The Last Days of Pompeii | Page 8

her, though with a faltering voice--"Art
thou not, too, Athenian?" said I, "O beautiful virgin!" At the sound of
my voice she blushed, and half drew her veil across her face.--"My
forefathers' ashes," said she, "repose by the waters of Ilissus: my birth
is of Neapolis; but my heart, as my lineage, is Athenian."--"Let us,
then," said I, "make our offerings together": and, as the priest now
appeared, we stood side by side, while we followed the priest in his
ceremonial prayer; together we touched the knees of the
goddess--together we laid our olive garlands on the altar. I felt a strange
emotion of almost sacred tenderness at this companionship. We,
strangers from a far and fallen land, stood together and alone in that
temple of our country's deity: was it not natural that my heart should
yearn to my countrywoman, for so I might surely call her? I felt as if I
had known her for years; and that simple rite seemed, as by a miracle,
to operate on the sympathies and ties of time. Silently we left the
temple, and I was about to ask her where she dwelt, and if I might be
permitted to visit her, when a youth, in whose features there was some
kindred resemblance to her own, and who stood upon the steps of the
fane, took her by the hand. She turned round and bade me farewell. The
crowd separated us: I saw her no more. On reaching my home I found
letters, which obliged me to set out for Athens, for my relations
threatened me with litigation concerning my inheritance. When that suit

was happily over, I repaired once more to Neapolis; I instituted
inquiries throughout the whole city, I could discover no clue of my lost
countrywoman, and, hoping to lose in gaiety all remembrance of that
beautiful apparition, I hastened to plunge myself amidst the luxuries of
Pompeii. This is all my history. I do not love; but I remember and
regret.'
As Clodius was about to reply, a slow and stately step approached them,
and at the sound it made amongst the pebbles, each turned, and each
recognized the new-comer.
It was a man who had scarcely reached his fortieth year, of tall stature,
and of a thin but nervous and sinewy frame. His skin, dark and bronzed,
betrayed his Eastern origin; and his features had something Greek in
their outline (especially in the chin, the lip, and the brow), save that the
nose was somewhat raised and aquiline; and the bones, hard and visible,
forbade that fleshy and waving contour which on the Grecian
physiognomy preserved even in manhood the round and beautiful
curves of youth. His eyes, large and black as the deepest night, shone
with no varying and uncertain lustre. A deep, thoughtful, and
half-melancholy calm seemed unalterably fixed in their majestic and
commanding gaze. His step and mien were peculiarly sedate and lofty,
and something foreign in the fashion and the sober hues of his
sweeping garments added to the impressive effect of his quiet
countenance and stately form. Each of the young men, in saluting the
new-comer, made mechanically, and with care to conceal it from him, a
slight gesture or sign with their fingers; for Arbaces, the Egyptian, was
supposed to possess the fatal gift of the evil eye.
'The scene must, indeed, be beautiful,' said Arbaces, with a cold though
courteous smile, 'which draws the gay Clodius, and Glaucus the all
admired, from the crowded thoroughfares of the city.'
'Is Nature ordinarily so unattractive?' asked the Greek.
'To the dissipated--yes.'
'An austere reply, but scarcely a wise one. Pleasure delights in contrasts;

it is from dissipation that we learn to enjoy solitude, and from solitude
dissipation.'
'So think the young philosophers of the Garden,' replied the Egyptian;
'they mistake lassitude for meditation, and imagine that, because they
are sated with others, they know the delight of loneliness. But not in
such jaded bosoms can Nature awaken that enthusiasm which alone
draws from her chaste reserve all her unspeakable beauty: she demands
from you, not the exhaustion of passion, but all that fervor, from which
you only seek, in adoring her, a release. When, young Athenian, the
moon revealed herself in visions of light to Endymion, it was after a
day passed, not amongst the feverish haunts of men, but on the still
mountains and in the solitary valleys of the hunter.'
'Beautiful simile!' cried Glaucus; 'most unjust application! Exhaustion!
that word is for age, not youth. By me, at least, one moment of satiety
has never been known!'
Again the Egyptian smiled, but his smile was cold and blighting, and
even the unimaginative Clodius froze beneath its light. He did not,
however, reply to the passionate exclamation of Glaucus; but, after a
pause,