Who that has read the “Last Days of Pompeii” can forget Nydia, the blind flower-girl? So sweet, and pure, and gentle, and devoted in her unrequited love, she steals insensibly upon the heart, and wins a place therein, which even the brilliant Ione fails to obtain! Poor, artless innocent, her life, alas! was one of disappointment from its birth.

We cannot better portray the character of this guileless being than by copying the exquisite description of Bulwer. The scene opens with a company of gay, young Pompeiians—among whom is Glaucus, the hero of the story—taking a morning stroll through the town. We let the story speak for itself.

“Thus conversing, their steps were arrested by a crowd gathered round an open space where three streets met; and just where the porticoes of a light and graceful temple threw their shade, there stood a young girl, with a flower-basket on her right arm, and a small three-stringed instrument of music in the left hand, to whose low and soft tones she was modulating a wild and half-barbaric air. At every pause in the music she gracefully waved her flower basket round, inviting the loiterers to buy; and many a sesterce was showered into the basket, either in compliment to the music, or in compassion to the songstress—for she was blind.

“ ‘It is my poor Thessalian,’ said Glaucus, stopping; ‘I have not seen her since my return to Pompeii. Hush! her voice is sweet; let us listen.’

“ ‘I must have yon bunch of violets, sweet Nydia,’ said Glaucus, pressing through the crowd, and dropping a handful of small coins into the basket; ‘your voice is more charming than ever.’

“The blind girl started forward as she heard the Athenian’s voice—then as suddenly paused, while the blood rushed violently over neck, cheek, and temples.

“ ‘So you are returned!’ said she in a low voice; and then repeated, half to herself, ‘Glaucus is returned!’

“ ‘Yes, child, I have not been at Pompeii above a few days. My garden wants your care as before, you will visit it, I trust, to-morrow. And mind, no garlands at my house shall be woven by any hands but those of the pretty Nydia.’

“Nydia smiled joyously, but did not answer; and Glaucus, placing the violets he had selected in his breast, turned gayly and carelessly from the crowd.

“ ‘So, she is a sort of client of yours, this child?’ said Clodius.

“ ‘Ay—does she not sing prettily? She interests me, the poor slave!—besides, she is from the land of the Gods’ hill—Olympus frowned upon her cradle—she is of Thessaly.’ ”

How exquisitely is the love of Nydia told in her joy at the return of Glaucus! Only a master-hand could have described it in that blush, and start, and the glad exclamation, “Glaucus is returned!”

The revellers meanwhile pass on their way, and it is not till the following morning that the flower-girl appears again upon the scene. But though she comes even while the Athenian is musing on his mistress Ione, there is a beauty around Nydia’s every movement which makes us hail her with delight. It is her appearance at this visit which the artist has transferred to the canvass. Lo! are not the limner and the author equally inimitable?

“Longer, perhaps, had been the enamored soliloquy of Glaucus, but at that moment a shadow darkened the threshold of the chamber, and a young female, still half a child in years, broke upon his solitude. She was dressed simply in a white tunic, which reached from the neck to the ankles; under her arm she bore a basket of flowers, and in the other hand she held a bronze water vase; her features were more formed than exactly became her years, yet they were soft and feminine in their outline, and without being beautiful in themselves they were almost made so by their beauty of expression; there was something ineffably gentle, and you would say patient, in her aspect—a look of resigned sorrow, of tranquil endurance, had banished the smile, but not the sweetness, from her lips; something timid and cautious in her step—something wandering in her eyes, led you to suspect the affliction which she had suffered from her birth—she was blind; but in the orbs themselves there was no visible defect, their melancholy and subdued light was clear, cloudless, and serene. ‘They tell me that Glaucus is here,’ said she; ‘may I come in?’

“ ‘Ah, my Nydia,’ said the Greek, ‘is that you? I knew you would not neglect my invitation.’

“ ‘Glaucus did but justice to himself,’ answered Nydia, with a blush, ‘for he has always been kind to the poor blind girl.’

“ ‘Who could be otherwise?’ said Glaucus, tenderly, and in the voice of a compassionate brother.

“Nydia sighed and paused before she resumed, without replying to his remark. ‘You have but lately returned? This is the sixth sun that hath shone upon me at Pompeii. And you are well? Ah, I need not ask—for who that sees the earth which they tell me is so beautiful can be ill?’

“ ‘I am well—and you, Nydia?—how you have grown! next year you will be thinking of what answer we shall make your lovers.’

“A second blush passed over the cheek of Nydia, but this time she frowned as she blushed. ‘I have brought you some flowers,’ said she, without replying to a remark she seemed to resent, and feeling about the room till she found the table that stood by Glaucus, she laid the basket upon it: ‘they are poor, but they are fresh gathered.’

“ ‘They might come from Flora herself,’ said he, kindly; ‘and I renew again my vow to the Graces that I will wear no other garlands while thy hands can weave me such as these.’

“ ‘And how find you the flowers in your viridarium? are they thriving?’

“ ‘Wonderfully so—the Lares themselves must have tended them.’

“ ‘Ah, now you give me pleasure; for I came, as often as I could steal the leisure, to water and tend them in your absence.’

“ ‘How shall I thank thee, fair Nydia?’ said the Greek. ‘Glaucus little dreamed that he left one memory so watchful over his favorites at Pompeii.’

“The hand of the child trembled, and her breast heaved beneath her tunic. She turned around in embarrassment. ‘The sun is hot for the poor flowers,’ said she, ‘to-day, and they will miss me, for I have been ill lately, and it is nine days since I visited them.’

“ ‘Ill, Nydia! yet your cheek has more color than it had last year.’

“ ‘I am often ailing,’ said the blind girl, touchingly, ‘and as I grow up I grieve more that I am blind. But now to the flowers!’ So saying, she made a slight reverence with her head, and passing into the viridarium, busied herself with watering the flowers.

“ ‘Poor Nydia,’ thought Glaucus, gazing on her, ‘thine is a hard doom. Thou seest not the earth—nor the sun—nor the ocean—nor the stars—above all, thou canst not behold Ione.’

Nydia, too, is a slave, and to a coarse inn-keeper, who would make a profit by her beauty and her singing. How her heart breaks daily at the brutal treatment of her master, and the still more cruel language of his patrons! But at length Glaucus purchases her, and she is comparatively happy. And through all her melancholy history how does her hopeless love shine out, beautifying and making more sweet than ever, her guileless character! It is a long and mournful tale. Glaucus at length succeeds in winning Ione; they escape fortunately from the destruction of Pompeii; but Nydia, uncomplaining, yet broken-hearted, disappears mysteriously from the deck of their vessel at night. Need we tell her probable fate?

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BY THE AUTHOR OF “CRUIZING IN THE LAST WAR.”

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