Imagination fails to realize the agony of the hour as the swift, black, sulphurous death came down on all—the patrician in his marble halls, the tradesman in his shop, the miser at his desk, the devotees who cried to their gods for safety in vain, the slave, the freedman, the aged, to whom life had nothing to give, the tender, the beautiful, the young, to whom life seemed an exhaustless dream of joy. As in the days of the flood, there was marrying and giving in marriage. Here the baker had fled, and left his loaves in his oven; there was an eating-house, in which were found raisins, olives, and fish cooked in oil. There stands the tavern, indicated by the sign of the chequers, while the amphoræ of wines are still marked with the year of the vintage. An election was going on at the time of the catastrophe, and appeals to the free and independent are still preserved. In one place a schoolboy has scratched his Greek alphabet. In his sentry-box a sentinel was discovered, a grisly skeleton clasping his rusty sword. And the streets tell a piteous tale. In one a young man and woman had fallen together; in another part a lady was discovered attempting to flee with a bag of gold, and then there was seen the skeleton of a mother with her children, whom she was vainly seeking to save. In the house of Diomede, or, rather, in a vaulted cellar underneath, eighteen bodies were found of men and women who had evidently fled there for shelter. The probable proprietor of the house was found near the garden door, with the key in his hand, while beside him was a slave with valuables. It is evident that the city was a scene of vice and dissipation. Some of the inscriptions are too indecent to reproduce. I know not whether for this it becomes us to point the finger of scorn, we who read ‘Don Juan,’ who revel in Fielding, who reverence Dean Swift, who know what goes on in Paris and London by night, when respectability has gone to bed and Exeter Hall is shut up.
Let me turn to the streets—they are very narrow—and to the houses, which strike me as generally very small. In that grand climate the people must have mostly lived in the open air. One of the most elegant houses is that of the Tragic Poet. On the threshold was a dog in mosaic, with the inscription ‘Cave canem’—now in the museum at Naples. I was much interested in the public baths, or thermæ, which indicate with how much care the ancient Romans attended to cleanliness and health. They must have been on a somewhat extensive scale. A passage leads to the chamber for undressing. Beyond this is the cold bath. Thence we make our way to the warm bath, or tepidarium. The baths also possessed an extensive colonnade, now converted into a garden, besides several other chambers and baths for women, none of which are now open to the public. But we see wonders everywhere, in spite of the fact that all that is best in Pompeii has been moved to the museum at Naples, where remains one of the finest of the Pompeiian mosaics—that representing a battle between Darius and Alexander, which no one who wishes to have a competent idea of ancient art should avoid going to see. Let me add that no visitor should go to Pompeii without having first got a clear idea of what he is going to see. The guides are but poor helps, as mostly they speak nothing but Italian. Further, let me say that if you have at Naples only the day allowed by the Orient Company, while waiting for the overland mails, which generally reach Naples in a little over two days and nights after leaving London, your best plan is to get hold of Cook’s agent, who reaches the ship in a boat with a flag bearing the well-known name. He will take you off, drive you straight to Pompeii, give you time to ‘do’ the place and to get a good lunch there, and bring you back in time to the ship to pursue the even tenor of your way to Egypt, or Ceylon, or Australia, as the case may be. If you have time, pursue your studies by a day in the museum, or more if you can. It is there you can realize best, as you study the grand statues of great men and women and gods and goddesses, the Diana of Ephesus being one of them—statues in which the
‘Majesty of human passion
Is to the life expressed’—
what men the world’s masters were. Nero has a shocking head; Caligula looks an empty-headed fop; but I gazed admiringly on the grand features of my guide, philosopher, and friend—Marcus Aurelius. And I thought of Voltaire, as I stood opposite the noble statue of Julius Cæsar, on your left just as you enter the museum. Voltaire tells us men may be divided into two classes—hammers and anvils. Julius Cæsar evidently belonged to the former class. It was there, too, I saw a Venus, radiant in innocence and beauty and sweetness and grace, as if new ‘bathed in Paphian foam’—the only Venus I ever could have loved. But I had no guide-book, and the day was hot, and all the attendants were fast asleep.
Let me add a caution: Never change money if you can help it. You are sure to get a bad franc if you do. At Pompeii the guide tried it on with me. Again, while waiting for the train at Pompeii, I was tempted to have a deal with a pedlar, who asked me ten francs for souvenirs, which I subsequently bought, after a good deal of haggling, for five. Unfortunately, I had only a ten-franc note, and he had to give me change—not in coppers, as they generally do in Naples, where silver is scarce, but in francs; and one of them was bad, as I found out when I went to the museum next day. To my disgust, the civil gentleman who takes the money kindly cut it in two.
‘I will call for you at a quarter-past seven,’ said Cook’s agent to me, as he left the Ormuz.
‘Come at that hour,’ I replied; ‘I will be ready.’
Alas! man proposes—often in vain. I went to bed early. I had made arrangements for an early meal. I had agreed to see that a fellow-passenger who was to come should be ready; but I could not sleep—the heat in the bay was too great, the odour of the tide-less waters seemed to possess my soul, and as I lay awake all the chronic diseases by which I am borne down reasserted themselves, and I didn’t get a wink of sleep till just as it was time to get up. I have an early breakfast, and yet there is no sign of Cook’s agent. In due time I see him, and my friend and I and Cook’s agent are rowed on shore, and we drive to Cook’s headquarters. There we are put into a carriage drawn by three horses, and away we go along the crowded streets. What a display we have on every side of the unwashed, as they sit at the shop doors, or at the corners of the long narrow alleys in which most of them live! There are naked children, hideous old women, and very unlovely young ones. A fat priest passes with his beaver hat and black robes, and a young woman rushes at him and kisses his hand. The priest and the militaire are to be seen everywhere. No wonder the country is poor.