VESUVIUS IN ACTION—AS IT LOOKS BY DAY AND BY NIGHT.
As it Looks by Day and by Night—Leaving Naples—First Sight
of Vesuvius—Description—The Number of Volcanoes—Off to See
the Burning Mountain—A Nameless Horse—Respect for Age—Refuse
Portantina—Mountain of Shot—A Dweller in a Cave—A Slimy Serpent
for a Companion—Jets of Steam—Vulcan’s Forge—Exposed to a Horrible
Death—Upheavals of Lava—Showers of Fire—Fiery Fiends—Winged
Devils—Tongue of Fire—A Voice of Thunder.
ITALY, as the reader will remember, is in the shape of a boot, and you
find Mt. Vesuvius on the instep of that boot.
Leaving Naples by train we skirt along the beautiful bay by the same
name and step off, as in the last chapter, at Pompeii, some fifteen
miles from the starting point. Mt. Vesuvius now lifts its majestic
form before us, and I am sure that if we should live to be as old
as Methuselah, we can never forget its awful, yet picturesque and
beautiful appearance.
Take if you please a deep soup plate and turn it bottom upwards on your
table. Next get a tea-cup and turn that bottom upwards on the center of
the plate. Now imagine the table to be a broad, fertile field covered
with vines. Imagine the plate to be fifteen miles in circumference, and
that it swells from the plain and lifts itself up until the cup, rising
sharp-pointed like a huge pyramid, reaches to the height of 4,200 feet.
This is Mt. Vesuvius, and you must know that it is as black as charcoal
and rough as a tree that has been a thousand times struck by lightning.
It is hollow like a cup and is open at the top as the inverted cup
would be if the bottom were out.
[Illustration: _THE GAST ART PRESS, N.Y._
MOUNT VESUVIUS IN ACTION.]
As I stand gazing at Vesuvius, it is slowly emitting a huge volume of
white, sulphurous smoke or steam which rises straight like a mighty
shaft of marble for a thousand feet above the crater, then gracefully
curving, the column stretches itself across the glassy bay of Naples
for ten miles or more until finally it joins itself with the fleecy
clouds. What a picture it presents! There is the great city throbbing
with life; the silvery bay flecked with white-winged and smoke-plumed
vessels; there is the broad, fertile plain, covered with fruit-bearing
vineyards, and dotted here and there with small, rude and dilapidated
peasant villages; there are the black mountain and the white column
of steam, clearly outlined against the rich blue, Italian sky. Such
a scene, I am sure, could not fail to wake a song from the poet, or
inspire the artist to put forth his best endeavors.
There are about 650 volcanoes in existence, but Dr. Hartwig says, “For
the naturalist’s researches, for the traveler’s curiosity and the
poet’s song, Etna and Vesuvius surpass in renown all other volcanic
regions in the world.” Knowing that Vesuvius is so noted, I am anxious
to observe the phenomena closely, and to do this I must cross the plain
and ascend the mountain. We can not go alone and it is too far to walk.
Securing our horses and a guide, we set out on the journey.
[Illustration: CLIMBING MOUNT VESUVIUS.]
Johnson’s horse is named Maccaroni; mine has no name; he had one
once, but has long ago worn it out. I am at a loss to know what to
name him. I can not conscientiously call him Baalbek, for he is not
a “magnificent” ruin. But I can with perfect propriety, and without
a sacrifice of principle, call him Pompeii, “an ancient ruin.” He
looks as if he might have been in the doomed city on that fatal day,
and as if he has not yet recovered from the ill effects of that day’s
experience. His teeth are out, his mane is gone, he has no tail.
His backbone is so much in the shape of a razor blade, that it has
split the saddle wide open, fore and aft. The two parts are roped
together, and carelessly thrown across the skeleton. This protects
me somewhat, and I would be moderately comfortable if the saddle did
not hang too far to the starboard side. Albeit I have great respect
for that horse—his age demands it. No horse can go higher than the
foot of the cone—the cup. Here dismounting, I am at once accosted by
a swarm of Italians who want to assist me up the cone. It takes four
of these swarthy athletes to carry one pilgrim up. They put him in
a “portantina,” a kind of chair made for the purpose. The four men,
taking this chair on their shoulders, begin the ascent, stopping quite
frequently to rest. Other assistants have straps or ropes, which they
put around the pilgrim just below the arms; then two men, each holding
one end of the rope, walk in front and thus draw their victim up. Many
Italians earn a livelihood in this way. I do not avail myself of their
proffered help—I can not bear to impose on good nature.
Yes, I go alone, but I frankly confess it is hard work. The ascent is
very steep. In my schoolboy days I climbed many trees, tall, smooth
bodied and limbless, after young squirrels, grapes and chestnuts. Since
then I have climbed many mountains. I have climbed the Rocky Mountains.
I have climbed mountains in Mexico, in Virginia, West Virginia, Maine,
New Hampshire, Vermont and Canada. I have climbed mountains in England,
Ireland, Scotland and Wales; in Germany and France, in Switzerland and
Italy, in Austria and Hungary, in Servia and Roumania, in Bulgaria
and Slavonia, in Greece, Russia and Asia Minor, in Palestine, Syria
and Arabia. I have climbed the Pyramids of Egypt. But I have never
climbed anything that wearied me as does the ascent of Vesuvius. It is
like climbing a mountain of shot. I sink at each step half leg deep
in charcoal and ashes. I frequently stumble and fall. It is uphill
business. I am walking on snow and sniffing the mountain breeze, yet
the perspiration rolls off of me like rain—a light shower of course.
By this time we come to where the footing is more firm and solid,
but the way not less trying and difficult. There are many narrow and
yawning crevices to cross, many deep openings to shun on the right
and left—some of them large enough to swallow a good-sized house.
Perchance it was one of these dark caverns wherein dwelt that lazy
hag, with a fox and a slimy serpent as her sole companions—I mean
that weird witch who cursed Glaucus and Ione and helped Arbaces, the
Egyptian, to work out his diabolical purposes. This part of the cone
is composed of black and hardened lava, hideously rough and jagged,
porous as honeycomb. Here and there small jets of smoke and hot steam,
some of them no larger than my thumb, others as large as my arm, or
twice as large, can be seen spouting from the crevices and openings.
We frequently stop and warm our feet at these “flues,” but the flames
are so strongly impregnated with sulphur that we can not stand it long
at a time. We are now within two hundred yards of the top. It looks
dangerous to go farther, but our guide says we have only to follow him,
and follow him we do. After scaling with great difficulty and some
danger the steep and rocky sides, we reach the crater’s brink and look
down into Vulcan’s Forge, into that deep and awful abyss from which
clouds of sulphurous vapors are rising as from the gates of perdition.
A strong wind blowing from the north drives the smoke and steam in the
opposite direction. This enables us to see better and induces us to
venture too near the edge. All at once the wind changes and suddenly
we are enveloped in dense fumes of sulphur. To retreat in the dark is
perilous—to remain long in this sulphur is death. I swallow some of
the steam which is so strong with sulphur that it instantly scalds
my throat and lungs. What can be done! Johnson and I have hold of
each other’s hands. I fall to the ground pulling him with me. Thus by
keeping our mouths close to the ground, we manage to get fresh air
enough to keep from being suffocated. When the wind shifts and the
smoke lifts, we lose no time in changing to a less dangerous place.
Some time ago a German was unfortunate enough to fall into this fearful
chasm. What an awful death! How thankful I am for God’s preserving care!
By this time night has come, and as we stand in darkness, looking down
into this fearful abyss, we can see the lurid flames writhing and
leaping, casting up great quantities of glowing brimstone and red-hot
lava hundreds of feet into the air. The next moment the lava is falling
around us in showers of living fire. The pieces are of all shapes and
vary greatly in size. While some of them are no larger than a marble,
others are large as a saucer—perchance as large as a plate.
Deep down below us we hear the boiling caldrons of lava grinding,
gurgling, growling. Now we hear the report of big guns and little
guns, of musketry and of cannon, as if the damned are bombarding each
other with the artillery of hell! Report chases report through the
subterranean caverns like deep thunder galloping after thunder. The
angry flames continue to leap and crackle. Occasionally the whole
crater, which looks like the veritable mouth of hell, glows with
intense brilliancy and glitters and sparkles with ten thousand points
of dazzling light. The volume of steam, or “the mighty column of
wreaths and curling heaps of lighted vapor,” continue to pour forth
with frightful rapidity. Every moment witnesses a new upheaval of
red-hot lava and consequently a fresh shower of fire.
The guide now informs me (I did not know it before) that the night
is far spent, and yet there are other things to see. Going round on
the northeast side of the mountain and descending a few hundred yards
from the top, we come to a stream of red-hot lava—an actual river
of fire—bursting forth from the mountain side and flowing down into
the valley. It looks like a stream of melted iron slowly winding its
way adown the blackened mountain-side, bearing upon its heated bosom
great quantities of glowing brimstone and red-hot rocks. Ever and anon
the rocks in the stream dash against each other with such force as to
break themselves to pieces, then follow a slight explosion and blaze.
The angry flames like fiery fiends leap into the air and vanish. As
one stands enveloped in the blackness of the night, contemplating this
wonderful phenomenon—these flames, suddenly bursting and vanishing,
chasing each other in quick succession, look like the incessant flashes
of lurid lightning! Flame rises after flame, vanishing away in the
darkness like winged devils chasing each other! I am filled with
admiration, and at the same time struck with awe and chilled with fear.
I do not know at what moment the whole volcano may boil over and pour
forth a thousand cataracts of fire, as in 1872. I feel that I want to
go, that I must go, yet I can not leave. I go a few paces and stop,
looking first at the glowing column above me, then at the winding,
fiery stream below.
I have seen many mountains, some of them rising to heaven, covered
with snow, and at night crowned with stars; but never before have I
seen one smoke-plumed and wreathed with flame, one belching forth
fire and brimstone, one whose iron-belted sides poured forth a river
of fire—a moving flood of flame. But why continue? Why describe the
indescribable? For, reader, I assure you that unless I, like Vesuvius,
had a tongue of fire and a voice of thunder, unless words were gems
that would flame and flash with many-colored light upon the canvas and
throw thence a tremulous glimmer into the beholder’s eyes, it were vain
indeed to attempt a description of God’s imperial fireworks.