low tone, but so that he did not lose a word, "I am Tyche Novoleja, companion of the pleasures of Arria Marcella, daughter of Arrius Diomedes. My mistress loves you; follow me!" Arria Marcella had just stepped into her litter, carried by four slaves naked to the waist, their bronze skins glittering in the sun. The curtain of the litter was open; and a white hand, glittering with rings, made a sign to Octavio, as if to confirm the words of her maid. The purple curtain fell, and the litter went on its way. Tyche conducted Octavio by short cuts and alleys, crossing the streets by stepping lightly upon the pieces of stone which connected the sidewalks, and between which were the ruts for carriage-wheels. Octavio noticed that they traversed some quarters of Pompeii that modern people have not discovered, and which were consequently unknown to him. This strange circumstance, among so many others, did not astonish him. He had decided to be astonished at nothing. In all this phantasmagoria, which would have driven an antiquary wild with happiness, he saw only the black and profound eye of Arria Marcella, and the superb throat victorious over the centuries, and which even destruction wanted to preserve. They arrived at a door, which opened and closed quickly after their entrance; and Octavio found himself in a court surrounded by columns of marble of the Ionic order, painted half their height of a lively yellow color, and the capital relieved by red and blue ornaments. A garland of birthwort suspended its large leaves, in the form of a heart, from the summit; and near a basin surrounded by plants, a flaming rose was held by a sculptured paw. The walls were made of fancifully decorated panels. Octavio noticed all the details with a glance; for Tyche put him into the hands of some slaves, who carried him into a thermal bath, in spite of his impatience. After having passed through the different degrees of vaporized heat, being rubbed with a flesh brush, then washed in perfumed oils and cosmetics, he was clothed in a white tunic, and found Tyche at the opposite door waiting for him. She took his hand, and led him into another richly decorated room. Upon the ceiling were paintings, exceedingly pure in design, of a richness of color, and freedom of touch, which belong to the hand of a master and not of a simple decorator; a frieze composed of stags, hares, and birds playing among foliage extended above a border of marble; the mosaic pavement, marvellously done, perhaps by Sosimus of Pergame, represented figures in relief, executed with a skill that rendered them lifelike. At the rear of the room, upon a divan or bed, Arria Marcella was stretched in a position which recalled the woman in bed, by Phidias, upon the front of the Parthenon. Her stockings, embroidered with pearls, lay at the foot of the bed; and her beautiful naked foot, whiter than snow or marble, peeped out from under a light coverlid of white linen of the finest quality. Two earrings made of strung pearls lay along her pale cheeks; a collar of balls of gold, with pear-shaped pendants, hung over her breast, left half uncovered by the negligently arranged folds of a light straw-colored handkerchief, with a Greek border of black; a band of black and gold held her ebony-black hair in place (for she had changed her costume on returning from the theatre); and around her arm, like the asp around the arm of Cleopatra, was coiled several times a golden serpent, with eyes of precious stones. A little table supported by griffins, incrusted with gold, silver, and ivory, was at the foot of the bed; and upon it were confections in little plates of silver and gold. These plates were ornamented with precious paintings. Every thing indicated that all was prepared for a husband or lover: fresh flowers filled the air with their perfume, and vessels laden with wine were placed in urns heaped with snow. Arria Marcella signed to Octavio to sit down beside her on the divan, and to partake of the repast. The young man, half crazed by surprise and love, took at hazard some mouthfuls from the plates which the small Asiatic slaves with white hair held up to him. Arria did not eat; but she sipped continually from a vase of opal tint, filled with wine of a deep purple color. As she drank, a hardly perceptible rose tint spread itself over her pale face from her heart, which had not beaten for so many years. Meanwhile, her naked arm, which Octavio slightly touched in raising his glass, was cold as marble. "Oh! when you stopped at Studij to contemplate the piece of hardened lava which preserved my form," said Arria Marcella, turning her long, deep glance upon Octavio," and which caused your soul to ardently wish for me, I felt it in this world in which my soul floats invisible to human eyes. Faith made God, and love made woman. One is really dead, only when she is no longer loved. Your love has given me life: the powerful evocation of your heart has spanned the distance which separated us. "In fact, nothing dies," she con tinued; "every thing exists forever: no power can destroy that which once exists. All action, all words, all forms, all thoughts, fall into the universal ocean of things, and make circles, which go on growing larger to the confines of eternity. Material forms disappear only for the gross eye; and the spirits, which are detached, people the Infinite. Paris is still charming Helen in the unknown regions of space. Cleopatra's galley still spreads its silken sails upon the azure of an ideal Cyanus. Some passionate and powerful natures have been able to call back the centuries apparently gone, and give life to people dead for all eternity. Faust had for his mistress the daughter of Tyndare, and has led her to his Gothic chateau at the bottom of the mysterious abyss of Hades. Octavio has now come to live an hour under the reign of Titus, and make love to Arria Marcella, daughter of Arrius Diomedes, at this moment lying near him upon an antique bed in a town destroyed for all the rest of the world." "I was disgusted with all women," said Octavio, "and all things common, and it was for you whom I waited; and this memento, preserved by the curiosity of man, has by its secret magnetism put me in communication with your soul. I do not know whether you are a dream or a reality, a phantom or a woman; whether, like Ixion, I press a cloud to my breast; or whether I am the victim of sorcery: but I do know that you will be my first and my last love." "May Eros, son of Aphrodite, hear your promise!" said Arria, resting her head upon his shoulder with a passionate gesture. "Hold me to your young breast; breathe upon me with your hot, sweet breath: I am cold from being so long without love." And Octavio pressed this beautiful creature to his heart, and kissed her lips: the softness of this beautiful flesh could be felt through his tunic. The band which detained her hair became unloosed, and her ebon locks spread themselves like a black sea over her lover. The slaves had carried away the table. There was nothing to be heard except the soft murmur of their own voices, mingled with the tinkling of falling water from the fountain. The little slaves, familiar with these loving scenes, pirouetted upon the mosaic pavement. Suddenly the portière was pushed back; and an old man of severe countenance, in an ample mantle, stood in the entrance. His gray beard was separated into two points like the Nazarene's, and his face was seamed and lined; a little cross of black wood hung from his neck, and left no doubt as to his belief: he belonged to the sect, quite recent at that time, called the "Disciples of Christ." Upon seeing him, Arria Marcella seemed covered with confusion, and hid her face under the folds of her mantle, like a bird who puts his head under his wing when he sees an enemy whom he cannot avoid; while Octavio leaned upon his elbow, and looked fixedly at the scowling personage who entered so brusquely upon them. "Arria, Arria!" said the stern-looking man in a tone of reproach, "was your life not sufficient for your misbehaviors, and must your infamous loves encroach upon the centuries which do not belong to you? Can you not leave the living in their sphere? Has not your body had time to cool since the day in which you died, without repenting, under the ashes of the volcano? Your two thousand years of death have not calmed you; and your voracious arms draw to your cold breast, from which your heart has disappeared, the poor insane beings intoxicated by your philtres." "Pardon, my father: do not crush me in the name of this gloomy religion in which I never believed. I believe in our ancient gods, who loved life, youth, beauty, pleasure. Do not send me back into the shades. Leave me to enjoy this life which love has given to me." "Be quiet, impious girl! Do not speak to me of your gods, who are really demons. Leave this young man, enchained by your affections, by your seductions; do not hold him longer outside the realms of his life, of which God has fixed the bounds; return to your paganism, to your Asiatic lovers, Roman or Greek. - Young Christian, abandon this phantom, who would seem more hideous to you than Empouse and Phorkyas if you could see her as she is." Octavio, cold and frigid with horror, tried to speak; but the words would not leave his lips. "Will you obey me, Arria?" cried the old man imperiously. "No, never!" replied Arria, her eyes flashing; and with dilated nostrils and trembling lips, she threw her arms around Octavio, and pressed him to her cold breast. Her furious beauty, exasperated by the struggle, seemed almost supernatural at this supreme moment, as though to leave her young lover an ineffaceable souvenir of her presence. "Come, unhappy girl," replied the old man, "I must use stronger means, and show this fascinated boy that you are but a phantom, a shadow ;" and he pronounced in a commanding voice a formula which caused the tender red tint which the rich wine had brought to Arria's cheeks to disappear. At this moment the clock of one of the distant villages by the sea struck the "Angelus." At this sound, a sigh of agony broke from the lips of the young woman. Octavio felt the arms which held him relax; the draperies which she wore, and which covered her, sunk in as though that which they enclosed had disappeared; and the unhappy young man saw nothing by his side but a handful of ashes mingled with hardened bones, among which shone the bracelets and golden jewels, crushed out of shape, as you may see them today at the museum at Naples. might have strayed to copy a painting or an inscription; and at last found him stretched out, unconscious, upon the mosaic floor of a half-ruined chamber. They found great difficulty in awaking him; and, when at last they succeeded, he would give no explanation of how he came there, except that he had a fancy to see Pompeii by moonlight, and that he had been overcome by dizziness probably, and had fallen where they found him. The little party returned to Naples as they had come; and that evening, in their box at San Carlo, Max and Fabio witnessed with more delight than ever the pirouettes of two twin-sisters of the ballet. Octavio, with a pale face and troubled brow, looked at the panto A terrible cry broke from his lips, mime and the jugglery which followed and he lost consciousness. as though he did not much doubt its reality after the adventures of the previous night. He had hardly come to himself yet. From this time Octavio was a prey to a mournful melancholy, which the good humor and jests of his friends aggravated rather than soothed: the memory of Arria Marcella pursued him night and day, and the sad ending of his strange adventure had not destroyed its charm. He He could not keep away, and secretly returned to Pompeii, and walked as before among the ruins, by the light of the moon, with a palpitating heart, filled with a wild hope; but the vision, or whatever it may have been, did not return. saw only the lizards scurrying over the stones; he heard only the cries of the night-birds; he met no more his friend Rufus Holconius; Tyche did not come, and lead him by the hand; Arria Marcella obstinately refused to rise from her ashes. At last despairing, with good cause, Octavio married a young and charming English girl, who adores him. He is perfection, his wife thinks; but Ellen, with that instinct which nothing can escape, feels that there is something wrong with her husband. But what? Her most careful watching reveals nothing. Octavio does not visit any actress; in society he takes hardly any notice of women; he even replied very coolly to the marked advances of a Russian princess, celebrated for beauty and coquetry. His secret drawer, opened during his absence, revealed no proof of infidelity to the suspicious Ellen. But how could she be jealous of Arria Marcella, daughter of Arrius Diomedes? TICKNOR & CO.'S NEW BOOKS.' LIFE OF HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. Edited by Rev. Samuel Longfellow. 2 vols., 12mo. With five new steel-engraved Portraits, and many Wood - Engravings and fac-similes. In cloth, $6.00. In half-calf, with marbled edges, $11.00. In half-morocco, with gilt top and rough edges, $11.00. "It has not been generally known that Mr. Longfellow added to his poetic gifts those of an artist. In this biography will be found letters and diaries written by the poet while abroad, and charmingly illustrated by him with dainty pen-and-ink drawings." Chicago Tribune. "A vast amount of Mr. Longfellow's correspondence, which is of far more interest than is usual, even among men of letters, on account of its fine and sympathetic literary quality. The poet's beautiful spirit shines through every private letter that he wrote. There will be no Carlyle revelations."— Boston Traveller. "Remarkably rich in material relating to the daily life of the poet. Of course, a wealth of resource has been at the command of the biographer; and the volume will include, in addition to the correspondence, several portraits, taken at different periods of Longfellow's life, from early youth to advanced age." New York Evening Post. The biography of the foremost American poet, written by his brother, is probably the most important work of the kind brought out in the United States for many years. It is rich in domestic, personal, and family interest, anecdotes, reminiscences, and other thoroughly charming memorabilia. CURIOSITIES OF THE OLD LOTTERY. The first volumes of "THE OLDEN TIME SERIES," or "Gleanings from the Old Newspapers, chiefly of Boston and Salem," with brief Comments by Henry M. Brooks of Salem, Mass. 16mo. Cloth. Price 50 cents per vol. Vol. I. "Curiosities of the Old Lottery." Vol. II. "Days of the Spinning-Wheel in New England.” Vol. III. "New-England Sunday." Should there be sufficient encouragement, the Series will be continued by these :"Quaint and Curious Advertisements; " Literary Curiosities; " "Some Strange and Curious Punishments; " "New-England Music in the latter part of the 18th, and in the beginning of the 19th Century;' "Travel in Old Times, with Some Account of Stages, Taverns, etc. ;" "Curiosities of Politics among the Old Federalists and Republicans," etc. 1 SENT, POSTPAID, ON RECEIPT OF PRICE BY TICKNOR & Co., BOSTON. |