the skeleton of a man, standing erect, with his armor and helmet on, and spear in hand. It was the Roman sentinel at the city gate, faithful in death, as in life, a melancholy memento of the stern discipline of martial Rome:

On-on, the human tides, rush through the gates,

While the red mountain, blazing full in view,
That Roman sentinel, doth contemplate:
Motionless as a statue, thus he grew,
Composed his face, though livid in its hue,
Sternness with awe, in his undaunted eye;
Vainly the fiery tempest round him flew,

He, like the herd, had not been taught to fly;

Scathed, blasted at his post, the warrior stood to die."

He stands now, just as he was found, in the Museum at Naples; and I never passed that skeleton in armor, but I felt the majesty of discipline, and a respect for the courage and integrity of the Roman soldier, who had thus nobly sacrificed himself to duty, sealing his devotion, by dying at his post, with all his armor on.

Several years ago, there trod the lonely streets of Pompeii, with feeble step and slow, a grey-haired man. Physical suffering, and mental toil, had passed their ploughshares over that noble brow, with a subsoil pressure. The mind within, which like a lamp in a vase of alabaster had once "illumed" that fine old face, was burning dimly now, or only flickered up with a sort of supernatural light, as dying lamps will, just before they are extinguished. The powers that had so long delighted the world, recalling past ages and manners with such vividness, that men believed he had found the enchanter's wand of the great wizard of his house, were now all gone. But as that old man paced mournfully through the deserted streets, and

by the hearth-stones, cold and cheerless, of the exhumed city, his head drooped upon his noble chest, and he murmured, "Take me away from this; take me away from. this; 'tis the City of the Dead; the City of the Dead"— then wept like a child.

Volumes might be written on Pompeii, and yet they would only be to realize, and carry out this brief, but comprehensive summary, this profound impression which Pompeii left upon the mind of the great "Wizard of the

North."

But there is nothing dark or noisome in this City of the Dead. It is only sad, because without inhabitantand from the recollection of the terrible fate that so suddenly overwhelmed it. It still all looks bright and fresh, and beautiful-the gay paintings on the walls-the marble fountains, which seem about to play, with their inlaid basins of the rich and varied sea shell-its atriums, with their beautiful mosaic pavements - its classic peristyles, its cubiculas, or alcoves for sleeping, its vestibules with their hospitable welcomes, inlaid in mosaic upon the threshold, inviting you to enter- and the deep blue sky of Italy smiling over all. There is so little of ruin or desolation, in the ordinary sense of the term. Even the very tombs, along the famous street that leads out of the Herculaneum gate, would hardly look mournful, did we not feel that the pious crowds, who once daily issued from that gate, would never more come, to scatter chaplets and flowers on the last resting place of those they loved on earth; and yet, in spite of all this, a deep feeling of melancholy will steal over you, and you can partially comprehend the emotions of the great poet, and novelist, as you proceed through lonely and noiseless streets; and

enter mansion after mansion alike tenantless and deserted. Where are the crowds that once thronged, or the owners that once possessed them? At first you almost hesitate to enter uninvited-and every moment expect some member of the family to come forth, and rebuke the intrusion; but vain is the thought. You pass from house to house. "Vacant each chamber,

Deserted each hall

Quiet oblivion, reigns o'er all."

You search the empty chambers, but no footfall is heard on the echoing pavement, but your own and companions; no voice responds to yours but that of those who have accompanied you. You pause and meditate, and Sir Walter Scott's commentary is upon your lips, "'tis the City of the Dead - the City of the Dead.”

Immediately above the buildings that have been excavated, the ground rises like a gentle swell, as if to shelter the houses below; while vines in their more luxuriant graces, wave from tree to tree, springing from the soil, that still covers the greater part of the city with vegetation, and forming with the dark brown masses below, a singular and most affecting contrast.

Let us enter for a hasty stroll on the side facing the Mediterranean. It is the street of the silver-smiths; and those large irregular blocks of lava, in which the chariot wheels have worn ruts, still plainly discernible, look almost as fresh as the day they were fixed there by the Pompeian paviors. It is a narrow street, and you can cross it at a stride; but on each side is a well dressed curb bounding the edge of a pavement, that would do credit to any city of modern times. Mark how the footpath, between the curb and the line of houses is filled up with earth, upon

which a hard casing of stucco is all unnoticed by the wear of feet and time, and looks as if it might still stand, the restless tread of countless generations. Where is the modern skill that can lay such a pavement as that? Asphaltum has been tried, and in a few years it had more holes than wholeness. The deposit of stucco is by no means thick, and yet it bears no traces, of the wear of the thousand feet that must so oft have pressed it.

A few steps from where we have entered, brings us to the southwest corner of the Pompeian Forum, where cluster as round a common centre, the relics of most of the public edifices of Pompeii.

The remains of that building on our right, was once the Basilica of Pompeii, answering to our more modern Court House. You approach it through a vestibule, and from the vestibule, there is an ascent, by a broad flight of steps to the Hall of Justice itself. There appears to have been two rows of noble fluted columns at its sides, and one row on each end, supporting its vaulted roof. This Hall must have been quite grand in its proportions, being of a single story, with an arched ceiling. Along the upper space of the shafts of those side rows of fluted columns, is still discernible, the traces of a gallery, from which spectators could have a full view of the proceedings below. At the south end of this noble Hall, is still standing "the Tribune," elevated several feet from the floor, and once ascended by a flight of steps. This was the lofty position of the Judge or Prætor, from which he heard and decided causes. It must have been a court of criminal jurisdiction, as below the floor of this Tribune, which has evidently been of mosaic, are small dungeons, no doubt used for the temporary confinement of prisoners; and the holes are still

discernible, through which orders were communicated by the Judge to the keeper below. Those side rooms, on the right and left of the Tribune, served, no doubt, as robing rooms for the the minister of justice and for the officers of the Court. The external walls of this edifice are quite plain; but in the interior, courses of masonry are represented in stucco, painted with various colors, in imitation of marble. The large fluted sides and front columns, which once supported the roof, and portico, are of singular construction; being formed of pieces of brick and tufa, radiating from a common centre. These, as well as the walls, are covered with a stucco, that has the appearance of marble, with all its hardness, and certainly with more of its polish. The art of constructing so durable a cement, has certainly passed away from the world. This building, two hundred and twenty feet in length, and ninety in breadth, must have been a splendid edifice when perfect. Boast as we may of our wealth, enterprise and architectural skill—such a plan of a Court House in our day, laid before a Board of County Freeholders, would be received, with about as much ceremony, as a bombshell with a lighted fusee, should it fall in the centre of the table, round which the astute guardians of the county hold such profound deliberations. The solitary columns of this ancient temple of justice, still stand, mute witnesses of the architectural proportion and beauty of the perfect edifice. The marble slabs of the ancient pavement, worn by the hurrying feet of patron and client are still there. On the walls the loafing idlers about the court room, have scratched the initials of their names, and some rude caricatures, showing that this habit of defacing public places, is not original with us; and was a Pompeian, as well as a Yankee