THE BLIND FLOWER-GIRL, AND THE BEAUTY OF FASHION. THE ATHENIAN'S . THE READER'S INTRODUCTION TO ARBACES OF EGYPT.  
TALKING lightly on a thousand matters, the two young men sauntered through the streets; they were now in that quarter which was filled with the gayest shops, their open interiors all and each radiant with the yet colors of , inconceivably in fancy and design. The sparkling fountains, that at every threw their grateful spray in the summer air; the crowd of passengers, or rather loiterers, mostly clad in robes of the Tyrian dye; the gay groups collected round each more attractive shop; the slaves passing to and fro with buckets of bronze, cast in the most shapes, and borne upon their heads; the country girls stationed at frequent with baskets of blushing fruit, and flowers more to the ancient Italians than to their descendants (with whom, indeed, "latet anguis in herba," a disease seems in every violet and rose); the numerous haunts which fulfilled with that idle people the office of cafes and clubs at this day; the shops, where on shelves of marble were ranged the vases of wine and oil, and before whose thresholds, seats, protected from the sun by a purple , invited the weary to rest and the indolent to lounge—made a scene of such glowing and excitement, as might well give the Athenian spirit of Glaucus an excuse for its susceptibility to joy.
 
'Talk to me no more of Rome,' said he to Clodius. 'Pleasure is too stately and in those walls: even in the precincts of the court—even in the Golden House of Nero, and the glories of the palace of Titus, there is a certain dulness of magnificence—the eye aches—the spirit is wearied; besides, my Clodius, we are discontented when we compare the enormous luxury and wealth of others with the mediocrity of our own state. But here we surrender ourselves easily to pleasure, and we have the brilliancy of luxury without the lassitude of its pomp.'
 
'It was from that feeling that you chose your summer retreat at Pompeii?'
 
'It was. I prefer it to Baiae: I grant the charms of the latter, but I love not the who resort there, and who seem to weigh out their pleasures by the drachm.'
 
'Yet you are fond of the learned, too; and as for poetry, why, your house is with AEschylus and Homer, the and the drama.'
 
'Yes, but those Romans who my Athenian ancestors do everything so heavily. Even in the chase they make their slaves carry Plato with them; and whenever the boar is lost, out they take their books and their , in order not to lose their time too. When the dancing-girls swim before them in all the blandishment of Persian manners, some drone of a freedman, with a face of stone, reads them a section of Cicero "De Officiis". Unskilful pharmacists! pleasure and study are not elements to be thus mixed together, they must be enjoyed separately: the Romans lose both by this pragmatical affectation of , and prove that they have no souls for either. Oh, my Clodius, how little your countrymen know of the true of a Pericles, of the true witcheries of an Aspasia! It was but the other day that I paid a visit to Pliny: he was sitting in his summer-house writing, while an unfortunate slave played on the tibia. His nephew (oh! whip me such coxcombs!) was reading Thucydides' description of the plague, and nodding his little head in time to the music, while his lips were repeating all the details of that terrible . The puppy saw nothing incongruous in learning at the same time a ditty of love and a description of the plague.'
 
'Why, they are much the same thing,' said Clodius.
 
'So I told him, in excuse for his coxcombry—but my youth stared me in the face, without taking the jest, and answered, that it was only the insensate ear that the music pleased, whereas the book (the description of the plague, mind you!) elevated the heart. "Ah!" quoth the fat uncle, , "my boy is quite an Athenian, always mixing the utile with the dulce." O Minerva, how I laughed in my sleeve! While I was there, they came to tell the boy-sophist that his favorite freedman was just dead of a fever. "Inexorable death!" cried he; "get me my Horace. How beautifully the sweet poet consoles us for these misfortunes!" Oh, can these men love, my Clodius? Scarcely even with the senses. How rarely a Roman has a heart! He is but the of genius—he wants its bones and flesh.'
 
Though Clodius was secretly a little sore at these remarks on his countrymen, he to sympathize with his friend, partly because he was by nature a , and partly because it was the fashion among the dissolute young Romans to affect a little contempt for the very birth which, in reality, made them so ; it was the mode to imitate the Greeks, and yet to laugh at their own clumsy imitation.
 
Thus , their steps were arrested by a crowd gathered round an open space where three streets met; and, just where the of a light and graceful temple threw their shade, there stood a young girl, with a flower-basket on her right arm, and a small three-stringed instrument of music in the left hand, to whose low and soft tones she was a wild and half-barbaric air. At every pause in the music she waved her flower-basket round, the loiterers to buy; and many a sesterce was showered into the basket, either in compliment to the music or in to the songstress—for she was blind.
 
'It is my poor Thessalian,' said Glaucus, stopping; 'I have not seen her since my return to Pompeii. ! her voice is sweet; let us listen.'
 
          THE BLIND FLOWER-GIRL'S SONG
 
                    I.
 
         Buy my flowers—O buy—I pray!
           The blind girl comes from afar;
         If the earth be as fair as I hear them say,
           These flowers her children are!
         Do they her beauty keep?
           They are fresh from her lap, I know;
         For I caught them fast asleep
           In her arms an hour ago.
           With the air which is her breath—
          Her soft and delicate breath—
          Over them murmuring low!
 
        On their lips her sweet kiss lingers yet,
        And their cheeks with her tender tears are wet.
        For she weeps—that gentle mother weeps—
       (As morn and night her watch she keeps,
        With a heart and a care)
        To see the young things grow so fair;
           She weeps—for love she weeps;
           And the dews are the tears she weeps
           From the well of a mother's love!
 
                    II.
 
         Ye have a world of light,
           Where love in the loved rejoices;
         But the blind girl's home is the House of Night,
           And its beings are empty voices.
 
           As one in the realm below,
           I stand by the streams of !
           I hear the vain shadows ,
           I feel their soft breath at my side.
             And I thirst the loved forms to see,
           And I stretch my fond arms around,
           And I catch but a shapeless sound,
           For the living are ghosts to me.
 
            Come buy—come buy?—
          (Hark! how the sweet things sigh
           For they have a voice like ours),
           `The breath of the blind girl closes
           The leaves of the saddening roses—
          We are tender, we sons of light,
           We shrink from this child of night;
           From the grasp of the blind girl free us—
          We for the eyes that see us—
         We are for night too gay,
           In your eyes we the day—
             O buy—O buy the flowers!'
'I must have yon bunch of violets, sweet Nydia,' said Glaucus, pressing through the crowd, and dropping a handful of small coins into the basket; 'your voice is more charming than ever.'
 
The blind girl started forward as she heard the Athenian's voice; then as suddenly paused, while the blood rushed violently over neck, cheek, and temples.
 
'So you are returned!' said she, in a low voice; and then repeated half to herself, 'Glaucus is returned!'
 
'Yes, child, I have not been at Pompeii above a few days. My garden wants your care, as before; you will visit it, I trust, to-morrow. And mind, no garlands at my house shall be woven by any hands but those of the pretty Nydia.'
 
Nydia smiled , but did not answer; and Glaucus, placing in his breast the violets he had selected, turned and carelessly from the crowd.
 
'So she is a sort of client of yours, this child?' said Clodius.
 
'Ay—does she not sing ? She interests me, the poor slave! Besides, she is from the land of the Gods' hill—Olympus frowned upon her cradle—she is of Thessaly.'
 
'The witches' country.'
 
'True: but for my part I find every woman a witch; and at Pompeii, by Venus! the very air seems to have taken a love-philtre, so handsome does every face without a beard seem in my eyes.'
 
'And lo! one of the handsomest in Pompeii, old Diomed's daughter, the rich Julia!' said Clodius, as a young lady, her face covered by her veil, and attended by two female slaves, approached them, in her way to the baths.
 
'Fair Julia, we thee!' said Clodius.
 
Julia partly raised her veil, so as with some coquetry to display a bold Roman profile, a full dark bright eye, and a cheek over whose natural olive art shed a fairer and softer rose.
 
'And Glaucus, too, is returned!' said she, glancing meaningly at the Athenian. 'Has he forgotten,' she added, in a half-whisper, 'his friends of the last year?'
 
'Beautiful Julia! even Lethe itself, if it disappear in one part of the earth, rises again in another. Jupiter does not allow us ever to forget for more than a moment: but Venus, more harsh still, not even a moment's oblivion.'
 
'Glaucus is never at a loss for fair words.'
 
'Who is, when the object of them is so fair?'
 
'We shall see you both at my father's soon,' said Julia, turning to Clodius.
 
'We will mark the day in which we visit you with a white stone,' answered the gamester.
 
Julia dropped her veil, but slowly, so that her last glance rested on the Athenian with affected timidity and real boldness; the glance tenderness and reproach.
 
The friends passed on.
 
'Julia is certainly handsome,' said Glaucus.
 
'And last year you would have made that confession in a warmer tone.'
 
'True; I was dazzled at the first sight, and mistook for a that which was but an artful imitation.'
 
'Nay,' returned Clodius, 'all women are the same at heart. Happy he who a handsome face and a large dower. What more can he desire?'
 
Glaucus sighed.
 
They were now in a street less crowded than the rest, at the end of which they that broad and most lovely sea, which upon those delicious coasts seems to have its of terror—so soft are the crisping winds that around its , so glowing and so various are the which it takes from the clouds, so are the perfumes which the breezes from the land over its depths. From such a sea might you well believe that Aphrodite rose to take the empire of the earth.
 
'It is still early for the bath,' said the Greek, who was the creature of every impulse; 'let us wander from the crowded city, and look upon the sea while the noon yet laughs along its billows.'
 
'With all my heart,' said Clodius; 'and the bay, too, is always the most part of the city.'
 
Pompeii was the miniature of the civilization of that age. Within the narrow compass of its walls was contained, as it were, a of every gift which luxury offered to power. In its minute but glittering shops, its tiny palaces, its baths, its , its theatre, its circus—in the energy yet , in the refinement yet the , of its people, you beheld a model of the whole empire. It was a toy, a plaything, a showbox, in which the gods seemed pleased to keep the representation of the great of earth, and which they afterwards hid from time, to give to the wonder of posterity—the moral of the , that under the sun there is nothing new.
 
Crowded in the glassy bay were the of commerce and the for the pleasures of the rich citizens. The boats of the fishermen rapidly to and fro; and afar off you saw the tall masts of the fleet under the command of Pliny. Upon the shore sat a Sicilian who, with gestures and flexile features, was to a group of fishermen and peasants a strange tale of shipwrecked and friendly dolphins—just as at this day, in the modern neighborhood, you may hear upon the of Naples.
 
Drawing his comrade from the crowd, the Greek his steps towards a part of the beach, and the two friends, seated on a small crag which rose amidst the smooth , the and cooling breeze, which dancing over the waters, kept music with its invisible feet. There was, perhaps, something in the scene that invited them to silence and reverie. Clodius, shading his eyes from the burning sky, was calculating the gains of the last week; and the Greek, leaning upon his hand, and shrinking not from that sun—his nation's —with whose fluent light of poesy, and joy, and love, his own were filled, gazed upon the broad expanse, and envied, perhaps, every wind that bent its towards the shores of Greece.
 
'Tell me, Clodius,' said the Greek at last, 'hast thou ever been in love?'
 
'Yes, very often.'
 
'He who has loved often,' answered Glaucus, 'has loved never. There is but one Eros, though there are many of him.'
 
'The counterfeits are not bad little gods, upon the whole,' answered Clodius.
 
'I agree with you,' returned the Greek. 'I adore even the shadow of Love; but I adore himself yet more.'
 
'Art thou, then, soberly and honestly in love? Hast thou that feeling which the poets describe—a feeling that makes us neglect our suppers, forswear the theatre, and write ? I should never have thought it. You dissemble well.'
 
'I am not far gone enough for that,' returned Glaucus, smiling, 'or rather I say with Tibullus—
 
He whom love rules, where'er his path may be, Walks safe and sacred.
 
In fact, I am not in love; but I could be if there were but occasion to see the object. Eros would light his torch, but the priests have given him no oil.'
 
'Shall I guess the object?—Is it not Diomed's daughter? She adores you, and does not affect to it; and, by Hercules, I say again and again, she is both handsome and rich. She will the door-posts of her husband with golden fillets.'
 
'No, I do not desire to sell myself. Diomed's daughter is handsome, I grant: and at one time, had she not been the grandchild of a freedman, I might have... Yet no—she carries all her beauty in her face; her manners are not maiden-like, and her mind knows no culture save that of pleasure.'
 
'You are ungrateful. Tell me, then, who is the fortunate ?'
 
'You shall hear, my Clodius. Several months ago I was sojourning at Neapolis, a city to my own heart, for it still retains the manners and stamp of its Grecian origin—and it yet merits the name of Parthenope, from its delicious air and its beautiful shores. One day I entered the temple of Minerva, to offer up my prayers, not for myself more than for the city on which Pallas smiles no longer. The temple was empty and . The recollections of Athens crowded fast and meltingly upon me: imagining myself still alone in the temple, and absorbed in the earnestness of my devotion, my prayer from my heart to my lips, and I wept as I prayed. I was startled in the midst of my devotions, however, by a deep sigh; I turned suddenly round, and just behind me was a female. She had raised her veil also in prayer: and when our eyes met, methought a ray shot from those dark and smiling at once into my soul. Never, my Clodius, have I seen mortal face more molded: a certain and yet elevated its expression: that unutterable something, which springs from the soul, and which our have imparted to the aspect of , gave her beauty I know not what of divine and noble; tears were rolling down her eyes. I guessed at once that she was also of Athenian lineage; and that in my prayer for Athens her heart had responded to mine. I to her, though with a voice—"Art thou not, too, Athenian?" said I, "O beautiful virgin!" At the sound of my voice she blushed, and half drew her veil across her face.—"My ' ashes," said she, " by the waters of Ilissus: my birth is of Neapolis; but my heart, as my lineage, is Athenian."—"Let us, then," said I, "make our offerings together": and, as the priest now appeared, we stood side by side, while we followed the priest in his ceremonial prayer; together we touched the knees of the goddess—together we laid our olive garlands on the altar. I felt a strange emotion of almost sacred tenderness at this companionship. We, strangers from a far and fallen land, stood together and alone in that temple of our country's deity: was it not natural that my heart should yearn to my countrywoman, for so I might surely call her? I felt as if I had known her for years; and that simple seemed, as by a miracle, to operate on the sympathies and ties of time. Silently we left the temple, and I was about to ask her where she dwelt, and if I might be permitted to visit her, when a youth, in whose features there was some kindred resemblance to her own, and who stood upon the steps of the fane, took her by the hand. She turned round and bade me farewell. The crowd separated us: I saw her no more. On reaching my home I found letters, which obliged me to set out for Athens, for my relations threatened me with litigation concerning my inheritance. When that suit was happily over, I repaired once more to Neapolis; I instituted throughout the whole city, I could discover no clue of my lost countrywoman, and, hoping to lose in gaiety all remembrance of that beautiful , I hastened to myself amidst the luxuries of Pompeii. This is all my history. I do not love; but I remember and regret.'
 
As Clodius was about to reply, a slow and stately step approached them, and at the sound it made amongst the pebbles, each turned, and each recognized the new-comer.
 
It was a man who had scarcely reached his fortieth year, of tall , and of a thin but nervous and frame. His skin, dark and bronzed, betrayed his Eastern origin; and his features had something Greek in their outline (especially in the chin, the lip, and the brow), save that the nose was somewhat raised and ; and the bones, hard and visible, forbade that fleshy and waving contour which on the Grecian physiognomy preserved even in manhood the round and beautiful curves of youth. His eyes, large and black as the deepest night, shone with no varying and uncertain . A deep, thoughtful, and half-melancholy calm seemed unalterably in their and commanding gaze. His step and were peculiarly and lofty, and something foreign in the fashion and the sober hues of his garments added to the impressive effect of his quiet and stately form. Each of the young men, in the new-comer, made mechanically, and with care to conceal it from him, a slight gesture or sign with their fingers; for Arbaces, the Egyptian, was supposed to possess the fatal gift of the evil eye.
 
'The scene must, indeed, be beautiful,' said Arbaces, with a cold though smile, 'which draws the gay Clodius, and Glaucus the all admired, from the crowded thoroughfares of the city.'
 
'Is Nature ordinarily so unattractive?' asked the Greek.
 
'To the dissipated—yes.'
 
'An reply, but scarcely a wise one. Pleasure delights in contrasts; it is from dissipation that we learn to enjoy , and from solitude dissipation.'
 
'So think the young philosophers of the Garden,' replied the Egyptian; 'they mistake lassitude for , and imagine that, because they are sated with others, they know the delight of loneliness. But not in such can Nature that enthusiasm which alone draws from her reserve all her unspeakable beauty: she demands from you, not the of passion, but all that , from which you only seek, in adoring her, a release. When, young Athenian, the moon revealed herself in visions of light to Endymion, it was after a day passed, not amongst the haunts of men, but on the still mountains and in the solitary valleys of the hunter.'
 
'Beautiful !' cried Glaucus; 'most unjust application! Exhaustion! that word is for age, not youth. By me, at least, one moment of has never been known!'
 
Again the Egyptian smiled, but his smile was cold and , and even the unimaginative Clodius froze beneath its light. He did not, however, reply to the passionate of Glaucus; but, after a pause, he said, in a soft and melancholy voice:
 
'After all, you do right to enjoy the hour while it smiles for you; the rose soon , the perfume soon . And we, O Glaucus! strangers in the land and far from our fathers' ashes, what is there left for us but pleasure or regret!—for you the first, perhaps for me the last.'
 
The bright eyes of the Greek were suddenly with tears. 'Ah, speak not, Arbaces,' he cried—'speak not of our ancestors. Let us forget that there were ever other liberties than those of Rome! And Glory!—oh, vainly would we call her ghost from the fields of Marathon and Thermopylae!'
 
'Thy heart thee while thou speakest,' said the Egyptian; 'and in thy gaieties this night, thou be more mindful of Leoena than of Lais. Vale!'
 
Thus saying, he gathered his robe around him, and slowly swept away.
 
'I breathe more freely,' said Clodius. 'Imitating the Egyptians, we sometimes introduce a skeleton at our feasts. In truth, the presence of such an Egyptian as yon shadow were spectre enough to sour the richest grape of the Falernian.'
 
'Strange man! said Glaucus, ; 'yet dead though he seem to pleasure, and cold to the objects of the world, scandal him, or his house and his heart could tell a different tale.'
 
'Ah! there are whispers of other orgies than those of Osiris in his gloomy . He is rich, too, they say. Can we not get him amongst us, and teach him the charms of ? Pleasure of pleasures! hot fever of hope and fear! inexpressible unjaded passion! how fiercely beautiful thou art, O Gaming!'
 
'Inspired—inspired!' cried Glaucus, laughing; 'the speaks poetry in Clodius. What miracle next!'