Mr. Anthony Comstock would be an unhappy
man were he turned loose in Pompeii - unhappy for a spell, but after
that exceedingly busy.
We lingered on, looking and marveling, and betweenwhiles wondering
whether our automobile's hacking cough had got any better by
resting, until the sun went down and the twilight came. Following
the guidebook's advice we had seen the Colosseum in Rome by
moonlight. There was a full moon on the night we went there. It
came heaving up grandly, a great, round-faced, full-cream, curdy
moon, rich with rennet and yellow with butter fats; but by the
time we had worked our way south to Naples a greedy fortnight had
bitten it quite away, until it was reduced to a mere cheese rind
of a moon, set up on end against the delft-blue platter of a perfect
sky. We waited until it showed its thin rim in the heavens, and
then, in the softened half-glow, with the purplish shadows deepening
between the brown-gray walls of the dead city, I just naturally
turned my imagination loose and let her soar.
Standing there, with the stage set and the light effects just
right, in fancy I repopulated Pompeii. I beheld it just as it was
on a fair, autumnal morning in 79 A. D. With my eyes half closed,
I can see the vision now. At first the crowds are massed and
mingled in confusion, but soon figures detach themselves from the
rest and reveal themselves as prominent personages. Some of them
I know at a glance. Yon tall, imposing man, with the genuine
imitation sealskin collar on his toga, who strides along so
majestically, whisking his cane against his leg, can be no other
than Gum Tragacanth, leading man of the Bon Ton Stock Company,
fresh from his metropolitan triumphs in Rome and at this moment
the reigning matinee idol of the South. This week he is playing
Claude Melnotte in The Lady of Lyons; next week he will be seen
in his celebrated characterization of Matthias in The Bells, with
special scenery; and for the regular Wednesday and Saturday bargain
matinees Lady Audley's Secret will be given.
Observe him closely. It is evident that he values his art. Yet
about him there is no false ostentation. With what gracious
condescension does he acknowledge the half-timid, half-daring
smiles of all the little caramel-chewing Floras and Faunas who
have made it a point to be on Main Street at this hour! With what
careless grace does he doff his laurel wreath, which is of the
latest and most modish fall block, with the bow at the back, in
response to the waved greeting of Mrs. Belladonna Capsicum, the
acknowledged leader of the artistic and Bohemian set, as she sweeps
by in her chariot bound for Blumberg Brothers' to do a little
shopping. She is not going to buy anything - she is merely out
shopping.
Than this fair patrician dame, none is more prominent in the gay
life of Pompeii. It was she who last season smoked a cigarette
in public, and there is a report now that she is seriously considering
wearing an ankle bracelet; withal she is a perfect lady and belongs
to one of the old Southern families. Her husband has been through
the bankruptcy courts twice and is thinking of going through again.
At present he is engaged in promoting and writing a little life
insurance on the side.
Now her equipage is lost in the throng and the great actor continues
on his way, making a mental note of the fact that he has promised
to attend her next Sunday afternoon studio tea. Near his own stage
door he bumps into Commodious Rotunda, the stout comedian of the
comic theater, and they pause to swap the latest Lambs' Club
repartee. This done, Commodius hauls out a press clipping and
would read it, but the other remembers providentially that he has
a rehearshal on and hurriedly departs. If there are any press
clippings to be read he has a few of his own that will bear
inspection.
Superior Maxillary, managing editor of the Pompeiian "Daily
News-Courier," is also abroad, collecting items of interest and
subscriptions for his paper, with preference given to the latter.
He enters the Last Chance Saloon down at the foot of the street
and in a minute or two is out again, wiping his mustache on the
back of his hand. We may safely opine that he has been taking a
small ad. out in trade.
At the door of the county courthouse, where he may intercept the
taxpayers as they come and go, is stationed our old friend, Colonel
Pro Bono Publico. The Colonel has been running for something or
other ever since Heck was a pup. To-day he is wearing his official
campaign smile, for he is a candidate for county judge, subject
to the action of the Republican party at the October primaries.
He is wearing all his lodge buttons and likewise his G. A. R. pin,
for this year he figures on carrying the old-soldier vote.
See who comes now! It is Rigor Mortis, the worthy coroner. At
sight of him the Colonel uplifts his voice in hoarsely jovial
salutation:
"Rigsy, my boy," he booms, "how are you? And how is Mrs. M. this
morning?"
"Well, Colonel," answers his friend, "my wife ain't no better.
She's mighty puny and complaining. Sometimes I get to wishing the
old lady would get well - or something!"
The Colonel laughs, but not loudly. That wheeze was old in 79.
In front of the drug-store on the corner a score of young bloods,
dressed in snappy togas for Varsity men, are skylarking.
