The first eruption of Mount Vesuvius occurred in the reign of the Emperor Titus, a.d. 79. Pompeii, Herculaneum, and even Naples itself, had suffered before them from earthquakes, and a portion of the two first-named towns had been laid low. But nothing had ever happened to prepare the inhabitants for the terrible calamity which was about to befall them, when, in their villa at Misenum, the younger Pliny's mother called the attention of Pliny the elder to the cloud, in the form of a pine-tree, which she saw rising up into the heavens. When she did so, she did not even know that it was from Vesuvius that the cloud ascended. Pliny the elder invited his nephew, then only eighteen, to accompany him in his galley to Retinæ, a town on the coast, whither he intended to go, with the idea that the people might be in distress. But so little was any one prepared for what was really about to occur that young Pliny did not even lay aside his volume of Livy which he was reading; while his uncle took his tablets in his hand, that he might note down the curious phenomena he was about to investigate, and left the house to go on board. It was with great difficulty and at immense risk that he effected a landing and made his way to Stabiæ, near Pompeii, where dwelt his friend Pomponianus. In attempting to escape from thence in the night, he was suffocated by the noxious vapors that accompanied the eruption. It would seem that young Pliny continued his study for some hours, never realizing what an awful tragedy was going on beyond the Bay of Naples. There had been shocks of earthquake for some days previous, but these were not unusual occurrences, and therefore excited but little alarm, until they became so violent as to threaten utter destruction through the night. He seems to have been seriously frightened about the same time as his mother; for each had risen with the intention of calling the other. By this time the air was black with falling ashes, and the morning light could scarcely penetrate the gloom. Pliny would not leave his mother, while she, being aged and very heavy, feared she should not be able to follow him, and implored him to go away without her, which he would not do. They escaped together into the country, in danger of being trodden down by the crowds of flying people, and of being smothered by the falling ashes. The day was spent in agony and terror, and all but total darkness. But that night they were able to return to Misenum, though not to enjoy much repose, as the shocks of earthquake still continued. Then the young Pliny learnt that his uncle, whom he had, happily for himself, declined to accompany, had perished. This eruption did not resemble the more recent ones, inasmuch as no lava poured from the mountain, but burning stones of enormous size, and ashes, together with volumes of steam, which [pg 168] poured down in torrents of water, filled with ashes, upon the earth beneath. The shape of the mountain was altered entirely by this eruption, as it has been in a much less degree by that which occurred in April, 1872, and which our friends, the Vernons, had witnessed. The Neapolitans firmly believe that their city will ultimately perish as Pompeii has perished; and probably science is still unable to prognosticate whether the awful mountain has or has not too far exhausted its volcanic powers to produce a second destruction as terrible as that which Pliny has described with such accurate detail, and yet in so calm and unimpassioned a style.
Sensational writing is a discovery of modern times. We exhaust our subject in describing it diffusely and minutely. But nevertheless the scene Pliny's letters call up before our imagination—the young lad poring over his book in company with his devoted mother, and the brave and learned elder Pliny calmly setting sail, tablets in hand, to study the scene, and to assist those in danger, and then perishing in the attempt—is as replete with pathos and human feeling as language can make it. It is full of a language not put into words.
On the afternoon of the day we visited Pompeii we drove to Sorrento, and took up our abode at a quiet little pension recently established, and literally hidden amongst orange-groves. There was a small chapel close by. Our rooms were bright and clean, and the greater part of the time we had the house entirely to ourselves.
Let no one presume he knows the beauty of Italy who has not visited Sorrento. Can anything be more lovely than the approach to Vico, Meta, and Sant' Angelo, and the aspect of these little towns nestling amid gardens, with their feet in the blue ripples of that tideless sea?
The Sorrentines are a different race from the Neapolitans, and no love is lost between them. They are a more reserved and more dignified people. They make less noise, and are not so excitable. The land they live on is not volcanic, the vegetation is more luxuriant, and the people are more pastoral in their habits. The air is softer and less exciting than at Naples. Mary and I felt as if we had drifted into the land “where it is always afternoon,” and a lotos-eating calm and serenity seemed to come over us—a pleasant change after the nervous tension which Naples produces, and which is singularly inimical to sleep.
Every description of food is better at Sorrento than it is at Naples. Sorrento beef is excellent, and Sorrento pigs have a world-wide reputation for making good pork, though they are ugly animals to look at, having large, flabby, white bodies on tall, thin, greyhound legs, and very large, pink ears. Naples seems never at any time to have been well famed for producing good food.
Nearly all Cicero's letters to Papirius Pætus contain allusions to eating and drinking, and in one he says: “It is a better thing, let me tell you, to be sick with good eating at Rome, than for want of victuals at Naples.”
When he was thinking of buying Sylla's house at Naples, he asks Pætus to take some workmen to survey it for him, saying: “If the walls and roof are in good repair, I shall perfectly well approve of the rest.” “If I can procure a house at Naples, it is my purpose to live so abstemiously that what our late sumptuary [pg 169] law allows for one day's expense shall suffice me ten.” This last sentence, when coupled with that quoted from the other letter, looks rather like making a virtue of necessity. The marvel is that the Naples market is not more abundantly provided with Sorrento produce. The fruit is very good; and we all agreed we had never known the real merit of cherries until we had eaten them at Sorrento, and even better still at Capri. In our own land, in France, and even in cherry-loving Germany, I had always considered them as a very poor fruit, unless cooked or preserved. But I entertained a very different opinion of them when I had feasted on them in the South of Italy. They are as different as the fresh oranges, picked from the tree, are from those that have been plucked while green, and have ripened in a box during a long voyage.
I never cared for cherries in England. I used to believe in oranges as I found them in the fruiterers' shops. But now they appear to me a snare and a delusion when eaten in the north.
When we arrived at Sorrento, the Empress of Russia and her daughter, the grand duchess, were still there. We met them driving just as we entered the town, and of course looked eagerly at her who was so soon to become our own Duchess of Edinburgh, and were charmed with her amiable and youthful expression, and with the pretty smile with which she returned our bow. They were to leave Sorrento in a very few days. The yacht was already moored close to the cliffs, awaiting them. The empress shed tears, as the people crowded round to see her embark and wished her farewell in their own graceful way and soft language. She said she had grown to love Sorrento and its inhabitants more than she could express, and that she should always hope some day to return amongst them.