post at the door; and Glaucus (who left Nydia without— the poor Nydia, jealous onc43 more, even in such an hour !) passed on through the vast hall without meeting one to learn the chamber of lone. Even as he passed, however, the darkness that covered the heavens increased so rapidly that it was with difficulty he could guide his steps. The flower-wreathed columns seemed to reel and tremble; and every instant he heard the ashes fall crunchmgly into the roofless peristyle. He ascended to the upper rooms— breathless he paced along, shouting out aloud the name of lone, and at length he heard, at the end of a gallery a voice— her voice, in wondering reply ! To rush forward— to shatter the door- to seize lone in his arms— to hurry from the mansion- seemed to him the work of an instant ! Scarce had he gained the spot where Nydia was, than he heard footsteps advancing toward the house, and recognized the voice of Arbaces, who had re- turned to seek his wealth and lone ere he fled from the doomed Pompeii. But so dense was already the reeking atmosphere, ^at the foes saw not each other, though so near— save that, dimly in the gloom, Glaucus caught the moving outline of the snowy robes of the Egyptian. They hastened onward— those three I Alas!— whither? They now saw not a step before them— the blackness became utter. They were encompassed with doubt and horror, and the death he had escaped seemed to Glaucus only to J^ave changed its form wad autfTuented its victims. 268 rna last days of pompeil CHAPTER VI. OALENTTS AKD BURBO.— DIOMED AND CLODIUS.— THE •IKL ©P ^XR AMPHITHEATER AND JULIA. The sudden catastrophe which had, as it were, riven the very bonds of society, and left the prisoner and jailer alike free, had soon rid Calenus of the guards to whose care the praetor had con- signed him. And when the darkness and the crowd separated the priest and his attendants, he hastened with trembling steps toward the temple of his goddess. As he crept along, and ere the darkness was complete, he felt himself suddenly caught by the robe, and a voice muttered in hiB ear: "HistI CalenusI an awful hourl"' "Ay! by my father's head I who art thou? thy face is dim and thy voice is strange 1" " Not know thy Burbo? fiel" "Gods I how the darkness gathers I Ho, ho; by yon terrific mountain, what sudden blazes of lightning!* " How they dart and quiver! Hades is loosed on earth!" " Tush! thou belie vest not these things, Calenus. Now is the time to make our fortune!" " Ha!" " Listen! Thy temple is full of gold and precious mummeries! 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 tem- ple. Who 3ares, who sees now, whether thou art a priest or not? Follow and we will share." In the precincts of the temple were niany priests gathered around the altars, praying, weeping, groveling in the dust. Im- postors in safety, they were none the less superstitious in danger. Calenus passed them, and entered the chamber yet to be seen in south side of the court. Burbo followed him — the priest struck a light. Wine and viands strewed the table; the remains of a sacrificial feast. *'A man who was hungered forty-eight hours," muttered Calenus, " has an appetite even in such a time." He seized on the food, and devoured it greedily. Nothing could, perhaps, be more unnaturally horrid than the selfish baseness of these villains; for there is nothing more loathsome than valor of avarice. Plun- der and sacrilege while the pillars of the world tottered • to and fro! What an increase to the terrors of nature can be made by the vices of man!" " Wilt thou never have done?" said Burbo, impatiently; "thy face purples and thine eyes start already." "It is not every day one has such a riglit to be hungry. Oh, Jupiter! what sound is that? — the hissing of fiery water! What! does the cloud give rain as well as flame! Ha! — what! shrieks? And Burbo, how silent all is now! Look forth!" ♦Volcanic lightnings. These phenoiiiona were especially the character- istics of the long subsequent eruption of 17'.)0, and their evidence is visi- bl« in the tokens of that more awful one, now so imperfectly described TSB LAST DATS OF POMPJEII. 283 Amid the other horrors, the mighty mountain now cast up columns of boiling water. Blent and kneaded with the haK- burning ashes, the streams fell like seething mud over the streets in frequent intervals. And full, where the priests of Isis had now cowered around the altars, on which they had vainly sought to kindle fires and pour incense, one of the fiercest of those deadly torrents, mingled with immense 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 most gripping, recovered first. "We must to our task, and away!" he said in a low whisper, frightened . at his own voice. He stepped to the threshold, paused, crossed over the heated floor and his dead brethren to the sacred chapel, and called to Burbo to follow. But the gladiator quaked, and drew back. " So much the better," thought Calenus; " the more will he my booty." Hastily he loaded himself with the more portable treas- ures of the temple; and thinking no more of his comrade, hur- ried from tlie sacred place. A sudden flash of hghtning from the mount showed to Burbo, who stood motionless at the thresh- old, 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. Dark- ness 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 thi'eshold — he shriek- ed as his feet slu-ank from the boiling fluid. How could he es- cape? — 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 an*. He sat down and clinched his teeth. By degrees, the atmos- phere from without— stifling and venomous — crept into the chamber. He could endure it no longer. His eyes, glaring round, rested on a sacrificial ax, 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 to^^^l ; but here and there you heard the steps of fugitives crunching them wearily, or saw the pale and haggard faces by the blue glare of the lightning, or the more un- steady glare of torches, by which they endeavored to steer their steps. But ever and anon, the boiling water, or the straggUng ashes, mysterious and gusty winds, rising and dying in a breath, «M THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEH, extinguished these wandering lights, and with them the last Ht- ing hope of those who bore them. In the street tl.at leads to the gate of Herculaneum, Clodiua now bent his perplexed and doubtful way. "If I can gain the open country," thought he, "doubtless there will be various vehicles beyond the gate, and Herculaneum is not far distant. Thank Mercury ! I have little to lose, and that little about me!" "Hollo ! — help there — help 1" cried a querulous and friglitened voice. " I have fallen do\vn — my torch has gone out — my slaves have deserted me. I am Diomed — the rich Diomed — ten thou- sand sesterces to him who helps me I" At the same moment Clodius fell himself, caught by the feet. " 111 fortune to thee — ^let me go, fool 1" said the gambler. "Oh, help me; give me thy hand 1" > " There— rise !" " Is this Clodius ? I know thy voice ! Whither fliest thou 7* " Toward Herculaneum." " Blessed be the gods I our way is the same, then, as far as the gate. Why not take refuge in my villa ? Thou knowest the long range of subterranean cellars beneath the basement — ^th at shelter, what shower can penetrate ?" "You speak well, said Clodius, musingly. "And by storing the cellar with food, we can remain there even some days, should these wondrous storms endure so long." " Oh, blessed be he who invented gates to a city I" cried Dio- med. " 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 light- ning flashed over his livid face and polished helmet, but liis stern features were composed even in his 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 reason- ing and self-acting man. There he stood, amid the crashing ele- ments; he had not received the permission to desert his station and escape.* Diomed and his co/npanion hurried on, when suddenly a fe- male form rushed athwart their way. It was Ihe girl whoso ominous voice had been raised so often and so gladly in anticipa- tion of " the merry show!" "Oh Diomed!" she cried, "shelter! shelter! See," pointing to an infant clasped to her breast, "see this little one! it is mine! the child of shame! I have never owned it till this hour. But iiow I remember I am a mother! I have plucked it from the cradle of its nurse; she had fled! Wlio could think of the babe in such an hour but she who bore it? save it! save it!" " Curses on thy shrill voice! Away, harlot!" muttered Clodius between his ground teeth. " Nay, girl," said the more humane Diomed; " follow if thoq wilt. This way — this way — to the vaults!" * The skeletons of more than one sentry were found at their posts. THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII, 285 They hurried on; they arrived at the house of Diomed; they laughed aloud as they crossed the threshhold, for they deemed the danger over. Diomed ordered his slaves to carry down into the subterranean gallery, before described, a profusion of food and oil for lights; and there Julia, Clodius, the mother and her babe, the greater Sart of the slaves, and some frightened visitors and clients o tie neighborhood sought their shelter. CHAPTER VTL THE PROGRESS OF THE DESTRUCTION. The cloud, which had scattered so deep a murkiness over thi. day had now settled into a solid and impenetrable mass. It re- sembled 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 confined to the usual hues of fire; no rain- bow ever rivaled their varying and prodigal dyes. Now brightly blue as the most azure depth of a southern sky — now of a livid and snake like green, darting restlessly to and fro as the folds of an enormous serpent — ^now of a lurid and intolerable crimson, gushing forth through the columns of smoke, far and wide, and lighting up the whole city from arch to arch — then suddenly dy- ing 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, lovv^er still, and audible but to the watch of intensest fear, the grinding and hissing murmur of the escaping gases through the chasms of the distant mountain. Sometimes the cloud appeared to break from its solid mass, and, by the lightning, to assume (juaint and vast mimicries of human or of monster shapes, sti'id- ing 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 teiTor and death. The ashes in many places were already knee-deep; and the boil- ing showers which came from the steaming breath of the volcano forced their waj^ into the houses, bearing with them a strong and suffocating vapor. lu some places, immense fragments of rock, hurled upon the house roofs, bore dowTi 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 feU, 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 seb in 286 THE LAST DA TS OF P03IPEIT. ftames; and at various intervals, the fires rose sullenly and fiercely against the solid gloom. To add to this partial relief of the dark- ness, the citizens had, here and there, in the more public places, such as the porticos of temples and the entrances to the forum, endeavored to place rows of torches; but these rarely continued long; the showers and the winds extinguished them, and the sud- den darkness into which their fitful light was converted had Bometliing in it doubly terrible and doubly impressive on the im- potence of human hoi)es, the lesson of desjjair. Frecjuently, by the momentary light of these torches, parties of fugitives encountered each other, some hurrying toward the sea, others flying from the sea back to the land; for the ocean had retreated rapidly from the shore — an utter darkness lay over it, and, upon its groaning and tossing waves, the storm of cin- ders and rocks fell without the protection wliich the streets and roofs afforded to the land. Wild — haggard — ghastly with super- natural fears, these gi-oups encoimtered each other, but without the leisure to speak, to consult, to advise; for the showers fell frequently, though not continuously, extinguishing the lights, which showed to each band the death-like faces of the other, and hurrying all to seek refuge beneath the nearest shelter. The whole elements of civilization • were broken up. Ever and anon, by the flickering lights, you saw the thief hastening by the most solemn authorities of the law, laden with and fearfully chuckling over the produce of his sudden gains. If in the darkness, wife was separated from husband, or parent from child, vain was the hope of reunion. Each hurried blindly and confusedly on. Noth- ing in all the various and complicated machinery of social life was left save the primal law of self-preservation I Through this awful scene did the Athenian wade his way, ac- companied by lone and the blind girl. Suddenly, a rush of hun- dreds, in their path to the sea, swept by them. Nydia was torn from the side of Glaucus, who, with lone, was borne rapidly on- ward; and when the crowd (whose forms they saw not, so thick was the gloom) was gone, Nydia was still separated from their side. Glaucus shouted her name. No answer came. They re- traced their steps — in vain: they could not discover her — it was evident she had been swept along in some opposite direction by the human current. Their friend, their preserver, was lost! And hitherto Nydia had been their guide. Her blindness rendered the scene familiar to her alone. Accustomed, through a perpetual night to thread the windings of the city, she hatl led them un- erringly toward the sea-shore, by which they had resolved to hazard an escape. Now, which way could they wend? all was rayless to them — a maze v^ithout a clew. Wearied, desixmdent, bewildered, they, however, passed along, the ashes falling upon their heads, the fragmentary stones dashing up in sparkles at their feet. *' Alasl alas!" murmured lone, *'I can go no farth^; my steps sink among the scorching cinders. Fl}^ dearest!— beloved, flyl and leave me to my fate!'' " Hush, my betrothed! my bride! Death with thee is sweeter Itan life vdthout thee! Yet, whithf^r— oh! whither, can we dii-ect TffE LAST DA TS OF POMPEH. 2&t ©urselves through the g/oom? Already, it. seems that we have made but a circle, and are in the very spot which we quitted au hour ago." *' O gods! yon rock — see, it hath riven the roof before us I It is death to move through the streets!" " Blessed lightning! See, lone -see! the portico of the Temple of Fortune is before us. Let us creep beneath it; it will protect us from the showers." He caught his beloved in his arms, and with difficulty and 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 show- ers I The beauty and unselfishness of love could hallow even that dismal time! "Who is there?" said the trembling and hollow voice of one who had preceded them in their place of refuge. "Yet, what matters? the crush of the ruined world forbids us to be friends or foes." lone turned at the sound of the voice, and, with a faint shriek, cowered again beneath the arms of Glaucus; and he, looking in the direction of the voice, beheld the cause of her alarm. Through the dai'kness glared forth two burning eyes — the light- ning flashed and lingered athwart the temple — and Glaucus, with a shudder, perceived the lion to which he had been doomed couched beneath the pillars; and, close beside it, unwitting of the vicinity, lay the giant form of him who had accosted them — the wounded gladiator, IJiger. The lightning had revealed to each other the form of beast and man; yet the instinct of both was quelled. Nay, the Hon crept nearer and nearer to the gladiador as for companionship; and the gladiator did not recede or tremble. The revolution of Nat- ure had dissolved her lighter teiTors as well as her wonted ties. While they were thus tenibly protected, a group of men and women, bearing torches, passed by the temple. They were of the congregation of the Nazarenes; and a subhme and unearthly emotion had not, indeed, quelled their awe, but it had robbed awe of fear. They had long beheved, according to the error of the early Christians, that the Last Day was at hand; they ima- gined now that the Day had come. "Woe! woe!" cried, in a shrill and piercing voice, the elder at their head, "Behold! the Lord descendeth to judgment! He maketh fii'e come down from heaven in the sight of men! Woe! ye strong and mighty I We to ye of the fasces and the purple! Woe to the idolator and the worshiper of the beast! Woe to ye who pour forth the blood of saints, and gloat over the death- pangs of the sons of Godl Woe to the hai'lot of the seal— woel 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 seal —woe! woe! — " The Nazarenes paced slowly on, their torches still flickering in ibie storm, their voices still raised in menace and solemn warning. 288 THE LAST. DAYS OF POMPEH. till, lost amid the windings in tlie streets, the darkness of the at- mosphere and the Bilonce of death again fell over the scene. Thei-e was one of the frequent pauses in the showers, andGlau- cus encouraged lone once more to proceed. Just as they stood, hesitating, on the last step of the tlie portico, an old man with a bag in his right hand and leaning upon a youth, tottered by. The youth bore a torch. Glaucus recognized the two as father and son — miser and i^rodigal. *' Father," said the youth, *'if you cannot move more swiftly, I must leave you, or we both perish!" "Fly, boy, then, and leave thy sirel" •'But I cannot fly to starve; give me thy bag of goldl" And the youth snatclied at it. '* Wretch! wouldst thou rob thy father?* "All! who can tell the tale in this houi"? IMiser, perish!" The boy struck the old man to the gi'ound, 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 ruiru lone, on! — on I" CHAPTER VUL AKBACES ENCOUNTERS GLAUCUS AND lONE. Advancing, as men gi-ope for escape in a dungeon, lone and her lover continued theii' 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 diy and uncommixed with the boil- ing torrents, cast upward from the mountain at capricious inter- vEds, the surface of the earth presented a leprous and ghastly white. In other places, cinders 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 teiTor — now near, now distant — which, when heard in the utter darkness, were rendered doubly appalling by the crushing sense of helplessness and the uncertainty of the perils around; and clear and distinct through all were the mighty and various noises from the Fatal Mountain; its rusliing winds; its whirling torrents; and, from time to time, the burst and roar of some fiery and fierce explosion. And ever as the winds sw^ept howling along the street, they bore sharp streams of burning dust, and sucli sickening and poisonous vapors, as took away, for the instant, breath and consciousness, followed by a rapid revul- sion of the an-ested blood, and a tingUng sensation of agony trembling through eveiy nerve and fiber of the frame. "Oh, Glaucus! my beloved! my own! take me to thy armsl One embrace! let me feel thy arms aiound me— and in that em- brace let me die — I can no more!" "For my sake, for my life" — courage, yet, sweet lone — my life is linked with thine; and see — torches — this wayl Lol how they "THE LAST DA Y8 OF POMPEIT. fM tarave the wind I Hal they live through the storm— doubtless, fugitives to the sea! we mil join them." As if to aid and reanimate the lovers, the winds and showers came to a sudden pause; the atmosphere vv^as profoundly still — the mountain seemed at rest, gathering, perhaps, fresh fury for its next burst: the torch-bearera moved quickly on, "We are nearing the sea," said, in a calm voice, the person at then- head. "Liberty and wealth to each slave who survives this day; Cour- age! I tell you that the gods themselves have assured me of de» liverance — On!" Redly and steadily the torches flashed fiill on the eyes of Glaucus and lone, who lay ti-embUng and exhausted on his bosom. Several slaves were bearing, by the light, panniers and coffers, heavily laden; in front of them— a drawc. gword in his hand — towered the lofty form of Arbaces. " By my fathers!" cried the Egyptian. "Fate smiles upon me even through these horrors, and, amid the dreadest aspect of woe and death, bodes me happiness and love. Away, Greek! I claim my ward, lone!" "Traitor, and murderer!" cried Glaucus, glaring upon his foe, " Nemesis hath guided thee to my revenge! — a just sacrifice to the shades of Hades, that now seem loosed on earth. Approach — touch but the hand of lone, and thy weapon shall be as a reed — I will tear thee limb from limb!" Suddenly, as he spoke, the jilace became Hghted with an in- tense and lurid glow. Bright and gigantic through the dark- ness, which closed around it like the walls of hell, the mountain shone — a pile of fire! Its summit seemed riven in two; or rather, above its surface seemed to rise two monster shapes, each confronting each, as Demons contending for a World. These were of one deep blood-red hue of fire, which lighted up the whole atmosphere far and wide; but helow, the nether part of the mountain was still dark and slu-ouded, 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 toward the devoted city. Over the broadest there seemed to sjDring a cragged and stupendous arch, from which, as from the jaws of hell, gushed the sources of the sunken Phlegethon. And tln-ough the stiUed air was heard the rattling of the fragments of rock, hurling one upon another as they were borne down the fiery cataracts--darkening, for one instant, the spot wiiere they fell, and suffused the next, in the bui-nished 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 bis commanding features and jeweled robes. High behind hun rose a tall column that supported the bronze statue of Au- gustus; and the imperial image seemed changed to a shape of ^ With his left hand circled round the form of lone — with his right arm raised in menace, and grasping the stilus which was to have been liis weapon in the arena, and wh'ch he still fortu- nately bore about him, with Ms brow knit, his lips apart, tht a^O 'THE LAST DA YS OF POUTPmi wrath and menace of human passions arrested as by a charm, upon his features, Glaucus fronted the Egj^ptianl Arbaces turned his eyes from the mountain — they rested on the form of GlaucusI He paused a moment: *' Why," he muttered, *' should I hesitate? Did not the stars foretell the only crisis of imminent peril to which I was subjected? — Is not that oeril past?" '• The soul," cried he aloud, '* can bravo the wreck of worlds and the wrath of imaginary godsl By that soul will I cono[ue^ to the last! Advance slaves 1 — Athenian, resist me, and thy biood be on thine own head! Thus, then, I regain lonel" He advanced one step — it was liis last on earth! The ground shook beneath him with a convulsion that cast all round 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 column! Down fell the ruin, echoing along the street, and riving the solid pavement where it crashedl The prophecy of the stars was fulfilled! The sound — the shock, stunned the Athenian for eeveral mo- ments. When he recovered, the light still illumined the scene — the earth still slid and trembled beneath? lone lay senseless on the ground; but he saw her not yet — his eyes were fixed upon a ghastly face that seemed to emerge, without limbs or trimk, from the huge fragments of tlie shattered column — a face of unutter- able pain, agony, and despair! The eyes shut and opened rapid- ly, as if sense were not yet fled; the lips quivered and grinned^ then sudden stillness and darkness fell over the features, yet re- taining that aspect of horror never to be forgotten! So perished the wise Magician — the great Arbaces — the Hermit of the Burning Belt — the last of the royalty of EgyptI CHAPTER IX. THE DESPAIR OP THE LOVERS. — THE CONDITION OF THE MULTITUDE. Glaucus turned in gratitude but in awe,, caught lone once more in his arms and fled along the street, that was yet intensely luminous. But suddenly a duller shade came over the air. In- stinctively he turned to the mountain, and behold! one of the two gigantic crests, into wldch the summit had been divided, rocked and wavered to and fro; and then, with a sound, the mightiness of which no language can describe, it fell from its burning base, and rushed, an avalanche of fire, down the sides of the mount* aini At the same instant guslied forth a volume of blackest smoke — rolling on over air, sea, and earth. Another — and another — and another shower of aslies, far more profuse than before, scattered fresh desolation along the streets. Darkness once more wrapi)od them in a veil; and Glaucus, his bold heart at last quelled and desppiiTng, sank beneath the cover of an arch, and, clasping lone to his heart — a bride on that couch of ruin — resigned himself to die. Meanwhile Nydia, wlien separated by the throng from Glaucus and lone, had in vain Mideav^red to regain them. In vain she Tim LAST DAYS OF POMPEII 901 raised that plaintive cry so peculiar to the blind; it was lost amid 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 Ibe dashed aside in the impatience of distraction. Who in that hour spared one thought to his neighbor? Perhaps in scenes of universal horror, nothing is more horrid tlian the unnatural selfishness they engender. At length it oc- curred to Nvdia, that as it had been resolved to seek the sea-shore for escape, her most probable chance of rejoining her companions would be to persevere in that direction. Guiding her stex)s, then, by the staff which she always caiTied, she continued, with in- credible dexterity, to avoid the masses of ruin that encumbered the path — to thread the streets — and unerringly (so blessed now was that accustomed darkness, so afflicting in ordinary lifel) to take tEe nearest direction to the sea-side. Poor girll her courage was beautiful to behold — and Fate seem- ed to favor one so helpless I The boiling torrents touched her not, save by the general rain which accompanied them; 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, walk- ing through the Valley of the Shadow; of the Soul itself — lone but undaunted, amid the dangers and the snares of life. Her path was, however, constantly impeded by the crowds that now grouped amid the gloom, now fled in the temporary glare of the lightnings across the scene; and at length, a group of torch bearers rushing full against her, she was thrown down with some violence. *' What?" said the voice of o^e ot the party, *' is this the brave blind girl? Up! my Thessalian! So— so. Are you hm't? That's well I Come along with us I we are for the shore!" "O SallustI it is thy voice! The gods be thanked! GlaucusI Glaucus 1 have ye seen him?" " Not I. He is doubtless out of the city by this time. The ^ods who saved him from the lion will save him from the burn- ing mountain." As the kindly epicure thus encouraged Nydia, he drew her along with him toward the sea, heeding not her passionate en- treaties that he would linger yet awhile to search for Glaucus; and still, in the accent of despair, she continued to shriek out that beloved name, which, amid all the roar of the convulsed elements, kept alive a music at her heart. The sudden illumination, the bui-sts of the floods of lava, and the earthquake, which we have already described, chanced when Ballust and his party had just gained the direct path leading from tne city. They spread along the field without tlie walls, thou^ sands 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 202 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEtt of the huge stones cast from the mountain into the deep, that they had retired again to the land, as presenting the less fright* ful aspect of the two. Thus the two streams of Iranian being&, the one seaward, the other /rom the sea, had met together, feel- ing a sad comfort in numbers; arrested in despair and doubt. " Tlie world is to be destroyed by fire," said an old man in long loose robes, a philosopher of the Stoic school: "Stoic and Epicu- rean wisdom have alike agreed in this prediction; and the hour is come!" " Yes; the hour is comel" cried a loud voice, solemn but not fearful. Those around turned in dismay. The voice came from above them. It ^vas the voice of OUnthus, who, surrounded by his Christian friends, stood upon an abrupt eminence on which the old Greek colonists had raised a temple to Apollo, now time worn and half in ruins. As he six>ke, there came that sudden illumination which had heralded the death of Arbaces, and glowing over the mighty multitude, awed, crouching, breathless — never on earth had the faces of men seemed so haggard! — never had meeting of mortal beings been so stamx)ed with the horror and sublimity of dread! — never till tlie last trumpet sounds, shall such meeting be seen again! And above those the form of Olinthus, with outstretched arms 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 still- ness again came his ominous voice: *' The hour is come!" The Christians repeated the cry. It was caught up^it waa echoed from side to side — woman and man, childhood and old age repeated, not aloud, but in a smothered and dreary mur- mur: " The hour is come!" At that moment a wild yell burst through the air; and, think- ing only of escai)e, whither it knew not, the terrible tiger of thfe desert leaped among the throng and hurried through its parted streams. And so came the earthquake — and so darkness onoe more fell over the earth! And now new fugitives an-ived. Grasping the treasures no longer destined for their lord, the slaves of Arbaoes joined the throng. Only one of all their torches yet flickered on. It was borne by Sosia; and its light falling on the face of Nydia, he recog- jiized the Thesaalian. *' What avails thy liberty now, blind girl?" said the slave. ** Who art thou? Canst thou tell me of Glaucus?" ** Ay; I saw liim but a few minutes since." '* Blessed be thy head! where?" *' Couclied beneath the arch of the forum — dead or dyingi— gpne to rejoin Arbaces, who is no more!" Nydia uttered not a word, she slid from the side of Sallust; sOently she glided through those behind her, and retraced her steps to the city. She gained the forum — the arch; she stooped X \^ 4h Bit'O va »♦■ J. -'^9 TiD 21-lOOm-l, '54(1887816)476 ivil03729 T5S THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY r