nels. We see the oil still
preserved in the jugs, the residue of wine still in the amphorae, the
figs preserved in jars, the lentils, the barley, the spices in the
cupboard; everything awaits our pleasure: the taverns with their
"bars"; the ancient guests' opinion of Mine Host scribbled on the
wall, the kitchens with their implements, the boudoirs of milady's
with the cosmetics and perfumes in the compacts. There are the
advertisements on the walls, the foods praised with all the _eclat_ of
modern advertising, the election notices, the love missives, the bank
deposits, the theatre tickets, law records, bills of sale.

Phantom-like yet real there are the good citizens of a good town,
parading, hustling, loafing--sturdy patricians, wretched plebeians,
stern centurios, boastful soldiers, scheming politicians, crafty
law-clerks, timid scribes, chattering barbers, bullying gladiators,
haughty actors, dusty travelers, making for Albinus', the famous host
at the _Via della Abbondanza_ or, would he give preference to Sarinus,
the son of Publius, who advertised so cleverly? Or, perhaps, could he
afford to stop at the "Fortunata" Hotel, centrally located?

There are, too, the boorish hayseeds from out of town trying to sell
their produce, unaccustomed to the fashionable Latin-Greek speech of
the city folks, gaping with their mouths wide open, greedily at the
steaks of sacrificial meat displayed behind enlarging glasses in the
cheap cook shop windows. There they giggle and chuckle, those wily
landlords with their blase habitues and their underlings, the greasy
cooks, the roguish "good mixers" at the bar and the winsome if
resolute _copae_--waitresses--all ready to go, to do business. So
slippery are the cooks that Plautus calls one _Congrio_--sea eel--so
black that another deserves the title _Anthrax_--coal.

There they are, one and all, the characters necessary to make up what
we call civilization, chattering agitatedly in a lingo of
Latin-Greek-Oscan--as if life were a continuous market day.

It takes no particular scholarship, only a little imagination and
human sympathy to see and to hear the ghosts of Pompeii.

There is no pose about this town, no _mise-en-scene_, no
stage-setting. No heroic gesture. No theatricals, in short, no lies.
There is to be found no shred of that vainglorious cloak which humans
will deftly drape about their shoulders whenever they happen to be
aware of the camera. There is no "registering" of an