Very various were the positions of the dead in that buried city. Many
were in the streets, in the attitude of running, trying to make their
escape from the city gate; others were in deep vaults whither they had
gone for safety, crouching, in their fear of what might fall upon them;
others were on staircases and flights of stone steps leading to the
roof, in the attitude of climbing to a place where they hoped the lava
might not bury them. Two men were found by the garden gate of a large
and beautiful mansion. One was standing with the key in his hand, a
handsome ring on his finger, and a hundred gold and silver coins
scattered round him. The other, who was probably his slave, was
stretched on the ground, with his hands clutching some silver cups and
vases. These men had evidently been suffocated whilst trying to carry
off the money and treasure.

But one man in that buried city deserves to be remembered to the end of
time. Who was he? One Roman soldier, the brave sentinel at the gate.
There he had been posted in the morning, and there he had been bidden to
remain.

And how was he found? Standing at his post, with his hand still grasping
his sword, faithful unto death. There, by the city gate; whilst the
earth shook and rocked, whilst the sky was black with ashes, whilst
showers of stones were falling around him, and whilst hundreds of men,
women and children brushed past him as they fled in terror from the
city, there he stood, firm and unmoved. Should such a man as I flee?
thought the sentinel. And in that same spot, in that post of duty, he
was found 1800 years after, faithful to his trust, faithful unto death.

Oh, that the Lord's soldiers were more like that brave man in Pompeii!
It is so easy to begin a thing, so hard to stick to it; so easy to start