In fact, even at Pompeii, in this humble campo santo of the little city, we see at every step virtue rewarded after death by some munificent act of the decurions.  Sometimes it is a perpetual grant (a favor difficult to obtain), indicated by the following letters:  H.M.H.N.S. (hoc monumentum haeredes non sequitur), insuring to them the perpetual possession of their sepulchre, which could not be disposed of by their heirs.  Sometimes the space conceded was indicated upon the tomb.  For instance, we read in the sepulchre of the family of Nistacidius:  “A.  Nistacidius Helenus, mayor of the suburb Augusto-Felix.  To Nistacidius Januarius and to Mesionia Satulla.  Fifteen feet in depth, fifteen feet in frontage.”

This bench of the priestess Mamia and that of Aulus Vetius (a military tribune and duumvir dispensing justice) were in like manner constructed, with the consent of the people, upon the lands conceded by the decurions.  In fine—­and this is the most singular feature—­animals had their monuments.  This, at least, is what the guides will tell you, as they point out a large tomb in a street of the suburbs.  They call it the sepolcro dei bestiani, because the skeletons of bulls were found in it.  The antiquaries rebel against this opinion.  Some, upon the strength of the carved masks, affirm that it was a burial place for actors; others, observing that the inclosure walls shut in quite a spacious temple, intimate that it was a cemetery for priests.  For my part, I have nothing to offer against the opinion of the guides.  The Egyptians, whose gods Rome adopted, interred the bull Apis magnificently.  Animals might, therefore, find burial in the noble suburb of Pompeii.  As for the lower classes, they slept their final sleep where they could; perhaps in the common burial pit (commune sepulcrum), an ancient barbarism that has been kept up until our times; perhaps in those public burial ranges where one could purchase a simple niche (olla) for his urn.  These niches were sometimes humble and touching presents interchanged by poor people.

And in this street, where death is so gay, so vain, so richly adorned, where the monuments arose amid the foliage of trees perennially green, which they had endeavored, but without success, to render serious and sombre, where the mausolea are pavilions and dining-rooms, in which the inscriptions recall whole narratives of life and even love affairs, there stood spacious inns and sumptuous villas—­for instance, those of Arrius Diomed and Cicero.  This Arrius Diomed was one of the freedmen of Julia, and the mayor of the suburb.  A rich citizen, but with a bad heart, he left his wife and children to perish in his cellar, and fled alone with one slave only, and all the silver that he could carry away.  He perished in front of his garden gate.  May the earth press heavily upon him!