water and the showers of ashes, but also the steady, onward march of ages, which with ceaseless tramp have been wandering over them.

The house of Pansa is traced out, well arranged, spacious, and splendid, even in its ruins. The doorway still remains, with its beautiful Corinthian pilasters; and the interior of the house, though broken and defaced, has many marks of its former elegance. The mosaics which yet remain, when the dust is removed from them, are found to be very beautiful, and show a carefulness of design and correctness of finish which would do honor to the skill and taste of a later age.

The house of the tragic poet, so called, which was exhumed in 1824, is an object of great interest. The various apartments are full as the walls can hang with historical paintings. As the stranger crosses the marble threshhold and enters the hall, a chained fox dog, looking fiercely and preparing to spring, causes him almost to retreat in dismay. Farther on he sees various paintings, illustrating the customs and manners of the ancient inhabitants. The walls seem to speak forth eloquent words, and the longer one gazes, the more is he surprised at the accuracy of the work before him, and its wonderful preservation amid the changes of the past. Here is Jupiter wedding the unwilling Thetis to a mortal; the priests of Diana engaged in preparing for the human sacrifice; the great chariot race between the gods; the battle of the Amazons; and many others. Many of these paintings are being removed to Naples, where they are visited by thousands, who gaze upon them with wonder.

The houses of the great and little fountains, so called because fountains are the most prominent things found in them, and many others of persons known to have

been residents at the time in Pompeii, are pointed out to the traveler as he pursues his way along the tomb-like streets. The identity of these houses may be somewhat uncertain, and the paintings may not represent the scenes which they are now supposed to delineate; but this does not detract from the interest, or lessen the melancholy pleasure we feel in every object which engages the attention.

The shops are as interesting as the houses, and are more definite in their character. There yet remain some signs by which the different places of trade, and the various warehouses, are distinguished. Statues and paintings, illustrative of the different articles used, manufactured, or sold, and the different modes of operation, tell you where to find the shop of the baker and the house of the butcher. Three bakers' shops have been uncovered, in which are the ovens ready for use, the mills in which the grain was broken, the kneading troughs, the various articles used in the making of bread, and the bread itself, well done since it has been baking so long over the fires of the volcano. The bread, of course, and the baker's articles, have been removed to Naples, and are on exhibition there. The loaves are flat, baked in moulds, and some of them are stamped with the name of the maker. They vary in size, from six inches to twelve inches in diameter. The ashes in which they were burnt baked them to a crisp first, and then preserved them.

The shop of the apothecary, with all his implements, has been found in a tolerable state of preservation; and various other evidences of the trade of the city were found remaining when the excavations were made. These all show that the arts were more perfect in Italy, under the reign of pagan emperors, than under the

oppressive enactments of the pope. The course of the people has been downward for centuries. The public mind has been enslaved, the public conscience has been seared, and the public hand has been palsied. The sweet voice of music, and the more rude sound of the hammer, have alike been hushed, and the noble faculties of the artisan have been turned to the construction of infernal machines, to rack humanity out of the children of God.

Thus far I have spoken only of private residences and places of trade; but these are not of most interest. The public offices of Pompeii, which have already been uncovered, enable one to form the most correct estimate of the splendor of the city. The Temple of Isis, eighty-four feet long and seventy-five feet broad, must have been a structure of great magnificence. It is so perfect that the arrangement and construction of the building can be discovered with ease. The private staircases and the secret tabernacles, the vestures and the sacred vessels, have been found. The altars on which the human sacrifice was burnt, and the oratory in which his bones and ashes were put, have come down to our times. The Doric columns which once formed and supported the portico, the broken statue of the divinity, and the various adornments of the temple, have been examined and identified. Near the door of the temple was found a skeleton of one of the priests, drawn into the temple, perhaps for plunder, and perhaps for devotion, at the awful hour when the city was being overwhelmed; the ashes, pressing against the door without, rendered escape impossible. What were his feelings none can tell; but the position of the form shows that he struggled terribly for life. A hatchet was in his hand, and on the walls, one of which he

had beaten through, were marks where he had been endeavoring to cut his way out of prison, but in vain. The thick wall resisted all his efforts; the ashen rain fell faster; and the noxious gases, sifting into his narrow sepulcher, soon destroyed his life.

In another place, a priest was found sitting at the table eating. The remains of his dinner were before him. The remnant of an egg and the limb of a fowl' tell us on what he was making his repast. Driven in from more public duties, he sat down to eat, thinking the storm would soon cease. Now and then, as he hummed a low tune, or breathed a superstitious prayer, he looked out upon the mountain that thundered, lightened, bellowed, and blazed full before him, and wondered what new display the gods were about to make. And there he sat, the room insensibly filling up with the vapor, which soon destroyed respiration; and, bowing his head upon his hand, he fell asleep, to wake no more. The temple was soon covered with the ashes, which, forcing their way into the room, made a winding-sheet for the victim.

In another room, a priest was found with a handful of coin, which he had probably stolen in the hour when fear prevailed in every breast. Stopping to count his treasure, or to look for more, he stopped too long; and, with the spoils in his hand, he died. Other priests were found, enabling us to conjecture, from the positions in which they were, that death came very unexpectedly, while they were attending to ordinary duties. Who they were, and how they felt, none can tell; but when ages had rolled away, they were found in the temple of their idolatry, victims at an altar where they had often caused human blood to flow in torrents.

1 Cleaveland's Visit to Pompeii.

The stranger visits in succession the Theater, the Pantheon, the Forum, the Senate House, the Temple of Justice, all of which are so far perfect, that the purpose for which they were used cannot be mistaken. They are generally built of brick, and covered with marble and stucco, and, in their day, must have been beautiful in the extreme.

The Amphitheater is a vast stone building, four hundred and thirty feet long and three hundred and thirtyfive feet wide; oval in form, and used for gladiatorial shows. In the vaults below were kept the beasts and the unfortunate men who were compelled to meet them in deadly combat. A skeleton found near the Amphitheater is supposed to have been a gladiator who was in the arena at the time, or who was waiting for the storm to subside, in order that the assembly might conBut he encountered a more terrible foe than the lion chafed and wounded. Death met him, and the gladiator fell in such a contest as he had never engaged in before. His weapons were powerless, his strength useless; and he lay down to die, with scarcely an effort to withstand the giant against whom he was contending.

vene.

The streets of Pompeii are generally narrow, some of them having raised footwalks. They are commonly paved with lava, and are well worn. It seems as if ages had roamed over them before they were buried up. You walk them, looking up now to stores, and then upon public buildings, remembering that here was found a skeleton crushed under a falling column, and there, under the ashes, were found a mother and her babe. The appearance of the city is much as one of our most beautiful modern cities would be, if, on some terrible night, it should be covered up by a shower of