is the genius of the scene. From every indication of the ruin it
has worked, we look, again, with an absorbing interest to where its
smoke is rising up into the sky. It is beyond us, as we thread the
ruined streets: above us, as we stand upon the ruined walls, we
follow it through every vista of broken columns, as we wander
through the empty court-yards of the houses; and through the
garlandings and interlacings of every wanton vine. Turning away to
Paestum yonder, to see the awful structures built, the least aged
of them, hundreds of years before the birth of Christ, and standing
yet, erect in lonely majesty, upon the wild, malaria-blighted plain
– we watch Vesuvius as it disappears from the prospect, and watch
for it again, on our return, with the same thrill of interest: as
the doom and destiny of all this beautiful country, biding its
terrible time.
It is very warm in the sun, on this early spring-day, when we
return from Paestum, but very cold in the shade: insomuch, that
although we may lunch, pleasantly, at noon, in the open air, by the
gate of Pompeii, the neighbouring rivulet supplies thick ice for
our wine. But, the sun is shining brightly; there is not a cloud
or speck of vapour in the whole blue sky, looking down upon the bay
of Naples; and the moon will be at the full to-night. No matter
that the snow and ice lie thick upon the summit of Vesuvius, or
that we have been on foot all day at Pompeii, or that croakers
maintain that strangers should not be on the mountain by night, in
such an unusual season. Let us take advantage of the fine weather;
make the best of our way to Resina, the little village at the foot
of the mountain; prepare ourselves, as well as we can, on so short
a notice, at the guide’s house; ascend at once, and have sunset
half-way up, moon-light at the top, and midnight to come down in!
At four o’clock in the afternoon, there is a terrible uproar in the
little stable-yard of Signior Salvatore, the recognised head-guide,
with the gold band round his cap; and thirty under-guides who are
all scuffling and screaming at once, are preparing half-a-dozen
saddled ponies, three litters, and some stout staves, for the
journey. Every one of the thirty, quarrels with the other twentynine,
and frightens the six ponies; and as much of the village as
can possibly squeeze itself into the little stable-yard,
participates in the tumult, and gets trodden on by the cattle.
After much violent skirmishing, and more noise than would suffice
for the storming of Naples, the procession starts. The head-guide,
who is liberally paid for all the attendants, rides a little in
advance of the party; the other thirty guides proceed on foot.
Eight go forward with the litters that are to be used by-and-by;
and the remaining two-and-twenty beg.
We ascend, gradually, by stony lanes like rough broad flights of
stairs, for some time. At length, we leave these, and the
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vineyards on either side of them, and emerge upon a bleak bare
region where the lava lies confusedly, in enormous rusty masses; as
if the earth had been ploughed up by burning thunderbolts. And
now, we halt to see the sun set. The change that falls upon the
dreary region, and on the whole mountain, as its red light fades,
and the night comes on – and the unutterable solemnity and
dreariness that reign around, who that has witnessed it, can ever
forget!
It is dark, when after winding, for some time, over the broken
ground, we arrive at the foot of the cone: which is extremely
steep, and seems to rise, almost perpendicularly, from the spot
where we dismount. The only light is reflected from the snow,
deep, hard, and white, with which the cone is covered. It is now
intensely cold, and the air is piercing. The thirty-one have
brought no torches, knowing that the moon will rise before we reach
the top. Two of the litters are devoted to the two ladies; the