"I will give you a picture of Pompeii," said the Moon. "I was in
the suburb in the Street of Tombs, as they call it, where the fair
monuments stand, in the spot where, ages ago, the merry youths,
their temples bound with rosy wreaths, danced with the fair sisters of
Lais. Now, the stillness of death reigned around. German
mercenaries, in the Neapolitan service, kept guard, played cards,
and diced; and a troop of strangers from beyond the mountains came
into the town, accompanied by a sentry. They wanted to see the city
that had risen from the grave illumined by my beams; and I showed them
the wheel-ruts in the streets paved with broad lava slabs; I showed
them the names on the doors, and the signs that hung there yet: they
saw in the little courtyard the basins of the fountains, ornamented
with shells; but no jet of water gushed upwards, no songs sounded
forth from the richly-painted chambers, where the bronze dog kept
the door.
"It was the City of the Dead; only Vesuvius thundered forth his
everlasting hymn, each separate verse of which is called by men an
eruption. We went to the temple of Venus, built of snow-white
marble, with its high altar in front of the broad steps, and the
weeping willows sprouting freshly forth among the pillars. The air was
transparent and blue, and black Vesuvius formed the background, with
fire ever shooting forth from it, like the stem of the pine tree.
Above it stretched the smoky cloud in the silence of the night, like
the crown of the pine, but in a blood-red illumination. Among the
company was a lady singer, a real and great singer. I have witnessed
the homage paid to her in the greatest cities of Europe. When they
came to the tragic theatre, they all sat down on the amphitheatre
steps, and thus a small part of the house was occupied by an audience,
as it had been many centuries ago. The stage still stood unchanged,
with its walled side-scenes, and the two arches in the background,
through which the beholders saw the same scene that had been exhibited
in the old times--a scene painted by nature herself, namely, the
mountains between Sorento and Amalfi. The singer gaily mounted the
ancient stage, and sang. The place inspired her, and she reminded me
of a wild Arab horse, that rushes headlong on with snorting nostrils
and flying mane--her song was so light and yet so firm. Anon I thought
of the mourning mother beneath the cross at Golgotha, so deep was
the expression of pain. And, just as it had done thousands of years
ago, the sound of applause and delight now filled the theatre. 'Happy,
gifted creature!' all the hearers exclaimed. Five minutes more, and
the stage was empty, the company had vanished, and not a sound more
was heard--all were gone. But the ruins stood unchanged, as they
will stand when centuries shall have gone by, and when none shall know
of the momentary applause and of the triumph of the fair songstress;
when all will be forgotten and gone, and even for me this hour will be
but a dream of the past."