The Last Days of Pompeii | Page 7

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 neighborhood, 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 molded: 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