VESUVIUS: THE STORY OF THE MOUNTAIN
The first appearance of Vesuvius, whether viewed from the deck of a
steamer entering the Bay of Naples or espied from the window of a railway
carriage on the main line running southward from Rome, makes an impression
that will linger for ever in the memory. It is open to argument which is
the more striking of the two experiences: the Mountain rising proudly from
the deep blue waters into the paler shade of the upper air, or its
graceful broken contour seen from the landward side to the north across
the green fertile plains of the Campagna Felice. From a long acquaintance
with both ways of approaching Naples, we are inclined to prefer the latter
view. Travelling in an express train from Rome we find ourselves whirled
suddenly, by magic as it were, into the atmosphere of the South, when with
the sight of the domes and towers of Capua, the ancient capital of
Campania the Prosperous, we first note the presence of orange trees and
hedges of aloe, of white lupin crops and clumps of prickly pear, and we
feel we are nearing Naples with “its burning mountain and its tideless
sea,” so that we eagerly strain our eyes in a southerly direction to catch
our first glimpse of Vesuvius, with whose shape and history we have been
so familiar since our childhood’s days. At length we perceive its double
summit, with smoke tranquilly issuing from the cone and obscuring the
clarity of the air, and as we hurry forward towards our destination,
through the plains studded with elm-trees festooned with vines, we have
the satisfaction of observing its form grow larger and more distinct in
outline.
On our arrival at Naples, in course of time we grow more intimately
acquainted with the peculiar attractions of “the Mountain,” as the
Neapolitans always designate their treacherous but fascinating neighbour,
of whose near existence they have every reason to be proud, for certainly
Vesuvius, though barely as lofty as Ben Nevis, _is_ to us westerns the
most famous mountain upon earth. Regarding Vesuvius both from the land and
the sea, we note that it rises in solitary majesty from an extended base
some thirty miles in circumference, and that it sweeps upwards in graceful
curving lines until at a distance of about 3000 feet from sea level its
summit is cleft into two peaks; that to the north being a rocky ridge
which catches our eye as we gaze eastward from the heights of Sant’ Elmo
or the Corso at Naples, the other point being the actual cone of the
volcano itself. The upper part of the Mountain has in fact two aspects; in
other words, Vesuvius is double, being composed of the ridge of Monte
Somma to the north, 3760 feet in height, which is pre-historic; and the
ever-shifting modern dome of Vesuvius to the south, which is _about_ 4000
feet high. We say “about” purposely, for Vesuvius proper sometimes
over-tops, sometimes equals, and sometimes even crouches under its
immovable sister-peak, according to the effect produced by volcanic
action. Monte Somma, which is one of the everlasting hills, is the parent,
and Vesuvius is the child, born but yesterday from a geological point of
view, for it is not so old as the Christian era;—“it is a variable heap
thrown up from time to time, and again, not seldom, by a greater effort of
the same force, tossed away into the air, and scattered in clouds of dust
over far-away countries. Thus it has happened often, in the course of
these variations of energy, that Vesuvius has risen to a conical height
exceeding that of Somma by 500 or 600 feet, and again, the top has been
truncated to a level as low as Somma, or even as much below that mountain
as we now behold it above.”(3)
To understand the story of the Mountain, therefore, it is necessary for us
to travel back in retrospect to ancient Roman days. In the first place,
however, one word as to its present name that we use to-day, for all are
familiar with Vesuvius, but comparatively few, until they visit Naples,
have heard mention made of Monte Somma. The name of Vesuvius, then, though
strictly applicable only to the volcanic and modern portion of the
Mountain, is not a recent appellation; on the contrary, it is probably of
far more ancient origin than _Mons Summanus_ by which the whole was known
to the Romans. The point is by no means unimportant, for etymologists
derive Vesuvius from the Syriac “Vo Seevev, the abode of flame,” thereby
proving to us that whatever opinions may have been held as to the nature
of the Mountain in the century preceding the Christian era, its volcanic
nature must have been perfectly well understood by those who gave it this
suggestive title in a more remote age. But the secret locked up in Mons
Summanus was not altogether unsuspected by the Roman scientists. Strabo,
the geographer, writing about thirty years before the birth of Christ,
made a careful examination of the crest of Mons Summanus, then a
saucer-shaped hollow surrounded by a steep rocky edge and occupied by a
flat plain covered with cinders and void of grass, although the flanks of
the Mountain were extraordinarily fertile. From what he saw during his
visit, Strabo conjectured the Mountain to be an extinct volcano, in which
surmise he was destined to be proved partly in the right and partly in the
wrong; whilst Vitruvius, the famous architect of the Emperor Augustus,
“who found Rome of brick and left it of marble,” as well as Tacitus the
historian, shared the same opinion. About a century and a half before the
first recorded eruption in 79, Mons Summanus figures prominently in Roman
history as the scene of a curious incident during the Servile War, so that
in the pages of the old chronicler Florus we obtain an interesting
description—especially interesting because it was not given for scientific
purposes—of the condition of the mountain top at that period. The brave
gladiator Spartacus and his intrepid band of revolted slaves, seeking a
place of safety from the pursuing Roman legions, not very wisely selected
the top of this isolated peak, which, although affording a good position
of defence and possessing a wide outlook over the Campanian plain, had
only one narrow passage in its rocky rim to serve as entrance or outlet.
Followed hither by the Roman forces and caught like rats in a trap,
Spartacus and his men were doomed either to be reduced by starvation, or
else to run the gauntlet of the sole narrow exit, which the Senate’s
commander, Clodius Glabrus, was already guarding. The story of Spartacus’
escape from his terrible dilemma is told in the history of Florus, and
repeated with further details by Plutarch in his Life of Crassus.
“Clodius the Prætor, with three thousand men, besieged them in a mountain,
having but one narrow and difficult passage, which Clodius kept guarded;
all the rest was encompassed with broken and slippery precipices, but upon
the top grew a great many wild vines: they cast down as many of these
boughs as they had need of, and twisted them into ladders long enough to
reach from thence to the bottom, by which, without any danger, all got
down save one, who stayed behind to throw them their arms, after which he
saved himself with the rest.”
A dozen learned statements of a scientific nature as to the ancient
appearance and slumbering condition of the Mountain could not impress our
imagination more vividly with its subsequent natural changes than the
account of this episode of Spartacus and his handful of rebels,
beleaguered by Clodius within the very crater of the volcano. We can see
the Mountain in the last years of the Roman Republic before us, with its
truncated cone encircled by a low rampart of rock half hidden by wild
vine, ivy, eglantine, honeysuckle and all the creeping plants whose tough
trailing stems enabled the besieged gladiators to effect their escape from
the snare into which they had unwittingly fallen. We can understand from
this event how utterly remote was the idea of any upheaval of nature to
the dwellers on these shores, whose ancestors remembered the crest of the
mountain as the scene of a military operation.
The first warning of a coming eruption after unnumbered centuries of quiet
was given by a series of earthquakes which did an immense amount of damage
at Herculaneum and Pompeii; yet in a district which had from time
immemorial been subject to similar convulsions of nature, the shocks,
though unusually distressing and destructive to life and property, were
evidently unconnected in the popular mind with their true cause: the
reawakening to life of the mountain overhead. The mischief done by the
earthquakes was accordingly repaired as quickly as possible, and the
normal course of life was resumed until the terrific and wholly unexpected
outbreak of August 24th 79, during the reign of the Emperor Titus. Of
this, the first recorded eruption of Vesuvius, we are exceptionally
fortunate in possessing the testimony of a credible eye-witness, who was
no less a personage than Caius Plinius Caecilius Secundus, better known to
the modern world as Pliny the Younger, who wrote two lengthy letters to
Tacitus on the subject of this event, the first describing the fate of his
uncle, the Elder Pliny, most eminent of Roman naturalists, who perished
during this period of terror; and the second containing a more detailed
account of the eruption itself. For it so happened—luckily for
posterity—that at the time of this sudden outburst of Mons Summanus, the
Elder Pliny was in command of the Roman fleet at Misenum on the Bay of
Naples, where his young nephew (who was also his adopted son) was living
with his mother in a villa. “On the 24th of August,” writes Pliny the
Younger some eleven years after the event he is about to describe, “about
one in the afternoon, my mother desired my uncle to observe a cloud which
appeared of a very unusual 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, was retired to his study. He immediately arose
and went out upon an eminence, from whence he might more distinctly view
this very uncommon appearance. It was not at that distance discernible
from what mountain this cloud issued, but it was found afterwards to
ascend from Mount Vesuvius. I cannot give a more exact description of its
figure than by resembling it to that of a pine-tree, for it shot up to a
great height in the form of a trunk, which extended itself on the top into
a sort of branches, occasioned, I imagine, either by a sudden gust of air
that impelled it, the force of which decreased as it advanced upwards, or
the cloud itself being pressed back again by its own weight, expanded in
this manner; it appeared sometimes bright, and sometimes dark and spotted,
as it was more or less impregnated with earth and cinders. This
extraordinary phenomenon excited my uncle’s philosophical curiosity to
take a nearer view of it.” The nephew then proceeds to relate how his
uncle sailed by way of Retina, the port of Herculaneum, to Stabiae, where
he met with his second in command, one Pomponianus. Meanwhile the Younger
Pliny, who had declined to accompany his uncle’s expedition on the plea of
having to pursue the studies with which as a hard-working youth of
seventeen he was evidently engrossed, became alarmed during the night for
the Elder Pliny’s safety. His own and his mother’s terrible experiences
are vividly portrayed in the second letter, which, at the historian’s
special request, the Younger Pliny wrote to Tacitus in later years.
“When my uncle had started, I spent such time as was left on my studies—it
was on their account, indeed, that I had stopped behind. Then followed the
bath, dinner and sleep, this last disturbed and brief. There had been
noticed for many days before a trembling of the earth, which had caused,
however, but little fear, because it is not unusual in Campania. But that
night it was so violent, that one thought everything was being not merely
moved, but absolutely overturned. My mother rushed into my chamber; I was
in the act of rising, with the same intention of awaking her, should she
have been asleep. We sat down in the open court of the house, which
occupied a small space between the buildings and the sea. And now—I do not
know whether to call it courage or folly, for I was but in my eighteenth
year—I called for a volume of Livy, read it as if I were perfectly at
leisure, and even continued to make some extracts which I had begun. Just
then arrived a friend of my uncle, who had lately come to him from Spain;
when he saw that we were sitting down—that I was even reading—he rebuked
my mother for her patience, and me for my blindness to the danger. Still I
bent myself as industriously as ever over my book. It was now seven
o’clock in the morning, but the daylight was still faint and doubtful. The
surrounding buildings were now so shattered, that in the place where we
were, which though open was small, the danger that they might fall on us
was imminent and unmistakable. So we at last determined to quit the town.
A panic-stricken crowd followed us.... We saw the sea retire into itself,
seeming, as it were, to be driven back by the trembling movement of the
earth. The shore had distinctly advanced, and many marine animals were
left high and dry upon the sands. Behind us was a dark and dreadful cloud,
which, as it was broken with rapid zig-zag flashes, revealed behind it
variously shaped masses of flame; these last were like sheet lightning,
though on a larger scale.... It was not long before the cloud that we saw
began to descend upon the earth and cover the sea. It had already
surrounded and concealed the island of Capreae, and had made invisible the
promontory of Misenum. My mother besought, urged, even commanded me to fly
as best I could; ‘I might do so,’ she said, ‘for I was young; she, from
age and corpulence, could move but slowly, but would be content to die, if
she did not bring death upon me.’ I replied that I would not seek safety
except in her company; I clasped her hand and compelled her to go with me.
She reluctantly obeyed, but continually reproached herself for delaying
me. Ashes now began to fall—still, however, in small quantities. I looked
behind me; a dense dark mist seemed to be following us, spreading itself
over the country like a cloud. ‘Let us turn out of the way,’ I said,
‘whilst we can still see, for fear that, should we fall in the road, we
should be trodden under foot in the darkness by the throngs that accompany
us.’ We had scarcely sat down when night was upon us,—not such as we have
seen when there is no moon, or when the sky is cloudy, but such as there
is in some closed room where the lights are extinguished. You might hear
the shrieks of women, the monotonous wailing of children, the shouts of
men. Many were raising their voices, and seeking to recognise by the
voices that replied, parents, children, husbands or wives. Some were
loudly lamenting their own fate, others the fate of those dear to them.
Some even prayed for death, in their fear of what they prayed for. Many
lifted their hands in prayer to the gods; more were convinced that there
were now no gods at all, and that the final endless night of which we have
heard had come upon the world.... It now grew somewhat light again; we
felt sure that this was not the light of day, but a proof that fire was
approaching us. Fire there was, but it stopped at a considerable distance
from us; then came darkness again, and a thick, heavy fall of ashes. Again
and again we stood up and shook them off; otherwise, we should have been
covered by them, and even crushed by the weight. At last the black mist I
had spoken of seemed to shade off into smoke or cloud, and broke away.
Then came genuine daylight, and the sun shone out with a lurid light, such
as it is wont to have in an eclipse. Our eyes, which had not yet recovered
from the effects of fear, saw everything changed, everything covered deep
with ashes as if with snow. We returned to Misenum, and after refreshing
ourselves as best we could, spent a night of anxiety in mingled hope and
fear. Fear, however, was still the stronger feeling; for the trembling of
the earth continued, while many frenzied persons, with their terrific
predictions, gave an exaggeration that was even ludicrous to the
calamities of themselves and of their friends. Even then, in spite of all
the perils which we had experienced, and which we still expected, we had
not a thought of going away till we could hear news of my uncle.”(4)
As to the fate of the Elder Pliny, it seems that the old man had been
obliged together with his friends and servants to fly from the villa at
Stabiae where he was resting. The sea being too agitated to allow of an
embarkation, the fugitives turned their steps towards the slopes of Mons
Gaurus, the present Monte Sant’ Angelo, with pillows bound over their
heads to serve as protection against the showers of hot cinders that were
falling thickly on all sides. At length the famous old writer, who was
somewhat plethoric and unwieldy, sank exhausted to the ground, never to
rise again, and shortly expired in an attack of heart failure, induced by
the unusual excitement and fatigue he had lately been called upon to
endure. At any rate, it appears fairly certain that the Elder Pliny did
not perish, as is still sometimes asserted, by the direct effects of the
eruption, but rather through an ordinary collapse of nature—syncope,
perhaps. Three days later his body was found lying not far from Stabiae by
his grief-stricken nephew, who describes his uncle’s corpse as looking
“more like that of a sleeping than of a dead man.”
This then was the first, as it was also the most violent, of the many
outbreaks of Vesuvius which our own age has witnessed, and with this
eruption of 79 in the reign of Titus, the Mountain, as we have already
said, greatly altered its shape. More than half the rim of the ancient
crater that had enclosed Spartacus and his men less than two hundred years
before had been torn away and destroyed, its remaining portion on the
landward side retaining the old name of Mons Summanus. Between this
remnant of the old wall of the crater and the scene of wreckage on the
southern face of the Mountain, there now appeared the great cleft, the
horse-shoe shaped valley called the Atrio del Cavallo, which separates the
two peaks of the whole summit. A fragment only of the original crater,
known as the Pedimentina, still remains on the seaward side above Torre
del Greco. From that terrible day, so vividly described by the Younger
Pliny, to our own times, a period stretching over 1800 years, a vast
number of eruptions, great and small, have been enumerated, for owing to
the nearness of Vesuvius to one of the largest cities in Europe, every
incident connected with its activity has been carefully noted, at least
since the time of the Renaissance. Out of the many upheavals we propose to
select the eruptions of 1631 and 1779, as being amongst the most
significant.
Ever since an outburst in the year 1500, the Mountain appears to have
lapsed into a remarkable condition of quietude, even of apparent
extinction, for over a century and a quarter, during which period, it may
be remarked, the Sicilian volcano of Etna was unusually active. Once more
the summit of Vesuvius was beginning to assume the form it had borne in
the days previous to the overthrow of Pompeii; the riven crater was
becoming filled with dense undergrowth and even with forest trees, amidst
which wild boar made their lairs and were occasionally hunted. The learned
Abate Giulio Braccini, whose account of the eruption of 1631 is the most
graphic and accurate we possess, explored the crater shortly before the
outbreak of the volcano, but found little to suggest any idea of an
approaching convulsion. He reckoned the deep depression occupying the
crest of the mountain to be about five miles in circumference, and to take
about a thousand paces of walking so as to reach the lowest point within
its area. He remarked abundance of brushwood on its sides, and observed
cattle grazing peacefully upon the open grassy patches in the midst of the
over-grown space. A deep crack, however, ran from end to end of the whole
crater, which allowed persons so minded to descend amidst rocks and
boulders to a large plain below the surface, whereon Braccini found three
pools of hot steamy water, of a saline and sulphureous taste. Such was the
tranquil aspect of the Mountain as surveyed by the Abate Braccini in the
first half of the seventeenth century; to men of science signs of latent
energy were certainly not wanting, yet to the ignorant, careless peasants
of the hill-side and the scarcely less ignorant dwellers of the towns on
the seashore, the state of repose in which the Mountain had continued for
four or five generations suggested no fears or suspicions. Tilling of
vineyards, building of new houses, sinking of wells, went on apace as
cheerfully as though an eruption were an impossibility, till certain
unmistakable portents that occurred towards the close of the year 1631
roughly dissipated this spell of fancied security. Earthquakes, more or
less severe, began at this time to be felt along the whole of the volcanic
line stretching from Ischia to the eastern slopes of Vesuvius; the plain
within the crater of the Mountain began to heave and rise in an alarming
fashion, and the water in all the local wells sank mysteriously below
ground. The signs of some impending disaster coming from the heights above
were too strongly marked to be lightly disregarded; the idea of a volcanic
convulsion, though by this time a long-distant and vague memory, became so
terrifying to the dwellers on the mountain’s flanks and in Torre del
Greco, Resina and the various towns that line the seaward base of the
Mountain, that the majority of the people removed themselves and their
property with all speed to places of safety. Nevertheless, despite the
warnings given by Nature and also by men of science and the royal
officials, many remained behind in their houses, and in consequence
perished, to the immense number, it is surmised, of 18,000. On the morning
of Wednesday, December 16th, the long threatened eruption burst forth in
earnest upon an expectant world. Amidst crashes like prolonged volleys of
artillery the people of Naples and the surrounding district beheld the
terrible pine-tree of smoke and ashes, described centuries ago by Pliny,
ascend from the south-western side of the summit of the Mountain, veiling
the sky for miles around, and so charged with electricity, that many were
even killed by the _ferilli_, or lightning flashes, that darted from the
smoking mass. The spectacle of the ominous pine-tree was at once followed
by a terrific rumbling and an ejection of lava, which after flowing down
the southern flank in several streams finally reached the sea, making the
waters hiss and boil at the moment of contact. Slowly but surely these
relentless red-hot rivers of lava crept like serpents along the hill-side,
destroying vineyard and garden, cottage and chapel, on their downward
path. Resina shared the fate of its ancient forerunner Herculaneum, whilst
Torre del Greco and Portici suffered severely, as we can see to-day by
noting the great masses of lava flung on to the strand at various points.
To add to the universal confusion of Nature, the sea, which had now become
extraordinarily tempestuous, probably owing to some submarine
earthquake-shock, suddenly retreated half a mile from the coast, and then
as suddenly returned in a tidal wave more than a hundred feet beyond its
normal limits. Such were the main features of the second great eruption of
Vesuvius, wherein the ashes ejected by the Mountain were wafted by the
wind beyond the Adriatic, to the Greek islands and even to Constantinople
itself.
[Illustration: VESUVIUS AND THE BAY OF NAPLES]
From this date onward the Mountain became very active in contrast with its
previous condition of lethargy, and throughout the whole of the eighteenth
century there were frequent eruptions, many of them on a vast scale. All
these outbursts have been carefully recorded and commented upon, for
naturally the scientists of a great city like Naples were intensely
interested in the passing phases of their own volcano. During the latter
half of this century all the phenomena have been described for us by Sir
William Hamilton, British ambassador at the Court of the Two Sicilies, the
versatile diplomatist who eventually married the beautiful but frail Emma
Hart. During his long period of residence in Naples, Sir William made no
fewer than fifty-eight explorations of the crater alone, besides carefully
studying every peculiarity visible upon the sides of the Mountain. He was,
of course, a close observer of the great eruptions of 1766-7, and also of
the still greater convulsion of 1779, which, strangely enough, occurred on
the seventeenth centenary of the awakening of the Mountain from its
pre-historic slumbers. On this occasion, Hamilton, accompanied by a Mr
Bowdler of Bath, had the temerity to track the streams of flowing lava to
their hidden source by walking over the rough unyielding crust of stones
and earth that had formed upon the surface of the molten stream, as it
slowly trickled down hill at the rate of about a mile an hour. The
adventurous pair of Englishmen were successful in their quest, and Sir
William thus describes the fountain-head of the fiery streams that he
found a quarter of a mile distant from the top of the cone.
“The liquid and red-hot matter bubbled up violently, with a hissing and
crackling noise, like that which attends the playing off of an artificial
firework; and by the continued splashing up of the vitrified matter, a
kind of arch, or dome, was formed over the crevice from whence the lava
issued; it was cracked in many parts, and appeared red-hot within, like a
heated oven. This hollowed hillock might be about fifteen feet high, and
the lava that ran from under it was received into a regular channel,
raised upon a sort of wall of scoriae and cinders, almost perpendicularly,
of about a height of eight or ten feet, resembling much an ancient
aqueduct.”
Some days later, at midnight on August 7th, a veritable fountain of red
fire shot up from the crest of Vesuvius, illuminating all the surrounding
country; and on the following night a still more marvellous sheet of flame
appeared, hanging like a fiery veil between heaven and earth, and reaching
to a height (so Sir William Hamilton guessed) of about 10,000 feet above
the summit, affording a wonderfully grand but terrible spectacle. This
great curtain of fiery particles, accompanied by inky black clouds from
which were darting continual flashes of lightning, was reflected clearly
on the smooth surface of the Bay, delighting the Court and the scientific
world of Naples, but inspiring, as may well be imagined, the mass of
superstitious inhabitants with the direst alarm. The theatres were closed
and the churches were opened; above the rumblings and explosions of the
agonised volcano could be heard the tolling of the bells. Maddened by
terror, the Neapolitan mob rushed to the Archbishop’s palace to demand the
immediate production of the holy relics of St Januarius, the protector of
the city, and on this request being refused, set fire to the entrance
gates, a forcible argument that soon persuaded his Eminence of the
propriety of the people’s demand. Thereupon the head of the Saint,
enclosed in its case of solid silver, was accordingly borne in solemn
procession with wailing and repentant crowds behind it to an improvised
shrine, hung with garlands, on the Ponte della Maddalena, at the extreme
eastern boundary of the city. Nor was the confidence reposed by the
Neapolitans in their patron Saint misplaced, for except from the stifling
smells and the dense rain of ashes, the terror-stricken capital suffered
not a whit, whilst the general alarm inspired its inhabitants with a
revival of religious fervour which was by no means insalutary. As usual,
the old cynical proverb was once more justified:—_Napoli fa gli peccati, e
la __Torre gli paga_, for of course poor Torre del Greco was grievously
affected by the lava streams. In this case, however, even Torre del Greco
and Resina did not fare so badly as did the towns on the northern slopes
of Monte Somma, a district which is of course perfectly immune from lava
inundations owing to the protecting rocky ridge of the Atrio del Cavallo.
But it seems that the great veil of clouds and fire, extending some
thousands of feet from the crest of the mountain to the heavens above, was
swayed by a chance current of air, so that its component red-hot dust,
ashes and stones were emptied in one fatal shower upon the northern flank
of the Mountain. Whole villages were ruined, hundreds of acres of vines
and crops were scorched and burned; the smiling peaceful hillside was in a
few minutes converted into a parched wilderness. Ottajano, a large town of
some 12,000 inhabitants, was the place most seriously injured by this
wholly unexpected rain of destruction, for a tempestuous fall of red-hot
stones, some of immense size, and a shower of ashes killed hundreds of the
terrified and suffocating citizens, and blocked up the streets with
smoking debris to a depth of four feet.
Of the recent eruptions of Vesuvius, which have been pretty frequent
during the latter half of last century, that of April 1872, so carefully
recorded by Professor Palmieri, who in spite of imminent danger never
abandoned his post in the Observatory, is the most notable. It is
remembered also owing to the catastrophe whereby some twenty persons out
of a large crowd of strangers, who had imprudently ascended to the Atrio
del Cavallo to get a closer view of the phenomenon, were suddenly caught
by the lava stream and enfolded in its burning clutches. For if ignorance
and superstition seem to make the poor fisherman or peasant unduly alarmed
on such occasions, curiosity and self-confidence are sometimes apt to lead
the educated or scientific into unnecessary peril. Naples itself was once
more alarmed in 1872, so that the relics of St Januarius at the furious
demand of the populace were again brought forth in solemn procession, and
exposed towards the face of the Mountain on the Ponte della Maddalena.
Thousands of quaking mortals gathered near this spot, joining in the
chanting of the priests and watching with pallid anxious faces the fiery
currents of lava slowly trickling down the south-western flank of Vesuvius
towards the city itself. A certain number of attendants meanwhile were
engaged in perpetually brushing away from the image of the Saint, from his
improvised altar, and from its votive garlands the ever-accumulating
mantle of grey dust, and it is scarcely to be wondered at that a certain
cool-headed Neapolitan artist, Il Vaccaro, should all this time have been
busily engaged in painting so characteristic and highly picturesque a
scene. Within the churches, and particularly in St Januarius’ own
cathedral, enormous crowds of hysterical men and women had collected,
loudly bewailing their past sins and imploring the Divine mercy, for
“E belle son le supplice
Pompe di penitenza, in alto lutto.”
Again the historic _palladium_ proved effectual, and the city, that was
never for a moment in danger, was once more saved! Naples received no
damage beyond a temporary panic and a heavy fall of ashes, which covered
every street and flat surface within the town to a depth of some inches
and which it took many days of enforced labour to remove. Again it was the
poor confiding vine-dressers and tillers of the Vesuvian soil who suffered
in this upheaval, for though the loss of life was very slight indeed, yet
numerous houses, fields and vineyards were totally destroyed and many more
were injured. Truly it is a maxim well proven by time:—_Napoli fa gli
peccati, e Torre gli paga._
Such, told baldly and briefly, is the history of the Mountain, which forms
the most conspicuous feature of the Bay of Naples and dominates one of the
fairest and most populous districts on the face of the globe. But it does
not take long to make visitors to the Neapolitan shore understand the
mysterious charm, not unmixed with awe, and the all-pervading influence of
Vesuvius. Go where we will within the circuit of the Bay of Naples and
even outside it, we are never out of sight of the obtruding Mountain and
its smoky wreath. We begin to feel that the Mountain is an animated thing,
that the destiny of the Parthenopean shore is locked up in the breast of
the Demon who has his dwelling within its red-hot caverns. So sudden are
the actions, and so capricious the moods of this Monster of the Burning
Mountain, that no one can tell the day, or even the hour, wherein he will
give us an exhibition of his fiery temper, though, it is true, in the case
of violent eruptions he is kind enough to afford timely warning by means
of a succession of earthquakes and other signals almost equally alarming.
His Majesty’s presence is felt everywhere; each morning as we open our
window upon the dazzling waters of the Bay, we note with relief his
tranquil aspect; each night, ere we retire to sleep, we find ourselves
inevitably drawn to watch the glare thrown by the molten lava within the
crater upon the thick vapour overhead. The nightly expectation of this
aerial bonfire possesses an extraordinary fascination for the stranger.
Some times the lurid glare is continuous; at other times there are long
intervals of waiting, and even then the reflected light is very faint, a
mere speck of reddish glow in the surrounding blackness, gone in the
twinkling of an eye. But, strangely enough, one grows to understand the
Mountain better from a distance and by watching its moods from afar, like
the Neapolitans themselves, who never ascend to probe its mysteries,
except a few vulgar guides and touts who batten on the curiosity of the
foreigner.
On clear windless days the intermittent clouds of vapour sent up from the
crater assume the most fantastic shapes—trees, ships, men, birds,
animals—ever changing like the forms of Proteus. It would seem as if the
Spirit of the Mountain were idly amusing himself, like a child blowing
bubbles, or a vendor at a fair-stall carving out little figures of
gingerbread to tickle the fancy of country boys and girls. The clouds so
formed sometimes cause amusement by their uncanny shapes, but not
unfrequently they inspire alarm. The superstitious peasant of the
_Paduli_, looking up suddenly from his work amidst the early peas or
tomatoes, beholds against the blue sky a vague nebulous form that to his
untutored mind suggests a gigantic crucifix upheld in mid-air above the
Mountain, and he crosses himself devoutly ere he bends down to earth once
more to his work in the rich dark soil. “Such stuff as dreams are made of”
appear in truth the weird phantoms that the sly Demon of Vesuvius flings
up into the pure aether, and if credulous mankind likes to draw inferences
for good or bad from these unsubstantial creations of his fancy, he laughs
to himself with a hollow reverberating sound. It must, however, have been
in the true spirit of prophecy on the occasion of King Manfred’s birth,
that the genius of the Mountain despatched two cloud-forms into the sky
(so the unabashed old chroniclers gravely relate), one having the
appearance of a warrior armed cap-à-pie, and the other that of a fully
vested priest. The affrighted gazers below, struck with the strange
phenomenon, beheld the two figures sway towards each other and finally
become locked together in deadly aerial combat, until all resemblance to
human shape had vanished from the pair. Then, after an interval of time,
men perceived the cloudy mass once more assume a mortal shape, and a huge
towering priest with flowing robes and tiara on head was left in solitary
and victorious possession of the sky. The Churchman had swallowed up the
soldier; the Pontiff had vanquished the King; it was a true premonition of
the fatal field of Benevento, which saw the ultimate triumph of the Papal
over the Imperial cause.
But if the near presence of the burning mountain has tended to make the
inhabitants of its immediate zone the slaves of superstitious awe, the
disasters of generations have likewise imbued them with a spirit of
fatalism, that appears even stronger than their outward show of credulity.
Life is not so sweet nor so dear apparently to these children of the
South, but that they can afford to take their chance of disturbance or
death with a true philosophic calm. The fisher-folk and maccaroni workers
of Resina, Portici and the two Torres have, it is true, little to lose; a
small boat can at the last moment easily convey their families and slender
stock of household furniture to a place of temporary safety, and when the
danger is over-past, the same shallop can bring back the refugees and
their belongings. But with the husbandmen the case is different. Not only
has he to fear the actual stream of lava, which may or may not overwhelm
his house and farm in its slow inevitable course, but there are also the
showers of hot ashes and of scalding water that will frizzle up in a few
seconds every green blade and leaf upon his tiny domain, for which he pays
an enormous rental, sometimes as much as £12 sterling an acre. Yet the
_contadino_ takes his chances with a seraphic resignation that we do not
usually attribute to the southern temperament. After the eruption of 1872,
which covered the rich _Paduli_ with a deep coating of grey ashes, a young
peasant girl was heard deploring the loss of her carefully tended gourds
and melons; “_Oh come volimme fa? Addio, pummarole! addio, cucuzzielle!_”
whereupon an older woman, witnessing these useless tears, upbraided her
with the words: “Do not complain, child, lest worse befall you!” And
indeed the whole population of the _Paduli_, instead of lamenting over
their scorched and spoiled crops, were jubilant at the thought that the
havoc done was only partial, not irrevocable;—a few months of incessant
labour, said they, would bring back the holdings to their former state of
perfection. Yet a general opinion prevails among foreigners that the
Neapolitans are lazy, thriftless and helpless! They indeed rely to a
certain extent upon St Januarius to protect their crops from the efforts
of Nature, over which, they argue, the Saint is more likely to possess
control than his human applicants, but when once the fatal shower of ashes
has fallen, they do not expect “San Gennaro” to set their injured acres to
rights again, but with a rare patience turn to the task themselves. A more
industrious, and at the same time a more capable and practical race of
agriculturists than the tillers of the slopes of Vesuvius, it would be
hard to match. And thus in the sunshine of the south, yet ever under the
shadow of death and destruction, dwell many thousands of human beings, as
unconcerned as though Vesuvius were miles and miles away. Not unconscious,
but fully conscious of their doom, the victims of the Mountain toil and
moil upon the fertile farms (in many cases risen phoenix-like from their
own ashes) that grow the early beans and tomatoes, the egg-plants and the
white fennel roots (_finocchi_) that well-fed travellers devour in the
hotels of Naples. Or else they tend the vines that yield the generous
_Lagrima Christi_, of which imprudent and heated visitors drink long
draughts unmixed with water, and then complain of ensuing languor and
pains beneath their waistcoats. Luscious, yet seductive wine! Counsellor
of moderation after a first experience of excess! Essence of Vesuvius,
whose strange name so puzzled the poet Chiabrera!
“Chi fu de’ contadini il si indiscreto,
Ch’ a sbigottir la gente
Diede nome dolente
Al vin’ che sovra gli altri il cuor fa lieto?
Lagrima dunque appellerassi un riso
Parte di nobilissima vendemmia?”
(“Who was the jesting countryman, I cry,
That gave so fearsome and so dour a name
To that choice vintage, which of all think I
Most warms the heart’s blood with its genial flame?
Smiles, and not tears, the epithet should be
Of juice wrung from so fair a vinery.”)
* * * * * *
Scarcely had the above pages been written, than the Mountain, which had
been drowsing for more than thirty years, suddenly awakened to give
appalling evidence of its latent activity and powers of mischief. The
eruption of April 1906 has, in fact, surpassed all previous outbursts
within living memory, and it may probably be reckoned amongst the most
violent of all hitherto recorded. Many of the details of this event
doubtless remain fresh in the memory, and in any case the sad condition of
numerous towns and villages, and of the beautiful Vesuvian districts, the
_paesi ridenti_ as the Neapolitans affectionately term these fertile
lands, will serve for some years to come as a sinister and ever-present
reminder of the horrors of the past and of the dread possibilities of the
future. All vegetation for miles around the volcano has been injured or
destroyed, for not only was the Mountain itself covered deep with grit and
ashes, but the streets and gardens of Naples, the luxuriant plain of
Sorrento, and even the heights of Capri, twenty miles distant across the
Bay, were shrouded in a funereal mantle of the greyish-yellow dust that
Vesuvius had flung into the air to let fall like a shower of parching and
destructive rain upon the earth. How vast was the amount of matter ejected
from the crater and scattered in this form over the surrounding country,
we may judge from the scientific calculation that 315,000 tons fell in
Naples alone! Everywhere appeared the same scenes of desolation, the same
dreary tint, for so thickly had this aerial torrent of ashes descended,
that buildings, trees and plants were completely hidden by it, the whole
landscape suggesting the idea of a recent heavy fall of dirty-coloured
snow. _Paesi ridenti_, indeed! It was a land of ugliness and mourning, a
city of stifling air and of human terror.
A few days previous to the eruption, which began on April 5th, the island
of Ustica, which lies some forty miles north of Palermo, had been visited
by earthquake shocks of such violence that the Italian Government at last
decided to remove the greater part of its population to the mainland, as
well as the convicts attached to the penal settlements on the island.
Scarcely had these manifestations ceased at Ustica, than Vesuvius began to
show signs of increased activity; the supplies in the wells on the
mountain sides began to fail, and there was observed a strong taste of
sulphur in the drinking water; whilst—most dreaded phenomenon of all—the
ever-active crater of Stromboli, that lies midway between Naples and
Messina, suddenly lapsed into quiescence. We all know the subsequent story
of the outbreak; of the thousands of fugitives flying into Naples or other
places of refuge; of the utter destruction of houses and cultivated
lands;—the doleful scenes of a Vesuvian eruption have been enacted and
described time after time in the history of the Mountain, and there is
every reason to suppose they will be repeated at intervals for centuries
to come. The marvel is how human beings can calmly settle down and pass
their lives so close to the jaws of the fire-spouting monster, and why an
intelligent Government permits its subjects to dwell in places which are
ever exposed to catastrophes such as that which we have just witnessed.
Well, it is the natural temperament of the Vesuviani to be fatalistic,
despite their religious fervour; and acts of legislature cannot force them
to abandon their old deep-rooted notions; all that the Italian Government
can do therefore is to stand ready prepared to help, when the upheaval
_does_ occur, as it inevitably must.
It is always a matter of speculation on these occasions as to what course
the ejected lava will pursue; whose turn, of the many settlements on the
southern slopes of the Mountain, will it be to suffer? This time it was
Bosco-Trecase, a village above Torre Annunziata, that was devastated by
the sinuous masses of incandescent matter, high as a house and broad as a
river. Torre Annunziata itself, as also ruined Pompeii were threatened,
but the red-hot streams of destruction mercifully stopped short of their
expected prey. The story of horrors and panic in the overthrow of
Bosco-Trecase is happily relieved by many a recorded incident of valour
and unselfishness. The royal _Carabinieri_, that splendid body of mounted
police, who in their cocked hats and voluminous cloaks appear as
ornamental in times of quiet as they prove themselves useful in the stormy
hours of peril, acquitted themselves, as usual, like heroes. It was they
who guided away the trembling peasants before the advance of the lava,
searching the doomed houses for sick and crippled, whom they carried on
their shoulders to places of security. Working, too, with almost equal
zeal and practical good sense were the Italian soldiers, who richly
deserved the praise that their royal commander, the Duke of Aosta,
subsequently bestowed upon them for their invaluable services rendered
during these fearful days of darkness and danger. “Soldiers!” declared the
Duke, in his address to the troops on April 23rd, “I have seen you calm
and happy in the work of alleviating the misfortunes of others, and I put
on record the praise you have won. By promptly appearing at the places
distressed by the eruption, you have encouraged the people by your
presence and your example; you have maintained order and have safe-guarded
property. Helping the local authorities, and even in some instances
filling their offices, you have carried out the most urgent and dangerous
duties in order to save the houses and to keep clear the roads. In the
spots most heavily afflicted you have lent your assistance in removing and
caring for the injured, and in searching for and burying the dead you have
given proofs of great self-sacrifice and reverence (_pietà_). Not a few of
the refugees have obtained food and shelter in your barracks, and whole
communities without means of existence have been provided by you with the
necessaries of life. Everywhere and from all your conduct has gained you
loud applause. Nevertheless, your task is not yet ended; continue at it
out of love for your country and devotion to your King!”(5)
With such a reputation for kindness of heart and energy in time of need,
no wonder that the Army is popular with all classes in Italy!
Nor did the King and Queen hold aloof from the scene of disaster, for they
hurried from Rome at midnight of that terrible Palm Sunday on purpose to
comfort the terror-stricken population. Victor-Emmanuel even penetrated in
his motor-car as far as Torre Annunziata, in spite of the fumes of sulphur
and the many difficulties in proceeding along roads clogged deep with
volcanic dust and ashes. On another occasion the King and Queen paid a
visit to the afflicted district of the slopes of Monte Somma, where
Ottajano and San Giuseppe had been almost buried by the continuous falling
of burning material from the crater. In fact, these localities suffered
even more severely than the towns on the seaward face of the Mountain
(Bosco-Trecase excepted), and at Ottajano hardly a house in the place
remained intact at the close of the eruption, whilst the loss of human
life was probably higher here than elsewhere. The Duke and Duchess of
Aosta—he the king’s cousin, and she the popular Princess Hélène, daughter
of the late Comte de Paris—were likewise indefatigable in their efforts to
assist and reassure the demoralized population, and to make every possible
arrangement for the feeding and housing of the numberless refugees and the
tending of the injured in the hospitals of Naples. Equally valorous was
the conduct of the great scientist, Professor Matteucci, who remained
together with a few Carabinieri throughout all phases of the eruption at
the Vesuvian Observatory, although in imminent peril of death amidst a
deadly atmosphere of heat and sulphureous fumes.
It was on April 5th that the streams of burning lava first burst from the
riven crater and made their way down the south-eastern slopes, destroying
Bosco-Trecase and reaching to the very suburbs of Torre Annunziata.
Pompeii itself was imperilled, and it is always well to remember that
during an eruption this precious relic of antiquity may possibly be lost
to the world. Meanwhile the rain of ashes and mud—formed by dust and hot
water commingling—fell incessantly; 150,000 inhabitants of the Vesuvian
districts fled in precipitate flight towards Naples, towards the shore,
towards the hill country beyond the Sarno. It was truly a marvellous
spectacle to observe the relentless stream of burning lava crushing
irresistibly every opposing object in its fatal path. Onlookers at a
distance could perceive the walls of houses bulging outward under pressure
of the moving mass, until the roof collapsed in an avalanche of tiles upon
the ground, whilst with a final crash the whole structure—cottage, farm,
church or stately villa—succumbed to the overwhelming weight.
Many are the tales of courage and intrepidity; not a few, alas! are the
stories of folly and cowardice that are related in connection with the
eruption. It cannot be said that the population of Naples, where everybody
was perfectly safe even if the atmosphere was unpleasant and the distant
thunders of the Mountain reverberated alarmingly, comported itself with
dignity or calm; and this criticism applies in particular to the hundreds
of visitors—English, German, American and other _forestieri_—who besieged
the railway station in frantic and indecent anxiety to remove themselves
with all speed from the city. Some excuse might perhaps be found for the
hysterical terror of the poor inhabitants of the Mergellina or the
Mercato, who spent their time in wailing within the churches or in
screaming for the public exhibition of the venerated relics of their
patron Saint, which again on this occasion the Archbishop, _nolens
volens_, was compelled by the mob to produce. But for the great mass of
educated foreigners then filling the hotels and pensions of the place, it
cannot be said that their conduct was edifying, particularly in face of
the example set by the King and Queen of Italy. To add to the general
panic prevailing in the city, the Neapolitans themselves were not
unnaturally greatly exasperated by the serious accident which took place
at the Central Market Hall near Monte Oliveto in the heart of the old
town. Here, early one morning during the course of the eruption, the great
roof of corrugated iron collapsed, killing many and frightening the whole
of the populace, already sufficiently unnerved by recent events. That this
catastrophe was due to the casual methods, amounting in this case to
criminal neglect of plain duty, of the municipal authorities, who had
neglected to sweep the accumulation of heavy volcanic ash from off the
thin metal roof, none can deny; and this glaring example of public
stupidity had of course a bad effect on the demoralized multitude, which
threatened to grow unruly, as well as terrified. No, the graceless
stampede of educated foreigners to the railway-station, the incompetence
of the Municipality, and the behaviour of the Neapolitan crowd do not
appear very creditable to the supposed enlightenment of the twentieth
century. It had been confidently predicted that nearly fifty years of
State education and liberal government would work wonders in dispelling
the crass ignorance and the deep-seated superstition of the dwellers on
the Bay of Naples. Yet, so far as can be judged from recent events,
matters seem to have changed but little on these shores, for the mass of
the population evidently preferred to pin its hope of safety to the
miracle-working relics of San Gennaro, rather than to the reassuring
messages of Professor Matteucci, sent from his post of undoubted peril on
the mountain-side.
If the inhabitants of a great city, which was never seriously threatened
with danger, should have acted thus, there is undoubtedly much excuse to
be found for the Vesuviani themselves, whose houses and lives were
certainly in danger from the devastating streams of lava. It was with a
sigh and a smile that we learned how the good people of Portici attributed
their escape from the fate of Bosco-Trecase to the direct interposition of
a wonder-working Madonna enshrined in one of their own churches. For some
days the town had been threatened, so that many were convinced of its
impending doom, when happily at the last moment the expected fate was
averted, as though by a miracle. And miracle it truly was in the eyes of
the people of Portici, when it was observed that the snow-white hands of
their popular Madonna had turned black in some mysterious manner during
the night hours. What could be a simpler or easier deduction from this
circumstance, than that Our Lady’s Effigy, taking pity on its affrighted
suppliants, had with its own hands pushed back the advancing mass of lava,
and thus saved the town! Great was the joy, and equally great the
gratitude, displayed by these poor souls at Portici, who at once organised
a triumphal procession in honour of their prescient patroness “delle mani
nere.” Does not such an incident, we ask, lend a touch of picturesque
medievalism to a modern scene of horror and darkness, exhibiting to us, as
it does, the traits of a simple touching faith and of genuine human
thankfulness?
Well, the great eruption of 1906 is over, and the inhabitants of the
Vesuvian communes are once more settling down in their ruined homes, or
their damaged farms and gardens. No doubt a new Bosco-Trecase will arise
on the shapeless ruins of the old site, for fear of danger seems powerless
to deter the outcast population from reoccupying its old haunts. Ottajano
will be rebuilt, not for the first time, and its citizens will again trust
to luck—and to St Januarius—for protection from the evil fate which has
repeatedly overtaken their town. The two Torres, Resina, Portici, and the
villages along the shore, have this time contrived to escape the lava
streams, and though their buildings have been severely shaken, and even
wrecked in many instances, the people will doubtless mend the cracks in
their walls and place fresh tiles on the injured roofs. They are wise in
their own generation, for the Mountain is not likely to burst forth again
for another quarter of a century at least after so violent a fit, _salvo
complicazioni_, of course, as the more cautious Italians themselves say.
But another outburst is inevitable; and whose turn to suffer will it be
then? Will it be Portici, or either of the Torres? Who knows?—and what
dweller under Vesuvius to-day cares at this moment? “Under Vesuvius,” but
it is a new Vesuvius, for the tall cone which was so conspicuous a feature
of the Bay of Naples has disappeared completely, and the summit of the
volcano has been once more reduced to the level of Monte Somma. How many
years, we wonder, will be required for the Mountain to raise for itself
once more the tall pyre of ashes that it has itself demolished and flung
on all sides to the winds? At any rate let us now look for a period of
rest, a period of prosperity to recoup the disturbed denizens of these
_paesi già ridenti_ for their heavy losses and terrible experiences.
_Speriamo._