was dissipated by degrees, like a cloud of smoke, the real day. returned, and even the sun appeared, though very faintly and as when an eclipse is coming on. Every object that presented itself to our eyes, which were extremely weakened, seemed changed, being covered over with white ashes as with a deep snow."

This was in the latter part of August, 79, and Pompeii slept in peace for more than sixteen hundred years. Ashes twenty feet deep covered the town, and it is believed about ten thousand persons perished. In 1748 the first excavations were made by the Bourbon Charles III. The villa of Diomedes was opened in 1771. It was in this villa that a group of eighteen skeletons was found. It was not until 1806, when the French took Naples, that the work was pursued with any intelligence. About one third of the town has already been opened, and the excavation goes on under judicious superintendence.

Our first visit was to the museum, a carefully arranged collection. Here you may see windows and doors as they came from the ruins. There are also casts of eight human bodies, the faces and forms expressing the agony of the last moment. One is that of a finely formed woman, her brow resting upon her arm, lying in an easy attitude of repose. Some had their clothing on, others scarcely a vestige of clothing. Some were in attitudes of despair and combat, as though they would resent Death when he came. There were skeletons of animals and skulls. There were vases as they came from the opened chambers, rainspouts in terra-cotta, helmets, bucklers, and swords. that belonged to the gladiators. There was bread as found in the oven, and a dish in which the meat was roasting. There was a pot in which were the remnants of a sucking pig, the skeleton of the pig clearly traceable. There were barley and olives and various kinds of food. Almonds, pears and figs, pouches of coin, sandals, garments, rings and trinkets, amulets that were to keep off the evil eye. All was here arranged as found in the ashes of the buried city. And all was so real-so horribly real -I cannot express the impression which came over us as we passed from the gate into the very streets of the buried town

the very streets of this bright, gay, luxurious town. We could not realize the solemnity of Pompeii. It seemed so natural that we should come here-so natural that we should be at home, so natural that this should be a living and not a town that had been buried and risen again-that our visit seems a day's holiday in a charming country town, and not a mournful march through a town of ashes and death.

with

Here, for instance, is the home of our friend, M. Arrius Diomedes. Our friend is a patrician, a great man in Rome, who came to his villa by the sea for summer air and repose after the cares of the capital. I am certain that he would receive us with true Roman courtesy did he know of our arriving. But he has vanished into the night, and all we have is the gracious word "Salve," in mosaic, on the door-sill. Here it is in indelible mosaic-curiously worked, is it not? You push the ashes away your foot, for somehow our patrician friend is not as well served with all of his slaves. You push the ashes aside and read the warm word of welcome, its white stones smiling as though they would anticipate the greeting of the master. So, encouraged, we trace our way into this suburban villa. The street through which we have just passed is the Street of the Tombs, but let us draw no inhospitable omen from that, for our Roman friends are stoics and find no terror in death. There is much dust and ashes, and roofs that might be mended, and the villa of M. Arrius Diomedes has changed somewhat since his retreating footsteps pressed for the last time the welcoming word on his door-sill. We can examine this house at our leisure, if we are curious to see how our noble friends lived in the golden days when Cæsars reigned. You note that there is a slight ascent to the house, the doorway being as much as six or seven feet above the roadway. Well, this is as should become a patrician, and a man like Diomedes does not choose to live under the staring gaze of gladiators and tragic poets, and the riffraff of people who flock about Pompeii. You go up to the porch by an inclined plane, and pass through the peristyle into an open court-yard, where the rain was gathered. On one side the descending staircases point the way to the rooms devoted

to the humbler offices of this princely house. Around us are rooms, say twenty in all, which open on the court-yard. In one corner are the rooms for bathing, for our host belongs to a race who do honor to the gods by honoring the body which the gods gave them.

Here are cooling chambers, warm chambers, an anointing room, a furnace. If you do not care to go through the process of a bath, you may anoint yourself and walk in the sun. Here is a chamber fitted for the purpose-a gallery lighted by windows looking out upon the trellises, where I am sure the roses would be creeping in luxuriant bloom were our friend only here to look after his home. The roses have faded, but if you pass into a small room to the right you will see why this gallery was built. Out of that window-which unfortunately is wanting in glass-out of that window, through which you may gaze while your slave anoints your person and perfumes your tresses, you may see beyond the gardens the whole sweeping Bay of Naples as far as Sorrento. After you have enjoyed your bath, and care to discipline your body further, here is another room, upon which the sun beats with undisputed power, a room given to in-door games and amusements. Here is the eating room, commanding a view of a garden, and here is a room which was once the library—a library of papyrus volumes-where we can fancy our friend studying the sciences with Pliny, or verifying a quotation with Cicero. The papyrus rolls are not here, to be sure, although some of them are up in the Naples Museum,

NEAPOLITAN FISHER GIRL.

and since we have this modern fashion of printing we shall not envy M. Diomedes his few cherished scrolls. And if And if you ask for the ladies, you are pointed to the staircase leading to the gymnasium, or the door leading to the venerium, where I am afraid we should not under ordinary circumstances be welcome. You see our friend has exclusive notions about the ladies, and prefers to dispense his own hospitalities. Beyond these rooms is a garden, a garden inclosed by walls, and over the walls should be a trellis of flowers. Under the walls is a portico, where M. Diomedes and his friends can walk when it rains. Here should be a fountain, rather here is the fountain, but the waters somehow have ceased to flow. But you may put your fingers into the very spout and admire the grain of the marble, for the work came from the hands of cunning workmen. If you open this door-alas! I am afraid it is open, with no prospect of its being closed-if you open this gate you will find that it is the rear of the villa and looks out upon the vineyards, the gardens and the sea. This garden should be full of mulberries and figs, and if the gardening slaves were diligent, we should now be walking, not in ashes, but under a shady wall of vines, and breathing the perfume of the violet and the rose.

You will observe, if time is not pressing, that our friend was fond of the arts, and that the walls of these rooms are decorated with care. This is none of your whitewashing-none of your French paper and modern English decorations, all running to pale green and gray. Our noble host lived in the land of sunshine, and drew his colors from the rainbow. To be sure, the colors do look fresh-so fresh as to make you wonder if they are already dry. But time will give them the Titian and Rembrandt tint; time will mellow them, if we only wait long enough. When a Roman nobleman builds a home like this, a home possessing all that taste, and luxury, and wealth can wish -if, I say, a Roman patrician like Marcus Arrius Diomedes plants all these gardens and constructs so luxurious a home, you must not be impatient at the glowing colors. Perhaps, if you are an artist, you will note the poverty of his invention in the matter of colors-red, blue, green, yellow, and black. These

A NOBLEMAN'S HOME.

are all that seem to have occurred to his craftsmen.

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And you

will object to many of his pagan themes. But do not forget, I pray you, that our friend is a pagan, and that you will find in this home, and the homes of his neighbors and kinsmen, many things to offend a taste educated up to the moral standard of Boston and New York. But, happily, we are neither missionaries nor critics, but friends-friends from far America-who have heard much of Pompeii, and have come to call upon this

opulent citizen. See with what minute care this house is decorated. The floors are of mosaic-white stones on a black ground, or black stones on a white ground, describing plain geometrical lines and curves. If you study closely this mosaic work you will find it of marble (black and white) and red tiles, buried in mortar. If you pass on you will see even finer work.

Here, for instance, is a group of dancers and musicians, masked figures, playing upon the tambourine, the cymbals, and the pipe. What skill, what patience in the fashioning, in the folding drapery, the movement of the limbs, harmony of motion !