DESTRUCTION OF POMPEII.
Pompeii was in its full glory at the commencement of the Christian era. It was a city of wealth and refinement, with about 35,000 inhabitants, and beautifully located at the foot of Mount Vesuvius; it possessed all local advantages that the most refined taste could desire. Upon the verge of the sea, at the entrance of a fertile plain, on the bank of a navigable river, it united the conveniences of a commercial town with the security of a military station, and the romantic beauty of a spot celebrated in all ages for its pre-eminent loveliness. Its environs, even to the heights of Vesuvius, were covered with villas, and the coast, all the way to Naples, was so ornamented with gardens and villages, that the shores of the whole gulf appeared as one city.
What an enchanting picture must have presented itself to one approaching Pompeii by sea! He beheld the bright, cheerful Grecian temples spreading out on the slopes before him; the pillared Forum; the rounded marble Theatres. He saw the grand Palaces descending to the very edge of the blue waves by noble flights of steps, surrounded with green pines, laurels and cypresses, from amidst whose dark foliage marble statues of gods gleamed whitely.
The skillful architect, the sculptors, the painters, and the casters of bronze were all employed to make Pompeii an asylum of arts; all trades and callings endeavored to grace and beautify the city. The prodigious concourse of strangers who came here in search of health and recreation added new charms and life to the scene.
But behind all this, and encased as it were in a frame, the landscape rose in a gentle slope to the summit of the thundering mountain. But indications were not wanting of the peril with which the city was threatened. The whole district is volcanic; and a few years before the final catastrophe, an earthquake had shaken Pompeii to its foundations; some of the buildings were much injured. On August 24, A.D. 79, the inhabitants were busily engaged in repairing the damage thus wrought, when suddenly and without any previous warning a vast column of black smoke burst from the overhanging mountain. Rising to a prodigious height in the cloudless summer sky, it then gradually spread out like the head of some mighty Italian pine, hiding the sun, and overshadowing the earth for miles in distance.
The darkness grew into profound night, only broken by the blue and sulphurous flashes which darted from the pitchy cloud. Soon the thick rain of thin, light ashes, almost imperceptible to the touch, fell upon the land. Then quickly succeeded shower of small pumice stones and heavier ashes, and emitting stifling eruptic fumes. After a time the sounds of approaching torrent were heard, and soon streaming rivers of dense black mud poured slowly but irresistibly down the mountain sides, and circled through the streets, insidiously creeping into such recesses as even the subtle ashes had failed to penetrate. There was now no place of shelter left. No man could defend himself against this double enemy. It was too late for flight for such as had remained behind. Those who had taken refuge in the innermost parts of the houses, or in the subterranean passages, were closed up forever. Those who sought to flee through the streets were clogged by the small, loose pumice stones, which lay many feet deep, or were entangled and overwhelmed in the mud-streams, or were struck down by the rocks which fell from the heavens. If they escaped these dangers, blinded by the drifting ashes and groping in the dark, not knowing which way to go, they were overcome by the sulphurous vapors, and sinking on the highway were soon buried beneath the volcanic matter. Even many who had gained the open country, at the beginning of the eruption, were overtaken by the darkness and falling cinders, and perished miserably in the field or on the sea-shore, where they had vainly sought the means of flight.
In three days the doomed city had disappeared. It lay buried beneath a vast mass of ashes, pumice stone and hardened mud, from twenty to seventy feet deep. Those of its terror-stricken inhabitants who escaped destruction, abandoned forever its desolate site. Years, generations, centuries went by, and the existence of Pompeii—yea, even its very name—had ceased to be remembered. The rich volcanic soil became covered with a profusion of vegetation. Vineyards flourished and houses were built on the site of the buried city.
Nearly eighteen hundred years had elapsed since the thunderer Vesuvius had thrown the black mantle of ashes over the fair city before the resuscitation arrived. Some antique bronzes and utensils, discovered by a peasant, excited universal attention. Excavations were begun, and Pompeii, shaking off as it were her musty grave clothes, stared from the classic and poetical age of the first into the prosaic modern world of the nineteenth century. The world was startled, and looked with wondering interest to see this ancient stranger arising from her tomb—to behold the awakening of the remote past from the womb of the earth which had so long hoarded it.
The excavation has been assiduously prosecuted, until to-day three hundred and sixty houses, temples, theatres, schools, stores, factories, etc., have been thrown open before us with their treasured contents. It is often, but erroneously, supposed that Pompeii, like Herculaneum, was overwhelmed by a flood of lava. Had this been the case, the work of excavation would have been immensely more difficult, and the result would have been far less important. The marbles must have been calcined, the bronzes melted, the frescoes effaced, and smaller articles destroyed by the fiery flood. The ruin was effected by showers of dust and scoriæ, and by torrents of liquid mud, which formed a mould, encasing the objects, thus preserving them from injury or decay. We thus gain a perfect picture of what a Roman city was eighteen hundred years ago, as everything is laid bare to us in almost a perfect state.
What wealth of splendid vessels and utensils was contained in the chests and closets! Gold and gilded ivory, pearls and precious stones were used to decorate tables, chairs and vessels for eating and drinking. Elegant lamps hung from the ceiling, and candelabra and little lamps of most exquisite shapes illuminated the apartments at night. To-day, looking at the walls, the eyes may feast on beautiful fresco paintings, with colors so vivid and fresh as if painted but yesterday; while gleaming everywhere on ceiling, wall and floor, are marbles of rarest hue, sculptured into every conceivable form of grace and beauty, and inlaid in most artistic designs.
Entering Pompeii.
We will now proceed to describe the general aspect of the city, and for this purpose it will be convenient to suppose that we have entered it by the gate of Herculaneum, though in other respects the Porta della Marina is the more usual and, perhaps, the best entrance.
On entering, the visitor finds himself in a street, running a little east of south, which leads to the Forum. To the right, stands a house formerly owned by a musician; to the left, a thermopolium or shop for hot drinks; beyond is the house of the Vestals; beyond this the custom-house; and a little further on, where another street runs into this one from the north at a very acute angle, stands a public fountain. In the last-named street is a surgeon's house; at least one so named from the quantity of surgical instruments found in it, all made of bronze. On the right or western side of the street, by which we entered, the houses, as we have said, are built on the declivity of a rock, and are several stories high.
The fountain is about one hundred and fifty yards from the city gate. About the same distance, further on, the street divides into two; the right-hand turning seems a by-street, the left-hand turning conducts you to the Forum. The most important feature in this space is a house called the house of Sallust or of Actæon, from a painting in it representing that hunter's death. It stands on an area about forty yards square, and is encompassed on three sides by streets; by that namely which we have been describing, by another nearly parallel to it, and by a third, perpendicular to these two. The whole quarter at present excavated, as far as the Street of the Baths, continued by the Street of Fortune, is divided, by six longitudinal and one transverse street, into what the Romans called islands, or insulated masses of houses. Two of these are entirely occupied by the houses of Pansa and of the Faun, which, with their courts and gardens, are about one hundred yards long by forty wide.
From the Street of the Baths