at all.

man. Is it pulmonary? I suspect it must 'be something of the kind, he has so wasted away.'

Pulmonary Indeed, I don't know. He has a little asthma sometimes. And of course he is very thin,' said Frances; but that does not mean anything; he is quite well.'

He used to be such a powerful-made at all-that she could not even form an idea what they were talking about? She had pleased herself with the possibility of some little easy discovery, of finding out, perhaps, something about the cousins, whom it seemed certain, according to Tasie, every one must possess, whether they were aware of it or not-some little revelation of origin and connections such as could do nobody any harm. But when she woke up suddenly to find herself as it were upon the edge of a chasm which had split her father's life in two, the young creature trembled. She was frightened beyond measure by this unexpected contingency; she dared not listen to another word.

The stranger shook his head. He had taken the opportunity to wipe it with a large white handkerchief, and had made his bald forehead look redder than ever. 'I shouldn't like to alarm you,' he said 'I wouldn't, for all the world but I hope you have trustworthy advice? These Italian doctors, they are not much to be trusted. You should get a real good English doctor to come and have a look at him.'

'O indeed, it is only asthma; he is well enough, quite well, not anything the matter with him,' Frances protested. The large stranger stood and smiled compassionately upon her, still shaking his head.

'Mary,' he said; 'here, my dear!-This is Miss Waring. She says her father is quite well, poor thing. I am telling her I am so very glad we have met her, for Waring did not leave me any address.'

'How do you do, my dear?' said the stout lady-not much less red than her husband-who had also hurried down the steep path to meet Frances. And your father is quite well? I am so glad. We thought him looking rather-thin: not so strong as he used to look.'

'Oh!' she said with a quiver in her voice, |‘I am afraid I have no time to stop and talk. Papa will be waiting for his breakfast. I will tell him you-asked for him.'

'Give him our love,' said the lady.-'Indeed, George, she is quite right; we must hurry too, or we shall be too late for the table-d'hôte.'

'But I have not got the address,' said the husband. Frances made a little courtesy, as she had been taught, and waved her hand as she hurried away. He thought that she had not understood him. Where do you live?' he called after her as she hastened along. She pointed towards the height of the little town, and alarmed for she knew not what, lest he should follow her-lest he should call something after her which she ought not to hear, fled along towards the steep ascent. She could hear the voices behind her slightly elevated talking to each other, and then the sound of the children rattling down the stony course of the higher road, and the quick question and answer as they rejoined their parents. Then gradually everything relapsed into silence as the party disappeared. When she heard the voices no longer, Frances began to regret that she had been so She paused for a moment, and looked back; but already the family were almost out of sight, the solid figures which led the procession indistinguishable from the little ones who struggled behind. Whether it might have been well or ill to take advantage of the chance, it was now over. She arrived at the Palazzo out of breath, and found Domenico at the door, looking out anxiously for her. "The Signorina is late,' he said very gravely; 'the padrone has almost had to wait for his breakfast.' Domenico was quite original, and did not know that such a terrible possibility had threatened any illustrious personage before.

'But then,' added her husband, 'it is such a long time since we have seen him, and he never was very stout. I hope, if you will pardon me for asking, that things have been smoothed down between him and the rest of the family? When I say "smoothed down," I mean set on a better footing-more friendly, more harmonious. I am very glad I have seen you, to inquire privately-hasty. for one never knows how far to go with a man of his-well-peculiar temper.'

'Don't say that, George.-You must not think, my dear, that Mr Mannering means anything that is not quite nice and amiable and respectful to your papa. It is only out of kindness that he asks. Your poor papa has been much tried. I am sure he has always had my sympathy, and my husband's too. Mr Mannering only means that he hopes things are more comfortable between your father andWhich is so much to be

desired for everybody's sake.'

THE BURIED CITIES.

The poor girl stood and stared at them with large, round, widely opening eyes, with the wondering stare of a child. There had been a little half-mischievous, half-anxious longing in her mind to find out what these strangers A HALO of romance surrounds the very names knew; but now she came to herself suddenly, of Pompeii and Herculaneum, as we read the and felt as a traveller feels who all at once strange story of their melancholy fate; but when pulls himself up on the edge of a precipice. we visit those silent streets and stand in those What was this pitfall which she had nearly stumbled into, this rent from the past, which was so great and so complete that she had never heard of it, never guessed it? Fright seized upon her, and dismay, and, what probably stood her in more stead for the moment, a stinging sensation of wounded pride, which brought the colour burning to her cheeks. Must she let these people find out that she knew nothing, at her age-that her father had never confided in her

empty theatres, the romance is translated into such vivid reality, that we seem to live in the life of that distant past, every detail of which is preserved, and brought visibly and tangibly before us. Nature smiles, unfaded and unchanged, in all her Southern loveliness; the purple waters of the Bay of Naples still kiss the vine-wreathed shore; still the burning mountain shoots its fire and smoke into the blue vault of heaven, as an awful reminder of the unseen forces smouldering

Journal

beneath it, ever ready to overwhelm the surrounding plain, and to repeat the story written on Pompeii and Herculaneum with a finger of

fire.

The principal excavations have been made at Pompeii, which, being buried in ashes, was more easily disinterred than Herculaneum, upon which the full force of the crimson lava-stream flowed in its burning course, hardening rapidly to the consistency of marble, which had to be quarried before the city could be reached. Owing to the difficulty of the work, only a small part of the necessary excavation is completed, and great care has to be exercised, from the fact of another town having sprung up on the surface of the lava, and the consequent danger of undermining it. We walk through narrow passages tunnelled in the lava to the large theatre. The orchestra with its marble seats is perfect; the stage, too, is excavated; but the remaining parts are not yet quarried out of the enormous mass of lava, many yards in depth, under which they were buried. We pass through more lava-tunnels to an excavated square, containing houses and shops. The frescos of the so-called 'House of Argus' still retain their bright colouring; many of the marble pillars are calcined to lime. On the marble counter of a wineshop the green impressions of bronze coins found there still remain. At the side are a number of the earthen amphorae used to contain the wine; but, as at Pompeii, most of the articles discovered in the houses have been necessarily removed to the Museum of Naples. The whole district surrounding Herculaneum is a mass of cooled lava, a black desolate region, whence lava is quarried for paving and building purposes. The very air is sulphurous, and tainted with Vesuvian smoke.

Very different is the beautiful scene from Pompeii, with the blue sea on one side and luxuriant vegetation on the other; in the distance, the shadowy violet cliffs of Capri and Ischia rising from the waves. We descend a sloping path to the silent city, which stands between two enormous embankments of ashes, like a very deep railway cutting, and enter by the great gateway, with arches and pillars in perfect preservation. Through a small arch at the side, intended for foot-passengers, we pass into the deserted streets; from the high narrow footway, we see the track of wheels on the paved street below; and the great stepping-stones are still there, as in days of old, when the Pompeian ladies and their attendant slaves stepped lightly from one to another, on their way to the baths, the theatres, or other diversions of that gay life, whose every detail lies crystallised for the benefit of succeeding ages. Everywhere stand the remains of sculptured fountains-at the street corners, in every house, in every square. The whole city must have been musical with the ripple of falling waters, in those long-past summer noontides and moonlit nights when Pompeii was in its zenith of pomp and pride.

relief, every detail of leaf, flower, and figure clear and sharp as when first chiselled. On the inner walls are nymphs and goddesses, classical fables and legends in fresco. We go through the street of the soap-makers and visit the large soapworks, where the huge iron caldrons are still left, their intrinsic value not being sufficient to warrant removal. Another street is full of wineshops, with the large red jars still inserted in the marble counters. Then we pass the city bakehouses, whose ovens were found full of charred bread, now in the Naples Museum, the baker's name stamped upon each loaf. Close by are the splendid public baths, with every appliance for hot, cold, and vapour baths, the pipes and cisterns still remaining. We walk into the frigidarium, tepidarium, and other chambers, the floors of black and white marble, with raised marble seats round each room, walls and ceilings covered with appropriate sculpture and painting: Diana bathing in a forest stream; a group of water-nymphs disporting themselves by moonlight in a calm lake; the Sirens combing their golden hair on the neighbouring rocks, which still bear their name. How wonderfully the luxurious Pompeian life is brought to mind, as we stand here lost in the dreams which the baths inspire, of the youth, fashion, and beauty of two thousand years ago.

One quarter of the city contains only the private houses of the rich; the bust of the owner in each atrium or entrance hall, with the name carved below, informs us to whom every house belonged. All are built in the same style, with the atrium, impluvium, and triclinium, after the usual Roman fashion; slender marble pillars, which once supported the roofs, now vanished, or remaining only in the shape of crumbled fragments, fallen in upon the marble floors below. The remains of a fountain are generally found in the central basin of the impluvium, that cool retreat from the fierce Italian sun, once green with leafy plants and musical with murmuring waters, where the gay Pompeians took their siesta in the shade, or lounged through the hot noonday hours. The sleeping-rooms surround the three large divisions of the houses, all being built on the ground-floor, with no upper story. On every threshold is 'Ave' or 'Cave canem (Beware the dog) in black mosaic on the white marble. The inner walls are painted with wreaths of flowers and fruit, or dancing-girls in transparent draperies strewing roses. All the frescos show the soft and pleasure-loving Pompeian temperament. Artistic grace and beauty are everywhere present; but neither force nor fervour can be seen; life seems to have been regarded as a long game of play, or one continuous flower-wreathed festival.

We search for the houses of Sallust and Cloacus, and that of the Tragic Poet, so called from the frescos on the wall representing scenes from the Greek tragedies, and giving a clue to the life of the owner; but the number of houses makes a detailed examination of each one an impossiA number of converging streets lead into bility. At the corner of a street leading into the forum-the centre of the city's life. Here the forum stands the exchange. On the walls, are the perfect remains of beautiful temples, the names of certain magistrates and a request with their marble columns and sculptured to vote for them, implies that the city at the altars, on which inscriptions to Juno, Venus, time of its destruction was on the eve of a general &c. may still be read. On some are deli- election. On another wall beyond, some more cate carvings representing sacrifice, in high red letters tell us that on the kalends of May

some lions will fight in the amphitheatre with a certain gladiator of great renown. These little touches here and there from the distant past enable us more than anything else to realise the actual life of Pompeii.

We ascend a flight of marble steps to the Tragic Theatre; stage, orchestra, auditorium, and even ticket-offices are in perfect preservation-all open to the sky, after the ancient fashion. We think of the tragedies represented on this very stage, of the hushed and eager faces rising tier above tier to the blue sky, of the jewelled dames and rose-crowned maidens whose tears did homage to the tragedian's art; the strains of music from the long-silent orchestra; and then, all in a moment, we see the ashen cloud descending upon the crowd, who rush wildly from the scene, some few to escape in safety, others to rush into the blue sea in their madness, and upon the rest, the pall of darkness falling, not to be lifted for two thousand years. Close at hand is the smaller Comic Theatre, where jest and epigram played their part in holding up the follies of the day to ridicule; where wit sparkled merrily, and satire scathed all that it touched; where the mirth and laughter of the gay spectators were suddenly checked into eternal silence by that advancing cloud of doom. The place seems thronged with ghosts and memories; nowhere else does the melancholy silence of Pompeii strike us so forcibly as in this theatre, once built to foster fun and merriment.

song; every tomb is rich in suggestions, every house is a compendium of the history of that past age, and the interest of the place increases with each fresh excavation. A third part of the city still remains to be discovered, including the Street of the Goldsmiths, where rich treasures of ancient art are supposed to be hidden. The perfect preservation in which most of the articles are found is due not only to the immense weight of ashes rendering the city air-tight, but also to the chemical properties of the sulphureous and mineral-charged cloud which rained down in tons upon the houses and streets.

Near the entrance gate is a small Museum, containing the skeletons found in the city-a mother and daughter clasped in each other's arms; a sentinel found at his post; a man evidently knocked down by the cloud of ashes; and several others. Some of them have been injured in the process of excavation, in spite of the unparalleled care with which the digging and sifting are always done. When a skeleton is found, hot plaster of Paris is immediately poured on to it, so that, while preserving the skeleton intact, it gives us also, by filling up the impression or mould of the body that had lain there, the form and features of the living man, thus adding to the interest and reality of what we see. All lie in the same position in which they were found; the rings still on the fingers.

The only regret we feel about this excavation of Pompeii is that it was impossible to leave there the Hence we go to the Street of Tombs, on rising countless articles of furniture, dress, and luxury ground, which commands exquisite views of the which were found; and therefore, to preserve blue waters and the verdant shore. The inscrip- them from pillage and destruction, as well as from tions on the monuments are clear enough to be exposure to the air, they were taken to the Naples easily read. On one stately white marble tomb, Museum, which forms the needful sequel to a the words (in Latin), 'To Mamia, a priestess, by visit to Pompeii. There we see room after order of the Triumvirs,' look almost new, so clearly room full of furniture from Pompeian houses are they chiselled on the tablet. A marble seat-beds, baths, chairs, and tables all of carved stands here, once placed for the accommodation of bronze; bronze couches, with the charred leathern those who used to visit the tomb. We rest for cushions on which the indolent Pompeians once a moment, and think of that long-dead Mamia, lounged at their costly feasts; every imaginwith white vestal robes and dark flowing hair, able kitchen utensil, knives, forks, the handles and, perchance, the rapt face which Raphael has formed of a tiny human figure in bronze; exquigiven to his Cumean sibyl, and wonder what sitely finished bottles of curious iridescent glass; manner of woman she was, to win such honour figures of the Lares and Penates; vases, beakers, from the chief magistrates of Pompeii. Did she jugs, cups, and dishes of every size and shape; 'prophesy smooth things,' and so gain the approval the rare artistic skill displaying the superiority of the votaries of pleasure? Or did her personal of work done by hand to the products of modern austerities try to atone for those other lives, so machinery. A large collection of surgical instrusoft and luxurious, and thus win from them in ments greatly interested a celebrated physician death some tribute of pity and remorse, of who was one of our party, and who expressed which this stately tomb was the outward expres- unbounded surprise at the very slight difference sion? between these relics of the infancy of medical science and the instruments in use at the present day. Some large cases of dentists' tools caught our eye also; nor did we need to be told what they were, being only too well acquainted with similar instruments of torture. A great number of paint-boxes are displayed, which still contain the same bright soft colours which we see on the walls of Pompeii; and case after case of jewels, some found in the houses, others evidently dropped in hurried flight from the burning city, or fallen from the necks and arms of the skeletons. Rings, bracelets, chains, tiaras, necklaces without end, of finely chased gold, set with gems, some of the jewels uninjured, and sparkling as brightly after the lapse of ages, as they did on the snowy neck of a Pompeian beauty two

Just opposite is a large building, supposed to have been the principal inn of Pompeii; the stables, with remains of the stalls, are pointed out, though, strange to say, the skeletons of only two horses have yet been found. It is thought that the atmospheric disturbances were felt by animal instinct sooner than by human senses, and that this instinct led the horses to escape from the city before the full force of the catastrophe made itself felt. The villa of Diomed stands near. His skeleton, the golden brooch still fastening the charred toga, was found on the threshold, a leathern purse of gold coins tightly clutched in one hand.

The ineffaceable records of Pompeii are enough to provide an inexhaustible fund of story and

with his trusty sickle, who formerly invaded He's good enough for that yet, and I'll give the land at harvest-time-no sound is ever heard him his time.' there that might not have broken the silence fifty years ago. Certainly, now and again, at times when there is going to be rain, as the old folks say in their weather wisdom, the distant sound of a railway engine's whistle may be heard borne on the wind, faint and weird as the plaintive piping of the plover overhead in his autumn flight; but then it is so intangible as to seem but a 'wandering voice' from a far-off country, with which the good folks of Linthwaite can have nothing in common.