FOR some months past I have been breathing the atmosphere of Asia and Africa. While there I was completely shut out from civilization. I have not received a paper or the scratch of a pen from any one in many weeks. I must have a letter soon, if I have to write it myself.

Since leaving Egypt I have been four days on the Mediterranean—I had almost said “four days in Gehenna.” I flattered myself that I was a moderately good sailor, but this time I lost my sea legs in half an hour after going on board the steamer, nor did I discover their whereabouts until twelve hours after landing. I thought of Paul’s experience when making a similar voyage. In Acts 27:6 we are told that Paul was put in a ship “sailing from Alexandria to Italy.” So was I. Paul’s vessel was struck with a “tempestuous wind, called Euroclydon,” and was “exceedingly tossed with a tempest.” So was mine. Paul sailed close by the islands of Crete and Clauda. So did I. I was sea-sick—so was Paul, I suppose. Indeed it was a voyage long to be remembered. I am a splendid sailor—on land—but I can not navigate a “tempestuous sea.”

Europe again! I feel as one who has been keeping company with the dead, and has now been raised from the grave and brought back to the land of the living. Verily, the people of Asia and Africa are dead—dead spiritually, dead in trespasses and sin, dead to literature and learning, dead to the progress the world is making. Not only dead, but buried—buried in conceit, in selfishness, in filth and ignorance. Yes, these people are dead and buried in a sepulchre, and against the door of that sepulchre Poverty has placed a stone which naught but the angels of God can remove. Come, O winged angel, come quickly. Roll away this stone, that these benighted people may be raised up to the nineteenth century and to God!

I am now on Italian soil in Naples, under a soft Italian sky, and God’s bright and cheerful sunshine, streaming through my window, is falling in golden ringlets upon the floor. Naples boasts 1,000,000 inhabitants, and possesses many charms for the traveler. In approaching the city from the bay the scene is peculiarly striking. It was perhaps this charming picture that gave rise to the saying: “See Naples and die.”

A fine day this to visit Pompeii, which is only fifteen miles away. It is situated on a narrow table-land which on one side slopes gently down to the bay, and on the other side rises up steeply to the crest of Mt. Vesuvius. We go by train. In half an hour after leaving Naples, we hear the conductor shouting: “Pompeii! Pompeii!!” Fifteen minutes later we are standing before “Porta della Marina,” knocking for entrance.

While waiting for the keeper to open the gate, let me relate as briefly as possible the history of this “City of the Dead,” as Sir Walter Scott calls Pompeii. This city (pro. Pom-pay-ee) was in a flourishing condition hundreds of years before the Christian era. It was founded by the Oscans, but soon fell under Greek influence and civilization. The Greeks, in turn, were subdued by the strong hand of the Caesars and Pompeii became a Roman town.

In A. D. 63, there came an earthquake and a slight eruption of Vesuvius, which together destroyed the greater part of the city. As soon, however, as the earth ceased to tremble, and the mountain to smoke, the work of re-construction began. As in Chicago, after the great fire, the debris was removed, the city was enlarged, the streets were laid out with greater care and more regularity than before. Streams of gold now flowed in from every direction. The magician waved his wand, and lo! from the wreck and ruin of the past, there rose a city of palatial residences and marble temples. Art flourished. Every wall was pictured, every niche held a statue, every column was wreathed with a garland of sculptured roses. Fountains played, monuments arose in honor of Augustus and Nero, triumphal arches were flung across the principal entrances to the city, the marble forms of mythological gods filled the public squares and stood at every street corner. On the fifteenth page of “The Last Days of Pompeii” the author says: “Pompeii was the miniature of the civilization of that age. Within the narrow compass of its walks was contained, as it were, a specimen of every gift which Luxury offered to Power. In its minute but glittering shops, its tiny palaces, its baths, its forum, its theater, its circus, in the energy yet corruption, in the refinement yet the vice of its people, you beheld a model of the whole empire. It was a toy, a play thing, a show-box, in which the gods seemed pleased to keep the representation of the great monarchy of Earth, and which they afterward hid from Time to give to the wonder of Posterity!”

This “miniature city,” rising from the midst of a luxuriant vineyard, stood on a beautiful table land and was girt around with a strong wall. Back behind the city, and close at hand, rose the awful form of that sleeping volcano. The ambitious vine had climbed up and spread its fruitful branches over the crater itself. Purple clusters of luscious fruit silently slept in the sunshine, high aloft on the mountain side. Just below the city, in front and to the south, was the glassy Bay of Naples covered with vessels of commerce, and gilded galleys of the rich. All in all, Pompeii and its surroundings formed one of the most pleasing pictures that ever greeted the human eye.

Pompeii had just reached its boasted perfection when, on the 24th of August, A. D. 79, fifty years after the Crucifixion, it was destroyed by Vesuvius. Pliny, whose mother was among those buried alive, wrote two letters to his friend, the historian Tacitus, in which letters he gives a graphic description of this fearful scene. He speaks of “the premonitory earthquakes, day turned into night the extraordinary agitation of the sea, the dense clouds overhanging the land and sea, and riven by incessant flashes of lightning, the emission of fire and ashes, the descent of streams of lava, and the universal terror of men, who believed the end of the world had arrived.” At the time of the eruption many of the houses were closed; hence they were not filled, but simply surrounded by and covered with ashes. This of course excluded all air. Thus many houses were hermetically sealed, as was also the city itself. Of the 30,000 souls dwelling in Pompeii, 2,000 or more perished with the city. Pompeii, being built entirely of stone, marble and granite did not burn, but was simply buried beneath this incumbent mass. For 1,700 years it was wrapped in ashes and hid from the face of the earth. For centuries its very site was unknown, and even its name forgotten. “But earth, with faithful watch, has hoarded all,” and during the last few years much of the buried city has been unearthed and brought to light.

What a rich field for excavation! It has proved an inexhaustible store-house of wealth, and a perfect treasury of art. Great quantities of gold and silver coins and jewelry, frescoes, pictures, statuary, household furniture, and cooking utensils, have been found; also several large loaves of bread in a perfect state of preservation, and jars of pickled olives. How strange to have one’s appetite tempted by articles of food that were prepared for those who lived 1,700 years ago!

Many dogs and horses, and not less than three to four hundred human bodies, have been discovered. Eighteen bodies were in one room. You see to-day the contortions their bodies were in, and the expression their countenances wore, at the moment of death. Their tangled and disheveled hair is clotted with ashes. In the excitement and confusion of that awful hour, the terror-stricken inhabitants of the doomed city ran to and fro through the streets, calling upon their gods for safety and deliverance. They were over-powered by the falling shower of ashes and cinders. They threw themselves upon the ground, their faces upon their arms. At this moment, the sluggish stream of wet ashes which poured forth from Vesuvius passed over them. Many no doubt welcomed death. For seventeen centuries their quiet slumbers were undisturbed.

One man was found with ten pieces of gold in one hand, and a large key in the other. Gold, however, was no bribe to the fiery fiend. But for that gold, the owner might have escaped; but no, he must return to get it. He would not leave it. Hence he did not leave at all. I know many men who are acting as foolishly to-day, as this citizen of Pompeii did ages ago. Many a man says: “I will make my fortune; I will get my gold first, and then look to my soul’s welfare.” O reader, the day of judgment is at hand! “Flee from the wrath to come;” “flee for thy life.” “Seek first the kingdom of God and His righteousness,” and then get your gold.

Some of these bodies are adorned now as on the day of death, with rings and bracelets and necklaces.

The most poetical thing, perhaps, that Pompeii has yielded to modern research is two bodies, male and female, who died in each other’s arms. Let us imagine these persons in the spring-time of life, with the dew of youth still fresh upon their brows; that the girl was beautiful and accomplished, the man strong and true and brave; that their hearts had been touched by Love’s magic wand, and made one; that when on that August day darkness came, when the earth shook, and the volcano poured forth molten streams of fire and consternation, he could have escaped, but he would not go without her. He sought her and she sought him. But when they found each other she was weak and exhausted and could go no farther. She said: “Go, loved one; go save, save thyself!” He replied: “Leave thee, never! Let the thunder roar and the lightnings flash; let the earth reel and the mountains pour forth their fiery streams of death; I die with you rather than live without you!” So saying, they embraced each other and perished. That embrace is still unbroken.

As I gaze upon the bodies of these faithful lovers, I fancy, for the time, that I am a poet with the harp of Apollo in my hand. Heavenly breezes sweep across the strings of that golden lyre, and wake for me a song which, for pathos and sweetness, rivals the minstrelsy of angels.

At present Pompeii is protected by the same wall that surrounded it when Christ was born in Bethlehem. The city is laid bare. Every thing is clean and neat. The streets are narrow, but straight and well paved with broad flags of lava. These stone-like pavements are worn in some places eight or ten inches deep by the chariot wheels that used to thunder along these busy streets.

All houses of Pompeii are now roofless, though otherwise most of them are perfectly preserved. They are usually one story high. The walls were, and are still, covered with beautiful frescoes. Mythology was a favorite subject for the painter—everywhere we see pictures of Minerva, Apollo, Jupiter, Bacchus, and Hercules performing his twelve labors. The floors, clean as any parlor, are inlaid with rich mosaics, representing historical events, gladitorial contests, etc.

As one walks the streets of Pompeii on a moonlight night, the ghost of the past rises up before him. He has read in history about the luxury, pomp, and splendor of ancient Rome, but here he sees a Roman city as it was in the golden days of Nero. One who has a vivid imagination, can stand here at night and easily people these palaces, streets, and theatres with the pleasure-loving Romans of 2,000 years ago. Ah, how they thronged these streets! How eagerly they crowded into the amphitheatre to see the gladiators measure swords with each other; to see men pitted against ferocious lions and tigers, against wild bulls and boars!

When their city was finished and the wall around it completed, the Pompeiians decided that they needed a protector. Finally the honor was accorded to Minerva. Accordingly a huge and magnificent marble statue of this Goddess was prepared and erected near Porta della Marina—the Marine Gate—the principal entrance to the city. This faultless statue was itself about twelve feet high, and stood upon a pedestal of equal altitude. In her left hand the Goddess held a shield, her right grasped a spear, while her brow was graced with the victor’s wreath. The appointed day came. The people assembled around the statue, while the best orators of Rome and the world pronounced glowing eulogies upon the new city and the wise Goddess. Thus Pompeii was dedicated and formally turned over to Minerva for her protection. And protect it she did as long as it needed no protection. But wait until that fatal night. The protector was then insensible to the trembling earth, deaf to the pealing thunder, blind to the flashing lightning that wreathed her brow. She heard not the cries of her terror-stricken people. She raised not her shield nor lifted her spear to stay the calamity. The heavens darkened, the ocean heaved, the mountain reeled, cataracts of fire came leaping down the steeps and rolling on towards the city. Yet there stood Minerva blind, dumb, mute, and motionless, able to protect neither herself nor the city!

If the Pompeiians had dedicated their city to the Great I Am, who “guides His people with His eye,” and whose “ear is ever open to their cries,” its history might have been different. Now reader, allow the author to suggest that you dedicate your life, not to the blind goddess of wealth or of fashion, but to that God who is “a very present help in every time of need”—to that God who delivered Peter from prison, and rescued Daniel from the lion’s den.