“I am filled with astonishment,” says Dupaty, “in walking from house to house, from temple to temple, from street to street, in a city built two thousand years ago, inhabited by the Romans, dug out by a king of Naples, and in perfect preservation. I speak of Pompeii.
“The inhabitants of this city were asleep, when suddenly an impetuous wind arose, and, detaching a portion of the cinders which covered the summit of Vesuvius, hurried them in whirlwinds through the air over Pompeii, and within a quarter of an hour entirely overwhelmed it, together with Herculaneum, Sorento, a multitude of towns and villages, thousands of men and women, and the elder Pliny. What a dreadful awakening for the inhabitants? Imprudent men! Why did you build Pompeii at the foot of Vesuvius, on its lava, and on its ashes? In fact, mankind resemble ants, which, after an accident has destroyed one of their hillocks, set about repairing it the next moment. Pompeii was covered with ashes. The descendants of those very men, who perished under those ashes, planted vineyards, mulberry, fig, and poplar trees on them; the roofs of this city were become fields and orchards. One day, while some peasants were digging, the spade penetrated a little deeper than usual; something was found to resist. It was a city. It was Pompeii. I entered several of the rooms, and found in one of them a mill, with which the soldiers ground their corn for bread; in another an oil-mill, in which they crushed the olives. The first resembles our coffee-mills; the second is formed of two mill-stones, which were moved by the hand, in a vast mortar, round an iron centre. In another of these rooms I saw chains still fastened to the leg of a criminal; in a second, heaps of human bones; and in a third, a golden necklace.
“What is become of all the inhabitants? We see nobody in the shops! not a creature in the streets! all the houses are open! Let us begin by visiting the houses on the right. This is not a private house; that prodigious number of chirurgical instruments prove this edifice must have had some relation to the art in which they are used. This was surely a school for surgery. These houses are very small; they are exceedingly ill contrived; all the apartments are detached; but then what neatness! what elegance! In each of them is an inner portico, a mosaic pavement, a square colonnade, and in the middle a cistern, to collect the water falling from the roof. In each of them are hot-baths, and stoves, and everywhere paintings in fresco, in the best taste, and on the most pleasing grounds. Has Raffaele been here to copy his arabesques?
“Let us pass over to the other side of the street. These houses are three stories high; their foundation is on the lava, which has formed here a sort of hill, on the declivity of which they are built. From above, in the third story, the windows look into the street; and from the first story, into a garden.
“But what do I perceive in that chamber. They are ten death’s-heads. The unfortunate wretches saved themselves here, where they could not be saved. This is the head of a little child: its father and mother then are there! Let us go up stairs again; the heart feels not at ease here. Suppose we take a step into this temple for a moment, since it is left open. What deity do I perceive in the bottom of that niche? It is the god of Silence, who makes a sign with his finger, to command silence, and points to the goddess Isis, in the further recess of the sacrarium.
“In the front of the porch there are three altars. Here the victims were slaughtered, and the blood, flowing along this gutter into the middle of that basin, fell from thence upon the head of the priests. This little chamber, near the altar, was undoubtedly the sacristy. The priests purified themselves in this bathing-place.
“Here are some inscriptions: ‘Popidi ambleati, Cornelia celsa.’ This is a monument erected to the memory of those who have been benefactors to Isis; that is to say, to her priests.
“I cannot be far from the country-house of Aufidius; for there are the gates of the city. Here is the tomb of the family of Diomedes. Let us rest a moment under these porticoes, where the philosophers used to sit.
“I am not mistaken. The country-house of Aufidius is charming; the paintings in fresco are delicious. What an excellent effect have those blue grounds! With what propriety, and consequently with what taste, are the figures distributed in the panels! Flora herself has woven that garland. But who has painted this Venus? this Adonis? this youthful Narcissus, in that bath? And here again, this charming Mercury? It is surely not a week since they were painted.
“I like this portico round the garden; and this square covered cellar round the portico. Do these amphoræ contain the true Falernian? How many consulates has this wine been kept?