received, were hushed for him--and when on the loftiest summit of that
hill, raised above the breathless crowd below, stood this mysterious
visitor, his mien and his countenance awed every heart, even before a
sound left his lips. He was a man, I have heard my father say, of no
tall stature, but of noble and impressive mien; his robes were dark and
ample; the declining sun, for it was evening, shone aslant upon his form
as it rose aloft, motionless, and commanding; his countenance was much
worn and marked, as of one who had braved alike misfortune and the
sternest vicissitude of many climes; but his eyes were bright with an
almost unearthly fire; and when he raised his arm to speak, it was with
the majesty of a man into whom the Spirit of a God hath rushed!
'"Men of Athens!" he is reported to have said, "I find amongst ye an
altar with this inscription:
TO THE UNKNOWN GOD.
Ye worship in ignorance the same Deity I serve.
To you unknown till now, to you be it now revealed."
'Then declared that solemn man how this great Maker of all things, who
had appointed unto man his several tribes and his various homes--the
Lord of earth and the universal heaven, dwelt not in temples made with
hands; that His presence, His spirit, were in the air we breathed--our
life and our being were with Him. "Think you," he cried, "that the
Invisible is like your statues of gold and marble? Think you that He
needeth sacrifice from you: He who made heaven and earth?" Then spoke he
of fearful and coming times, of the end of the world, of a second rising
of the dead, whereof an assurance had been given to man in the
resurrection of the mighty Being whose religion he came to preach.
'When he thus spoke, the long-pent murmur went forth, and the
philosophers that were mingled with the people, muttered their sage
contempt; there might you have seen the chilling frown of the Stoic, and
the Cynic's sneer; and the Epicurean, who believeth not even in our own
Elysium, muttered a pleasant jest, and swept laughing through the crowd:
but the deep heart of the people was touched and thrilled; and they
trembled, though they knew not why, for verily the stranger had the
voice and majesty of a man to whom "The Unknown God" had committed the
preaching of His faith.'
Ione listened with wrapt attention, and the serious and earnest manner
of the narrator betrayed the impression that he himself had received
from one who had been amongst the audience that on the hill of the
heathen Mars had heard the first tidings of the word of Christ!
Chapter VI
THE PORTER. THE GIRL. AND THE GLADIATOR.
THE door of Diomed's house stood open, and Medon, the old slave, sat at
the bottom of the steps by which you ascended to the mansion. That
luxurious mansion of the rich merchant of Pompeii is still to be seen
just without the gates of the city, at the commencement of the Street of
Tombs; it was a gay neighborhood, despite the dead. On the opposite
side, but at some yards nearer the gate, was a spacious hostelry, at
which those brought by business or by pleasure to Pompeii often stopped
to refresh themselves. In the space before the entrance of the inn now
stood wagons, and carts, and chariots, some just arrived, some just
quitting, in all the bustle of an animated and popular resort of public
entertainment. Before the door, some farmers, seated on a bench by a
small circular table, were talking over their morning cups, on the
affairs of their calling. On the side of the door itself was painted
gaily and freshly the eternal sign of the chequers. By the roof of the
inn stretched a terrace, on which some females, wives of the farmers
above mentioned, were, some seated, some leaning over the railing, and
conversing with their friends below. In a deep recess, at a little
distance, was a covered seat, in which some two or three poorer
travellers were resting themselves, and shaking the dust from their
garments. On the other side stretched a wide space, originally the
burial-ground of a more ancient race than the present denizens of
Pompeii, and now converted into the Ustrinum, or place for the burning
of the dead. Above this rose the terraces of a gay villa, half hid by
trees. The tombs themselves, with their graceful and varied shapes, the
flowers and the foliage that surrounded them, made no melancholy feature
in the prospect. Hard by the gate of the city, in a small niche, stood
the still form of the well-disciplined Roman sentry, the sun shining
brightly on his polished crest, and the lance on which he leaned. The
gate itself was divided into three arches, the centre one for vehicles,
the others for the foot-passengers; and on either side rose the massive
walls which girt the city, composed, patched, repaired at a thousand
different epochs, according as war, time, or the earthquake had
shattered that vain protection. At frequent intervals rose square
towers, whose summits broke in picturesque rudeness the regular line of
the wall, and contrasted well with the modern buildings gleaming whitely
by.
The curving road, which in that direction leads from Pompeii to
Herculaneum, wound out of sight amidst hanging vines, above which
frowned the sullen majesty of Vesuvius.
'Hast thou heard the news, old Medon?' said a young woman, with a
pitcher in her hand, as she paused by Diomed's door to gossip a moment
with the slave, ere she repaired to the neighboring inn to fill the
vessel, and coquet with the travellers.
'The news! what news?' said the slave, raising his eyes moodily from the
ground.
'Why, there passed through the gate this morning, no doubt ere thou wert
well awake, such a visitor to Pompeii!'
'Ay,' said the slave, indifferently.
'Yes, a present from the noble Pomponianus.'
'A present! I thought thou saidst a visitor?'
'It is both visitor and present. Know, O dull and stupid! that it is a
most beautiful young tiger, for our approaching games in the
amphitheatre. Hear you that, Medon? Oh, what pleasure! I declare I
shall not sleep a wink till I see it; they say it has such a roar!'
'Poor fool!' said Medon, sadly and cynically.
'Fool me no fool, old churl! It is a pretty thing, a tiger, especially
if we could but find somebody for him to eat. We have now a lion and a
tiger; only consider that, Medon! and for want of two good criminals
perhaps we shall be forced to see them eat each other. By-the-by, your
son is a gladiator, a handsome man and a strong, can you not persuade
him to fight the tiger? Do now, you would oblige me mightily; nay, you
would be a benefactor to the whole town.'
'Vah! vah!' said the slave, with great asperity; 'think of thine own
danger ere thou thus pratest of my poor boy's death.'
'My own danger!' said the girl, frightened and looking hastily
around--'Avert the omen! let thy words fall on thine own head!' And the
girl, as she spoke, touched a talisman suspended round her neck. '"Thine
own danger!" what danger threatens me?'
'Had the earthquake but a few nights since no warning?' said Medon.
'Has it not a voice? Did it not say to us all, "Prepare for death; the
end of all things is at hand?"'
'Bah, stuff!' said the young woman, settling the folds of her tunic.
'Now thou talkest as they say the Nazarenes talked--methinks thou art
one of them. Well, I can prate with thee, grey croaker, no more: thou
growest worse and worse--Vale! O Hercules, send us a man for the
lion--and another for the tiger!'
Ho! ho! for the merry, merry show,
With a forest of faces in every row!
Lo, the swordsmen, bold as the son of Alcmena,
Sweep, side by side, o'er the hushed arena;
Talk while you may--you will hold your breath
When they meet in the grasp of the glowing death.
Tramp, tramp, how gaily they go!
Ho! ho! for the merry, merry show!
Chanting in a silver and clear voice this feminine ditty, and holding up
her tunic from the dusty road, the young woman stepped lightly across to
the crowded hostelry.
'My poor son!' said the slave, half aloud, 'is it for things like this
thou art to be butchered? Oh! faith of Christ, I could worship thee in
all sincerity, were it but for the horror which thou inspirest for these
bloody lists.'
The old man's head sank dejectedly on his breast. He remained silent
and absorbed, but every now and then with the corner of his sleeve he
wiped his eyes. His heart was with his son; he did not see the figure
that now approached from the gate with a quick step, and a somewhat
fierce and reckless gait and carriage. He did not lift his eyes till
the figure paused opposite the place where he sat, and with a soft voice
addressed him by the name of:
'Father!'
'My boy! my Lydon! is it indeed thou?' said the old man, joyfully. 'Ah,
thou wert present to my thoughts.'
'I am glad to hear it, my father,' said the gladiator, respectfully
touching the knees and beard of the slave; 'and soon may I be always
present with thee, not in thought only.'
'Yes, my son--but not in this world,' replied the slave, mournfully.
'Talk not thus, O my sire! look cheerfully, for I feel so--I am sure
that I shall win the day; and then, the gold I gain buys thy freedom.
Oh! my father, it was but a few days since that I was taunted, by one,
too, whom I would gladly have undeceived, for he is more generous than
the rest of his equals. He is not Roman--he is of Athens--by him I was
taunted with the lust of gain--when I demanded what sum was the prize of
victory. Alas! he little knew the soul of Lydon!'
'My boy! my boy!' said the old slave, as, slowly ascending the steps, he
conducted his son to his own little chamber, communicating with the
entrance hall (which in this villa was the peristyle, not the
atrium)--you may see it now; it is the third door to the right on
entering. (The first door conducts to the staircase; the second is but
a false recess, in which there stood a statue of bronze.) 'Generous,
affectionate, pious as are thy motives,' said Medon, when they were thus
secured from observation, 'thy deed itself is guilt: thou art to risk
thy blood for thy father's freedom--that might be forgiven; but the
prize of victory is the blood of another. Oh, that is a deadly sin; no
object can purify it. Forbear! forbear! rather would I be a slave for
ever than purchase liberty on such terms!'
'Hush, my father!' replied Lydon, somewhat impatiently; 'thou hast
picked up in this new creed of thine, of which I pray thee not to speak
to me, for the gods that gave me strength denied me wisdom, and I
understand not one word of what thou often preachest to me--thou hast
picked up, I say, in this new creed, some singular fantasies of right
and wrong. Pardon me if I offend thee: but reflect! Against whom shall
I contend? Oh! couldst thou know those wretches with whom, for thy
sake, I assort, thou wouldst think I purified earth by removing one of
them. Beasts, whose very lips drop blood; things, all savage,
unprincipled in their very courage: ferocious, heartless, senseless; no
tie of life can bind them: they know not fear, it is true--but neither
know they gratitude, nor charity, nor love; they are made but for their
own career, to slaughter without pity, to die without dread! Can thy
gods, whosoever they be, look with wrath on a conflict with such as
these, and in such a cause? Oh, My father, wherever the powers above
gaze down on earth, they behold no duty so sacred, so sanctifying, as
the sacrifice offered to an aged parent by the piety of a grateful son!'
The poor old slave, himself deprived of the lights of knowledge, and
only late a convert to the Christian faith, knew not with what arguments
to enlighten an ignorance at once so dark, and yet so beautiful in its
error. His first impulse was to throw himself on his son's breast--his
next to start away to wring his hands; and in the attempt to reprove,
his broken voice lost itself in weeping.
'And if,' resumed Lydon--'if thy Deity (methinks thou wilt own but one?)
be indeed that benevolent and pitying Power which thou assertest Him to
be, He will know also that thy very faith in Him first confirmed me in
that determination thou blamest.'
'How! what mean you?' said the slave.
'Why, thou knowest that I, sold in my childhood as a slave, was set free
at Rome by the will of my master, whom I had been fortunate enough to
please. I hastened to Pompeii to see thee--I found thee already aged and
infirm, under the yoke of a capricious and pampered lord--thou hadst
lately adopted this new faith, and its adoption made thy slavery doubly
painful to thee; it took away all the softening charm of custom, which
reconciles us so often to the worst. Didst thou not complain to me that
thou wert compelled to offices that were not odious to thee as a slave,
but guilty as a Nazarene? Didst thou not tell me that thy soul shook
with remorse when thou wert compelled to place even a crumb of cake
before the Lares that watch over yon impluvium? that thy soul was torn
by a perpetual struggle? Didst thou not tell me that even by pouring
wine before the threshold, and calling on the name of some Grecian
deity, thou didst fear thou wert incurring penalties worse than those of
Tantalus, an eternity of tortures more terrible than those of the
Tartarian fields? Didst thou not tell me this? I wondered, I could not
comprehend; nor, by Hercules! can I now: but I was thy son, and my sole
task was to compassionate and relieve. Could I hear thy groans, could I
witness thy mysterious horrors, thy constant anguish, and remain
inactive? No! by the immortal gods! the thought struck me like light
