emperor, if he is as good as they say, might have sent us a Jew.'

'Why not take one of the new sect of Nazarenes?' said a philosopher. 'I
am not cruel: but an atheist, one who denies Jupiter himself, deserves
no mercy.'

'I care not how many gods a man likes to believe in,' said the
goldsmith; 'but to deny all gods is something monstrous.'

'Yet I fancy,' said Glaucus, 'that these people are not absolutely
atheists. I am told that they believe in a God--nay, in a future state.'

'Quite a mistake, my dear Glaucus,' said the philosopher. 'I have
conferred with them--they laughed in my face when I talked of Pluto and
Hades.'

'O ye gods!' exclaimed the goldsmith, in horror; 'are there any of these
wretches in Pompeii?'

'I know there are a few: but they meet so privately that it is
impossible to discover who they are.'

As Glaucus turned away, a sculptor, who was a great enthusiast in his
art, looked after him admiringly.

'Ah!' said he, 'if we could get him on the arena--there would be a model
for you! What limbs! what a head! he ought to have been a gladiator! A
subject--a subject--worthy of our art! Why don't they give him to the
lion?'

Meanwhile Fulvius, the Roman poet, whom his contemporaries declared
immortal, and who, but for this history, would never have been heard of
in our neglectful age, came eagerly up to Glaucus. 'Oh, my Athenian, my
Glaucus, you have come to hear my ode! That is indeed an honour; you, a
Greek--to whom the very language of common life is poetry. How I thank
you. It is but a trifle; but if I secure your approbation, perhaps I may
get an introduction to Titus. Oh, Glaucus! a poet without a patron is
an amphora without a label; the wine may be good, but nobody will laud
it! And what says Pythagoras?--"Frankincense to the gods, but praise to
man." A patron, then, is the poet's priest: he procures him the incense,
and obtains him his believers.'

'But all Pompeii is your patron, and every portico an altar in your
praise.'

'Ah! the poor Pompeians are very civil--they love to honour merit. But
they are only the inhabitants of a petty town--spero meliora! Shall we
within?'

'Certainly; we lose time till we hear your poem.'

At this instant there was a rush of some twenty persons from the baths
into the portico; and a slave stationed at the door of a small corridor
now admitted the poet, Glaucus, Clodius, and a troop of the bard's other
friends, into the passage.

'A poor