We lingered on, looking and marveling, and betweenwhiles wondering whether our automobile’s hacking cough had got any better by resting, until the sun went down and the twilight came.  Following the guidebook’s advice we had seen the Colosseum in Rome by moonlight.  There was a full moon on the night we went there.  It came heaving up grandly, a great, round-faced, full-cream, curdy moon, rich with rennet and yellow with butter fats; but by the time we had worked our way south to Naples a greedy fortnight had bitten it quite away, until it was reduced to a mere cheese rind of a moon, set up on end against the delft-blue platter of a perfect sky.  We waited until it showed its thin rim in the heavens, and then, in the softened half-glow, with the purplish shadows deepening between the brown-gray walls of the dead city, I just naturally turned my imagination loose and let her soar.

Standing there, with the stage set and the light effects just right, in fancy I repopulated Pompeii.  I beheld it just as it was on a fair, autumnal morning in 79 A. D. With my eyes half closed, I can see the vision now.  At first the crowds are massed and mingled in confusion, but soon figures detach themselves from the rest and reveal themselves as prominent personages.  Some of them I know at a glance.  Yon tall, imposing man, with the genuine imitation sealskin collar on his toga, who strides along so majestically, whisking his cane against his leg, can be no other than Gum Tragacanth, leading man of the Bon Ton Stock Company, fresh from his metropolitan triumphs in Rome and at this moment the reigning matinee idol of the South.  This week he is playing Claude Melnotte in The Lady of Lyons; next week he will be seen in his celebrated characterization of Matthias in The Bells, with special scenery; and for the regular Wednesday and Saturday bargain matinees Lady Audley’s Secret will be given.

Observe him closely.  It is evident that he values his art.  Yet about him there is no false ostentation.  With what gracious condescension does he acknowledge the half-timid, half-daring smiles of all the little caramel-chewing Floras and Faunas who have made it a point to be on Main Street at this hour!  With what careless grace does he doff his laurel wreath, which is of the latest and most modish fall block, with the bow at the back, in response to the waved greeting of Mrs. Belladonna Capsicum, the acknowledged leader of the artistic and Bohemian set, as she sweeps by in her chariot bound for Blumberg Brothers’ to do a little shopping.  She is not going to buy anything—­she is merely out shopping.

Than this fair patrician dame, none is more prominent in the gay life of Pompeii.  It was she who last season smoked a cigarette in public, and there is a report now that she is seriously considering wearing an ankle bracelet; withal she is a perfect lady and belongs to one of the old Southern families.  Her husband has been through the bankruptcy courts twice and is thinking of going through again.  At present he is engaged in promoting and writing a little life insurance on the side.