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and made the most solemn protestations of innocence, and unqualified submission to the Porte. The admiral received them with great civility, expressed himself willing to forget all that had passed, and ordered coffee and a variety of refreshments. But no sooner had the pacha landed his forces, about six thousand men, than he gave the signal for the massacre. The details given to me afterwards, by the Sciotes who had escaped, were enough to harrow up the soul. During the massacre, the Turks, exhausted, sheathed at times their bloody sabres and ataghans, and, seated beneath the trees on the shore, took their pipes and coffee, chatted, or fell asleep in the shade. In the course of a few hours they rose refreshed, and began to slay indiscriminately all who came in their way. It was vain to implore mercy; the young and gay Sciotes, but a few days before the pride of the islands, found their loveliness no shield to them, but fell stabbed before their mothers' eyes, or, flying into the gardens, were caught by their long and braided tresses, and quickly despatched. The wild and confused cries of pain and death were mingled with the fierce shouts of " Mahomet and vengeance 1" the Greek was seen kneeling for pity, or flying with desperate speed, and the Turkish soldier rushing by with his reeking weapon, or holding in his hand some head dropping with blood. The close of the day brought little reprieve; the moonlight spreading vividly over the town, the shores, and the rich groves of fruit trees, rendered escape or concealment almost impossible. But, as the work of death paused at intervals from very weariness, the loud sounds of horror and carnage sunk into those of more hushed and bitter woe. The heartbroken wail of parents over their dying and violated child—the hurried and shuddering tones of despair of those to whom a few hours would bring inevitable death—the cry of the orphan and widowed around the mangled forms of their dearest relatives, mingled with curses on the murderer, went up to heaven! But the pause for mourning was short—the stillness of the night was suddenly broken by the clash of arms and the dismal war cry of the Ottoman soldiery, "Death !—death to the Greeks—to the enemies of the Prophet—Allah il Allah!" and the capitan pacha in the midst, with furious gestures, urged on his troops to the slaughter. Every house and garden were strewed with corpses; beneath the orange trees, by the fountain side, on the rich carpet, and the marble pavement, lay the young, the beautiful, and the aged, in the midst of their loved and luxurious retreats. Day after day passed; and lying as they fell, alone, or in groups, no hand bore them to their grave while survivors yet remained to perish. At last, when all was over, they were thrown in promiscuous heaps, the senator and the delicate and richly attired woman of rank mingled with the lowest of the populace, into large pits dug for the purpose, which served as universal sepulchres.

Twenty thousand are computed to have perished during the few days that the massacre lasted. Happy were the few who could pass the barrier of rocky mountains, beyond which they were for the time secure, or were received into some of the boats or vessels on the coast, and thus snatched from their fate. It was my fortune afterwards to meet several times with these wretched fugitives, wandering in search of an asylum; so pale, worn, and despairing, they presented a picture of exquisite misery—girls of a tender age on foot, sinking beneath the heat and toil of the way, yet striving to keep up with the horses that bore the sick and disabled of the party: and mothers with their infants whom they had saved, while their husbands and sons had perished. One who had been a lady in her own land, weeping bitterly, related to me the murder of all her children, who were five young men. Many a young Sciote woman was to be seen, her indulgent home lost for ever, her beauty and vivacity quite gone, with haggard and fearful looks, seeking in other lands for friends whom she might never find.

ANONYMOUS.

THE REMAINS OF POMPEII.

Pompeii is only three miles from Stabiae, but on the very side itself of Vesuvius, and only about five miles from its crater. The bed of ashes was in some places scarce three feet in depth, so that it must appear wonderful that the town had not been discovered long before the middle of the last century, or rather that the ashes were not removed, and the city restored immediately after its catastrophe. We may therefore conclude, that the far greater part of the inhabitants of Pompeii had time to escape, and that those whose skeletons remain were either decrepid slaves, or criminals in a state of confinement. Of the latter, indeed, some were found in chains, and as for the former, when we consider the immense number employed in Roman villas, we shall wonder that so few have been hitherto discovered. However, it must be admitted, that during the course of the eruption, and taking in the whole range of its devastations, many persons perished, and among them some of distinction, as may be collected not only from Dio but from Suetonius, who relates that Titus, then emperor, devoted the property of those who lost their lives on that occasion, and had no heirs, to the relief of the survivors. Though the catastrophe took place within the space of twelve hours at the utmost, yet time was found to remove most portable articles of value, such as plate, silver, and gold ornaments, &c. as very little of this description has been discovered. The furniture which remains is to moderns of equal, perhaps greater value, as it is better calculated to give a clear and accurate idea of Roman manners, as far as they are connected with such objects.

It has been often regretted that the pictures, furniture, and even skeletons should have been removed, and not rather left and carefully preserved in the very places and attitudes where they were originally discovered. Without doubt, if articles so easily damaged, or stolen, could with any prudence have been left in their respective places, it would have heightened the charm, and contributed in a much greater degree to the satisfaction of the spectator. Pictures, statues, and pillars, or other decorations, can never produce the same effect, or excite the same interest, when ranged methodically in a gallery at Portici or Naples, as they would when occupying the very spot and standing in the very point of view for which they were originally destined. But independently even of this advantage, and stripped as it is of almost all its moveable ornaments, Pompeii possesses a secret power that captivates and fixes, I had almost said melts, the soul. In other times and in other places, one single edifice, a temple, a theatre, a tomb, that has escaped the wreck of ages, would have enchanted us; nay, an arch, the remnant of a wall, even one solitary column was beheld with veneration; but to discover a single ancient house, the abode of a Roman in his privacy, the scene of his domestic hours, was an object of fond but hopeless longing. Here, not a temple, not a theatre, nor a house, but a whole city rises before us untouched, unaltered, the very same as it was eighteen hundred years ago, when inhabited by Romans. We range through the same streets, tread the very same pavement, behold the same walls, enter the same doors, and repose in the same apartments. We are surrounded by the same objects, and out of the same windows contemplate the same scenery. While you are wandering through the abandoned rooms you may, without any great effort of imagination, expect to meet some of the former inhabitants, or perhaps the master of the house himself, and almost feel like intruders who dread the appearance of any of the family. In the streets you are afraid of turning a corner, lest you should jostle a passenger; and on entering a

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