The father saw,
And all his fury fled:—­a dead calm fell
That instant on him:—­speechless—­fixed—­he stood,
And with a look that never wandered, gazed
Intensely on the corse.  Those laughing eyes
Were not yet closed,—­and round those ruby lips
The wonted smile returned.

Silent and pale
The father stands:—­no tear is in his eye:—­
The thunders bellow;—­but he hears them not:—­
The ground lifts like a sea;—­he knows it not:—­
The strong walls grind and gape:—­the vaulted roof
Takes shape like bubble tossing in the wind;
See! he looks up and smiles; for death to him
Is happiness.  Yet could one last embrace
Be given, ’t were still a sweeter thing to die.

It will be given.  Look! how the rolling ground,
At every swell, nearer and still more near
Moves toward the father’s outstretched arm his boy. 
Once he has touched his garment:—­how his eye
Lightens with love, and hope, and anxious fears! 
Ha, see! he has him now!—­he clasps him round;
Kisses his face; puts back the curling locks,
That shaded his fine brow; looks in his eyes;
Grasps in his own those little dimpled hands;
Then folds him to his breast, as he was wont
To lie when sleeping; and resigned, awaits
Undreaded death.

And death came soon and swift
And pangless.  The huge pile sank down at once
Into the opening earth.  Walls—­arches—­roof—­
And deep foundation stones—­all—­mingling—­fell!

Notes.—­Herculaneum and Pompeii were cities of Italy, which were destroyed by an eruption of Vesuvius in the year 79 A. D., being entirely buried under ashes and lava.  During the last century they have been dug out to a considerable extent, and many of the streets, buildings, and utensils have been found in a state of perfect preservation.

CXVI.  HOW MEN REASON. (405)

My friend, the Professor, whom I have mentioned to you once or twice, told me yesterday that somebody had been abusing him in some of the journals of his calling.  I told him that I did n’t doubt he deserved it; that I hoped he did deserve a little abuse occasionally, and would for a number of years to come; that nobody could do anything to make his neighbors wiser or better without being liable to abuse for it; especially that people hated to have their little mistakes made fun of, and perhaps he had been doing something of the kind.  The Professor smiled.

Now, said I, hear what I am going to say.  It will not take many years to bring you to the period of life when men, at least the majority of writing and talking men, do nothing but praise.  Men, like peaches and pears, grow sweet a little while before they begin to decay.  I don’t know what it is,—­whether a spontaneous change, mental or bodily, or whether it is through experience of the thanklessness of critical honesty,—­but it is a fact, that most writers, except sour and unsuccessful ones, get tired of finding fault at about the time when they are beginning to grow old.