‘In some parts it was white, in others black and spotted, from the ashes and stones which it carried along. To my uncle, being a learned man, the phenomenon seemed important, and worthy of a closer investigation. He ordered a light ship to be got ready, and left it to my option to accompany him. I answered that I preferred studying, and by chance he himself had given me something to write. He was on the point of leaving the house when he received a letter from Resina, the inhabitants of which, alarmed at the impending danger—the place lay at the foot of the mountain, and escape was only possible by sea—begged him to help them in their great distress. He now changed his plan, and executed as a hero the undertaking to which he had been prompted as a natural philosopher.
‘He ordered the galleys of war to set sail, and embarked to bring help, not only to Resina, but to many other places along the coast, which, on account of its loveliness, was very densely peopled.
‘He hastens to the spot from which others are taking flight, and steers in a direct line towards the seat of danger, so unconcerned as to dictate his observations upon all the events and changes of the catastrophe, as they passed before his eyes.
‘Already ashes fell upon the ship, hotter and thicker on approaching, as also pumice and other stones blackened and burnt by fire. Suddenly a shallow bottom, and the masses ejected by the eruption, rendered the coast inaccessible. He hesitated for a moment whether he should sail back again, but, soon resolved, said to the steersman who advised him to do so, “Fortune favours the bold; steer towards the villa of Pomponianus.” This friend resided at Stabiæ, on the opposite side of the bay, where the danger, although as yet at some distance, was still within sight, and menacing enough. Pomponianus had therefore caused his effects to be conveyed on board a ship, intent on flight so soon as the contrary wind should have abated. As soon as my uncle, to whom it was very favourable, has landed, he embraces, consoles, encourages his terrified friend, takes a bath to relieve his fears by his own confidence, and dines after the bath with perfect composure, or, what is no less great, with a serene countenance.
‘Meanwhile high columns of flame burst forth from Vesuvius in various places, their brilliancy being increased by the darkness of the night. My uncle, with the intention of relieving apprehension, said that they proceeded from the villas which, abandoned by their terrified proprietors and left a prey to the flames, were now burning in solitude. He then retired and slept soundly, for his attendants before the door heard him fetch his breath, which, on account of his corpulence, was deep and loud. But now the court, into which the room opened, became filled to such a height with ashes and pumice that by a longer delay he would not have been able to leave it. They awaken him, he rises, and greets Pomponianus and the others who had watched. They consult together, whether to remain in the house or to flee into the open air, for the ground trembled from the repeated and violent shocks of the earth, and seemed to reel backwards and forwards. On the other hand, they feared in the open air the falling of the pumice-stones and cinders. On comparing these two dangers, flight was chosen; and, as a protection against the shower of stones, they covered their heads with cushions. Everywhere else the day was already far advanced, but the blackest night still reigned at Stabiæ. Provided with torches, they resolved to seek the shore, in order to ascertain whether they could venture to embark, but the sea was found to be too wild and boisterous.
‘My uncle now lay down upon a carpet, and asked for some cold water, of which he repeatedly drank. The flames and their sulphurous odour drove away his companions, and forced him to rise. Leaning on two slaves, he tried to move, but immediately sank down again, suffocated as I believe by the dense smoke, and by the closing of his larynx, which was by nature weak, narrow, and subject to frequent spasms. On the third morning after his death, the body was found without any marks of violence, covered with the clothes he had worn, and more like a person sleeping than a corpse.’
Thus perished, in his fifty-sixth year, one of the greatest naturalists and noblest characters of ancient Rome, the philosopher to whom we are indebted for the first general description of the world—a work which, in spite of its numerous imperfections and errors, is one of the most interesting monuments of classical literature.
When the rage of the volcanic powers had subsided, the sun, now no longer obscured by clouds of ashes, shone upon a scene of utter desolation, where nature, embellished by art, had, but a few days before, appeared in all her loveliness. The mountain itself had changed its form, and rose with new peaks to the skies; a thick layer of stones and dust had settled with the curse of sterility on the fields; thousands of homeless wretches wandered about disconsolate, and three towns—Pompeii, Herculaneum, Stabiæ—had disappeared to be brought to light again in a wonderful manner after the lapse of many centuries.
This great catastrophe gave the Emperor Titus a fine opportunity for displaying the benevolence which entitled him to be called ‘the delight of mankind.’ He immediately hastened to the scene of destruction, appointed guardians of consular rank to distribute among the needy survivors the property of those who had perished without heirs; and encouraged the weak-hearted, assisting them by liberal donations, until a no less terrible misfortune recalled him to Rome, where a fire, which laid almost half the town in ashes, was followed by a plague, which, for some time, daily swept away thousands.
It has often been asked how so many of the relics buried in Herculaneum and Pompeii could have been so perfectly preserved as to form a Museum of the Past for the admiration and instruction of future ages. A stream of lava would undoubtedly have consumed everything on its fiery track, but, fortunately for posterity, it was not a flood of molten stone, but a current of mud which overwhelmed the devoted cities. We learn from history that a heavy shower of sand, pumice, and lapilli was ejected by Vesuvius for eight successive days and nights, in the year 79, accompanied by violent rains, and thus all these volcanic matters were converted into mud-streams, which, rushing down the sides of the mountain, descended upon Herculaneum and Pompeii. This circumstance satisfactorily explains how the interior of the buildings, with all the underground vaults and cellars, was filled up, and how all the objects they contained could be as perfectly moulded as in a plaster cast by the muddy alluvium, which subsequently hardened into pumice tuff. Hence this wonderful preservation of paintings, which, shielded from the destructive influence of the atmosphere, still retained their original freshness of colour when again brought to light by a late generation; these rolls of papyrus which it has been found possible to decipher; this perfect cast of a woman’s form, with a child in her arms!