s been afforded him--

"to stand within the City Disinterred;
And hear the autumnal leaves like light footfalls
Of spirits passing through the streets; and hear
The Mountain's slumberous voice at intervals
Thrill through those roofless halls."

Before passing through the Porta Marina into the purlieus of the city, let
us first of all instil into our minds the essential difference that exists
between the ruins of Pompeii and the historic fragments of Rome or Athens.
When we gaze upon the well-known sites of the vanished glories of the
Palatine or the Acropolis, we experience no effort in looking backward
through the vista of the past and in conjuring up some vague
representation of the scenes that were once enacted in these places; the
more imaginative feel the very air vibrating with the unseen spirits of
men and women famous in the world's history. He must be indeed a
Philistine or a dullard who cannot contrive to arouse a passing exaltation
at the thought of treading in the footsteps of Cicero and the Caesars in
Rome, of Pericles and Socrates in Athens, for the very soil of the Forum
and the stones of the citadel of Pallas seem impregnated with the very
essence of history. But this is far from being the case at Pompeii, where
long careful study of details and a grasp of hard facts are really of more
avail than a poetic imagination in reclothing with flesh the dry bones of
the past, for the importance of the Campanian city is almost purely
social. The _names_ of many of its prominent citizens are certainly
familiar to us from inscriptions found, yet who were these persons that we
should take so deep an interest in their lives and fates? Who were Pansa
the aedile, Eumachia the priestess, Caecilius Jucundus, Aulus Vettius and
Epidius Rufus, and a score of other Pompeian worthies? The answer is, they
were officials or simple dwellers in a flourishing provincial town; they
had no especial literary or public reputation; their names were probably
little known beyond the walls of their own city. Imagine an English
country town, such as Exeter or Shrewsbury, suddenly overwhelmed by some
unforeseen freak of Nature and afterwards embalmed in the manner of
Pompeii as a curiosity for the edification of future ages. To what extent,
we ask, would the discovery of a place of this size and population supply
the existing dweller with a complete impression of our national life and
civilization in the opening years o