Many dogs and horses, and not less than three to four hundred human bodies, have been discovered. Eighteen bodies were in one room. You see to-day the contortions their bodies were in, and the expression their countenances wore, at the moment of death. Their tangled and disheveled hair is clotted with ashes. In the excitement and confusion of that awful hour, the terror-stricken inhabitants of the doomed city ran to and fro through the streets, calling upon their gods for safety and deliverance. They were over-powered by the falling shower of ashes and cinders. They threw themselves upon the ground, their faces upon their arms. At this moment, the sluggish stream of wet ashes which poured forth from Vesuvius passed over them. Many no doubt welcomed death. For seventeen centuries their quiet slumbers were undisturbed.
One man was found with ten pieces of gold in one hand, and a large key in the other. Gold, however, was no bribe to the fiery fiend. But for that gold, the owner might have escaped; but no, he must return to get it. He would not leave it. Hence he did not leave at all. I know many men who are acting as foolishly to-day, as this citizen of Pompeii did ages ago. Many a man says: “I will make my fortune; I will get my gold first, and then look to my soul’s welfare.” O reader, the day of judgment is at hand! “Flee from the wrath to come;” “flee for thy life.” “Seek first the kingdom of God and His righteousness,” and then get your gold.
Some of these bodies are adorned now as on the day of death, with rings and bracelets and necklaces.
The most poetical thing, perhaps, that Pompeii has yielded to modern research is two bodies, male and female, who died in each other’s arms. Let us imagine these persons in the spring-time of life, with the dew of youth still fresh upon their brows; that the girl was beautiful and accomplished, the man strong and true and brave; that their hearts had been touched by Love’s magic wand, and made one; that when on that August day darkness came, when the earth shook, and the volcano poured forth molten streams of fire and consternation, he could have escaped, but he would not go without her. He sought her and she sought him. But when they found each other she was weak and exhausted and could go no farther. She said: “Go, loved one; go save, save thyself!” He replied: “Leave thee, never! Let the thunder roar and the lightnings flash; let the earth reel and the mountains pour forth their fiery streams of death; I die with you rather than live without you!” So saying, they embraced each other and perished. That embrace is still unbroken.
As I gaze upon the bodies of these faithful lovers, I fancy, for the time, that I am a poet with the harp of Apollo in my hand. Heavenly breezes sweep across the strings of that golden lyre, and wake for me a song which, for pathos and sweetness, rivals the minstrelsy of angels.
At present Pompeii is protected by the same wall that surrounded it when Christ was born in Bethlehem. The city is laid bare. Every thing is clean and neat. The streets are narrow, but straight and well paved with broad flags of lava. These stone-like pavements are worn in some places eight or ten inches deep by the chariot wheels that used to thunder along these busy streets.
All houses of Pompeii are now roofless, though otherwise most of them are perfectly preserved. They are usually one story high. The walls were, and are still, covered with beautiful frescoes. Mythology was a favorite subject for the painter—everywhere we see pictures of Minerva, Apollo, Jupiter, Bacchus, and Hercules performing his twelve labors. The floors, clean as any parlor, are inlaid with rich mosaics, representing historical events, gladitorial contests, etc.
As one walks the streets of Pompeii on a moonlight night, the ghost of the past rises up before him. He has read in history about the luxury, pomp, and splendor of ancient Rome, but here he sees a Roman city as it was in the golden days of Nero. One who has a vivid imagination, can stand here at night and easily people these palaces, streets, and theatres with the pleasure-loving Romans of 2,000 years ago. Ah, how they thronged these streets! How eagerly they crowded into the amphitheatre to see the gladiators measure swords with each other; to see men pitted against ferocious lions and tigers, against wild bulls and boars!
When their city was finished and the wall around it completed, the Pompeiians decided that they needed a protector. Finally the honor was accorded to Minerva. Accordingly a huge and magnificent marble statue of this Goddess was prepared and erected near Porta della Marina—the Marine Gate—the principal entrance to the city. This faultless statue was itself about twelve feet high, and stood upon a pedestal of equal altitude. In her left hand the Goddess held a shield, her right grasped a spear, while her brow was graced with the victor’s wreath. The appointed day came. The people assembled around the statue, while the best orators of Rome and the world pronounced glowing eulogies upon the new city and the wise Goddess. Thus Pompeii was dedicated and formally turned over to Minerva for her protection. And protect it she did as long as it needed no protection. But wait until that fatal night. The protector was then insensible to the trembling earth, deaf to the pealing thunder, blind to the flashing lightning that wreathed her brow. She heard not the cries of her terror-stricken people. She raised not her shield nor lifted her spear to stay the calamity. The heavens darkened, the ocean heaved, the mountain reeled, cataracts of fire came leaping down the steeps and rolling on towards the city. Yet there stood Minerva blind, dumb, mute, and motionless, able to protect neither herself nor the city!
If the Pompeiians had dedicated their city to the Great I Am, who “guides His people with His eye,” and whose “ear is ever open to their cries,” its history might have been different. Now reader, allow the author to suggest that you dedicate your life, not to the blind goddess of wealth or of fashion, but to that God who is “a very present help in every time of need”—to that God who delivered Peter from prison, and rescued Daniel from the lion’s den.