POMPEII

1834
THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII
by Edward George Bulwer-Lytton
BOOK I

Chapter I

THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF POMPEII

'HO, Diomed, well met! Do you sup with Glaucus to-night?' said a
young man of small stature, who wore his tunic in those loose and
effeminate folds which proved him to be a gentleman and a coxcomb.
'Alas, no! dear Clodius; he has not invited me,' replied Diomed, a
man of portly frame and of middle age. 'By Pollux, a scurvy trick! for
they say his suppers are the best in Pompeii'.
'Pretty well- though there is never enough of wine for me. It is
not the old Greek blood that flows in his veins, for he pretends
that wine makes him dull the next morning.'
'There may be another reason for that thrift,' said Diomed,
raising his brows. 'With all his conceit and extravagance he is not so
rich, I fancy, as he affects to be, and perhaps loves to save his
amphorae better than his wit.'
'An additional reason for supping with him while the sesterces
last. Next year, Diomed, we must find another Glaucus.'
'He is fond of the dice, too, I hear.'
'He is fond of every pleasure; and while he likes the pleasure
of giving suppers, we are all fond of him.'
'Ha, ha, Clodius, that is well said! Have you ever seen my
wine-cellars, by-the-by?'
'I think not, my good Diomed.'
'Well, you must sup with me some evening; I have tolerable
muraenae in my reservoir, and I ask Pansa the aedile to meet you.'
'O, no state with me!- Persicos odi apparatus, I am easily
contented. Well, the day wanes; I am for the baths- and you...'
'To the quaestor- business of state- afterwards to the temple of
Isis. Vale!'
'An ostentatious, bustling, ill-bred fellow,' muttered Clodius
to himself, as he sauntered slowly away. 'He thinks with his feasts
and his wine-cellars to make us forget that he is the son of a
freedman- and so we will, when we do him the honour of winning his
money; these rich plebeians are a harvest for us spendthrift nobles.'
Thus soliloquising, Clodius arrived in the Via Domitiana, which
was crowded with passengers and chariots, and exhibited all that gay
and animated exuberance of life and motion which we find at this day
in the streets of Naples.
The bells of the cars as they rapidly glided by each other jingled
merrily on the ear, and Clodius with smiles or nods claimed familiar
acquaintance with whatever equipage was most elegant or fantastic:
in fact, no idler was better known in Pompeii.
'What, Clodius! and how have you slept on your good fortune?'
cried, in a pleasant and musical voice, a young man, in a chariot of
the most fastidious and graceful fashion. Upon its surface of bronze
were elaborately wrought, in the still exquisite workmanship of
Greece, reliefs of the Olympian games; the two horses that drew the
car were of the rarest breed of Parthia; their slender limbs seemed to
disdain the ground and court the air, and yet at the slightest touch
of the charioteer, who stood behind the young owner of the equipage,
they paused motionless, as if suddenly transformed into stone-
lifeless, but lifelike, as one of the breathing wonders of Praxiteles.
The owner himself was of that slender and beautiful symmetry from
which the sculptors of Athens drew their models; his Grecian origin
betrayed itself in his light but clustering locks, and the perfect
harmony of his features. He wore no toga, which in the time of the
emperors had indeed ceased to be the general distinction of the
Romans, and was especially ridiculed by the pretenders to fashion; but
his tunic glowed in the richest hues of the Tyrian dye, and the
fibulae, or buckles, by which it was fastened, sparkled with emeralds:
around his neck was a chain of gold, which in the middle of his breast
twisted itself into the form of a serpent's head, from the mouth of
which hung pendent a large signet ring of elaborate and most exquisite
workmanship; the sleeves of the tunic were loose, and fringed at the
hand with gold: and across the waist a girdle wrought in arabesque
designs, and of the same material as the fringe, served in lieu of
pockets for the receptacle of the handkerchief and the purse, the
stilus and the tablets.
'My dear Glaucus!' said Clodius, 'I rejoice to see that your
losses have so little affected your mien. Why, you seem as if you
had been inspired by Apollo, and your face shines with happiness
like a glory; any one might take you for the winner, and me for the
loser.'
'And what is there in the loss or gain of those dull pieces of
metal that should change our spirit, my Clodius? By Venus, while yet
young, we can cover our full locks with chaplets- while yet the
cithara sounds on unsated ears- while yet the smile of Lydia or of
Chloe flashes over our veins in which the blood runs so swiftly, so
long shall we find delight in the sunny air, and make bald time itself
but the treasurer of our joys. You sup with me to-night, you know.'
'Who ever forgets the invitation of Glaucus!'
'But which way go you now?'
'Why, I thought of visiting the baths: but it wants yet an hour to
the usual time.'
'Well, I will dismiss my chariot, and go with you. So, so, my
Phylias,' stroking the horse nearest to him, which by a low neigh
and with backward ears playfully acknowledged the courtesy: 'a holiday
for you to-day. Is he not handsome, Clodius?'
'Worthy of Phoebus, returned the noble parasite- 'or of Glaucus.'
Chapter II

THE BLIND FLOWER-GIRL, AND THE BEAUTY OF FASHION. THE ATHENIAN'S
CONFESSION. THE READER'S INTRODUCTION TO ARBACES OF EGYPT

TALKING lightly on a thousand matters, the two young men sauntered
through the streets; they were now in that quarter which was filled
with the gayest shops, their open interiors all and each radiant
with the gaudy yet harmonious colours of frescoes, inconceivably
varied in fancy and design. The sparkling fountains, that at every
vista threw upwards their grateful spray in the summer air; the
crowd of passengers, or rather loiterers, mostly clad in robes of
the Tyrian dye; the gay groups collected round each more attractive
shop; the slaves passing to and fro with buckets of bronze, cast in
the most graceful shapes, and borne upon their heads; the country
girls stationed at frequent intervals with baskets of blushing
fruit, and flowers more alluring to the ancient Italians than to their
descendants (with whom, indeed, latet anguis in herba, a disease seems
lurking in every violet and rose); the numerous haunts which fulfilled
with that idle people the office of cafes and clubs at this day; the
shops, where on shelves of marble were ranged the vases of wine and
oil, and before whose thresholds, seats, protected from the sun by a
purple awning, invited the weary to rest and the indolent to lounge-
made a scene of such glowing and vivacious excitement, as might well
give the Athenian spirit of Glaucus an excuse for its susceptibility
to joy.
'Talk to me no more of Rome,' said he to Clodius. 'Pleasure is too
stately and ponderous in those mighty walls: even in the precincts
of the court- even in the Golden House of Nero, and the incipient
glories of the palace of Titus, there is a certain dulness of
magnificence- the eye aches- the spirit is wearied; besides, my
Clodius, we are discontented when we compare the enormous luxury and
wealth of others with the mediocrity of our own state. But here we
surrender ourselves easily to pleasure, and we have the brilliancy
of luxury without the lassitude of its pomp.'
'It was from that feeling that you chose your summer retreat at
Pompeii?'
'It was. I prefer it to Baiae: I grant the charms of the latter,
but I love not the pedants who resort there, and who seem to weigh out
their pleasures by the drachm.'
'Yet you are fond of the learned, too; and as for poetry, why,
your house is literally eloquent with AEschylus and Homer, the epic
and the drama.'
'Yes, but those Romans who mimic my Athenian ancestors do
everything so heavily. Even in the chase they make their slaves
carry Plato with them; and whenever the boar is lost, out they take
their books and their papyrus, in order not to lose their time too.
When the dancing-girls swim before them in all the blandishment of
Persian manners, some drone of a freedman, with a face of stone, reads
them a section of Cicero "De Officiis". Unskilful pharmacists!
pleasure and study are not elements to be thus mixed together, they
must be enjoyed separately: the Romans lose both by this pragmatical
affectation of refinement, and prove that they have no souls for
either. Oh, my Clodius, how little your countrymen know of the true
versatility of a Pericles, of the true witcheries of an Aspasia! It
was but the other day that I paid a visit to Pliny: he was sitting
in his summer-house writing, while an unfortunate slave played on
the tibia. His nephew (oh! whip me such philosophical coxcombs!) was
reading Thucydides' description of the plague, and nodding his
conceited little head in time to the music, while his lips were
repeating all the loathsome details of that terrible delineation.
The puppy saw nothing incongruous in learning at the same time a ditty
of love and a description of the plague.'
'Why, they are much the same thing,' said Clodius.
'So I told him, in excuse for his coxcombry- but my youth stared
me rebukingly in the face, without taking the jest, and answered, that
it was only the insensate ear that the music pleased, whereas the book
(the description of the plague, mind you!) elevated the heart. "Ah!"
quoth the fat uncle, wheezing, "my boy is quite an Athenian, always
mixing the utile with the dulce." O Minerva, how I laughed in my
sleeve! While I was there, they came to tell the boy-sophist that
his favourite freedman was just dead of a fever. "Inexorable death!"
cried he; "get me my Horace. How beautifully the sweet poet consoles
us for these misfortunes!" Oh, can these men love, my Clodius?
Scarcely even with the senses. How rarely a Roman has a heart! He is
but the mechanism of genius- he wants its bones and flesh.'
Though Clodius was secretly a little sore at these remarks on
his countrymen, he affected to sympathise with his friend, partly
because he was by nature a parasite, and partly because it was the
fashion among the dissolute young Romans to affect a little contempt
for the very birth which, in reality, made them so arrogant; it was
the mode to imitate the Greeks, and yet to laugh at their own clumsy
imitation.
Thus conversing, their steps were arrested by a crowd gathered
round an open space where three streets met; and, just where the
porticoes of a light and graceful temple threw their shade, there
stood a young girl, with a flower-basket on her right arm, and a small
three-stringed instrument of music in the left hand, to whose low
and soft tones she was modulating a wild and half-barbaric air. At
every pause in the music she gracefully waved her flower-basket round,
inviting the loiterers to buy; and many a sesterce was showered into
the basket, either in compliment to the music or in compassion to
the songstress- for she was blind.
'It is my poor Thessalian,' said Glaucus, stopping; 'I have not
seen her since my return to Pompeii. Hush! her voice is sweet; let
us listen.'

THE BLIND FLOWER-GIRL'S SONG

I

Buy my flowers- O buy- I pray!
The blind girl comes from afar;
If the earth be as fair as I hear them say,
These flowers her children are!
Do they her beauty keep?
They are fresh from her lap, I know;
For I caught them fast asleep
In her arms an hour ago.
With the air which is her breath-
Her soft and delicate breath-
Over them murmuring low!

On their lips her sweet kiss lingers yet,
And their cheeks with her tender tears are wet.
For she weeps- that gentle mother weeps-
(As morn and night her watch she keeps,
With a yearning heart and a passionate care)
To see the young things grow so fair;
She weeps- for love she weeps;
And the dews are the tears she weeps
From the well of a mother's love!

II

Ye have a world of light,
Where love in the loved rejoices;
But the blind girl's home is the House of Night,
And its beings are empty voices.

As one in the realm below,
I stand by the streams of woe!
I hear the vain shadows glide,
I feel their soft breath at my side.
And I thirst the loved forms to see,
And I stretch my fond arms around,
And I catch but a shapeless sound,
For the living are ghosts to me.

Come buy- come buy?-
Hark! how the sweet things sigh
(For they have a voice like ours),
'The breath of the blind girl closes
The leaves of the saddening roses-
We are tender, we sons of light,
We shrink from this child of night;
From the grasp of the blind girl free us-
We yearn for the eyes that see us-
We are for night too gay,
In your eyes we behold the day-
O buy- O buy the flowers!'

'I must have yon bunch of violets, sweet Nydia,' said Glaucus,
pressing through the crowd, and dropping a 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 temples.
'So you are returned!' said she, in a low voice; and then repeated
half to herself, 'Glaucus is returned!'
'Yes, child, I have not been at Pompeii above a few days. My
garden wants your care, as before; you will visit it, I trust,
to-morrow. And mind, no garlands at my house shall be woven by any
hands but those of the pretty Nydia.'
Nydia smiled joyously, but did not answer; and Glaucus, placing in
his breast the violets he had selected, turned gaily and carelessly
from the crowd.
'So she is a sort of client of yours, this child?' said Clodius.
'Ay- does she not sing prettily? She interests me, the poor slave!
Besides, she is from the land of the Gods' hill- Olympus frowned
upon her cradle- she is of Thessaly.'
'The witches' country.'
'True: but for my part I find every woman a witch; and at Pompeii,
by Venus! the very air seems to have taken a love-philtre, so handsome
does every face without a beard seem in my eyes.'
'And lo! one of the handsomest in Pompeii, old Diomed's
daughter, the rich Julia!' said Clodius, as a young lady, her face
covered by her veil, and attended by two female slaves, approached
them, in her way to the baths.
'Fair Julia, we salute thee!' said Clodius.
Julia partly raised her veil, so as with some coquetry to
display a bold Roman profile, a full dark bright eye, and a cheek over
whose natural olive art shed a fairer and softer rose.
'And Glaucus, too, is returned!' said she, glancing meaningly at
the Athenian. 'Has he forgotten,' she added, in a half-whisper, his
friends of the last year?'
'Beautiful Julia! even Lethe itself, if it disappear in one part
of the earth, rises again in another. Jupiter does not allow us ever
to forget for more than a moment: but Venus, more harsh still,
vouchsafes not even a moment's oblivion.'
'Glaucus is never at a loss for fair words.'
'Who is, when the object of them is so fair?'
'We shall see you both at my father's villa soon,' said Julia,
turning to Clodius.
'We will mark the day in which we visit you with a white stone,'
answered the gamester.
Julia dropped her veil, but slowly, so that her last glance rested
on the Athenian with affected timidity and real boldness; the glance
bespoke tenderness and reproach.
The friends passed on.
'Julia is certainly handsome,' said Glaucus.
'And last year you would have made that confession in a warmer
tone.'
'True; I was dazzled at the first sight, and mistook for a gem
that which was but an artful imitation.'
'Nay,' returned Clodius, 'all women are the same at heart. Happy
he who weds a handsome face and a large dower. What more can he
desire?'
Glaucus sighed.
They were now in a street less crowded than the rest, at the end
of which they beheld that broad and most lovely sea, which upon
those delicious coasts seems to have renounced its prerogative of
terror- so soft are the crisping winds that hover around its bosom, so
glowing and so various are the hues which it takes from the rosy
clouds, so fragrant are the perfumes which the breezes from the land
scatter over its depths. From such a sea might you well believe that
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 while the noon yet laughs along its
billows.'
'With all my heart,' said Clodius; 'and the bay, too, is always
the most animated part of the city.'
Pompeii was the miniature of the civilisation of that age.
Within the narrow compass of its walls was contained, as it were, a
specimen of every gift which luxury offered to power. In its minute
but glittering shops, its tiny palaces, its baths, its forum, its
theatre, its circus- in the energy yet corruption, in the refinement
yet the vice, of its people, you beheld a model of the whole empire.
It was a toy, a plaything, a showbox, in which the gods seemed pleased
to keep the representation of the great monarchy of earth, and which
they afterwards hid from time, to give to the wonder of posterity- the
moral of the maxim, that under the sun there is nothing new.
Crowded in the glassy bay were the vessels of commerce and the
gilded galleys for the pleasures of the rich citizens. The boats of
the fishermen glided rapidly to and fro; and afar off you saw the tall
masts of the fleet under the command of Pliny. Upon the shore sat a
Sicilian who, with vehement gestures and flexile features, was
narrating to a group of fishermen and peasants a strange tale of
shipwrecked mariners and friendly dolphins- just as at this day, in
the modern neighbourhood, you may hear upon the Mole of Naples.
Drawing his comrade from the crowd, the Greek bent his steps
towards a solitary part of the beach, and the two friends, seated on a
small crag which rose amidst the smooth pebbles, inhaled the
voluptuous and cooling breeze, which dancing over the waters, kept
music with its invisible feet. There was, perhaps, something in the
scene that invited them to silence and reverie. Clodius, shading his
eyes from the burning sky, was calculating the gains of the last week;
and the Greek, leaning upon his hand, and shrinking not from that sun-
his nation's tutelary deity- with whose fluent light of poesy, and
joy, and love, his own veins were filled, gazed upon the broad
expanse, and envied, perhaps, every wind that bent its pinions towards
the shores of Greece.
'Tell me, Clodius,' said the Greek at last, 'hast thou ever been
in love?'
'Yes, very often.'
'He who has loved often,' answered Glaucus, 'has loved never.
There is but one Eros, though there are many counterfeits of him.'
'The counterfeits are not bad little gods, upon the whole,'
answered Clodius.
'I agree with you,' returned the Greek. 'I adore even the shadow
of Love; but I adore himself yet more.'
'Art thou, then, soberly and honestly in love? Hast thou that
feeling which the poets describe- a feeling that makes us neglect
our suppers, forswear the theatre, and write elegies? I should never
have thought it. You dissemble well.'
'I am not far gone enough for that,' returned Glaucus, smiling,
'or rather I say with Tibullus-

He whom love rules, where'er his path may be,
Walks safe and sacred.

In fact, I am not in love; but I could be if there were but occasion
to see the object. Eros would light his torch, but the priests have
given him no oil.'
'Shall I guess the object?- Is it not Diomed's daughter? She
adores you, and does not affect to conceal it; and, by Hercules, I say
again and again, she is both handsome and rich. She will bind the
door-posts of her husband with golden fillets.'
'No, I do not desire to sell myself. Diomed's daughter is
handsome, I grant: and at one time, had she not been the grandchild of
a freedman, I might have... Yet no- she carries all her beauty in
her face; her manners are not maiden-like, and her mind knows no
culture save that of pleasure.'
'You are ungrateful. Tell me, then, who is the fortunate virgin?'
'You shall hear, my Clodius. Several months ago I was sojourning
at Neapolis, a city utterly to my own heart, for it still retains
the manners and stamp of its Grecian origin- and it yet merits the
name of Parthenope, from its delicious air and its beautiful shores.
One day I entered the temple of Minerva, to offer up my prayers, not
for myself more than for the city on which Pallas smiles no longer.
The temple was empty and deserted. The recollections of Athens crowded
fast and meltingly upon me: imagining myself still alone in the
temple, and absorbed in the earnestness of my devotion, my prayer
gushed from my heart to my lips, and I wept as I prayed. I was
startled in the midst of my devotions, however, by a deep sigh; I
turned suddenly round, and just behind me was a female. She had raised
her veil also in prayer: and when our eyes met, methought a
celestial ray shot from those dark and smiling orbs at once into my
soul. Never, my Clodius, have I seen mortal face more exquisitely
moulded: a certain melancholy softened and yet elevated its
expression: that unutterable something, which springs from the soul,
and which our sculptors have imparted to the aspect of Psyche, gave
her beauty I know not what of divine and noble; tears were rolling
down her eyes. I guessed at once that she was also of Athenian
lineage; and that in my prayer for Athens her heart had responded to
mine. I spoke to her, though with a faltering voice- "Art thou not,
too, Athenian?" said I, "O beautiful virgin!" At the sound of my voice
she blushed, and half drew her veil across her face.- "My forefathers'
ashes," said she, "repose by the waters of Ilissus: my birth is of
Neapolis; but my heart, as my lineage, is Athenian."- "Let us,
then," said I, "make our offerings together": and, as the priest now
appeared, we stood side by side, while we followed the priest in his
ceremonial prayer; together we touched the knees of the goddess-
together we laid our olive garlands on the altar. I felt a strange
emotion of almost sacred tenderness at this companionship. We,
strangers from a far and fallen land, stood together and alone in that
temple of our country's deity: was it not natural that my heart should
yearn to my countrywoman, for so I might surely call her? I felt as if
I had known her for years; and that simple rite seemed, as by a
miracle, to operate on the sympathies and ties of time. Silently we
left the temple, and I was about to ask her where she dwelt, and if
I might be permitted to visit her, when a youth, in whose features
there was some kindred 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 concerning my inheritance.
When that suit was happily over, I repaired once more to Neapolis; I
instituted inquiries throughout the whole city, I could discover no
clue of my lost countrywoman, and, hoping to lose in gaiety all
remembrance of that beautiful apparition, I hastened to plunge
myself amidst the luxuries of Pompeii. This is all my history. I do
not love; but I remember and regret.'
As Clodius was about to reply, a slow and stately step
approached them, and at the sound it made amongst the pebbles, each
turned, and each recognised the new-comer.
It was a man who had scarcely reached his fortieth year, of tall
stature, and of a thin but nervous and sinewy frame. His skin, dark
and bronzed, betrayed his Eastern origin; and his features had
something Greek in their outline (especially in the chin, the lip, and
the brow), save that the nose was somewhat raised and aquiline; and
the bones, hard and visible, forbade that fleshy and waving contour
which on the Grecian physiognomy preserved even in manhood the round
and beautiful curves of youth. His eyes, large and black as the
deepest night, shone with no varying and uncertain lustre. A deep,
thoughtful, and half-melancholy calm seemed unalterably fixed in their
majestic and commanding gaze. His step and mien were peculiarly sedate
and lofty, and something foreign in the fashion and the sober hues
of his sweeping garments added to the impressive effect of his quiet
countenance and stately form. Each of the young men, in saluting the
new-comer, made mechanically, and with care to conceal it from him,
a slight gesture or sign with their fingers; for Arbaces, the
Egyptian, was supposed to possess the fatal gift of the evil eye.
'The scene must, indeed, be beautiful,' said Arbaces, with a
cold though courteous smile, 'which draws the gay Clodius, and Glaucus
the all admired, from the crowded thoroughfares of the city.'
'Is Nature ordinarily so unattractive?' asked the Greek.
'To the dissipated- yes.'
'An austere reply, but scarcely a wise one. Pleasure delights in
contrasts; it is from dissipation that we learn to enjoy solitude, and
from solitude dissipation.'
'So think the young philosophers of the Garden,' replied the
Egyptian; 'they mistake lassitude for meditation, and imagine that,
because they are sated with others, they know the delight of
loneliness. But not in such jaded bosoms can Nature awaken that
enthusiasm which alone draws from her chaste reserve all her
unspeakable beauty: she demands from you, not the exhaustion of
passion, but all that fervour, from which you only seek, in adoring
her, a release. When, young Athenian, the moon revealed herself in
visions of light to Endymion, it was after a day passed, not amongst
the feverish haunts of men, but on the still mountains and in the
solitary valleys of the hunter.'
'Beautiful simile!' cried Glaucus; 'most unjust application!
Exhaustion! that word is for age, not youth. By me, at least, one
moment of satiety has never been known!'
Again the Egyptian smiled, but his smile was cold and blighting,
and even the unimaginative Clodius froze beneath its light. He did
not, however, reply to the passionate exclamation of Glaucus; but,
after a pause, he said, in a soft and melancholy voice:
'After all, you do right to enjoy the hour while it smiles for
you; the rose soon withers, the perfume soon exhales. And we, O
Glaucus! strangers in the land and far from our fathers' ashes, what
is there left for us but pleasure or regret!- for you the first,
perhaps for me the last.'
The bright eyes of the Greek were suddenly suffused with tears.
'Ah, speak not, Arbaces,' he cried- 'speak not of our ancestors. Let
us forget that there were ever other liberties than those of Rome! And
Glory!- oh, vainly would we call her ghost from the fields of Marathon
and Thermopylae!'
'Thy heart rebukes thee while thou speakest,' said the Egyptian;
'and in thy gaieties this night, thou wilt be more mindful of Leoena
than of Lais. Vale!'
Thus saying, he gathered his robe around him, and slowly swept
away.
'I breathe more freely,' said Clodius. 'Imitating the Egyptians,
we sometimes introduce a skeleton at our feasts. In truth, the
presence of such an Egyptian as yon gliding shadow were spectre enough
to sour the richest grape of the Falernian.'
'Strange man! said Glaucus, musingly; 'yet dead though he seem
to pleasure, and cold to the objects of the world, scandal belies him,
or his house and his heart could tell a different tale.'
'Ah! there are whispers of other orgies than those of Osiris in
his gloomy mansion. He is rich, too, they say. Can we not get him
amongst us, and teach him the charms of dice? Pleasure of pleasures!
hot fever of hope and fear! inexpressible unjaded passion! how
fiercely beautiful thou art, O Gaming!'
'Inspired- inspired!' cried Glaucus, laughing; 'the oracle
speaks poetry in Clodius. What miracle next!'
Chapter III

PARENTAGE OF GLAUCUS. DESCRIPTION OF THE HOUSES OF POMPEII.
CLASSIC REVEL

HEAVEN had given to Glaucus every blessing but one: it had given
him beauty, health, fortune, genius, illustrious descent, a heart of
fire, a mind of poetry; but it had denied him the heritage of freedom.
He was born in Athens, the subject of Rome. Succeeding early to an
ample inheritance, he had indulged that inclination for travel so
natural to the young, and had drunk deep of the intoxicating draught
of pleasure amidst the gorgeous luxuries of the imperial court.
He was an Alcibiades without ambition. He was what a man of
imagination, youth, fortune, and talents, readily becomes when you
deprive him of the inspiration of glory. His house at Rome was the
theme of the debauchees, but also of the lovers of art; and the
sculptors of Greece delighted to task their skill in adorning the
porticoes and exedrae of an Athenian. His retreat in Pompeii- alas!
the colours are faded now, the walls stripped of their paintings!- its
main beauty, its elaborate finish of grace and ornament, is gone;
yet when first given once more to the day, what eulogies, what wonder,
did its minute and glowing decorations create- its paintings- its
mosaics! Passionately enamoured of poetry and the drama, which
recalled to Glaucus the wit and the heroism of his race, that fairy
mansion was adorned with representations of AEschylus and Homer. And
antiquaries, who resolve taste to a trade, have turned the patron to
the professor, and still (though the error is now acknowledged) they
style in custom, as they first named in mistake, the disburied house
of the Athenian Glaucus 'THE HOUSE OF THE DRAMATIC POET'.
Previous to our description of this house, it may be as well to
convey to the reader a general notion of the houses of Pompeii,
which he will find to resemble strongly the plans of Vitruvius; but
with all those differences in detail, of caprice and taste, which
being natural to mankind, have always puzzled antiquaries. We shall
endeavour to make this description as clear and unpedantic as
possible.
You enter then, usually, by a small entrance-passage (called
vestibulum), into a hall, sometimes with (but more frequently without)
the ornament of columns; around three sides of this hall are doors
communicating with several bedchambers (among which is the
porter's), the best of these being usually appropriated to country
visitors. At the extremity of the hall, on either side to the right
and left, if the house is large, there are two small recesses,
rather than chambers, generally devoted to the ladies of the
mansion; and in the centre of the tessellated pavement of the hall
is invariably a square, shallow reservoir for rain water
(classically termed impluvium), which was admitted by an aperture in
the roof above; the said aperture being covered at will by an
awning. Near this impluvium, which had a peculiar sanctity in the eyes
of the ancients, were sometimes (but at Pompeii more rarely than at
Rome) placed images of the household gods- the hospitable hearth,
often mentioned by the Roman poets, and consecrated to the Lares,
was at Pompeii almost invariably formed by a movable brazier; while in
some corner, often the most ostentatious place, was deposited a huge
wooden chest, ornamented and strengthened by bands of bronze or
iron, and secured by strong hooks upon a stone pedestal so firmly as
to defy the attempts of any robber to detach it from its position.
It is supposed that this chest was the money-box, or coffer, of the
master of the house; though as no money has been found in any of the
chests discovered at Pompeii, it is probable that it was sometimes
rather designed for ornament than use.
In this hall (or atrium, to speak classically) the clients and
visitors of inferior rank were usually received. In the houses of
the more 'respectable', an atriensis, or slave peculiarly devoted to
the service of the hall, was invariably retained, and his rank among
his fellow-slaves was high and important. The reservoir in the
centre must have been rather a dangerous ornament, but the centre of
the hall was like the grass-plot of a college, and interdicted to
the passers to and fro, who found ample space in the margin. Right
opposite the entrance, at the other end of the hall, was an
apartment (tablinum), in which the pavement was usually adorned with
rich mosaics, and the walls covered with elaborate paintings. Here
were usually kept the records of the family, or those of any public
office that had been filled by the owner: on one side of this
saloon, if we may so call it, was often a dining-room, or
triclinium; on the other side, perhaps, what we should now term a
cabinet of gems, containing whatever curiosities were deemed most rare
and costly; and invariably a small passage for the slaves to cross
to the further parts of the house, without passing the apartments thus
mentioned. These rooms all opened on a square or oblong colonnade,
technically termed peristyle. If the house was small, its boundary
ceased with this colonnade; and in that case its centre, however
diminutive, was ordinarily appropriated to the purpose of a garden,
and adorned with vases of flowers, placed upon pedestals: while, under
the colonnade, to the right and left, were doors admitting to
bedrooms, to a second triclinium, or eating-room (for the ancients
generally appropriated two rooms at least to that purpose, one for
summer, and one for winter- or, perhaps, one for ordinary, the other
for festive, occasions); and if the owner affected letters, a cabinet,
dignified by the name of library- for a very small room was sufficient
to 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. Supposing
the house was large, it did not end with the peristyle, and the centre
thereof was not in that case a garden, but might be, perhaps,
adorned with a fountain, or basin for fish; and at its end, exactly
opposite to the tablinum, was generally another eating-room, on either
side of which were bedrooms, and, perhaps, a picture-saloon, or
pinacotheca. These apartments communicated again with a square or
oblong space, usually adorned on three sides with a colonnade like the
peristyle, and very much resembling the peristyle, only usually
longer. This was the proper viridarium, or garden, being commonly
adorned with a fountain, or statues, and a profusion of gay flowers:
at its extreme end was the gardener's house; on either side, beneath
the colonnade, were sometimes, if the size of the family required
it, additional rooms.
At Pompeii, a second or third story was rarely of 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 contained the principal
eating-room (or caenaculum) on the second floor. The apartments
themselves were ordinarily of small size; for in those delightful
climes they received any extraordinary number 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 proportions; for the
intellectual ancients, being fond of society, not of crowds, rarely
feasted more than nine at a time, so that large dinner-rooms were
not so necessary with them as with us. But the suite of rooms seen
at once from the entrance, must have had a very imposing effect: you
beheld at once the hall richly paved and painted- the tablinum- the
graceful peristyle, and (if the house extended farther) the opposite
banquet-room and the garden, which closed the view with some gushing
fount or marble statue.
The reader will now have a tolerable notion of the Pompeian
houses, which resembled in some respects the Grecian, but mostly the
Roman fashion of domestic architecture. In almost every house there is
some difference in detail from the rest, but the principal outline
is the same in all. In all you find the hall, the tablinum, and the
peristyle, communicating with each other; in all you find the walls
richly painted; and all the evidence of a people fond of the
refining elegancies of life. The purity of the taste of the
Pompeians in decoration is, however, questionable: they were fond of
the gaudiest colours, of fantastic designs; they often painted the
lower half of their columns a bright red, leaving the rest uncoloured;
and where the garden was small, its wall was frequently tinted to
deceive the eye as to its extent, imitating trees, birds, temples,
etc., in perspective- a meretricious delusion which the graceful
pedantry of Pliny himself adopted, with a complacent pride in its
ingenuity.
But the house of Glaucus was at once one of the smallest, and
yet one of the most adorned and finished of all the private mansions
of Pompeii: it would be a model at this day for the house of 'a single
man in Mayfair'- the envy and despair of the coelibian purchasers of
buhl and marquetry.
You enter by a long and narrow vestibule, on the floor of which is
the image of a dog in mosaic, with the well-known 'Cave canem'- or
'Beware the dog'. On either side is a chamber of some size; for the
interior part of the house not being large enough to contain the two
great divisions of private and public apartments, these two rooms were
set apart for the reception of visitors who neither by rank nor
familiarity were entitled to admission in the penetralia of the
mansion.
Advancing up the vestibule you enter an atrium, that when first
discovered was rich in paintings, which in point of expression would
scarcely disgrace a Rafaele. You may see them now transplanted to
the Neapolitan Museum: they are still the admiration of
connoisseurs- they depict the parting of Achilles and Briseis. Who
does not acknowledge the force, the vigour, the beauty, employed in
delineating the forms and faces of Achilles and the immortal slave!
On one side the atrium, a small staircase admitted to the
apartments for the slaves on the second floor; there also were two
or three small bedrooms, the walls of which pourtrayed the rape of
Europa, the battle of the Amazons, etc.
You now enter the tablinum, across which, at either end, hung rich
draperies of Tyrian purple, half withdrawn. On the walls was
depicted a poet reading his verses to his friends; and in the pavement
was inserted a small and most exquisite mosaic, typical of the
instructions given by the director of the stage to his comedians.
You passed through this saloon and entered the peristyle; and here
(as I have said before was usually the case with the smaller houses of
Pompeii) the mansion ended. From each of the seven columns that
adorned this court hung festoons of garlands: the centre, supplying
the place of a garden, bloomed with the rarest flowers placed in vases
of white marble, that were supported on pedestals. At the left hand of
this small garden was a diminutive fane, resembling one of those small
chapels placed at the side of roads in Catholic countries, and
dedicated to the Penates; before it stood a bronzed tripod: to the
left of the colonnade were two small cubicula, or bedrooms; to the
right was the triclinium, in which the guests were now assembled.
This room is usually termed by the antiquaries of Naples 'The
Chamber of Leda'; and in the beautiful work of Sir William Gell, the
reader will find an engraving from that most delicate and graceful
painting of Leda presenting her newborn to her husband, from which the
room derives its name. This charming apartment opened upon the
fragrant garden. Round the table of citrean wood, highly polished
and delicately wrought with silver arabesques, were placed the three
couches, which were yet more common at Pompeii than the semicircular
seat that had grown lately into fashion at Rome: and on these
couches of bronze, studded with richer metals, were laid thick
quiltings covered with elaborate broidery, and yielding luxuriously to
the pressure.
'Well, I must own,' said the aedile Pansa, 'that your house,
though scarcely larger than a case for one's fibulae, is a gem of
its kind. How beautifully painted is that parting of Achilles and
Briseis!- what a style!- what heads!- what a-hem!'
'Praise from Pansa is indeed valuable on such subjects,' said
Clodius, gravely. 'Why, the paintings on his walls!- Ah! there is,
indeed, the hand of a Zeuxis!'
'You flatter me, my Clodius; indeed you do,' quoth the aedile, who
was celebrated through Pompeii for having the worst paintings in the
world; for he was patriotic, and patronised none but Pompeians. 'You
flatter me; but there is something pretty- AEdepol, yes- in the
colours, to say nothing of the design- and then for the kitchen, my
friends- ah! that was all my fancy.'
'What is the design?' said Glaucus. 'I have not yet seen your
kitchen, though I have often witnessed the excellence of its cheer.'
'A cook, my Athenian- a cook sacrificing the trophies of his skill
on the altar of Vesta, with a beautiful muraena (taken from the
life) on a spit at a distance- there is some invention there!'
At that instant the slaves appeared, bearing a tray covered with
the first preparative initia of the feast. Amidst delicious figs,
fresh herbs strewed with snow, anchovies, and eggs, were ranged
small cups of diluted wine sparingly mixed with honey. As these were
placed on the table, young slaves bore round to each of the five
guests (for there were no more) the silver basin of perfumed water,
and napkins edged with a purple fringe. But the aedile
ostentatiously drew forth his own napkin, which was not, indeed, of so
fine a linen, but in which the fringe was twice as broad, and wiped
his hands with the parade of a man who felt he was calling for
admiration.
'A splendid nappa that of yours,' said Clodius; 'why, the fringe
is as broad as a girdle!'
'A trifle, my Clodius: a trifle! They tell me this stripe is the
latest fashion at Rome; but Glaucus attends to these things more
than I.'
'Be propitious, O Bacchus!' said Glaucus, inclining
reverentially to a beautiful image of the god placed in the centre
of the table, at the corners of which stood the Lares and the
salt-holders. The guests followed the prayer, and then, sprinkling the
wine on the table, they performed the wonted libation.
This over, the convivialists reclined themselves on the couches,
and the business of the hour commenced.
'May this cup be my last!' said the young Sallust, as the table,
cleared of its first stimulants, was now loaded with the substantial
part of the entertainment, and the ministering slave poured forth to
him a brimming cyathus- 'May this cup be my last, but it is the best
wine I have drunk at Pompeii!'
'Bring hither the amphora,' said Glaucus, 'and read its date and
its character.'
The slave hastened to inform the party that the scroll fastened to
the cork betokened its birth from Chios, and its age a ripe fifty
years.
'How deliciously the snow has cooled it!' said Pansa. 'It is
just enough.'
'It is like the experience of a man who has cooled his pleasures
sufficiently to give them a double zest,' exclaimed Sallust.
'It is like a woman's "No",' added Glaucus: 'it cools, but to
inflame the more.'
'When is our next wild-beast fight?' said Clodius to Pansa.
'It stands fixed for the ninth ide of August,' answered Pansa: 'on
the day after the Vulcanalia- we have a most lovely young lion for the
occasion.'
'Whom shall we get for him to eat asked Clodius. 'Alas! there is a
great scarcity of criminals. You must positively find some innocent or
other to condemn to the lion, Pansa!' 'Indeed I have thought very
seriously about it of late,' replied the aedile, gravely. 'It was a
most infamous law that which forbade us to send our own slaves to
the wild beasts. Not to let us do what we like with our own, that's
what I call an infringement on property itself.'
'Not so in the good old days of the Republic,' sighed Sallust.
'And then this pretended mercy to the slaves is such a
disappointment to the poor people. How they do love to see a good
tough battle between a man and a lion; and all this innocent
pleasure they may lose (if the gods don't send us a good criminal
soon) from this cursed law!'
'What can be worse policy,' said Clodius, sententiously, 'than
to interfere with the manly amusements of the people?'
'Well thank Jupiter and the Fates! we have no Nero at present,'
said Sallust.
'He was, indeed, a tyrant; he shut up our amphitheatre for ten
years.'
'I wonder it did not create a rebellion,' said Sallust.
'It very nearly did,' returned Pansa, with his mouth full of
wild boar.
Here the conversation was interrupted for a moment by a flourish
of flutes, and two slaves entered with a single dish.
'Ah, what delicacy hast thou in store for us now, my Glaucus?'
cried the young Sallust, with sparkling eyes.
Sallust was only twenty-four, but he had no pleasure in life
like eating- perhaps he had exhausted all the others: yet had he
some talent, and an excellent heart- as far as it went.
'I know its face, by Pollux!' cried Pansa. 'It is an Ambracian
Kid. Ho (snapping his fingers, a usual signal to the slaves) we must
prepare a new libation in honour to the new-comer.'
'I had hoped said Glaucus, in a melancholy tone, 'to have procured
you some oysters from Britain; but the winds that were so cruel to
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
flavour; they want the richness of the Brundusium oyster. But, at
Rome, no supper is complete without them.'
'The poor Britons! There is some good in them after all,' said
Sallust. 'They produce an oyster.'
'I wish they would produce us a gladiator,' said the aedile, whose
provident mind was musing over the wants of the amphitheatre.
'By Pallas!' cried Glaucus, as his favourite slave crowned his
streaming locks with a new chaplet, 'I love these wild spectacles well
enough when beast fights beast; but when a man, one with bones and
blood like ours, is coldly put on the arena, and torn limb from
limb, the interest is too horrid: I sicken- I gasp for breath- I
long to rush and defend him. The yells of the populace seem to me more
dire than the voices of the Furies chasing Orestes. I rejoice that
there is so little chance of that bloody exhibition for our next
show!'
The aedile shrugged his shoulders. The young Sallust, who was
thought the best-natured man in Pompeii, stared in surprise. The
graceful Lepidus, who rarely spoke for fear of disturbing his
features, ejaculated 'Hercle!' The parasite Clodius muttered
'AEdepol!' and the sixth banqueter, who was the umbra of Clodius,
and whose duty it was to echo his richer friend, when he could not
praise him- the parasite of a parasite- muttered also 'AEdepol!'
'Well, you Italians are used to these spectacles; we Greeks are
more merciful. Ah, shade of Pindar!- the rapture of a true Grecian
game- the emulation of man against man- the generous strife- the
half-mournful triumph- so proud to contend with a noble foe, so sad to
see him overcome! But ye understand me not.'
'The kid is excellent,' said Sallust. The slave, whose duty it was
to carve, and who valued himself on his science, had just performed
that office on the kid to the sound of music, his knife keeping
time, beginning with a low tenor and accomplishing the arduous feat
amidst a magnificent diapason.
'Your cook is, of course, from Sicily?' said Pansa.
'Yes, of Syracuse.'
'I will play you for him,' said Clodius. 'We will have a game
between the courses.'
'Better that sort of game, certainly, than a beast fight; but I
cannot stake my Sicilian- you have nothing so precious to stake me
in return.'
'My Phillida- my beautiful dancing-girl!'
'I never buy women,' said the Greek, carelessly rearranging his
chaplet.
The musicians, who were stationed in the portico without, had
commenced their office with the kid; they now directed the melody into
a more soft, a more gay, yet it may be a more intellectual strain; and
they chanted that song of Horace beginning '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 entertainment of a gentleman, not an emperor or
a senator.
'Ah, good old Horace!' said Sallust, compassionately; 'he sang
well of feasts and girls, but not like our modern poets.'
'The immortal Fulvius, for instance,' said Clodius.
'Ah, Fulvius, the immortal!' said the umbra.
'And Spuraena; and Caius Mutius, who wrote three epics in a
year- could Horace do that, or Virgil either said Lepidus. 'Those
old poets all fell into the mistake of copying sculpture instead of
painting. Simplicity and repose- that was their notion; but we moderns
have fire, and passion, and energy- we never sleep, we imitate the
colours of painting, its life, and its action. Immortal Fulvius!'
'By the way,' said Sallust, 'have you seen the new ode by
Spuraena, in honour of our Egyptian Isis? It is magnificent- the
true religious fervour.'
'Isis seems a favourite divinity at Pompeii,' said Glaucus.
'Yes!' said Pansa, 'she is exceedingly in repute just at this
moment; her statue has been uttering the most remarkable oracles. I am
not superstitious, but I must confess that she has more than once
assisted me materially in my magistracy with her advice. Her priests
are so pious, too! none of your gay, none of your proud, ministers
of Jupiter and Fortune: they walk barefoot, eat no meat, and pass
the greater part of the night in solitary devotion!'
'An example to our other priesthoods, indeed!- Jupiter's temple
wants reforming sadly,' said Lepidus, who was a great reformer for all
but himself.
'They say that Arbaces the Egyptian has imparted some most
solemn mysteries to the priests of Isis,' observed Sallust. 'He boasts
his descent from the race of Rameses, and declares that in his
family the secrets of remotest antiquity are treasured.'
'He certainly possesses the gift of the evil eye,' said Clodius.
'If I ever come upon that Medusa front without the previous charm, I
am sure to lose a favourite horse, or throw the canes nine times
running.'
'The last would be indeed a miracle!' said Sallust, gravely.
'How mean you, Sallust?' returned the gamester, with a flushed
brow.
'I mean, what you would leave me if I played often with you; and
that is- nothing.'
Clodius answered only by a smile of disdain.
'If Arbaces were not so rich,' said Pansa, with a stately air,
'I should stretch my authority a little, and inquire into the truth of
the report which calls him an astrologer and a sorcerer. Agrippa, when
aedile of Rome, banished all such terrible citizens. But a rich man-
it is the duty of an aedile to protect the rich!'
'What think you of this new sect, which I am told has even a few
proselytes in Pompeii, these followers of the Hebrew God- Christus?'
'Oh, mere speculative visionaries,' said Clodius; 'they have not a
single gentleman amongst them; their proselytes are poor,
insignificant, ignorant people!'
'Who ought, however, to be crucified for their blasphemy,' said
Pansa, with vehemence; 'they deny Venus and Jove! Nazarene is but
another name for atheist. Let me catch them- that's all.'
The second course was gone- the feasters fell back on their
couches- there was a pause while they listened to the soft voices of
the South, and the music of the Arcadian reed. Glaucus was the most
rapt and the least inclined to break the silence, but Clodius began
already to think that they wasted time.
'Bene vobis! (Your health!) my Glaucus,' said he, quaffing a cup
to each letter of the Greek's name, with the ease of the practised
drinker. 'Will you not be avenged on your ill-fortune of yesterday?
See, the dice court us.'
'As you will,' said Glaucus.
'The dice in summer, and I an aedile!' said Pansa,
magisterially; 'it is against all law.'
'Not in your presence, grave Pansa,' returned Clodius, rattling
the dice in a long box; 'your presence restrains all license: it is
not the thing, but the excess of the thing, that hurts.'
'What wisdom!' muttered the umbra.
'Well, I will look another way,' said the aedile.
'Not yet, good Pansa; let us wait till we have supped,' said
Glaucus.
Clodius reluctantly yielded, concealing his vexation with a yawn.
'He gapes to devour the gold,' whispered Lepidus to Sallust, in
a quotation from the Aulularia of Plautus.
'Ah! how well I know these polypi, who hold all they touch,'
answered Sallust, in the same tone, and out of the same play.
The third course, consisting of a variety of fruits, pistachio
nuts, sweetmeats, tarts, and confectionery tortured into a thousand
fantastic and airy shapes, was now placed upon the table; and the
ministri, or attendants, also set there the wine (which had hitherto
been handed round to the guests) in large jugs of glass, each
bearing upon it the schedule of its age and quality.
'Taste this Lesbian, my Pansa,' said Sallust; 'it is excellent.'
'It is not very old said Glaucus, 'but it has been made
precocious, like ourselves, by being put to the fire:- the wine to the
flames of Vulcan- we to those of his wife- to whose honour I pour this
cup.'
'It is delicate,' said Pansa, 'but there is perhaps the least
particle too much of rosin in its flavour.'
'What a beautiful cup!' cried Clodius, taking up one of
transparent crystal, the handles of which were wrought with gems,
and twisted in the shape of serpents, the favourite fashion at
Pompeii.
'This ring,' said Glaucus, taking a costly jewel from the first
joint of his finger and hanging it on the handle, 'gives it a richer
show, and renders it less unworthy of thy acceptance, my Clodius, on
whom may the gods bestow health and fortune, long and oft to crown
it to the brim!'
'You are too generous, Glaucus,' said the gamester, handing the
cup to his slave; 'but your love gives it a double value.'
'This cup to the Graces!' said Pansa, and he thrice emptied his
calix. The guests followed his example.
'We have appointed no director to the feast,' cried Sallust.
'Let us throw for him, then,' said Clodius, rattling the dice-box.
'Nay,' cried Glaucus, 'no cold and trite director for us: no
dictator of the banquet; no rex convivii. Have not the Romans sworn
never to obey a king? Shall we be less free than your ancestors? Ho!
musicians, let us have the song I composed the other night: it has a
verse on this subject, "The Bacchic hymn of the Hours".'
The musicians struck their instruments to a wild Ionic air,
while the youngest voice in the band chanted forth, in Greek words, as
numbers, the following strain:-

THE EVENING HYMN OF THE HOURS

I

Through the summer day, through the weary day,
We have glided long;
Ere we speed to the Night through her portals grey,
Hail us with song!-
With song, with song,
With a bright and joyous song;
Such as the Cretan maid,
While the twilight made her bolder,
Woke, high through the ivy shade,
When the wine-god first consoled her.
From the hush'd, low-breathing skies,
Half-shut look'd their starry eyes,
And all around,
With a loving sound,
The AEgean waves were creeping:
On her lap lay the lynx's head;
Wild thyme was her bridal bed;
And aye through each tiny space,
In the green vine's green embrace
The Fauns were slily peeping-
The Fauns, the prying Fauns-
The arch, the laughing Fauns-
The Fauns were slily peeping!

II

Flagging and faint are we
With our ceaseless flight,
And dull shall our journey be
Through the realm of night,
Bathe us, O bathe our weary wings
In the purple wave, as it freshly springs
To your cups from the fount of light-
From the fount of light- from the fount of light,
For there, when the sun has gone down in night,
There in the bowl we find him.
The grape is the well of that summer sun,
Or rather the stream that he gazed upon,
Till he left in truth, like the Thespian youth,
His soul, as he gazed, behind him.

III

A cup to Jove, and a cup to Love,
And a cup to the son of Maia;
And honour with three, the band zone-free,
The band of the bright Aglaia.
But since every bud in the wreath of pleasure
Ye owe to the sister Hours,
No stinted cups, in a formal measure,
The Bromian law makes ours.
He honours us most who gives us most,
And boasts, with a Bacchanal's honest boast,
He never will count the treasure.
Fastly we fleet, then seize our wings,
And plunge us deep in the sparkling springs;
And aye, as we rise with a dripping plume,
We'll scatter the spray round the garland's bloom;
We glow- we glow,
Behold, as the girls of the Eastern wave
Bore once with a shout to the crystal cave
The prize of the Mysian Hylas,
Even so- even so,
We have caught the young god in our warm embrace
We hurry him on in our laughing race;
We hurry him on, with a whoop and song,
The cloudy rivers of night along-
Ho, ho!- we have caught thee, Psilas!

The guests applauded loudly. When the poet is your host, his
verses are sure to charm.
'Thoroughly Greek,' said Lepidus: 'the wildness, force, and energy
of that tongue, it is impossible to imitate in the Roman poetry.'
'It is, indeed, a great contrast,' said Clodius, ironically at
heart, though not in appearance, 'to the old-fashioned and tame
simplicity of that ode of Horace which we heard before. The air is
beautifully Ionic: the word puts me in mind of a toast- Companions,
I give you the beautiful Ione.'
'Ione!- the name is Greek,' said Glaucus, in a soft voice. 'I
drink the health with delight. But who is Ione?'
'Ah! you have but just come to Pompeii, or you would deserve
ostracism for your ignorance,' said Lepidus, conceitedly; 'not to know
Ione, is not to know the chief charm of our city.'
'She is of the most rare beauty,' said Pansa; 'and what a voice!'
'She can feed only on nightingales' tongues,' said Clodius.
'Nightingales' tongues!- beautiful thought!' sighed the umbra.
'Enlighten me, I beseech you,' said Glaucus.
'Know then...' began Lepidus.
'Let me speak,' cried Clodius; 'you drawl out your words as if you
spoke tortoises.'
'And you speak stones,' muttered the coxcomb to himself, as he
fell back disdainfully on his couch.
'Know then, my Glaucus,' said Clodius, 'that Ione is a stranger
who has but lately come to Pompeii. She sings like Sappho, and her
songs are her own composing; and as for the tibia, and the cithara,
and the lyre, I know not in which she most outdoes the Muses. Her
beauty is most dazzling. Her house is perfect; such taste- such
gems- such bronzes! She is rich, and generous as she is rich.'
'Her lovers, of course,' said Glaucus, 'take care that she does
not starve; and money lightly won is always lavishly spent.'
'Her lovers- ah, there is the enigma!- Ione has but one vice-
she is chaste. She has all Pompeii at her feet, and she has no lovers:
she will not even marry.'
'No lovers!' echoed Glaucus.
'No; she has the soul of Vestal with the girdle of Venus.'
'What refined expressions!' said the umbra.
'A miracle!' cried Glaucus. 'Can we not see her?'
'I will take you there this evening, said Clodius;
'meanwhile...' added he, once more rattling the dice.
'I am yours!' said the complaisant Glaucus. 'Pansa, turn your
face!'
Lepidus and Sallust played at odd and even, and the umbra looked
on, while Glaucus and Clodius became gradually absorbed in the chances
of the dice.
'By Pollux!' cried Glaucus, 'this is the second time I have thrown
the caniculae' (the lowest throw).
'Now Venus befriend me!' said Clodius, rattling the box for
several moments. 'O Alma Venus- it is Venus herself!' as he threw
the highest cast, named from that goddess- whom he who wins money,
indeed, usually propitiates!
'Venus is ungrateful to me,' said Glaucus, gaily; 'I have always
sacrificed on her altar.'
'He who plays with Clodius,' whispered Lepidus, 'will soon, like
Plautus's Curculio, put his pallium for the stakes.'
'Poor Glaucus!- he is as blind as Fortune herself,' replied
Sallust, in the same tone.
'I will play no more,' said Glaucus; have lost thirty sestertia.'
'I am sorry...' began Clodius.
'Amiable man!' groaned the umbra.
'Not at all!' exclaimed Glaucus; 'the pleasure I take in your gain
compensates the pain of my loss.'
The conversation now grew general and animated; the wine
circulated more freely; and Ione once more became the subject of
eulogy to the guests of Glaucus.
'Instead of outwatching the stars, let us visit one at whose
beauty the stars grow pale,' said Lepidus.
Clodius, who saw no chance of renewing the dice, seconded the
proposal; and Glaucus, though he civilly pressed his guests to
continue the banquet, could not but let them see that his curiosity
had been excited by the praises of Ione: they therefore resolved to
adjourn (all, at least, but Pansa and the umbra) to the house of the
fair Greek. They drank, therefore, to the health of Glaucus and of
Titus- they performed their last libation- they resumed their
slippers- they descended the stairs- passed the illumined atrium-
and walking unbitten over the fierce dog painted on the threshold,
found themselves beneath the light of the moon just risen, in the
lively and still crowded streets of Pompeii.
They passed the jewellers' quarter, sparkling with lights,
caught and reflected by the gems displayed in the shops, and arrived
at last at the door of Ione. The vestibule blazed with rows of
lamps; curtains of embroidered purple hung on either aperture of the
tablinum, whose walls and mosaic pavement glowed with the richest
colours of the artist; and under the portico which surrounded the
odorous viridarium they found Ione, already surrounded by adoring
and applauding guests!
'Did you say she was Athenian?' whispered Glaucus, ere he passed
into the peristyle.
'No, she is from Neapolis.'
'Neapolis!' echoed Glaucus; and at that moment the group, dividing
on either side of Ione, gave to his view that bright, that
nymph-like beauty, which for months had shone down upon the waters
of his memory.
Chapter IV

THE TEMPLE OF ISIS. ITS PRIEST. THE CHARACTER OF ARBACES
DEVELOPS ITSELF

THE story returns to the Egyptian. We left Arbaces upon the shores
of the noonday sea, after he had parted from Glaucus and his
companion. As he approached to the more crowded part of the bay, he
paused and gazed upon that animated scene with folded arms, and a
bitter smile upon his dark features.
'Gulls, dupes, fools, that ye are!' muttered he to himself;
'whether business or pleasure, trade or religion, be your pursuit, you
are equally cheated by the passions that ye should rule! How I could
loathe you, if I did not hate- yes, hate! Greek or Roman, it is from
us, from the dark lore of Egypt, that ye have stolen the fire that
gives you souls. Your knowledge- your poesy- your laws- your arts-
your barbarous mastery of war (all how tame and mutilated, when
compared with the vast original!)- ye have filched, as a slave filches
the fragments of the feast, from us! And now, ye mimics of a mimic!-
Romans, forsooth! the mushroom herd of robbers! ye are our masters!
the pyramids look down no more on the race of Rameses- the eagle
cowers over the serpent of the Nile. Our masters- no, not mine. My
soul, by the power of its wisdom, controls and chains you, though
the fetters are unseen. So long as craft can master force, so long
as religion has a cave from which oracles can dupe mankind, the wise
hold an empire over earth. Even from your vices Arbaces distils his
pleasures- pleasures unprofaned by vulgar eyes- pleasures vast,
wealthy, inexhaustible, of which your enervate minds, in their
unimaginative sensuality, cannot conceive or dream! Plod on, plod
on, fools of ambition and of avarice! your petty thirst for fasces and
quaestorships, and all the mummery of servile power, provokes my
laughter and my scorn. My power can extend wherever man believes. I
ride over the souls that the purple veils. Thebes may fall, Egypt be a
name; the world itself furnishes the subjects of Arbaces.'
Thus saying, the Egyptian moved slowly on; and, entering the town,
his tall figure towered above the crowded throng of the forum, and
swept towards the small but graceful temple consecrated to Isis.
That edifice was then but of recent erection; the ancient temple
had been thrown down in the earthquake sixteen years before, and the
new building had become as much in vogue with the versatile
Pompeians as a new church or a new preacher may be with us. The
oracles of the goddess at Pompeii were indeed remarkable, not more for
the mysterious language in which they were clothed, than for the
credit which was attached to their mandates and predictions. If they
were not dictated by a divinity, they were framed at least by a
profound knowledge of mankind; they applied themselves exactly to
the circumstances of individuals, and made a notable contrast to the
vague and loose generalities of their rival temples. As Arbaces now
arrived at the rails which separated the profane from the sacred
place, a crowd, composed of all classes, but especially of the
commercial, collected, breathless and reverential, before the many
altars which rose in the open court. In the walls of the cella,
elevated on seven steps of Parian marble, various statues stood in
niches, and those walls were ornamented with the pomegranate
consecrated to Isis. An oblong pedestal occupied the interior
building, on which stood two statues, one of Isis, and its companion
represented the silent and mystic Orus. But the building contained
many other deities to grace the court of the Egyptian deity: her
kindred and many-titled Bacchus, and the Cyprian Venus, a Grecian
disguise for herself, rising from her bath, and the dog-headed Anubis,
and the ox Apis, and various Egyptian idols of uncouth form and
unknown appellations.
But we must not suppose that among the cities of Magna Graecia,
Isis was worshipped with those forms and ceremonies which were of
right her own. The mongrel and modern nations of the South, with a
mingled arrogance and ignorance, confounded the worships of all climes
and ages. And the profound mysteries of the Nile were degraded by a
hundred meretricious and frivolous admixtures from the creeds of
Cephisus and of Tibur. The temple of Isis in Pompeii was served by
Roman and Greek priests, ignorant alike of the language and the
customs of her ancient votaries; and the descendant of the dread
Egyptian kings, beneath the appearance of reverential awe, secretly
laughed to scorn the puny mummeries which imitated the solemn and
typical worship of his burning clime.
Ranged now on either side the steps was the sacrificial crowd,
arrayed in white garments, while at the summit stood two of the
inferior priests, the one holding a palm branch, the other a slender
sheaf of corn. In the narrow passage in front thronged the bystanders.
'And what,' whispered Arbaces to one of the bystanders, who was
a merchant engaged in the Alexandrian trade, which trade had
probably first introduced in Pompeii the worship of the Egyptian
goddess- 'what occasion now assembles you before the altars of the
venerable Isis? It seems, by the white robes of the group before me,
that a sacrifice is to be rendered; and by the assembly of the
priests, that ye are prepared for some oracle. To what question is
it to vouchsafe a reply?'
'We are merchants,' replied the bystander (who was no other than
Diomed) in the same voice, 'who seek to know the fate of our
vessels, which sail for Alexandria to-morrow. We are about to offer up
a sacrifice and implore an answer from the goddess. I am not one of
those who have petitioned the priest to sacrifice, as you may see by
my dress, but I have some interest in the success of the fleet- by
Jupiter! yes. I have a pretty trade, else how could I live in these
hard times?
The Egyptian replied gravely- 'That though Isis was properly the
goddess of agriculture, she was no less the patron of commerce.'
Then turning his head towards the east, Arbaces seemed absorbed in
silent prayer.
And now in the centre of the steps appeared a priest robed in
white from head to foot, the veil parting over the crown; two new
priests relieved those hitherto stationed at either corner, being
naked half-way down to the breast, and covered, for the rest, in white
and loose robes. At the same time, seated at the bottom of the
steps, a priest commenced a solemn air upon a long wind-instrument
of music. Half-way down the steps stood another flamen, holding in one
hand the votive wreath, in the other a white wand; while, adding to
the picturesque scene of that eastern ceremony, the stately ibis (bird
sacred to the Egyptian worship) looked mutely down from the wall
upon the rite, or stalked beside the altar at the base of the steps.
At that altar now stood the sacrificial flamen.
The countenance of Arbaces seemed to lose all its rigid calm while
the aruspices inspected the entrails, and to be intent in pious
anxiety- to rejoice and brighten as the signs were declared
favourable, and the fire began bright and clearly to consume the
sacred portion of the victim amidst odours of myrrh and
frankincense. It was then that a dead silence fell over the whispering
crowd, and the priests gathering round the cella, another priest,
naked save by a cincture round the middle, rushed forward, and dancing
with wild gestures, implored an answer from the goddess. He ceased
at last in exhaustion, and a low murmuring noise was heard within
the body of the statue: thrice the head moved, and the lips parted,
and then a hollow voice uttered these mystic words:

There are waves like chargers that meet and glow,
There are graves ready wrought in the rocks below,
On the brow of the future the dangers lour,
But blest are your barks in the fearful hour.

The voice ceased- the crowd breathed more freely- the merchants
looked at each other. 'Nothing can be more plain,' murmured Diomed;
'there is to be a storm at sea, as there very often is at the
beginning of autumn, but our vessels are to be saved. O beneficent
Isis!'
'Lauded eternally be the goddess!' said the merchants: 'what can
be less equivocal than her prediction?'
Raising one hand in sign of silence to the people, for the rites
of Isis enjoined what to the lively Pompeians was an impossible
suspense from the use of the vocal organs, the chief priest poured his
libation on the altar, and after a short concluding prayer the
ceremony was over, and the congregation dismissed. Still, however,
as the crowd dispersed themselves here and there, the Egyptian
lingered by the railing, and when the space became tolerably
cleared, one of the priests, approaching it, saluted him with great
appearance of friendly familiarity.
The countenance of the priest was remarkably unprepossessing-
his shaven skull was so low and narrow in the front as nearly to
approach to the conformation of that of an African savage, save only
towards the temples, where, in that organ styled acquisitiveness by
the pupils of a science modern in name, but best practically known (as
their sculpture teaches us) amongst the ancients, two huge and
almost preternatural protuberances yet more distorted the unshapely
head- around the brows the skin was puckered into a web of deep and
intricate wrinkles- the eyes, dark and small, rolled in a muddy and
yellow orbit- the nose, short yet coarse, was distended at the
nostrils like a satyr's- and the thick but pallid lips, the high
cheek-bones, the livid and motley hues that struggled through the
parchment skin, completed a countenance which none could behold
without repugnance, and few without terror and distrust: whatever
the wishes of the mind, the animal frame was well fitted to execute
them; the wiry muscles of the throat, the broad chest, the nervous
hands and lean gaunt arms, which were bared above the elbow, betokened
a form capable alike of great active exertion and passive endurance.
'Calenus,' said the Egyptian to this fascinating flamen, 'you have
improved the voice of the statue much by attending to my suggestion;
and your verses are excellent. Always prophesy good fortune, unless
there is an absolute impossibility of its fulfilment.'
'Besides,' added Calenus, 'if the storm does come, and if it
does overwhelm the accursed ships, have we not prophesied it? and
are the barks not blest to be at rest?- for rest prays the mariner
in the AEgean sea, or at least so says Horace- can the mariner be more
at rest in the sea than when he is at the bottom of it?'
'Right, my Calenus; I wish Apaecides would take a lesson from your
wisdom. But I desire to confer with you relative to him and to other
matters: you can admit me into one of your less sacred apartments?'
'Assuredly,' replied the priest, leading the way to one of the
small chambers which surrounded the open gate. Here they seated
themselves before a small table spread with dishes containing fruit
and eggs, and various cold meats, with vases of excellent wine, of
which while the companions partook, a curtain, drawn across the
entrance opening to the court, concealed them from view, but
admonished them by the thinness of the partition to speak low, or to
speak no secrets: they chose the former alternative.
'Thou knowest,' said Arbaces, in a voice that scarcely stirred the
air, so soft and inward was its sound, 'that it has ever been my maxim
to attach myself to the young. From their flexile and unformed minds I
can carve out my fittest tools. I weave- I warp- I mould them at my
will. Of the men I make merely followers or servants; of the women...'
'Mistresses,' said Calenus, as a livid grin distorted his ungainly
features.
'Yes, I do not disguise it: woman is the main object, the great
appetite, of my soul. As you feed the victim for the slaughter, I love
to rear the votaries of my 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 Ione and
Apaecides, brother and sister, the children of Athenians who had
settled at Neapolis. The death of their parents, who knew and esteemed
me, constituted me their guardian. I was not unmindful of the trust.
The youth, docile and mild, yielded readily to the impression I sought
to stamp upon him. Next to woman, I love the old recollections of my
ancestral land; I love to keep alive- to propagate on distant shores
(which her colonies perchance yet people) her dark and mystic
creeds. It may be, that it pleases me to delude mankind, while I
thus serve the deities. To Apaecides I taught the solemn faith of
Isis. I unfolded to him something of those sublime allegories which
are couched beneath her worship. I excited in a soul peculiarly
alive to religious fervour that enthusiasm which imagination begets on
faith. I have placed him amongst you: he is one of you.'
'He is so,' said Calenus: 'but in thus stimulating his faith,
you have robbed him of wisdom. He is horror-struck that he is no
longer duped: our sage delusions, our speaking statues and secret
staircases dismay and revolt him; he pines; he wastes away; he mutters
to himself; he refuses to share our ceremonies. He has been known to
frequent the company of men suspected of adherence to that new and
atheistical creed which denies all our gods, and terms our oracles the
inspirations of that malevolent spirit of which eastern tradition
speaks. Our oracles- alas! we know well whose inspirations they are!'
'This is what I feared,' said Arbaces, musingly, 'from various
reproaches he made me when I last saw him. Of late he hath shunned
my steps. I must find him: I must continue my lessons: I must lead him
into the adytum of Wisdom. I must teach him that there are two
stages of sanctity- the first, FAITH- the next, DELUSION; the one
for the vulgar, the second for the sage.'
'I never passed through the first, I said Calenus; 'nor you
either, I think, my Arbaces.'
'You err,' replied the Egyptian, gravely. 'I believe at this day
(not indeed that which I teach, but that which I teach not). Nature
has a sanctity against which I cannot (nor would I) steel
conviction. I believe in mine own knowledge, and that has revealed
to me- but no matter. Now to earthlier and more inviting themes. If
I thus fulfilled my object with Apaecides, what was my design for
Ione? Thou knowest already I intend her for my queen- my bride- my
heart's Isis. Never till I saw her knew I all the love of which my
nature is capable.'
'I hear from a thousand lips that she is a second Helen,' said
Calenus; and he smacked his own lips, but whether at the wine or at
the notion it is not easy to decide.
'Yes, she has a beauty that Greece itself never excelled,' resumed
Arbaces. 'But that is not all: she has a soul worthy to match with
mine. She has a genius beyond that of woman- keen- dazzling- bold.
Poetry flows spontaneous to her lips: utter but a truth, and,
however intricate and profound, her mind seizes and commands it. Her
imagination and her reason are not at war with each other; they
harmonise and direct her course as the winds and the waves direct some
lofty bark. With this she unites a daring independence of thought; she
can stand alone in the world; she can be brave as she is gentle;
this is the nature I have sought all my life in woman, and never found
till now. Ione must be mine! In her I have a double passion; I wish to
enjoy a beauty of spirit as of form.'
'She is not yours yet, then?' said the priest.
'No; she loves me- but as a friend- she loves me with her mind
only. She fancies in me the paltry virtues which I have only the
profounder virtue to disdain. But you must pursue with me her history.
The brother and sister were young and rich: Ione is proud and
ambitious- proud of her genius- the magic of her poetry- the charm
of her conversation. When her brother left me, and entered your
temple, in order to be near him she removed also to Pompeii. She has
suffered her talents to be known. She summons crowds to her feasts;
her voice enchants them; her poetry subdues. She delights in being
thought the successor of Erinna.'
'Or of Sappho?'
'But Sappho without love! I encouraged her in this boldness of
career- in this indulgence of vanity and of pleasure. I loved to steep
her amidst the dissipations and luxury of this abandoned city. Mark
me, Calenus! I desired to enervate her mind!- it has been too pure
to receive yet the breath which I wish not to pass, but burningly to
eat into, the mirror. I wished her to be surrounded by lovers, hollow,
vain, and frivolous (lovers that her nature must despise), in order to
feel the want of love. Then, in those soft intervals of lassitude that
succeed to excitement- I can weave my spells- excite her interest-
attract her passions- possess myself of her heart. For it is not the
young, nor the beautiful, nor the gay, that should fascinate Ione; her
imagination must be won, and the life of Arbaces has been one scene of
triumph over the imaginations of his kind.'
'And hast thou no fear, then, of thy rivals? The gallants of Italy
are skilled in the art to please.'
'None! Her Greek soul despises the barbarian Romans, and would
scorn itself if it admitted a thought of love for one of that
upstart race.'
'But thou art an Egyptian, not a Greek!'
'Egypt,' replied Arbaces, 'is the mother of Athens. Her tutelary
Minerva is our deity; and her founder, Cecrops, was the fugitive of
Egyptian Sais. This have I already taught to her; and in my blood
she venerates the eldest dynasties of earth. But yet I will own that
of late some uneasy suspicions have crossed my mind. She is more
silent than she used to be; she loves melancholy and subduing music;
she sighs without an outward cause. This may be the beginning of love-
it may be the want of love. In either case it is time for me to
begin my operations on her fancies and her heart: in the one case,
to divert the source of love to me; in the other, in me to awaken
it. It is for this that I have sought you.'
'And how can I assist you?'
'I am about to invite her to a feast in my house: I wish to
dazzle- to bewilder- to inflame her senses. Our arts- the arts by
which Egypt trained her young novitiates- must be employed; and, under
veil of the mysteries of religion, I will open to her the secrets of
love.'
'Ah! now I understand:- one of those voluptuous banquets that,
despite our dull vows of mortified coldness, we, the priests of
Isis, have shared at thy house.'
'No, no! Thinkest thou her chaste eyes are ripe for such scenes?
No; but first we must ensnare the brother- an easier task. Listen to
me, while I give you my instructions.'
Chapter V

MORE OF THE FLOWER-GIRL. THE PROGRESS OF LOVE

THE sun shone gaily into that beautiful chamber in the house of
Glaucus, which I have before said is now called the Room of Leda'. The
morning rays entered through rows of small casements at the higher
part of the room, and through the door which opened on the garden,
that answered to the inhabitants of the southern cities the same
purpose that a greenhouse or conservatory does to us. The size of
the garden did not adapt it for exercise, but the various and fragrant
plants with which it was filled gave a luxury to that indolence so
dear to the dwellers in a sunny clime. And now the odours, fanned by a
gentle wind creeping from the adjacent sea, scattered themselves
over that chamber, whose walls vied with the richest colours of the
most glowing flowers. Besides the gem of the room- the painting of
Leda and Tyndarus- in the centre of each compartment of the walls were
set other pictures of exquisite beauty. In one you saw Cupid leaning
on the knees of Venus; in another Ariadne sleeping on the beach,
unconscious of the perfidy of Theseus. Merrily the sunbeams played
to and fro on the tessellated floor and the brilliant walls- far
more happily came the rays of joy to the heart of the young Glaucus.
'I have seen her, then,' said he, as he paced that narrow chamber-
'I have heard her- nay, I have spoken to her again- I have listened to
the music of her song, and she sung of glory and of Greece. I have
discovered the long-sought idol of my dreams; and like the Cyprian
sculptor, I have breathed life into my own imaginings.'
Longer, perhaps, had been the enamoured soliloquy of Glaucus,
but at that moment a shadow darkened the threshold of the chamber, and
a young female, still half a child in years, broke upon his
solitude. She was dressed simply in a white tunic, which reached
from the neck to the ankles; under her arm she bore a basket of
flowers, and in the other hand she held a bronze water-vase; her
features were more formed than exactly became her years, yet they were
soft and feminine in their outline, and without being beautiful in
themselves, they were almost made so by their beauty of expression;
there was something ineffably gentle, and you would say patient, in
her aspect. A look of resigned sorrow, of tranquil endurance, had
banished the smile, but not the sweetness, from her lips; something
timid and cautious in her step- something wandering in her eyes, led
you to suspect the affliction which she had suffered from her birth-
she was blind; but in the orbs themselves there was no visible defect-
their melancholy and subdued light was clear, cloudless, and serene.
'They tell me that Glaucus is here,' said she; 'may I come in?'
'Ah, my Nydia,' said the Greek, 'is that you I knew you would
not neglect my invitation.'
'Glaucus did but justice to himself,' answered Nydia, with a
blush; 'for he has always been kind to the poor blind girl.'
'Who could be otherwise?' said Glaucus, tenderly, and in the voice
of a compassionate brother.
Nydia sighed and paused before she resumed, without replying to
his remark. 'You have but lately returned?'
'This is the sixth sun that hath shone upon me at Pompeii.'
'And you are well? Ah, I need not ask- for who that sees the
earth, which they tell me is so beautiful, can be ill?'
'I am well. And you, Nydia- how you have grown! Next year you will
be thinking what answer to make your lovers.'
A second blush passed over the cheek of Nydia, but this time she
frowned as she blushed. 'I have brought you some flowers,' said she,
without replying to a remark that she seemed to resent; and feeling
about the room till she found the table that stood by Glaucus, she
laid the basket upon it: 'they are poor, but they are fresh-gathered.'
'They might come from Flora herself,' said he, kindly; 'and I
renew again my vow to the Graces, that I will wear no other garlands
while thy hands can weave me such as these.'
'And how find you the flowers in your viridarium?- are they
thriving?'
'Wonderfully so- the Lares themselves must have tended them.'
'Ah, now you give me pleasure; for I came, as often as I could
steal the leisure, to water and tend them in your absence.'
'How shall I thank thee, fair Nydia?' said the Greek. 'Glaucus
little dreamed that he left one memory so watchful over his favourites
at Pompeii.'
The hand of the child trembled, and her breast heaved beneath
her tunic. She turned round in embarrassment. 'The sun is hot for
the poor flowers,' said she, 'to-day and they will miss me; for I have
been ill lately, and it is nine days since I visited them.'
'Ill, Nydia!- yet your cheek has more colour than it had last
year.'
'I am often ailing,' said the blind girl, touchingly; 'and as I
grow up I grieve more that I am blind. But now to the flowers!' So
saying, she made a slight reverence with her head, and passing into
the viridarium, busied herself with watering the flowers.
'Poor Nydia,' thought Glaucus, gazing on her; 'thine is a hard
doom! Thou seest not the earth- nor the sun- nor the ocean- nor the
stars- above all, thou canst not behold Ione.'
At that last thought his mind flew back to the past evening, and
was a second time disturbed in its reveries by the entrance of
Clodius. It was a proof how much a single evening had sufficed to
increase and to refine the love of the Athenian for Ione, that whereas
he had confided to Clodius the secret of his first interview with her,
and the effect it had produced on him, he now felt an invincible
aversion even to mention to him her name. He had seen Ione, bright,
pure, unsullied, in the midst of the gayest and most profligate
gallants of Pompeii, charming rather than awing the boldest into
respect, and changing the very nature of the most sensual and the
least ideal- as by her intellectual and refining spells she reversed
the fable of Circe, and converted the animals into men. They who could
not understand her soul were made spiritual, as it were, by the
magic of her beauty- they who had no heart for poetry had ears, at
least, for the melody of her voice. Seeing her thus surrounded,
purifying and brightening all things with her presence, Glaucus almost
for the first time felt the nobleness of his own nature- he felt how
unworthy of the goddess of his dreams had been his companions and
his pursuits. A veil seemed lifted from his eyes; he saw that
immeasurable distance between himself and his associates which the
deceiving mists of pleasure had hitherto concealed; he was refined
by a sense of his courage in aspiring to Ione. He felt that henceforth
it was his destiny to look upward and to soar. He could no longer
breathe that name, which sounded to the sense of his ardent fancy as
something sacred and divine, to lewd and vulgar ears. She was no
longer the beautiful girl once seen and passionately remembered- she
was already the mistress, the divinity of his soul. This feeling who
has not experienced?- If thou hast not, then thou hast never loved.
When Clodius therefore spoke to him in affected transport of the
beauty of Ione, Glaucus felt only resentment and disgust that such
lips should dare to praise her; he answered coldly, and the Roman
imagined that his passion was cured instead of heightened. Clodius
scarcely regretted it, for he was anxious that Glaucus should marry an
heiress yet more richly endowed- Julia, the daughter of the wealthy
Diomed, whose gold the gamester imagined he could readily divert
into his own coffers. Their conversation did not flow with its usual
ease; and no sooner had Clodius left him than Glaucus bent his way
to the house of Ione. In passing by the threshold he again encountered
Nydia, who had finished her graceful task. She knew his step on the
instant.
'You are early abroad?' said she.
'Yes; for the skies of Campania rebuke the sluggard who neglects
them.'
'Ah, would I could see them!' murmured the blind girl, but so
low that Glaucus did not overhear the complaint.
The Thessalian lingered on the threshold a few moments, and then
guiding her steps by a long staff, which she used with great
dexterity, she took her way homeward. She soon turned from the more
gaudy streets, and entered a quarter of the town but little loved by
the decorous and the sober. But from the low and rude evidences of
vice around her she was saved by her misfortune. And at that hour
the streets were quiet and silent, nor was her youthful ear shocked by
the sounds which too often broke along the obscene and obscure
haunts she patiently and sadly traversed.
She knocked at the back-door of a sort of tavern; it opened, and a
rude voice bade her give an account of the sesterces. Ere she could
reply, another voice, less vulgarly accented, said:
'Never mind those petty profits, my Burbo. The girl's voice will
be wanted again soon at our rich friend's revels; and he pays, as thou
knowest, pretty high for his nightingales' tongues.
'Oh, I hope not- I trust not,' cried Nydia, trembling. 'I will beg
from sunrise to sunset, but send me not there.'
'And why?' asked the same voice.
'Because- because I am young, and delicately born, and the
female companions I meet there are not fit associates for one who-
who...'
'Is a slave in the house of Burbo,' returned the voice ironically,
and with a coarse laugh.
The Thessalian put down the flowers, and, leaning her face on
her hands, wept silently.
Meanwhile, Glaucus sought the house of the beautiful Neapolitan.
He found Ione sitting amidst her attendants, who were at work around
her. Her harp stood at her side, for Ione herself was unusually
idle, perhaps unusually thoughtful, that day. He thought her even more
beautiful by the morning light and in her simple robe, than amidst the
blazing lamps, and decorated with the costly jewels of the previous
night: not the less so from a certain paleness that overspread her
transparent hues- not the less so from the blush that mounted over
them when he approached. Accustomed to flatter, flattery died upon his
lips when he addressed Ione. He felt it beneath her to utter the
homage which every look conveyed. They spoke of Greece; this was a
theme on which Ione loved rather to listen than to converse: it was
a theme on which the Greek could have been eloquent for ever. He
described to her the silver olive groves that yet clad the banks of
Ilyssus, and the temples, already despoiled of half their glories- but
how beautiful in decay! He looked back on the melancholy city of
Harmodius the free, and Pericles the magnificent, from the height of
that distant memory, which mellowed into one hazy light all the
ruder and darker shades. He had seen the land of poetry chiefly in the
poetical age of early youth; and the associations of patriotism were
blended with those of the flush and spring of life. And Ione
listened to him, absorbed and mute; dearer were those accents, and
those descriptions, than all the prodigal adulation of her
numberless adorers. Was it a sin to love her countryman? she loved
Athens in him- the gods of her race, the land of her dreams, spoke
to her in his voice! From that time they daily saw each other. At
the cool of the evening they made excursions on the placid sea. By
night they met again in Ione's porticoes and halls. Their love was
sudden, but it was strong; it filled all the sources of their life.
Heart- brain- sense- imagination, all were its ministers and
priests. As you take some obstacle from two objects that have a mutual
attraction, they met, and united at once; their wonder was, that
they had lived separate so long. And it was natural that they should
so love. Young, beautiful, and gifted- of the same birth, and the same
soul- there was poetry in their very union. They imagined the
heavens smiled upon their affection. As the persecuted seek refuge
at the shrine, so they recognised in the altar of their love an asylum
from the sorrows of earth; they covered it with flowers- they knew not
of the serpents that lay coiled behind.
One evening, the fifth after their first meeting at Pompeii,
Glaucus and Ione, with a small party of chosen friends, were returning
from an excursion round the bay; their vessel skimmed lightly over the
twilight waters, whose lucid mirror was only broken by the dripping
oars. As the rest of the party conversed gaily with each other,
Glaucus lay at the feet of Ione, and he would have looked up in her
face, but he did not dare. Ione broke the pause between them.
'My poor brother,' said she, sighing, 'how once he would have
enjoyed this hour!'
'Your brother!' said Glaucus; 'I have not seen him. Occupied
with you, I have thought of nothing else, or I should have asked if
that was not your brother for whose companionship you left me at the
Temple of Minerva, in Neapolis?'
'It was.'
'And is he here?'
'He is.
'At Pompeii! and not constantly with you? Impossible!'
'He has other duties,' answered Ione, sadly; 'he is a priest of
Isis.'
'So young, too; and that priesthood, in its laws at least, so
severe!' said the warm and bright-hearted Greek, in surprise and pity.
'What could have been his inducement?'
'He was always enthusiastic and fervent in religious devotion: and
the eloquence of an Egyptian- our friend and guardian- kindled in
him the pious desire to consecrate his life to the most mystic of
our deities. Perhaps in the intenseness of his zeal, he found in the
severity of that peculiar priesthood its peculiar attraction.'
'And he does not repent his choice?- I trust he is happy.'
Ione sighed deeply, and lowered her veil over her eyes.
'I wish,' said she, after a pause, 'that he had not been so hasty.
Perhaps, like all who expect too much, he is revolted too easily!'
'Then he is not happy in his new condition. And this Egyptian, was
he a priest himself? was he interested in recruits to the sacred band?
'No. His main interest was in our happiness. He thought he
promoted that of my brother. We were left orphans.'
'Like myself,' said Glaucus, with a deep meaning in his voice.
Ione cast down her eyes as she resumed:
'And Arbaces sought to supply the place of our parent. You must
know him. He loves genius.'
'Arbaces! I know him already; at least, we speak when we meet. But
for your praise I would not seek to know more of him. My heart
inclines readily to most of my kind. But that dark Egyptian, with
his gloomy brow and icy smiles, seems to me to sadden the very sun.
One would think that, like Epimenides, the Cretan, he had spent
forty years in a cave, and had found something unnatural in the
daylight ever afterwards.'
'Yet, like Epimenides, he is kind, and wise, and gentle,
answered Ione.
'Oh, happy that he has thy praise! He needs no other virtues to
make him dear to me.'
'His calm, his coldness,' said Ione, evasively pursuing the
subject, 'are perhaps but the exhaustion of past sufferings; as yonder
mountain (and she pointed to Vesuvius), which we see dark and tranquil
in the distance, once nursed the fires for ever quenched.'
They both gazed on the mountain as Ione said these words; the rest
of the sky was bathed in rosy and tender hues, but over that grey
summit, rising amidst the woods and vineyards that then clomb half-way
up the ascent, there hung a black and ominous cloud, the single
frown of the landscape. A sudden and unaccountable gloom came over
each as they thus gazed; and in that sympathy which love had already
taught them, and which bade them, in the slightest shadows of emotion,
the faintest presentiment of evil, turn for refuge to each other,
their gaze at the same moment left the mountain, and full of
unimaginable tenderness, met. What need had they of words to say
they loved?
Chapter VI

THE FOWLER SNARES AGAIN THE BIRD THAT HAD JUST ESCAPED,
AND SETS HIS NETS FOR A NEW VICTIM

IN the history I relate, the events are crowded and rapid as those
of the drama. I write of an epoch in which days sufficed to ripen
the ordinary fruits of years.
Meanwhile, Arbaces had not of late much frequented the house of
Ione; and when he had visited her he had not encountered Glaucus,
nor knew he, as yet, of that love which had so suddenly sprung up
between himself and his designs. In his interest for the brother of
Ione, he had been forced, too, a little while, to suspend his interest
in Ione herself. His pride and his selfishness were aroused and
alarmed at the sudden change which had come over the spirit of the
youth. He trembled lest he himself should lose a docile pupil, and
Isis an enthusiastic servant. Apaecides had ceased to seek or to
consult him. He was rarely to be found; he turned sullenly from the
Egyptian- nay, he fled when he perceived him in the distance.
Arbaces was one of those haughty and powerful spirits accustomed to
master others; he chafed at the notion that one once his own should
ever elude his grasp. He swore inly that Apaecides should not escape
him.
It was with this resolution that he passed through a thick grove
in the city, which lay between his house and that of Ione, in his
way to the latter; and there, leaning against a tree, and gazing on
the ground, he came unawares on the young priest of Isis.
'Apaecides!' said he- and he laid his hand affectionately on the
young man's shoulder.
The priest started; and his first instinct seemed to be that of
flight. 'My son,' said the Egyptian, 'what has chanced that you desire
to shun me?'
Apaecides remained silent and sullen, looking down on the earth,
as his lips quivered, and his breast heaved with emotion.
'Speak to me, my friend,' continued the Egyptian. 'Speak.
Something burdens thy spirit. What hast thou to reveal?'
'To thee- nothing.'
'And why is it to me thou art thus unconfidential?'
'Because thou hast been my enemy.'
'Let us confer,' said Arbaces, in a low voice; and drawing the
reluctant arm of the priest in his own, he led him to one of the seats
which were scattered within the grove. They sat down- and in those
gloomy forms there was something congenial to the shade and solitude
of the place.
Apaecides was in the spring of his years, yet he seemed to have
exhausted even more of life than the Egyptian; his delicate and
regular features were worn and colourless; his eyes were hollow, and
shone with a brilliant and feverish glare: his frame bowed
prematurely, and in his hands, which were small to effeminacy, the
blue and swollen veins indicated the lassitude and weakness of the
relaxed fibres. You saw in his face a strong resemblance to Ione,
but the expression was altogether different from that majestic and
spiritual calm which breathed so divine and classical a repose over
his sister's beauty. In her, enthusiasm was visible, but it seemed
always suppressed and restrained; this made the charm and sentiment of
her countenance; you longed to awaken a spirit which reposed, but
evidently did not sleep. In Apaecides the whole aspect betokened the
fervour and passion of his temperament, and the intellectual portion
of his nature seemed, by the wild fire of the eyes, the great
breadth of the temples when compared with the height of the brow,
the trembling restlessness of the lips, to be swayed and tyrannised
over by the imaginative and ideal. Fancy, with the sister, had stopped
short at the golden goal of poetry; with the brother, less happy and
less restrained, it had wandered into visions more intangible and
unembodied; and the faculties which gave genius to the one
threatened madness to the other.
'You say I have been your enemy,' said Arbaces, 'I know the
cause of that unjust accusation: I have placed you amidst the
priests of Isis- you are revolted at their trickeries and imposture-
you think that I too have deceived you- the purity of your mind is
offended- you imagine that I am one of the deceitful...'
'You knew the jugglings of that impious craft,' answered
Apaecides; 'why did you disguise them from me?- When you excited my
desire to devote myself to the office whose garb I bear, you spoke
to me of the holy life of men resigning themselves to knowledge- you
have given me for companions an ignorant and sensual herd, who have no
knowledge but that of the grossest frauds; you spoke to me of men
sacrificing the earthlier pleasures to the sublime cultivation of
virtue- you place me amongst men reeking with all the filthiness of
vice; you spoke to me of the friends, the enlighteners of our common
kind- I see but their cheats and deluders! Oh! it was basely done!-
you have robbed me of the glory of youth, of the convictions of
virtue, of the sanctifying thirst after wisdom. Young as I was,
rich, fervent, the sunny pleasures of earth before me, I resigned
all without a sign, 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 forth the
brighter for thy novitiate- think no more of those dull cheats- assort
no more with those menials of the goddess, the atrienses of her
hall- you are worthy to enter into the penetralia. I henceforth will
be your priest, your guide, and you who now curse my friendship
shall live to bless it.'
The young man lifted up his head, and gazed with a vacant and
wondering stare upon the Egyptian.
'Listen to me,' continued Arbaces, in an earnest and solemn voice,
casting first his searching eyes around to see that they were still
alone. 'From Egypt came all the knowledge of the world; from Egypt
came the lore of Athens, and the profound policy of Crete; from
Egypt came those early and mysterious tribes which (long before the
hordes of Romulus swept over the plains of Italy, and in the eternal
cycle of events drove back civilisation into barbarism and darkness)
possessed all the arts of wisdom and the graces of intellectual
life. From Egypt came the rites and the grandeur of that solemn Caere,
whose inhabitants taught their iron vanquishers of Rome all that
they yet know of elevated in religion and sublime in worship. And
how deemest thou, young man, that that Egypt, the mother of
countless nations, achieved her greatness, and soared to her
cloud-capt eminence of wisdom?- It was the result of a profound and
holy policy. Your modern nations owe their greatness to Egypt- Egypt
her greatness to her priests. Rapt in themselves, coveting a sway over
the nobler part of man, his soul and his belief, those ancient
ministers of God were inspired with the grandest thought that ever
exalted mortals. From the revolutions of the stars, from the seasons
of the earth, from the round and unvarying circle of human
destinies, they devised an august allegory; they made it gross and
palpable to the vulgar by the signs of gods and goddesses, and that
which in reality was Government they named Religion. Isis is a
fable- start not!- that for which Isis is a type is a reality, an
immortal being; Isis is nothing. Nature, which she represents, is
the mother of all things- dark, ancient, inscrutable, save to the
gifted few. "None among mortals hath ever lifted up my veil," so saith
the Isis that you adore; but to the wise that veil hath been
removed, and we have stood face to face with the solemn loveliness
of Nature. The priests then were the benefactors, the civilisers of
mankind; true, they were also cheats, impostors if you will. But think
you, young man, that if they had not deceived their kind they could
have served them? The ignorant and servile vulgar must be blinded to
attain to their proper good; they would not believe a maxim- they
revere an oracle. The Emperor of Rome sways the vast and various
tribes of earth, and harmonises the conflicting and disunited
elements; thence come peace, order, law, the blessings of life.
Think you it is the man, the emperor, that thus sways?- no, it is
the pomp, the awe, the majesty that surround him- these are his
impostures, his delusions; our oracles and our divinations, our
rites and our ceremonies, are the means of our sovereignty and the
engines of our power. They are the same means to the same end, the
welfare and harmony of mankind. You listen to me rapt and intent-
the light begins to dawn upon you.'
Apaecides remained silent, but the changes rapidly passing over
his speaking countenance betrayed the effect produced upon him by
the words of the Egyptian- words made tenfold more eloquent by the
voice, the aspect, and the manner of the man.
'While, then,' resumed Arbaces, 'our fathers of the Nile thus
achieved the first elements by whose life chaos is destroyed,
namely, the obedience and reverence of the multitude for the few, they
drew from their majestic and starred meditations that wisdom which was
no delusion: they invented the codes and regularities of law- the arts
and glories of existence. They asked belief; they returned the gift by
civilisation. Were not their very cheats a virtue! Trust me, whosoever
in yon far heavens of a diviner and more beneficent nature look down
upon our world, smile approvingly on the wisdom which has worked
such ends. But you wish me to apply these generalities to yourself;
I hasten to obey the wish. The altars of the goddess of our ancient
faith must be served, and served too by others than the stolid and
soulless things that are but as pegs and hooks whereon to hang the
fillet and the robe. Remember two sayings of Sextus the Pythagorean,
sayings borrowed from the lore of Egypt. The first is, "Speak not of
God to the multitude"; the second is, "The man worthy of God is a
god among men." As Genius gave to the ministers of Egypt worship, that
empire in late ages so fearfully decayed, thus by Genius only can
the dominion be restored. I saw in you, Apaecides, a pupil worthy of
my lessons- a minister worthy of the great ends which may yet be
wrought; your energy, your talents, your purity of faith, your
earnestness of enthusiasm, all fitted you for that calling which
demands so imperiously high and ardent qualities: I fanned, therefore,
your sacred desires; I stimulated you to the step you have taken.
But you blame me that I did not reveal to you the little souls and the
juggling tricks of your companions. Had I done so, Apaecides, I had
defeated my own object; your noble nature would have at once revolted,
and Isis would have lost her priest.'
Apaecides groaned aloud. The Egyptian continued, without heeding
the interruption.
'I placed you, therefore, without preparation, in the temple; I
left you suddenly to discover and to be sickened by all those
mummeries which dazzle the herd. I desired that you should perceive
how those engines are moved by which the fountain that refreshes the
world casts its waters in the air. It was the trial ordained of old to
all our priests. They who accustom themselves to the impostures of the
vulgar, are left to practise them- for those like you, whose higher
natures demand higher pursuit, religion opens more god-like secrets. I
am pleased to find in you the character I had expected. You have taken
the vows; you cannot recede. Advance- I will be your guide.'
'And what wilt thou teach me, O singular and fearful man? New
cheats- new...'
'No- I have thrown thee into the abyss of disbelief; I will lead
thee now to the eminence of faith. Thou hast seen the false types:
thou shalt learn now the realities they represent. There is no shadow,
Apaecides, without its substance. Come to me this night. Your hand.'
Impressed, excited, bewildered by the language of the Egyptian,
Apaecides gave him his hand, and master and pupil parted.
It was true that for Apaecides there was no retreat. He had
taken the vows of celibacy: he had devoted himself to a life that at
present seemed to possess all the austerities of fanaticism, without
any of the consolations of belief It was natural that he should yet
cling to a yearning desire to reconcile himself to an irrevocable
career. The powerful and profound mind of the Egyptian yet claimed
an empire over his young imagination; excited him with vague
conjecture, and kept him alternately vibrating between hope and fear.
Meanwhile Arbaces pursued his slow and stately way to the house of
Ione. As he entered the tablinum, he heard a voice from the
porticoes of the peristyle beyond, which, musical as it was, sounded
displeasingly on his ear- it was the voice of the young and
beautiful Glaucus, and for the first time an involuntary thrill of
jealousy shot through the breast of the Egyptian. On entering the
peristyle, he found Glaucus seated by the side of Ione. The fountain
in the odorous garden cast up its silver spray in the air, and kept
a delicious coolness in the midst of the sultry noon. The handmaids,
almost invariably attendant on Ione, who with her freedom of life
preserved the most delicate modesty, sat at a little distance; by
the feet of Glaucus lay the lyre on which he had been playing to
Ione one of the Lesbian airs. The scene- the group before Arbaces, was
stamped by that peculiar and refined ideality of poesy which we yet,
not erroneously, imagine to be the distinction of the ancients- the
marble colunms, the vases of flowers, the statue, white and
tranquil, closing every vista; and, above all, the two living forms,
from which a sculptor might have caught either inspiration or despair!
Arbaces, pausing for a moment, gazed on the pair with a brow
from which all the usual stern serenity had fled; he recovered himself
by an effort, and slowly approached them, but with a step so soft
and echoless, that even the attendants heard him not; much less Ione
and her lover.
'And yet,' said Glaucus, 'it is only before we love that we
imagine that our poets have truly described the passion; the instant
the sun rises, all the stars that had shone in his absence vanish into
air. The poets exist only in the night of the heart; they are
nothing to us when we feel the full glory of the god.'
'A gentle and most glowing image, noble Glaucus.'
Both started, and recognised behind the seat of Ione the cold
and sarcastic face of the Egyptian.
'You are a sudden guest,' said Glaucus, rising, and with a
forced smile.
'So ought all to be who know they are welcome,' returned
Arbaces, seating himself, and motioning to Glaucus to do the same.
'I am glad,' said Ione, 'to see you at length together; for you
are suited to each other, and you are formed to be friends.'
'Give me back some fifteen years of life,' replied the Egyptian,
'before you can place me on an equality with Glaucus. Happy should I
be to receive his friendship; but what can I give him in return? Can I
make to him the same confidences that he would repose in me- of
banquets and garlands- of Parthian steeds, and the chances of the
dice? these pleasures suit his age, his nature, his career: they are
not for mine.'
So saying, the artful Egyptian looked down and sighed; but from
the corner of his eye he stole a glance towards Ione, to see how she
received these insinuations of the pursuits of her visitor. Her
countenance did not satisfy him. Glaucus, slightly colouring, hastened
gaily to reply. Nor was he, perhaps, without the wish in his turn to
disconcert and abash the Egyptian.
'You are right, wise Arbaces,' said he; 'we can esteem each other,
but we cannot be friends. My banquets lack the secret salt which,
according to rumour, gives such zest to your own. And, by Hercules!
when I have reached your age, if I, like you, may think it wise to
pursue the pleasures of manhood, like you, I shall be doubtless
sarcastic on the gallantries of youth.'
The Egyptian raised his eyes to Glaucus with a sudden and piercing
glance.
'I do not understand you,' said he, coldly; 'but it is the
custom to consider that wit lies in obscurity.' He turned from Glaucus
as he spoke, with a scarcely perceptible sneer of contempt, and
after a moment's pause addressed himself to Ione.
'I have not, beautiful Ione,' said he, 'been fortunate enough to
find you within doors the last two or three times that I have
visited your vestibule.'
'The smoothness of the sea has tempted me much from home,' replied
Ione, with a little embarrassment.
The embarrassment did not escape Arbaces; but without seeming to
heed it, he replied with a smile: 'You know the old poet says, that
"Women should keep within doors, and there converse."'
'The poet was a cynic,' said Glaucus, 'and hated women.'
'He spake according to the customs of his country, and that
country is your boasted Greece.'
'To different periods different customs. Had our forefathers known
Ione, they had made a different law.'
'Did you learn these pretty gallantries at Rome?' said Arbaces,
with ill-suppressed emotion.
'One certainly would not go for gallantries to Egypt,' retorted
Glaucus, playing carelessly with his chain.
'Come, come,' said Ione, hastening to interrupt a conversation
which she saw, to her great distress, was so little likely to cement
the intimacy she had desired to effect between Glaucus and her friend,
'Arbaces must not be so hard upon his poor pupil. An orphan, and
without a mother's care, I may be to blame for the independent and
almost masculine liberty of life that I have chosen: yet it is not
greater than the Roman women are accustomed to- it is not greater than
the Grecian ought to be. Alas! is it only to be among men that freedom
and virtue are to be deemed united? Why should the slavery that
destroys you be considered the only method to preserve us? Ah! believe
me, it has been the great error of men- and one that has worked
bitterly on their destinies- to imagine that the nature of women is (I
will not say inferior, that may be so, but) so different from their
own, in making laws unfavourable to the intellectual advancement of
women. Have they not, in so doing, made laws against their children,
whom women are to rear?- against the husbands, of whom women are to be
the friends, nay, sometimes the advisers?' Ione stopped short
suddenly, and her face was suffused with the most enchanting
blushes. She feared lest her enthusiasm had led her too far; yet she
feared the austere Arbaces less than the courteous Glaucus, for she
loved the last, and it was not the custom of the Greeks to allow their
women (at least such of their women as they most honoured) the same
liberty and the same station as those of Italy enjoyed. She felt,
therefore, a thrill of delight as Glaucus earnestly replied:
'Ever mayst thou think thus, Ione- ever be your pure heart your
unerring guide! Happy it had been for Greece if she had given to the
chaste the same intellectual charms that are so celebrated amongst the
less worthy of her women. No state falls from freedom- from knowledge,
while your sex smile only on the free, and by appreciating,
encourage the wise.'
Arbaces was silent, for it was neither his part to sanction the
sentiment of Glaucus, nor to condemn that of Ione, and, after a
short and embarrassed conversation, Glaucus took his leave of Ione.
When he was gone, Arbaces, drawing his seat nearer to the fair
Neapolitan's, said in those bland and subdued tones, in which he
knew so well how to veil the mingled art and fierceness of his
character:
'Think not, my sweet pupil, if so I may call you, that I wish to
shackle that liberty you adorn while you assume: but which, if not
greater, as you rightly observe, than that possessed by the Roman
women, must at least be accompanied by great circumspection, when
arrogated by one unmarried. Continue to draw crowds of the gay, the
brilliant, the wise themselves, to your feet- continue to charm them
with the conversation of an Aspasia, the music of an Erinna- but
reflect, at least, on those censorious tongues which can so easily
blight the tender reputation of a maiden; and while you provoke
admiration, give, I beseech you, no victory to envy.'
'What mean you, Arbaces?' said Ione, in an alarmed and trembling
voice: 'I know you are my friend, that you desire only my honour and
my welfare. What is it you would say?'
'Your friend- ah, how sincerely! May I speak then as a friend,
without reserve and without offence?'
'I beseech you do so.'
'This young profligate, this Glaucus, how didst thou know him?
Hast thou seen him often?' And as Arbaces spoke, he fixed his gaze
steadfastly upon Ione, as if he sought to penetrate into her soul.
Recoiling before that gaze, with a strange fear which she could
not explain, the Neapolitan answered with confusion and hesitation:
'He was brought to my house as a countryman of my father's, and I
may say of mine. I have known him only within this last week or so:
but why these questions?'
'Forgive me,' said Arbaces; 'I thought you might have known him
longer. Base insinuator that he is!'
'How! what mean you? Why that term?'
'It matters not: let me not rouse your indignation against one who
does not deserve so grave an honour.'
'I implore you speak. What has Glaucus insinuated? or rather, in
what do you suppose he has offended?'
Smothering his resentment at the last part of Ione's question,
Arbaces continued: 'You know his pursuits, his companions his
habits; the comissatio and the alea (the revel and the dice) make
his occupation; and amongst the associates of vice how can he dream of
virtue?'
'Still you speak riddles. By the gods! I entreat you, say the
worst at once.'
'Well, then, it must be so. Know, my Ione, that it was but
yesterday that Glaucus boasted openly- yes, in the public baths- of
your love to him. He said it amused him to take advantage of it.
Nay, I will do him justice, he praised your beauty. Who could deny it?
But he laughed scornfully when his Clodius, or his Lepidus, asked
him if he loved you enough for marriage, and when he purposed to adorn
his door-posts with flowers?'
'Impossible! How heard you this base slander?'
'Nay, would you have me relate to you all the comments of the
insolent coxcombs with which the story has circled through the town?
Be assured that I myself disbelieved at first, and that I have now
painfully been convinced by several ear-witnesses of the truth of what
I have reluctantly told thee.'
'Ione sank back, and her face was whiter than the pillar against
which she leaned for support.
'I own it vexed- it irritated me, to hear your name thus lightly
pitched from lip to lip, like some mere dancing-girl's fame. I
hastened this morning to seek and to warn you. I found Glaucus here. I
was stung from my self-possession. I could not conceal my feelings;
nay, I was uncourteous in thy presence. Canst thou forgive thy friend,
Ione?'
Ione placed her hand in his, but replied not.
'Think no more of this,' said he; 'but let it be a warning
voice, to tell thee how much prudence thy lot requires. It cannot hurt
thee, Ione, for a moment; for a gay thing like this could never have
been honoured by even a serious thought from Ione. These insults
only wound when they come from one we love; far different indeed is he
whom the lofty Ione shall stoop to love.'
'Love!' muttered Ione, with an hysterical laugh. 'Ay, indeed.'
It is not without interest to observe in those remote times, and
under a social system so widely different from the modern, the same
small causes that ruffle and interrupt the 'course of love', which
operate so commonly at this day- the same inventive jealousy, the same
cunning slander, the same crafty and fabricated retailings of petty
gossip, which so often now suffice to break the ties of the truest
love, and counteract the tenor of circumstances most apparently
propitious. When the bark sails on over the smoothest wave, the
fable tells us of the diminutive fish that can cling to the keel and
arrest its progress: so is it ever with the great passions of mankind;
and we should paint life but ill if, even in times the most prodigal
of romance, and of the romance of which we most largely avail
ourselves, we did not also describe the mechanism of those trivial and
household springs of mischief which we see every day at work in our
chambers and at our hearths. It is in these, the lesser intrigues of
life, that we mostly find ourselves at home with the past.
Most cunningly had the Egyptian appealed to Ione's ruling
foible- most dexterously had he applied the poisoned dart to her
pride. He fancied he had arrested what he hoped, from the shortness of
the time she had known Glaucus, was, at most, but an incipient
fancy; and hastening to change the subject, he now led her to talk
of her brother. Their conversation did not last long. He left her,
resolved not again to trust so much to absence, but to visit- to watch
her- every day.
No sooner had his shadow glided from her presence, than woman's
pride- her sex's dissimulation- deserted his intended victim, and
the haughty Ione burst into passionate tears.
Chapter VII

THE GAY LIFE OF THE POMPEIAN LOUNGER. A MINIATURE
LIKENESS OF THE ROMAN BATHS

WHEN Glaucus left Ione, he felt as if he trod upon air. In the
interview with which he had just been blessed, he had for the first
time gathered from her distinctly that his love was not unwelcome
to, and would not be unrewarded by, her. This hope filled him with a
rapture for which earth and heaven seemed too narrow to afford a vent.
Unconscious of the sudden enemy he had left behind, and forgetting not
only his taunts but his very existence, Glaucus passed through the gay
streets, repeating to himself, in the wantonness of joy, the music
of the soft air to which Ione had listened with such intentness; and
now he entered the Street of Fortune, with its raised footpath- its
houses painted without, and the open doors admitting the view of the
glowing frescoes within. Each end of the street was adorned with a
triumphal arch: and as Glaucus now came before the Temple of
Fortune, the jutting portico of that beautiful fane (which is supposed
to have been built by one of the family of Cicero, perhaps by the
orator himself) imparted a dignified and venerable feature to a
scene otherwise more brilliant than lofty in its character. That
temple was one of the most graceful specimens of Roman architecture.
It was raised on a somewhat lofty podium; and between two flights of
steps ascending to a platform stood the altar of the goddess. From
this platform another flight of broad stairs led to the portico,
from the height of whose fluted columns hung festoons of the richest
flowers. On either side the extremities of the temple were placed
statues of Grecian workmanship; and at a little distance from the
temple rose the triumphal arch crowned with an equestrian statue of
Caligula, which was flanked by trophies of bronze. In the space before
the temple a lively throng were assembled- some seated on benches
and discussing the politics of the empire, some conversing on the
approaching spectacle of the amphitheatre. One knot of young men
were lauding a new beauty, another discussing the merits of the last
play; a third group, more stricken in age, were speculating on the
chance of the trade with Alexandria, and amidst these were many
merchants in the Eastern costume, whose loose and peculiar robes,
painted and gemmed slippers, and composed and serious countenances,
formed a striking contrast to the tunicked forms and animated gestures
of the Italians. For that impatient and lively people had, as now, a
language distinct from speech- a language of signs and motions,
inexpressibly significant and vivacious: their descendants retain
it, and the learned Jorio hath written a most entertaining work upon
that species of hieroglyphical gesticulation.
Sauntering through the crowd, Glaucus soon found himself amidst
a group of his merry and dissipated friends.
'Ah!' said Sallust, 'it is a lustrum since I saw you.'
'And how have you spent the lustrum? What new dishes have you
discovered?'
'I have been scientific,' returned Sallust, 'and have made some
experiments in the feeding of lampreys: I confess I despair of
bringing them to the perfection which our Roman ancestors attained.'
'Miserable man! and why?'
'Because,' returned Sallust, with a sigh, 'it is no longer
lawful to give them a slave to eat. I am very often tempted to make
away with a very fat carptor (butler) whom I possess, and pop him
slily into the reservoir. He would give the fish a most oleaginous
flavour! But slaves are not slaves nowadays, and have no sympathy with
their masters' interest- or Davus would destroy himself to oblige me!'
'What news from Rome?' said Lepidus, as he languidly joined the
group.
'The emperor has been giving a splendid supper to the senators,'
answered Sallust.
'He is a good creature,' quoth Lepidus; 'they say he never sends a
man away without granting his request.'
'Perhaps he would let me kill a slave for my reservoir?'
returned Sallust, eagerly.
'Not unlikely,' said Glaucus; 'for he who grants a favour to one
Roman, must always do it at the expense of another. Be sure, that
for every smile Titus has caused, a hundred eyes have wept.'
'Long live Titus!' cried Pansa, overhearing the emperor's name, as
he swept patronisingly through the crowd; 'he has promised my
brother a quaestorship, because he had run through his fortune.'
'And wishes now to enrich himself among the people, my Pansa,'
said Glaucus.
'Exactly so,' said Pansa.
'That is putting the people to some use,' said Glaucus.
'To be sure, returned Pansa. 'Well, I must go and look after the
aerarium- it is a little out of repair'; and followed by a long
train of clients, distinguished from the rest of the throng by the
togas they wore (for togas, once the sign of freedom in a citizen,
were now the badge of servility to a patron), the aedile fidgeted
fussily away.
'Poor Pansa!' said Lepidus: 'he never has time for pleasure. Thank
Heaven I am not an aedile!'
'Ah, Glaucus! how are you? gay as ever?' said Clodius, joining the
group.
'Are you come to sacrifice to Fortune?' said Sallust.
'I sacrifice to her every night,' returned the gamester.
'I do not doubt it. No man has made more victims!'
'By Hercules, a biting speech!' cried Glaucus, laughing.
'The dog's letter is never out of your mouth, Sallust,' said
Clodius, angrily: 'you are always snarling.'
'I may well have the dog's letter in my mouth, since, whenever I
play with you, I have the dog's throw in my hand,' returned Sallust.
'Hist!' said Glaucus, taking a rose from a flower-girl, who
stood beside.
'The rose is the token of silence,' replied Sallust, 'but I love
only to see it at the supper-table.'
'Talking of that, Diomed gives a grand feast next week,' said
Sallust: 'are you invited, Glaucus?'
'Yes, I received an invitation this morning.'
'And I, too,' said Sallust, drawing a square piece of papyrus from
his girdle: 'I see that he asks us an hour earlier than usual: an
earnest of something sumptuous.'
'Oh! he is rich as Croesus,' said Clodius; 'and his bill of fare
is as long as an epic.'
'Well, let us to the baths,' said Glaucus: 'this is the time
when all the world is there; and Fulvius, whom you admire so much,
is going to read us his last ode.'
The young men assented readily to the proposal, and they
strolled to the baths.
Although the public thermae, or baths, were instituted rather
for the poorer citizens than the wealthy (for the last had baths in
their own houses), yet, to the crowds of all ranks who resorted to
them, it was a favourite place for conversation, and for that indolent
lounging so dear to a gay and thoughtless people. The baths at Pompeii
differed, of course, in plan and construction from the vast and
complicated thermae of Rome; and, indeed, it seems that in each city
of the empire there was always some slight modification of arrangement
in the general architecture of the public baths. This mightily puzzles
the learned- as if architects and fashion were not capricious before
the nineteenth century! Our party entered by the principal porch in
the Street of Fortune. At the wing of the portico sat the keeper of
the baths, with his two boxes before him, one for the money he
received, one for the tickets he dispensed. Round the walls of the
portico were seats crowded with persons of all ranks; while others, as
the regimen of the physicians prescribed, were walking briskly to
and fro the portico, stopping every now and then to gaze on the
innumerable notices of shows, games, sales, exhibitions, which were
painted or inscribed upon the walls. The general subject of
conversation was, however, the spectacle announced in the
amphitheatre; and each new-comer was fastened upon by a group eager to
know if Pompeii had been so fortunate as to produce some monstrous
criminal, some happy case of sacrilege or of murder, which would allow
the aediles to provide a man for the jaws of the lion: all other
more common exhibitions seemed dull and tame, when compared with the
possibility of this fortunate occurrence.
'For my part,' said one jolly-looking man, who was a goldsmith, 'I
think the emperor, if he is as good as they say, might have sent us
a Jew.'
'Why not take one of the new sect of Nazarenes?' said a
philosopher. 'I am not cruel: but an atheist, one who denies Jupiter
himself, deserves no mercy.'
'I care not how many gods a man likes to believe in,' said the
goldsmith; 'but to deny all gods is something monstrous.'
'Yet I fancy,' said Glaucus, 'that these people are not absolutely
atheists. I am told that they believe in a God- nay, in a future
state.'
'Quite a mistake, my dear Glaucus,' said the philosopher. 'I
have conferred with them- they laughed in my face when I talked of
Pluto and Hades.'
'O ye gods!' exclaimed the goldsmith, in horror; 'are there any of
these wretches in Pompeii?'
'I know there are a few: but they meet so privately that it is
impossible to discover who they are.'
As Glaucus turned away, a sculptor, who was a great enthusiast
in his art, looked after him admiringly.
'Ah!' said he, 'if we could get him on the arena- there would be a
model for you! What limbs! what a head! he ought to have been a
gladiator! A subject- a subject- worthy of our art! Why don't they
give him to the lion?'
Meanwhile Fulvius, the Roman poet, whom his contemporaries
declared immortal, and who, but for this history, would never have
been heard of in our neglectful age, came eagerly up to Glaucus.
'Oh, my Athenian, my Glaucus, you have come to hear my ode! That is
indeed an honour; you, a Greek- to whom the very language of common
life is poetry. How I thank you. It is but a trifle; but if I secure
your approbation, perhaps I may get an introduction to Titus. Oh,
Glaucus! a poet without a patron is an amphora without a label; the
wine may be good, but nobody will laud it! And what says
Pythagoras?- "Frankincense to the gods, but praise to man." A
patron, then, is the poet's priest: he procures him the incense, and
obtains him his believers.'
'But all Pompeii is your patron, and every portico an altar in
your praise.'
'Ah! the poor Pompeians are very civil- they love to honour merit.
But they are only the inhabitants of a petty town- spero meliora!
Shall we within?'
'Certainly; we lose time till we hear your poem.'
At this instant there was a rush of some twenty persons from the
baths into the portico; and a slave stationed at the door of a small
corridor now admitted the poet, Glaucus, 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 apodyterium (that is, a place where the bathers
prepared themselves for their luxurious ablutions). The vaulted
ceiling was raised from a cornice, glowingly coloured with motley
and grotesque paintings; the ceiling itself was panelled in white
compartments bordered with rich crimson; the unsullied and shining
floor was paved with white mosaics, and along the walls were ranged
benches for the accommodation of the loiterers. This chamber did not
possess the numerous and spacious windows which Vitruvius attributes
to his more magnificent frigidarium. The Pompeians, as all the
southern Italians, were fond of banishing the light of their sultry
skies, and combined in their voluptuous associations the idea of
luxury with darkness. Two windows of glass alone admitted the soft and
shaded ray; and the compartment in which one of these casements was
placed was adorned with a large relief of the destruction of the
Titans.
In this apartment Fulvius seated himself with a magisterial air,
and his audience gathering round him, encouraged him to commence his
recital.
The poet did not require much pressing. He drew forth from his
vest a roll of papyrus, and after hemming three times, as much to
command silence as to clear his voice, he began that wonderful ode, of
which, to the great mortification of the author of this history, no
single verse can be discovered.
By the plaudits he received, it was doubtless worthy of his
fame; and Glaucus was the only listener who did not find it excel
the best odes of Horace.
The poem concluded, those who took only the cold bath began to
undress; they suspended their garments on hooks fastened in the
wall, and receiving, according to their condition, either from their
own slaves or those of the thermae, loose robes in exchange,
withdrew into that graceful circular building which yet exists, to
shame the unlaving posterity of the south.
The more luxurious departed by another door to the tepidarium, a
place which was heated to a voluptuous warmth, partly by a movable
fireplace, principally by a suspended pavement, beneath which was
conducted the caloric of the laconicum.
Here this portion of the intended bathers, after unrobing
themselves, remained for some time enjoying the artificial warmth of
the luxurious air. And this room, as befitted its important rank in
the long process of ablution, was more richly and elaborately
decorated than the rest; the arched roof was beautifully carved and
painted; the windows above, of ground glass, admitted but wandering
and uncertain rays; below the massive cornices were rows of figures in
massive and bold relief; the walls glowed with crimson, the pavement
was skilfully tessellated in white mosaics. Here the habituated
bathers, men who bathed seven times a day, would remain in a state
of enervate and speechless lassitude, either before or (mostly)
after the water-bath; and many of these victims of the pursuit of
health turned their listless eyes on the newcomers, recognising
their friends with a nod, but dreading the fatigue of conversation.
From this place the party again diverged, according to their
several fancies, some to the sudatorium, which answered the purpose of
our vapour-baths, and thence to the warm-bath itself; those more
accustomed to exercise, and capable of dispensing with so cheap a
purchase of fatigue, resorted at once to the calidarium, or
water-bath.
In order to complete this sketch, and give to the reader an
adequate notion of this, the main luxury of the ancients, we will
accompany Lepidus, who regularly underwent the whole process, save
only the cold bath, which had gone lately out of fashion. Being then
gradually warmed in the tepidarium, which has just been described, the
delicate steps of the Pompeian elegant were conducted to the
sudatorium. Here let the reader depict to himself the gradual
process of the vapour-bath, accompanied by an exhalation of spicy
perfumes. After our bather had undergone this operation, he was seized
by his slaves, who always awaited him at the baths, and the dews of
heat were removed by a kind of scraper, which (by the way) a modern
traveller has gravely declared to be used only to remove the dirt, not
one particle of which could ever settle on the polished skin of the
practised bather. Thence, somewhat cooled, he passed into the
water-bath, over which fresh perfumes were profusely scattered, and on
emerging from the opposite part of the room, a cooling shower played
over his head and form. Then wrapping himself in a light robe, he
returned once more to the tepidarium, where he found Glaucus, who
had not encountered the sudatorium; and now, the main delight and
extravagance of the bath commenced. Their slaves anointed the
bathers from vials of gold, of alabaster, or of crystal, studded
with profusest gems, and containing the rarest unguents gathered
from all quarters of the world. The number of these smegmata used by
the wealthy would fill a modern volume- especially if the volume
were printed by a fashionable publisher; Amaracinum, Megalium, Nardum-
omne quod exit in um- while soft music played in an adjacent
chamber, and such as used the bath in moderation, refreshed and
restored by the grateful ceremony, conversed with all the zest and
freshness of rejuvenated life.
'Blessed be he who invented baths!' said Glaucus, stretching
himself along one of those bronze seats (then covered with soft
cushions) which the visitor to Pompeii sees at this day in that same
tepidarium. 'Whether he were Hercules or Bacchus, he deserved
deification.'
'But tell me,' said a corpulent citizen, who was 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 recognised Diomed, though not without some difficulty,
so red and so inflamed were the good man's cheeks by the sudatory
and the scraping he had so lately undergone. 'I fancy they must be a
great deal finer than these. Eh?' Suppressing a smile, Glaucus
replied:
'Imagine all Pompeii converted into baths, and you will then
form a notion of the size of the imperial thermae of Rome. But a
notion of the size only. Imagine every entertainment for mind and
body- enumerate all the gymnastic games our fathers invented- repeat
all the books Italy and Greece have produced- suppose places for all
these games, admirers for all these works- add to this, baths of the
vastest size, the most complicated construction- intersperse the whole
with gardens, with theatres, with porticoes, with schools- suppose, in
one word, a city of the gods, composed but of palaces and public
edifices, and you may form some faint idea of the glories of the great
baths of Rome.'
'By Hercules!' said Diomed, opening his eyes, 'why, it would
take a man's whole life to bathe!'
'At Rome, it often does so,' replied Glaucus, gravely. 'There
are many who live only at the baths. They repair there the first
hour in which the doors are opened, and remain till that in which
the doors are closed. They seem as if they knew nothing of the rest of
Rome, as if they despised all other existence.'
'By Pollux! you amaze me.'
'Even those who bathe only thrice a day contrive to consume
their lives in this occupation. They take their exercise in the
tennis-court or the porticoes, to prepare them for the first bath;
they lounge into the theatre, to refresh themselves after it. They
take their prandium under the trees, and think over their second bath.
By the time it is prepared, the prandium is digested. From the
second bath they stroll into one of the peristyles, to hear some new
poet recite: or into the library, to sleep over an old one. Then comes
the supper, which they still consider but a part of the bath: and then
a third time they bathe again, as the best place to converse with
their friends.'
'Per Hercle! but we have their imitators at Pompeii.'
'Yes, and without their excuse. The magnificent voluptuaries of
the Roman baths are happy: they see nothing but gorgeousness and
splendour; they visit not the squalid parts of the city; they know not
that there is poverty in the world. All Nature smiles for them, and
her only frown is the last one which sends them to bathe in Cocytus.
Believe me, they are your only true philosophers.'
While Glaucus was thus conversing, Lepidus, with closed eyes and
scarce perceptible breath, was undergoing all the mystic operations,
not one of which he ever suffered his attendants to omit. After the
perfumes and the unguents, they scattered over him the luxurious
powder which prevented any further accession of heat: and this being
rubbed away by the 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 eyes and gave signs of
returning life.
At the same time, too, Sallust betokened by a long yawn the
evidence of existence.
'It is supper time,' said the epicure; 'you, Glaucus and
Lepidus, come and sup with me.'
'Recollect you are all three engaged to my house next week,' cried
Diomed, who was mightily proud of the 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 populous streets; and as he strode onward with his head buried
in his bosom, and his arms folded within his robe, there was something
startling in the contrast, which his solemn mien and wasted form
presented to the thoughtless brows and animated air of those who
occasionally crossed his path.
At length, however, a man of a more sober and staid demeanour, and
who had twice passed him with a curious but doubting look, touched him
on the shoulder.
'Apaecides!' said he, and he made a rapid sign with his hands:
it was the sign of the cross.
'Well, Nazarene,' replied the priest, and his face grew paler;
'what wouldst thou?'
'Nay,' returned the stranger, 'I would not interrupt thy
meditations; but the last time we met, I seemed not to be so
unwelcome.'
'You are not unwelcome, Olinthus; but I am sad and weary: nor am I
able this evening to discuss with you those themes which are most
acceptable to you.'
'O backward of heart!' said Olinthus, with bitter fervour; and art
thou sad and weary, and wilt thou turn from the very springs that
refresh and heal?'
'O earth!' cried the young priest, striking his breast
passionately, 'from what regions shall my eyes open to the true
Olympus, where thy gods really dwell? Am I to believe with this man,
that none whom for so many centuries my fathers worshipped have a
being or a name? Am I to break down, as something blasphemous and
profane, the very altars which I have deemed most sacred? or am I to
think with Arbaces- what?' He paused, and strode rapidly away in the
impatience of a man who strives to get rid of himself. But the
Nazarene was one of those hardy, vigorous, and enthusiastic men, by
whom God in all times has worked the revolutions of earth, and
those, above all, in the establishment and in the reformation of His
own religion- men who were formed to convert, because formed to
endure. It is men of this mould whom nothing discourages, nothing
dismays; in the fervour of belief they are inspired and they
inspire. Their reason first kindles their passion, but the passion
is the instrument they use; they force themselves into men's hearts,
while they appear only to appeal to their judgment. Nothing is so
contagious as enthusiasm; it is the real allegory of the tale of
Orpheus- it moves stones, it charms brutes. Enthusiasm is the genius
of sincerity, and truth accomplishes no victories without it.
Olinthus did not then suffer Apaecides thus easily to escape
him. He overtook and addressed him thus:
'I do not wonder, Apaecides, that I distress you; that I shake all
the elements of your mind: that you are lost in doubt; that you
drift here and there in the vast ocean of uncertain and benighted
thought. I wonder not at this, but bear with me a little; watch and
pray- the darkness shall vanish, the storm sleep, and God Himself,
as He came of yore on the seas of Samaria, shall walk over the
lulled billows, to the delivery of your soul. Ours is a religion
jealous in its demands, but how infinitely prodigal in its gifts! It
troubles you for an hour, it repays you by immortality.'
'Such promises,' said Apaecides, sullenly, 'are the tricks by
which man is ever gulled. Oh, glorious were the promises which led
me to the shrine of Isis!'
'But,' answered the Nazarene, 'ask thy reason, can that religion
be sound which outrages all morality? You are told to worship your
gods. What are those gods, even according to yourselves? What their
actions, what their attributes? Are they not all represented to you as
the blackest of criminals? yet you are asked to serve them as the
holiest of divinities. Jupiter himself is a parricide and an
adulterer. What are the meaner deities but imitators of his vices? You
are told not to murder, but you worship murderers; you are told not to
commit adultery, and you make your prayers to an adulterer! Oh! what
is this but a mockery of the holiest part of man's nature, which is
faith? Turn now to the God, the one, the true God, to whose shrine I
would lead you. If He seem to you too sublime, two shadowy, for
those human associations, those touching connections between Creator
and creature, to which the weak heart clings- contemplate Him in His
Son, who put on mortality like ourselves. His mortality is not
indeed declared, like that of your fabled gods, by the vices of our
nature, but by the practice of all its virtues. In Him are united
the austerest morals with the tenderest affections. If He were but a
mere man, He had been worthy to become a god. You honour Socrates-
he has his sect, his disciples, his schools. But what are the doubtful
virtues of the Athenian, to the bright, the undisputed, the active,
the unceasing, the 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 brightened earth, but opened to us
the sight of heaven! You are touched- you are moved. God works in your
heart. His Spirit is with you. Come, resist not the holy impulse; come
at once- unhesitatingly. A few of us are now assembled to expound
the word of God. Come, let me guide you to them. You are sad, you
are weary. Listen, then, to the words of God: "Come to me", saith
He, "all ye that are heavy laden, and I will give you rest!"'
'I cannot now,' said Apaecides; 'another time.'
'Now- now!' exclaimed Olinthus, earnestly, and clasping him by the
arm.
But Apaecides, yet unprepared for the renunciation of that
faith- that life, for which he had sacrificed so much, and still
haunted by the promises of the Egyptian, extricated himself forcibly
from the grasp; and feeling an effort necessary to conquer the
irresolution which the eloquence of the Christian had begun to
effect in his heated and feverish mind, he gathered up his robes and
fled away with a speed that defied pursuit.
Breathless and exhausted, he arrived at last in a remote and
sequestered part of the city, and the lone house of the Egyptian stood
before him. As he paused to recover himself, the moon emerged from a
silver cloud, and shone full upon the walls of that mysterious
habitation.
No other house was near- the darksome vines clustered far and wide
in front of the building and behind it rose a copse of lofty forest
trees, sleeping in the melancholy moonlight; beyond stretched the
dim outline of the distant hills, and amongst them the quiet crest
of Vesuvius, not then so lofty as the traveller beholds it now.
Apaecides passed through the arching vines, and arrived at the
broad and spacious portico. Before it, on either side of the steps,
reposed the image of the Egyptian sphinx, and the moonlight gave an
additional and yet more solemn calm to those large, and harmonious,
and passionless features, in which the sculptors of that type of
wisdom united so much of loveliness with awe; half way up the
extremities of the steps darkened the green and massive foliage of the
aloe, and the shadow of the eastern palm cast its long and unwaving
boughs partially over the marble surface of the stairs.
Something there was in the stillness of the place, and the strange
aspect of the sculptured sphinxes, which thrilled the blood of the
priest with a nameless and ghostly fear, and he longed even for an
echo to his noiseless steps as he ascended to the threshold.
He knocked at the door, over which was wrought an inscription in
characters unfamiliar to his eyes; it opened without a sound, and a
tall Ethiopian slave, without question or salutation, motioned to
him to proceed.
The wide hall was lighted by lofty candelabra of elaborate bronze,
and round the walls were wrought vast hieroglyphics, in dark and
solemn colours, which contrasted strangely with the bright hues and
graceful shapes with which the inhabitants of Italy decorated their
abodes. At the extremity of the hall, a slave, whose countenance,
though not African, was darker by many shades than the usual colour of
the south, advanced to meet him.
'I seek Arbaces,' said the priest; but his voice trembled even
in his own ear. The slave bowed his head in silence, and leading
Apaecides to a wing without the hall, conducted him up a narrow
staircase, and then traversing several rooms, in which the stern and
thoughtful beauty of the sphinx still made the chief and most
impressive object of the priest's notice, Apaecides found himself in a
dim and half-lighted chamber, in the presence of the Egyptian.
Arbaces was seated before a small table, on which lay unfolded
several scrolls of papyrus, impressed with the same character as
that on the threshold of the mansion. A small tripod stood at a little
distance, from the incense in which the smoke slowly rose. Near this
was a vast globe, depicting the signs of heaven; and upon another
table lay several instruments, of curious and quaint shape, whose uses
were unknown to Apaecides. The farther extremity of the room was
concealed by a curtain, and the oblong window in the roof admitted the
rays of the moon, mingling sadly with the single lamp which burned
in the apartment.
'Seat yourself, Apaecides,' said the Egyptian, without rising.
The young man obeyed.
'You ask me,' resumed Arbaces, after a short pause, in which he
seemed absorbed in thought- 'You ask me, or would do so, the mightiest
secrets which the soul of man is fitted to receive; it is the enigma
of life itself that you desire me to solve. Placed like children in
the dark, and but for a little while, in this dim and confined
existence, we shape our spectres in the obscurity; our thoughts now
sink back into ourselves in terror, now wildly plunge themselves
into the guideless gloom, guessing what it may contain; stretching our
helpless hands here and there, lest, blindly, we stumble upon some
hidden danger; not knowing the limits of our boundary, now feeling
them suffocate us with compression, now seeing them extend far away
till they vanish into eternity. In this state all wisdom consists
necessarily in the solution of two questions: "What are we to believe?
and What are we to reject?" These questions you desire me to decide.'
Apaecides bowed his head in assent.
'Man must have some belief,' continued the Egyptian, in a tone
of sadness. 'He must fasten his hope to something: is our common
nature that you inherit when, aghast and terrified to see that in
which you have been taught to place your faith swept away, you float
over a dreary and shoreless sea of incertitude, you cry for help,
you ask for some plank to cling to, some land, however dim and
distant, to attain. Well, then, 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 the world, the power of the wise;
that power is in the obedience of the vulgar. Continue we then these
salutary delusions- if man must have some belief, continue to him that
which his fathers have made dear to him, and which custom sanctifies
and strengthens. In seeking a subtler faith for us, whose senses are
too spiritual for the gross one, let us leave others that support
which crumbles from ourselves. This is wise- it is benevolent.'
'Proceed.'
'This being settled,' resumed the Egyptian, 'the old landmarks
being left uninjured for those whom we are about to desert, we gird up
our loins and depart to new climes of faith. Dismiss at once from your
recollection, from your thought, all that you have believed before.
Suppose the mind a blank, an unwritten scroll, fit to receive
impressions for the first time. Look round the world- observe its
order- its regularity- its design. Something must have created it- the
design speaks a designer: in that certainty we first touch land. But
what is that something?- A god, you cry. Stay- no confused and
confusing names. Of that which created the world, we know, we can
know, nothing, save these attributes- power and unvarying
regularity- stern, crushing, relentless regularity- heeding no
individual cases- rolling- sweeping- burning on; no matter what
scattered hearts, severed from the general mass, fall ground and
scorched beneath its wheels. The mixture of evil with good- the
existence of suffering and of crime- in all times have perplexed the
wise. They created a god- they supposed him benevolent. How then
came this evil? why did he permit it- nay, why invent, why
perpetuate it? To account for this, the Persian creates a second
spirit, whose nature is evil, and supposes a continual war between
that and the god of good. In our own shadowy and tremendous Typhon,
the Egyptians image a similar demon. Perplexing blunder that yet
more bewilders us!- folly that arose from the vain delusion that makes
a palpable, a corporeal, a human being, of this unknown power- that
clothes the Invisible with attributes and a nature similar to the
Seen. No: to this designer let us give a name that does not command
our bewildering associations, and the mystery becomes more clear- that
name is NECESSITY. Necessity, say the Greeks, compels the gods. Then
why the gods?- their agency becomes unnecessary- dismiss them at once.
Necessity is the ruler of all we see- power, regularity- these two
qualities make its nature. Would you ask more?- you can learn nothing:
whether it be eternal- whether it compel us, its creatures, to new
careers after that darkness which we call death- we cannot tell. There
leave we this ancient, unseen, unfathomable power, and come to that
which, to our eyes, is the great minister of its functions. This we
can task more, from this we can learn more: its evidence is around us-
its name is NATURE. The error of the sages has been to direct their
researches to the attributes of necessity, where all is gloom and
blindness. Had they confined their researches to Nature- what of
knowledge might we not already have achieved? Here patience,
examination, are never directed in vain. We see what we explore; our
minds ascend a palpable ladder of causes and effects. Nature is the
great agent of the external universe, and Necessity imposes upon it
the laws by which it acts, and imparts to us the powers by which we
examine; those powers are curiosity and memory- their union is reason,
their perfection is wisdom. Well, then, I examine by the help of these
powers this inexhaustible Nature. I examine the earth, the air, the
ocean, the heaven: I find that all have a mystic sympathy with each
other- that the moon sways the tides- that the air maintains the
earth, and is the medium of the life and sense of things- that by
the knowledge of the stars we measure the limits of the earth- that we
portion out the epochs of time- that by their pale light we are guided
into the abyss of the past- that in their solemn lore we discern the
destinies of the future. And thus, while we know not that which
Necessity is, we learn, at least, her decrees. And now, what
morality do we glean from this religion?- for religion it is. I
believe in two deities- Nature and Necessity; I worship the last by
reverence, the first by investigation. What is the morality my
religion teaches? This- all things are subject but to general rules;
the sun shines for the joy of the many- it may bring sorrow to the
few; the night sheds sleep on the multitude- but it harbours murder as
well as rest; the forests adorn the earth- but shelter the serpent and
the lion; the ocean supports a thousand barks- but it engulfs the one.
It is only thus for the general, and not for the universal benefit,
that Nature acts, and Necessity speeds on her awful course. This is
the morality of the dread agents of the world- it is mine, who am
their creature. I would preserve the delusions of priestcraft, for
they are serviceable to the multitude; I would impart to man the
arts I discover, the sciences I perfect; I would speed the vast career
of civilising lore: in this I serve the mass, I fulfil the general
law, I execute the great moral that Nature preaches. For myself I
claim the individual exception; I claim it for the wise- satisfied
that my individual actions are nothing in the great balance of good
and evil; satisfied that the product of my knowledge can give
greater blessings to the mass than my desires can operate evil on
the few (for the first can extend to remotest regions and humanise
nations yet unborn), I give to the world wisdom, to myself freedom.
I enlighten the lives of others, and I enjoy my own. Yes; our wisdom
is eternal, but our life is short: make the most of it while it lasts.
Surrender thy youth to pleasure, and thy senses to delight. Soon comes
the hour when the wine-cup is shattered, and the garlands shall
cease to bloom. Enjoy while you may. Be still, O Apaecides, my pupil
and my follower! I will teach thee the mechanism of Nature, her
darkest and her wildest secrets- the lore which fools call magic-
and the mighty mysteries of the stars. By this shalt thou discharge
thy duty to the mass; by this shalt thou enlighten thy race. But I
will lead thee also to pleasures of which the vulgar do not dream; and
the day which thou givest to men shall be followed by the sweet
night which thou surrenderest to thyself.'
As the Egyptian ceased there rose about, around, beneath, the
softest music that Lydia ever taught, or Iona ever perfected. It
came like a stream of sound, bathing the senses unawares;
enervating, subduing with delight. It seemed the melodies of invisible
spirits, such as the shepherd might have heard in the golden age,
floating through the vales of Thessaly, or in the noontide glades of
Paphos. The words which had rushed to the lip of Apaecides, in
answer to the sophistries of the Egyptian, died tremblingly away. He
felt it as a profanation to break upon that enchanted strain- the
susceptibility of his excited nature, the Greek softness and ardour of
his secret soul, were swayed and captured by surprise. He sank on
the seat with parted lips and thirsting ear; while in a chorus of
voices, bland and melting as those which waked Psyche in the halls
of love, rose the following song:

THE HYMN OF EROS

By the cool banks where soft Cephisus flows,
A voice sail'd trembling down the waves of air;
The leaves blushed brighter in the Teian's rose,
The doves couch'd breathless in their summer lair;

While from their hands the purple flowerets fell,
The laughing Hours stood listening in the sky;-
From Pan's green cave to AEgle's haunted cell,
Heaved the charm'd earth in one delicious sigh.

Love, sons of earth! I am the Power of Love!
Eldest of all the gods, with Chaos born;
My smile sheds light along the courts above,
My kisses wake the eyelids of the Morn.

Mine are the stars- there, ever as ye gaze,
Ye meet the deep spell of my haunting eyes;
Mine is the moon- and, mournful if her rays,
'Tis that she lingers where her Carian lies.

The flowers are mine- the blushes of the rose,
The violet- charming Zephyr to the shade;
Mine the quick light that in the Maybeam glows,
And mine the day-dream in the lonely glade.

Love, sons of earth- for love is earth's soft lore,
Look where ye will- earth overflows with ME;
Learn from the waves that ever kiss the shore,
And the winds nestling on the heaving sea.

'All teaches love!'- The sweet voice, like a dream,
Melted in light; yet still the airs above,
The waving sedges, and the whispering stream,
And the green forest rustling, murmur'd 'LOVE!'

As the voices died away, the Egyptian seized the hand of
Apaecides, and led him, wandering, intoxicated, yet half-reluctant,
across the chamber towards the curtain at the far end; and now, from
behind that curtain, there seemed to burst a thousand sparkling stars;
the veil itself, hitherto dark, was now lighted by these fires
behind into the tenderest blue of heaven. It represented heaven
itself- such a heaven, as in the nights of June might have shone
down over the streams of Castaly. Here and there were painted rosy and
aerial clouds, from which smiled, by the limner's art, faces of
divinest beauty, and on which reposed the shapes of which Phidias
and Apelles dreamed. And the stars which studded the transparent azure
rolled rapidly as they shone, while the music, that again woke with
a livelier and lighter sound, seemed to imitate the melody of the
joyous spheres.
'Oh! what miracle is this, Arbaces,' said Apaecides in faltering
accents. 'After having denied the gods, art thou about to reveal to
me...'
'Their pleasures!' interrupted Arbaces, in a tone so different
from its usual cold and tranquil harmony that Apaecides started, and
thought the Egyptian himself transformed; and now, as they neared
the curtain, a wild- a loud- an exulting melody burst from behind
its concealment. With that sound the veil was rent in twain- it
parted- it seemed to vanish into air: and a scene, which no Sybarite
ever more than rivalled, broke upon the dazzled gaze of the youthful
priest. A vast banquet-room stretched beyond, blazing with countless
lights, which filled the warm air with the scents of frankincense,
of jasmine, of violets, of myrrh; all that the most odorous flowers,
all that the most costly spices could distil, seemed gathered into one
ineffable and ambrosial essence: from the light columns that sprang
upwards to the airy roof, hung draperies of white, studded with golden
stars. At the extremities of the room two fountains cast up a spray,
which, catching the rays of the roseate light, glittered like
countless diamonds. In the centre of the room as they entered there
rose slowly from the floor, to the sound of unseen minstrelsy, a table
spread with all the viands which sense ever devoted to fancy, and
vases of that lost Myrrhine fabric, so glowing in its colours, so
transparent in its material, were crowned with the exotics of the
East. The couches, to which this table was the centre, were covered
with tapestries of azure and gold; and from invisible tubes the
vaulted roof descended showers of fragrant waters, that cooled the
delicious air, and contended with the lamps, as if the spirits of wave
and fire disputed which element could furnish forth the most delicious
odours. And now, from behind the snowy draperies, trooped such forms
as Adonis beheld when he lay on the lap of Venus. They came, some with
garlands, others with lyres; they surrounded the youth, they led his
steps to the banquet. They flung the chaplets round him in rosy
chains. The earth- the thought of earth, vanished from his soul. He
imagined himself in a dream, and suppressed his breath lest he
should wake too soon; the senses, to which he had never yielded as
yet, beat in his burning pulse, and confused his dizzy and reeling
sight. And while thus amazed and lost, once again, but in brisk and
Bacchic measures, rose the magic strain:

ANACREONTIC

In the veins of the calix foams and glows
The blood of the mantling vine,
But oh! in the bowl of Youth there glows
A Lesbian, more divine!
Bright, bright,
As the liquid light,
Its waves through thine eyelids shine!

Fill up, fill up, to the sparkling brim,
The juice of the young Lyaeus;
The grape is the key that we owe to him
From the gaol of the world to free us.
Drink, drink!
What need to shrink,
When the lambs alone can see us?

Drink, drink, as I quaff from thine eyes
The wine of a softer tree;
Give the smiles to the god of the grape- thy sighs,
Beloved one, give to me.
Turn, turn,
My glances burn,
And thirst for a look from thee!

As the song ended, a group of three maidens, entwined with a chain
of starred flowers, and who, while they imitated, might have shamed
the Graces, advanced towards him in the gliding measures of the Ionian
dance: such as the Nereids wreathed in moonlight on the yellow sands
of the AEgean wave- such as Cytherea taught her handmaids in the
marriage-feast of Psyche and her son.
Now approaching, they wreathed their chaplet round his head; now
kneeling, the youngest of the three proffered him the bowl, from which
the wine of Lesbos foamed and sparkled. The youth resisted no more, he
grasped the intoxicating cup, the blood mantled fiercely through his
veins. He sank upon the breast of the nymph who sat beside him, and
turning with swimming eyes to seek for Arbaces, whom he had lost in
the whirl of his emotions, he beheld him seated beneath a canopy at
the upper end of the table, and gazing upon him with a smile that
encouraged him to pleasure. He beheld him, but not as he had
hitherto seen, with dark and sable garments, with a brooding and
solemn brow: a robe that dazzled the sight, so studded was its whitest
surface with gold and gems, blazed upon his majestic form; white
roses, alternated with the emerald and the ruby, and shaped
tiara-like, crowned his raven locks. He appeared, like Ulysses, to
have gained the glory of a second youth- his features seemed to have
exchanged thought for beauty, and he towered amidst the loveliness
that surrounded him, in all the beaming and relaxing benignity of
the Olympian god.
'Drink, feast, love, my pupil!' said he, 'blush not that thou
art passionate and young. That which thou art, thou feelest in thy
veins: that which thou shalt be, survey!'
With this he pointed to a recess, and the eyes of Apaecides,
following the gesture, beheld on a pedestal, placed between the
statues of Bacchus and Idalia, the form of a skeleton.
'Start not,' resumed the Egyptian; 'that friendly guest admonishes
us but of the shortness of life. From its jaws I hear a voice that
summons us to ENJOY.'
As he spoke, a group of nymphs surrounded the statue; they laid
chaplets on its pedestal, and, while the cups were emptied and
refilled at that glowing board, they sang the following strain:

BACCHIC HYMNS TO THE IMAGE OF DEATH

I

Thou art in the land of the shadowy Host,
Thou that didst drink and love:
By the Solemn River, a gliding ghost,
But thy thought is ours above!
If memory yet can fly,
Back to the golden sky,
And mourn the pleasures lost!
By the ruin'd hall these flowers we lay,
Where thy soul once held its palace;
When the rose to thy scent and sight was gay,
And the smile was in the chalice,
And the cithara's voice
Could bid thy heart rejoice
When night eclipsed the day.

Here a new group advancing, turned the tide of the music into a
quicker and more joyous strain.

II

Death, death is the gloomy shore
Where we all sail-
Soft, soft, thou gliding oar;
Blow soft, sweet gale!
Chain with bright wreaths the Hours;
Victims if all
Ever, 'mid song and flowers,
Victims should fall!

Pausing for a moment, yet quicker and quicker danced the
silver-footed music:

Since Life's so short, we'll live to laugh,
Ah! wherefore waste a minute!
If youth's the cup we yet can quaff,
Be love the pearl within it!

A third band now approached with brimming cups, which they
poured in libation upon that strange altar; and once more, slow and
solemn, rose the changeful melody:

III

Thou art welcome, Guest of gloom,
From the far and fearful sea!
When the last rose sheds its bloom,
Our board shall be spread with thee!
All hail, dark Guest!
Who hath so fair a plea
Our welcome Guest to be,
As thou, whose solemn hall
At last shall feast us all
In the dim and dismal coast?
Long yet be we the Host!
And thou, Dead Shadow, thou,
All joyless though thy brow,
Thou- but our passing GUEST!

At this moment, she who sat beside Apaecides suddenly took up
the song:

IV

Happy is yet our doom,
The earth and the sun are ours!
And far from the dreary tomb
Speed the wings of the rosy Hours-
Sweet is for thee the bowl,
Sweet are thy looks, my love;
I fly to thy tender soul,
As 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, wake!
And tell me with words and sighs,
But more with thy melting eyes,
That my sun is not set-
That the Torch is not quench'd at the Urn
That we love, and we breathe, and burn,
Tell me- thou lov'st me yet!
BOOK II

Chapter I

A FLASH HOUSE IN POMPEII, AND THE GENTLEMEN
OF THE CLASSIC RING

TO one of those parts of Pompeii, which were tenanted not by the
lords of pleasure, but by its minions and its victims; the haunt of
gladiators and prize-fighters; of the vicious and the penniless; of
the savage and the obscene; the Alsatia of an ancient city- we are now
transported.
It was a large room, that opened at once on the confined and
crowded lane. Before the threshold was a group of men, whose iron
and well-strung muscles, whose short and Herculean necks, whose
hardy and reckless countenances, indicated the champions of the arena.
On a shelf, without the shop, were ranged jars of wine and oil; and
right over this was inserted in the wall a coarse painting, which
exhibited gladiators drinking- so ancient and so venerable is the
custom of signs! Within the room were placed several small tables,
arranged somewhat in the modern fashion of 'boxes', and round these
were seated several knots of men, some drinking, some playing at dice,
some at that more skilful game called 'duodecim scriptae', which
certain of the blundering learned have mistaken for chess, though it
rather, perhaps, resembled backgammon of the two, and was usually,
though not always, played by the assistance of dice. The hour was in
the early forenoon, and nothing better, perhaps, than that
unseasonable time itself denoted the habitual indolence of these
tavern loungers.
Yet, despite the situation of the house and the character of its
inmates, it indicated none of that sordid squalor which would have
characterised a similar haunt in a modern city. The gay disposition of
all the Pompeians, who sought, at least, to gratify the sense even
where they neglected the mind, was typified by the gaudy colours which
decorated the walls, and the shapes, fantastic but not inelegant, in
which the lamps, the drinking-cups, the commonest household
utensils, were wrought.
'By Pollux!' said one of the gladiators, as he leaned against
the wall of the threshold, 'the wine thou sellest us, old Silenus'-
and as he spoke he slapped a portly personage on the back- 'is
enough to thin the best blood in one's veins.'
The man thus caressingly saluted, and whose bared arms, white
apron, and keys and napkin tucked carelessly within his girdle,
indicated him to be the host of the tavern, was already passed into
the autumn of his years; but his form was still so robust and
athletic, that he might have shamed even the sinewy shapes beside him,
save that the muscles had seeded, as it were, into flesh, that the
cheeks were swelled and bloated, and the increasing stomach threw into
shade the vast and massive chest which rose above it.
'None of thy scurrilous blusterings with me,' growled the gigantic
landlord, in the gentle semi-roar of an insulted tiger; my wine is
good enough for a carcase which shall so soon soak the dust of the
spoliarium.'
'Croakest thou thus, old raven!' returned the gladiator,
laughing scornfully; 'thou shalt live to hang thyself with despite
when thou seest me win the palm crown; and when I get the purse at the
amphitheatre, as I certainly shall, my first vow to Hercules shall
be to forswear thee and thy vile potations evermore.'
'Hear to him- hear to this modest Pyrgopolinices! He has certainly
served under Bombochides Cluninstaridysarchides,' cried the host.
'Sporus, Niger, Tetraides, he declares he shall win the purse from
you. Why, by the gods! each of your muscles is strong enough to stifle
all his body, or I know nothing of the arena!'
'Ha!' said the gladiator, colouring with rising fury, 'our lanista
would tell a different story.'
'What story could he tell against me, vain Lydon?' said Tetraides,
frowning.
'Or me, who have conquered in fifteen fights?' said the gigantic
Niger, stalking up to the gladiator.
'Or me?' grunted Sporus, with eyes of fire.
'Tush!' said Lydon, folding his arms, and regarding his rivals
with a reckless air of defiance. 'The time of trial will soon come;
keep your valour till then.'
'Ay, do,' said the surly host; 'and if I press down my thumb to
save you, may the Fates cut my thread!'
'Your rope, you mean,' said Lydon, sneeringly: 'here is a sesterce
to buy one.'
The Titan wine-vender seized the hand extended to him, and
griped it in so stern a vice that the blood spirted from the
fingers' ends over the garments of the bystanders.
They set up a savage laugh.
'I will teach thee, young braggart, to play the Macedonian with
me! I am no puny Persian, I warrant thee! What, man! have I not fought
twenty years in the ring, and never lowered my arms once? And have I
not received the rod from the editor's own hand as a sign of
victory, and as a grace to retirement on my laurels? And am I now to
be lectured by a boy?' So saying, he flung the hand from him in scorn.
Without changing a muscle, but with the same smiling face with
which he had previously taunted mine host, did the gladiator brave the
painful grasp he had undergone. But no sooner was his hand released,
than, crouching for one moment as a wild cat crouches, you might see
his hair bristle on his head and beard, and with a fierce and shrill
yell he sprang on the throat of the giant, with an impetus that
threw him, vast and sturdy as he was, from his balance- and down, with
the crash of a falling rock, he fell- while over him fell also his
ferocious foe.
Our host, perhaps, had had no need of the rope so kindly
recommended to him by Lydon, had he remained three minutes longer in
that position. But, summoned to his assistance by the noise of his
fall, a woman, who had hitherto kept in an inner apartment, rushed
to the scene of battle. This new ally was in herself a match for the
gladiator; she was tall, lean, and with arms that could give other
than soft embraces. In fact, the gentle helpmate of Burbo the
wine-seller had, like himself, fought in the lists- nay under the
emperor's eye. And Burbo himself- Burbo, the unconquered in the field,
according to report, now and then yielded the palm to his soft
Stratonice. This sweet creature no sooner saw the imminent peril
that awaited her worse half, than without other weapons than those
with which Nature had provided her, she darted upon the incumbent
gladiator, and, clasping him round the waist with her long and
snakelike arms, lifted him by a sudden wrench from the body of her
husband, leaving only his hands still clinging to the throat of his
foe. So have we seen a dog snatched by the hind legs from the strife
with a fallen rival in the arms of some envious groom; so have we seen
one half of him high in air- passive and offenceless- while the
other half, head, teeth, eyes, claws, seemed buried and engulfed in
the mangled and prostrate enemy. Meanwhile, the gladiators, lapped,
and pampered, and glutted upon blood, crowded delightedly round the
combatants- their nostrils distended- their lips grinning- their
eyes gloatingly fixed on the bloody throat of the one and the indented
talons of the other.
'Habet! (he has got it!) habet!' cried they, with a sort of
yell, rubbing their nervous hands.
'Non habeo, ye liars; I have not got it!' shouted the host, as
with a mighty effort he wrenched himself from those deadly hands,
and rose to his feet, breathless, panting, lacerated, bloody; and
fronting, with reeling eyes, the glaring look and grinning teeth of
his baffled foe, now struggling (but struggling with disdain) in the
gripe of the sturdy amazon.
'Fair play!' cried the gladiators: 'one to one'; and, crowding
round Lydon and the woman, they separated our pleasing host from his
courteous guest.
But Lydon, feeling ashamed at his present position, and
endeavouring in vain to shake off the grasp of the virago, slipped his
hand into his girdle, and drew forth a short knife. So menacing was
his look, so brightly gleamed the blade, that Stratonice, who was used
only to that fashion of battle which we moderns call the pugilistic,
started back in alarm.
'O gods!' cried she, 'the ruffian!- he has concealed weapons! Is
that fair? Is that like a gentleman and a gladiator? No, indeed, I
scorn such fellows.' With that she contemptuously turned her back on
the gladiator, and hastened to examine the condition of her husband.
But he, as much inured to the constitutional exercises as an
English bull-dog is to a contest with a more gentle antagonist, had
already recovered himself. The purple hues receded from the crimson
surface of his cheek, the veins of the forehead retired into their
wonted size. He shook himself with a complacent grunt, satisfied
that he was still alive, and then looking at his foe from head to foot
with an air of more approbation than he had ever bestowed upon him
before:
'By Castor!' said he, 'thou art a stronger fellow than I took thee
for! I see thou art a man of merit and virtue; give me thy hand, my
hero!'
'Jolly old Burbo!' cried the gladiators, applauding, 'staunch to
the backbone. Give him thy hand, Lydon.'
'Oh, to be sure,' said the gladiator: 'but now I have tasted his
blood, I long to lap the whole.'
'By Hercules!' returned the host, quite unmoved, 'that is the true
gladiator feeling. Pollux! to think what good training may make a man;
why, a beast could not be fiercer!'
'A beast! O dullard! we beat the beasts hollow!' cried Tetraides.
'Well, well said Stratonice, who was now employed in smoothing her
hair and adjusting her dress, 'if ye are all good friends again, I
recommend you to be quiet and orderly; for some young noblemen, your
patrons and backers, have sent to say they will come here to pay you a
visit: they wish to see you more at their ease than at the schools,
before they make up their bets on the great fight at the amphitheatre.
So they always come to my house for that purpose: they know we only
receive the best gladiators in Pompeii- our society is very select-
praised be the gods!'
'Yes,' continued Burbo, drinking off a bowl, or rather a pail of
wine, 'a man who has won my laurels can only encourage the brave.
Lydon, drink, my boy; may you have an honourable old age like mine!'
'Come here,' said Stratonice, drawing her husband to her
affectionately by the ears, in that caress which Tibullus has so
prettily described- 'Come here!'
'Not so hard, she-wolf! thou art worse than the gladiator,'
murmured the huge jaws of Burbo.
'Hist!' said she, whispering him; 'Calenus has just stole in,
disguised, by the back way. I hope he has brought the sesterces.'
'Ho! ho! I will join him, said Burbo; meanwhile, I say, keep a
sharp eye on the cups- attend to the score. Let them not cheat thee,
wife; they are heroes, to be sure, but then they are arrant rogues:
Cacus was nothing to them.'
'Never fear me, fool!' was the conjugal reply; and Burbo,
satisfied with the dear assurance, strode through the apartment, and
sought the penetralia of his house.
'So those soft patrons are coming to look at our muscles,' said
Niger. 'Who sent to previse thee of it, my mistress?'
'Lepidus. He brings with him Clodius, the surest better in
Pompeii, and the young Greek, Glaucus.'
'A wager on a wager,' cried Tetraides; 'Clodius bets on me, for
twenty sesterces! What say you, Lydon?'
'He bets on me!' said Lydon.
'No, on me!' grunted Sporus.
'Dolts! do you think he would prefer any of you to Niger?' said
the athletic, thus modestly naming himself.
'Well, well,' said Stratonice, as she pierced a huge amphora for
her guests, who had now seated themselves before one of the tables,
'great men and brave, as ye all think yourselves, which of you will
fight the Numidian lion in case no malefactor should be found to
deprive you of the option?'
'I who have escaped your arms, stout Stratonice,' said Lydon,
'might safely, I think, encounter the lion.'
'But tell me,' said Tetraides, where is that pretty young slave of
yours- the blind girl, with bright eyes? I have not seen her a long
time.'
'Oh! she is too delicate for you, my son of Neptune,' said the
hostess, 'and too nice even for us, I think. We send her into the town
to sell flowers and sing to the ladies: she makes us more money so
than she would by waiting on you. Besides, she has often other
employments which lie under the rose.'
'Other employments!' said Niger; 'why, she is too young for them.'
'Silence, beast!' said Stratonice; 'you think there is no play but
the Corinthian. If Nydia were twice the age she is at present, she
would be equally fit for Vesta- poor girl!'
'But, hark ye, Stratonice,' said Lydon; 'how didst thou come by so
gentle and delicate a slave? She were more meet for the handmaid of
some rich matron of Rome than for thee.'
'That is true,' returned Stratonice; 'and some day or other I
shall make my fortune by selling her. How came I by Nydia, thou
askest.'
'Ay!'
'Why, thou seest, my slave Staphyla- thou rememberest Staphyla,
Niger?'
'Ay, a large-handed wench, with a face like a comic mask. How
should I forget her, by Pluto, whose handmaid she doubtless is at this
moment!'
'Tush, brute!- Well, Staphyla died one day, and a great loss she
was to me, and I went into the market to buy me another slave. But, by
the gods! they were all grown so dear since I had bought poor
Staphyla, and money was so scarce, that I was about to leave the place
in despair, when a merchant plucked me by the robe. "Mistress," said
he, "dost thou want a slave cheap I have a child to sell- a bargain.
She is but little, and almost an infant, it is true; but she is
quick and quiet, docile and clever, sings well, and is of good
blood, I assure you." "Of what country?" said I. "Thessalian." Now I
knew the Thessalians were acute and gentle; so I said I would see
the girl. I found her just as you see her now, scarcely smaller and
scarcely younger in appearance. She looked patient and resigned
enough, with her hands crossed on her bosom, and her eyes downcast.
I asked the merchant his price: it was moderate, and I bought her at
once. The merchant brought her to my house, and disappeared in an
instant. Well, my friends, guess my astonishment when I found she
was blind! Ha! ha! a clever fellow that merchant! I ran at once to the
magistrates, but the rogue was already gone from Pompeii. So I was
forced to go home in a very ill humour, I assure you; and the poor
girl felt the effects of it too. But it was not her fault that she was
blind, for she had been so from her birth. By degrees, we got
reconciled to our purchase. True, she had not the strength of
Staphyla, and was of very little use in the house, but she could
soon find her way about the town, as well as if she had the eyes of
Argus; and when one morning she brought us home a handful of
sesterces, which she said she had got from selling some flowers she
had gathered in our poor little garden, we thought the gods had sent
her to us. So from that time we let her go out as she likes, filling
her basket with flowers, which she wreathes into garlands after the
Thessalian fashion, which pleases the gallants; and the great people
seem to take a fancy to her, for they always pay her more than they do
any other flower-girl, and she brings all of it home to us, which is
more than any other slave would do. So I work for myself, but I
shall soon afford from her earnings to buy me a second Staphyla;
doubtless, the Thessalian kidnapper had stolen the blind girl from
gentle parents. Besides her skill in the garlands, she sings and plays
on the cithara, which also brings money, and lately- but that is a
secret.'
'That is a secret! What!' cried Lydon, 'art thou turned sphinx?'
'Sphinx, no!- why sphinx?'
'Cease thy gabble, good mistress, and bring us our meat- I am
hungry,' said Sporus, impatiently.
'And I, too,' echoed the grim Niger, whetting his knife on the
palm of his hand.
The amazon stalked away to the kitchen, and soon returned with a
tray laden with large pieces of meat half-raw: for so, as now, did the
heroes of the prize-fight imagine they best sustained their
hardihood and ferocity: they drew round the table with the eyes of
famished wolves- the meat vanished, the wine flowed. So leave we those
important personages of classic life to follow the steps of Burbo.
Chapter II

TWO WORTHIES

IN the earlier times of Rome the priesthood was a profession,
not of lucre but of honour. It was embraced by the noblest citizens-
it was forbidden to the plebeians. Afterwards, and long previous to
the present date, it was equally open to all ranks; at least, that
part of the profession which embraced the flamens, or priests- not
of religion generally but of peculiar gods. Even the priest of Jupiter
(the Flamen Dialis) preceded by a lictor, and entitled by his office
to the entrance of the senate, at first the especial dignitary of
the patricians, was subsequently the choice of the people. The less
national and less honoured deities were usually served by plebeian
ministers; and many embraced the profession, as now the Roman Catholic
Christians enter the monastic fraternity, less from the impulse of
devotion than the suggestions of a calculating poverty. Thus
Calenus, the priest of Isis, was of the lowest origin. His
relations, though not his parents, were freedmen. He had 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 emoluments of the sacred profession,
which at that time were probably small, the officers of a popular
temple could never complain of the profits of their calling. There
is no profession so lucrative as that which practises on the
superstition of the multitude.
Calenus had but one surviving relative at Pompeii, and that was
Burbo. Various dark and disreputable ties, stronger than those of
blood, united together their hearts and interests; and often the
minister of Isis stole disguised and furtively from the supposed
austerity of his devotions; and gliding through the back door of the
retired gladiator, a man infamous alike by vices and by profession,
rejoiced to throw off the last rag of an hypocrisy which, but for
the dictates of avarice, his ruling passion, would at all time have
sat clumsily upon a nature too brutal for even the mimicry of virtue.
Wrapped in one of those large mantles which came in use among
the Romans in proportion as they dismissed the toga, whose ample folds
well concealed the form, and in which a sort of hood (attached to
it) afforded no less a security to the features, Calenus now sat in
the small and private chamber of the wine-cellar, whence a small
passage ran at once to that back entrance, with which nearly all the
houses of Pompeii were furnished.
Opposite to him sat the sturdy Burbo, carefully counting on a
table between them a little pile of coins which the priest had just
poured from his purse- for purses were as common then as now, with
this difference- they were usually better furnished!
'You see,' said Calenus, that we pay you handsomely, and you ought
to thank me for recommending you to so advantageous a market.'
'I do, my cousin, I do,' replied Burbo, affectionately, as he
swept the coins into a leathern receptacle, which he then deposited in
his girdle, drawing the buckle round his capacious waist more
closely than he was wont to do in the lax hours of his domestic
avocations. 'And by Isis, Pisis, and Nisis, or whatever other gods
there may be in Egypt, my little Nydia is a very Hesperides- a
garden of gold to me.'
'She sings well, and plays like a muse,' returned Calenus;
'those are virtues that he who employs me always pays liberally.'
'He is a god,' cried Burbo, enthusiastically; 'every rich man
who is generous deserves to be worshipped. But come, a cup of wine,
old friend: tell me more about it. What does she do? she is
frightened, talks of her oath, and reveals nothing.'
'Nor will I, by my right hand! I, too, have taken that terrible
oath of secrecy.'
'Oath! what are oaths to men like us?'
'True oaths of a common fashion; but this!'- and the stalwart
priest shuddered as he spoke. 'Yet,' he continued, in emptying a
huge cup of unmixed wine, 'I own to thee, that it is not so much the
oath that I dread as the vengeance of him who proposed it. By the
gods! he is a mighty sorcerer, and could draw my confession from the
moon, did I dare to make it to her. Talk no more of this. By Pollux!
wild as those banquets are which I enjoy with him, I am never quite at
my ease there. I love, my boy, one jolly hour with thee, and one of
the plain, unsophisticated, laughing girls that I meet in this
chamber, all smoke-dried though it be, better than whole nights of
those magnificent debauches.'
'Ho! sayest thou so! To-morrow night, please the gods, we will
have then a snug carousal.'
'With all my heart,' said the priest, rubbing his hands, and
drawing himself nearer to the table.
At this moment they heard a slight noise at the door, as of one
feeling the handle. The priest lowered the hood over his head.
'Tush!' whispered the host, 'it is but the blind girl,' as Nydia
opened the door, and entered the apartment.
'Ho! girl, and how durst thou? thou lookest pale- thou hast kept
late revels? No matter, the young must be always the young,' said
Burbo, encouragingly.
The girl made no answer, but she dropped on one of the seats
with an air of lassitude. Her colour went and came rapidly: she beat
the floor impatiently with her small feet, then she suddenly raised
her face, and said with a determined voice:
'Master, you may starve me if you will- you may beat me- you may
threaten me with death- but I will go no more to that unholy place!'
'How, fool!' said Burbo, in a savage voice, and his heavy brows
met darkly over his fierce and bloodshot eyes; 'how, rebellious!
Take care.'
'I have said it,' said the poor girl, crossing her hands on her
breast.
'What! my modest one, sweet vestal, thou wilt go no more! Very
well, thou shalt be carried.'
'I will raise the city with my cries,' said she, passionately; and
the colour mounted to her brow.
'We will take care of that too; thou shalt go gagged.'
'Then may the gods help me!' said Nydia, rising; 'I will appeal to
the magistrates.'
'Thine oath remember!' said a hollow voice, as for the first
time Calenus joined in the dialogue.
At 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. Voe capiti tuo- vengeance on
thy head, wretched one!'
'What is this?' said the hag, looking from one to the other.
Nydia started as by a sudden impulse from the wall against which
she had leaned: she threw herself at the feet of Stratonice; she
embraced her knees, and looking up at her with those sightless but
touching eyes:
'O my mistress!' sobbed she, 'you are a woman- you have had
sisters- you have been young like me, feel for me- save me! I will
go to those horrible feasts no more!'
'Stuff!' said the hag, dragging her up rudely by one of those
delicate hands, fit for no harsher labour than that of weaving the
flowers which made her pleasure or her trade; 'stuff! these fine
scruples are not for slaves.'
'Hark ye,' 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 girl is tired,' said Stratonice, nodding to Calenus; 'she
will be more docile when you next want her.'
'You! you! who is here?' cried Nydia, casting her eyes round the
apartment with so fearful and straining a survey, that Calenus rose in
alarm from his seat.
'She must see with those eyes!' muttered he.
'Who is here! Speak, in heaven's name! Ah, if you were blind
like me, you would be less cruel,' said she; and she again burst
into tears.
'Take her away,' said Burbo, impatiently; 'I hate these
whimperings.'
'Come!' said Stratonice, pushing the poor child by the shoulders.
Nydia drew herself aside, with an air to which resolution gave
dignity.
'Hear me,' she said; 'I have served you faithfully- I who was
brought up- Ah! my mother, my poor mother! didst thou dream I should
come to this?' She dashed the tear from her eyes, and proceeded:
'Command me in aught else, and I will obey; but I tell you now,
hard, stern, inexorable as you are- I tell you that I will go there no
more; or, if I am forced there, that I will implore the mercy of the
praetor himself- I have said it. Hear me, ye gods, I swear!'
The hag's eyes glowed with fire; she seized the child by the
hair with one hand, and raised on high the other- that formidable
right hand, the least blow of which seemed capable to crush the
frail and delicate form that trembled in her grasp. That thought
itself appeared to strike her, for she suspended the blow, changed her
purpose, and dragging Nydia to the wall, seized from a hook a rope,
often, alas! applied to a similar purpose, and the next moment the
shrill, the agonised shrieks of the blind girl, rang piercingly
through the house.
Chapter III

GLAUCUS MAKES A PURCHASE THAT AFTERWARDS COSTS HIM DEAR

'HOLLA, my brave fellows!' said Lepidus, stooping his head as he
entered the low doorway of the house of Burbo. 'We have come to see
which of you most honours your lanista.' The gladiators rose from
the table in respect to three gallants known to be among the gayest
and richest youths of Pompeii, and whose voices were therefore the
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 thing it was to see the dainty and fastidious
Lepidus, whom in a banquet a ray of daylight seemed to blind- whom
in the bath a breeze of air seemed to blast- in whom Nature seemed
twisted and perverted from every natural impulse, and curdled into one
dubious thing of effeminacy and art- a singular thing was it to see
this Lepidus, now all eagerness, and energy, and life, patting the
vast shoulders of the gladiators with a blanched and girlish hand,
feeling with a mincing gripe their great brawn and iron muscles, all
lost in calculating admiration at that manhood which he had spent
his life in carefully banishing from himself.
So have we seen at this day the beardless flutterers of the
saloons of London thronging round the heroes of the Fives-court- so
have we seen them admire, and gaze, and calculate a bet- so have we
seen them meet together, in ludicrous yet in melancholy assemblage,
the two extremes of civilised society- the patrons of pleasure and its
slaves- vilest of all slaves- at once ferocious and mercenary; male
prostitutes, who sell their strength as women their beauty; beasts
in act, but baser than beasts in motive, for the last, at least, do
not mangle themselves for money!
'Ha! Niger, how will you fight?' said Lepidus: 'and with whom?'
'Sporus challenges me,' said the grim giant; 'we shall fight to
the death, I hope.'
'Ah! to be sure,' grunted Sporus, with a twinkle of his small eye.
'He takes the sword, I the net and the trident: it will be rare
sport. I hope the survivor will have enough to keep up the dignity
of the crown.'
'Never fear, we'll fill the purse, my Hector,' said Clodius:
'let me see- you fight against Niger? Glaucus, a bet- I back
Niger.'
'I told you so,' cried Niger exultingly. 'The noble Clodius
knows me; count yourself dead already, my Sporus.'
Clodius took out his tablet. 'A bet- ten sestertia. What say you?'
'So be it,' said Glaucus. 'But whom have we here? I never saw this
hero before'; and he glanced at Lydon, whose limbs were slighter
than those of his companions, and who had something of grace, and
something even of nobleness, in his face, which his profession had not
yet wholly destroyed.
'It is Lydon, a youngster, practised only with the wooden sword as
yet,' answered Niger, condescendingly. 'But he has the true blood in
him, and has challenged Tetraides.'
'He challenged me,' said Lydon: 'I accept the offer.'
'And how do you fight?' asked Lepidus. 'Chut, my boy, wait a while
before you contend with Tetraides.' Lydon smiled disdainfully.
'Is he a citizen or a slave?' said Clodius.
'A citizen- we are all citizens here,' quoth Niger.
'Stretch out your arm, my Lydon,' said Lepidus, with the air of
a connoisseur.
The gladiator, with a significant glance at his companions,
extended an arm which, if not so huge in its girth as those of his
comrades, was so firm in its muscles, so beautifully symmetrical in
its proportions, that the three visitors uttered simultaneously an
admiring exclamation.
'Well, man, what is your weapon?' said Clodius, tablet in hand.
'We are to fight first with the cestus; afterwards, if both
survive, with swords,' returned Tetraides, sharply, and with an
envious scowl.
'With the cestus!' cried Glaucus; 'there you are wrong, Lydon; the
cestus is the Greek fashion: I know it well. You should have
encouraged flesh for that contest: you are far too thin for it-
avoid the cestus.'
'I cannot,' said Lydon.
'And why?'
'I have said- because he has challenged me.'
'But he will not hold you to the precise weapon.'
'My honour holds me!' returned Lydon, proudly.
'I bet on Tetraides, two to one, at the cestus,' said 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 think you the victor will gain?'
'How much? why, perhaps seven sestertia.'
'You are sure it will be as much?'
'At least. But out on you!- a Greek would have thought of the
honour, and not the money. O Italians! everywhere ye are Italians!'
A blush mantled over the bronzed cheek of the gladiator.
'Do not wrong me, noble Glaucus; I think of both, but I should
never have been a gladiator but for the money.'
'Base! mayest thou fall! A miser never was a hero.'
'I am not a miser,' said Lydon, haughtily, and he withdrew to
the other end of the room.
'But I don't see Burbo; where is Burbo? I must talk with Burbo,'
cried Clodius.
'He is within,' said Niger, pointing to the door at the
extremity of the room.
'And Stratonice, the brave old lass, where is she?' quoth Lepidus.
'Why, she was here just before you entered; but she heard
something that displeased her yonder, and vanished. Pollux! old
Burbo had perhaps caught hold of some girl in the back room. I heard a
female's voice crying out; the old dame is as jealous as Juno.'
'Ho! excellent!' cried Lepidus, laughing. 'Come, Clodius, let us
go shares with Jupiter; perhaps he has caught a Leda.'
At this moment a loud cry of pain and terror startled the group.
'Oh, spare me! spare me! I am but a child, I am blind- is not that
punishment enough?'
'O Pallas! I know that voice, it is my poor flower-girl!'
exclaimed Glaucus, and he darted at once into the quarter whence the
cry rose.
He burst the door; he beheld Nydia writhing in the grasp of the
infuriate hag; the cord, already dabbled with blood, was raised in the
air- it was suddenly arrested.
'Fury!' said Glaucus, and with his left hand he caught Nydia
from her grasp; 'how dare you use thus a girl- one of your own sex,
a child! My Nydia, my poor infant!'
'Oh? is that you- is that Glaucus?' exclaimed the flower-girl,
in a tone almost of transport; the tears stood arrested on her
cheek; she smiled, she clung to his breast, she kissed his robe as she
clung.
'And how dare you, pert stranger! interfere between a free woman
and her slave. By the gods! despite your fine tunic and your filthy
perfumes, I doubt whether you are even a Roman citizen, my mannikin.'
'Fair words, mistress- fair words!' said Clodius, now entering
with Lepidus. 'This is my friend and sworn brother; he must be put
under shelter of your tongue, sweet one; it rains stones!'
'Give me my slave!' shrieked the virago, placing her mighty
grasp on the breast of the Greek.
'Not if all your sister Furies could help you,' answered
Glaucus. 'Fear not, sweet Nydia; an Athenian never forsook distress!'
'Holla!' said Burbo, rising reluctantly, 'What turmoil is all this
about a slave? Let go the young gentleman, wife- let him go: for his
sake the pert thing shall be spared this once.' So saying, he drew, or
rather dragged off, his ferocious help-mate.
'Methought when we entered,' said Clodius, 'there was another
man present?'
'He is gone.'
For the priest of Isis had indeed thought it high time to vanish.
'Oh, a friend of mine! a brother cupman, a quiet dog, who does not
love these snarlings,' said Burbo, carelessly. 'But go, child, you
will tear the gentleman's tunic if you cling to him so tight; go,
you are pardoned.'
'Oh, do not- do not forsake me!' cried Nydia, clinging yet
closer to the Athenian.
Moved by her forlorn situation, her appeal to him, her own
innumerable and touching graces, the Greek seated himself on one of
the rude chairs. He held her on his knees- he wiped the blood from her
shoulders with his long hair- he kissed the tears from her cheeks-
he 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, glorious, he was the emblem of all
that earth made most happy, comforting one that earth had abandoned!
'Well, who could have thought our blind Nydia had been so
honoured!' said the virago, wiping her heated brow.
Glaucus looked up at Burbo.
'My good man,' said he, 'this is your slave; she sings well, she
is accustomed to the care of flowers- I wish to make a present of such
a slave to a lady. Will you sell her to me?' As he spoke he felt the
whole frame of the poor girl tremble with delight; she started up, she
put her dishevelled hair from her eyes, she looked around, as if,
alas, she had the power to see!
'Sell our Nydia! no, indeed said Stratonice, gruffly.
Nydia sank back with a long sigh, and again clasped the robe of
her protector.
'Nonsense!' said Clodius, imperiously: 'you must oblige me.
What, man! what, old dame! offend me, and your trade is ruined. Is not
Burbo my kinsman Pansa's client? Am I not the oracle of the
amphitheatre 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,'
muttered Stratonice.
'You shall have twenty; come to the magistrates at once, and
then to my house for your money.'
'I would not have sold the dear girl for a hundred but to oblige
noble Clodius,' said Burbo, whiningly. 'And you will speak to Pansa
about the place of designator at the amphitheatre, noble Clodius? it
would just suit me.'
'Thou shalt have it,' said Clodius; adding in a whisper to
Burbo, 'Yon Greek can make your fortune; money runs through him like a
sieve: mark to-day with white chalk, my Priam.'
'An dabis?' said Glaucus, in the formal question of sale and
barter.
'Dabitur,' 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 Pompeii.'
The girl sprang from his clasp; a change came over her whole face,
bright the instant before; she sighed heavily, and then once more
taking his hand, she said:
'I thought I was to go to your house?'
'And so thou shalt for the present; come, we lose time.'
Chapter IV

THE RIVAL OF GLAUCUS PRESSES ONWARD IN THE RACE

IONE was one of those brilliant characters which, but once or
twice, flash across our career. She united in the highest perfection
the rarest of earthly gifts- Genius and Beauty. No one ever
possessed superior intellectual qualities without knowing them- the
alliteration of modesty and merit is pretty enough, but where merit is
great, the veil of that modesty you admire never disguises its
extent from its possessor. It is the proud consciousness of certain
qualities that it cannot reveal to the everyday world, that gives to
genius that shy, and reserved, and troubled air, which puzzles and
flatters you when you encounter it.
Ione, then, knew her genius; but, with that charming versatility
that belongs of right to women, she had the faculty so few of a
kindred genius in the less malleable sex can claim- the faculty to
bend and model her graceful intellect to all whom it encountered.
The sparkling fountain threw its waters alike upon the strand, the
cavern, and the flowers; it refreshed, it smiled, it dazzled
everywhere. That pride, which is the necessary result of
superiority, she wore easily- in her breast it concentred itself in
independence. She pursued thus her own bright and solitary path. She
asked no aged matron to direct and guide her- she walked alone by
the torch of her own unflickering purity. She obeyed no tyrannical and
absolute custom. She moulded custom to her own will, but this so
delicately and with so feminine a grace, so perfect an exemption
from error, that you could not say she outraged custom but 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
commonplace earth. You were in a land in which your eyes saw
everything through an enchanted medium. In her presence you felt as if
listening to exquisite music; you were steeped in that sentiment which
has so little of earth in it, and which music so well inspires- that
intoxication which refines and exalts, which seizes, it is true, the
senses, but gives them the character of the soul.
She was peculiarly formed, then, to command and fascinate the less
ordinary and the bolder natures of men; to love her was to unite two
passions, that of love and of ambition- you aspired when you adored
her. It was no wonder that she had completely chained and subdued
the mysterious but burning soul of the Egyptian, a man in whom dwelt
the fiercest passions. Her beauty and her soul alike enthralled him.
Set apart himself from the common world, he loved that daringness
of character which also made itself, among common things, aloof and
alone. He did not, or he would not see, that that very isolation put
her yet more from him than from the vulgar. Far as the poles- far as
the night from day, his solitude was divided from hers. He was
solitary from his dark and solemn vices- she from her beautiful
fancies and her purity of virtue.
If it was not strange that Ione thus enthralled the Egyptian,
far less strange was it that she had captured, as suddenly as
irrevocably, the bright and sunny heart of the Athenian. The gladness
of a temperament which seemed woven from the beams of light had led
Glaucus into pleasure. He obeyed no more vicious dictates when he
wandered into the dissipations of his time, than the exhilarating
voices of youth and health. He threw the brightness of his nature over
every abyss and cavern through which he strayed. His imagination
dazzled him, but his heart never was corrupted. Of far more
penetration than his companions deemed, he saw that they sought to
prey upon his riches and his youth: but he despised wealth save as the
means of enjoyment, and youth was the great sympathy that united him
to them. He felt, it is true, the impulse of nobler thoughts and
higher aims than in pleasure could be indulged: but the world was
one vast prison, to which the Sovereign of Rome was the Imperial
gaoler; and the very virtues, which in the free days of Athens would
have made him ambitious, in the slavery of earth made him inactive and
supine. For in that unnatural and bloated civilisation, all that was
noble in emulation was forbidden. Ambition in the regions of a
despotic and luxurious court was but the contest of flattery and
craft. Avarice had become the sole ambition- men desired
praetorships and provinces only as the licence to pillage, and
government was but the excuse of rapine. It is in small states that
glory is most active and pure- the more confined the limits of the
circle, the more ardent the patriotism. In small states, opinion is
concentrated and strong- every eye reads your actions- your public
motives are blended with your private ties- every spot in your
narrow sphere is crowded with forms familiar since your childhood- the
applause of your citizens is like the caresses of your friends. But in
large states, the city is but the court: the provinces- unknown to
you, unfamiliar in customs, perhaps in language- have no claim on your
patriotism, the ancestry of their inhabitants is not yours. In the
court you desire favour instead of glory; at a distance from the
court, public opinion has vanished from you, and self-interest has
no counterpoise.
Italy, Italy, while I write, your skies are over me- your seas
flow beneath my feet, listen not to the blind policy which would unite
all your crested cities, mourning for their republics, into one
empire; false, pernicious delusion! your only hope of regeneration
is in division. Florence, Milan, Venice, Genoa, may be free once more,
if each is free. But dream not of freedom for the whole while you
enslave the parts; the heart must be the centre of the system, the
blood must circulate freely everywhere; and in vast communities you
behold but a bloated and feeble giant, whose brain is imbecile,
whose limbs are dead, and who pays in disease and weakness the penalty
of transcending the natural proportions of health and vigour.
Thus thrown back upon themselves, the more ardent qualities of
Glaucus found no vent, save in that overflowing imagination which gave
grace to pleasure, and poetry to thought. Ease was less despicable
than contention with parasites and slaves, and luxury could yet be
refined though ambition could not be ennobled. But all that was best
and brightest in his soul woke at once when he knew Ione. Here was
an empire, worthy of demigods to attain; here was a glory, which the
reeking smoke of a foul society could not soil or dim. Love, in
every time, in every state, can thus find space for its golden altars.
And tell me if there ever, even in the ages most favourable to
glory, could be a triumph more exalted and elating than the conquest
of one noble heart?
And whether it was that this sentiment inspired him, his ideas
glowed more brightly, his soul seemed more awake and more visible,
in Ione's presence. If natural to love her, it was natural that she
should return the passion. Young, brilliant, eloquent, enamoured,
and Athenian, he was to her as the incarnation of the poetry of her
father's land. They were not like creatures of a world in which strife
and sorrow are the elements; they were like things to be seen only
in the holiday of nature, so glorious and so fresh were their youth,
their beauty, and their love. They seemed out of place in the harsh
and every-day earth; they belonged of right to the Saturnian age,
and the dreams of demigod and nymph. It was as if the poetry of life
gathered and fed itself in them, and in their hearts were concentrated
the last rays of the sun of Delos and of Greece.
But if Ione was independent in her choice of life, so was her
modest pride proportionably vigilant and easily alarmed. The falsehood
of the Egyptian was invented by a deep knowledge of her nature. The
story of coarseness, of indelicacy, in Glaucus, stung her to the
quick. She felt it a reproach upon her character and her career, a
punishment above all to her love; she felt, for the first time, how
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 murmured reproaches upon Glaucus- if one
moment she renounced, she almost hated him- at the next she burst into
passionate tears, her heart yielded to its softness, and she said in
the bitterness of anguish, 'He despises me- he does not love me.'
From the hour the Egyptian had left her she had retired to her
most secluded chamber, she had shut out her handmaids, she had
denied herself to the crowds that besieged her door. Glaucus was
excluded with the rest; he wondered, but he guessed not why! He
never attributed to his Ione- his queen- his goddess- that woman- like
caprice of which the love-poets of Italy so unceasingly complain. He
imagined her, in the majesty of her candour, above all the arts that
torture. He was troubled, but his hopes were not dimmed, for he knew
already that he loved and was beloved; what more could he desire as an
amulet against fear?
At deepest night, then, when the streets were hushed, and the high
moon only beheld his devotions, he stole to that temple of his
heart- her home; and wooed her after the beautiful fashion of his
country. He covered her threshold with the richest garlands, in
which every flower was a volume of sweet passion; and he charmed the
long summer night with the sound of the Lydian lute: and verses, which
the inspiration of the moment sufficed to weave.
But the window above opened not; no smile made yet more holy the
shining air of night. All was still and dark. He knew not if his verse
was welcome and his suit was heard.
Yet Ione slept not, nor disdained to hear. Those soft strains
ascended to her chamber; they soothed, they subdued her. While she
listened, she believed nothing against her lover; but when they were
stilled at last, and his step departed, the spell ceased; and, in
the bitterness of her soul, she almost conceived in that delicate
flattery a new affront.
I said she was denied to all; but there was one exception, there
was one person who would not be denied, assuming over her actions
and her house something like the authority of a parent; Arbaces, for
himself, claimed an exemption from all the ceremonies observed by
others. He entered the threshold with the license of one who feels
that he is privileged and at home. He made his way to her solitude and
with that sort of quiet and unapologetic air which seemed to
consider the right as a thing of course. With all the independence
of Ione's character, his heart had enabled him to obtain a secret
and powerful control over her mind. She could not shake it off;
sometimes she desired to do so; but she never actively struggled
against it. She was fascinated by his serpent eye. He arrested, he
commanded her, by the magic of a mind long accustomed to awe and to
subdue. Utterly unaware of his real character or his hidden love,
she felt for him the reverence which genius feels for wisdom, and
virtue for sanctity. She regarded him as one of those mighty sages
of old, who attained to the mysteries of knowledge by an exemption
from the passions of their kind. She scarcely considered him as a
being, like herself, of the earth, but as an oracle at once dark and
sacred. She did not love him, but she feared. His 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 all his arts to possess
himself of that treasure he so burningly coveted. He was cheered and
elated by his conquests over her brother. From the hour in which
Apaecides fell beneath the voluptuous sorcery of that fete which we
have described, he felt his empire over the young priest triumphant
and insured. He knew that there is no victim so thoroughly subdued
as a young and fervent man for the first time delivered to the
thraldom of the senses.
When Apaecides recovered, with the morning light, from the
profound sleep which succeeded to the delirium of wonder and of
pleasure, he was, it is true, ashamed- terrified- appalled. His vows
of austerity and celibacy echoed in his ear; his thirst after
holiness- had it been quenched at so unhallowed a stream? But
Arbaces knew well the means by which to confirm his conquest. From the
arts of pleasure he led the young priest at once to those of his
mysterious wisdom. He bared to his amazed eyes the initiatory
secrets of the sombre philosophy of the Nile- those secrets plucked
from the stars, and the wild chemistry, which, in those days, when
Reason herself was but the creature of Imagination, might well pass
for the lore of a diviner magic. He seemed to the young eyes of the
priest as a being above mortality, and endowed with supernatural
gifts. That yearning and intense desire for the knowledge which is not
of earth- which had burned from his boyhood in the heart of the
priest- was dazzled, until it 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
the mystic studies and the magic fascinations of the Egyptian's
solitude. The pure and stern lessons of that creed to which Olinthus
had sought to make him convert, were swept away from his memory by the
deluge of new passions. And the Egyptian, who was versed in the
articles of that true faith, and who soon learned from his pupil the
effect which had been produced upon him by its believers, sought,
not unskilfully, to undo that effect, by a tone of reasoning,
half-sarcastic and half-earnest.
'This faith,' said he, 'is but a borrowed plagiarism from one of
the many allegories invented by our priests of old. 'Observe,' he
added, pointing to a hieroglyphical scroll- 'observe in these
ancient figures the origin of the Christian's Trinity. Here are also
three gods- the Deity, the Spirit, and the Son. Observe, that the
epithet of the Son is "Saviour"- observe, that the sign by which his
human qualities are denoted is the cross.' Note here, too, the
mystic history of Osiris, how he put on death; how he lay in the
grave; and how, thus fulfilling a solemn atonement, he rose again from
the dead! In these stories we but design to paint an allegory from the
operations of nature and the evolutions of the eternal heavens. But
the allegory unknown, the types themselves have furnished to credulous
nations the materials of many creeds. They have travelled to the
vast plains of India; they have mixed themselves up in the visionary
speculations of the Greek; becoming more and more gross and
embodied, as they emerge farther from the shadows of their antique
origin, they have assumed a human and palpable form in this novel
faith; and the believers of Galilee are but the unconscious
repeaters of one of the superstitions of the Nile!'
This was the last argument which completely subdued the priest. It
was necessary to him, as to all, to believe in something; and
undivided and, at last, unreluctant, he surrendered himself to that
belief which Arbaces inculcated, and which all that was human in
passion- all that was flattering in vanity- all that was alluring in
pleasure, served to invite to, and contributed to confirm.
This conquest, thus easily made, the Egyptian could now give
himself wholly up to the pursuit of a far dearer and mightier
object; and he hailed, in his success with the brother, an omen of his
triumph over the sister.
He had seen Ione on the day following the revel we have witnessed;
and which was also the day after he had poisoned her mind against
his rival. The next day, and the next, he saw her also: and each
time he laid himself out with consummate art, partly to confirm her
impression against Glaucus, and principally to prepare her for the
impressions he desired her to receive. The proud Ione took care to
conceal the anguish she endured; and the pride of woman has an
hypocrisy which can deceive the most penetrating, and shame the most
astute. But Arbaces was no less cautious not to recur to a subject
which he felt it was most politic to treat as of the lightest
importance. He knew that by dwelling much upon the fault of a rival,
you only give him dignity in the eyes of your mistress: the wisest
plan is, neither loudly to hate, nor bitterly to contemn; the wisest
plan is to lower him by an indifference of tone, as if you could not
dream that he could be loved. Your safety is in concealing the wound
to your own pride, and imperceptibly alarming that of the umpire,
whose voice is fate! Such, in all times, will be the policy of one who
knows the science of the sex- it was now the Egyptian's.
He recurred no more, then, to the presumption of Glaucus; he
mentioned his name, but not more often than that of Clodius or of
Lepidus. He affected to class them together as things of a low and
ephemeral species; as things wanting nothing of the butterfly, save
its innocence and its grace. Sometimes he slightly alluded to some
invented debauch, in which he declared them companions; sometimes he
adverted to them as the antipodes of those lofty and spiritual
natures, to whose order that of Ione belonged. Blinded alike by the
pride of Ione, and, perhaps, by his own, he dreamed not that she
already loved; but he dreaded lest she might have formed for Glaucus
the first fluttering prepossessions that lead to love. And,
secretly, he ground his teeth in rage and jealousy, when he
reflected on the youth, the fascinations, and the brilliancy of that
formidable rival whom he pretended to undervalue.
It was on the fourth day from the date of the close of the
previous book, that Arbaces and Ione sat together.
'You wear your veil at home,' said the Egyptian; 'that is not fair
to those whom you honour with your friendship.'
'But to Arbaces,' answered Ione, who, indeed, had cast the veil
over her features to conceal eyes red with weeping- to Arbaces, who
looks only to the mind, what matters it that the face is concealed?'
'I do look only to the mind,' replied the Egyptian: 'show me
then your face- for there I shall see it.'
'You grow gallant in the air of Pompeii,' said Ione, with a forced
tone of gaiety.
'Do you think, fair Ione, that it is only at Pompeii that I have
learned to value you?' The Egyptian's voice trembled- he paused for
a moment, and then resumed.
'There is a love, beautiful Greek, which is not the love only of
the thoughtless and the young- there is a love which sees not with the
eyes, which hears not with the ears; but in which soul is enamoured of
soul. The countryman of thy ancestors, the cave-nursed Plato,
dreamed of such a love- his followers have sought to imitate it; but
it is a love that is not for the herd to echo- it is a love that
only high and noble natures can conceive- it hath nothing in common
with the sympathies and ties of coarse affection- wrinkles do not
revolt it- homeliness of feature does not deter; it asks youth, it
is true, but it asks it only in the freshness of the emotions; it asks
beauty, it is true, but it is the beauty of the thought and of the
spirit. Such is the love, O Ione, which is a worthy offering to thee
from the cold and the austere. Austere and cold thou deemest me-
such is the love that I venture to lay upon thy shrine- thou canst
receive it without a blush.'
'And its name is friendship!' replied Ione: her answer was
innocent, yet it sounded like the reproof of one conscious of the
design of the speaker.
'Friendship!' said Arbaces, vehemently. 'No; that is a word too
often profaned to apply to a sentiment so sacred. Friendship! it is
a tie that binds fools and profligates! Friendship! it is the bond
that unites the frivolous hearts of a Glaucus and a Clodius!
Friendship! no, that is an affection of earth, of vulgar habits and
sordid sympathies; the feeling of which I speak is borrowed from the
stars'- it partakes of that mystic and ineffable yearning, which we
feel when we gaze on them- it burns, yet it purifies- it is the lamp
of naphtha in the alabaster vase, glowing with fragrant odours, but
shining only through the purest vessels. No; it is not love, and it is
not friendship, that Arbaces feels for Ione. Give it no name- earth
has no name for it- it is not of earth- why debase it with earthly
epithets and earthly associations?'
Never before had Arbaces ventured so far, yet he felt his ground
step by step: he knew that he uttered a language which, if at this day
of affected platonisms it would speak unequivocally to the ears of
beauty, was at that time strange and unfamiliar, to which no precise
idea could be attached, from which he could imperceptibly advance or
recede, as occasion suited, as hope encouraged or fear deterred.
Ione trembled, though she knew not why; her veil hid her features, and
masked an expression, which, if seen by the Egyptian, would have at
once damped and enraged him; in fact, he never was more displeasing to
her- the harmonious modulation of the most suasive voice that ever
disguised unhallowed thought fell discordantly on her ear. Her whole
soul was still filled with the image of Glaucus; and the accent of
tenderness from another only revolted and dismayed; yet she did not
conceive that any passion more ardent than that platonism which
Arbaces expressed lurked beneath his words. She thought that he, in
truth, spoke only of the affection and sympathy of the soul; but was
it not precisely that affection and that sympathy which had made a
part of those emotions she felt for Glaucus; and could any other
footstep than his approach the haunted adytum of her heart?
Anxious at once to change the conversation, she replied,
therefore, with a cold and indifferent voice, 'Whomsoever Arbaces
honours with the sentiment of esteem, it is natural that his
elevated wisdom should colour that sentiment with its own hues; it
is natural that his friendship should be purer than that of others,
whose pursuits and errors he does not deign to share. But tell me,
Arbaces, hast thou seen my brother of late? He has not visited me
for several days; and when I last saw him his manner disturbed and
alarmed me much. I fear lest he was too precipitate in the severe
choice that he has adopted, and that he repents an irrevocable step.'
'Be cheered, Ione,' replied the Egyptian. 'It is true that, some
little time since he was troubled and sad of spirit; those doubts
beset him which were likely to haunt one of that fervent
temperament, which ever ebbs and flows, and vibrates between
excitement and exhaustion. But he, Ione, he came to me his anxieties
and his distress; he sought one who pitied me and loved him; I have
calmed his mind- I have removed his doubts- I have taken him from
the threshold of Wisdom into its temple; and before the majesty of the
goddess his soul is hushed and soothed. Fear not, he will repent no
more; they who trust themselves to Arbaces never repent but for a
moment.'
'You rejoice me,' answered Ione. 'My dear brother! in his
contentment I am happy.'
The conversation then turned upon lighter subjects; the Egyptian
exerted himself to please, he condescended even to entertain; the vast
variety of his knowledge enabled him to adorn and light up every
subject on which he touched; and Ione, forgetting the displeasing
effect of his former words, was carried away, despite her sadness,
by the magic of his intellect. Her manner became unrestrained and
her language fluent; and Arbaces, who had waited his opportunity,
now hastened to seize it.
'You have never seen,' said he, 'the interior of my home; it may
amuse you to do so: it contains some rooms that may explain to you
what you have often asked me to describe- the fashion of an Egyptian
house; not indeed, that you will perceive in the poor and minute
proportions of Roman architecture the massive strength, the vast
space, the gigantic magnificence, or even the domestic construction of
the palaces of Thebes and Memphis; but something there is, here and
there, that may serve to express to you some notion of that antique
civilisation which has humanised the world. Devote, then, to the
austere friend of your youth, one of these bright summer evenings, and
let me boast that my gloomy mansion has been honoured with the
presence of the admired Ione.'
Unconscious of the pollutions of the mansion, of the danger that
awaited her, Ione readily assented to the proposal. The next evening
was fixed for the visit; and the Egyptian, with a serene
countenance, and a heart beating with fierce and unholy joy, departed.
Scarce had he gone, when another visitor claimed admission.... But now
we return to Glaucus.
Chapter V

THE POOR TORTOISE. NEW CHANGES FOR NYDIA

THE morning sun shone over the small and odorous garden enclosed
within the peristyle of the house of the Athenian. He lay reclined,
sad and listlessly, on the smooth grass which intersected the
viridarium; and a slight canopy stretched above, broke the fierce rays
of the summer sun.
When that fairy mansion was first disinterred from the earth
they found in the garden the shell of a tortoise that had been its
inmate. That animal, so strange a link in the creation, to which
Nature seems to have denied all the pleasure of life, save life's
passive and dream-like perception, had been the guest of the place for
years before Glaucus purchased it; for years, indeed which went beyond
the memory of man, and to which tradition assigned an almost
incredible date. The house had been built and rebuilt- its
possessors had changed and fluctuated- generations had flourished
and decayed- and still the tortoise dragged on its slow and
unsympathising existence. In the earthquake, which sixteen years
before had overthrown many of the public buildings of the city, and
scared away the amazed inhabitants, the house now inhabited by Glaucus
had been terribly shattered. The possessors deserted it for many days;
on their return they cleared away the ruins which encumbered the
viridarium, and found still the tortoise, unharmed and unconscious
of the surrounding destruction. It seemed to bear a charmed life in
its languid blood and imperceptible motions; yet it was not so
inactive as it seemed: it held a regular and monotonous course; inch
by inch it traversed the little orbit of its domain, taking months
to accomplish the whole gyration. It was a restless voyager, that
tortoise!- patiently, and with pain, did it perform its self-appointed
journeys, evincing no interest in the things around it- a
philosopher concentrated in itself. There was something grand in its
solitary selfishness!- the sun in which it basked- the waters poured
daily over it- the air, which it insensibly inhaled, were its sole and
unfailing luxuries. The mild changes of the season, in that lovely
clime, affected it not. It covered itself with its shell- as the saint
in his piety- as the sage in his wisdom- as the lover in his hope.
It was impervious to the shocks and mutations of time- it was an
emblem of time itself: slow, regular, perpetual; unwitting of the
passions that fret themselves around- of the wear and tear of
mortality. The poor tortoise! nothing less than the bursting of
volcanoes, the convulsions of the riven world, could have quenched its
sluggish spark! The inexorable Death, that spared not pomp or
beauty, passed unheedingly by a thing to which death could bring so
insignificant a change.
For this animal the mercurial and vivid Greek felt all the
wonder and affection of contrast. He could spend hours in surveying
its creeping progress, in moralising 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 stone from his talons, thinking to break
thy shell: the stone crushed the head of a poet. This is the
allegory of Fate! Dull thing! Thou hadst a father and a mother;
perhaps, ages ago, thou thyself hadst a mate. Did thy parents love, or
didst thou? Did thy slow blood circulate more gladly when thou didst
creep to the side of thy wedded one? Wert thou capable of affection?
Could it distress thee if she were away from thy side? Couldst thou
feel when she was present? What would I not give to know the history
of thy mailed breast- to gaze upon the mechanism of thy faint desires-
to mark what hair- breadth difference separates thy sorrow from thy
joy! Yet, methinks, thou wouldst know if Ione were present! Thou
wouldst feel her coming like a happier air- like a gladder sun. I envy
thee now, for thou knowest not that she is absent; and I- would I
could be like thee- between the intervals of seeing her! What doubt,
what presentiment, haunts me! why will she not admit me? Days have
passed since I heard her voice. For the first time, life grows flat to
me. I am as one who is left alone at a banquet, the lights dead, and
the flowers faded. Ah! Ione, couldst thou dream how I adore thee!'
From these enamoured reveries, Glaucus was interrupted by the
entrance of Nydia. She came with her light, though cautious step,
along the marble tablinum. She passed the portico, and paused at the
flowers which bordered the garden. She had her water-vase in her hand,
and she sprinkled the thirsting plants, which seemed to brighten at
her approach. She bent to inhale their odour. She touched them timidly
and caressingly. She felt, along their stems, if any withered leaf
or creeping insect marred their beauty. And as she hovered from flower
to flower, with her earnest and youthful countenance and graceful
motions, you could not have imagined a fitter handmaid for the goddess
of the garden.
'Nydia, my child!' said Glaucus.
At the sound of his voice she paused at once- listening, blushing,
breathless; with her lips parted, her face upturned to catch the
direction of the sound, she laid down the vase- she hastened to him;
and wonderful it was to see how unerringly she threaded her dark way
through the flowers, and came by the shortest path to the side of
her new lord.
'Nydia,' said Glaucus, tenderly stroking back her long and
beautiful hair, 'it is now three days since thou hast been under the
protection of my household gods. Have they smiled on thee? Art thou
happy?'
'Ah! so happy!' sighed the slave.
'And now,' continued Glaucus, 'that thou hast recovered somewhat
from the hateful recollections of thy former state,- and now that they
have fitted thee (touching her broidered tunic) with garments more
meet for thy delicate shape- and now, sweet child, that thou hast
accustomed thyself to a happiness, which may the gods grant thee ever!
I am about to pray at thy hands a boon.'
'Oh! what can I do for thee?' said Nydia, clasping her hands.
'Listen,' said Glaucus, 'and young as thou art, thou shalt be my
confidant. Hast thou ever heard the name of Ione?'
The blind girl gasped for breath, and turning pale as one of the
statues which shone upon them from the peristyle, she answered with an
effort, and after a moment's pause:
'Yes! I have heard that she is of Neapolis, and beautiful.'
'Beautiful! her beauty is a thing to dazzle the day! Neapolis!
nay, she is Greek by origin; Greece only could furnish forth such
shapes. Nydia, I love her!'
'I thought so,' replied Nydia, calmly.
'I love, and thou shalt tell her so. I am about to send thee to
her. Happy Nydia, thou wilt be in her chamber- thou wilt drink the
music of her voice- thou wilt bask in the sunny air of her presence!'
'What! what! wilt thou send me from thee?'
'Thou wilt go to Ione,' answered Glaucus, in a tone that said,
'What more canst thou desire?'
Nydia burst into tears.
Glaucus, raising himself, drew her towards him with the soothing
caresses of a brother.
'My child, my Nydia, thou weepest in ignorance of the happiness
I bestow on thee. She is gentle, and kind, and soft as the breeze of
spring. She will be a sister to thy youth- she will appreciate thy
winning talents- she will love thy simple graces as none other
could, for they are like her own. Weepest thou still, fond fool? I
will not force thee, sweet. Wilt thou not do for me this kindness?'
'Well, if I can serve thee, command. See, I weep no longer- I am
calm.'
'That is my own Nydia,' continued Glaucus, kissing her hand.
'Go, then, to her: if thou art disappointed in her kindness- if I have
deceived thee, return when thou wilt. I do not give thee to another; I
but lend. My home ever be thy refuge, sweet one. Ah! would it could
shelter all the friendless and distressed! But if my heart whispers
truly, I shall claim thee again soon, my child. My home and Ione's
will become the same, and thou shalt dwell with both.'
A shiver passed through the slight frame of the blind girl, but
she wept no more- she was resigned.
Go, then, my Nydia, to Ione's house- they shall show thee the way.
Take her the fairest flowers thou canst pluck; the vase which contains
them I will give thee: thou must excuse its unworthiness. Thou shalt
take, too, with thee the lute that I gave thee yesterday, and from
which thou knowest so well to awaken the charming spirit. Thou shalt
give her, also, this letter, in which, after a hundred efforts, I have
embodied something of my thoughts. Let thy ear catch every accent,
every modulation of her voice, and tell me, when we meet again, if its
music should flatter me or discourage. It is now, Nydia, some days
since I have been admitted to Ione; there is something mysterious in
this exclusion. I am distracted with doubts and fears; learn- for thou
art quick, and thy care for me will sharpen tenfold thy acuteness-
learn the cause of this unkindness; speak of me as often as thou
canst; let my name come ever to thy lips: insinuate how I love
rather than proclaim it; watch if she sighs whilst thou speakest, if
she answer thee; or, if she reproves, in what accents she reproves. Be
my friend, plead for me: and oh! how vastly wilt thou overpay the
little I have done for thee! 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 now?'
'Glaucus, I am a slave; what business have I with grief or joy?'
'Sayest thou so? No, Nydia, be free. I give thee freedom; enjoy it
as thou wilt, and pardon me that I reckoned on thy desire to serve
me.'
'You are offended. Oh! I would not, for that which no freedom
can give, offend you, Glaucus. My guardian, my saviour, my
protector, forgive the poor blind girl! She does not grieve even in
leaving thee, if she can contribute to thy happiness.'
'May the gods bless this grateful heart!' said Glaucus, greatly
moved; and, unconscious of the fires he excited, he repeatedly
kissed her forehead.
'Thou forgivest me,' said she, and thou wilt talk no more of
freedom; my happiness is to be thy slave: thou hast promised thou wilt
not give me to another...'
'I have promised.'
'And now, then, I will gather the flowers.'
Silently, Nydia took from the hand of Glaucus the costly and
jewelled vase, in which the flowers vied with each other in hue and
fragrance; tearlessly she received his parting admonition. She
paused for a moment when his voice ceased- she did not trust herself
to reply- she sought his hand- she raised it to her lips, dropped
her veil over her face, and passed at once from his presence. She
paused again as she reached the threshold; she stretched her hands
towards it, and murmured:
'Three happy days- days of unspeakable delight, have I known since
I passed thee- blessed threshold! may peace dwell ever with thee
when I am gone! And now, my heart tears itself from thee, and the only
sound it utters bids me- die!'
Chapter VI

THE HAPPY BEAUTY AND THE BLIND SLAVE

A SLAVE entered the chamber of Ione. A messenger from Glaucus
desired to be admitted.
Ione hesitated an instant.
'She is blind, that messenger,' said the slave; 'she will do her
commission to none but thee.'
Base is that heart which does not respect affliction! The moment
she heard the messenger was blind, Ione felt the impossibility of
returning a chilling reply. Glaucus had chosen a herald that was
indeed sacred- a herald that could not be denied.
'What can he want with me? what message can he send?' and the
heart of Ione beat quick. The curtain across the door was withdrawn; a
soft and echoless step fell upon the marble; and Nydia, led by one
of the attendants, entered with her precious gift.
She stood still a moment, as if listening for some sound that
might direct her.
'Will the noble Ione,' said she, in a soft and low voice, 'deign
to speak, that I may know whither to steer these benighted steps,
and that I may lay my offerings at her feet?'
'Fair child,' said Ione, touched and soothingly, 'give not thyself
the pain to cross these slippery floors, my attendant will bring to me
what thou hast to present'; and she motioned to the handmaid to take
the vase.
'I may give these flowers to none but thee,' answered Nydia;
and, guided by her ear, she walked slowly to the place where Ione sat,
and kneeling when she came before her, proffered the vase.
Ione took it from her hand, and placed it on the table at her
side. She then raised her gently, and would have seated her on the
couch, but the girl modestly resisted.
'I have not yet discharged my office,' said she; and she drew
the letter of Glaucus from her vest. 'This will, perhaps, explain
why he who sent me chose so unworthy a messenger to Ione.'
The Neapolitan took the letter with a hand, the trembling of which
Nydia at once felt and sighed to feel. With folded arms, and
downcast looks, she stood before the proud and stately form of Ione-
no less proud, perhaps, in her attitude of submission. Ione waved
her hand, and the attendants withdrew; she gazed again upon the form
of the young slave in surprise and beautiful compassion; then,
retiring a little from her, she opened and read the following letter:

'Glaucus to Ione sends more than he dares to utter. Is Ione ill?
thy slaves tell me "No", and that assurance comforts me. Has Glaucus
offended Ione?- ah! that question I may not ask from them. For five
days I have been banished from thy presence. Has the sun shone?- I
know it not. Has the sky smiled?- it has had no smile for me. My sun
and my sky are Ione. Do I offend thee? Am I too bold? Do I say that on
the tablet which my tongue has hesitated to breathe? Alas! it is in
thine absence that I feel most the spells by which thou hast subdued
me. And absence, that deprives me of joy, brings me courage. Thou wilt
not see me; thou hast banished also the common flatterers that flock
around thee. Canst thou confound me with them? It is not possible!
Thou knowest too well that I am not of them- that their clay is not
mine. For even were I of the humblest mould, the fragrance of the rose
has penetrated me, and the spirit of thy nature hath passed within me,
to embalm, to sanctify, to inspire. Have they slandered me to thee,
Ione? Thou wilt not believe them. Did the Delphic oracle itself tell
me thou wert unworthy, I would not believe it; and am I less
incredulous than thou I think of the last time we met- of the song
which I sang to thee- of the look that thou gavest me in return.
Disguise it as thou wilt, Ione, there is something kindred between us,
and our eyes acknowledged it, though our lips were silent. Deign to
see me, to listen to me, and after that exclude me if thou wilt. I
meant not so soon to say I loved. But those words rush to my heart-
they will have way. Accept, then, my homage and my vows. We met
first at the shrine of Pallas; shall we not meet before a softer and a
more ancient altar?
'Beautiful! adored Ione! If my hot youth and my Athenian blood
have misguided and allured me, they have but taught my wanderings to
appreciate the rest- the haven they have attained. I hang up my
dripping robes on the Sea-god's shrine. I have escaped shipwreck. I
have found THEE. Ione, deign to see me; thou art gentle to
strangers, wilt thou be less merciful to those of thine own land? I
await thy reply. Accept the flowers which I send- their sweet breath
has a language more eloquent than words. They take from the sun the
odours they return- they are the emblem of the love that receives
and repays tenfold- the emblem of the heart that drunk thy rays, and
owes to thee the germ of the treasures that it proffers to thy
smile. I send these by one whom thou wilt receive for her own sake, if
not for mine. she, like us, is a stranger; her fathers' ashes lie
under brighter skies: but, less happy than we, she is blind and a
slave. Poor Nydia! I seek as much as possible to repair to her the
cruelties of Nature and of Fate, in asking permission to place her
with thee. She is gentle, quick, and docile. She is skilled in music
and the song; and she is a very Chloris to the flowers. She thinks,
Ione, that thou wilt love her: if thou dost not, send her back to me.
'One word more- let me be bold, Ione. Why thinkest thou so
highly of yon dark Egyptian? he hath not about him the air of honest
men. We Greeks learn mankind from our cradle; we are not the less
profound, in that we affect no sombre mien; our lips smile, but our
eyes are grave- they observe- they note- they study. Arbaces is not
one to be credulously trusted: can it be that he hath wronged me to
thee? I think it, for I left him with thee; thou sawest how my
presence stung him; since then thou hast not admitted me. Believe
nothing that he can say to my disfavour; if thou dost, tell me so at
once; for this Ione owes to Glaucus. Farewell! this letter touches thy
hand; these characters meet thine eyes- shall they be more blessed
than he who is their author. Once more, farewell!'

It seemed to Ione, as she read this letter, as if a mist had
fallen from her eyes. What had been the supposed offence of
Glaucus?- that he had not really loved! And now, plainly, and in no
dubious terms, he confessed that love. From that moment his power
was fully restored. At every tender word in that letter, so full of
romantic and trustful passion, her heart smote her. And had she
doubted his faith, and had she believed another? and had she not, at
least, allowed to him the culprit's right to know his crime, to
plead in his defence?- the tears rolled down her cheeks- she kissed
the letter- she placed it in her bosom: and, turning to Nydia, who
stood in the same place and in the same posture:
'Wilt thou sit, my child,' said she, 'while I write an answer to
this letter?'
'You will answer it, then!' said Nydia, coldly. 'Well, the slave
that accompanied me will take back your answer.'
'For you,' said Ione, 'stay with me- trust me, your service
shall be light.'
Nydia bowed her head.
'What is your name, fair girl?'
'They call me Nydia.'
'Your country?'
'The land of Olympus- Thessaly.'
'Thou shalt be to me a friend,' said Ione, caressingly, 'as thou
art already half a countrywoman. Meanwhile, I beseech thee, stand
not on these cold and glassy marbles. There! now that thou art seated,
I can leave thee for an instant.'
'Ione to Glaucus greeting. Come to me, Glaucus,' wrote Ione, 'come
to me to-morrow. I may have been unjust to thee; but I will tell thee,
at least, the fault that has been imputed to thy charge. Fear not,
henceforth, the Egyptian- fear none. Thou sayest thou hast expressed
too much- alas! in these hasty words I have already done so.
Farewell.'

As Ione reappeared with the letter, which she did not dare to read
after she had written (Ah! common rashness, common timidity of love!)-
Nydia started from her seat.
'You have written to Glaucus?'
'I have.'
'And will he thank the messenger who gives to him thy letter?'
Ione forgot that her companion was blind; she blushed from the
brow to the neck, and remained silent.
'I mean this,' added Nydia, in a calmer tone; 'the lightest word
of coldness from thee will sadden him- the lightest kindness will
rejoice. If it be the first, let the slave take back thine answer;
if it be the last, let me- I will return this evening'
'And why, Nydia,' asked Ione, evasively, 'Wouldst thou be the
bearer of my letter?'
'It is so, then!' said Nydia. 'Ah! how could it be otherwise;
who could be unkind to Glaucus?'
'My child,' said Ione, a little more reservedly than before, 'thou
speakest warmly- Glaucus, then, is amiable in thine eyes?'
'Noble Ione! Glaucus has been that to me which neither fortune nor
the gods have been- a friend!'
The sadness mingled with dignity with which Nydia uttered these
simple words, affected the beautiful Ione: she bent down and kissed
her. 'Thou art grateful, and deservedly so; why should I blush to
say that Glaucus is worthy of thy gratitude? Go, my Nydia- take to him
thyself this letter- but return again. If I am from home when thou
returnest- as this evening, perhaps, I shall be- thy chamber shall
be prepared next my own. Nydia, I have no sister- wilt thou be one
to me?' The Thessalian kissed the hand of Ione, and then said, with
some embarrassment:
'One favour, fair Ione- may I dare to ask it?'
'Thou canst not ask what I will not grant,' replied the
Neapolitan.
'They tell me,' said Nydia, 'that thou art beautiful beyond the
loveliness of earth. Alas! I cannot see that which gladdens the world!
Wilt thou suffer me, then, to pass my hand over thy face?- that is
my sole criterion of beauty, and I usually guess aright.'
She did not wait for the answer of Ione, but, as she spoke, gently
and slowly passed her hand over the bending and half-averted
features of the Greek- features which but one image in the world can
yet depicture and recall- that image is the mutilated, but
all-wondrous, statue in her native city- her own Neapolis- that Parian
face, before which all the beauty of the Florentine Venus is poor
and earthly- that aspect so full of harmony- of youth- of genius- of
the soul- which modern critics have supposed the representation of
Psyche.
Her touch lingered over the braided hair and polished brow- over
the downy and damask cheek- over the dimpled lip- the swan-like and
whitish neck. 'I know now, that thou art beautiful,' she said: 'and
I can picture thee to my darkness henceforth, and for ever!'
When Nydia left her, Ione sank into a deep but delicious
reverie. Glaucus then loved her; he owned it- yes, he loved her. She
drew forth again that dear confession; she paused over every word, she
kissed every line; she did not ask why he had been maligned, she
only felt assured that he had been so. She wondered how she had ever
believed a syllable against him; she wondered how the Egyptian had
been enabled to exercise a power against Glaucus; she felt a chill
creep over her as she again turned to his warning against Arbaces, and
her secret fear of that gloomy being darkened into awe. She was
awakened from these thoughts by her maidens, who came to announce to
her that the hour appointed to visit Arbaces was arrived; she started,
she had forgotten the promise. Her first impression was to renounce
it; her second, was to laugh at her own fears of her eldest
surviving friend. She hastened to add the usual ornaments to her
dress, and doubtful whether she should yet question the Egyptian
more closely with respect to his accusation of Glaucus, or whether she
should wait till, without citing the authority, she should insinuate
to Glaucus the accusation itself, she took her way to the gloomy
mansion of Arbaces.
Chapter VII

IONE ENTRAPPED. THE MOUSE TRIES TO GNAW THE NET

'DEAREST Nydia!' exclaimed Glaucus as he read the letter of
Ione, 'whitest robed messenger that ever passed between earth and
heaven- how, how shall I thank thee?'
'I am rewarded,' said the poor Thessalian.
'To-morrow- to-morrow! how shall I while the hours till then?'
The enamoured Greek would not let Nydia escape him, though she
sought several times to leave the chamber; he made her recite to him
over and over again every syllable of the brief conversation that
had taken place between her and Ione; a thousand times, forgetting her
misfortune, he questioned her of the looks, of the countenance of
his beloved; and then quickly again excusing his fault, he bade her
recommence the whole recital which he had thus interrupted. The
hours thus painful to Nydia passed rapidly and delightfully to him,
and the twilight had already darkened ere he once more dismissed her
to Ione with a fresh letter and with new flowers. Scarcely had she
gone, than Clodius and several of his gay companions broke in upon
him; they rallied him on his seclusion during the whole day, and
absence from his customary haunts; they invited him to accompany
them to the various resorts in that lively city, which night and day
proffered diversity to pleasure. Then, as now, in the south (for no
land, perhaps, losing more of greatness has retained more of
custom), it was the delight of the Italians to assemble at the
evening; and, under the porticoes of temples or the shade of the
groves that interspersed the streets, listening to music or the
recitals of some inventive tale-teller, they hailed the rising moon
with libations of wine and the melodies of song. Glaucus was too happy
to be unsocial; he longed to cast off the exuberance of joy that
oppressed him. He willingly accepted the proposal of his comrades, and
laughingly they sallied out together down the populous and
glittering streets.
In the meantime Nydia once more gained the house of Ione, who
had long left it; she inquired indifferently whither Ione had gone.
The answer arrested and appalled her.
'To the house of Arbaces- of the Egyptian? Impossible!'
'It is true, my little one,' said the slave, who had replied to
her question. 'She has known the Egyptian long.'
'Long! ye gods, yet Glaucus loves her?' murmured Nydia to herself.
'And has,' asked she aloud, 'has she often visited him before?'
'Never till now,' answered the slave. 'If all the rumoured scandal
of Pompeii be true, it would be better, perhaps, if she had not
ventured there at present. But she, poor mistress mine, hears
nothing of that which reaches us; the talk of the vestibulum reaches
not to the peristyle.'
'Never till now!' repeated Nydia. 'Art thou sure?'
'Sure, pretty one: but what is that to thee or to us?'
Nydia hesitated a moment, and then, putting down the flowers
with which she had been charged, she called to the slave who had
accompanied her, and left the house without saying another word.
Not till she had got half-way back to the house of Glaucus did she
break silence, and even then she only murmured inly:
'She does not dream- she cannot- of the dangers into which she has
plunged. Fool that I am- shall I save her?- yes, for I love Glaucus
better than myself.'
When she arrived at the house of the Athenian, she learnt that
he had gone out with a party of his friends, and none knew whither. He
probably would not be home before midnight.
The Thessalian groaned; she sank upon a seat in the hall and
covered her face with her hands as if to collect her thoughts.
'There is no time to be lost,' thought she, starting up. She turned to
the slave who had accompanied her.
'Knowest thou,' said she, 'if Ione has any relative, any
intimate friend at Pompeii?'
'Why, by Jupiter!' answered the slave, 'art thou silly enough to
ask the question? Every one in Pompeii knows that Ione has a brother
who, young and rich, has been- under the rose I speak- so foolish as
to become a priest of Isis.'
'A priest of Isis! O Gods! his name?'
'Apaecides.'
'I know it all,' muttered Nydia: 'brother and sister, then, are to
be both victims! Apaecides! yes, that was the name I heard in... Ha!
he well, then, knows the peril that surrounds his sister; I will go to
him.'
She sprang up at that thought, and taking the staff which always
guided her steps, she hastened to the neighbouring shrine of Isis.
Till she had been under the guardianship of the kindly Greek, that
staff had sufficed to conduct the poor blind girl from corner to
corner of Pompeii. Every street, every turning in the more
frequented parts, was familiar to her; and as the inhabitants
entertained a tender and half-superstitious veneration for those
subject to her infirmity, the passengers had always given way to her
timid steps. Poor girl, she little dreamed that she should, ere many
days were passed, find her blindness her protection, and a guide far
safer than the keenest eyes!
But since she had been under the roof of Glaucus, he had ordered a
slave to accompany her always; and the poor devil thus appointed,
who was somewhat of the fattest, and who, after having twice performed
the journey to Ione's house, now saw himself condemned to a third
excursion (whither the gods only knew), hastened after her,
deploring his fate, and solemnly assuring Castor and Pollux that he
believed the blind girl had the talaria of Mercury as well as the
infirmity of Cupid.
Nydia, however, required but little of his assistance to find
her way to the popular temple of Isis: the space before it was now
deserted, and she won without obstacle to the sacred rail.
'There is no one here,' said the fat slave. 'What dost thou
want, or whom Knowest thou not that the priests do not live in the
temple?'
'Call out,' said she, impatiently; 'night and day there is
always one flamen, at least, watching in the shrine of Isis.'
The slave called- no one appeared.
'Seest thou no one?'
'No one.'
'Thou mistakest; I hear a sigh: look again.'
The slave, wondering and grumbling, cast round his heavy eyes, and
before one of the altars, whose remains still crowd the narrow
space, he beheld a form bending as in meditation.
'I see a figure, said he; 'and by the white garments, it is a
priest.'
'O flamen of Isis!' cried Nydia; 'servant of the Most Ancient,
hear me!'
'Who calls?' said a low and melancholy voice.
'One who has no common tidings to impart to a member of your body:
I come to declare and not to ask oracles.'
'With whom wouldst thou confer? This is no hour for thy
conference; depart, disturb me not; the night is sacred to the gods,
the day to men.'
'Methinks I know thy voice? thou art he whom I seek; yet I have
heard thee speak but once before. Art thou not the priest Apaecides?'
'I am that man,' replied the priest, emerging from the altar,
and approaching the rail.
'Thou art! the gods be praised!' Waving her hand to the slave, she
bade him withdraw to a distance; and he, who naturally imagined some
superstition connected, perhaps, with the safety of Ione, could
alone lead her to the temple, obeyed, and seated himself on the
ground, at a little distance. 'Hush!' said she, speaking quick and
low; 'art thou indeed Apaecides?'
'If thou knowest me, canst thou not recall my features?'
'I am blind,' answered Nydia; 'my eyes are in my ear, and that
recognises thee: yet swear that thou art he.'
'By the gods I swear it, by my right hand, and by the moon!'
'Hush! speak low- bend near- give me thy hand; knowest thou
Arbaces? Hast thou laid flowers at the feet of the dead? Ah! thy
hand is cold- hark yet!- hast thou taken the awful vow?'
'Who art thou, whence comest thou, pale maiden?' said Apaecides,
fearfully: 'I know thee not; thine is not the breast on which this
head hath lain; I have never seen thee before.'
'But thou hast heard my voice: no matter, those recollections it
should shame us both to recall. Listen, thou hast a sister.'
'Speak! speak! what of her?'
'Thou knowest the banquets of the dead, stranger- it pleases thee,
perhaps, to share them- would it please thee to have thy sister a
partaker? Would it please thee that Arbaces was her host?'
'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, Ione is in the halls of
Arbaces- for the first time his guest. Thou knowest if there be
peril in that first time! Farewell! I have fulfilled my charge.'
'Stay! stay!' cried the priest, passing his wan hand over his
brow. 'If this be true, what- what can be done to save her? They may
not admit me. I know not all the mazes of that intricate mansion. O
Nemesis! justly am I punished!'
'I will dismiss yon slave, be thou my guide and comrade; I will
lead thee to the private door of the house: I will whisper to thee the
word which admits. Take some weapon: it may be needful!'
'Wait an instant,' said Apaecides, retiring into one of the
cells that flank the temple, and reappearing in a few moments
wrapped in a large cloak, which was then much worn by all classes, and
which concealed his sacred dress. 'Now,' he said, grinding his
teeth, 'if Arbaces hath dared to- but he dare not! he dare not! Why
should I suspect him? 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, followed by
his silent and sightless companion, hastened through the most solitary
paths to the house of the Egyptian.
The slave, abruptly dismissed by Nydia, shrugged his shoulders,
muttered an adjuration, and, nothing loath, rolled off to his
cubiculum.
Chapter VIII

THE SOLITUDE AND SOLILOQUY OF THE EGYPTIAN.
HIS CHARACTER ANALYSED

WE must go back a few hours in the progress of our story. At the
first grey dawn of the day, which Glaucus had already marked with
white, the Egyptian was seated, sleepless and alone, on the summit
of the lofty and pyramidal tower which flanked his house. A tall
parapet around it served as a wall, and conspired, with the height
of the edifice and the gloomy trees that girded the mansion, to defy
the prying eyes of curiosity or observation. A table, on which lay a
scroll, filled with mystic figures, was before him. On high, the stars
waxed dim and faint, and the shades of night melted from the sterile
mountain-tops; only above Vesuvius there rested a deep and massy
cloud, which for several days past had gathered darker and more
solid over its summit. The struggle of night and day was more
visible over the broad ocean, which stretched calm, like a gigantic
lake, bounded by the circling shores that, covered with vines and
foliage, and gleaming here and there with the white walls of
sleeping cities, sloped to the scarce rippling waves.
It was the hour above all others most sacred to the daring science
of the Egyptian- the science which would read our changeful
destinies in the stars.
He had filled his scroll, he had noted the moment and the sign;
and, leaning upon his hand, he had surrendered himself to the thoughts
which his calculation excited.
'Again do the stars forewarn me! Some danger, then, assuredly
awaits me!' said he, slowly; 'some danger, violent and sudden in its
nature. The stars wear for me the same mocking menace which, if our
chronicles do not err, they once wore for Pyrrhus- for him, doomed
to strive for all things, to enjoy none- all attacking, nothing
gaining- battles without fruit, laurels without triumph, fame
without success; at last made craven by his own superstitions, and
slain like a dog by a tile from the hand of an old woman! Verily,
the stars flatter when they give me a type in this fool of war- when
they promise to the ardour of my wisdom the same results as to the
madness of his ambition- perpetual exercise- no certain goal!- the
Sisyphus task, the mountain and the stone!- the stone, a gloomy
image!- it reminds me that I am threatened with somewhat of the same
death as the Epirote. Let me look again. "Beware," say the shining
prophets, "how thou passest under ancient roofs, or besieged walls, or
overhanging cliffs- a stone hurled from above, is charged by the
curses of destiny against thee!" And, at no distant date from this,
comes the peril: but I cannot, of a certainty, read the day and
hour. Well! if my glass runs low, the sands shall sparkle to the last.
Yet, if I escape this peril- ay, if I escape- bright and clear as
the moonlight track along the waters glows the rest of my existence. I
see honours, happiness, success, shining upon every billow of the dark
gulf beneath which I must sink at last. What, then, with such
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 perish so suddenly and so soon, the shadow of death would darken
over me, and I should feel the icy presentiment of my doom. My soul
would express, in sadness and in gloom, its forecast of the dreary
Orcus. But it smiles- it assures me of deliverance.'
As he thus concluded his soliloquy, the Egyptian involuntarily
rose. He paced rapidly the narrow space of that star-roofed floor,
and, pausing at the parapet, looked again upon the grey and melancholy
heavens. The chills of the faint dawn came refreshingly upon his brow,
and gradually his mind resumed its natural and collected calm. He
withdrew his gaze from the stars, as, one after one, they receded into
the depths of heaven; and his eyes fell over the broad expanse
below. Dim in the silenced port of the city rose the masts of the
galleys; along that mart of luxury and of labour was stilled the
mighty hum. No lights, save here and there from before the columns
of a temple, or in the porticoes of the voiceless forum, broke the wan
and fluctuating light of the struggling morn. From the heart of the
torpid city, so soon to vibrate with a thousand passions, there came
no sound: the streams of life circulated not; they lay locked under
the ice of sleep. From the huge space of the amphitheatre, with its
stony seats rising one above the other- coiled and round as some
slumbering monster- rose a thin and ghastly mist, which gathered
darker, and more dark, over the scattered foliage that gloomed in
its vicinity. The city seemed as, after the awful change of
seventeen ages, it seems now to the traveller,- a City of the Dead.'
The ocean itself- that serene and tideless sea- lay scarce less
hushed, save that from its deep bosom came, softened by the
distance, a faint and regular murmur, like the breathing of its sleep;
and curving far, as with outstretched arms, into the green and
beautiful land, it seemed unconsciously to clasp to its breast the
cities sloping to its margin- Stabiae, and Herculaneum, and Pompeii-
those children and darlings of the deep. 'Ye slumber,' said the
Egyptian, as he scowled over the cities, the boast and flower of
Campania; 'ye slumber!- would it were the eternal repose of death!
As ye now- jewels in the crown of empire- so once were the cities of
the Nile! Their greatness hath perished from them, they sleep amidst
ruins, their palaces and their shrines are tombs, the serpent coils in
the grass of their streets, the lizard basks in their solitary
halls. By that mysterious law of Nature, which humbles one to exalt
the other, ye have thriven upon their ruins; thou, haughty Rome,
hast usurped the glories of Sesostris and Semiramis- thou art a
robber, clothing thyself with their spoils! And these- slaves in thy
triumph- that I (the last son of forgotten monarchs) survey below,
reservoirs of thine all-pervading power and luxury, I curse as I
behold! The time shall come when Egypt shall be avenged! when the
barbarian's steed shall make his manger in the Golden House of Nero!
and thou that hast sown the wind with conquest shalt reap the
harvest in the whirlwind of desolation!'
As the Egyptian uttered a prediction which fate so fearfully
fulfilled, a more solemn and boding image of ill omen never occurred
to the dreams of painter or of poet. The morning light, which can pale
so wanly even the young cheek of beauty, gave his majestic and stately
features almost the colours of the grave, with the dark hair falling
massively around them, and the dark robes flowing long and loose,
and the arm outstretched from that lofty eminence, and the
glittering eyes, fierce with a savage gladness- half prophet and
half fiend!
He turned his gaze from the city and the ocean; before him lay the
vineyards and meadows of the rich Campania. The gate and walls-
ancient, half Pelasgic- of the city, seemed not to bound its extent.
Villas and villages stretched on every side up the ascent of Vesuvius,
not nearly then so steep or so lofty as at present. For, as Rome
itself is built on an exhausted volcano, so in similar security the
inhabitants of the South tenanted the green and vine-clad places
around a volcano whose fires they believed at rest for ever. From
the gate stretched the long street of tombs, various in size and
architecture, by which, on that side, the city is as yet approached.
Above all, rode the cloud-capped summit of the Dread Mountain, with
the shadows, now dark, now light, betraying the mossy caverns and ashy
rocks, which testified the past conflagrations, and might have
prophesied- but man is blind- that which was to come!
Difficult was it then and there to guess the causes why the
tradition of the place wore so gloomy and stern a hue; why, in those
smiling plains, for miles around- to Baiae and Misenum- the poets
had imagined the entrance and thresholds of their hell- their Acheron,
and their fabled Styx: why, in those Phlegrae, now laughing with the
vine, they placed the battles of the gods, and supposed the daring
Titans to have sought the victory of heaven- save, indeed, that yet,
in yon seared and blasted summit, fancy might think to read the
characters of the Olympian thunderbolt.
But it was neither the rugged height of the still volcano, nor the
fertility of the sloping fields, nor the melancholy avenue of tombs,
nor the glittering villas of a polished and luxurious people, that now
arrested the eye of the Egyptian. On one part of the landscape, the
mountain of Vesuvius descended to the plain in a narrow and
uncultivated ridge, broken here and there by jagged crags and copses
of wild foliage. At the base of this lay a marshy and unwholesome
pool; and the intent gaze of Arbaces caught the outline of some living
form moving by the marshes, and stooping ever and anon as if to
pluck its rank produce.
'Ho!' said he, aloud, 'I have then, another companion in these
unworldly night- watches. The witch of Vesuvius is abroad. What!
doth she, too, as the credulous imagine- doth she, too, learn the lore
of the great stars? Hath she been uttering foul magic to the moon,
or culling (as her pauses betoken) foul herbs from the venomous marsh?
Well, I must see this fellow-labourer. Whoever strives to know
learns that no human lore is despicable. Despicable only you- ye fat
and bloated things- slaves of luxury- sluggards in thought- who,
cultivating nothing but the barren sense, dream that its poor soil can
produce alike the myrtle and the laurel. No, the wise only can
enjoy- to us only true luxury is given, when mind, brain, invention,
experience, thought, learning, imagination, all contribute like rivers
to swell the seas of SENSE!- Ione!'
As Arbaces uttered that last and charmed word, his thoughts sunk
at once into a more deep and profound channel. His steps paused; he
took not his eyes from the ground; once or twice he smiled joyously,
and then, as he turned from his place of vigil, and sought his
couch, he muttered, 'If death frowns so near, I will say at least that
I have lived- Ione shall be mine!'
The character of Arbaces was one of those intricate and varied
webs, in which even the mind that sat within it was sometimes confused
and perplexed. In him, the son of a fallen dynasty, the outcast of a
sunken people, was that spirit of discontented pride, which ever
rankles in one of a sterner mould, who feels himself inexorably shut
from the sphere in which his fathers shone, and to which Nature as
well as birth no less entitles himself. This sentiment hath no
benevolence; it wars with society, it sees enemies in mankind. But
with this sentiment did not go its common companion, poverty.
Arbaces possessed wealth which equalled that of most of the Roman
nobles; and this enabled him to gratify to the utmost the passions
which had no outlet in business or ambition. Travelling from clime
to clime, and beholding still Rome everywhere, he increased both his
hatred of society and his passion for pleasure. He was in a vast
prison, which, however, he could fill with the ministers of luxury. He
could not escape from the prison, and his only object, therefore,
was to give it the character of the palace. The Egyptians, from the
earliest time, were devoted to the joys of sense; Arbaces inherited
both their appetite for sensuality and the glow of imagination which
struck light from its rottenness. But still, unsocial in his pleasures
as in his graver pursuits, and brooking neither superior nor equal, he
admitted few to his companionship, save the willing slaves of his
profligacy. He was the solitary lord of a crowded harem; but, with
all, he felt condemned to that satiety which is the constant curse
of men whose intellect is above their pursuits, and that which once
had been the impulse of passion froze down to the ordinance of custom.
From the disappointments of sense he sought to raise himself by the
cultivation of knowledge; but as it was not his object to serve
mankind, so he despised that knowledge which is practical and
useful. His dark imagination loved to exercise itself in those more
visionary and obscure researches which are ever the most delightful to
a wayward and solitary mind, and to which he himself was invited by
the daring pride of his disposition and the mysterious traditions of
his clime. Dismissing faith in the confused creeds of the heathen
world, he reposed the greatest faith in the power of human wisdom.
He did not know (perhaps no one in that age distinctly did) the limits
which Nature imposes upon our discoveries. Seeing that the higher we
mount in knowledge the more wonders we behold, he imagined that Nature
not 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 astrological fallacy; from the secrets of chemistry he
passed into the spectral labyrinth of magic; and he who could be
sceptical as to the power of the gods, was credulously superstitious
as to the power of man.
The cultivation of magic, carried at that day to a singular height
among the would-be wise, was especially Eastern in its origin; it
was alien to the early philosophy of the Greeks; nor had it been
received by them with favour until Ostanes, who accompanied the army
of Xerxes, introduced, amongst the simple credulities of Hellas, the
solemn superstitions of Zoroaster. Under the Roman emperors it had
become, however, naturalised at Rome (a meet subject for Juvenal's
fiery wit). Intimately connected with magic was the worship of Isis,
and the Egyptian religion was the means by which was extended the
devotion to Egyptian sorcery. The theurgic, or benevolent magic- the
goetic, or dark and evil necromancy- were alike in pre-eminent
repute during the first century of the Christian era; and the
marvels of Faustus are not comparable to those of Apollonius. Kings,
courtiers, and sages, all trembled before the professors of the
dread science. And not the least remarkable of his tribe was the
most 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 honoured by the
sorcerer and the sage: his real name, indeed, was unknown in Italy,
for 'Arbaces' was not a genuinely Egyptian but a Median appellation,
which, in the admixture and unsettlement of the ancient races, had
become common in the country of the Nile; and there were various
reasons, not only of pride, but of policy (for in youth he had
conspired against the majesty of Rome), which induced him to conceal
his true name and rank. But neither by the name he had borrowed from
the Mede, nor by that which in the colleges of Egypt would have
attested his origin from kings, did the cultivators of magic
acknowledge the potent master. He received from their homage a more
mystic appellation, and was long remembered in Magna Graecia and the
Eastern plain by the name of 'Hermes, the Lord of the Flaming Belt'.
His subtle speculations and boasted attributes of wisdom, recorded
in various volumes, were among those tokens 'of the curious arts'
which the Christian converts most joyfully, yet most fearfully,
burnt at Ephesus, depriving posterity of the proofs of the cunning
of the fiend.
The conscience of Arbaces was solely of the intellect- it was awed
by no moral laws. If man imposed these checks upon the herd, so he
believed that man, by superior wisdom, could raise himself above them.
'If (he reasoned) I have the genius to impose laws, have I not the
right to command my own creations? Still more, have I not the right to
control- to evade- to scorn- the fabrications of yet meaner intellects
than my own?' Thus, if he were a villain, he justified his villainy by
what ought to have made him virtuous- namely, the elevation of his
capacities.
Most men have more or less the passion for power; in Arbaces
that passion corresponded exactly to his character. It was not the
passion for an external and brute authority. He desired not the purple
and the fasces, the insignia of vulgar command. His youthful
ambition once foiled and defeated, scorn had supplied its place- his
pride, his contempt for Rome- Rome, which had become the synonym of
the world (Rome, whose haughty name he regarded with the same
disdain as that which Rome herself lavished upon the barbarian), did
not permit him to aspire to sway over others, for that would render
him at once the tool or creature of the emperor. He, the Son of the
Great Race of Rameses- he execute the orders of, and receive his power
from, another!- the mere notion filled him with rage. But in rejecting
an ambition that coveted nominal distinctions, he but indulged the
more in the ambition to rule the heart. Honouring mental power as
the greatest of earthly gifts, he loved to feel that power palpably in
himself, by extending it over all whom he encountered. Thus had he
ever sought the young- thus had he ever fascinated and controlled
them. He loved to find subjects in men's souls- to rule over an
invisible and immaterial empire!- had he been less sensual and less
wealthy, he might have sought to become the founder of a new religion.
As it was, his energies were checked by his pleasures. Besides,
however, the vague love of this moral sway (vanity so dear to
sages!) he was influenced by a singular and dreamlike devotion to
all that belonged to the mystic Land his ancestors had swayed.
Although he disbelieved in her deities, he believed in the
allegories they represented (or rather he interpreted those allegories
anew). He loved to keep alive the worship of Egypt, because he thus
maintained the shadow and the recollection of her power. He loaded,
therefore, the altars of Osiris and of Isis with regal donations,
and was ever anxious to dignify their priesthood by new and wealthy
converts. The vow taken- the priesthood embraced- he usually chose the
comrades of his pleasures from those whom he made his victims,
partly because he thus secured to himself their secrecy- partly
because he thus yet more confirmed to himself his peculiar power.
Hence the motives of his conduct to Apaecides, strengthened as these
were, in that instance, by his passion for Ione.
He had seldom lived long in one place; but as he grew older, he
grew more wearied of the excitement of new scenes, and he had
sojourned among the delightful cities of Campania for a period which
surprised even himself. In fact, his pride somewhat crippled his
choice of residence. His unsuccessful conspiracy excluded him from
those burning climes which he deemed of right his own hereditary
possession, and which now cowered, supine and sunken, under the
wings of the Roman eagle. Rome herself was hateful to his indignant
soul; nor did he love to find his riches rivalled by the minions of
the court, and cast into comparative poverty by the mighty
magnificence of the court itself. The Campanian cities proffered to
him all that his nature craved- the luxuries of an unequalled climate-
the imaginative refinements of a voluptuous civilisation. He was
removed from the sight of a superior wealth; he was without rivals
to his riches; he was free from the spies of a jealous court. As
long as he was rich, none pried into his conduct. He pursued the
dark tenour of his way undisturbed and secure.
It is the curse of sensualists never to love till the pleasures of
sense begin to pall; their ardent youth is frittered away in countless
desires- their hearts are exhausted. So, ever chasing love, and taught
by a restless imagination to exaggerate, perhaps, its charms, the
Egyptian had spent all the glory of his years without attaining the
object of his desires. The beauty of to-morrow succeeded the beauty of
to-day, and the shadows bewildered him in his pursuit of the
substance. When, two years before the present date, he beheld Ione, he
saw, for the first time, one whom he imagined he could love. He stood,
then, upon that bridge of life, from which man sees before him
distinctly a wasted youth on the one side, and the darkness of
approaching age upon the other: a time in which we are more than
ever anxious, perhaps, to secure to ourselves, ere it be yet too late,
whatever we have been taught to consider necessary to the enjoyment of
a life of which the brighter half is gone.
With an earnestness and a patience which he had never before
commanded for his pleasures, Arbaces had devoted himself to win the
heart of Ione. It did not content him to love, he desired to be loved.
In this hope he had watched the expanding youth of the beautiful
Neapolitan; and, knowing the influence that the mind possesses over
those who are taught to cultivate the mind, he had contributed
willingly to form the genius and enlighten the intellect of Ione, in
the hope that she would be thus able to appreciate what he felt
would be his best claim to her affection: 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 mix among the idle
votaries of pleasure, in the belief that her soul, fitted for higher
commune, would miss the companionship of his own, and that, in
comparison with others, she would learn to love herself. He had
forgot, that as the sunflower to the sun, so youth turns to youth,
until his jealousy of Glaucus suddenly apprised him of his error. From
that moment, though, as we have seen, he knew not the extent of his
danger, a fiercer and more tumultuous direction was given to a passion
long controlled. Nothing kindles the fire of love like the
sprinkling of the anxieties of jealousy; it takes then a wilder, a
more resistless flame; it forgets its softness; it ceases to be
tender; it assumes something of the intensity- of the ferocity- of
hate.
Arbaces resolved to lose no further time upon cautious and
perilous preparations: he resolved to place an irrevocable barrier
between himself and his rivals: he resolved to possess himself of
the person of Ione: not that in his present love, so long nursed and
fed by hopes purer than those of passion alone, he would have been
contented with that mere possession. He desired the heart, the soul,
no less than the beauty, of Ione; but he imagined that once
separated by a daring crime from the rest of mankind- once bound to
Ione by a tie that memory could not break, she would be driven to
concentrate her thoughts in him- that his arts would complete his
conquest, and that, according to the true moral of the Roman and the
Sabine, the empire obtained by force would be cemented by gentler
means. This resolution was yet more confirmed in him by his belief
in the prophecies of the stars: they had long foretold to him this
year, and even the present month, as the epoch of some dread disaster,
menacing life itself. He was driven to a certain and limited date.
He resolved to crowd, monarch-like, on his funeral pyre all that his
soul held most dear. In his own words, if he were to die, he
resolved to feel that he had lived, and that Ione should be his own.
Chapter IX

WHAT BECOMES OF IONE IN THE HOUSE OF ARBACES.
THE FIRST SIGNAL OF THE WRATH OF THE DREAD FOE

WHEN Ione entered the spacious hall of the Egyptian, the same
awe which had crept over her brother impressed itself also upon her:
there seemed to her as to him 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 AEthiopian slave grinned as he admitted her, and motioned
to her to proceed. Half-way up the hall she was met by Arbaces
himself, in festive robes, which glittered with jewels. Although it
was broad day without, the mansion, according to the practice of the
luxurious, was artificially darkened, and the lamps cast their still
and odour-giving light over the rich floors and ivory roofs.
'Beautiful Ione,' said Arbaces, as he bent to touch her hand,
'it is you that have eclipsed the day- it is your eyes that light up
the halls- it is your breath which fills them with perfumes.'
'You must not talk to me thus,' said Ione, smiling, 'you forget
that your lore has sufficiently instructed my mind to render these
graceful flatteries to my person unwelcome. It was you who taught me
to disdain adulation: will you unteach your pupil?'
There was something so frank and charming in the manner of Ione,
as she thus spoke, that the Egyptian was more than ever enamoured, and
more than ever disposed to renew the offence he had committed; he,
however, answered quickly and gaily, and hastened to renew the
conversation.
He led her through the various chambers of a house, which seemed
to contain to her eyes, inexperienced to other splendour than the
minute elegance of Campanian cities, the treasures of the world.
In the walls were set pictures of inestimable art, the lights
shone over statues of the noblest age of Greece. Cabinets of gems,
each cabinet itself a gem, filled up the interstices of the columns;
the most precious woods lined the thresholds and composed the doors;
gold and jewels seemed lavished all around. Sometimes they were
alone in these rooms- sometimes they passed through silent rows of
slaves, who, kneeling as she passed, proffered to her offerings of
bracelets, of chains, of gems, which the Egyptian vainly entreated her
to receive.
'I have often heard,' said she, wonderingly, 'that you were
rich; but I never dreamed of the amount of your wealth.'
'Would I could coin it all,' replied the Egyptian, 'into one
crown, which I might place upon that snowy brow!'
'Alas! the weight would crush me; I should be a second Tarpeia,'
answered Ione, laughingly.
'But thou dost not disdain riches, O Ione! they know not what life
is capable of who are not wealthy. Gold is the great magician of
earth- it realises our dreams- it gives them the power of a god- there
is a grandeur, a sublimity, in its possession; it is the mightiest,
yet the most obedient of our slaves.'
The artful Arbaces sought to dazzle the young Neapolitan by his
treasures and his eloquence; he sought to awaken in her the desire
to be mistress of what she surveyed: he hoped that she would
confound the owner with the possessions, and that the charms of his
wealth would be reflected on himself. Meanwhile, Ione was secretly
somewhat uneasy at the gallantries which escaped from those lips,
which, till lately, had seemed to disdain the common homage we pay
to beauty; and with that delicate subtlety, which woman alone
possesses, she sought to ward off shafts deliberately aimed, and to
laugh or to talk away the meaning from his warming language. Nothing
in the world is more pretty than that same species of defence; it is
the charm of the African necromancer who professed with a feather to
turn aside the winds.
The Egyptian was intoxicated and subdued by her grace even more
than by her beauty: it was with difficulty that he suppressed his
emotions; alas! the feather was only powerful against the summer
breezes- it would be the sport of the storm.
Suddenly, as they stood in one hall, which was surrounded by
draperies of silver and white, the Egyptian clapped his hands, and, as
if by enchantment, a banquet rose from the floor- a couch or throne,
with a crimson canopy, ascended simultaneously at the feet of Ione-
and at the same instant from behind the curtains swelled the invisible
and softest music.
Arbaces placed himself at the feet of Ione- and children, young
and beautiful as Loves, ministered to the feast.
The feast was over, the music sank into a low and subdued
strain, and Arbaces thus addressed his beautiful guest:
'Hast thou never in this dark and uncertain world- hast thou never
aspired, my pupil, to look beyond- hast thou never wished to put aside
the veil of futurity, and to behold on the shores of Fate the
shadowy images of things to be? For it is not the past alone that
has its ghosts: each event to come has also its spectrum- its shade;
when the hour arrives, life enters it, the shadow becomes corporeal,
and walks the world. Thus, in the land beyond the grave, are ever
two impalpable and spiritual hosts- the things to be, the things
that have been! If by our wisdom we can penetrate that land, we see
the one as the other, and learn, as I have learned, not alone the
mysteries of the dead, but also the destiny of the living.'
'As thou hast learned!- Can wisdom attain so far?'
'Wilt thou prove my knowledge, Ione, and behold the representation
of thine own fate? It is a drama more striking than those of
AEschylus: it is one I have prepared for thee, if thou wilt see the
shadows perform their part.'
The Neapolitan trembled; she thought of Glaucus, and sighed as
well as trembled: were their destinies to be united? Half incredulous,
half believing, half awed, half alarmed by the words of her strange
host, she remained for some moments silent, and then answered:
'It may revolt- it may terrify; the knowledge of the future will
perhaps only embitter the present!'
'Not so, Ione. I have myself looked upon thy future lot, and the
ghosts of thy Future bask in the gardens of Elysium: amidst the
asphodel and the rose they prepare the garlands of thy sweet
destiny, and the Fates, so harsh to others, weave only for thee the
web of happiness and love. Wilt thou then come and behold thy doom, so
that thou mayest enjoy it beforehand?'
Again the heart of Ione murmured 'Glaucus'; she uttered a
half-audible assent; the Egyptian rose, and taking her by the hand, he
led her across the banquet-room- the curtains withdrew as by magic
hands, and the music broke forth in a louder and gladder strain;
they passed a row of columns, on either side of which fountains cast
aloft their fragrant waters; they descended by broad and easy steps
into a garden. The eve had commenced; the moon was already high in
heaven, and those sweet flowers that sleep by day, and fill, with
ineffable odours, the airs of night, were thickly scattered amidst
alleys cut through the star-lit foliage; or, gathered in baskets,
lay like offerings at the feet of the frequent statues that gleamed
along their path.
'Whither wouldst thou lead me, Arbaces?' said Ione, wonderingly.
'But yonder,' said he, pointing to a small building which stood at
the end of the vista. 'It is a temple consecrated to the Fates- our
rites require such holy ground.'
They passed into a narrow hall, at the end of which hung a sable
curtain. Arbaces lifted it; Ione entered, and found herself in total
darkness.
'Be not alarmed,' said the Egyptian, 'the light will rise
instantly.' While he so spoke, a soft, and warm, and gradual light
diffused itself around; as it spread over each object, Ione
perceived that she was in an apartment of moderate size, hung
everywhere with black; a couch with draperies of the same hue was
beside her. In the centre of the room was a small altar, on which
stood a tripod of bronze. At one side, upon a lofty column of granite,
was a colossal head of the blackest marble, which she perceived, by
the crown of wheat-ears that encircled the brow, represented the great
Egyptian goddess. Arbaces stood before the altar: he had laid his
garland on the shrine, and seemed occupied with pouring into the
tripod the contents of a brazen vase; suddenly from that tripod leaped
into life a blue, quick, darting, irregular flame; the Egyptian drew
back to the side of Ione, and muttered some words in a language
unfamiliar to her ear; the curtain at the back of the altar waved
tremulously to and fro- it parted slowly, and in the aperture which
was thus made, Ione beheld an indistinct and pale landscape, which
gradually grew brighter and clearer as she gazed; at length she
discovered plainly trees, and rivers, and meadows, and all the
beautiful diversity of the richest earth. At length, before the
landscape, a dim shadow glided; it rested opposite to Ione; slowly the
same charm seemed to operate upon it as over the rest of the scene; it
took form and shape, and lo!- in its feature and in its form Ione
beheld herself!
Then the scene behind the spectre faded away, and was succeeded by
the representation of a gorgeous palace; a throne was raised in the
centre of its hall, the dim forms of slaves and guards were ranged
around it, and a pale hand held over the throne the likeness of a
diadem.
A new actor now appeared; he was clothed from head to foot in a
dark robe- his face was concealed- he knelt at the feet of the shadowy
Ione- he clasped her hand- he pointed to the throne, as if to invite
her to ascend it.
The Neapolitan's heart beat violently. 'Shall the shadow
disclose itself?' whispered a voice beside her- the voice of Arbaces.
'Ah, yes!' answered Ione, softly.
Arbaces raised his hand- the spectre seemed to drop the mantle
that concealed its form- and Ione shrieked- it was Arbaces himself
that thus knelt before her.
'This is, indeed, thy fate!' whispered again the Egyptian's
voice in her ear. 'And thou art destined to be the bride of Arbaces.'
Ione started- the black curtain closed over the phantasmagoria:
and Arbaces himself- the real, the living Arbaces- was at her feet.
'Oh, Ione!' said he, passionately gazing upon her, 'listen to
one who has long struggled vainly with his love. I adore thee! The
Fates do not lie- thou art destined to be mine- I have sought the
world around, and found none like thee. From my youth upward, I have
sighed for such as thou art. I have dreamed till I saw thee- I wake,
and I behold thee. Turn not away from me, Ione; think not of me as
thou hast thought; I am not that being- cold, insensate, and morose,
which I have seemed to thee. Never woman had lover so devoted- so
passionate as I will be to Ione. Do not struggle in my clasp: see- I
release thy hand. Take it from me if thou wilt- well be it so! But
do not reject me, Ione- do not rashly reject- judge of thy power
over him whom thou canst thus transform. I, who never knelt to
mortal being, kneel to thee. I, who have commanded fate, receive
from thee my own. Ione, tremble not, thou art my queen- my goddess- be
my bride! All the wishes thou canst form shall be fulfilled. The
ends of the earth shall minister to thee- pomp, power, luxury, shall
be thy slaves. Arbaces shall have no ambition, save the pride of
obeying thee. Ione, turn upon me those eyes- shed upon me thy smile.
Dark is my soul when thy face is hid from it: shine over me, my sun-
my heaven- my daylight!- Ione, Ione- do not reject my love!'
Alone, and in the power of this singular and fearful man, Ione was
not yet terrified; the respect of his language, the softness of his
voice, reassured her; and, in her own purity, she felt protection. But
she was confused- astonished: it was some moments before she could
recover the power of reply.
'Rise, Arbaces!' said she at length; and she resigned to him
once more her hand, which she as quickly withdrew again, when she felt
upon it the burning pressure of his lips. 'Rise! and if thou art
serious, if thy language be in earnest...'
'If!' said he tenderly.
'Well, then, listen to me: you have been my guardian, my friend,
my monitor; for this new character I was not prepared- think not,' she
added quickly, as she saw his dark eyes glitter with the fierceness of
his passion- 'think not that I scorn- that I am untouched- that I am
not honoured by this homage; but, say- canst thou hear me calmly?'
'Ay, though thy words were lightning, and could blast me!'
'I love another!' said Ione, blushingly, but in a firm voice.
'By the gods- by hell!' shouted Arbaces, rising to his fullest
height; 'dare not tell me that- dare not mock me- it is impossible!-
Whom hast thou seen- whom known? Oh, Ione, it is thy woman's
invention, thy woman's art that speaks- thou wouldst gain time; I have
surprised- I have terrified thee. Do with me as thou wilt- say that
thou lovest not me; but say not that thou lovest another!'
'Alas!' began Ione; and then, appalled before his sudden and
unlooked-for violence, she burst into tears.
Arbaces came nearer to her- his breath glowed fiercely on her
cheek; he wound his arms round her- she sprang from his embrace. In
the struggle a tablet fell from her bosom on the ground: Arbaces
perceived, and seized it- it was the letter that morning received from
Glaucus. Ione sank upon the couch, half dead with terror.
Rapidly the eyes of Arbaces ran over the writing; the Neapolitan
did not dare to gaze upon him: she did not see the deadly paleness
that came over his countenance- she marked not his withering frown,
nor the quivering of his lip, nor the convulsions that heaved his
breast. He read it to the end, and then, as the letter fell from his
hand, he said, in a voice of deceitful calmness:
'Is the writer of this the man thou lovest?'
Ione sobbed, but answered not.
'Speak!' he rather shrieked than said.
'It is- it is!
'And his name- it is written here- his name is Glaucus!'
Ione, clasping her hands, looked round as for succour or escape.
'Then hear me,' said Arbaces, sinking his voice into a whisper;
'thou shalt go to thy tomb rather than to his arms! What! thinkest
thou Arbaces will brook a rival such as this puny Greek? What!
thinkest thou that he has watched the fruit ripen, to yield it to
another! Pretty fool- no! Thou art mine- all- only mine: and thus-
thus I seize and claim thee!' As he spoke, he caught Ione in his arms;
and, in that ferocious grasp, was all the energy- less of love than of
revenge.
But to Ione despair gave supernatural strength: she again tore
herself from him- she rushed to that part of the room by which she had
entered- she half withdrew the curtain- he had 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 thence once more darted upon his prey.
At that instant the curtain was rudely torn aside, the Egyptian
felt a fierce and strong grasp upon his shoulder. He turned- he beheld
before him the flashing eyes of Glaucus, and the pale, worn, but
menacing, countenance of Apaecides. 'Ah,' he muttered, as he glared
from one to the other, 'what Fury hath sent ye hither?'
'Ate,' answered Glaucus; and he closed at once with the
Egyptian. Meanwhile, Apaecides raised his sister, now lifeless, from
the ground; his strength, exhausted by a mind long overwrought, did
not suffice to bear her away, light and delicate though her shape:
he placed her, therefore, on the couch, and stood over her with a
brandishing knife, watching the contest between Glaucus and the
Egyptian, and ready to plunge his weapon in the bosom of Arbaces
should he be victorious in the struggle. There is, perhaps, nothing on
earth so terrible as the naked and unarmed contest of animal strength,
no weapon but those which Nature supplies to rage. Both the
antagonists were now locked in each other's grasp- the hand of each
seeking the throat of the other- the face drawn back- the fierce
eyes flashing- the muscles strained- the veins swelled- the lips
apart- the teeth set- both were strong beyond the ordinary power of
men, both animated by relentless wrath; they coiled, they wound,
around each other; they rocked to and fro- they swayed from end to end
of their confined arena- they uttered cries of ire and revenge- they
were now before the altar- now at the base of the column where the
struggle had commenced: they drew back for breath- Arbaces leaning
against the column- Glaucus a few paces apart.
'O ancient goddess!' exclaimed Arbaces, clasping the column, and
raising his eyes toward the sacred image it supported, 'protect thy
chosen- proclaim they vengeance against this thing of an upstart
creed, who with sacrilegious violence profanes thy resting-place and
assails thy servant.'
As he spoke, the still and vast features of the goddess seemed
suddenly to glow with life; through the black marble, as through a
transparent veil, flushed luminously a crimson and burning hue; around
the head played and darted coruscations of livid lightning; the eyes
became like balls of lurid fire, and seemed fixed in withering and
intolerable wrath upon the countenance of the Greek. Awed and appalled
by this sudden and mystic answer to the prayer of his foe, and not
free from the hereditary superstitions of his race, the cheeks of
Glaucus paled before that strange and ghastly animation of the marble-
his knees knocked together- he stood, seized with a divine panic,
dismayed, aghast, half unmanned before his foe! Arbaces gave him not
breathing time to recover his stupor: 'Die, wretch!' he shouted, in
a voice of thunder, as he sprang upon the Greek; 'the Mighty Mother
claims thee as a living sacrifice!' Taken thus by surprise in the
first consternation of his superstitious fears, the Greek lost his
footing- the marble floor was as smooth as glass- he slid- he fell.
Arbaces planted his foot on the breast of his fallen foe. Apaecides,
taught by his sacred profession, as well as by his knowledge of
Arbaces, to distrust all miraculous interpositions, had not shared the
dismay of his companion; he rushed forward- his knife gleamed in the
air- the watchful Egyptian caught his arm as it descended- one
wrench of his powerful hand tore the weapon from the weak grasp of the
priest- one sweeping blow stretched him to the earth- with a loud
and exulting yell Arbaces brandished the knife on high. Glaucus
gazed upon his impending fate with unwinking eyes, and in the stern
and scornful resignation of a fallen gladiator, when, at that awful
instant, the floor shook under them with a rapid and convulsive throe-
a mightier spirit than that of the Egyptian was abroad!- a giant and
crushing power, before which sunk into sudden impotence his passion
and his arts. IT woke- it stirred- that Dread Demon of the Earthquake-
laughing to scorn alike the magic of human guile and the malice of
human wrath. As a Titan, on whom the mountains are piled, it roused
itself from the sleep of years, it moved on its tortured couch- the
caverns below groaned and trembled beneath the motion of its limbs. In
the moment of his vengeance and his power, the self-prized demigod was
humbled to his real clay. Far and wide along the soil went a hoarse
and rumbling sound- the curtains of the chamber shook as at the
blast of a storm- the altar rocked- the tripod reeled, and high over
the place of contest, the column trembled and waved from side to side-
the sable head of the goddess tottered and fell from its pedestal- and
as the Egyptian stooped above his intended victim, right upon his
bended form, right between the shoulder and the neck, struck the
marble mass! the shock stretched him like the blow of death, at
once, suddenly, without sound or motion, or semblance of life, upon
the floor, apparently crushed by the very divinity he had impiously
animated and invoked!
'The Earth has preserved her children,' said Glaucus, staggering
to his feet. 'Blessed be the dread convulsion! Let us worship the
providence of the gods!' He assisted Apaecides to rise, and then
turned upward the face of Arbaces; it seemed locked as in death; blood
gushed from the Egyptian's lips over his glittering robes; he fell
heavily from the arms of Glaucus, and the red stream trickled slowly
along the marble. Again the earth shook beneath their feet; they
were forced to cling to each other; the convulsion ceased as
suddenly as it came; they tarried no longer; Glaucus bore Ione lightly
in his arms, and they fled from the unhallowed spot. But scarce had
they entered the garden than they were met on all sides by flying
and disordered groups of women and slaves, whose festive and
glittering garments contrasted in mockery the solemn terror of the
hour; they did not appear to heed the strangers- they were occupied
only with their own fears. After the tranquillity of sixteen years,
that burning and 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 III

Chapter I

THE FORUM OF THE POMPEIANS. THE FIRST RUDE MACHINERY
BY WHICH THE NEW ERA OF THE WORLD WAS WROUGHT

IT was early noon, and the forum was crowded alike with the busy
and the idle. As at Paris at this day, so at that time in the cities
of Italy, men lived almost wholly out of doors: the public
buildings, the forum, the porticoes, the baths, the temples
themselves, might be considered their real homes; it was no wonder
that they decorated so gorgeously these favourite places of resort-
they felt for them a sort of domestic affection as well as a public
pride. And animated was, indeed, the aspect of the forum of Pompeii at
that time! Along its broad pavement, composed of large flags of
marble, were assembled various groups, conversing in that energetic
fashion which appropriates a gesture to every word, and which is still
the characteristic of the people of the south. Here, in seven stalls
on one side the colonnade, sat the money-changers, with their
glittering heaps before them, and merchants and seamen in various
costumes crowding round their stalls. On one side, several men in long
togas were seen bustling rapidly up to a stately edifice, where the
magistrates administered justice- these were the lawyers, active,
chattering, joking, and punning, as you may find them at this day in
Westminster. In the centre of the space, pedestals supported various
statues, of which the most remarkable was the stately form of
Cicero. Around the court ran a regular and symmetrical colonnade of
Doric architecture; and there several, whose business drew them
early to the place, were taking the slight morning repast which made
an Italian breakfast, talking vehemently on the earthquake of the
preceding night as they dipped pieces of bread in their cups of
diluted wine. In the open space, too, you might perceive various petty
traders exercising the arts of their calling. Here one man was holding
out ribands to a fair dame from the country; another man was
vaunting to a stout farmer the excellence of his shoes; a third, a
kind of stall-restaurateur, still so common in the Italian cities, was
supplying many a hungry mouth with hot messes from his small and
itinerant stove, while- contrast strongly typical of the mingled
bustle and intellect of the time- close by, a schoolmaster was
expounding to his puzzled pupils the elements of the Latin grammar.' A
gallery above the portico, which was ascended by small wooden
staircases, had also its throng; though, as here the immediate
business of the place was mainly carried on, its groups wore a more
quiet and serious air.
Every now and then the crowd below respectfully gave way as some
senator swept along to the Temple of Jupiter (which filled up one side
of the forum, and was the senators' hall of meeting), nodding with
ostentatious condescension to such of his friends or clients as he
distinguished amongst the throng. Mingling amidst the gay dresses of
the better orders you saw the hardy forms of the neighbouring farmers,
as they made their way to the public granaries. Hard by the temple you
caught a view of the triumphal arch, and the long street beyond
swarming with inhabitants; in one of the niches of the arch a fountain
played, cheerily sparkling in the sunbeams; and above its cornice rose
the bronzed and equestrian statue of Caligula, strongly contrasting
the gay summer skies. Behind the stalls of the money-changers was that
building now called the Pantheon; and a crowd of the poorer
Pompeians passed through the small vestibule which admitted to the
interior, with panniers under their arms, pressing on towards a
platform, placed between two columns, where such provisions as the
priests had rescued from sacrifice were exposed for sale.
At one of the public edifices appropriated to the business of
the city, workmen were employed upon the columns, and you heard the
noise of their labour every now and then rising above the hum of the
multitude: the columns are unfinished to this day!
All, then, united, nothing could exceed in variety the costumes,
the ranks, the manners, the occupations of the crowd- nothing could
exceed the bustle, the gaiety, the animation- where pleasure and
commerce, idleness and labour, avarice and ambition, mingled in one
gulf their motley rushing, yet harmonius, streams.
Facing the steps of the Temple of Jupiter, with folded arms, and a
knit and contemptuous brow, stood a man of about fifty years of age.
His dress was remarkably plain- not so much from its material, as from
the absence of all those ornaments which were worn by the Pompeians of
every rank- partly from the love of show, partly, also, because they
were chiefly wrought into those shapes deemed most efficacious in
resisting the assaults of magic and the influence of the evil eye. His
forehead was high and bald; the few locks that remained at the back of
the head were concealed by a sort of cowl, which made a part of his
cloak, to be raised or lowered at pleasure, and was now drawn half-way
over the head, as a protection from the rays of the sun. The colour of
his garments was brown, no popular hue with the Pompeians; all the
usual admixtures of scarlet or purple seemed carefully excluded. His
belt, or girdle, contained a small receptacle for ink, which hooked on
to the girdle, a stilus (or implement of writing), and tablets of no
ordinary size. What was rather remarkable, the cincture held no purse,
which was the almost 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
neighbours; but there was that in the lip and eye of this bystander so
remarkably bitter and disdainful, as he surveyed the religious
procession sweeping up the stairs of the temple, that it could not
fail to arrest the notice of many.
'Who is yon cynic?' asked a merchant of his companion, a jeweller.
'It is Olinthus,' replied the jeweller; 'a reputed Nazarene.'
The merchant shuddered. 'A dread sect!' said he, in a whispered
and fearful voice. 'It is said. that when they meet at nights they
always commence their ceremonies by the 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 jewellers either, if such
notions were in fashion?'
'That is very true,' said the jeweller; 'besides, they wear no
jewels- they mutter imprecations when they see a serpent; and at
Pompeii all our ornaments are serpentine.'
'Do but observe,' said a third, who was a fabricant of bronze,
'how yon Nazarene scowls at the piety of the sacrificial procession.
He is murmuring curses on the temple, be sure. Do you know,
Celcinus, that this fellow, passing by my shop the other day, and
seeing me employed on a statue of Minerva, told me with a frown
that, had it been marble, he would have broken it; but the bronze
was too strong for him. "Break a goddess!" said I. "A goddess!"
answered the atheist; "it is a demon- an evil spirit!" Then he
passed on his way cursing. Are such things to be borne? What marvel
that the earth heaved so fearfully last night, anxious to reject the
atheist from her bosom?- An atheist, do I say? worse still- a
scorner of the Fine Arts! Woe to us fabricants of bronze, if such
fellows as this give the law to society!'
'These are the incendiaries that burnt Rome under Nero,' groaned
the jeweller.
While such were the friendly remarks provoked by the air and faith
of the Nazarene, Olinthus himself became sensible of the effect he was
producing; he turned his eyes round, and 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 afterwards
of compassion, he gathered his cloak round him and passed on,
muttering audibly, 'Deluded idolaters!- did not last night's
convulsion warn ye? Alas! how will ye meet the last day?'
The crowd that heard these boding words gave them different
interpretations, according to their different shades of ignorance
and of fear; all, however, concurred in imagining them to convey
some awful imprecation. They regarded the Christian as the enemy of
mankind; the epithets they lavished upon him, of which 'Atheist' was
the most favoured and frequent, may serve, perhaps, to warn us,
believers of that same creed now triumphant, how we indulge the
persecution of opinion Olinthus then underwent, and how we apply to
those whose notions differ from our own the terms at that day lavished
on the fathers of our faith.
As Olinthus stalked through the crowd, and gained one of the
more private places of egress from the forum, he perceived gazing upon
him a pale and earnest countenance, which he was not slow to
recognise.
Wrapped in a pallium that partially concealed his sacred robes,
the young Apaecides surveyed the disciple of that new and mysterious
creed, to which at one time he had been half a convert.
'Is he, too, an impostor? Does this man, so plain and simple in
life, in garb, in mien- does he too, like Arbaces, make austerity
the robe of the sensualist? Does the veil of Vesta hide the vices of
the prostitute?'
Olinthus, accustomed to men of all classes, and combining with the
enthusiasm of his faith a profound experience of his kind, guessed,
perhaps, by the index of the countenance, something of what passed
within the breast of the priest. He met the survey of Apaecides with a
steady eye, and a brow of serene and open candour.
'Peace be with thee!' said he, saluting Apaecides.
'Peace!' echoed the priest, in so hollow a tone that it went at
once to the heart of the Nazarene.
'In that wish,' continued Olinthus, 'all good things are combined-
without virtue thou canst not have peace. Like the rainbow, Peace
rests upon the earth, but its arch is lost in heaven. Heaven bathes it
in hues of light- it springs up amidst tears and clouds- it is a
reflection of the Eternal Sun- it is an assurance of calm- it is the
sign of a great covenant between Man and God. Such peace, O young man!
is the smile of the soul; it is an emanation from the distant orb of
immortal light. PEACE be with you!'
'Alas!' began Apaecides, when he caught the gaze of the curious
loiterers, inquisitive to know what could possibly be the theme of
conversation between a reputed Nazarene and a priest of Isis. He
stopped short, and then added in a low tone: 'We cannot converse here,
I will follow thee to the banks of the river; there is a walk which at
this time is usually deserted and solitary.'
Olinthus bowed assent. He passed through the streets with a
hasty step, but a quick and observant eye. Every now and then he
exchanged a significant glance, a slight sign, with some passenger,
whose garb usually betokened the wearer to belong to the humbler
classes; for Christianity was in this the type of all other and less
mighty revolutions- the grain of mustard-seed was in the heart of
the lowly. Amidst the huts of poverty and labour, the vast stream
which afterwards poured its broad waters beside the cities and palaces
of earth took its neglected source.
Chapter II

THE NOONDAY EXCURSION ON THE CAMPANIAN SEAS

'BUT tell me, Glaucus,' said Ione, as they glided down the
rippling Sarnus in their boat of pleasure, 'how camest thou with
Apaecides to my rescue from that bad man?'
'Ask Nydia yonder,' answered the Athenian, pointing to the blind
girl, who sat at a little distance from them, leaning pensively over
her lyre; 'she must have thy thanks, not we. It seems that she came to
my house, and, finding me from home, sought thy brother in his temple;
he accompanied her to Arbaces; on their way they encountered me,
with a company of friends, whom thy kind letter had given me a
spirit cheerful enough to join. Nydia's quick ear detected my voice- a
few words sufficed to make me the companion of Apaecides; I told not
my associates why I left them- could I trust thy name to their light
tongues and gossiping opinion?- Nydia led us to the garden gate, by
which we afterwards bore thee- we entered, and were about to plunge
into the mysteries of that evil house, when we heard thy cry in
another direction. Thou knowest the rest.'
Ione blushed deeply. She then raised her eyes to those of Glaucus,
and he felt all the thanks she could not utter. 'Come hither, my
Nydia,' said she, tenderly, to the Thessalian.
'Did I not tell thee that thou shouldst be my sister and friend?
Hast thou not already been more?- my guardian, my preserver!'
'It is nothing,' answered Nydia coldly, and without stirring.
'Ah! I forgot,' continued Ione, 'I should come to thee'; and she
moved along the benches till she reached the place where Nydia sat,
and flinging her arms caressingly round her, covered her cheeks with
kisses.
Nydia was that morning paler than her wont, and her countenance
grew even more wan and colourless as she submitted to the embrace of
the beautiful Neapolitan. 'But how camest thou, Nydia,' whispered
Ione, 'to surmise so faithfully the danger I was exposed to? Didst
thou know aught of the Egyptian?'
'Yes, I knew of his vices.'
'And how?'
'Noble Ione, I have been a slave to the vicious- those whom I
served were his minions.'
'And thou hast entered his house since thou knewest so well that
private entrance?'
'I have played on my lyre to Arbaces,' answered the Thessalian,
with embarrassment.
'And thou hast escaped the contagion from which thou hast saved
Ione?' returned the Neapolitan, in a voice too low for the ear of
Glaucus.
'Noble Ione, I have neither beauty nor station; I am a child,
and a slave, and blind. The despicable are ever safe.'
It was with a pained, and proud, and indignant tone that Nydia
made this humble reply; and Ione felt that she only wounded Nydia by
pursuing the subject. She remained silent, and the bark now floated
into the sea.
'Confess that I was right, Ione,' 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
over-balanced.'
So saying, he took his seat exactly opposite to Ione, and
leaning forward, he fancied that it was her breath, and not the
winds of summer, that flung fragrance over the sea.
'Thou wert to tell me,' said Glaucus, 'why for so many days thy
door was closed to me?'
'Oh, think of it no more!' answered Ione, quickly; 'I gave my
ear to what I now know was the malice of slander.'
'And my slanderer was the Egyptian?'
Ione's silence assented to the question.
'His motives are sufficiently obvious.'
'Talk not of him,' said Ione, covering her face with her hands, as
if to shut out his very thought.
'Perhaps he may be already by the banks of the slow Styx,' resumed
Glaucus; 'yet in that case we should probably have heard of his death.
Thy brother, methinks, hath felt the dark influence of his gloomy
soul. When we arrived last night at thy house he left me abruptly.
Will he ever vouchsafe to be my friend?'
'He is consumed with some secret care,' answered Ione,
tearfully. 'Would that we could lure him from himself! Let us join
in that tender office.'
'He shall be my brother,' returned the Greek.
'How calmly,' said Ione, rousing herself from the gloom into which
her thoughts of Apaecides had plunged her- 'how calmly the clouds seem
to repose in heaven; and yet you tell me, for I knew it not myself,
that the earth shook beneath us last night.'
'It did, and more violently, they say, than it has done since
the great convulsion sixteen years ago: the land we live in yet nurses
mysterious terror; and the reign of Pluto, which spreads beneath our
burning fields, seems rent with unseen commotion. Didst thou not
feel the earth quake, Nydia, where thou wert seated last night? and
was it not the fear that it occasioned thee that made thee weep?'
'I felt the soil creep and heave beneath me, like some monstrous
serpent,' answered Nydia; 'but as I saw nothing, I did not fear: I
imagined the convulsion to be a spell of the Egyptian's. They say he
has power over the elements.'
'Thou art a Thessalian, my Nydia,' replied Glaucus, 'and hast a
national right to believe in magic.
'Magic!- who doubts it?' answered Nydia, simply: 'dost thou?'
'Until last night (when a necromantic prodigy did indeed appal
me), methinks I was not credulous in any other magic save that of
love!' said Glaucus, in a tremulous voice, and fixing his eyes on
Ione.
'Ah!' said Nydia, with a sort of shiver, and she awoke
mechanically a few pleasing notes from her lyre; the sound suited well
the tranquility of the waters, and the sunny stillness of the noon.
'Play to us, dear Nydia, said Glaucus- 'play and give us one of
thine old Thessalian songs: whether it be of magic or not, as thou
wilt- let it, at least, be of love!'
'Of love!' repeated Nydia, raising her large, wandering eyes, that
ever thrilled those who saw them with a mingled fear and pity; you
could never familiarise yourself to their aspect: so strange did it
seem that those dark wild orbs were ignorant of the day, and either so
fixed was their deep mysterious gaze, or so restless and perturbed
their glance, that you felt, when you encountered them, that same
vague, and chilling, and half-preternatural impression, which comes
over you in the presence of the insane- of those who, having a life
outwardly like your own, have a life within life- dissimilar-
unsearchable- unguessed!
'Will you that I should sing of love?' said she, fixing those eyes
upon Glaucus.
'Yes,' replied he, looking down.
She moved a little way from the arm of Ione, still cast round her,
as if that soft embrace embarrassed; and placing her light and
graceful instrument on her knee, after a short prelude, she sang the
following strain:

NYDIA'S LOVE-SONG

I

The Wind and the Beam loved the Rose,
And the Rose loved one;
For who recks the wind where it blows?
Or loves not the sun?

II

None knew whence the humble Wind stole,
Poor sport of the skies-
None dreamt that the Wind had a soul,
In its mournful sighs!

III

Oh, happy Beam! how canst thou prove
That bright love of thine?
In thy light is the proof of thy love.
Thou hast but- to shine!

IV

How its love can the Wind reveal?
Unwelcome its sigh;
Mute- mute to its Rose let it steal-
Its proof is- to die!

'Thou singest but sadly, sweet girl,' said Glaucus; 'thy youth
only feels as yet the dark shadow of Love; far other inspiration
doth he wake, when he himself bursts and brightens upon us.
'I sing as I was taught,' replied Nydia, sighing.
'Thy master was love-crossed, then- try thy hand at a gayer air.
Nay, girl, give the instrument to me.' As Nydia obeyed, her hand
touched his, and, with that slight touch, her breast heaved- her cheek
flushed. Ione and Glaucus, occupied with each other, perceived not
those signs of strange and premature emotions, which preyed upon a
heart that, nourished by imagination, dispensed with hope.
And now, broad, blue, bright, before them, spread that halcyon
sea, fair as at this moment, seventeen centuries from that date, I
behold it rippling on the same divinest shores. Clime that yet
enervates with a soft and Circean spell- that moulds us insensibly,
mysteriously, into harmony with thyself, banishing the thought of
austerer labour, the voices of wild ambition, the contests and the
roar of life; filling us with gentle and subduing dreams, making
necessary to our nature that which is its least earthly portion, so
that the very air inspires us with the yearning and thirst of love.
Whoever visits thee seems to leave earth and its harsh cares behind-
to enter by the Ivory gate into the Land of Dreams. The young and
laughing Hours of the PRESENT- the Hours, those children of Saturn,
which he hungers ever to devour, seem snatched from his grasp. The
past- the future- are forgotten; we enjoy but the breathing time.
Flower of the world's garden- Fountain of Delight- Italy of Italy-
beautiful, benign Campania!- vain were, indeed, the Titans, if on this
spot they yet struggled for another heaven! Here, if God meant this
working-day life for a perpetual holiday, who would not sigh to
dwell for ever- asking nothing, hoping nothing, fearing nothing, while
thy skies shine over him- while thy seas sparkle at his feet- while
thine air brought him sweet messages from the violet and the orange-
and while the heart, resigned to- beating with- but one emotion, could
find the lips and the eyes, which flatter it (vanity of vanities!)
that love can defy custom, and be eternal?
It was then in this clime- on those seas, that the Athenian
gazed upon a face that might have suited the nymph, the spirit of
the place: feeding his eyes on the changeful roses of that softest
cheek, happy beyond the happiness of common life, loving, and
knowing himself beloved.
In the tale of human passion, in past ages, there is something
of interest even in the remoteness of the time. We love to feel within
us the bond which unites the most distant era- men, nations, customs
perish; THE AFFECTIONS ARE IMMORTAL!- they are the sympathies which
unite the ceaseless generations. The past lives again, when we look
upon its emotions- it lives in our own! That which was, ever is! The
magician's gift, that revives the dead- that animates the dust of
forgotten graves, is not in the author's skill- it is in the heart
of the reader!
Still vainly seeking the eyes of Ione, as, half downcast, half
averted, they shunned his own, the Athenian, in a low and soft
voice, thus expressed the feelings inspired by happier thoughts than
those which had coloured the song of Nydia.

THE SONG OF GLAUCUS

I

As the bark floateth on o'er the summer-lit sea,
Floats my heart o'er the deeps of its passion for thee;
All lost in the space, without terror it glides,
For bright with thy soul is the face of the tides.
Now heaving, now 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!

II

The bark may go down, should the cloud sweep above,
For its being is bound to the light of thy love.
As thy faith and thy smile are its life and its joy,
So thy frown or thy change are the storms that destroy.
Ah! sweeter to sink while the sky is serene,
If time hath a change for thy heart!
If to live be to weep over what thou hast been,
Let me die while I know what thou art!

As the last words of the song trembled over the sea, Ione raised
her looks- they met those of her lover. Happy Nydia!- happy in thy
affliction, that thou couldst not see that fascinated and charmed
gaze, that said so much- that made the eye the voice of the soul- that
promised the impossibility of change!
But, though the Thessalian could not detect that gaze, she divined
its meaning by their silence- by their sighs. She pressed her hands
lightly across her breast, as if to keep down its bitter and jealous
thoughts; and then she hastened to speak- for that silence was
intolerable to her.
'After all, O Glaucus!' said she, 'there is nothing very
mirthful in your strain!'
'Yet I meant it to be so, when I took up thy lyre, pretty one.
Perhaps happiness will not permit us to be mirthful.'
'How strange is it,' said Ione, changing a conversation which
oppressed her while it charmed- 'that for the last several days yonder
cloud has hung motionless over Vesuvius! Yet not indeed motionless,
for sometimes it changes its form; and now methinks it looks like some
vast giant, with an arm outstretched over the city. Dost thou see
the likeness- or is it only to my fancy?'
'Fair Ione! I see it also. It is astonishingly distinct. The giant
seems seated on the brow of the mountain, the different shades of
the cloud appear to form a white robe that sweeps over its vast breast
and limbs; it seems to gaze with a steady face upon the city below, to
point with one hand, as thou sayest, over its glittering streets,
and to raise the other (dost thou note it?) towards the higher heaven.
It is like the ghost of some huge Titan brooding over the beautiful
world he lost; sorrowful for the past- yet with something of menace
for the future.'
'Could that mountain have any connection with the last night's
earthquake? They say that, ages ago, almost in the earliest era of
tradition, it gave forth fires as AEtna still. Perhaps the flames
yet lurk and dart beneath.'
'It is possible,' said Glaucus, musingly.
'Thou sayest thou art slow to believe in magic,' said Nydia,
suddenly. 'I have heard that a potent witch dwells amongst the
scorched caverns of the mountain, and yon cloud may be the dim
shadow of the demon she confers with.'
'Thou art full of the romance of thy native Thessaly,' said
Glaucus; 'and a strange mixture of sense and all conflicting
superstitions.'
'We are ever superstitious in the dark,' replied Nydia. 'Tell me,'
she added, after a slight pause, 'tell me, O Glaucus! do all that
are beautiful resemble each other? They say you are beautiful, and
Ione also. Are your faces then the same? I fancy not, yet it ought
to be so.'
'Fancy no such grievous wrong to Ione,' answered Glaucus,
laughing. 'But we do not, alas! resemble each other, as the homely and
the beautiful sometimes do. Ione's hair is dark, mine light; Ione's
eyes are- what colour, Ione? I cannot see, turn them to me. Oh, are
they black? no, they are too soft. Are they blue? no, they are too
deep: they change with every ray of the sun- I know not their
colour: but mine, sweet Nydia, are grey, and bright only when Ione
shines on them! Ione's cheek is...'
'I do not understand one word of thy description,' interrupted
Nydia, peevishly. 'I comprehend only that you do not resemble each
other, and I am glad of it.'
'Why, Nydia?' said Ione.
Nydia coloured slightly. 'Because,' she replied, coldly, 'I have
always imagined you under different forms, and one likes to know one
is right.'
'And what hast thou imagined Glaucus to resemble?' asked Ione,
softly.
'Music!' replied Nydia, looking down.
'Thou art right,' thought Ione.
'And what likeness hast thou ascribed to Ione?'
'I cannot tell yet,' answered the blind girl; 'I have not yet
known her long enough to find a shape and sign for my guesses.'
'I will tell thee, then,' said Glaucus, passionately; 'she is like
the sun that warms- like the wave that refreshes.'
'The sun sometimes scorches, and the wave sometimes drowns,'
answered Nydia.
'Take then these roses,' said Glaucus; 'let their fragrance
suggest to thee Ione.'
'Alas, the roses will fade!' said the Neapolitan, archly.
Thus conversing, they wore away the hours; the lovers, conscious
only of the brightness and smiles of love; the blind girl feeling only
its darkness- its tortures- the fierceness of jealousy and its woe!
And now, as they drifted on, Glaucus once more resumed the lyre,
and woke its strings with a careless hand to a strain, so wildly and
gladly beautiful, that even Nydia was aroused from her reverie, and
uttered a cry of admiration.
'Thou seest, my child,' cried Glaucus, 'that I can yet redeem
the character of love's music, and that I was wrong in saying
happiness could not be gay. Listen, Nydia! listen, dear Ione! and
hear:

THE BIRTH OF LOVE

I

Like a Star in the seas above,
Like a Dream to the waves of sleep-
Up- up- THE INCARNATE LOVE-
She rose from the charmed deep!
And over the Cyprian Isle
The skies shed their silent smile;
And the Forest's green heart was rife
With the stir of the gushing life-
The life that had 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,
Now fanning her golden ringlets,
Now hush'd on her heaving breast.
And afar on the murmuring sand,
The Seasons wait hand in hand
To welcome thee, Birth Divine,
To the earth which is henceforth thine.

II

Behold! how she kneels in the shell,
Bright pearl in its floating cell!
Behold! how the shell's rose-hues,
The cheek and the breast of snow,
And the delicate limbs suffuse,
Like a blush, with a bashful glow.
Sailing on, slowly sailing
O'er the wild water;
All hail! as the fond light is hailing
Her daughter,
All hail!
We are thine, all thine evermore:
Not a leaf on the laughing shore,
Not a wave on the heaving sea,
Nor a single sigh
In the boundless sky,
But is vow'd evermore to thee!

III

And thou, my beloved one- thou,
As I gaze on thy soft eyes now,
Methinks from their depths I view
The Holy Birth born anew;
Thy lids are the gentle cell
Where the young Love blushing lies;
See! she breaks from the mystic shell,
She comes from thy tender eyes!
Hail! all hail!
She comes, as she came from the sea,
To my soul as it looks on thee;
She comes, she comes!
She comes, as she came from the sea,
To my soul as it looks on thee!
Hail! all hail!
Chapter III

THE CONGREGATION

FOLLOWED by Apaecides, the Nazarene gained the side of the Sarnus-
that river, which now has shrunk into a petty stream, then rushed
gaily into the sea, covered with countless vessels, and reflecting
on its waves the gardens, the vines, the palaces, and the temples of
Pompeii. From its more noisy and frequented banks, Olinthus directed
his steps to a path which ran amidst a shady vista of trees, at the
distance of a few paces from the river. This walk was in the evening a
favourite resort of the Pompeians, but during the heat and business of
the day was seldom visited, save by some groups of playful children,
some meditative poet, or some disputative philosophers. At the side
farthest from the river, frequent copses of box interspersed the
more delicate and evanescent foliage, and these were cut into a
thousand quaint shapes, sometimes into the forms of fauns and
satyrs, sometimes into the mimicry of Egyptian pyramids, sometimes
into the letters that composed the name of a popular or eminent
citizen. Thus the false taste is equally ancient as the pure; and
the retired traders of Hackney and Paddington, a century ago, were
little aware, perhaps, that in their tortured yews and sculptured box,
they found their models in the most polished period of Roman
antiquity, in the gardens of Pompeii, and the villas of the fastidious
Pliny.
This walk now, as the noonday sun shone perpendicularly through
the chequered leaves, was entirely deserted; at least no other forms
than those of Olinthus and the priest infringed upon the solitude.
They sat themselves on one of the benches, placed at intervals between
the trees, and facing the faint breeze that came languidly from the
river, whose waves danced and sparkled before them- a singular and
contrasted pair; the believer in the latest- the priest of the most
ancient- worship of the world!
'Since thou leftst me so abruptly,' said Olinthus, 'hast thou been
happy? has thy heart found contentment under these priestly robes?
hast thou, still yearning for the voice of God, heard it whisper
comfort to thee from the oracles of Isis? That sigh, that averted
countenance, give me the answer my soul predicted.'
'Alas!' answered Apaecides, sadly, 'thou seest before thee a
wretched and distracted man! From my childhood upward I have
idolised the dreams of virtue! I have envied the holiness of men
who, in caves and lonely temples, have been admitted to the
companionship of beings above the world; my days have been consumed
with feverish and vague desires; my nights with mocking but solemn
visions. Seduced by the mystic prophecies of an impostor, I have
indued these robes;- my nature (I confess it to thee frankly)- my
nature has revolted at what I have seen and been doomed to share in!
Searching after truth, I have become but the minister of falsehoods.
On the evening in which we last met, I was buoyed by hopes created
by that same impostor, whom I ought already to have better known. I
have- no matter- no matter! suffice it, I have added perjury and sin
to rashness and to sorrow. The veil is now rent for ever from my eyes;
I behold a villain where I obeyed a demigod; the earth darkens in my
sight; I am in the deepest abyss of gloom; I know not if there be gods
above; if we are the things of chance; if beyond the bounded and
melancholy present there is annihilation or an hereafter- tell me,
then, thy faith; solve me these doubts, if thou hast indeed the
power!'
'I do not marvel,' answered the Nazarene, 'that thou hast thus
erred, or that thou art thus sceptic. Eighty years ago there was no
assurance to man of God, or of a certain and definite future beyond
the grave. New laws are declared to him who has ears- a heaven, a true
Olympus, is revealed to him who has eyes- heed then, and listen.'
And with all the earnestness of a man believing ardently
himself, and zealous to convert, the Nazarene poured forth to
Apaecides the assurances of Scriptural promise. He spoke first of
the sufferings and miracles of Christ- he wept as he spoke: he
turned next to the glories of the Saviour's Ascension- to the clear
predictions of Revelation. He described that pure and unsensual heaven
destined to the virtuous- those fires and torments that were the
doom of guilt.
The doubts which spring up to the mind of later reasoners, in
the immensity of the sacrifice of God to man, were not such as would
occur to an early heathen. He had been accustomed to believe that
the gods had lived upon earth, and taken upon themselves the forms
of men; had shared in human passions, in human labours, and in human
misfortunes. What was the travail of his own Alcmena's son, whose
altars now smoked with the incense of countless cities, but a toil for
the human race? Had not the great Dorian Apollo expiated a mystic
sin by descending to the grave? Those who were the deities of heaven
had been the lawgivers or benefactors on earth, and gratitude had
led to worship. It seemed therefore, to the heathen, a doctrine
neither new nor strange, that Christ had been sent from heaven, that
an immortal had indued mortality, and tasted the bitterness of
death. And the end for which He thus toiled and thus suffered- how far
more glorious did it seem to Apaecides than that for which the deities
of old had visited the nether world, and passed through the gates of
death! Was it not worthy of a God to, descend to these dim valleys, in
order to clear up the clouds gathered over the dark mount beyond- to
satisfy the doubts of sages- to convert speculation into certainty- by
example to point out the rules of life- by revelation to solve the
enigma of the grave- and to prove that the soul did not yearn in
vain when it dreamed of an immortality? In this last was the great
argument of those lowly men destined to convert the earth. As
nothing is more flattering to the pride and the hopes of man than
the belief in a future state, so nothing could be more vague and
confused than the notions of the heathen sages upon that mystic
subject. Apaecides had already learned that the faith of the
philosophers was not that of the herd; that if they secretly professed
a creed in some diviner power, it was not the creed which they thought
it wise to impart to the community. He had already learned, that
even the priest ridiculed what he preached to the people- that the
notions of the few and the many were never united. But, in this new
faith, it seemed to him that philosopher, priest, and people, the
expounders of the religion and its followers, were alike accordant:
they did not speculate and debate upon immortality, they spoke of as a
thing certain and assured; the magnificence of the promise dazzled
him- its consolations soothed. For the Christian faith made its
early converts among sinners! many of its fathers and its martyrs were
those who had felt the bitterness of vice, and who were therefore no
longer tempted by its false aspect from the paths of an austere and
uncompromising virtue. All the assurances of this healing faith
invited to repentance- they were peculiarly adapted to the bruised and
sore of spirit! the very remorse which Apaecides felt for his late
excesses, made him incline to one who found holiness in that
remorse, and who whispered of the joy in heaven over one sinner that
repenteth.
'Come,' said the Nazarene, as he perceived the effect he had
produced, come to the humble hall in which we meet- a select and a
chosen few; listen there to our prayers; note the sincerity of our
repentant tears; mingle in our simple sacrifice- not of victims, nor
of garlands, but offered by white-robed thoughts upon the altar of the
heart. The flowers that we lay there are imperishable- they bloom over
us when we are no more; nay, they accompany us beyond the grave,
they spring up beneath our feet in heaven, they delight us with an
eternal odour, for they are of the soul, they partake of its nature;
these offerings are temptations overcome, and sins repented. Come,
oh come! lose not another moment; prepare already for the great, the
awful journey, from darkness to light, from sorrow to bliss, from
corruption to immortality! This is the day of the Lord the Son, a
day that we have set apart for our devotions. Though we meet usually
at night, yet some amongst us are gathered together even now. What
joy, what triumph, will be with us all, if we can bring one stray lamb
into the sacred fold!'
There seemed to Apaecides, so naturally pure of heart, something
ineffably generous and benign in that spirit of conversation which
animated Olinthus- a spirit that found its own bliss in the
happiness of others- that sought in its wide sociality to make
companions for eternity. He was touched, softened, and subdued. He was
not in that mood which can bear to be left alone; curiosity, too,
mingled with his purer stimulants- he was anxious to see those rites
of which so many dark and contradictory rumours were afloat. He paused
a moment, looked over his garb, thought of Arbaces, shuddered with
horror, lifted his eyes to the broad brow of the Nazarene, intent,
anxious, watchful- but for his benefits, for his salvation! He drew
his cloak round him, so as wholly to conceal his robes, and said,
'Lead on, I follow thee.'
Olinthus pressed his hand joyfully, and then descending to the
river side, hailed one of the boats that plyed there constantly;
they entered it; an awning overhead, while it sheltered them from
the sun, screened also their persons from observation: they rapidly
skimmed the wave. From one of the boats that passed them floated a
soft music, and its prow was decorated with flowers- it was gliding
towards the sea.
'So,' said Olinthus, sadly, 'unconscious and mirthful in their
delusions, sail the votaries of luxury into the great ocean of storm
and shipwreck! we pass them, silent and unnoticed, to gain the land.'
Apaecides, lifting his eyes, caught through the aperture in the
awning a glimpse of the face of one of the inmates of that gay bark-
it was the face of Ione. The lovers were embarked on the excursion
at which we have been made present. The priest sighed, and once more
sunk back upon his seat. They reached the shore where, in the suburbs,
an alley of small and mean houses stretched towards the bank; they
dismissed the boat, landed, and Olinthus, preceding the priest,
threaded the labyrinth of lanes, and arrived at last at the closed
door of a habitation somewhat larger than its neighbours. He knocked
thrice- the door was opened and closed again, as Apaecides followed
his guide across the threshold.
They passed a deserted atrium, and gained an inner chamber of
moderate size, which, when the door was closed, received its only
light from a small window cut over the door itself. But, halting at
the threshold of this chamber, and knocking at the door, Olinthus
said, 'Peace be with you!' A voice from within returned, 'Peace with
whom?' 'The Faithful!' answered Olinthus, and the door opened;
twelve or fourteen persons were sitting in a semicircle, silent, and
seemingly absorbed in thought, and opposite to a crucifix rudely
carved in wood.
They lifted up their eyes when Olinthus entered, without speaking;
the Nazarene himself, before he accosted them, knelt suddenly down,
and by his moving lips, and his eyes fixed steadfastly on the
crucifix, Apaecides saw that he prayed inly. This rite performed,
Olinthus turned to the congregation- 'Men and brethren,' said he,
'start not to behold amongst you a priest of Isis; he hath sojourned
with the blind, but the Spirit hath fallen on him- he desires to
see, to hear, and to understand.'
'Let him,' said one of the assembly; and Apaecides beheld in the
speaker a man still younger than himself, of a countenance equally
worn and pallid, of an eye which equally spoke of the restless and
fiery operations of a working mind.
'Let him,' repeated a second voice, and he who thus spoke was in
the prime of manhood; his bronzed skin and Asiatic features bespoke
him a son of Syria- he had been a robber in his youth.
'Let him,' said a third voice; and the priest, again turning to
regard the speaker, saw an old man with a long grey beard, whom he
recognised as a slave to the wealthy Diomed.
'Let him,' repeated simultaneously the rest- men who, with two
exceptions, were evidently of the inferior ranks. In these exceptions,
Apaecides noted an officer of the guard, and an Alexandrian merchant.
'We do not,' recommenced Olinthus- 'we do not bind you to secrecy;
we impose on you no oaths (as some of our weaker brethren would do)
not to betray us. It is true, indeed, that there is no absolute law
against us; but the multitude, more savage than their rulers, thirst
for our lives. So, my friends, when Pilate would have hesitated, it
was the people who shouted "Christ to the cross!" But we bind you
not to our safety- no! Betray us to the crowd- impeach, calumniate,
malign us if you will- we are above death, we should walk cheerfully
to the den of the lion, or the rack of the torturer- we can trample
down the darkness of the grave, and what is death to a criminal is
eternity to the Christian.'
A low and applauding murmur ran through the assembly.
'Thou comest amongst us as an examiner, mayest thou remain a
convert! Our religion? you behold it! Yon cross our sole image, yon
scroll the mysteries of our Caere and Eleusis! Our morality? it is
in our lives!- sinners we all have been; who now can accuse us of a
crime? we have baptised ourselves from the past. Think not that this
is of us, it is of God. Approach, Medon,' beckoning to the old slave
who had spoken third for the admission of Apaecides, 'thou art the
sole man amongst us who is not free. But in heaven, the last shall
be first: so with us. Unfold your scroll, read and explain.'
Useless would it be for us to accompany the lecture of Medon, or
the comments of the congregation. Familiar now are those doctrines,
then strange and new. Eighteen centuries have left us little to
expound upon the lore of Scripture or the life of Christ. To us,
too, there would seem little congenial in the doubts that occurred
to a heathen priest, and little learned in the answers they receive
from men uneducated, rude, and simple, possessing only the knowledge
that they were greater than they seemed.
There was one thing that greatly touched the Neapolitan: when
the lecture was concluded, they heard a very gentle knock at the door;
the password was given, and replied to; the door opened, and two young
children, the eldest of whom might have told its seventh year, entered
timidly; they were the children of the master of the house, that
dark and hardy Syrian, whose youth had been spent in pillage and
bloodshed. The eldest of the congregation (it was that old slave)
opened to them his arms; they fled to the shelter- they crept to his
breast- and his hard features smiled as he caressed them. And then
these bold and fervent men, nursed in vicissitude, beaten by the rough
winds of life- men of mailed and impervious fortitude, ready to
affront a world, prepared for torment and armed for death- men, who
presented all imaginable contrast to the weak nerves, the light
hearts, the tender fragility of childhood, crowded round the
infants, smoothing their rugged brows and composing their bearded lips
to kindly and fostering smiles: and then the old man opened the scroll
and he taught the infants to repeat after him that beautiful prayer
which we still dedicate to the Lord, and still teach to our
children; and then he told them, in simple phrase, of God's love to
the young, and how not a sparrow falls but His eye sees it. This
lovely custom of infant initiation was long cherished by the early
Church, in memory of the words which said, 'Suffer little children
to come unto me, and forbid them not'; and was perhaps the origin of
the superstitious calumny which ascribed to the Nazarenes the crime
which the Nazarenes, when victorious, attributed to the Jew, viz.
the decoying children to hideous rites, at which they were secretly
immolated.
And the stern paternal penitent seemed to feel in the innocence of
his children a return into early life- life ere yet it sinned: he
followed the motion of their young lips with an earnest gaze; he
smiled as they repeated, with hushed and reverent looks, the holy
words: and when the lesson was done, and they ran, released, and
gladly to his knee, he clasped them to his breast, kissed them again
and again, and tears flowed fast down his cheek- tears, of which it
would have been impossible to trace the source, so mingled they were
with joy and sorrow, penitence and hope- remorse for himself and
love for them!
Something, I say, there was in this scene which peculiarly
affected Apaecides; and, in truth, it is difficult to conceive a
ceremony more appropriate to the religion of benevolence, more
appealing to the household and everyday affections, striking a more
sensitive chord in the human breast.
It was at this time that an inner door opened gently, and a very
old man entered the chamber, leaning on a staff. At his presence,
the whole congregation rose; there was an expression of deep,
affectionate respect upon every countenance; and Apaecides, gazing
on his countenance, felt attracted towards him by an irresistible
sympathy. No man ever looked upon that face without love; for there
had dwelt the smile of the Deity, the incarnation of divinest love-
and the glory of the smile had never passed away.
'My children, God be with you!' said the old man, stretching his
arms; and as he spoke the infants ran to his knee. He sat down, and
they nestled fondly to his bosom. It was beautiful to see that
mingling of the extremes of life- the rivers gushing from their
early source- the majestic stream gliding to the ocean of eternity! As
the light of declining day seems to mingle earth and heaven, making
the outline of each scarce visible, and blending the harsh
mountain-tops with the sky, even so did the smile of that benign old
age appear to hallow the aspect of those around, to blend together the
strong distinctions of varying years, and to diffuse over infancy
and manhood the light of that heaven into which it must so soon vanish
and be lost.
'Father,' said Olinthus, 'thou on whose form the miracle of the
Redeemer worked; thou who wert snatched from the grave to become the
living witness of His mercy and His power; behold! a stranger in our
meeting- a new lamb gathered to the fold!'
'Let me bless him,' said the old man: the throng gave way.
Apaecides approached him as by an instinct: he fell on his knees
before him- the old man laid his hand on the priest's head, and
blessed him, but not aloud. As his lips moved, his eyes were upturned,
and tears- those tears that good men only shed in the hope of
happiness to another- flowed fast down his cheeks.
The children were on either side of the convert; his heart was
theirs- he had become as one of them- to enter into the kingdom of
Heaven.
Chapter IV

THE STREAM OF LOVE RUNS ON. WHITHER?

DAYS are like years in the love of the young, when no bar, no
obstacle, is between their hearts- when the sun shines, and the course
runs smooth- when their love is prosperous and confessed. Ione no
longer concealed from Glaucus the attachment she felt for him, and
their talk now was only of their love. Over the rapture of the present
the hopes of the future glowed like the heaven above the gardens of
spring. They went in their trustful thoughts far down the stream of
time: they laid out the chart of their destiny to come; they
suffered the light of to-day to suffuse the morrow. In the youth of
their hearts it seemed as if care, and change, and death, were as
things unknown. Perhaps they loved each other the more because the
condition of the world left to Glaucus no aim and no wish but love;
because the distractions common in free states to men's affections
existed not for the Athenian; because his country wooed him not to the
bustle of civil life; because ambition furnished no counterpoise to
love: and, therefore, over their schemes and projects, love only
reigned. In the iron age they imagined themselves of the golden,
doomed only to live and to love.
To the superficial observer, who interests himself only in
characters strongly marked and broadly coloured, both the lovers may
seem of too slight and commonplace a mould: in the delineation of
characters purposely subdued, the reader sometimes imagines that there
is a want of character; perhaps, indeed, I wrong the real nature of
these two lovers by not painting more impressively their stronger
individualities. But in dwelling so much on their bright and
birdlike existence, I am influenced almost insensibly by the
forethought of the changes that await them, and for which they were so
ill prepared. It was this very softness and gaiety of life that
contrasted most strongly the vicissitudes of their coming fate. For
the oak without fruit or blossom, whose hard and rugged heart is
fitted for the storm, there is less fear than for the delicate
branches of the myrtle, and the laughing clusters of the vine.
They had now advanced far into August- the next month their
marriage was fixed, and the threshold of Glaucus was already
wreathed with garlands; and nightly, by the door of Ione, he poured
forth the rich libations. He existed no longer for his gay companions;
he was ever with Ione. In the mornings they beguiled the sun with
music: in the evenings they forsook the crowded haunts of the gay
for excursions on the water, or along the fertile and vine-clad plains
that lay beneath the fatal mount of Vesuvius. The earth shook no more;
the lively Pompeians forgot even that there had gone forth so terrible
a warning of their approaching doom. Glaucus imagined that convulsion,
in the vanity of his heathen religion, an especial interposition of
the gods, less in behalf of his own safety than that of Ione. He
offered up the sacrifices of gratitude at the temples of his faith;
and even the altar of Isis was covered with his votive garlands- as to
the prodigy of the animated marble, he blushed at the effect it had
produced on him. He believed it, indeed, to have been wrought by the
magic of man; but the result convinced him that it betokened not the
anger of a goddess.
Of Arbaces, they heard only that he still lived; stretched on
the bed of suffering, he recovered slowly from the effect of the shock
he had sustained- he left the lovers unmolested- but it was only to
brood over the hour and the method of revenge.
Alike in their mornings at the house of Ione, and in their evening
excursions, Nydia was usually their constant, and often their sole
companion. They did not guess the secret fires which consumed her- the
abrupt freedom with which she mingled in their conversation- her
capricious and often her peevish moods found ready indulgence in the
recollection of the service they owed her, and their compassion for
her affliction. They felt an interest in her, perhaps the greater
and more affectionate from the very strangeness and waywardness of her
nature, her singular alternations of passion and softness- the mixture
of ignorance and genius- of delicacy and rudeness- of the quick
humours of the child, and the proud calmness of the woman. Although
she refused to accept of freedom, she was constantly suffered to be
free; she went where she listed; no curb was put either on her words
or actions; they felt for one so darkly fated, and so susceptible of
every wound, the same pitying and compliant indulgence the mother
feels for a spoiled and sickly child- dreading to impose authority,
even where they imagined it for her benefit. She availed herself of
this licence by refusing the companionship of the slave whom they
wished to attend her. With the slender staff by which she guided her
steps, she went now, as in her former unprotected state, along the
populous streets: it was almost miraculous to perceive how quickly and
how dexterously she threaded every crowd, avoiding every danger, and
could find her benighted way through the most intricate windings of
the city. But her chief delight was still in visiting the few feet
of ground which made the garden of Glaucus- in tending the flowers
that at least repaid her love. Sometimes she entered the chamber where
he sat, and sought a conversation, which she nearly always broke off
abruptly- for conversation with Glaucus only tended to one subject-
Ione; and that name from his lips inflicted agony upon her. Often
she bitterly repented the service she had rendered to Ione: often
she said inly, 'If she had fallen, Glaucus could have loved her no
longer'; and then dark and fearful thoughts crept into her breast.
She had not experienced fully the trials that were in store for
her, when she had been thus generous. She had never before been
present when Glaucus and Ione were together; she had never heard
that voice so kind to her, so much softer to another. The shock that
crushed her heart with the tidings that Glaucus loved, had at first
only saddened and benumbed- by degrees jealousy took a wilder and
fiercer shape; it partook of hatred- it whispered revenge. As you
see the wind only agitate the green leaf upon the bough, while the
leaf which has lain withered and seared on the ground, bruised and
trampled upon till the sap and life are gone, is suddenly whirled
aloft- now here- now there- without stay and without rest; so the love
which visits the happy and the hopeful hath but freshness on its
wings! its violence is but sportive. But the heart that hath fallen
from the green things of life, that is without hope, that hath no
summer in its fibres, is torn and whirled by the same wind that but
caresses its brethren- it hath no bough to cling to- it is dashed from
path to path- till the winds fall, and it is crushed into the mire for
ever.
The friendless childhood of Nydia had hardened prematurely her
character; perhaps the heated scenes of profligacy through which she
had passed, seemingly unscathed, had ripened her passions, though they
had not sullied her purity. The orgies of Burbo might only have
disgusted, the banquets of the Egyptian might only have terrified,
at the moment; but the winds that pass unheeded over the soil leave
seeds behind them. As darkness, too, favours the imagination, so,
perhaps, her very blindness contributed to feed with wild and
delirious visions the love of the unfortunate girl. The voice of
Glaucus had been the first that had sounded musically to her ear;
his kindness made a deep impression upon her mind; when he had left
Pompeii in the former year, she had treasured up in her heart every
word he had uttered; and when any one told her that this friend and
patron of the poor flower-girl was the most brilliant and the most
graceful of the young revellers of Pompeii, she had felt a pleasing
pride in nursing his recollection. Even the task which she imposed
upon herself, of tending his flowers, served to keep him in her
mind; she associated him with all that was most charming to her
impressions; and when she had refused to express what image she
fancied Ione to resemble, it was partly, perhaps, that whatever was
bright and soft in nature she had already combined with the thought of
Glaucus. If any of my readers ever loved at an age which they would
now smile to remember- an age in which fancy forestalled the reason,
let them say whether that love, among all its strange and
complicated delicacies, was not, above all other and later passions,
susceptible of jealousy? I seek not here the cause: I know that it
is commonly the fact.
When Glaucus returned to Pompeii, Nydia had told another year of
life; that year, with its sorrows, its loneliness, its trials, had
greatly developed her mind and heart; and when the Athenian drew her
unconsciously to his breast, deeming her still in soul as in years a
child- when he kissed her smooth cheek, and wound his arm round her
trembling frame, Nydia felt suddenly, and as by revelation, that those
feelings she had long and innocently cherished were of love. Doomed to
be rescued from tyranny by Glaucus- doomed to take shelter under his
roof- doomed to breathe, but for so brief a time, the same air- and
doomed, in the first rush of a thousand happy, grateful, delicious
sentiments of an overflowing heart, to hear that he loved another;
to be commissioned to that other, the messenger, the minister; to feel
all at once that utter nothingness which she was- which she ever
must be, but which, till then, her young mind had not taught her- that
utter nothingness to him who was all to her; what wonder that, in
her wild and passionate soul, all the elements jarred discordant; that
if love reigned over the whole, it was not the love which is born of
the more sacred and soft emotions? Sometimes she dreaded only lest
Glaucus should discover her secret; sometimes she felt indignant
that it was not suspected: it was a sign of contempt- could he imagine
that she presumed so far? Her feelings to Ione ebbed and flowed with
every hour; now she loved her because he did; now she hated him for
the same cause. There were moments when she could have murdered her
unconscious mistress; moments when she could have laid down life for
her. These fierce and tremulous alternations of passion were too
severe to be borne long. Her health gave way, though she felt it
not- her cheek paled- her step grew feebler- tears came to her eyes
more often, and relieved her less.
One morning, when she repaired to her usual task in the garden
of the Athenian, she found Glaucus under the columns of the peristyle,
with a merchant of the town; he was selecting jewels for his
destined bride. He had already fitted up her apartment; the jewels
he bought that day were placed also within it- they were never fated
to grace the fair form of Ione; they may be seen at this day among the
disinterred treasures of Pompeii, in the chambers of the studio at
Naples.
'Come hither, Nydia; put down thy vase, and come hither. Thou must
take this chain from me- stay- there, I have put it on. There,
Servilius, does it not become her?'
'Wonderfully!' answered the jeweller; for jewellers were well-bred
and flattering men, even at that day. 'But when these ear-rings
glitter in the ears of the noble Ione, then, by Bacchus! you will
see whether my art adds anything to beauty.'
'Ione?' repeated Nydia, who had hitherto acknowledged by smiles
and blushes the gift of Glaucus.
'Yes,' replied the Athenian, carelessly toying with the gems; 'I
am choosing a present for Ione, but there are none worthy of her.'
He was startled as he spoke by an abrupt gesture of Nydia; she
tore the chain violently from her neck, and dashed it on the ground.
'How is this? What, Nydia, dost thou not like the bauble? art thou
offended?'
'You treat me ever as a slave and as a child,' replied the
Thessalian, with ill-suppressed sobs, and she turned hastily away to
the opposite corner of the garden.
Glaucus did not attempt to follow, or to soothe; he was
offended; he continued to examine the jewels and to comment on their
fashion- to object to this and to praise that, and finally to be
talked by the merchant into buying all; the safest plan for a lover,
and a plan that any one will do right to adopt, provided always that
he can obtain an Ione!
When he had completed his purchase and dismissed the jeweller,
he retired into his chamber, dressed, mounted his chariot, and went to
Ione. He thought no more of the blind girl, or her offence; he had
forgotten both the one and the other.
He spent the forenoon with his beautiful Neapolitan, repaired
thence to the baths, supped (if, as we have said before, we can justly
so translate the three o'clock coena of the Romans) alone, and abroad,
for Pompeii had its restaurateurs- and returning home to change his
dress ere he again repaired to the house of Ione, he passed the
peristyle, but with the absorbed reverie and absent eyes of a man in
love, and did not note the form of the poor blind girl, bending
exactly in the same place where he had left her. But though he saw her
not, her ear recognised at once the sound of his step. She had been
counting the moments to his return. He had scarcely entered his
favourite chamber, which opened on the peristyle, and seated himself
musingly on his couch, when he felt his robe timorously touched,
and, turning, he beheld Nydia kneeling before him, and holding up to
him a handful of flowers- a gentle and appropriate peace-offering- her
eyes, darkly upheld to his own, streamed with tears.
'I have offended thee,' said she, sobbing, 'and for the first
time. I would die rather than cause thee a moment's pain- say that
thou wilt forgive me. See! I have taken up the chain; I have put it
on: I will never part from it- it is thy gift.'
'My dear Nydia,' returned Glaucus, and raising her, he kissed
her forehead, 'think of it no more! But why, my child, wert thou so
suddenly angry? I could not divine the cause?'
'Do not ask!' said she, colouring violently. 'I am a thing full of
faults and humours; you know I am but a child- you say so often: is it
from a child that you can expect a reason for every folly?'
'But, prettiest, you will soon be a child no more; and if you
would have us treat you as a woman, you must learn to govern these
singular impulses and gales of passion. Think not I chide: no, it is
for your happiness only I speak.'
'It is true,' said Nydia, 'I must learn to govern myself I must
bide, I must suppress, my heart. This is a woman's task and duty;
methinks her virtue is hypocrisy.'
'Self-control is not deceit, my Nydia,' returned the Athenian; and
that is the virtue necessary alike to man and to woman; it is the true
senatorial toga, the badge of the dignity it covers!'
'Self-control! self-control! Well, well, what you say is right!
When I listen to you, Glaucus, my wildest thoughts grow calm and
sweet, and a delicious serenity falls over me. Advise, ah! guide me
ever, my preserver!'
'Thy affectionate heart will be thy best guide, Nydia, when thou
hast learned to regulate its feelings.'
'Ah! that will be never,' sighed Nydia, wiping away her tears.
'Say not so: the first effort is the only difficult one.'
'I have made many first efforts,' answered Nydia, innocently. 'But
you, my Mentor, do you find it so easy to control yourself? Can you
conceal, can you even regulate, your love for Ione?'
'Love! dear Nydia: ah! that is quite another matter,' answered the
young preceptor.
'I thought so!' returned Nydia, with a melancholy smile. 'Glaucus,
wilt thou take my poor flowers? Do with them as thou wilt- thou
canst give them to Ione,' added she, with a little hesitation.
'Nay, Nydia,' answered Glaucus, kindly, divining something of
jealousy in her language, though he imagined it only the jealousy of a
vain and susceptible child; 'I will not give thy pretty flowers to any
one. Sit here and weave them into a garland; I will wear it this
night: it is not the first those delicate fingers have woven for me.'
The poor girl delightedly sat down beside Glaucus. She drew from
her girdle a ball of the many-coloured threads, or rather slender
ribands, used in the weaving of garlands, and which (for it was her
professional occupation) she carried constantly with her, and began
quickly and gracefully to commence her task. Upon her young cheeks the
tears were already dried, a faint but happy smile played round her
lips- childlike, indeed, she was sensible only of the joy of the
present hour: she was reconciled to Glaucus: he had forgiven her-
she was beside him- he played caressingly with her silken hair- his
breath fanned her cheek- Ione, the cruel Ione, was not by- none
other demanded, divided, his care. Yes, she was happy and forgetful;
it was one of the few moments in her brief and troubled life that it
was sweet to treasure, to recall. As the butterfly, allured by the
winter sun, basks for a little in the sudden light, ere yet the wind
awakes and the frost comes on, which shall blast it before the eve-
she rested beneath a beam, which, by contrast with the wonted skies,
was not chilling; and the instinct which should have warned her of its
briefness, bade her only gladden in its smile.
'Thou hast beautiful locks,' said Glaucus. 'They were once, I ween
well, a mother's delight.'
Nydia sighed; it would seem that she had not been born a slave;
but she ever shunned the mention of her parentage, and, whether
obscure or noble, certain it is that her birth was never known by
her benefactors, nor by any one in those distant shores, even to the
last. The child of sorrow and of mystery, she came and went as some
bird that enters our chamber for a moment; we see it flutter for a
while before us, we know not whence it flew or to what region it
escapes.
Nydia sighed, and after a short pause, without answering the
remark, said:
'But do I weave too many roses in my wreath, Glaucus? They tell me
it is thy favourite flower.'
'And ever favoured, my Nydia, be it by those who have the soul
of poetry: it is the flower of love, of festival; it is also the
flower we dedicate to silence and to death; it blooms on our brows
in life, while life be worth the having; it is scattered above our
sepulchre when we are no more.'
'Ah! would,' said Nydia, 'instead of this perishable wreath,
that I could take thy web from the hand of the Fates, and insert the
roses there!'
'Pretty one! thy wish is worthy of a voice so attuned to song;
it is uttered in the spirit of song; and, whatever my doom, I thank
thee.'
'Whatever thy doom! is it not already destined to all things
bright and fair? My wish was vain. The Fates will be as tender to thee
as I should.'
'It might not be so, Nydia, were it not for love! While youth
lasts, I may forget my country for a while. But what Athenian, in
his graver manhood, can think of Athens as she was, and be contented
that he is happy, while she is fallen?- fallen, and for ever?'
'And why for ever?'
'As ashes cannot be rekindled- as love once dead can never revive,
so freedom departed from a people is never regained. But talk we not
of these matters unsuited to thee.'
'To me, oh! thou errest. I, too, have my sighs for Greece; my
cradle was rocked at the foot of Olympus; the gods have left the
mountain, but their traces may be seen- seen in the hearts of their
worshippers, seen in the beauty of their clime: they tell me it is
beautiful, and I have felt its airs, to which even these are harsh-
its sun, to which these skies are chill. Oh! talk to me of Greece!
Poor fool that I am, I can comprehend thee! and methinks, had I yet
lingered on those shores, had I been a Grecian maid whose happy fate
it was to love and to be loved, I myself could have armed my lover for
another Marathon, a new Plataea. Yes, the hand that now weaves the
roses should have woven thee the olive crown!'
'If such a day could come!' said Glaucus, catching the
enthusiasm of the blind Thessalian, and half rising.- 'But no! the sun
has set, and the night only bids us be forgetful- and in forgetfulness
be gay- weave still the roses!'
But it was with a melancholy tone of forced gaiety that the
Athenian uttered the last words: and sinking into a gloomy reverie, he
was only wakened from it, a few minutes afterwards, by the voice of
Nydia, as she sang in a low tone the following words, which he had
once taught her:-

THE APOLOGY FOR PLEASURE

I

Who will assume the bays
That the hero wore?
Wreaths on the Tomb of Days
Gone evermore!
Who shall disturb the brave,
Or one leaf on their holy grave?
The laurel is vowed to them,
Leave the bay on its sacred stem!
But this, the rose, the fading rose,
Alike for slave and freeman grows.

II

If Memory sit beside the dead
With tombs her only treasure;
If Hope is lost and Freedom fled,
The more excuse for Pleasure.
Come, weave the wreath, the roses weave,
The rose at least is ours:
To feeble hearts our fathers leave,
In pitying scorn, the flowers!

III

On the summit, worn and hoary,
Of Phyle's solemn hill,
The tramp of the brave is still!
And still in the saddening Mart,
The pulse of that mighty heart,
Whose very blood was glory!
Glaucopis forsakes her own,
The angry gods forget us;
But yet, the blue streams along,
Walk the feet of the silver Song;
And the night-bird wakes the moon;
And the bees in the blushing noon
Haunt the heart of the old Hymettus.
We are fallen, but not forlorn,
If something is left to cherish;
As Love was the earliest born,
So Love is the last to perish.

IV

Wreathe then the roses, wreathe
The BEAUTIFUL still is ours,
While the stream shall flow and the sky
shall glow,
The BEAUTIFUL still is ours!
Whatever is fair, or soft, or bright,
In the lap of day or the arms of night,
Whispers our soul of Greece- of Greece,
And hushes our care with a voice of peace.
Wreathe then the roses, wreathe!
They tell me of earlier hours;
And I hear the heart of my Country breathe
From the lips of the Stranger's flowers.
Chapter V

NYDIA ENCOUNTERS JULIA. INTERVIEW OF THE HEATHEN SISTER AND
CONVERTED BROTHER. AN ATHENIAN'S NOTION OF CHRISTIANITY

WHAT happiness to Ione! what bliss to be ever by the side of
Glaucus, to hear his voice!- And she too can see him!'
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 returning home from a supper at one of their
neighbours'.
'Dost thou not remember my voice continued Julia. 'I am the
daughter of Diomed the wealthy.'
'Ah! forgive me; yes, I recall the tones of your voice. No,
noble Julia, I have no flowers to sell.'
'I heard that thou wert purchased by the beautiful Greek
Glaucus; is that true, pretty slave?' asked Julia.
'I serve the Neapolitan, Ione,' replied Nydia, evasively.
'Ah! and it is true, then...'
'Come, come!' interrupted Diomed, with his cloak up to his
mouth, 'the night grows cold; I cannot stay here while you prate to
that blind girl: come, let her follow you home, if you wish to speak
to her.'
'Do, child,' said Julia, with the air of one not accustomed to
be refused; 'I have much to ask of thee: come.'
'I cannot this night, it grows late,' answered Nydia. 'I must be
at home; I am not free, noble Julia.'
'What, the meek Ione will chide thee?- Ay, I doubt not she is a
second Thalestris. But come, then, to-morrow: do- remember I have been
thy friend of old.'
'I will obey thy wishes,' answered Nydia; and Diomed again
impatiently summoned his daughter: she was obliged to proceed, with
the main question she had desired to put to Nydia unasked.
Meanwhile we return to Ione. The interval of time that had elapsed
that day between the first and second visit of Glaucus had not been
too gaily spent: she had received a visit from her brother. Since
the night he had assisted in saving her from the Egyptian, she had not
before seen him.
Occupied with his own thoughts- thoughts of so serious and intense
a nature- the young priest had thought little of his sister; in truth,
men, perhaps of that fervent order of mind which is ever aspiring
above earth, are but little prone to the earthlier affections; and
it had been long since Apaecides had sought those soft and friendly
interchanges of thought, those sweet confidences, which in his earlier
youth had bound him to Ione, and which are so natural to that
endearing connection which existed between them.
Ione, however, had not ceased to regret his estrangement: she
attributed it, at present, to the engrossing duties of his severe
fraternity. And often, amidst all her bright hopes, and her new
attachment to her betrothed- often, when she thought of her
brother's brow prematurely furrowed, his unsmiling lip, and bended
frame, she sighed to think that the service of the gods could throw so
deep a shadow over that earth which the gods created.
But this day when he visited her there was a strange calmness on
his features, a more quiet and self-possessed expression in his sunken
eyes, than she had marked for years. This apparent improvement was but
momentary- it was a false calm, which the least breeze could ruffle.
'May the gods bless thee, my brother!' said she, embracing him.
'The gods! Speak not thus vaguely; perchance there is but one
God!'
'My brother!'
'What if the sublime faith of the Nazarene be true? What if God be
a monarch- One- Invisible- Alone? What if these numerous, countless
deities, whose altars fill the earth, be but evil demons, seeking to
wean us from the true creed? This may be the case, Ione!'
'Alas! can we believe it? or if we believed, would it not be a
melancholy faith answered the Neapolitan. 'What! all this beautiful
world made only human!- mountain disenchanted of its Oread- the waters
of their Nymph- that beautiful prodigality of faith, which makes
everything divine, consecrating the meanest flowers, bearing celestial
whispers in the faintest breeze- wouldst thou deny this, and make
the earth mere dust and clay? No, Apaecides: all that is brightest
in our hearts is that very credulity which peoples the universe with
gods.'
Ione answered as a believer in the poesy of the old mythology
would answer. We may judge by that reply how obstinate and hard the
contest which Christianity had to endure among the heathens. The
Graceful Superstition was never silent; every, the most household,
action of their lives was entwined with it- it was a portion of life
itself, as the flowers are a part of the thyrsus. At every incident
they recurred to a god, every cup of wine was prefaced by a
libation; the very garlands on their thresholds were dedicated to some
divinity; their ancestors themselves, made holy, presided as Lares
over their hearth and hall. So abundant was belief with them, that
in their own climes, at this hour, idolatry has never thoroughly
been outrooted: it changes but its objects of worship; it appeals to
innumerable saints where once it resorted to divinities; and it
pours its crowds, in listening reverence, to oracles at the shrines of
St. Januarius or St. Stephen, instead of to those of Isis or Apollo.
But these superstitions were not to the early Christians the
object of contempt so much as of horror. They did not believe, with
the quiet scepticism of the heathen philosopher, that the gods were
inventions of the priests; nor even, with the vulgar, that,
according to the dim light of history, they had been mortals like
themselves. They imagined the heathen divinities to be evil spirits-
they transplanted to Italy and to Greece the gloomy demons of India
and the East; and in 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 already on the brink of it. He already participated the
doctrines of Olinthus- he already imagined that the lively
imaginations of the heathen were the suggestions of the arch-enemy
of mankind. The innocent and natural answer of Ione made him
shudder. He hastened to reply vehemently, and yet so confusedly,
that Ione feared for his reason more than she dreaded his violence.
'Ah, my brother!' said she, 'these hard duties of thine have
shattered thy very sense. Come to me, Apaecides, my brother, my own
brother; give me thy hand, let me wipe the dew from thy brow- chide me
not now, I understand thee not; think only that Ione could not
offend thee!'
'Ione,' said Apaecides, drawing her towards him, and regarding her
tenderly, 'can I think that this beautiful form, this kind heart,
may be destined to an eternity of torment?'
'Dii meliora! the gods forbid!' said Ione, in the customary form
of words by which her contemporaries thought an omen might be averted.
The words, and still more the superstition they implied, wounded
the ear of Apaecides. He rose, muttering to himself, turned from the
chamber, then, stopping, half way, gazed wistfully on Ione, and
extended his arms.
Ione flew to them in joy; he kissed her earnestly, and then he
said:
'Farewell, my sister! when we next meet, thou mayst be to me as
nothing; take thou, then, this embrace- full yet of all the tender
reminiscences of childhood, when faith and hope, creeds, customs,
interests, objects, were the same to us. Now, the tie is to be
broken!'
With these strange words he left the house.
The great and severest trial of the primitive Christians was
indeed this; their conversion separated them from their dearest bonds.
They could not associate with beings whose commonest actions, whose
commonest forms of speech, were impregnated with idolatry. They
shuddered at the blessing of love, to their ears it was uttered in a
demon's name. This, their misfortune, was their strength; if it
divided them from the rest of the world, it was to unite them
proportionally to each other. They were men of iron who wrought
forth the Word of God, and verily the bonds that bound them were of
iron also!
Glaucus found Ione in tears; he had already assumed the sweet
privilege to console. He drew from her a recital of her interview with
her brother; but in her confused account of language, itself so
confused to one not prepared for it, he was equally at a loss with
Ione to conceive the intentions or the meaning of Apaecides.
'Hast thou ever heard much,' asked she, 'of this new sect of the
Nazarenes, of which my brother spoke?'
'I have often heard enough of the votaries,' returned Glaucus,
'but of their exact tenets know I naught, save that in their
doctrine there seemeth something preternaturally chilling and
morose. They live apart from their kind; they affect to be shocked
even at our simple uses of garlands; they have no sympathies with
the cheerful amusements of life; they utter awful threats of the
coming destruction of the world; they appear, in one word, to have
brought their unsmiling and gloomy creed out of the cave of
Trophonius. Yet,' continued Glaucus, after a slight pause, 'they
have not wanted men of great power and genius, nor converts, even
among the 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 was PAUL. My father was amongst a mighty crowd
that gathered on one of our immemorial hills to hear this sage of
the East expound: through the wide throng there rang not a single
murmur!- the jest and the roar, with which our native orators are
received, were hushed for him- and when on the loftiest summit of that
hill, raised above the breathless crowd below, stood this mysterious
visitor, his mien and his countenance awed every heart, even before
a sound left his lips. He was a man, I have heard my father say, of no
tall stature, but of noble and impressive mien; his robes were dark
and ample; the declining sun, for it was evening, shone aslant upon
his form as it rose aloft, motionless, and commanding; his countenance
was much worn and marked, as of one who had braved alike misfortune
and the sternest vicissitude of many climes; but his eyes were
bright with an almost unearthly fire; and when he raised his arm to
speak, it was with the majesty of a man into whom the Spirit of a
God hath rushed!
'"Men of Athens!" he is reported to have said, "I find amongst
ye an altar with this inscription:

TO THE UNKNOWN GOD.

Ye worship in ignorance the same Deity I serve. To you unknown till
now, to you be it now revealed."
'Then declared that solemn man how this great Maker of all things,
who had appointed unto man his several tribes and his various homes-
the Lord of earth and the universal heaven, dwelt not in temples
made with hands; that His presence, His spirit, were in the air we
breathed- our life and our being were with Him. "Think you," he cried,
"that the Invisible is like your statues of gold and marble? Think you
that He needeth sacrifice from you: He who made heaven and earth?"
Then spake he of fearful and coming times, of the end of the world, of
a second rising of the dead, whereof an assurance had been given to
man in the resurrection of the mighty Being whose religion he came
to preach.
'When he thus spoke, the long-pent murmur went forth, and the
philosophers that were mingled with the people, muttered their sage
contempt; there might you have seen the chilling frown of the Stoic,
and the Cynic's sneer; and the Epicurean, who believeth not even in
our own Elysium, muttered a pleasant jest, and swept laughing
through the crowd: but the deep heart of the people was touched and
thrilled; and they trembled, though they knew not why, for verily
the stranger had the voice and majesty of a man to whom "The Unknown
God" had committed the preaching of His faith.'
Ione listened with wrapt attention, and the serious and earnest
manner of the narrator betrayed the impression that he himself had
received from one who had been amongst the audience that on the hill
of the heathen Mars had heard the first tidings of the word of Christ!
Chapter VI

THE PORTER. THE GIRL. AND THE GLADIATOR

THE door of Diomed's house stood open, and Medon, the old slave,
sat at the bottom of the steps by which you ascended to the mansion.
That luxurious mansion of the rich merchant of Pompeii is still to
be seen just without the gates of the city, at the commencement of the
Street of Tombs; it was a gay neighbourhood, despite the dead. On
the opposite side, but at some yards nearer the gate, was a spacious
hostelry, at which those brought by business or by pleasure to Pompeii
often stopped to refresh themselves. In the space before the
entrance of the inn now stood wagons, and carts, and chariots, some
just arrived, some just quitting, in all the bustle of an animated and
popular resort of public entertainment. Before the door, some farmers,
seated on a bench by a small circular table, were talking over their
morning cups, on the affairs of their calling. On the side of the door
itself was painted gaily and freshly the eternal sign of the chequers.
By the roof of the inn stretched a terrace, on which some females,
wives of the farmers above mentioned, were, some seated, some
leaning over the railing, and conversing with their friends below.
In a deep recess, at a little distance, was a covered seat, in which
some two or three poorer travellers were resting themselves, and
shaking the dust from their garments. On the other side stretched a
wide space, originally the burial-ground of a more ancient race than
the present denizens of Pompeii, and now converted into the
Ustrinum, or place for the burning of the dead. Above this rose the
terraces of a gay villa, half hid by trees. The tombs themselves, with
their graceful and varied shapes, the flowers and the foliage that
surrounded them, made no melancholy feature in the prospect. Hard by
the gate of the city, in a small niche, stood the still form of the
well-disciplined Roman sentry, the sun shining brightly on his
polished crest, and the lance on which he leaned. The gate itself
was divided into three arches, the centre one for vehicles, the others
for the foot-passengers; and on either side rose the massive walls
which girt the city, composed, patched, repaired at a thousand
different epochs, according as war, time, or the earthquake had
shattered that vain protection. At frequent intervals rose square
towers, whose summits broke in picturesque rudeness the regular line
of the wall, and contrasted well with the modern buildings gleaming
whitely by.
The curving road, which in that direction leads from Pompeii to
Herculaneum, wound out of sight amidst hanging vines, above which
frowned the sullen majesty of Vesuvius.
'Hast thou heard the news, old Medon?' said a young woman, with
a pitcher in her hand, as she paused by Diomed's door to gossip a
moment with the slave, ere she repaired to the neighbouring inn to
fill the vessel, and coquet with the travellers.
'The news! what news?' said the slave, raising his eyes moodily
from the ground.
'Why, there passed through the gate this morning, no doubt ere
thou wert well awake, such a visitor to Pompeii!'
'Ay,' said the slave, indifferently.
'Yes, a present from the noble Pomponianus.'
'A present! I thought thou saidst a visitor?'
'It is both visitor and present. Know, O dull and stupid! that
it is a most beautiful young tiger, for our approaching games in the
amphitheatre. Hear you that, Medon? Oh, what pleasure! I declare I
shall not sleep a wink till I see it; they say it has such a roar!'
'Poor fool!' said Medon, sadly and cynically.
'Fool me no fool, old churl! It is a pretty thing, a tiger,
especially if we could but find somebody for him to eat. We have now a
lion and a tiger; only consider that, Medon! and for want of two
good criminals perhaps we shall be forced to see them eat each
other. By-the-by, your son is a gladiator, a handsome man and a
strong, can you not persuade him to fight the tiger? Do now, you would
oblige me mightily; nay, you would be a benefactor to the whole town.'
'Vah! vah!' said the slave, with great asperity; 'think of thine
own danger ere thou thus pratest of my poor boy's death.'
'My own danger!' said the girl, frightened and looking hastily
around- '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 talked- methinks
thou art one of them. Well, I can prate with thee, grey croaker, no
more: thou growest worse and worse- Vale! O Hercules, send us a man
for the lion- and another for the tiger!'

Ho! ho! for the merry, merry show,
With a forest of faces in every row!
Lo, the swordsmen, bold as the son of Alcmena,
Sweep, side by side, o'er the hushed arena;
Talk while you may- you will hold your breath
When they meet in the grasp of the glowing death.
Tramp, tramp, how gaily they go!
Ho! ho! for the merry, merry show!

Chanting in a silver and clear voice this feminine ditty, and
holding up her tunic from the dusty road, the young woman stepped
lightly across to the crowded hostelry.
'My poor son!' said the slave, half aloud, 'is it for things
like this thou art to be butchered? Oh! faith of Christ, I could
worship thee in all sincerity, were it but for the horror which thou
inspirest for these bloody lists.'
The old man's head sank dejectedly on his breast. He remained
silent and absorbed, but every now and then with the corner of his
sleeve he wiped his eyes. His heart was with his son; he did not see
the figure that now approached from the gate with a quick step, and
a somewhat fierce and reckless gait and carriage. He did not lift
his eyes till the figure paused opposite the place where he sat, and
with a soft voice addressed him by the name of:
'Father!'
'My boy! my Lydon! is it indeed thou?' said the old man, joyfully.
'Ah, thou wert present to my thoughts.'
'I am glad to hear it, my father,' said the gladiator,
respectfully touching the knees and beard of the slave; 'and soon
may I be always present with thee, not in thought only.'
'Yes, my son- but not in this world,' replied the slave,
mournfully.
'Talk not thus, O my sire! look cheerfully, for I feel so- I am
sure that I shall win the day; and then, the gold I gain buys thy
freedom. Oh! my father, it was but a few days since that I was
taunted, by one, too, whom I would gladly have undeceived, for he is
more generous than the rest of his equals. He is not Roman- he is of
Athens- by him I was taunted with the lust of gain- when I demanded
what sum was the prize of victory. Alas! he little knew the soul of
Lydon!'
'My boy! my boy!' said the old slave, as, slowly ascending the
steps, he conducted his son to his own little chamber, communicating
with the entrance hall (which in this villa was the peristyle, not the
atrium)- you may see it now; it is the third door to the right on
entering. (The first door conducts to the staircase; the second is but
a false recess, in which there stood a statue of bronze.) 'Generous,
affectionate, pious as are thy motives,' said Medon, when they were
thus secured from observation, 'thy deed itself is guilt: thou art
to risk thy blood for thy father's freedom- that might be forgiven;
but the prize of victory is the blood of another. oh, that is a deadly
sin; no object can purify it. Forbear! forbear! rather would I be a
slave for ever than purchase liberty on such terms!'
'Hush, my father!' replied Lydon, somewhat impatiently; 'thou hast
picked up in this new creed of thine, of which I pray thee not to
speak to me, for the gods that gave me strength denied me wisdom,
and I understand not one word of what thou often preachest to me- thou
hast picked up, I say, in this new creed, some singular fantasies of
right and wrong. Pardon me if I offend thee: but reflect! Against whom
shall I contend? Oh! couldst thou know those wretches with whom, for
thy sake, I assort, thou wouldst think I purified earth by removing
one of them. Beasts, whose very lips drop blood; things, all savage,
unprincipled in their very courage: ferocious, heartless, senseless;
no tie of life can bind them: they know not fear, it is true- but
neither know they gratitude, nor charity, nor love; they are made
but for their own career, to slaughter without pity, to die without
dread! Can thy gods, whosoever they be, look with wrath on a
conflict with such as these, and in such a cause? Oh, My father,
wherever the powers above gaze down on earth, they behold no duty so
sacred, so sanctifying, as the sacrifice offered to an aged parent
by the piety of a grateful son!'
The poor old slave, himself deprived of the lights of knowledge,
and only late a convert to the Christian faith, knew not with what
arguments to enlighten an ignorance at once so dark, and yet so
beautiful in its error. His first impulse was to throw himself on
his son's breast- his next to start away to wring his hands; and in
the attempt to reprove, his broken voice lost itself in weeping.
'And if,' resumed Lydon- 'if thy Deity (methinks thou wilt own but
one?) be indeed that benevolent and pitying Power which thou assertest
Him to be, He will know also that thy very faith in Him first
confirmed me in that determination thou blamest.'
'How! what mean you?' said the slave.
'Why, thou knowest that I, sold in my childhood as a slave, was
set free at Rome by the will of my master, whom I had been fortunate
enough to please. I hastened to Pompeii to see thee- I found thee
already aged and infirm, under the yoke of a capricious and pampered
lord- thou hadst lately adopted this new faith, and its adoption
made thy slavery doubly painful to thee; it took away all the
softening charm of custom, which reconciles us so often to the
worst. Didst thou not complain to me that thou wert compelled to
offices that were not odious to thee as a slave, but guilty as a
Nazarene? Didst thou not tell me that thy soul shook with remorse when
thou wert compelled to place even a crumb of cake before the Lares
that watch over yon impluvium? that thy soul was torn by a perpetual
struggle? Didst thou not tell me that even by pouring wine before
the 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 witness thy mysterious horrors, thy constant anguish, and
remain inactive? No! by the immortal gods! the thought struck me
like light from Olympus! I had no money, but I had strength and youth-
these were thy gifts- I could sell these in my turn for thee! I
learned the amount of thy ransom- I learned that the usual prize of
a victorious gladiator would doubly pay it. I became a gladiator- I
linked myself with those accursed men, scorning, loathing, while I
joined- I acquired their skill- blessed be the lesson!- it shall teach
me to free my father!'
'Oh, that thou couldst hear Olinthus!' sighed the old man, more
and more affected by the virtue of his son, but not less strongly
convinced of the criminality of his purpose.
'I will hear the whole world talk if thou wilt,' answered the
gladiator, gaily; 'but not till thou art a slave no more. Beneath
thy own roof, my father, thou shalt puzzle this dull brain all day
long, ay, and all night too, if it give thee pleasure. Oh, such a spot
as I have chalked out for thee!- it is one of the nine hundred and
ninety-nine shops of old Julia Felix, in the sunny part of the city,
where thou mayst bask before the door in the day- and I will sell
the oil and the wine for thee, my father- and then, please Venus (or
if it does not please her, since thou lovest not her name, it is all
one to Lydon)- then, I say, perhaps thou mayst have a daughter, too,
to tend thy grey hairs, and hear shrill voices at thy knee, that shall
call thee "Lydon's father!" Ah! we shall be so happy- the prize can
purchase all. Cheer thee! cheer up, my sire!- And now I must away- day
wears- the lanista waits me. Come! thy blessing!'
As Lydon thus spoke, he had already quitted the dark chamber of
his father; and speaking eagerly, though in a whispered tone, they now
stood at the same place in which we introduced the porter at his post.
'O bless thee! bless thee, my brave boy!' said Medon, fervently;
'and may the great Power that reads all hearts see the nobleness of
thine, and forgive its error!'
The tall shape of the gladiator passed swiftly down the path;
the eyes of the slave followed its light but stately steps, till the
last glimpse was gone; and then, sinking once more on his seat, his
eyes again fastened themselves on the ground. His form, mute and
unmoving, as a thing of stone. His heart!- who, in our happier age,
can even imagine its struggles- its commotion?
'May I enter?' said a sweet voice. 'Is thy mistress Julia within?'
The slave mechanically motioned to the visitor to enter, but she
who addressed him could not see the gesture- she repeated her question
timidly, but in a louder voice.
'Have I not told thee!' said the slave, peevishly: 'enter.'
'Thanks,' said the speaker, plaintively; and the slave, roused
by the tone, looked up, and recognised the blind flower-girl. Sorrow
can sympathise with affliction- he raised himself, and guided her
steps to the head of the adjacent staircase (by which you descended to
Julia's apartment), where, summoning a female slave, he consigned to
her the charge of the blind girl.
Chapter VII

THE DRESSING-ROOM OF A POMPEIAN BEAUTY.
IMPORTANT CONVERSATION BETWEEN JULIA AND NYDIA

THE elegant Julia sat in her chamber, with her slaves around
her- like the cubiculum which adjoined it, the room was small, but
much larger than the usual apartments appropriated to sleep, which
were so diminutive, that few who have not seen the bed-chambers,
even in the gayest mansions, can form any notion of the petty
pigeon-holes in which the citizens of Pompeii evidently thought it
desirable to pass the night. But, in fact, 'bed' with the ancients was
not that grave, serious, and important part of domestic mysteries
which it is with us. The couch itself was more like a very narrow
and small sofa, light enough to be transported easily, and by the
occupant himself, from place to place; and it was, no doubt,
constantly shifted from chamber to chamber, according to the caprice
of the inmate, or the changes of the season; for that side of the
house which was crowded in one month, might, perhaps, be carefully
avoided in the next. There was also among the Italians of that
period a singular and fastidious apprehension of too much daylight;
their darkened chambers, which first appear to us the result of a
negligent architecture, were the effect of the most elaborate study.
In their porticoes and gardens they courted the sun whenever it so
pleased their luxurious tastes. In the interior of their houses they
sought rather the coolness and the shade.
Julia's apartment at that season was in the lower part of the
house, immediately beneath the state rooms above, and looking upon the
garden, with which it was on a level. The wide door, which was glazed,
alone admitted the morning rays: yet her eye, accustomed to a
certain darkness, was sufficiently acute to perceive exactly what
colours were the most becoming- what shade of the delicate rouge
gave the brightest beam to her dark glance, and the most youthful
freshness to her cheek.
On the table, before which she sat, was a small and circular
mirror of the most polished steel: round which, in precise order, were
ranged the cosmetics and the unguents- the perfumes and the paints-
the jewels and combs- the ribands and the gold pins, which were
destined to add to the natural attractions of beauty the assistance of
art and the capricious allurements of fashion. Through the dimness
of the room glowed brightly the vivid and various colourings of the
wall, in all the dazzling frescoes of Pompeian taste. Before the
dressing-table, and under the feet of Julia, was spread a carpet,
woven from the looms of the East. Near at hand, on another table,
was a silver basin and ewer; an extinguished lamp, of most exquisite
workmanship, in which the artist had represented a Cupid reposing
under the spreading branches of a myrtle-tree; and a small roll of
papyrus, containing the softest elegies of Tibullus. Before the
door, which communicated with the cubiculum, hung a curtain richly
broidered with gold flowers. Such was the dressing-room of a beauty
eighteen centuries ago.
The fair Julia leaned indolently back on her seat, while the
ornatrix (i. e. hairdresser) slowly piled, one above the other, a mass
of small curls, dexterously weaving the false with the true, and
carrying the whole fabric to a height that seemed to place the head
rather at the centre than the summit of the human form.
Her tunic, of a deep amber, which well set off her dark hair and
somewhat embrowned complexion, swept in ample folds to her feet, which
were cased in slippers, fastened round the slender ankle by white
thongs; while a profusion of pearls were embroidered in the slipper
itself, which was of purple, and turned slightly upward, as do the
Turkish slippers at this day. An old slave, skilled by long experience
in all the arcana of the toilet, stood beside the hairdresser, with
the broad and studded girdle of her mistress over her arm, and giving,
from time to time (mingled with judicious flattery to the lady
herself), instructions to the mason of the ascending pile.
'Put that pin rather more to the right- lower- stupid one! Do
you not observe how even those beautiful eyebrows are?- One would
think you were dressing Corinna, whose face is all of one side. Now
put in the flowers- what, fool!- not that dull pink- you are not
suiting colours to the dim cheek of Chloris: it must be the
brightest flowers that can alone suit the cheek of the young Julia.'
'Gently!' said the lady, stamping her small foot violently: you
pull my hair as if you were plucking up a weed!'
'Dull thing!' continued the directress of the ceremony. 'Do you
not know how delicate is your mistress?- you are not dressing the
coarse horsehair of the widow Fulvia. Now, then, the riband- that's
right. Fair Julia, look in the mirror; saw you ever anything so lovely
as yourself?'
When, after innumerable comments, difficulties, and delays, the
intricate tower was at length completed, the next preparation was that
of giving to the eyes the soft languish, produced by a dark powder
applied to the lids and brows; a small patch cut in the form of a
crescent, skilfully placed by the rosy lips, attracted attention to
their dimples, and to the teeth, to which already every art had been
applied in order to heighten the dazzle of their natural whiteness.
To another slave, hitherto idle, was now consigned the charge of
arranging the jewels- the ear-rings of pearl (two to each ear)- the
massive bracelets of gold- the chain formed of rings of the same
metal, to which a talisman cut in crystals was attached- the
graceful buckle on the left shoulder, in which was set an exquisite
cameo of Psyche- the girdle of purple riband, richly wrought with
threads of gold, and clasped by interlacing serpents- and lastly,
the various rings, fitted to every joint of the white and slender
fingers. The toilet was now arranged according to the last mode of
Rome. The fair Julia regarded herself with a last gaze of complacent
vanity, and reclining again upon her seat, she bade the youngest of
her slaves, in a listless tone, read to her the enamoured couplets
of Tibullus. This lecture was still proceeding, when a female slave
admitted Nydia into the presence of the lady of the place.
'Salve, Julia!' said the flower-girl, arresting her steps within a
few paces from the spot where Julia sat, and 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 embarrassed silence. She then motioned her attendants to
withdraw, and to close the door. When they were alone, she said,
looking mechanically from Nydia, and forgetful that she was with one
who could not observe her countenance:
'You serve the Neapolitan, Ione?'
'I am with her at present,' answered Nydia.
'Is she as handsome as they say?'
'I know not,' replied Nydia. 'How can I judge?'
'Ah! I should have remembered. But thou hast ears, if not eyes. Do
thy fellow-slaves tell thee she is handsome? Slaves talking with one
another forget to flatter even their mistress.'
'They tell me that she is beautiful.'
'Hem!- say they that she is tall?'
'Yes.'
'Why, so am I. Dark haired?'
'I have heard so.'
'So am I. And doth Glaucus visit her much?'
'Daily' returned Nydia, with a half-suppressed sigh.
'Daily, indeed! Does he find her handsome?'
'I should think so, since they are so soon to be wedded.'
'Wedded!' cried Julia, turning pale even through the false roses
on her cheek, and starting from her couch. Nydia did not, of course,
perceive the emotion she had caused. Julia remained a long time
silent; but her heaving breast and flashing eyes would have
betrayed, to one who could have seen, the wound her vanity had
sustained.
'They tell me thou art a Thessalian,' said she, at last breaking
silence.
'And truly!'
'Thessaly is the land of magic and of witches, of talismans and of
love-philtres,' said Julia.
'It has ever been celebrated for its sorcerers,' returned Nydia,
timidly.
'Knowest thou, then, blind Thessalian, of any love-charms?'
'I!' said the flower-girl, colouring; 'I! how should I? No,
assuredly not!'
'The worse for thee; I could have given thee gold enough to have
purchased thy freedom hadst thou been more wise.'
'But what,' asked Nydia, 'can induce the beautiful and wealthy
Julia to ask that question of her servant? Has she not money, and
youth, and loveliness? Are they not love-charms enough to dispense
with magic?'
'To all but one person in the world,' answered Julia, haughtily:
'but methinks thy blindness is infectious; and... But no matter.'
'And that one person?' said Nydia, eagerly.
'Is not Glaucus,' replied Julia, with the customary deceit of
her sex. 'Glaucus- no!'
Nydia drew her breath more freely, and after a short pause Julia
recommenced.
'But talking of Glaucus, and his attachment to this Neapolitan,
reminded me of the influence of love-spells, which, for ought I know
or care, she may have exercised upon him. Blind girl, I love, and-
shall Julia live to say it?- am loved not in return! This humbles-
nay, not humbles- but it stings my pride. I would see this ingrate
at my feet- not in order that I might raise, but that I might spurn
him. When they told me thou wert Thessalian, I imagined thy young mind
might have learned the dark secrets of thy clime.'
'Alas! no, murmured Nydia: 'would it had!'
'Thanks, at least, for that kindly wish,' said Julia,
unconscious of what was passing in the breast of the flower-girl.
'But tell me- thou hearest the gossip of slaves, always prone to
these dim beliefs; always ready to apply to sorcery for their own
low loves- hast thou ever heard of any Eastern magician in this
city, who possesses the art of which thou art ignorant? No vain
chiromancer, no juggler of the market-place, but some more potent
and mighty magician of India or of Egypt?'
'Of Egypt?- yes!' said Nydia, shuddering. 'What Pompeian has not
heard of Arbaces?'
'Arbaces! true,' replied Julia, grasping at the recollection.
'They say he is a man above all the petty and false 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!' said Julia, catching only the first sentence.
'Why so?'
'The orgies of his midnight leisure are impure and polluted- at
least, so says rumour.'
'By Ceres, by Pan, and by Cybele! thou dost but provoke my
curiosity, instead of exciting my fears,' returned the wayward and
pampered Pompeian. 'I will seek and question him of his lore. If to
these orgies love be admitted- why the more likely that he knows its
secrets!'
Nydia did not answer.
'I will seek him this very day,' resumed Julia; 'nay, why not this
very hour?'
'At daylight, and in his present state, thou hast assuredly the
less to fear,' answered Nydia, yielding to her own sudden and secret
wish to learn if the dark Egyptian were indeed possessed of those
spells to rivet and attract love, of which the Thessalian had so often
heard.
'And who dare insult the rich daughter of Diomed?' said Julia,
haughtily. 'I will go.'
'May I visit thee afterwards to learn the result?' asked Nydia,
anxiously.
'Kiss me for thy interest in Julia's honour,' answered the lady.
'Yes, assuredly. This eve we sup abroad- come hither at the same
hour to-morrow, and thou shalt know all: I may have to employ thee
too; but enough for the present. Stay, take this bracelet for the
new thought thou hast inspired me with; remember, if thou servest
Julia, she is grateful and she is generous.'
'I cannot take thy present,' said Nydia, putting aside the
bracelet; 'but young as I am, I can sympathise unbought with those who
love- and love in vain.'
'Sayest thou so!' returned Julia. 'Thou speakest like a free
woman- and thou shalt yet be free- farewell!'
Chapter VIII

JULIA SEEKS ARBACES. THE RESULT OF THAT INTERVIEW

ARBACES was seated in a chamber which opened on a kind of
balcony or portico that fronted his garden. His cheek was pale and
worn with the sufferings he had endured, but his iron frame had
already recovered from the severest effects of that accident which had
frustrated his fell designs in the moment of victory. The air that
came fragrantly to his brow revived his languid senses, and the
blood circulated more freely than it had done for days through his
shrunken veins.
'So, then,' thought he, 'the storm of fate has broken and blown
over- the evil which my lore predicted, threatening life itself, has
chanced- and yet I live! It came as the stars foretold; and now the
long, bright, and prosperous career which was to succeed that evil, if
I survived it, smiles beyond: I have passed- I have subdued the latest
danger of my destiny. Now I have but to lay out the gardens of my
future fate- unterrified and secure. First, then, of all my pleasures,
even before that of love, shall come revenge! This boy Greek- who
has crossed my passion- thwarted my designs- baffled me even when
the blade was about to drink his accursed blood- shall not a second
time escape me! But for the method of my vengeance? Of that let me
ponder well! Oh! Ate, if thou art indeed a goddess, fill me with thy
direst Inspiration!' The Egyptian sank into an intent reverie, which
did not seem to present to him any clear or satisfactory
suggestions. He changed his position restlessly, as he revolved scheme
after scheme, which no sooner occurred than it was dismissed:
several times he struck his breast and groaned aloud, with the
desire of vengeance, and a sense of his impotence to accomplish it.
While thus absorbed, a boy slave timidly entered the chamber.
A female, evidently of rank from her dress, and that of the single
slave who attended her, waited below and sought an audience with
Arbaces.
'A female!' his heart beat quick. 'Is she young?'
'Her face is concealed by her veil; but her form is slight, yet
round, as that of youth.'
'Admit her,' said the Egyptian: for a moment his vain heart
dreamed the stranger might be Ione.
The first glance of the visitor now entering the apartment
sufficed to undeceive so erring a fancy. True, she was about the
same height as Ione, and perhaps the same age- true, she was finely
and richly formed- but where was that undulating and ineffable grace
which accompanied every motion of the peerless Neapolitan- the
chaste and decorous garb, so simple even in the care of its
arrangement- the dignified yet bashful step- the majesty of
womanhood and its modesty?
'Pardon me that I rise with pain,' said Arbaces, gazing on the
stranger: 'I am still suffering from recent illness.'
'Do not disturb thyself, O great Egyptian!' returned Julia,
seeking to disguise the fear she already experienced beneath the ready
resort of flattery; 'and forgive an unfortunate female, who seeks
consolation from thy wisdom.'
'Draw near, fair stranger,' said Arbaces; 'and speak without
apprehension or reserve.'
Julia placed herself on a seat beside the Egyptian, and
wonderingly gazed around an apartment whose elaborate and costly
luxuries shamed even the ornate enrichment of her father's mansion;
fearfully, too, she regarded the hieroglyphical inscriptions on the
walls- the faces of the mysterious images, which at every corner gazed
upon her- the tripod at a little distance- and, above all, the grave
and remarkable countenance of Arbaces himself: a long white robe
like a veil half covered his raven locks, and flowed to his feet:
his face was made even more impressive by its present paleness; and
his dark and penetrating eyes seemed to pierce the shelter of her
veil, and explore the secrets of her vain and unfeminine soul.
'And what,' said his low, deep voice, 'brings thee, O maiden! to
the house of the Eastern stranger?'
'His fame,' replied Julia.
'In what?' said he, with a strange and slight smile.
'Canst thou ask, O wise Arbaces? Is not thy knowledge the very
gossip theme of Pompeii?'
'Some little lore have I indeed, treasured up,' replied Arbaces:
'but in what can such serious and sterile secrets benefit the ear of
beauty?'
'Alas!' said Julia, a little cheered by the accustomed accents
of adulation; 'does not sorrow fly to wisdom for relief, and they
who love unrequitedly, are not they the chosen victims of grief?'
'Ha!' said Arbaces, 'can unrequited love be the lot of so fair a
form, whose modelled proportions are visible even beneath the folds of
thy graceful robe? Deign, O maiden! to lift thy veil, that I may see
at least if the face correspond in loveliness with the form.'
Not unwilling, perhaps, to exhibit her charms, and thinking they
were likely to interest the magician in her fate, Julia, after some
slight hesitation, raised her veil, and revealed a beauty which, but
for art, had been indeed attractive to the fixed gaze of the Egyptian.
'Thou comest to me for advice in unhappy love,' said he; well,
turn that face on the ungrateful one: what other love-charm can I give
thee?'
'Oh, cease these courtesies!' said Julia; 'it is a love-charm,
indeed, that I would ask from thy skill!'
'Fair stranger!' replied Arbaces, somewhat scornfully, love-spells
are not among the secrets I have wasted the midnight oil to attain.'
'Is it indeed so? Then pardon me, great Arbaces, and farewell!'
'Stay,' said Arbaces, who, despite his passion for Ione, was not
unmoved by the beauty of his visitor; and had he been in the flush
of a more assured health, might have attempted to console the fair
Julia by other means than those of supernatural wisdom.
'Stay; although I confess that I have left the witchery of
philtres and potions to those whose trade is in such knowledge, yet am
I myself not so dull to beauty but that in earlier youth I may have
employed them in my own behalf. I may give thee advice, at least, if
thou wilt be candid with me. Tell me then, first, art thou
unmarried, as thy dress betokens?'
'Yes,' said Julia.
'And, being unblest with fortune, wouldst thou allure some wealthy
suitor?'
'I am richer than he who disdains me.'
'Strange and more strange! And thou lovest him who loves not
thee?'
'I know not if I love him,' answered Julia, haughtily; 'but I know
that I would see myself triumph over a rival- I would see him who
rejected me my suitor- I would see her whom he has preferred in her
turn despised.'
'A natural ambition and a womanly,' said the Egyptian, in a tone
too grave for irony. 'Yet more, fair maiden; wilt thou confide to me
the name of thy lover? Can he be Pompeian, and despise wealth, even if
blind to beauty?'
'He is of Athens,' answered Julia, looking down.
'Ha!' cried the Egyptian, impetuously, as the blood rushed to
his cheek; 'there is but one Athenian, young and noble, in Pompeii.
Can it be Glaucus of whom thou speakest!'
'Ah! betray me not- so indeed they call him.'
The Egyptian sank back, gazing vacantly on the averted face of the
merchant's daughter, and muttering inly to himself: this conference,
with which he had hitherto only trifled, amusing himself with the
credulity and vanity of his visitor- might it not minister to his
revenge?'
'I see thou canst assist me not,' said Julia, offended by his
continued silence; 'guard at least my secret. Once more, farewell!'
'Maiden,' said the Egyptian, in an earnest and serious tone,
'thy suit hath touched me- I will minister to thy will. Listen to
me; I have not myself dabbled in these lesser mysteries, but I know
one who hath. At the base of Vesuvius, less than a league from the
city, there dwells a powerful witch; beneath the rank dews of the
new moon, she has gathered the herbs which possess the virtue to chain
Love in eternal fetters. Her art can bring thy lover to thy feet. Seek
her, and mention to her the name of Arbaces: she fears that name,
and will give thee her most potent philtres.'
'Alas!' answered Julia, I know not the road to the home of her
whom thou speakest of: the way, short though it be, is long to
traverse for a girl who leaves, unknown, the house of her father.
The country is entangled with wild vines, and dangerous with
precipitous caverns. I dare not trust to mere strangers to guide me;
the reputation of women of my rank is easily tarnished- and though I
care not who knows that I love Glaucus, I would not have it imagined
that I obtained his love by a spell.'
'Were I but three days advanced in health,' said the Egyptian,
rising and walking (as if to try his strength) across the chamber, but
with irregular and feeble steps, 'I myself would accompany thee. Well,
thou must wait.'
'But Glaucus is soon to wed that hated Neapolitan.'
'Wed!'
'Yes; in the early part of next month.'
'So soon! Art thou well advised of this?'
'From the lips of her own slave.'
'It shall not be!' said the Egyptian, impetuously. 'Fear
nothing, Glaucus shall be thine. Yet how, when thou obtainest it,
canst thou administer to him this potion?'
'My father has invited him, and, I believe, the Neapolitan also,
to a banquet, on the day following to-morrow: I shall then have the
opportunity to administer it.'
'So be it!' said the Egyptian, with eyes flashing such fierce joy,
that Julia's gaze sank trembling beneath them. 'To-morrow eve, then,
order thy litter- thou hast one at thy command?'
'Surely- yes,' returned the purse-proud Julia.
'Order thy litter- at two miles' distance from the city is a house
of entertainment, frequented by the wealthier Pompeians, from the
excellence of its baths, and the beauty of its gardens. There canst
thou pretend only to shape thy course- there, ill or dying, I will
meet thee by the statue of Silenus, in the copse that skirts the
garden; and I myself will guide thee to the witch. Let us wait till,
with the evening star, the goats of the herdsmen are gone to rest;
when the dark twilight conceals us, and none shall cross our steps. Go
home and fear not. By Hades, swears Arbaces, the sorcerer of Egypt,
that Ione shall never wed with Glaucus.'
'And that Glaucus shall be mine,' added Julia, filling up the
incompleted sentence.
'Thou hast said it!' replied Arbaces; and Julia, half frightened
at this unhallowed appointment, but urged on by jealousy and the pique
of rivalship, even more than love, resolved to fulfil it.
Left alone, Arbaces burst forth:
'Bright stars that never lie, ye already begin the execution of
your promises- success in love, and victory over foes, for the rest of
my smooth existence. In the very hour when my mind could devise no
clue to the goal of vengeance, have ye sent this fair fool for my
guide?' He paused in deep thought. 'Yes,' said he again, but in a
calmer voice; 'I could not myself have given to her the poison, that
shall be indeed a philtre!- his death might be thus tracked to my
door. But the witch- ay, there is the fit, the natural agent of my
designs!'
He summoned one of his slaves, bade him hasten to track the
steps of Julia, and acquaint himself with her name and condition. This
done, he stepped forth into the portico. The skies were serene and
clear; but he, deeply read in the signs of their various change,
beheld in one mass of cloud, far on the horizon, which the wind
began slowly to agitate, that a storm was brooding above.
'It is like my vengeance,' said he, as he gazed; 'the sky is
clear, but the cloud moves on.'
Chapter IX

A STORM IN THE SOUTH. THE WITCH'S CAVERN

IT was when the heats of noon died gradually away from the
earth, that Glaucus and Ione went forth to enjoy the cooled and
grateful air. At that time, various carriages were in use among the
Romans; the one most used by the richer citizens, when they required
no companion in their excursion, was the biga, already described in
the early portion of this work; that appropriated to the matrons,
was termed carpentum, which had commonly two wheels; the ancients used
also a sort of litter, a vast sedan-chair, more commodiously
arranged than the modern, inasmuch as the occupant thereof could lie
down at ease, instead of being perpendicularly and stiffly jostled
up and down.' There was another carriage, used both for travelling and
for excursions in the country; it was commodious, containing three
or four persons with ease, having a covering which could be raised
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, accompanied by one female slave
of Ione, now used in their excursion. About ten miles from the city,
there was at that day an old ruin, the remains of a temple,
evidently Grecian; and as for Glaucus and Ione everything Grecian
possessed an interest, they had agreed to visit these ruins: it was
thither they were now bound.
Their road lay among vines and olive-groves; till, winding more
and more towards the higher ground of Vesuvius, the path grew
rugged; the mules moved slowly, and with labour; and at every
opening in the wood they beheld those grey and horrent caverns
indenting the parched rock, which Strabo has described; but which
the various revolutions of time and the volcano have removed from
the present aspect of the mountain. The sun, sloping towards his
descent, cast long and deep shadows over the mountain; here and
there they still heard the rustic reed of the shepherd amongst
copses of the beechwood and wild oak. Sometimes they marked the form
of the silk-haired and graceful capella, with its wreathing horn and
bright grey eye- which, still beneath Ausonian skies, recalls the
eclogues of Maro, browsing half-way up the hills; and the grapes,
already purple with the smiles of the deepening summer, glowed out
from the arched festoons, which hung pendent from tree to tree.
Above them, light clouds floated in the serene heavens, sweeping so
slowly athwart the firmament that they scarcely seemed to stir; while,
on their right, they caught, ever and anon, glimpses of the waveless
sea, with some light bark skimming its surface; and the sunlight
breaking over the deep in those countless and softest hues so peculiar
to that delicious sea.
'How beautiful!' said Glaucus, in a half-whispered tone, 'is
that expression by which we call Earth our Mother! With what a
kindly equal love she pours her blessings upon her children! and
even to those sterile spots to which Nature has denied beauty, she yet
contrives to dispense her smiles: witness the arbutus and the vine,
which she wreathes over the arid and burning soil of yon extinct
volcano. Ah! in such an hour and scene as this, well might we
imagine that the Faun should peep forth from those green festoons; or,
that we might trace the steps of the Mountain Nymph through the
thickest mazes of the glade. But the Nymphs ceased, beautiful Ione,
when thou wert created!'
There is no tongue that flatters like a lover's; and yet, in the
exaggeration of his feelings, flattery seems to him commonplace.
Strange and prodigal exuberance, which soon exhausts itself by
overflowing!
They arrived at the ruins; they examined them with that fondness
with which we trace the hallowed and household vestiges of our own
ancestry- they lingered there till Hesperus appeared in the rosy
heavens; and then returning homeward in the twilight, they were more
silent than they had been; for in the shadow and beneath the stars
they felt more oppressively their mutual love.
It was at this time that the storm which the Egyptian had
predicted began to creep visibly over them. At first, a low and
distant thunder gave warning of the approaching conflict of the
elements; and then rapidly rushed above the dark ranks of the
serried clouds. The suddenness of storms in that climate is
something almost preternatural, and might well suggest to early
superstition the notion of a divine agency- a few large drops broke
heavily among the boughs that half overhung their path, and then,
swift and intolerably bright, the forked lightning darted across their
very eyes, and was swallowed up by the increasing darkness.
'Swifter, good Carrucarius!' cried Glaucus to the driver; 'the
tempest comes on apace.'
The slave urged on the mules- they went swift over the uneven
and stony road- the clouds thickened, near and more near broke the
thunder, and fast rushed the dashing rain.
'Dost thou fear?' whispered Glaucus, as he sought excuse in the
storm to come nearer to Ione.
'Not with thee,' said she, softly.
At that instant, the carriage, fragile and ill-contrived (as,
despite their graceful shapes, were, for practical uses, most of
such inventions at that time), struck violently into a deep rut,
over which lay a log of fallen wood; the driver, with a curse,
stimulated his mules yet faster for the obstacle, the wheel was torn
from the socket, and the carriage suddenly overset.
Glaucus, quickly extricating himself from the vehicle, hastened to
assist Ione, who was fortunately unhurt; with some difficulty they
raised the carruca (or carriage), and found that it ceased any
longer even to afford them shelter; the springs that fastened the
covering were snapped asunder, and the rain poured fast and fiercely
into the interior.
In this dilemma, what was to be done? They were yet some
distance from the city- no house, no aid, seemed near.
'There is,' said the slave, 'a smith about a mile off; I could
seek him, and he might fasten at least the wheel to the carruca-
but, Jupiter! how the rain beats; my mistress will be wet before I
come back.'
'Run thither at least,' said Glaucus; 'we must find the best
shelter we can till you return.'
The lane was overshadowed with trees, beneath the amplest of which
Glaucus drew Ione. He endeavoured, by stripping his own cloak, to
shield her yet more from the rapid rain; but it descended with a
fury that broke through all puny obstacles: and suddenly, while
Glaucus was yet whispering courage to his beautiful charge, the
lightning struck one of the trees immediately before them, and split
with a mighty crash its huge trunk in twain. This awful incident
apprised them of the danger they braved in their present shelter,
and Glaucus looked anxiously round for some less perilous place of
refuge. 'We are now,' said he, 'half-way up the ascent of Vesuvius;
there ought to be some cavern, or hollow in the vine-clad rocks, could
we but find it, in which the deserting Nymphs have left a shelter.'
While thus saying he moved from the trees, and, looking wistfully
towards the mountain, discovered through the advancing gloom a red and
tremulous light at no considerable distance. 'That must come,' said
he, 'from the hearth of some shepherd or vine-dresser- it will guide
us to some hospitable retreat. Wilt thou stay here, while I- yet no-
that would be to leave thee to danger.'
'I will go with you cheerfully,' said Ione. 'Open as the space
seems, it is better than the treacherous shelter of these boughs.'
Half leading, half carrying Ione, Glaucus, accompanied by the
trembling female slave, advanced towards the light, which yet burned
red and steadfastly. At length the space was no longer open; wild
vines entangled their steps, and hid from them, save by imperfect
intervals, the guiding beam. But faster and fiercer came the rain, and
the lightning assumed its most deadly and blasting form; they were
still therefore, impelled onward, hoping, at last, if the light eluded
them, to arrive at some cottage or some friendly cavern. The vines
grew more and more intricate- the light was entirely snatched from
them; but a narrow path, which they trod with labour and pain,
guided only by the constant and long-lingering flashes of the storm,
continued to lead them towards its direction. The rain ceased
suddenly; precipitous and rough crags of scorched lava frowned
before them, rendered more fearful by the lightning that illumined the
dark and dangerous soil. Sometimes the blaze lingered over the
iron-grey heaps of scoria, covered in part with ancient mosses or
stunted trees, as if seeking in vain for some gentler product of
earth, more worthy of its ire; and sometimes leaving the whole of that
part of the scene in darkness, the lightning, broad and sheeted,
hung redly over the ocean, tossing far below, until its waves seemed
glowing into fire; and so intense was the blaze, that it brought
vividly into view even the sharp outline of the more distant
windings of the bay, from the eternal Misenum, with its lofty brow, to
the beautiful Sorrentum and the giant hills behind.
Our lovers stopped in perplexity and doubt, when suddenly, as
the darkness that gloomed between the fierce flashes of lightning once
more wrapped them round, they saw near, but high, before them, the
mysterious light. Another blaze, in which heaven and earth were
reddened, made visible to them the whole expanse; no house was near,
but just where they had beheld the light, they thought they saw in the
recess of the cavern the outline of a human form. The darkness once
more returned; the light, no longer paled beneath the fires of heaven,
burned forth again: they resolved to ascend towards it; they had to
wind their way among vast fragments of stone, here and there
overhung with wild bushes; but they gained nearer and nearer to the
light, and at length they stood opposite the mouth of a kind of
cavern, apparently formed by huge splinters of rock that had fallen
transversely athwart each other: and, 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 cauldron; on a tall and thin column of iron stood a rude lamp;
over that part of the wall, at the base of which burned the fire, hung
in many rows, as if to dry, a profusion of herbs and weeds. A fox,
couched before the fire, gazed upon the strangers with its bright
and red eye- its hair bristling- and a low growl stealing from between
its teeth; in the centre of the cave was an earthen statue, which
had three heads of a singular and fantastic cast: they were formed
by the real skulls of a dog, a horse, and a boar; a low tripod stood
before this wild representation of the popular Hecate.
But it was not these appendages and appliances of the cave that
thrilled the blood of those who gazed fearfully therein- it was the
face of its inmate. Before the fire, with the light shining full
upon her features, sat a woman of considerable age. Perhaps in no
country are there seen so many hags as in Italy- in no country does
beauty so awfully change, in age, to hideousness the most appalling
and revolting. But the old woman now before them was not one of
these specimens of the extreme of human ugliness; on the contrary, her
countenance betrayed the remains of a regular but high and aquiline
order of feature: with stony eyes turned upon them- with a look that
met and fascinated theirs- they beheld in that fearful countenance the
very image of a corpse!- the same, the glazed and lustreless regard,
the blue and shrunken lips, the drawn and hollow jaw- the dead, lank
hair, of a pale grey- the livid, green, ghastly skin, which seemed all
surely tinged and tainted by the grave!
'It is a dead thing,' said Glaucus.
'Nay- it stirs- it is a ghost or larva,' faltered Ione, as she
clung to the Athenian's breast.
'Oh, away, away!' groaned the slave, 'it is the Witch of
Vesuvius!'
'Who are ye?' said a hollow and ghostly voice. 'And what do ye
here?'
The sound, terrible and deathlike as it was- suiting well the
countenance of the speaker, and seeming rather the voice of some
bodiless wanderer of the Styx than living mortal, would have made Ione
shrink back into the pitiless fury of the storm, but Glaucus, though
not without some misgiving, drew her into the cavern.
'We are storm-beaten wanderers from the neighbouring city,' said
he, 'and decoyed hither by yon light; we crave shelter and the comfort
of your hearth.'
As he spoke, the fox rose from the ground, and advanced towards
the strangers, showing, from end to end, its white teeth, and
deepening in its menacing growl.
'Down, slave!' said the witch; and at the sound of her voice the
beast dropped at once, covering its face with its brush, and keeping
only its quick, vigilant eye fixed upon the invaders of its repose.
'Come to the fire if ye will!' said she, turning to Glaucus and his
companions. 'I never welcome living thing- save the owl, the fox,
the toad, and the viper- so I cannot welcome ye; but come to the
fire without welcome- why stand upon form?'
The language in which the hag addressed them was a strange and
barbarous Latin, interlarded with many words of some more rude, and
ancient dialect. She did not stir from her seat, but gazed stonily
upon them as Glaucus now released Ione of her outer wrapping garments,
and making her place herself on a log of wood, which was the only
other seat he perceived at hand- fanned with his breath the embers
into a more glowing flame. The slave, encouraged by the boldness of
her superiors, divested herself also of her long palla, and crept
timorously to the opposite corner of the hearth.
'We disturb you, I fear,' said the silver voice of Ione, in
conciliation.
The witch did not reply- she seemed like one who has awakened
for a moment from the dead, and has then relapsed once more into the
eternal slumber.
'Tell me,' said she, suddenly, and after a long pause, 'are ye
brother and sister?'
'No,' said Ione, blushing.
'Are ye married?'
'Not so,' replied Glaucus.
'Ho, lovers!- ha!- ha!- ha!' and the witch laughed so loud and
so long that the caverns rang again.
The heart of Ione stood still at that strange mirth. Glaucus
muttered a rapid counterspell to the omen- and the slave turned as
pale as the cheek of the witch herself.
'Why dost thou laugh, old crone?' said Glaucus, somewhat
sternly, as he concluded his invocation.
'Did I laugh?' said the hag, absently.
'She is in her dotage,' whispered Glaucus: as he said this, he
caught the eye of the hag fixed upon him with a malignant and vivid
glare.
'Thou liest!' said she, abruptly.
'Thou art an uncourteous welcomer,' returned Glaucus.
'Hush! provoke her not, dear Glaucus!' whispered Ione.
'I will tell thee why I laughed when I discovered ye were lovers,'
said the old woman. 'It was because it is a pleasure to the old and
withered to look upon young hearts like yours- and to know the time
will come when you will loathe each other- loathe- loathe- ha!- ha!-
ha!'
It was now Ione's turn to pray against the unpleasing prophecy.
'The gods forbid!' said she. 'Yet, poor woman, thou knowest little
of love, or thou wouldst know that it never changes.'
'Was I young once, think ye?' returned the hag, quickly; 'and am I
old, and hideous, and deathly now? Such as is the form, so is the
heart.' With these words she sank again into a stillness profound
and fearful, as if the cessation of life itself.
'Hast thou dwelt here long?' said Glaucus, after a pause,
feeling uncomfortably oppressed beneath a silence so appalling.
'Ah, long!- yes.'
'It is but a drear abode.'
'Ha! thou mayst well say that- Hell is beneath us!' replied the
hag, pointing her bony finger to the earth. 'And I will tell thee a
secret- the dim things below are preparing wrath for ye above- you,
the young, and the thoughtless, and the beautiful.'
'Thou utterest but evil words, ill becoming the hospitable,'
said Glaucus; 'and in future I will brave the tempest rather than
thy welcome.'
'Thou wilt do well. None should ever seek me- save the wretched!'
'And why the wretched?' asked the Athenian.
'I am the witch of the mountain,' replied the sorceress, with a
ghastly grin; 'my trade is to give hope to the hopeless: for the
crossed in love I have philtres; for the avaricious, promises of
treasure; for the malicious, potions of revenge; for the happy and the
good, I have only what life has- curses! Trouble me no more.
With this the grim tenant of the cave relapsed into a silence so
obstinate and sullen, that Glaucus in vain endeavoured to draw her
into farther conversation. She did not evince, by any alteration of
her locked and rigid features, that she even heard him. Fortunately,
however, the storm, which was brief as violent, began now to relax;
the rain grew less and less fierce; and at last, as the clouds parted,
the moon burst forth in the purple opening of heaven, and streamed
clear and full into that desolate abode. Never had she shone, perhaps,
on a group more worthy of the painter's art. The young, the
all-beautiful Ione, seated by that rude fire- her lover already
forgetful of the presence of the hag, at her feet, gazing upward to
her face, and whispering sweet words- the pale and affrighted slave at
a little distance- and the ghastly hag resting her deadly eyes upon
them; yet seemingly serene and fearless (for the companionship of love
hath such power) were these beautiful beings, things of another
sphere, in that dark and unholy cavern, with its gloomy quaintness
of appurtenance. The fox regarded them from his corner with his keen
and fiery eye: and as Glaucus now turned towards the witch, he
perceived for the first time, just under her seat, the bright gaze and
crested head of a large snake: whether it was that the vivid colouring
of the Athenian's cloak, thrown over the shoulders of Ione,
attracted the reptile's anger- its crest began to glow and rise, as if
menacing and preparing itself to spring upon the Neapolitan- Glaucus
caught quickly at one of the half-burned logs upon the hearth- and, as
if enraged at the action, the snake came forth from its shelter, and
with a loud hiss raised itself on end till its height nearly
approached that of the Greek.
'Witch!' cried Glaucus, 'command thy creature, or thou wilt see it
dead.'
'It has been despoiled of its venom!' said the witch, aroused at
his threat; but ere the words had left her lip, the snake had sprung
upon Glaucus; quick and watchful, the agile Greek leaped lightly
aside, and struck so fell and dexterous a blow on the head of the
snake, that it fell prostrate and writhing among the embers of the
fire.
The hag sprung up, and stood confronting Glaucus with a face which
would have befitted the fiercest of the Furies, so utterly dire and
wrathful was its expression- yet even in horror and ghastliness
preserving the outline and trace of beauty- and utterly free from that
coarse grotesque at which the imaginations of the North have sought
the source of terror.
'Thou hast,' said she, in a slow and steady voice- which belied the
expression of her face, so much was it passionless and calm- 'thou
hast had shelter under my roof, and warmth at my hearth; thou hast
returned evil for good; thou hast smitten and haply slain the thing
that loved me and was mine: nay, more, the creature, above all others,
consecrated to gods and deemed venerable by man,- now hear thy
punishment. By the moon, who is the guardian of the sorceress- by
Orcus, who is the treasurer of wrath- I curse thee! and thou art
cursed! May thy love be blasted- may thy name be blackened- may the
infernals mark thee- may thy heart wither and scorch- may thy last
hour recall to thee the prophet voice of the Saga of Vesuvius! And
thou,' she added, turning sharply towards Ione, and raising her
right arm, when Glaucus burst impetuously on her speech:
'Hag!' cried he, 'forbear! Me thou hast cursed, and I commit
myself to the gods- I defy and scorn thee! but breathe but one word
against yon maiden, and I will convert the oath on thy foul lips to
thy dying groan. Beware!'
'I have done,' replied the hag, laughing wildly; 'for in thy
doom is she who loves thee accursed. And not the less, that I heard
her lips breathe thy name, and know by what word to commend thee to
the demons. Glaucus- thou art doomed!' So saying, the witch turned
from the Athenian, and kneeling down beside her wounded favourite,
which she dragged from the hearth, she turned to them her face no
more.
'O Glaucus!' said Ione, greatly terrified, 'what have we done?-
Let us hasten from this place; the storm has ceased. Good mistress,
forgive him- recall thy words- he meant but to defend himself-
accept this peace-offering to unsay the said': and Ione, stooping,
placed her purse on the hag's lap.
'Away!' said she, bitterly- 'away! The oath once woven the Fates
only can untie. Away!'
'Come, dearest!' said Glaucus, impatiently. 'Thinkest thou that
the gods above us or below hear the impotent ravings of dotage? Come!'
Long and loud rang the echoes of the cavern with the dread laugh
of the Saga- she deigned no further reply.
The lovers breathed more freely when they gained the open air: yet
the scene they had witnessed, the words and the laughter of the witch,
still fearfully dwelt with Ione; and even Glaucus could not thoroughly
shake off the impression they bequeathed. The storm had subsided-
save, now and then, a low thunder muttered at the distance amidst
the darker clouds, or a momentary flash of lightning affronted the
sovereignty of the moon. With some difficulty they regained the
road, where they found the vehicle already sufficiently repaired for
their departure, and the carrucarius calling loudly upon Hercules to
tell him where his charge had vanished.
Glaucus vainly endeavoured to cheer the exhausted spirits of Ione;
and scarce less vainly to recover the elastic tone of his own
natural gaiety. They soon arrived before the gate of the city: as it
opened to them, a litter borne by slaves impeded the way.
'It is too late for egress,' cried the sentinel to the inmate of
the litter.
'Not so,' said a voice, which the lovers started to hear; it was a
voice they well recognised. 'I am bound to the villa of Marcus
Polybius. I shall return shortly. I am Arbaces the Egyptian.'
The scruples of him at the gate were removed, and the litter
passed close beside the carriage that bore the lovers.
'Arbaces, at this hour!- scarce recovered too, methinks!-
Whither and for what can he leave the city?' said Glaucus.
'Alas!' replied Ione, bursting into tears, 'my soul feels still
more and more the omen of evil. Preserve us, O ye Gods! or at
least,' she murmured inly, 'preserve my Glaucus!'
Chapter X

THE LORD OF THE BURNING BELT AND HIS MINION.
FATE WRITES HER PROPHECY IN RED LETTERS,
BUT WHO SHALL READ THEM?

ARBACES had tarried only till the cessation of the tempest allowed
him, under cover of night, to seek the Saga of Vesuvius. Borne by
those of his trustier slaves in whom in all more secret expeditions he
was accustomed to confide, he lay extended along his litter, and
resigning his sanguine heart to the contemplation of vengeance
gratified and love possessed. The slaves in so short a journey moved
very little slower than the ordinary pace of mules; and Arbaces soon
arrived at the commencement of a narrow path, which the lovers had not
been fortunate enough to discover; but which, skirting the thick
vines, led at once to the habitation of the witch. Here he rested
the litter; and bidding his slaves conceal themselves and the
vehicle among the vines from the observation of any chance
passenger, he mounted alone, with steps still feeble but supported
by a long staff, the drear and sharp ascent.
Not a drop of rain fell from the tranquil heaven; but the moisture
dripped mournfully from the laden boughs of the vine, and now and then
collected in tiny pools in the crevices and hollows of the rocky way.
'Strange passions these for a philosopher,' thought Arbaces, 'that
lead one like me just new from the bed of death, and lapped even in
health amidst the roses of luxury, across such nocturnal paths as
this; but Passion and Vengeance treading to their goal can make an
Elysium of a Tartarus.' High, clear, and melancholy shone the moon
above the road of that dark wayfarer, glossing herself in every pool
that lay before him, and sleeping in shadow along the sloping mount.
He saw before him the same light that had guided the steps of his
intended victims, but, no longer contrasted by the blackened clouds,
it shone less redly clear.
He paused, as at length he approached the mouth of the cavern,
to recover breath; and then, with his wonted collected and stately
mien, he crossed the unhallowed threshold.
The fox sprang up at the ingress of this newcomer, and by a long
howl announced another visitor to his mistress.
The witch had resumed her seat, and her aspect of gravelike and
grim repose. By her feet, upon a bed of dry weeds which half covered
it, lay the wounded snake; but the quick eye of the Egyptian caught
its scales glittering in the reflected light of the opposite fire,
as it writhed- now contracting, now lengthening, its folds, in pain
and unsated anger.
'Down, slave!' said the witch, as before, to the fox; and, as
before, the animal dropped to the ground- mute, but vigilant.
'Rise, servant of Nox and Erebus!' said Arbaces, commandingly;
'a superior in thine art salutes thee! rise, and welcome him.'
At these words the hag turned her gaze upon the Egyptian's
towering form and dark features. She looked long and fixedly upon him,
as he stood before her in his Oriental robe, and folded arms, and
steadfast and haughty brow. 'Who art thou,' she said at last, 'that
callest thyself greater in art than the Saga of the Burning Fields,
and the daughter of the perished Etrurian race?'
'I am he,' answered Arbaces, 'from whom all cultivators of
magic, from north to south, from east to west, from the Ganges and the
Nile to the vales of Thessaly and the shores of the yellow Tiber, have
stooped to learn.'
'There is but one such man in these places,' answered the witch,
'whom the men of the outer world, unknowing his loftier attributes and
more secret fame, call Arbaces the Egyptian: to us of a higher
nature and deeper knowledge, his rightful appellation is Hermes of the
Burning Girdle.'
'Look again, returned Arbaces: 'I am he.'
As he spoke he drew aside his robe, and revealed a cincture
seemingly of fire, that burned around his waist, clasped in the centre
by a plate whereon was engraven some sign apparently vague and
unintelligible but which was evidently not unknown to the Saga. She
rose hastily, and threw herself at the feet of Arbaces. 'I have
seen, then,' said she, in a voice of deep humility, 'the Lord of the
Mighty Girdle- vouchsafe my homage.'
'Rise,' said the Egyptian; 'I have need of thee.'
So saying, he placed himself on the same log of wood on which Ione
had rested before, and motioned to the witch to resume her seat.
'Thou sayest,' said he, as she obeyed, 'that thou art a daughter
of the ancient Etrurian tribes; the mighty walls of whose rock-built
cities yet frown above the robber race that hath seized upon their
ancient reign. Partly came those tribes from Greece, partly were
they exiles from a more burning and primeval soil. In either case
art thou of Egyptian lineage, for the Grecian masters of the
aboriginal helot were among the restless sons whom the Nile banished
from her bosom. Equally, then, O Saga! thy descent is from ancestors
that swore allegiance to mine own. By birth as by knowledge, art
thou the subject of Arbaces. Hear me, then, and obey!'
The witch bowed her head.
'Whatever art we possess in sorcery,' continued Arbaces, we are
sometimes driven to natural means to attain our object. The ring and
the crystal, and the ashes and the herbs, do not give unerring
divinations; neither do the higher mysteries of the moon yield even
the possessor of the girdle a dispensation from the necessity of
employing ever and anon human measures for a human object. Mark me,
then: thou art deeply skilled, methinks, in the secrets of the more
deadly herbs; thou knowest those which arrest life, which burn and
scorch the soul from out her citadel, or freeze the channels of
young blood into that ice which no sun can melt. Do I overrate thy
skill? Speak, and truly!'
'Mighty Hermes, such lore is, indeed, mine own. Deign to look at
these ghostly and corpse-like features; they have waned from the
hues of life merely by watching over the rank herbs which simmer night
and day in yon cauldron.'
The Egyptian moved his seat from so unblessed or so unhealthful
a vicinity as the witch spoke.
'It is well,' said he; 'thou hast learned that maxim of all the
deeper knowledge which saith, "Despise the body to make wise the
mind." But to thy task. There cometh to thee by to-morrow's
starlight a vain maiden, seeking of thine art a love-charm to
fascinate from another the eyes that should utter but soft tales to
her own: instead of thy philtres, give the maiden one of thy most
powerful poisons. Let the lover breathe his vows to the Shades.'
The witch trembled from head to foot.
'Oh pardon! pardon! dread master,' said she, falteringly, 'but
this I dare not. The law in these cities is sharp and vigilant; they
will seize, they will slay me.'
'For what purpose, then, thy herbs and thy potions, vain Saga?'
said Arbaces, sneeringly.
The witch hid her loathsome face with her hands.
'Oh! years ago,' said she, in a voice unlike her usual tones, so
plaintive was it, and so soft, 'I was not the thing that I am now. I
loved, I fancied myself beloved.'
'And what connection hath thy love, witch, with my commands?' said
Arbaces, impetuously.
'Patience,' resumed the witch; 'patience, I implore. I loved!
another and less fair than I- yes, by Nemesis! less fair- allured from
me my chosen. I was of that dark Etrurian tribe to whom most of all
were known the secrets of the gloomier magic. My mother was herself
a saga: she shared the resentment of her child; from her hands I
received the potion that was to restore me his love; and from her,
also, the poison that was to destroy my rival. Oh, crush me, dread
walls! my trembling hands mistook the phials, my lover fell indeed
at my feet; but dead! dead! dead! Since then, what has been life to me
I became suddenly old, I devoted myself to the sorceries of my race;
still by an irresistible impulse I curse myself with an awful penance;
still I seek the most noxious herbs; still I concoct the poisons;
still I imagine that I am to give them to my hated rival; still I pour
them into the phial; still I fancy that they shall blast her beauty to
the dust; still I wake and see the quivering body, the foaming lips,
the glazing eyes of my Aulus- murdered, and by me!'
The skeleton frame of the witch shook beneath strong convulsions.
Arbaces gazed upon her with a curious though contemptuous eye.
'And this foul thing has yet human emotions!' thought he; 'still
she cowers over the ashes of the same fire that consumes Arbaces!-
Such are we all! Mystic is the tie of those mortal passions that unite
the greatest and the least.'
He did not reply till she had somewhat recovered herself, and
now sat rocking to and fro in her seat, with glassy eyes fixed on
the opposite flame, and large tears rolling down her livid cheeks.
'A grievous tale is thine, in truth,' said Arbaces. 'But these
emotions are fit only for our youth- age should harden our hearts to
all things but ourselves; as every year adds a scale to the
shell-fish, so should each year wall and incrust the heart. Think of
those frenzies no more! And now, listen to me again! By the revenge
that was dear to thee, I command thee to obey me! it is for
vengeance that I seek thee! This youth whom I would sweep from my path
has crossed me, despite my spells:- this thing of purple and broidery,
of smiles and glances, soulless and mindless, with no charm but that
of beauty- accursed be it!- this insect- this Glaucus- I tell thee, by
Orcus and by Nemesis, he must die.'
And working himself up at every word, the Egyptian, forgetful of
his debility- of his strange companion- of everything but his own
vindictive rage, strode, with large and rapid steps, the gloomy
cavern.
'Glaucus! saidst thou, mighty master!' said the witch, abruptly;
and her dim eye glared at the name with all that fierce resentment
at the memory of small affronts so common amongst the solitary and the
shunned.
'Ay, so he is called; but what matters the name? Let it not be
heard as that of a living man three days from this date!'
'Hear me!' said the witch, breaking from a short reverie into
which she was plunged after this last sentence of the Egyptian.
'Hear me! I am thy thing and thy slave! spare me! If I give to the
maiden thou speakest of that which would destroy the life of
Glaucus, I shall be surely detected- the dead ever find avengers. Nay,
dread man! if thy visit to me be tracked, if thy hatred to Glaucus
be known, thou mayest have need of thy archest magic to protect
thyself!'
'Ha!' said Arbaces, stopping suddenly short; and as a proof of
that blindness with which passion darkens the eyes even of the most
acute, this was the first time when the risk that he himself ran by
this method of vengeance had occurred to a mind ordinarily wary and
circumspect.
'But,' continued the witch, 'if instead of that which shall arrest
the heart, I give that which shall sear and blast the brain- which
shall make him who quaffs it unfit for the uses and career of life- an
abject, raving, benighted thing- smiting sense to drivelling youth
to dotage- will not thy vengeance be equally sated- thy object equally
attained?'
'Oh, witch! no longer the servant, but the sister- the equal of
Arbaces- how much brighter is woman's wit, even in vengeance, than
ours! how much more exquisite than death is such a doom!'
'And,' continued the hag, gloating over her fell scheme, in this
is but little danger; for by ten thousand methods, which men forbear
to seek, can our victim become mad. He may have been among the vines
and seen a nymph- or the vine itself may have had the same effect- ha,
ha! they never inquire too scrupulously into these matters in which
the gods may be agents. And let the worst arrive- let it be known that
it is a love-charm- why, madness is a common effect of philtres; and
even the fair she that gave it finds indulgence in the excuse.
Mighty Hermes, have I ministered to thee cunningly?'
'Thou shalt have twenty years' longer date for this,' returned
Arbaces. 'I will write anew the epoch of thy fate on the face of the
pale stars- thou shalt not serve in vain the Master of the Flaming
Belt. And here, Saga, carve thee out, by these golden tools, a
warmer cell in this dreary cavern- one service to me shall countervail
a thousand divinations by sieve and shears to the gaping rustics.'
So saying, he cast upon the floor a heavy purse, which clinked not
unmusically to the ear of the hag, who loved the consciousness of
possessing the means to purchase comforts she disdained. 'Farewell,'
said Arbaces, 'fail not- outwatch the stars in concocting thy
beverage- thou shalt lord it over thy sisters at the Walnut-tree,'
when thou tellest them that thy patron and thy friend is Hermes the
Egyptian. To-morrow night we meet again.'
He stayed not to hear the valediction or the thanks of the
witch; with a quick step he passed into the moonlit air, and
hastened down the mountain.
The witch, who followed his steps to the threshold, stood at the
entrance of the cavern, gazing fixedly on his receding form; and as
the sad moonlight streamed over her shadowy form and deathlike face,
emerging from the dismal rocks, it seemed as if one gifted, indeed, by
supernatural magic had escaped from the dreary Orcus; and, the
foremost of its ghostly throng, stood at its black portals- vainly
summoning his return, or vainly sighing to rejoin him. The hag, then
slowly re-entering the cave, groaningly picked up the heavy purse,
took the lamp from its stand, and, passing to the remotest depth of
her cell, a black and abrupt passage, which was not visible, save at a
near approach, closed round as it was with jutting and sharp crags,
yawned before her: she went several yards along this gloomy path,
which sloped gradually downwards, as if towards the bowels of the
earth, and, lifting a stone, deposited her treasure in a hole beneath,
which, as the lamp pierced its secrets, seemed already to contain
coins of various value, wrung from the credulity or gratitude of her
visitors.
'I love to look at you,' said she, apostrophising the moneys; 'for
when I see you I feel that I am indeed of power. And I am to have
twenty years' longer life to increase your store! O thou great
Hermes!'
She replaced the stone, and continued her path onward for some
paces, when she stopped before a deep irregular fissure in the
earth. Here, as she bent- strange, rumbling, hoarse, and distant
sounds might be heard, while ever and anon, with a loud and grating
noise which, to use a homely but faithful simile, seemed to resemble
the grinding of steel upon wheels, volumes of streaming and dark smoke
issued forth, and rushed spirally along the cavern.
'The Shades are noisier than their wont,' said the hag, shaking
her grey locks; and, looking into the cavity, she beheld, far down,
glimpses of a long streak of light, intensely but darkly red.
'Strange!' she said, shrinking back; it is only within the last two
days that dull, deep light hath been visible- what can it portend?'
The fox, who had attended the steps of his fell mistress,
uttered a dismal howl, and ran cowering back to the inner cave; a cold
shuddering seized the hag herself at the cry of the animal, which,
causeless as it seemed, the superstitions of the time considered
deeply ominous. She muttered her placatory charm, and tottered back
into her cavern, where, amidst her herbs and incantations, she
prepared to execute the orders of the Egyptian.
'He called me dotard,' said she, as the smoke curled from the
hissing cauldron: 'when the jaws drop, and the grinders fall, and
the heart scarce beats, it is a pitiable thing to dote; but when,' she
added, with a savage and exulting grin, 'the young, and the beautiful,
and the strong, are suddenly smitten into idiocy- ah, that is
terrible! Burn, flame- simmer herb- swelter toad- I cursed him, and he
shall be cursed!'
On that night, and at the same hour which witnessed the dark and
unholy interview between Arbaces and the Saga, Apaecides was baptised.
Chapter XI

PROGRESS OF EVENTS. THE PLOT THICKENS.
THE WEB IS WOVEN, BUT THE NET CHANGES HANDS

AND you have the courage then, Julia, to seek the Witch of
Vesuvius this evening; in company, too, with that fearful man?'
'Why, Nydia?' replied Julia, timidly; 'dost thou really think
there is anything to dread? These old hags, with their enchanted
mirrors, their trembling sieves, and their moon-gathered herbs, are, I
imagine, but crafty impostors, who have learned, perhaps, nothing
but the very charm for which I apply to their skill, and which is
drawn but from the knowledge of the field's herbs and simples.
Wherefore should I dread?'
'Dost thou not fear thy companion?'
'What, Arbaces? By Dian, I never saw lover more courteous than
that same magician! And were he not so dark, he would be even
handsome.'
Blind as she was, Nydia had the penetration to perceive that
Julia's mind was not one that the gallantries of Arbaces were likely
to terrify. She therefore dissuaded her no more: but nursed in her
excited heart the wild and increasing desire to know if sorcery had
indeed a spell to fascinate love to love.
'Let me go with thee, noble Julia,' said she at length; 'my
presence is no protection, but I should like to be beside thee to
the last.'
'Thine offer pleases me much,' replied the daughter of Diomed.
'Yet how canst thou contrive it? we may not return until late, they
will miss thee.'
'Ione is indulgent,' replied Nydia. 'If thou wilt permit me to
sleep beneath thy roof, I will say that thou, an early patroness and
friend, hast invited me to pass the day with thee, and sing thee my
Thessalian songs; her courtesy will readily grant to thee so light a
boon.'
'Nay, ask for thyself!' said the haughty Julia. 'I stoop to
request no favour from the Neapolitan!'
'Well, be it so. I will take my leave now; make my request,
which I know will be readily granted, and return shortly.'
'Do so; and thy bed shall be prepared in my own chamber.' With
that, Nydia left the fair Pompeian.
On her way back to Ione she was met by the chariot of Glaucus,
on whose fiery and curveting steeds was riveted the gaze of the
crowded street.
He kindly stopped for a moment to speak to the flower-girl.
'Blooming as thine own roses, my gentle Nydia! and how is thy fair
mistress?- recovered, I trust, from the effects of the storm?'
'I have not seen her this morning,' answered Nydia, 'but...'
'But what? draw back- the horses are too near thee.'
'But think you Ione will permit me to pass the day with Julia, the
daughter of Diomed?- She wishes it, and was kind to me when I had
few friends.'
'The gods bless thy grateful heart! I will answer for Ione's
permission.'
'Then I may stay over the night, and return to-morrow?' said
Nydia, shrinking from the praise she so little merited.
'As thou and fair Julia please. Commend me to her; and hark ye,
Nydia, when thou hearest her speak, note the contrast of her voice
with that of the silver-toned Ione. Vale!'
His spirits entirely recovered from the effect of the past
night, his locks waving in the wind, his joyous and elastic heart
bounding with every spring of his Parthian steeds, a very prototype of
his country's god, full of youth and of love- Glaucus was borne
rapidly to his mistress.
Enjoy while ye may the present- who can read the future?
As the evening darkened, Julia, reclined within her litter,
which was capacious enough also to admit her blind companion, took her
way to the rural baths indicated by Arbaces. To her natural levity
of disposition, her enterprise brought less of terror than of
pleasurable excitement; above all, she glowed at the thought of her
coming triumph over the hated Neapolitan.
A small but gay group was collected round the door of the villa,
as her litter passed by it to the private entrance of the baths
appropriated to the women.
'Methinks, by this dim light,' said one of the bystanders, 'I
recognise the slaves of Diomed.'
'True, Clodius,' said Sallust: 'it is probably the litter of his
daughter Julia. She is rich, my friend; why dost thou not proffer
thy suit to her?'
'Why, I had once hoped that Glaucus would have married her. She
does not disguise her attachment; and then, as he gambles freely and
with ill-success...'
'The sesterces would have passed to thee, wise Clodius. A wife
is a good thing- when it belongs to another man!'
'But,' continued Clodius, 'as Glaucus is, I understand, to wed the
Neapolitan, I think I must even try my chance with the dejected
maid. After all, the lamp of Hymen will be gilt, and the vessel will
reconcile one to the odour of the flame. I shall only protest, my
Sallust, against Diomed's making thee trustee to his daughter's
fortune.'
'Ha! ha! let us within, my comissator; the wine and the garlands
wait us.'
Dismissing her slaves to that part of the house set apart for
their entertainment, Julia entered the baths with Nydia, and declining
the offers of the attendants, passed by a private door into the garden
behind.
'She comes by appointment, be sure,' said one of the slaves.
'What is that to thee?' said a superintendent, sourly; 'she pays
for the baths, and does not waste the saffron. Such appointments are
the best part of the trade. Hark! do you not hear the widow Fulvia
clapping her hands? Run, fool- run!'
Julia and Nydia, avoiding the more public part of the garden,
arrived at the place specified by the Egyptian. In a small circular
plot of grass the stars gleamed upon the statue of Silenus- the
merry god reclined upon a fragment of rock- the lynx of Bacchus at his
feet- and over his mouth he held, with extended arm, a bunch of
grapes, which he seemingly laughed to welcome ere he devoured.
'I see not the magician,' said Julia, looking round: when, as
she spoke, the Egyptian slowly emerged from the neighbouring
foliage, and the light fell palely over his sweeping robes.
'Salve, sweet maiden!- But ha! whom hast thou here? we must have
no companions!'
'It is but the blind flower-girl, wise magician,' replied Julia:
'herself a Thessalian.'
'Oh! Nydia!' said the Egyptian. 'I know her well.'
Nydia drew back and shuddered.
'Thou hast been at my house, methinks!' said he, approaching his
voice to Nydia's ear; 'thou knowest the oath!- Silence and secrecy,
now as then, or beware!'
'Yet,' he added, musingly to himself, 'why confide more than is
necessary, even in the blind- Julia, canst thou trust thyself alone
with me? Believe me, the magician is less formidable than he seems.'
As he spoke, he gently drew Julia aside.
'The witch loves not many visitors at once,' said he: 'leave Nydia
here till your return; she can be of no assistance to us: and, for
protection- your own beauty suffices- your own beauty and your own
rank; yes, Julia, I know thy name and birth. Come, trust thyself
with me, fair rival of the youngest of the Naiads!'
The vain Julia was not, as we have seen, easily affrighted; she
was moved by the flattery of Arbaces, and she readily consented to
suffer Nydia to await her return; nor did Nydia press her presence. At
the sound of the Egyptian's voice all her terror of him returned:
she felt a sentiment of pleasure at learning she was not to travel
in his companionship.
She returned to the Bath-house, and in one of the private chambers
waited their return. Many and bitter were the thoughts of this wild
girl as she sat there in her eternal darkness. She thought of her
own desolate fate, far from her native land, far from the bland
cares that once assuaged the April sorrows of childhood- deprived of
the light of day, with none but strangers to guide her steps, accursed
by the one soft feeling of her heart, loving and without hope, save
the dim and unholy ray which shot across her mind, as her Thessalian
fancies questioned of the force of spells and the gifts of magic.
Nature had sown in the heart of this poor girl the seeds of virtue
never destined to ripen. The lessons of adversity are not always
salutary- sometimes they soften and amend, but as often they
indurate and pervert. If we consider ourselves more harshly treated by
fate than those around us, and do not acknowledge in our own deeds the
justice of the severity, we become too apt to deem the world our
enemy, to case ourselves in defiance, to wrestle against our softer
self, and to indulge the darker passions which are so easily fermented
by the sense of injustice. Sold early into slavery, sentenced to a
sordid taskmaster, exchanging her situation, only yet more to embitter
her lot- the kindlier feelings, naturally profuse in the breast of
Nydia, were nipped and blighted. Her sense of right and wrong was
confused by a passion to which she had so madly surrendered herself;
and the same intense and tragic emotions which we read of in the women
of the classic age- a Myrrha, a Medea- and which hurried and swept
away the whole soul when once delivered to love- ruled, and rio