In one of the principal streets was a ponderous stone tank, and a water-spout that supplied it, and where the tired, heated toilers from the Campagna used to rest their right hands when they bent over to put their lips to the spout, the thick stone was worn down to a broad groove an inch or two deep.  Think of the countless thousands of hands that had pressed that spot in the ages that are gone, to so reduce a stone that is as hard as iron!

They had a great public bulletin board in Pompeii—­a place where announcements for gladiatorial combats, elections, and such things, were posted—­not on perishable paper, but carved in enduring stone.  One lady, who, I take it, was rich and well brought up, advertised a dwelling or so to rent, with baths and all the modern improvements, and several hundred shops, stipulating that the dwellings should not be put to immoral purposes.  You can find out who lived in many a house in Pompeii by the carved stone door-plates affixed to them:  and in the same way you can tell who they were that occupy the tombs.  Every where around are things that reveal to you something of the customs and history of this forgotten people.  But what would a volcano leave of an American city, if it once rained its cinders on it?  Hardly a sign or a symbol to tell its story.

In one of these long Pompeiian halls the skeleton of a man was found, with ten pieces of gold in one hand and a large key in the other.  He had seized his money and started toward the door, but the fiery tempest caught him at the very threshold, and he sank down and died.  One more minute of precious time would have saved him.  I saw the skeletons of a man, a woman, and two young girls.  The woman had her hands spread wide apart, as if in mortal terror, and I imagined I could still trace upon her shapeless face something of the expression of wild despair that distorted it when the heavens rained fire in these streets, so many ages ago.  The girls and the man lay with their faces upon their arms, as if they had tried to shield them from the enveloping cinders.  In one apartment eighteen skeletons were found, all in sitting postures, and blackened places on the walls still mark their shapes and show their attitudes, like shadows.  One of them, a woman, still wore upon her skeleton throat a necklace, with her name engraved upon it—­Julie di Diomede.

But perhaps the most poetical thing Pompeii has yielded to modern research, was that grand figure of a Roman soldier, clad in complete armor; who, true to his duty, true to his proud name of a soldier of Rome, and full of the stern courage which had given to that name its glory, stood to his post by the city gate, erect and unflinching, till the hell that raged around him burned out the dauntless spirit it could not conquer.

We never read of Pompeii but we think of that soldier; we can not write of Pompeii without the natural impulse to grant to him the mention he so well deserves.  Let us remember that he was a soldier—­not a policeman —­and so, praise him.  Being a soldier, he staid,—­because the warrior instinct forbade him to fly.  Had he been a policeman he would have staid, also—­because he would have been asleep.