Suffice it to say that the Roman sentry, perishing at his post,
has ever been a favorite subject for historic and romantic writers.
I myself often read of him--how on that dread day when the devil's
stew came to a boil and spewed over the sides of Vesuvius, and
death and destruction poured down to blight the land, he, typifying
fortitude and discipline and unfaltering devotion, stood firm and
stayed fast while all about him chaos reigned and fathers forgot
their children and husbands forgot their wives, and vice versa,
though probably not to the same extent; and how finally the drifting
ashes and the choking dust fell thicker upon him and mounted higher
about him, until he died and in time turned to ashes himself,
leaving only a void in the solidified slag. I had always admired
that soldier--not his judgment, which was faulty, but his heroism,
which was immense. To myself I used to say:
"That unknown common soldier, nameless though he was, deserves to
live forever in the memory of mankind. He lacked imagination, it
is true, but he was game. It was a glorious death to die--painful,
yet splendid. Those four poor wretches whose shells were found
in the prison under the gladiators' school, with their ankles fast
in the iron stocks--I know why they stayed. Their feet were too
large for their own good. But no bonds except his dauntless will
bound him at the portals of the doomed city.
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