from head to foot with paternal pride and affection. Mamma Tresko alternately embraces her "love-child," and endeavors to assist Aunt Hulda in restoring the unconscious girl to life. Pastor Holzel, followed by the rest of the company, presses about Papa and Mamma Von Bülow, congratulating them on their prospective son-in-law.

The general rejoicing and hilarity is marred only by the absence of Oswald Streicher, who quietly disappeared as soon as his duty was done. Max has a host of things to tell about the glorious fellow; how Streicher was his best friend at the university, where both contended for the prizes, which Max, by the way, invariably won; how Streicher was the haven to which he fled five years ago; how all his unmerited success was due to Streicher's unwearied zeal and unlimited influence; how he had lived on, with and for Streicher, and how it was Streicher who suggested the Yule-Clap, and wrote Pastor Holzel, making all things ready, and, in short, how Streicher had been the good angel of his life. This running off just at the consummation of his hopes, is the first shabby thing on the part of Streicher, which Max has to relate.

Bertha, who has come to life and love once more, discovers that she liked the yellow-haired individual from the first, even so early as the encounter on Stubben Kammar, where, to tell the truth, he had gone at the suggestion of Max, to see if she would be at the tryst, this being proof of her constancy.

Aunt Hulda, who, is only a couple of years older than Bertha, called auntie by the children, because they love her so very, very much,—Aunt Hulda alone suspects the cause of that Streicher's disappearance.

She alone knows the noble fellow had so set his heart on August Von Kalb's union with his beloved sister, that the sight of his betrothal to another, even though he had been the chief instrument in bringing it about, was more than his gentle heart could bear. If Aunt Hulda herself, who has had her secret struggles with a hopeless love, could slip away unobserved, and avoid the pang of seeing that betrothal, she would follow his example.

The desired moment comes at last, and she slips out of the little side door and glides away to the Stubben Kammar, her resort in all times of trial, for there on the white chalk cliffs, five hundred feet above the sea, she seems nearer to the heavenly minister, who alone can bring her rest and relief.

But what is this? Another muffled form paces slowly back and forth before her and she turns away hurriedly, but not before she is discovered. A heavenly minister in an earthly garment joins her, and as they once before caught a glimpse of each other's innermost life, so now the soul stands unveiled.

And now a rosy light flames along the sky, changing from crimson to saffron, and from saffron to silver, violet and green. The blue sea, the white cliffs, the gloomy forest, are tinted with the wondrous light. Is it some marvellous reflection from the soul of our marvellous double, who, left alone once more, walks slowly back and forth along the chalk cliffs until morning, trying to settle an important question suggested by Hulda's angelic face and nature? Or is it only the Aurora Borealis, which in these high latitudes is more magnificent than southern sunsets?

May Whitney Hall

"I stood within the city disinterred,
And heard the autumnal leaves, like light footfalls
Of spirits passing through the streets; and heard
The mountain's slumberous voice at intervals
Thrill through those roofless halls."

W

VE started early from Sorrento for we had a long and varied programme before us for the day. The morning was one of the loveliest that could be imagined, even beneath Italian skies. The incomparable bay of Naples, the theme of so many songs, was spread out before us, and its surface was so smooth it might have been mistaken for a sea of glass, but for the languid ripple of the tides along the shore. The city on its curving beach upon the other side, lay bathed in the purple sunlight that imparts so much of dreamy vagueness to her atmosphere. And there was Posilipo on the shore beyond, with the tomb of the epic poet who traced the fortunes of the wandering Trojan, as driven by fate, he sought a refuge on a foreign coast; and Lake Avernus "deep in profound woods," whence the poet sent his hero to Tartarean realms, to inquire of prophetic shades, if his journey should be prospered. And still beyond is Baia where St. Paul first set foot on Italian soil on his way to Rome; and Misenum, whence the younger Pliny watched the progress of the flames on that fateful night in which the cities of the plain were overwhelmed and lost to mortal sight.

Nor is the shore on which we stand less notable. The birthplace of Torquato Tasso is but a stone's cast from our hotel. The island of Capri, where Augustus built his country palace, is in sight; and ancient Sybaris, and more recent Amalfi are not far away. But enough of our surroundings; we must to the business of the day. Our way lay along the border of the bay, which is sometimes. rent into deep chasms and again looms in picturesque heights, and our roadway now hung above the gleaming waters and now disappeared behind the verdant wood. A delicious fragrance from the groves of ripening oranges floated over the venerable walls that hedged our way on either side, and at short intervals was a cave, a spring, an ancient church or simple

VOL L 3

shrine, to which some gray old legend gave an added charm. The traditional orange girl was already on the street, and the flower-venders were ranging in order their stock-in-trade for the day. Officious "guides" beset us as we started out, each anxious to smooth our way, and impart, for a consideration, such historic or legendary lore as he possessed; and at every halting place, youthful vagabonds and decrepit cripples begged for sous. Now and then we encountered the market man with ox and ass, or mule and cow, or other incongruous pair rudely harnessed to his clumsy cart; and occasionally a Neopolitan party out for a holiday, with the inevitable greatwheeled, scoop-bodied chaise, with a whole family or community, not only occupying the vehicle itself but hanging on to axle, springs and thills, or sitting astride the scrubby pony's back. A looker-on is puzzled to understand how such a team can make headway with such a load. But if he stops to consider how high the chaise is built, and how much it is necessarily tilted forward in being harnessed to the pigmy team, he is left in doubt whether the pony propels the chaise or the chaise the pony. But as we pass the old town of Stabiæ a column of white smoke, in appearance like a pillar of cloud, rising from the summit of the mountain in front of us, recalls the scene of chiefest interest in this vicinity today. The names of Vesuvius and Pompeii are so intimately associated in the mind, we never think of one without recalling the other. Pompeii probably stood on the margin of the bay before its destruction, and near the mouth of the small creek, once a river of considerable dimensions, which flows along the eastern border of the town. But by reason of the accumulated débris along the shore, the water has receded, so that a belt of cultivated fields now lies between the old gates and the sea.

Arrived at the place, we dismiss our cabman, and entering by the gate that opens near the house of Diomed, which has been repaired and now serves as a hotel for visitors, we find ourselves in the exhumed city which for nearly eighteen hundred

years did not see the light of day. To walk through these recovered streets is like walking in the catacombs, except that they are open to the skies. It is like mingling with the dead; for here the people of so long ago, with the records of their life, slumbered undisturbed for centuries. Then as now men built up cities; then as now they adorned their houses and their public squares; then as now they bartered in the market and labored in the field.

The great event in the history of Pompeii was its destruction. That alone preserved its name perhaps from oblivion. An ordinary Roman town, with some notoriety as a popular resort for wealthy citizens from the capital, it was the scene of no marked event, the birthplace of no distinguished man, nor did it ever make—if we may judge by all we see any valuable contribution to the civilization of the world. And the chief interest in the recovery of the city is that it gives us an interior view of Roman life twenty centuries ago, such as no artist's pencil or historian's page has been able to preserve. Not only are the streets and buildings brought to light, but the different apartments of many dwellings and various kinds of shops, are as readily determined as if their uses had never been interrupted. It is as if the reveller had been caught at his feast, and the artist at his easel, the smith at his forge, and the housewife at her domestic cares. There is little here of artistic merit compared with a dozen other Italian cities that might be named, though it is far from destitute of such works as constitute the pride of Italy; but the fascination is in the fact that here the full tide of busy life was terminated in an hour; and that after so long a lapse of time, we can look in upon it now, essentially as it was when its current was arrested in its course. There are the indications of the panic that ensued among the people at the beginning of the shower of ashes that first fell upon the city from the burning mountain. They fled from the amphitheatre, where a gladiatorial combat was going on that afternoon, to the temples, doubtless to invoke the protection of the gods; and many of them perished before the very altars. Many, fleeing on the first

alarm, returned afterward to their houses, to recover some valuable possessions, and some were caught in the boiling torrents that followed, and perished with their treasures in their hands. Out of a population of twenty thousand people, the remains of a few hundred only have been recovered, and it is supposed that most of them took warning, and fled in time to save their lives. The elder Pliny, commander of the Roman fleet, was at Misenum on the west border of the bay when the eruption began, and in answer to an appeal of citizens living about the base of the burning mountain, attempted to go to their relief with boats, but himself perished, soon after setting foot on the imperilled shore. The seething currents of fluent matter penetrated every nook and crevice in the town, and people who took refuge in their cellars from the falling scoria, were hunted out and buried up in its remorseless flood, and, encased in solid moulds, are discovered still from time to time as the excavations are carried on.

But let us look about the streets. For there are streets, narrow, to be sure, as in all ancient cities, but more regular and direct than in most of them. They were well paved with massive blocks of volcanic rock, and in these, hard as they are, carriage wheels have graven deep ruts. A walk on either side is separated from the street by a high curb, partly for protection, it is said, and partly for the convenience of horsemen in mounting; and at frequent intervals, especially in front of the houses, the curb is pierced with holes, probably for convenience in hitching horses. Then there are stepping-stones across the street, on a level with the curb, which made careful driving necessary for the safety of chariot wheels.

We will follow the street leading from the gate looking toward Sorrento, and by which we entered, toward the forum, which occupies the highest point that has yet been excavated. We proceed but a little way till we observe numerous inscriptions on the wall; some carved with a sharp instrument, as ambitious simpletons cut their names at Niagara or Mt. Washington; and others rudely painted, like home advertisements,on rocks and fences, of a patent medicine. Again there are are those that re

mind us of circus bills, though on a limited scale compared with those the nineteenth century boasts; but as the letters are of antique and unfamiliar form, and almost always partially effaced, it is not easy to decipher them. There is one, however, near the forum which has a special interest, as it announces that on a given day "a gladiatorial troupe from Rome would fight at Pompeii." It is said that an exhibition was going on in the amphitheatre when the eruption of Vesuvius began. And the presumption is that the two skeletons found in the arena when the amphitheatre was opened, were those of gladiators who had just been slain, or so severely wounded they could not get away. Most of these inscriptions seem, however, to have had some political significance,—the announcement of a candidate, or the statement of some public measure.

If we examine the shops as we pass, it is curious how many we can label with tolerable certainty. Here is one with shelves and counter, a large window in front and oven in the rear. We call it the baker's shop. Here is one with a huge block in the center with marks of the heavy strokes of a cleaver, and perhaps the cleaver was there when the place was first unearthed. It is the butcher's stall. Next is one with a long narrow counter, on which were found, when opened, glass cups and vessels of various shapes, and behind are gaily painted panels in the wall. It was evidently a drinking saloon. And next is a shop with a row of great glass jars of bulbous shape, where oils and medicines were sold; and in the next was kept a choice variety of wines. There are saloons of greater size, which may have been devoted to dry goods, or any general trade, but there is not enough preserved about them to determine definitely their use.

In the better class of dwellings the different apartments are often indicated by pictures on the wall. At least, we so interpret them. A plate of fruit, a brace of birds or other game indicate the diningroom. Pictures of a finer grade and more elaborate workmanship, point out the parlor; and the well, with the stone curb as good as ever, stands in the open court

or near the kichen door. That these wells had been long in use is sufficiently evident from the deep creases worn by the ropes in the curb. But there are houses here we cannot describe. It was time for Pompeii to be buried. She may have had human impulses, but of moral virtue she had none. Quitting the smaller grade of buildings we turn our attention for a little time to those of a public character.

Following the street by which we left the gate, to its further limits, we reach the former. As in other Roman cities, the former was the great gathering place of the people. Here public meetings were held : here laws were framed, and here judges sat for the adjustment of disputed claims. The interior court, which was open to the sky, was a kind of general resort, while beneath the archways, and about the porticoes, merchants and market men vended their wares. The forum at Pompeii stood on an elevated point, toward which many of the city streets converge. It was paved with marble within, and lava blocks without, and surrounded by a colonnade, above which ran an open gallery. Most of the columns are still standing, though more or less broken and defaced; but of the gallery above, nothing now remains. Here are also pedestals with fragments of statuary at the entrances and elsewhere about the court.

Adjoining the forum, and indeed forming one side of it, is the temple of Jupiter— for the Pompeiians were pagans-which overlooks the city, and with another temple near, whose title is not definitely known, was the most imposing structure in the city. Of course little now remains except the surrounding columns with their bases, and sometimes capitals, and now and then a partial span of the architrave. Within, however, may still be seen altars and pedestals; and there were statues on one, and vessels for religious rites about the other, when first excavated, but they have been removed to the museums of Pompeii or Naples. In some of the public buildings are mural paintings representing historic or mythologic scenes or characters, but the only pictures even moderately well preserved, are frescoes or mosaics. It must be understood that with the exception of one