its rise.

In fact, even at Pompeii, in this humble _campo santo_ of the little
city, we see at every step virtue rewarded after death by some
munificent act of the decurions. Sometimes it is a perpetual grant (a
favor difficult to obtain), indicated by the following letters:
H.M.H.N.S. (_hoc monumentum haeredes non sequitur_), insuring to them
the perpetual possession of their sepulchre, which could not be disposed
of by their heirs. Sometimes the space conceded was indicated upon the
tomb. For instance, we read in the sepulchre of the family of
Nistacidius: "A. Nistacidius Helenus, mayor of the suburb Augusto-Felix.
To Nistacidius Januarius and to Mesionia Satulla. Fifteen feet in depth,
fifteen feet in frontage."

This bench of the priestess Mamia and that of Aulus Vetius (a military
tribune and duumvir dispensing justice) were in like manner constructed,
with the consent of the people, upon the lands conceded by the
decurions. In fine--and this is the most singular feature--animals had
their monuments. This, at least, is what the guides will tell you, as
they point out a large tomb in a street of the suburbs. They call it the
_sepolcro dei bestiani_, because the skeletons of bulls were found in
it. The antiquaries rebel against this opinion. Some, upon the strength
of the carved masks, affirm that it was a burial place for actors;
others, observing that the inclosure walls shut in quite a spacious
temple, intimate that it was a cemetery for priests. For my part, I have
nothing to offer against the opinion of the guides. The Egyptians,
whose gods Rome adopted, interred the bull Apis magnificently. Animals
might, therefore, find burial in the noble suburb of Pompeii. As for the
lower classes, they slept their final sleep where they could; perhaps in
the common burial pit (_commune sepulcrum_), an ancient barbarism that
has been kept up until our times; perhaps in those public burial ranges
where one could purchase a simple niche (_olla_) for his urn. These
niches were sometimes humble and touching presents interchanged by poor
people.

And in this street, where death is so gay, so vain, so richly adorned,
where the monuments arose amid the foliage of trees perennially green,
which they had endeavored, but without success, to render serious and
sombre, where the mausolea are pavilions and dining-rooms, in which the
inscriptions recall whole narratives of life and even love affairs,
there stood spacious inns and sump