in a letter from the younger Pliny to the younger Tacitus. The latter
had asked for an account of the death of the elder Pliny, who lost his
life in his eagerness to obtain a near view of the dreadful phenomenon.
‘He was at that time,’ says his nephew, ‘with the fleet under his
command at Misenum. On August 24, about one in the afternoon, my mother
desired him to observe a cloud of very extraordinary size and shape.
He had just returned from taking the benefit of the sun, and, after
bathing himself in cold water, and taking a slight repast, had retired
to his study. He arose at once, and went out upon a height whence he
might more distinctly view this strange phenomenon. It was not at this
distance discernible from what mountain the cloud issued, but it was
found afterwards that it came from Vesuvius. I cannot give a more exact
description of its figure than by comparing it to that of a pine-tree,
for it shot up to a great height in the form of a trunk, which extended
itself at the top into a sort of branches; occasioned, I suppose,
either by a sudden gust of air which impelled it, whose force decreased
as it advanced upwards, or else the cloud itself, being pressed back by
its own weight, expanded in this manner. The cloud appeared sometimes
bright, at others dark and spotted, as it was more or less impregnated
with earth and cinders.’
These extraordinary appearances attracted the curiosity of the elder
Pliny. He ordered a small vessel to be prepared, and started to seek a
nearer view of the burning mountain. His nephew declined to accompany
him, being engaged with his studies. As Pliny left the house, he
received a note from a lady whose house, being at the foot of Vesuvius,
was in imminent danger of destruction. He set out, accordingly, with
the design of rendering her assistance, and also of assisting others,
‘for the villas stood extremely thick upon that lovely coast.’ He
ordered the galleys to be put to sea, and steered directly to the point
of danger, so cool in the midst of the turmoil around ‘as to be able
to make and dictate observations upon the motions and figures of that
dreadful scene.’ As he approached Vesuvius, cinders, pumice-stones, and
black fragments of burning rock, fell on and around the ships. ‘They
were in danger, too, of running aground, owing to the sudden retreat
of the sea; vast fragments, also, rolled down from the mountain and
obstructed all the shore.’ The pilot advising retreat, Pliny made
the noble answer, ‘Fortune befriends the brave,’ and bade him press
onwards to Stabiæ. Here he found his friend Pomponianus in great
consternation, already prepared for embarking and waiting only for
a change in the wind. Exhorting Pomponianus to be of good courage,
Pliny quietly ordered baths to be prepared; and ‘having bathed, sat
down to supper with great cheerfulness, or at least (which is equally
heroic) with all the appearance of it.’ Assuring his friend that the
flames which appeared in several places were merely burning villages,
Pliny presently retired to rest, and ‘being pretty fat,’ says his
nephew, ‘and breathing hard, those who attended without actually heard
him snore.’ But it became necessary to awaken him, for the court
which led to his room was now almost filled with stones and ashes.
He got up and joined the rest of the company, who were consulting on
the propriety of leaving the house, now shaken from side to side by
frequent concussions. They decided on seeking the fields for safety:
and fastening pillows on their heads, to protect them from falling
stones, they advanced in the midst of an obscurity greater than that
of the darkest night-though beyond the limits of the great cloud it
was already broad day. When they reached the shore, they found the
waves running too high to suffer them safely to venture to put out to
sea. Pliny ‘having drunk a draught or two of cold water, lay down on
a cloth that was spread out for him; but at this moment the flames and
sulphurous vapours dispersed the rest of the company, and obliged him
to rise. Assisted by two of his servants, he got upon his feet, but
instantly fell down dead; suffocated, I suppose,’ says his nephew,
‘by some gross and noxious vapour, for he always had weak lungs and
suffered from a difficulty of breathing.’ His body was not found until
the third day after his death, when for the first time it was light
enough to search for him. He was found as he had fallen, ‘and looking
more like a man asleep than dead.’
But even at Misenum there was danger, though Vesuvius is distant
no less than fourteen miles. The earth was shaken with repeated
and violent shocks, ‘insomuch,’ says the younger Pliny, ‘that they
threatened our complete destruction.’ When morning came, the light was
faint and glimmering; the buildings around seemed tottering to their
fall, and, standing on the open ground, the chariots which Pliny had
ordered were so agitated backwards and forwards that it was impossible
to keep them steady, even by supporting them with large stones. The
sea was rolled back upon itself, and many marine animals were left dry
upon the shore. On the side of Vesuvius, a black and ominous cloud,
bursting with sulphurous vapours, darted out long trains of fire,
resembling flashes of lightning, but much larger. Presently the great
cloud spread over Misenum and the island of Capreæ. Ashes fell around
the fugitives. On every side ‘nothing was to be heard but the shrieks
of women and children, and the cries of men: some were calling for
their children, others for their parents, others for their husbands,
and only distinguishing each other by their voices: one was lamenting
his own fate, another that of his family; some wished to die, that they
might escape the dreadful fear of death; but the greater part imagined
that the last and eternal night was come, which was to destroy the
gods and the world together.’ At length a light appeared, which was
not, however, the day, but the forerunner of an outburst of flames.
These presently disappeared, and again a thick darkness spread over
the scene. Ashes fell heavily upon the fugitives, so that they were in
danger of being crushed and buried in the thick layer rapidly covering
the whole country. Many hours passed before the dreadful darkness began
slowly to be dissipated. When at length day returned, and the sun was
seen faintly shining through the overhanging canopy of ashes, ‘every
object seemed changed, being covered over with white ashes as with a
deep snow.’
It is most remarkable that Pliny makes no mention in his letter of
the destruction of the two populous and important cities, Pompeii and
Herculaneum. We have seen that at Stabiæ a shower of ashes fell so
heavily that several days before the end of the eruption the court
leading to the elder Pliny’s room was beginning to be filled up; and
when the eruption ceased, Stabiæ was completely overwhelmed. Far more
sudden, however, was the destruction of Pompeii and Herculaneum.
It would seem that the two cities were first shaken violently by the
throes of the disturbed mountain. The signs of such a catastrophe
have been very commonly assigned to the earthquake which happened in
63, but it seems far more likely that most of them belong to the days
immediately preceding the great outburst in 79. ‘In Pompeii,’ says Sir
Charles Lyell, ‘both public and private buildings bear testimony to
the catastrophe. The walls are rent, and in many places traversed by
fissures still open.’ It is probable that the inhabitants were driven
by these anticipatory throes to fly from the doomed towns. For though
Dion Cassius relates that ‘two entire cities, Herculaneum and Pompeii,
were buried under showers of ashes, while all the people were sitting
in the theatre,’ yet ‘the examination of the two cities enables us to
prove,’ says Sir Charles, ‘that none of the people were destroyed in
the theatre, and, indeed, that there were very few of the inhabitants
who did not escape from both cities. Yet,’ he adds, ‘some lives were
lost, and there was ample foundation for the tale in all its most
essential particulars.’
We may note here, in passing, that the account of the eruption given by
Dion Cassius, who wrote a century and a half after the catastrophe, is
sufficient to prove how terrible an impression had been made upon the
inhabitants of Campania, from whose descendants he in all probability
obtained the materials of his narrative. He writes that, ‘during the
eruption, a multitude of men of superhuman stature, resembling giants,
appeared, sometimes on the mountain, and sometimes in the environs;
that stones and smoke were thrown out, the sun was hidden, and then
the giants seemed to rise again, while the sounds of trumpets were
heard’—with much other matter of a similar sort.
In the great eruption of 79, Vesuvius poured forth lapilli, sand,
cinders, and fragments of old lava, but no new lava flowed from the
crater. Nor does it appear that any lava-stream was ejected during the
six eruptions which took place during the following ten centuries.
In the year 1036, for the first time, Vesuvius was observed to pour
forth a stream of molten lava. Thirteen years later, another eruption
took place; then ninety years passed without disturbance, and after
that a long pause of 168 years. During this interval, however, the
volcanic system, of which Vesuvius is the main but not the only vent,
had been disturbed twice. For it is related that in 1198 the Solfatara
Lake crater was in eruption: and in 1302, Ischia, dormant for at
least 1,400 years, showed signs of new activity. For more than a year
earthquakes had convulsed this island from time to time, and at length
the disturbed region was relieved by the outburst of a lava-stream from
a new vent on the south-east of Ischia. The lava-stream flowed right
down to the sea, a distance of two miles. For two months, this dreadful
outburst continued to rage; many houses were destroyed; and although
the inhabitants of Ischia were not completely expelled, as happened of
old with the Greek colonists, yet a partial emigration took place.
The next eruption of Vesuvius occurred in 1306; and then three
centuries and a quarter passed during which only one eruption, and
that an unimportant one (in 1500), took place. ‘It was remarked,’ says
Sir Charles Lyell, ‘that throughout this long interval of rest, Etna
was in a state of unusual activity, so as to lend countenance to the
idea that the great Sicilian volcano may sometimes serve as a channel
of discharge to elastic fluids and lava that would otherwise rise to
the vents in Campania.’
Nor was the abnormal activity of Etna the only sign that the quiescence
of Vesuvius was not to be looked upon as any evidence of declining
energy in the volcanic system. In 1538 a new mountain was suddenly
thrown up in the Phlegræan Fields—a district including within its
bounds Pozzuoli, Lake Avernus, and the Solfatara. The new mountain was
thrown up near the shores of the Bay of Baiæ. It is 440 feet above
the level of the bay, and its base is about a mile and a half in
circumference. The depth of the crater is 421 feet, so that its bottom
is only six yards above the level of the bay. The spot on which the
mountain was thrown up was formerly occupied by the Lucrine Lake; but
the outburst filled up the greater part of the lake, leaving only a
small and shallow pool.
The accounts which have reached us of the formation of this new
mountain are not without interest. Falconi, who wrote in 1538, mentions
that several earthquakes took place during the two years preceding
the outburst, and above twenty shocks on the day and night before
the eruption. ‘The eruption began on September 29, 1538. It was on
a Sunday, about one o’clock in the night, when flames of fire were
seen between the hot-baths and Tripergola. In a short time the fire
increased to such a degree that it burst open the earth in this place,
and threw up a quantity of ashes and pumice-stones, mixed with water,
which covered the whole country. The next morning the poor inhabitants
of Pozzuoli quitted their habitations in terror, covered with the muddy
and black shower, which continued the whole day in that country—flying
from death, but with death painted in their countenances. Some with
their children in their arms, some with sacks full of their goods;
others leading an ass, loaded with their frightened family, towards
Naples.... The sea had retired on the side of Baiæ, abandoning a
considerable tract; and the shore appeared almost entirely dry, from
the quantity of ashes and broken pumice-stones thrown up by the
eruption.‘
Pietro Giacomo di Toledo gives us some account of the phenomena which
preceded the eruption: ‘That plain which lies between Lake Avernus,
the Monte Barbaro, and the sea, was raised a little, and many cracks
were made in it, from some of which water issued; at the same time the
sea immediately adjoining the plain dried up about two hundred paces,
so that the fish were left on the sand, a prey to the inhabitants of
Pozzuoli. At last, on September 29, about two o’clock in the night, the
earth opened near the lake, and discovered a horrid mouth, from which
were furiously vomited smoke, fire, stones, and mud composed of ashes,
making at the time of the opening a noise like the loudest thunder.
The stones which followed were by the flames converted to pumice,
and some of these were _larger than an ox_. The stones went about as
high as a cross-bow will carry, and then fell down sometimes on the
edge, and sometimes into the mouth itself. The mud was of the colour
of ashes, and at first very liquid, then by degrees less so; and in
such quantities that in less than twelve hours, with the help of the
above-mentioned stones, a mountain was raised of a thousand paces in
height. Not only Pozzuoli and the neighbouring country were full of
this mud, but the city of Naples also; so that many of its palaces were
defaced by it. This eruption lasted two nights and two days without
intermission, though not always with the same force; the third day the
eruption ceased, and I went up with many people to the top of the new
hill, and saw down into its mouth, which was a round cavity about a
quarter of a mile in circumference, in the middle of which the stones
which had fallen were boiling up just as a cauldron of water boils on
the fire. The fourth day it began to throw up again, and the seventh
day much more, but still with less violence than the first night. At
this time many persons who were on the hill were knocked down by the
stones and killed, or smothered with the smoke.’
And now, for nearly a century, the whole district continued in
repose. Nearly five centuries had passed since there had been any
violent eruption of Vesuvius itself; and the crater seemed gradually
assuming the condition of an extinct volcano. The interior of the
crater is described by Bracini, who visited Vesuvius shortly before
the eruption of 1631, in terms that would have fairly represented its
condition before the eruption of 79:—‘The crater was five miles in
circumference, and about a thousand paces deep; its sides were covered
with brushwood, and at the bottom there was a plain on which cattle
grazed. In the woody parts, wild boars frequently harboured. In one
part of the plain, covered with ashes, were three small pools, one
filled with hot and bitter water, another salter than the sea, and a
third hot, but tasteless.’ But in December, 1631, the mountain blew
away the covering of rock and cinders which supported these woods and
pastures. Seven streams of lava poured from the crater, causing a
fearful destruction of life and property. Resina, built over the site
of Herculaneum, was entirely consumed by a raging lava-stream. Heavy
showers of rain, generated by the steam evolved during the eruption,
caused in their turn an amount of destruction scarcely less important
than that resulting from the lava-streams. For, falling upon the cone,
and sweeping thence large masses of ashes and volcanic dust, these
showers produced destructive streams of mud, consistent enough to merit
the name of ‘aqueous lava’ commonly assigned to it.
An interval of thirty-five years passed before the next eruption.
But since 1666 there has been a continual series of eruptions, so
that the mountain has scarcely ever been at rest for more than ten
years together. Occasionally there have been two eruptions within a
few months; and it is well worthy of remark that, during the three
centuries which have elapsed since the formation of Monte Nuovo, there
has been no volcanic disturbance in any part of the Neapolitan volcanic
district save in Vesuvius alone. Of old, as Brieslak well remarks,
there had been irregular disturbances in some part of the Bay of Naples
once in every two hundred years:—the eruption of Solfatara in the
twelfth century, that of Ischia in the fourteenth, and that of Monte
Nuovo in the sixteenth; but ‘the eighteenth has formed an exception to
the rule.’ It seems clear that the constant series of eruptions from
Vesuvius during the past two hundred years has sufficed to relieve the
volcanic district of which Vesuvius is the principal vent.
Of the eruptions which have disturbed Vesuvius during the last two
centuries, those of 1779, 1793, and 1822, are in some respects the most
remarkable.
Sir William Hamilton has given a very interesting account of the
eruption of 1779. Passing over those points in which this eruption
resembled others, we may note its more remarkable features. Sir William
Hamilton says, that in this eruption molten lava was thrown up in
magnificent jets to the height of at least 10,000 feet. Masses of
stones and scoriæ were to be seen propelled along by these lava jets.
Vesuvius seemed to be surmounted by an enormous column of fire. Some
of the jets were directed by the wind towards Ottajano; others fell on
the cone of Vesuvius, on the outer circular mountain Somma, and on
the valley between. Falling, still red-hot and liquid, they covered a
district more than two miles and a half wide with a mass of fire. The
whole space above this district, to the height of 10,000 feet, was
filled also with the falling and rising lava streams; so that there
was continually present a body of fire covering the extensive space I
have mentioned, and extending nearly two miles high. The heat of this
enormous fire-column was distinctly perceptible at a distance of at
least six miles on every side.
The eruption of 1793 presented a different aspect. Dr. Clarke tells us
that millions of red-hot stones were propelled into the air to at least
half the height of the cone itself; then turning, they fell all around
in noble curves. They covered nearly half the cone of Vesuvius with
fire. Huge masses of white smoke were vomited forth by the disturbed
mountain, and formed themselves, at a height of many thousands of feet
above the crater, into a huge, ever-moving canopy, through which, from
time to time, were hurled pitch-black jets of volcanic dust, and dense
vapours, mixed with cascades of red-hot rocks and scoriæ. The rain
which fell from the cloud-canopy was scalding hot.
Dr. Clarke was able to compare the different appearances presented by
the lava where it burst from the very mouth of the crater, and lower
down when it had approached the plain. As it rushed forth from its
imprisonment, it streamed, a liquid, white, and brilliantly pure river,
which burned for itself a smooth channel through a great arched chasm
in the side of the mountain. It flowed with the clearness of ‘honey in
regular channels, cut finer than art can imitate, and glowing with all
the splendour of the sun. Sir William Hamilton had conceived,’ adds Dr.
Clarke, ‘that stones thrown upon a current of lava would produce no
impression. I was soon convinced of the contrary. Light bodies, indeed,
of five, ten, and fifteen pounds’ weight, made little or no impression,
even at the source; but bodies of sixty, seventy, and eighty pounds
were seen to form a kind of bed on the surface of the lava, and float
away with it. A stone of three hundredweight, that had been thrown out
by the crater, lay near the source of the current of lava. I raised
it up on one end, and then let it fall in upon the liquid lava, when
it gradually sank beneath the surface and disappeared. If I wished to
describe the manner in which it acted upon the lava, I should say that
it was like a loaf of bread thrown into a bowl of very thick honey,
which gradually involves itself in the heavy liquid and then slowly
sinks to the bottom.
But as the lava flowed down the mountain slopes it lost its brilliant
whiteness; a crust began to form upon the surface of the still molten
lava, and this crust broke into innumerable fragments of porous matter
called scoriæ. Underneath this crust—across which Dr. Clarke and his
companions were able to pass without other injury than the singeing of
their boots—the liquid lava still continued to force its way onward
and downward past all obstacles. On its arrival at the bottom of the
mountain, says Dr. Clarke, ‘the whole current,’ encumbered with huge
masses of scoriæ, ‘resembled nothing so much as a heap of unconnected
cinders from an iron foundry,’ ‘rolling slowly along,‘ he says in
another place, ‘and falling with a rattling noise over one another.’
After the eruption described by Dr. Clarke, the great crater gradually
filled up. Lava boiled up from below, and small craters, which formed
themselves over the bottom and sides of the great one, poured forth
lava loaded with scoriæ. Thus, up to October 1822, there was to be
seen, in place of a regular crateriform opening, a rough and uneven
surface, scored by huge fissures, whence vapour was continually being
poured, so as to form clouds above the hideous heap of ruins. But the
great eruption of 1822 not only flung forth all the mass which had
accumulated within the crater, but wholly changed the appearance of the
cone. An immense abyss was formed, three-quarters of a mile across, and
extending 2,000 feet downwards into the very heart of Vesuvius. Had the
lips of the crater remained unchanged, indeed, the depth of this great
gulf would have been far greater. But so terrific was the force of the
explosion that the whole of the upper part of the cone was carried
clean away, and the mountain reduced in height by nearly a full fifth
of its original dimensions. From the time of its formation the chasm
gradually filled up; so that, when Mr. Scrope saw it soon after the
eruption, its depth was reduced by more than 1,000 feet.
Of late, Vesuvius has been as busy as ever. In 1833 and 1834 there were
eruptions; and in 1856 another great outburst took place. Then, for
three weeks together, lava streamed down the mountain slopes. A river
of molten lava swept away the village of Cercolo, and ran nearly to
the sea at Ponte Maddaloni. There were then formed ten small craters
within the great one. But these have now united (see date of article),
and pressure from beneath has formed a vast cone where they had been.
The cone has risen above the rim of the crater, from which torrents of
lava are poured forth. At first the lava formed a lake of fire, but
the seething mass found an outlet, and poured in a wide stream towards
Ottajano. Masses of red-hot stone and rock are hurled forth, and a vast
canopy of white vapour hangs over Vesuvius, forming at night, when
illuminated by the raging mass below, a glory of resplendent flame
around the summit of the mountain.
It may seem strange that the neighbourhood of so dangerous a mountain
should be inhabited by races free to choose more peaceful districts.
Yet, though Herculaneum, Pompeii, and Stabiæ lie buried beneath the
lava and ashes thrown forth by Vesuvius, Portici and Resina, Torre
del Greco and Torre dell’ Annunziata have taken their place; and a
large population, cheerful and prosperous, flourishes around the
disturbed mountain, and over the district of which it is the somewhat
untrustworthy safety-valve.