a Pompeian house. So they have pictured this one as it was before the
disaster, with its many beautiful wall paintings, its mosaic floors, its
tiled roofs. If you can imagine these two halves fitted together, and
yourself inside, you can visit one of the most attractive houses in
Pompeii. Do you see how the tiled roof slants downward from four sides
to a rectangular opening in the highest part of the house? Below this
opening was a shallow basin into which the rainwater fell. This basin
was in the center of the atrium, the most important room in the house.
The walls of this room were painted with scenes from the Trojan war.
This is the house which has the mosaic picture of a dog on the floor of
the long entrance hall (see next page). On each side of the hall, facing
the street, are large rooms for shops, where, doubtless, the owner
conducted his business. He was not a “Tragic Poet.” Some people think he
was a goldsmith. On each side of the atrium were sleeping rooms. Can you
see that the doors are very high with a grating at the top to let in
light and air? Windows were few and small, and generally the rooms took
light and air from the inside courts rather than from outside. Back of
the atrium was a large reception room with bedrooms on each side. And
back of this was a large open court, or garden, with a colonnade on
three sides and a solid wall at the back. Opening on this garden was a
large dining room with beautiful wall paintings, a tiny kitchen, and
some sleeping rooms. This house had stairways and second story rooms
over the shops. This seems to us a very comfortable homelike house.
THE HOUSE OF THE TRAGIC POET (as it looks to-day).
Here you see the shallow basin in the floor of the atrium. This basin
had two outlets. You can see the round cistern mouth near the pool.
There was also an outlet to the street to carry off the overflow. At the
back of the garden you can see a shrine to the household gods. At every
meal a portion was set aside in little dishes for the gods.
MOSAIC OF WATCH DOG.
From the vestibule of the House of the Tragic Poet. It says loudly,
“Beware the dog!” Pictures and patterns made of little pieces of
polished stone like this are called mosaic. Sometimes American
vestibules are tiled in a simple mosaic. Wouldn’t it be fun if they had
such exciting pictures as this? A real dog, or two or three, probably
was standing inside the door, chained, or held by slaves.
THE HOUSE OF DIOMEDE.
There was a wine cellar under the colonnade. Here were twenty skeletons;
two, children. Near the door were found skeletons of two men. One had a
large key, doubtless the key of this door. He wore a gold ring and was
carrying a good deal of money. He was probably the master of the house.
Evidently the family thought at first that the wine cellar would be a
safe place, but when they found that it was not so, the master took one
slave and started out to find a way to escape. But they all perished.
RUINS OF A BAKERY, WITH MILLSTONES.
SECTION OF A MILL.
If one of the mills that were found in the bakery were sawed in two, it
would look like this. You can see where the baker’s man poured in the
wheat, and where the flour dropped down, and the heavy timbers fastened
to the upper millstone to turn it by.
PORTRAIT OF LUCIUS CÆCILIUS JUCUNDUS.
This Lucius was an auctioneer who had set free one of his slaves, Felix.
Felix, in gratitude, had this portrait of his master cast in bronze.
It stood on a marble pillar in the atrium of the house.
BRONZE CANDLEHOLDER.
It is the figure of the Roman God Silenus. He was the son of Pan, and
the oldest of the satyrs, who were supposed to be half goat. Can you
find the goat’s horns among his curls? He was a rollicking old satyr,
very fond of wine, always getting into mischief. The grape design at the
base of the little statue, and the snake supporting the candleholder,
both are symbols of the sileni.
THE DANCING FAUN.
In one of the largest and most elegant houses in Pompeii, on the floor
of the atrium, or principal room of the house, men found in the ashes
this bronze statue of a dancing faun. Doesn’t he look as if he loved
to dance, snapping his fingers to keep time? Although this great house
contained on the floor of one room the most famous of ancient mosaic
pictures, representing Alexander the Great in battle, and although it
contains many other fine mosaics, it was named from this statue, the
House of the Faun, Casa del Fauno.
HERMES IN REPOSE.
This bronze statue was found in Herculaneum, the city on the other slope
of Vesuvius which was buried in liquid mud. This mud has become solid
rock, from sixty to one hundred feet deep so that excavation is very
difficult, and the city is still for the most part buried.
THE ARCH OF NERO.
The visitors to-day are walking where Caius walked so long ago on the
same paving stones. The three stones were set up to keep chariots out of
the forum.
[ILLUSTRATION: _A Vase Store_]
OLYMPIA
TWO WINNERS OF CROWNS
The July sun was blazing over the country of Greece. Dust from the dry
plain hung in the air. But what cared the happy travelers for dust or
heat? They were on their way to Olympia to see the games. Every road
teemed with a chattering crowd of men and boys afoot and on horses. They
wound down from the high mountains to the north. They came along the
valley from the east and out from among the hills to the south. Up from
the sea led the sacred road, the busiest of all. A little caravan of men
and horses was trying to hurry ahead through the throng. The master
rode in front looking anxiously before him as though he did not see the
crowd. After him rode a lad. His eyes were flashing eagerly here and
there over the strange throng. A man walked beside the horse and watched
the boy smilingly. Behind them came a string of pack horses with slaves
to guard the loads of wine and food and tents and blankets for their
master’s camp.
“What a strange-looking man, Glaucon!” said the boy. “He has a dark
skin.”
The boy’s own skin was fair, and under his hat his hair was golden. As
he spoke he pointed to a man on the road who was also riding at the head
of a little caravan. His skin was dark. Shining black hair covered his
ears. His garment was gay with colored stripes.
“He is a merchant from Egypt,” answered the man. “He will have curious
things to sell--vases of glass, beads of amber, carved ivory, and
scrolls gay with painted figures. You must see them, Charmides.”
But already the boy had forgotten the Egyptian.
“See the chariot!” he cried.
It was slowly rolling along the stony road. A grave, handsome man stood
in it holding the reins. Beside him stood another man with a staff in
his hand. Behind the chariot walked two bowmen. After them followed a
long line of pack horses led by slaves. “They are the delegates from
Athens,” explained Glaucon. “There are, doubtless, rich gifts for Zeus
on the horses and perhaps some stone tablets engraved with new laws.”
But the boy was not listening.
“Jugglers! Jugglers!” he cried.
And there they were at the side of the road, showing their tricks and
begging for coins. One man was walking on his hands and tossing a ball
about with his feet. Another was swallowing a sword.
“Stop, Glaucon!” cried Charmides, “I must see him. He will kill
himself.”
“No, my little master,” replied the slave. “You shall see him again at
Olympia. See your father. He would be vexed if we waited.”
And there was the master ahead, pushing forward rapidly, looking neither
to the right hand nor the left. The boy sighed.
“He is hurrying to see Creon. He forgets me!” he thought.
But immediately his eyes were caught by some new thing, and his face
was gay again. So the little company traveled up the sloping road amid
interesting sights. For here were people from all the corners of the
known world--Greeks from Asia in trailing robes, Arabs in white turbans,
black men from Egypt, kings from Sicily, Persians with their curled
beards, half civilized men from the north in garments of skin. “See!”
said Glaucon at last as they reached a hilltop, “the temple!”
He pointed ahead. There shone the tip of the roof and its gold ornament.
Hovering above was a marble statue with spread wings.
“And there is Victory!” whispered Charmides. “She is waiting for Creon.
She will never wait for me,” and he sighed.
The crowd broke into a shout when they saw the temple. A company of
young men flew by, singing a song. Charmides passed a sick man. The
slaves had set down his litter, and he had stretched out his hands
toward the temple and was praying. For the sick were sometimes cured
by a visit to Olympia. The boy’s father had struck his heels into his
horse’s sides and was galloping forward, calling to his followers to
hasten.
In a few moments they reached higher land. Then they saw the sacred
place spread out before them. There was the wall all around it. Inside
it shone a few buildings and a thousand statues. Along one side
stretched a row of little marble treasure houses. At the far corner lay
the stadion with its rows of stone seats. Nearer and outside the wall
was the gymnasium. Even from a distance Charmides could see men running
about in the court.
“There are the athletes!” he thought. “Creon is with them.”
Behind all these buildings rose a great hill, dark green with trees.
Down from the hill poured a little stream. It met a wide river that
wound far through the valley. In the angle of these rivers lay Olympia.
The temple and walls and gymnasium were all of stone and looked as
though they had been there forever. But in the meadow all around the
sacred place was a city of winged tents. There were little shapeless
ones of skins lying over sticks. There were round huts woven of rushes.
There were sheds of poles with green boughs laid upon them. There were
tall tents of gaily striped canvas. Farther off were horses tethered.
And everywhere were gaily robed men moving about. Menon, Charmides’
father, looking ahead from the high place, turned to a slave.
“Run on quickly,” he said. “Save a camping place for us there on Mount
Kronion, under the trees.”
The man was off. Menon spoke to the other servants. “Push forward and
make camp. I will visit the gymnasium. Come, Charmides, we will go to
see Creon.”
They rode down the slope toward Olympia. As they passed among the tents
they saw friends and exchanged kind greetings.
“Ah, Menon!” called one. “There is good news of Creon. Every one expects
great things of him.”
“I have kept room for your camp next my tent, Menon,” said another.
“Here are sights for you, Charmides,” said a kind old man.
Charmides caught a glimpse of gleaming marble among the crowd and
guessed that some sculptor was showing his statues for sale. Yonder was
a barber’s tent. Gentlemen were sitting in chairs and men were cutting
their hair or rubbing their faces smooth with stone. In one place a
man was standing on a little platform. A crowd was gathered about him
listening, while he read from a scroll in his hands.
But the boy had only a glimpse of these things, for his father was
hurrying on. In a moment they crossed a bridge over a river and stopped
before a low, wide building. Glaucon helped Charmides off his horse.
Menon spoke a few words to the porter at the gate. The man opened the
door and led the visitors in. Charmides limped along beside his father,
for he was lame. That was what had made him sigh when he had seen
Victory hovering over Olympia. She would never give him the olive
branch. But now he did not think of that. His heart was beating fast.
His eyes were big. For before him lay a great open court baking in the
sun. More than a hundred boys were at work there, leaping, wrestling,
hurling the disk, throwing spears. During the past months they had been
living here, training for the games. The sun had browned their bare
bodies. Now their smooth skins were shining with sweat and oil. As they
bent and twisted they looked like beautiful statues turned brown and
come alive. Among them walked men in long purple robes. They seemed to
be giving commands.
“They are the judges,” whispered Glaucon. “They train the boys.”
All around the hot court ran a deep, shady portico. Here boys lay on
the tiled floor or on stone benches, resting from their exercise. Near
Charmides stood one with his back turned. He was scraping the oil and
dust from his body with a strigil. Charmides’ eyes danced with joy
at the beauty of the firm, round legs and the muscles moving in the
shoulders. Then the athlete turned toward the visitors and Charmides
cried out, “Creon!” and ran and threw his arms around him.
Then there was gay talk; Creon asked about the home and mother and
sisters in Athens, for he had been here in training for almost ten
months. Menon and Charmides had a thousand questions about the games.
“I know I shall win, father,” said Creon softly. “Four nights ago Hermes
appeared to me in my sleep and smiled upon me. I awoke suddenly and
there was a strange, sweet perfume in the air.”
Tears sprang into his father’s eyes. “Now blessed be the gods!” he
cried, “and most blessed Hermes, the god of the gymnasium!”
After a little Menon and Charmides said farewell and went away through
the chattering crowd and up under the cool trees on Mount Kronion to
their camp. The slaves had cut poles and set them up and thrown a wide
linen cover over them. Under it they had put a little table holding
lumps of brown cheese, a flat loaf of bread, a basket of figs, a pile
of crisp lettuce. Just outside the tent grazed a few goats. A man in a
soiled tunic was squatted milking one. Menon’s slave stood waiting and,
as his master came up, he took the big red bowl of foaming milk and
carried it to the table. The goatherd picked up his long crook and
started his flock on, calling, “Milk! Milk to sell!”
Menon was gay now. His worries were over. His camp was pitched in a
pleasant place. His son was well and sure of victory.
“Come, little son,” he called to Charmides. “You must be as hungry as a
wolf. But first our thanks to the gods.”
A slave had poured a little wine into a flat cup and stood now offering
it to his master. Menon took it and held it high, looking up into the
blue heavens.
“O gracious Hermes!” he cried aloud, “fulfill thy omen! And to Zeus, the
father, and to all the immortals be thanks.”
As he prayed he turned the cup and spilled the wine upon the ground.
That was the god’s portion. A slave spread down a rug for his master
to lie upon and put cushions under his elbow. Glaucon did the same for
Charmides, and the meal began. Menon talked gaily about their journey,
the games to-morrow, Creon’s training. But Charmides was silent. At last
his father said:
“Well, little wolf, you surely are gulping! Are you so starved?”
“No,” said Charmides with full mouth. “I’m in a hurry. I want to see
things.”
His father laughed and leaped to his feet.
“Just like me, lad. Come on!”
Charmides snatched a handful of figs and rolled out of the tent
squealing with joy. Menon came after him, laughing, and Glaucon followed
to care for them. “The sun is setting,” said Menon. “It will soon be
dark, and to-morrow are the games. They will keep us busy when they
begin, so you must use your eyes to-day if you want to see the fair.”
He stopped on the hillside and looked down into the sacred place.
“It is wonderful!” he said, half to himself. “The home of glory! I love
every stone of it. I have not been here since I myself won the single
race. And now my son is to win it. That was when you were a baby,
Charmides.”
“I know, father,” whispered the boy with shining eyes. “I have kissed
your olive wreath, where it hangs above our altar at home.”
The father put his hand lovingly on the boy’s yellow head.
“By the help of Hermes there soon will be a green one there for you to
kiss, lad. The gods are very good to crown our family twice.”
“I wish there were crowns for lame boys to win,” said Charmides. “I
would win one!”
He said that fiercely and clenched his fist. His father looked kindly
into his eyes and spoke solemnly.
“I think you would, my son. Perhaps there are such crowns.”
They started on thoughtfully and soon were among the crowd. There were
a hundred interesting sights. They passed an outdoor oven like a little
round hill of stones and clay. The baker was just raking the fire out of
the little door on the side. Charmides waited to see him put the loaves
into the hot cave. But before it was done a horn blew and called him
away to a little table covered with cakes.
“Honey cakes! Almond cakes! Fig cakes!” sang the man. “Come buy!”
There they lay--stars and fish and ships and temples. Charmides picked
up one in the shape of a lyre.
“I will take this one,” he said, and solemnly ate it.
“Why are you so solemn, son?” laughed Menon.
The boy did not answer. He only looked up at his father with deep eyes
and said nothing. But in a moment he was racing off to see some rope
dancers.
“Glaucon,” said the master to the slave, “take care of the boy. Give him
a good time. Buy him what he wants. Take him back to camp when he is
tired. I have business to do.”
Then he turned to talk with a friend, who had come up, and Glaucon
followed his little master.
What a good time the boy had! The rope dancers, the sword swallowers,
the Egyptian with his painted scroll, a trained bear that wrestled with
a wild-looking man dressed in skins, a cooking tent where whole sheep
were roasting and turning over a fire, another where tiny fish were
boiling in a great pot of oil and jumping as if alive--he saw them all.
He stood under the sculptors’ awning and gazed at the marble people more
beautiful than life. And when he came upon Apollo striking his lyre, his
heart leaped into his mouth. He stood quiet for a long time gazing at
this god of song. Then he walked out of the tent with shining eyes.
At last it grew dark, and torches began to blaze in front of the booths.
“Shall we go home, Charmides?” said Glaucon.
“Oh, no!” cried the boy. “I haven’t seen it all. I am not tired. It is
gayer now than ever with the torches. See all those shining flames.”
And he ran to a booth where a hundred little bronze lamps hung, each
with its tongue of clear light. It was an imagemaker’s booth. The table
stood full of little clay statues of the gods. Charmides took up one. It
was a young man leaning against a tree trunk. On his arm he held a baby.
“It is a model of the great marble Hermes in the temple of Hera, my
little master,” said the image maker. “Great Praxiteles made that one,
poor Philo made this one.”
“It is beautiful,” said Charmides and turned away, holding it tenderly
in his hand.
Glaucon waited a moment to pay for the figure. Then he followed
Charmides who had walked on. He was standing on the bridge gazing at the
water.
“Glaucon,” he said, “I must see that statue of Hermes.”
They stood there talking about the wonderful works of Praxiteles and of
many another artist. Glaucon pointed to a little wooden shed lying in
the meadow.
“That,” he said, “is the workshop of Phidias. There he made the gold and
ivory statue of Zeus that you shall see in Zeus’s temple. That workshop
will stay there many a year, I think, for people to love because so
great a thing was done there.”
“Is it so wonderful?” asked Charmides.
“When it was finished,” Glaucon answered solemnly, “Phidias stood before
it and prayed to Zeus to tell him whether it pleased the god. Great Zeus
heard the prayer, and in his joy at the beautiful thing he hurled a
blazing thunderbolt and smote the floor before the statue as if to say,
‘This image is Zeus himself.’ But I have never seen it, for a slave may
not pass the sacred wall.”
Now the full moon had risen, and the world was swimming in silver light.
The statue of Victory hung over the sacred place on spread wings. Many
another great form on its high pillar seemed standing in the deep sky
above the world. The little pool in the pebbly river had stars in the
bottom.
“This Kladeos is a savage little river in the spring,” said Glaucon. “It
tries to tear away our Olympia or drown it or cover it with sand. You
see, men have had to fence it in with stone walls.”
But Charmides was looking at the sacred place and its soft shining
statues in the sky.
“Let us walk around the wall,” he said.
So they left the river and passed the gymnasium and the gate. Along this
side the wall cast a wide shadow. Here they walked in silence. Here
there were no tents, no torches, no noisy people. Everything was quiet
in the evening air. The far-off sounds of the fair were a gentle hum. A
hundred pictures were floating in Charmides’ mind--Phidias, Zeus, Creon
with the strigil, his own little Hermes, the strange people in the fair,
the marble Apollo under the sculptor’s tent. In a few moments they
turned a corner and came out into the soft moonlight. A little beyond
gleamed a broad river, the Alphaeus. Charmides and the slave went over
and strolled along its banks. Here they were again in the crowd and
among tents. They saw a group of people and went toward them. A man
sat on a low knoll a little above the crowd. His hair hung about his
shoulders and his long robe lay in glistening folds about his feet. A
lyre rested on his knees, and he was striking the strings softly. The
sweet notes floated high in the moonlit air. At last he lifted his voice
and sang:
When the swan spreadeth out his wings to alight
On the whirling pools of the foaming stream,
He sendeth to thee, Apollo, a note.
When the sweet-voiced minstrel lifteth his lyre
And stretcheth his hand on the singing string,
He sendeth to thee, Apollo, a prayer.
Even so do I now, a worshiping bard,
With my heart lifted up to begin my lay,
Cry aloud to Apollo, the lord of song.
Then he sang of that lordliest of all minstrels, Orpheus--how the trees
swung circling about to his music; how the savage beasts lay down at his
feet to listen; how the rocks rose up at his bidding and followed him,
dancing, to build a town without hands; how he went to the dismal land
of the dead to seek his wife and with his clear lyre and sweet voice
drew tears from the iron heart of the king of hell and won back his
loved Eurydice and lost her again the same hour.
The boy, sitting there in the moonlight, went floating away on the song
until he felt himself straying through that fair garden of the dead with
singing lyre or riding with Artemis through the sky in her moon chariot.
When the song was ended, Glaucon said, “Come, little master, you have
fallen asleep. Let us go home.”
And Charmides rose and went, still clutching his image of Hermes in his
hand and still holding the song fast in his heart.
In the morning the whole great camp was awake and moving long before
daylight. Every man and boy was in his fairest clothes. On every head
was a fresh fillet. Every hand bore some beautiful gift for the gods--a
vase, a plate of gold, an embroidered robe, a basket of silver. All were
pouring to the open gate in the sacred wall. Here a procession formed.
Young men led cattle with gilded horns and swinging garlands, or sheep
with clean, combed wool. Stately priests in long chitons paced to the
music of flutes. The judges glowed in their purple robes. Then walked
the athletes, their eyes burning with excitement. And last came all the
visitors with gift-laden hands. The slaves and foreigners crowded at
the gate to see the procession pass, for on this first holy day only
freedmen and Greeks of pure blood might visit the sacred shrines. When
Charmides passed through, his heart leaped. Here was no empty field with
a few altars. He had never seen a greater crowd in the busy market place
at home in Athens. But here the people were even more beautiful than
the Athenians. Their limbs were round and perfect. They stood always
gracefully. Their garments hung in delicate folds, for they were people
made by great artists--people of marble and of bronze. All the gods of
Olympos were there, and athletes of years gone by, wrestling, running,
hurling the disc. There were bronze chariots with horses of bronze to
draw them and men of bronze to hold the reins. There were heroes of Troy
still fighting. And here and there were little altars of marble or
stone or earth or ashes with an ancient, holy statue. At every one the
procession halted. The priests poured a libation and chanted a prayer.
The people sang a hymn. Many left gifts piled about the altar. Before
Hermes Charmides left his little clay image of the god. And while
the priests prayed aloud, the boy sent up a whispered prayer for his
brother.