With earliest morn

Of that first day of darkness and amaze,
He came.
The iron door was closed-for them
Never to open more! The day, the night
Dragged slowly by; nor did they know the fate
Impending o'er the city. Well they heard
The pent-up thunders in the earth beneath,
And felt its giddy rocking; and the air

Grew hot at length, and thick; but in his straw
The boy was sleeping: and the father hoped
The earthquake might pass by: nor would he wake
From his sound rest the unfearing child, nor tell
The dangers of their state.

On his low couch

The fettered soldier sank, and, with deep awe,
Listened the fearful sounds: with upturned eye,
To the great gods he breathed a prayer; then, strove
To calm himself, and lose in sleep awhile

His useless terrors. But he could not sleep:

His body burned with feverish heat; his chains Clanked loud, although he moved not; deep in earth Groaned unimaginable thunders; sounds,

Fearful and ominous, arose and died,

Like the sad moanings of November's wind,

In the blank midnight. Deepest horror chilled
His blood that burned before; cold, clammy sweats
Came o'er him; then anon, a fiery thrill

Shot through his veins. Now, on his couch he shrunk
And shivered as in fear; now, upright leaped,

As though he heard the battle trumpet sound,
And longed to cope with death.

He slept, at last,

A troubled, dreamy sleep. Well had he slept

Never to waken more! His hours are few,

But terrible his agony.

Soon the storm

Burst forth; the lightnings glanced; the air
Shook with the thunders. They awoke; they sprung
Amazed upon their feet. The dungeon glowed

A moment as in sunshine-and was dark:
Again, a flood of white flame fills the cell,
Dying away upon the dazzled eye.

In darkening, quivering tints, as stunning sound
Dies throbbing, ringing in the ear.

With intensest awe,

The soldier's frame was filled; and many a thought
Of strange foreboding hurried through his mind,
As underneath he felt the fevered earth

Jarring and lifting; and the massive walls,

Heard harshly grate and strain: yet knew he not,

While evils undefined and yet to come

Glanced through his thoughts, what deep and cureless wound
Fate had already given.-Where, man of woe!

Where, wretched father! is thy boy? Thou call'st
His name in vain: - he can not answer thee.

Loudly the father called upon his child:
No voice replied. Trembling and anxiously

He searched their couch of straw; with headlong haste
Trod round his stinted limits, and, low bent,

Groped darkling on the earth:-no child was there.
Again he called: again, at farthest stretch

Of his accursed fetters, till the blood

Seemed bursting from his ears, and from his eyes
Fire flashed, he strained with arm extended far,
And fingers widely spread, greedy to touch

Though but his idol's garment. Useless toil!
Yet still renewed: still round and round he goes,
And strains, and snatches, and with dreadful cries
Calls on his boy.

Mad frenzy fires him now.

He plants against the wall his feet; his chain
Grasps; tugs with giant strength to force away
The deep-driven staple; yells and shrieks with rage:
And, like a desert lion in the snare,

Raging to break his toils,-to and fro bounds.
But see! the ground is opening;-a blue light
Mounts, gently waving,-noiseless; thin and cold
It seems, and like a rainbow tint, not flame;
But by its luster, on the earth outstretched,
Behold the lifeless child! his dress is singed,
And, o'er his face serene, a darkened line
Points out the lightning's track.

The father saw,

And all his fury fled:-a dead calm fell

That instant on him: -speechless-fixed - he stood, And with a look that never wandered, gazed Intensely on the corse. Those laughing eyes

Were not yet closed, and round those ruby lips The wonted smile returned.

Silent and pale

The father stands: no tear is in his eye:-
The thunders bellow; - but he hears them not:
The ground lifts like a sea; — he knows it not:
The strong walls grind and gape:—the vaulted roof
Takes shape like bubble tossing in the wind;
See! he looks up and smiles; for death to him
Is happiness. Yet could one last embrace
Be given, 't were still a sweeter thing to die.

It will be given. Look! how the rolling ground,
At every swell, nearer and still more near
Moves toward the father's outstretched arm his boy.
Once he has touched his garment: - how his eye
Lightens with love, and hope, and anxious fears!
Ha, see! he has him now!-he clasps him round;
Kisses his face; puts back the curling locks,
That shaded his fine brow; looks in his eyes;
Grasps in his own those little dimpled hands;
Then folds him to his breast, as he was wont
To lie when sleeping; and resigned, awaits
Undreaded death.

And death came soon and swift And pangless. The huge pile sank down at once Into the opening earth. Walls-arches-roofAnd deep foundation stones-all-mingling-fell!

NOTES.-Herculaneum and Pompeii were cities of Italy, which were destroyed by an eruption of Vesuvius in the year 79 A. D., being entirely buried under ashes and lava. During the last century they have been dug out to a considerable extent, and many of the streets, buildings, and utensils have been found in a state of perfect preservation.

CXVI. HOW MEN REASON.

My friend, the Professor, whom I have mentioned to you once or twice, told me yesterday that somebody had been abusing him in some of the journals of his calling. I told him that I did n't doubt he deserved it; that I hoped he did deserve a little abuse occasionally, and would for a number of years to come; that nobody could do anything to make his neighbors wiser or better without being liable to abuse for it; especially that people hated to have their

little mistakes made fun of, and perhaps he had been doing something of the kind. The Professor smiled.

Now, said I, hear what I am going to say. It will not take many years to bring you to the period of life when men, at least the majority of writing and talking men, do nothing but praise. Men, like peaches and pears, grow sweet a little while before they begin to decay. I don't know what it is, whether a spontaneous change, mental or bodily, or whether it is through experience of the thanklessness of critical honesty, but it is a fact, that most writers, except sour and unsuccessful ones, get tired of finding fault at about the time when they are beginning to grow old.

As a general thing, I would not give a great deal for the fair words of a critic, if he is himself an author, over fifty years of age. At thirty, we are all trying to cut our names in big letters upon the walls of this tenement of life; twenty years later, we have carved it, or shut up our jackknives. Then we are ready to help others, and care less to hinder any, because nobody's elbows are in our way. So I am glad you have a little life left; you will be saccharine enough in a few years.

Some of the softening effects of advancing age have struck me very much in what I have heard or seen here and elsewhere. I just now spoke of the sweetening process that authors undergo. Do you know that in the gradual passage from maturity to helplessness the harshest characters sometimes have a period in which they are gentle and placid as young children? I have heard it said, but I can not be sponsor for its truth, that the famous chieftain, Lochiel, was rocked in a cradle like a baby, in his old age. An old man, whose studies had been of the severest scholastic kind, used to love to hear little nursery stories read over and over to him. One who saw the Duke of Wellington in his last years describes him as very gentle in his aspect and demeanor. I remember a person of singu