FIERY MOUNTAINS
Do you learn Physical Geography? I did when I was in the schoolroom, but
it is quite likely to have been given up now, or perhaps it is called by
some other name. It sounds dull, but is not really, at least there was
one part of it that interested me immensely, so much so that that
particular page was thumbed and dirty with being turned over so many
times. This was the page on which volcanoes were described. I never
thought I should see a volcano, but the idea of these tempestuous
mountains, seething with red-hot fire inside, and ready to vomit forth
flames and lava at any time appealed to the imagination. This lava, it
seemed, was a kind of thick treacly stuff, resembling pitch, which ran
down the mountain-sides boiling hot and carried red ruin in its track.
It seems nothing less than idiotic for people to live on the slopes of a
volcano where such an awful fate might overtake them at any time, yet
they not only _did_ so but still _do_.
One of the reasons why we came by the Orient line is to see Naples,
which stands almost under the shadow of one of the best-known volcanoes
in the world--Vesuvius.
[Illustration: VESUVIUS.]
We arrive at Naples early in the morning and are the very first to be up
and out on deck. The bay has been called one of the most lovely to be
seen anywhere, but to-day at least it is disappointing, for there is no
sun and only a dull grey drizzle, which carries our thoughts back to
England at once.
The houses of the town rise in tiers up the hillside, very tall and
straight, and seem to be filled with innumerable windows.
However, it is not the view of Naples itself which is called so
beautiful but rather that of the bay _from_ Naples, especially on a blue
and golden day, and that we have no chance of seeing. On one side of the
bay rises the mighty mountain whose furious deeds have made him known
and respected all over the world. There is a heavy cloud hanging around
his crest so that we cannot see the crater; the cloud looks as if it
were composed of smoke as much as anything else, for even yet Vesuvius
is terribly alive.
We get a hasty breakfast, for though we are going to be here till late
afternoon, there is much to see, and we have no time to spare. Then we
get into a little launch and steam past all the great ships lying at
anchor. On the quay we find ourselves in a great crowd of grey uniformed
soldiers, many of them mere lads, carrying their kit, and drawn up in
lines waiting their turn to march on board the towering troopship
anchored alongside, while some of them wind up the gangway like a great
grey snake. Those already in the ship are letting down ropes to draw up
bottles of wine or baskets of fruit from the women who sell such things.
Within a short time Italy has become mistress of Tripoli, a country in
Africa, and now she is finding she will have to garrison it in order to
hold it; and though it costs her a great deal of money she is sending
out many of her young soldiers to guard the new possession.
We get some money changed on the quay, receiving in exchange a number of
lire; the lira is very like a franc and corresponds with it and the
English shilling, though a little less in value.
This done we walk along the front to the station. Many of the streets
are high and broad with splendid houses lining them. In them are men
busily at work washing away the mud with long hose pipes mounted on
little wheels, so that they look like giant lizards or funny snakes on
legs running across the streets by themselves, and as much alive as the
well-known advertisement of the carpet-sweeper and Mary Ann!
Other streets are very narrow and filled with people buying and selling.
There are swarms of children rolling about in the filth of the roadway;
they are dressed in rags and their bodies show through the large holes.
They are often playing with old bones or pebbles. Their faces are
sometimes quite beautiful, rich golden-brown in colour, and their great
velvety brown eyes look so sweetly innocent you would be easily taken in
by them; but they are terrible little rogues and would beg from you or
steal if they got the chance. Here and there are shops where macaroni is
sold; it is ready boiling in great pans; this and cakes made of a kind
of flour called polenta are the chief food of the Italians. The macaroni
is made out of flour mixed with water to a stiff paste and squeezed
through holes in a box till it comes out in long strings. It used to be
made in all the dust and dirt of the villages, and is still often to be
seen hanging over posts there to dry, but there are now large
manufactories where it is made quite cleanly by machinery; we shall see
some as we pass on our way to Pompeii, where we are going. There is one
pleasant thing to notice, namely, wherever you look you see flowers
growing; the larger and better-class houses have balconies filled with
broad-leaved plants and creepers, and the very poorest people living
high up towards the sky have window-boxes filled with flowers.
At the station we find a little train, like a tram, with red velvet
cushions, and while we sit and wait for it to take us to Pompeii, the
city buried by Vesuvius, the rain falls softly and steadily. Presently
the stationmaster and his assistant step out gingerly along the
uncovered platform, holding umbrellas over their uniforms, and give the
word of command, and very slowly we start, and jolt along, stopping
frequently. We pass through market gardens first and then through
endless vineyards, in many of which the clinging vines are not propped
up on sticks, but merely looped from one poplar tree to another, for the
trees are growing in straight rows and form a natural support. This
ground is particularly good for vines, for the lava which has been dug
into the soil is peculiarly fruitful.
There are little white box-like houses amid the vines, and they are hung
all over with bunches of brilliant scarlet fruit, which, when we get
near enough to see, we find to be tiny tomatoes. Other houses have
pumpkins also and melons and chillies, all hanging out to get dried, so
that they look quite decorative with their strange adornments. Suddenly
our attention is called to a broad strip of black earth, in shape like a
river, flowing down the hillside, but made up of huge blocks as if it
had been turned up by a giant ploughshare. This is a lava bed made by
the last great explosion of Vesuvius in 1906, when the lava ran down in
molten streams, tearing its way through the vineyards and sweeping
across the railway lines; at that time two hundred people were killed.
An enterprising firm has run a little railway to the very top of
Vesuvius, and anyone who cares to do so can go by it and peep into the
awful crater at the summit, and a cinematograph operator has recently
been down one thousand feet into the crater to take films for
exhibition. When Vesuvius is in a bad humour and has growled and
grumbled for some days, people are not allowed to go up to the top lest
he vomit forth his fury even while they are there and overwhelm them.
While we are on the way to Pompeii I will tell you something of the
fascinating story.
Many years ago, long before the people on our islands were civilised,
when Britons ran about dressed in skins and floated in wicker-boats
covered by skins, there were intelligent and refined people living all
round the base of Vesuvius; they knew, of course, that the mountain was
a volcano, but there had never been any very terrible explosion that
they could remember, and, anyway, the slopes of the mountain where the
towns stood extended so far from the crater that no one thought it
possible for any great disaster to happen. The two principal towns were
called Herculaneum and Pompeii. The people there dressed in lovely silks
and satins; they had beautifully built houses filled with statues and
pictures: the women wore costly jewellery; they had plenty of
amusements, for they danced and sang and visited each other, and had
stalls at the amphitheatre, and supported candidates at political
elections, and gossiped and drove in chariots, and lived and loved. They
thought, as we all do in our turn, that they knew everything and that no
one could reach so high a pinnacle of civilisation as they had reached.
This was only about fifty years after Christ's death on the cross, and
the Christians were still a comparatively small and despised band.
Well, one day there was a certain amount of uneasiness felt, for a
curious black cloud had formed over Vesuvius, and it was not quite like
anything that had ever been seen before; people also spoke of strange
rumblings in the bowels of the earth, and there was an oppressiveness in
the air which alarmed the timid. Then came terrifying noises, cracklings
and explosions, and a fine dust filled the air and began settling down
everywhere; no sooner was it brushed off than there it was again; it
penetrated even close shut houses, and filled the hinges so that the
doors would not open easily. The rich people began to make arrangements
to get away, but before they could carry them out awful confusion fell
upon them; day was turned to night, the clouds of dust fell thickly and
chokingly, stifling men as they ran; volumes of lava poured forth,
sweeping like fiery serpents down the mountain-side; they rushed over
Herculaneum, which was not far from Pompeii, so that while the one city
was boiled the other was smothered. Curses and prayers alike were no
avail. Men were caught and choked, houses were silted up, and the whole
district was buried.
Years passed and the tradition of the destroyed cities remained; it was
known that they were thereabouts, but so completely had the mountain
done its work that no one knew exactly where, and it was only
comparatively recently that money was subscribed and the work of
unearthing them began. By the railway we have passed through
Herculaneum, and here we are at Pompeii. Now you shall see what this
city of two thousand years ago was like.
[Illustration: A HOUSE IN POMPEII.]
The station is close to it, and as we step out of the train we go almost
immediately into the gates of the once buried but now uncovered city,
which is one of the wonders of the world, attracting people across
leagues of sea and land.
We find ourselves in a long narrow street lined by roofless houses. The
stones which form the pavement are uneven and much worn, the foot-walks
on each side are raised very high, because in wet weather these streets
were mere torrents and the water rushed down them. Here and there are
stepping-stones, to enable people to cross from one side to the other.
It would have been impossible in most places for two chariots or carts
to pass one another, and we wonder how they managed. As a fact, the
Pompeians did not use wheeled vehicles much, but chairs or palanquins,
and the men went on horseback. There are many open counters beside the
street, showing that these buildings were used as shops, and in one or
two are large marble basins hollowed out where the wine which was sold
was kept cool. Along the side of one house is a gaudily painted serpent,
signifying that an apothecary, or, as we should say, a chemist, lived
here.
We can go into one of the better-class dwelling-houses and we find that
it was built around a courtyard or central hall, and we can peep into
the sleeping-rooms, which, in spite of all the luxury of the
inhabitants, were mere little dark cupboards with no light or air. Well,
so they were in our castles until quite recently! There was a garden
behind the hall in all the better-class houses, and this had almost
always a tank for gold-fish; we can see it still; but all the little
personal things that have been unearthed--the jewellery and household
utensils and even the statues--have been taken to the museum at Naples
for safe keeping, which is a pity, as the streets and living-rooms seem
bare and cold and we need a good deal of imagination to picture them as
they must have been.
Here at last is something that makes us start and brings back the awful
scene of death and dismay. In a deep recess by a doorway are six
skeletons, lying in various attitudes, left exactly as they were found.
These people had been caught; they were hurrying, evidently to get out
of the outer door, and finding it had been silted up by dust and that
they could not open it, had turned back, too late, and been smothered!
There they lie now, nearly two thousand years after, just as then.
There were about two thousand skeletons thus found and taken away--only
these few were left to give visitors some idea of the tragedy that
happened. The sticky dust and ashes which poured down upon the doomed
city reached a depth of twenty-six feet, and they encased everything in
a kind of crust. Dogs and cats were caught in this way, and even little
lizards, such as those that live in the cracks of the walls in Italy to
this day; and though their bodies had decayed away long before they
could be dug out, yet the exact impression remained, and in many cases,
by pouring soft plaster into the holes, men have reproduced to the life
the poor little wriggling body that was caught in such a terrible
prison! You can imagine what great value it has been to historians to
find the things used by people so long ago. In most cases customs change
gradually; the implements and utensils which one generation use are
broken and lost and replaced by new fashions, but here, in one lump,
stamped down hard for ever, are the things caught in a second of time
and held in an iron grip while the years rolled by.
Passing on we find a small temple to the Egyptian god Isis, and this was
the very first object to be discovered. Some men quarrying for stone
struck upon it and thus the long-lost site of the town was found. Then
we see the public baths with all the arrangements for heating the water;
the Pompeians, like the Romans, were very fond of bathing. But it is the
little things of everyday life that impress us most, and we are brought
up suddenly by seeing on a wall a poster of the day advocating the
return of one particular candidate to what was the Pompeian Parliament.
This carries us right back into the midst of them! So does also that
drinking-fountain by the street side, where the marble has been worn
hollow by the hands of those who leaned on it as they stretched forward
to drink at the spout!
We can walk through the market-place where the people bought and sold,
and look down into the great amphitheatre where the shows which they all
loved were held; but as our ship leaves at four o'clock we shall have to
tear ourselves away and hurry back along the little line again, running
round the base of the sullen brooding mountain which may at any time
hurl down his thunder-bolts on the vineyards which still creep up his
sides. Past Herculaneum, now partly unburied, and so to gay Naples,
where the sun is breaking out.
On the quay we see barrows covered with a curious flesh-coloured fruit
about the size and shape of a large pear, and this is quite new to us.
We discover these are called Indian figs; but why Indian? They are grown
here and are a popular native fruit. They are covered by a thick skin,
easily peeled off, and are full of juice and very large pips; they have
a sweetish rather sickly taste, but one can imagine they must be a great
boon to the poor Italians who can get a good refreshing drink for almost
nothing.
Once aboard we discover that something has gone wrong--a propeller has
dropped a blade and the ship will not start for some hours. We might
have stayed longer in Pompeii after all!
There are compensations for everything and soon we find that this delay
is going to be a good one for us, for it will enable us to see two other
volcanoes which otherwise we should have missed in the darkness.
We ask the night-steward to wake us in time for the first, and it seems
as if our heads had hardly touched the pillows when we hear his voice at
the door, "Stromboli in sight, sir!" It is cold and we are very sleepy;
grumbling, we make our way to the front of the deck below the bridge,
and suddenly, in the blackness ahead, there shoots up a short straight
column of fire like that from the chimney of a blast furnace. It
disappears as quickly and quietly as it came, and odd bits of flame,
like red-hot cinders, roll this way and that, then all is black again.
As the sky quickly lightens we see outlined against it a cone or
pyramid, and from the summit there shoots out another column of flame,
to disappear almost instantly.
"Stromboli sky-rocketing," says the voice of one of the officers on the
bridge above.
All the time we are gliding nearer and nearer to the wonderful mountain,
when, with an amazing swiftness, up flashes the sun, sweeping rays of
colour over the sky, changing it from pale primrose to fiery orange, and
there, black against it, is a little island so neatly made that it
appears an exact triangle with a bite out of one side near the top.
Stromboli is one of a group of little islands. What had appeared as
flame in the darkness shows at the next eruption to be a puff of smoke
from which burning lumps fall on the rocky sides and down the
precipices. This happens about every quarter of an hour. The sea
meantime changes to vivid blue. We are quite close now and can see tiny
white houses nestling on the edge of the island amid clusters of green.
What happens to the people if the boiling lava rolls down through their
vineyards and into their houses? There is no one to answer that
question. Perhaps it never gets so far, perhaps Stromboli has not yet
shown himself to be a fierce volcano, but limits his eruptions to angry
splutterings which beat on the scarred precipices of the steep sides
above the dwellings of the people,--anyway, I don't think I should care
to live there, just in case----
We awake suddenly from our intent gazing to find ourselves the
laughing-stock of a crowd of decently dressed men and women who have
come up in the daylight, properly clad, and there are we in
dressing-gowns, not over-long, and slippered feet! But no one minds
these little mishaps on board ship, and with dignity we pass through to
our cabin, smiling and feeling very superior to have seen so much more
than the lie-abeds!
As it happens, it is Sunday morning and a very different day from
yesterday, with bright sun and a clear sky. As a rule there is service
on board ship on Sundays, but to-day we are just going to pass through
the Straits of Messina, and the captain must be on the bridge the whole
time, and there is no clergyman to take the duty for him, so we can't
have it. But we could hardly pass a Sunday better than in admiring the
marvellous beauty which God has given to us in this world for our
delight.
It is about four hours after passing Stromboli that we enter the straits
which separate Sicily, the three-cornered island, from Italy, which
seems to be kicking it away with the toe of its foot. Land begins to
close in on us, and in the dazzling sunshine it appears radiant, while
the sea is a mirror of blue. On both sides we see houses and villages
built on the sloping shores, but the interest heightens when we come
close abreast the great town of Messina which, on the 20th of December
1908, suddenly became world-famous owing to the awful misfortune which
befell it. All educated people knew Messina by name previously, but it
was not until the Italian wires flashed the story of the earthquake
which had wrought destruction so swiftly and dramatically that it will
always be ranked as among the most appalling that ever happened, that
everyone with one consent turned their attention to Messina, and the
eyes of the whole world were focused on it. The suddenness of the
calamity was the most terrible feature of it. It was early in the
morning when the earth shook and heaved and raised itself, and in about
four minutes, what had been a happy prosperous town was reduced to a
smoking ruin, a shambles of dead bodies, and a hell on earth for the
miserable beings who lived in it! Almost all the houses fell together;
whole streets of them collapsed like a pack of cards, and the shock was
so tremendous that in many cases even the bricks and stone of which they
were made were ground to powder. Tens of thousands of people were
buried before they could get into the streets, and their own houses,
where they had been happy and miserable, had been born or married or
suffered, were turned into their tombs. Those who were killed outright
were not the most unfortunate, for others were caught by a limb beneath
falling stones, or crushed and held yet living, and their direful
shrieks of agony added to the horrors, for there was none to help them,
all were in the grip of the same misfortune. To add to the disaster
flames broke out from the ruined houses, and the city was lit by the
lurid light of fire rising to heaven. No one will ever know how many
hapless creatures were burnt to death! There was no possibility of
working the telegraph wires, and the people left alive simply had to
wait for help till help came. And meantime volumes of water, disturbed
by the change of sea-level, rolled in upon the land!
Directly the news startled the whole civilised world, ships of all
nations, which happened to be anywhere near, hastened to the rescue.
Camps were hastily run up and the survivors taken to them, food was
supplied to all who needed it, the wounded and maimed were attended to,
and wherever possible those who were still living in the ruins were dug
out and set free. But, as you may imagine, this was a work of great
danger, because dragging out a beam or stone often sent a shattering
avalanche down on the top of the rescuers.
The number of those destroyed can never be known certainly, but it is
estimated at somewhere about 200,000, for Messina is a large town.
Charitable people sent subscriptions from all quarters; money flowed in;
those children who had lost their parents, and even in some cases their
names and identity, being too small to give any account of themselves,
were placed in kind homes and provided for, and those who were
completely crippled assured of support; others were given the means to
start life once more. It is difficult to imagine that all this happened
only a few short years ago now; even though we are quite close to
Messina, and have the use of a very fine pair of field-glasses, it is
difficult to make out any of the mischief. It appears as if the houses
had been rebuilt, warehouses and chimneys stand as usual, and the great
viaduct spans the valley; but those who know say that this is only a
good face seen from the sea, and that ruins still lie in quantities
behind. In the memories of those who passed through the earthquake there
must be a shuddering horror never to be forgotten, a black mark passing
athwart their lives and cutting them into two parts--that before and
that after the catastrophe.
Farther on more little villages appear, some looking just like a spilt
box of child's bricks tumbled any way down a mountain spur. Then we
catch sight of the great majesty of Etna, the third volcano we have seen
in two days, and we stand lost in admiration of his pure beauty.
The smoothness of the eternal snow glows like a silver shield on the
breast of the giant peak. Far below are vineyards, olive groves,
orchards, and orange and lemon groves, for Sicily is celebrated for
these fruits. Above them are beech-woods, so deep and dark that they are
seldom penetrated even by the peasants; beautiful as the beech is, it is
a poisonous tree and nothing can live beneath its shade.
It is all so smiling and peaceful on this serene Sunday morning that we
can hardly believe that in Etna too there lies the raging demon of
mighty force. Even as we watch a faint puff of pure white smoke, so thin
that it might be mistaken for a wisp of cloud, floats away from the peak
into the infinite blue, and we know by his breath that the demon is not
dead but only sleeping.
"Lucky indeed to get Etna clear of clouds," says one of the passengers
near us. "I've been through the Straits a score of times and I've hardly
ever seen it as you are seeing it for the first time to-day."
Volcanoes and earthquakes are closely connected. There lies within this
world of ours an imprisoned power of vital heat, which now and again
bursts through at weak places in the crust. Geologists tell us that
these weak places may be traced in long lines on the earth's surface,
and along one of them lie the volcanoes we have seen. But the laws which
govern the earthquake and the volcano are hardly yet understood, even
to-day.
After calling at another little Italian port for the mails, we do not
stop anywhere for the next few days, but steam along steadily, making up
for lost time. We have seen something of the southern part of our own
continent of Europe. We have landed in Spain at Gibraltar, we set foot
on French soil in Toulon, where the steamer called to take on passengers
from across France, we have visited Italy at Naples, and these are the
principal countries which line the huge land-locked sea. In old times
the whole civilised world centred around the Mediterranean, and Rome,
which is now the capital of Italy, dominated it all, making one mighty
empire. The dominion of Rome reached far northward to our own islands,
and she was so secure and supreme in her power that it never entered the
heads of the Romans then living that some day the whole empire would be
split up and distributed. Their dominion reached even to Egypt, where we
are now going, and to the Holy Land, which we shall visit afterwards;
their fleets covered the sea, their armies strode hot-footed across the
land, making broad ways that passed over hill and valley without pause
or rest, yet now the empire of Rome is but a name.
[Illustration]