Vesuvius was not always a volcano. It was for many ages a very peaceable and well-behaved mountain. Ancient writers describe it as having been covered with gardens and vineyards, except at the top which was craggy. Within a large circle of nearly perpendicular cliffs, was a flat space sufficient for the encampment of an army. This was doubtless an ancient crater; but nobody in those times knew anything of its history. So little was the volcanic nature of the mountain suspected, that the Roman towns of Stabiæ, Pompeii, and Herculaneum had been erected at its base, and their inhabitants dwelt in fancied security.
In the year A.D. 63, however, the dwellers in the cities got a great fright; for the mountain shook violently, and a good many houses were thrown down. But soon all became quiet again, and the people set about rebuilding the houses that had fallen. They continued to live in apparent safety for some time longer. They danced, they sung, they feasted; they married, and were altogether as merry a set of citizens as any in southern Italy. But the 24th of August A.D. 79 at length arrived. Then, woe to Stabiæ! woe to Pompeii! woe to Herculaneum!
Pliny the elder was that day in command of the Roman fleet at Misenum, which was not far off. His family were with him, and, among others, his nephew, Pliny the younger, who has left an interesting account of what happened on the occasion. He observed an extraordinary dense cloud ascending in the direction of Vesuvius, of which he says:—"I cannot give you 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 tall trunk, which spread out at the top into a sort of branches. It appeared sometimes bright, and sometimes dark and spotted, as it was either more or less impregnated with earth and cinders"
On seeing this remarkable appearance, the elder Pliny, who was a great naturalist and a man of inquiring mind, resolved to go ashore and inspect more narrowly what was going on. But a rash resolve it proved. Steering towards Retina (now Resina), a port at the foot of the mountain, he was met, on his approach, by thick showers of hot cinders, which grew thicker and hotter as he advanced—falling on the ships along with lumps of pumice and pieces of rock, black but burning hot. Vast fragments came rolling down the mountain and gathered in heaps upon the shore. Then the sea began suddenly to retreat, so that landing at this point became impracticable. He therefore steered for Stabiæ, where he landed, and took up his abode with Pomponianus—an intimate friend.
Meanwhile, flames appeared to issue from several parts of the mountain with great violence—the darkness of the night heightening their glare. Pliny nevertheless went to sleep. Soon, however, the court leading to his chamber became almost filled with stones and ashes; so his servants awoke him, and he joined Pomponianus and his household. The house now began to rock violently to and fro; while outside, stones and cinders were falling in showers. They, notwithstanding, thought it safer to make their way out from the tottering mansion; so, tying pillows upon their heads with napkins, they sallied forth. Although it was now day, the darkness was deeper than that of the blackest night. By the aid of torches and lanterns, however, they groped their way towards the beach, with a view to escape by sea; but they found the waves too high and tumultuous. Here Pliny, having drunk some cold water, lay down upon a sailcloth which was spread for him; when almost immediately flames, preceded by a strong smell of sulphur, issuing from the ground, scattered the company and forced him to rise. With the help of two of his servants he succeeded in raising himself; but, choked by some noxious vapour, he instantly fell down dead.
[Illustration: Vesuvius Before the Eruption of A.D. 79.]
Nor was he alone in his death; for although many of the inhabitants of the devoted cities were able to effect their escape; yet, so suddenly did the overwhelming shower of ashes, cinders, and stones fall upon them, that not a few of them perished in their dwellings or their streets. As for the cities themselves, they were utterly buried completely out of sight, and, like other things that are long out of sight, they soon became also buried out of mind. For many centuries they remained entirely forgotten.
You will doubtless like to know how Vesuvius looked, after doing so much mischief. Here is a picture showing what like it was immediately before the eruption; and one showing its appearance soon after the event. On comparing the two, you will observe the mountain had undergone a great change. It was no longer flat on the top, but had formed for itself a large cone, from the summit of which dense vapours ascended. This cone was composed entirely of the ashes, cinders, and loose stones, thrown up during the eruption. It had become separated by a deep ravine from the remainder of the former summit, which afterwards came to be distinguished by the name Monte Somma. The whole of the forests, vineyards, and other luxuriant vegetation, which had covered that portion of the sides of Vesuvius where the eruption took place, were destroyed. Nothing could be more striking than the contrast between the beautiful appearance of the mountain before this catastrophe, and its desolate aspect after the sad event. This remarkable contrast forms the subject of one of Martial's Epigrams, lib. iv. Ep. 44. It is thus rendered by Mr. Addison:—
[Illustration: Vesuvius after the Eruption of A.D. 79.]
"Vesuvius covered with the fruitful vine
Here flourished once, and ran with floods of wine.
Here Bacchus oft to the cool shades retired,
And his own native Nysa less admired.
Oft to the mountain's airy tops advanced,
The frisking Satyrs on the summit danced.
Alcides [1] here, here Venus graced the shore,
Nor loved her favourite Lacedaemon more.
Now piles of ashes, spreading all around,
In undistinguished heaps deform the ground.
The gods themselves the ruined seats bemoan,
And blame the mischiefs that themselves have done."