Читать книгу The Subterranean World - G. Hartwig - Страница 11

Table of Contents

State of Vesuvius before the eruption in the year 79 A.C.—Spartacus—Premonitory Earthquakes—Letter of Pliny the Younger to Tacitus, relating the death of his Uncle, Pliny the Elder—Benevolence of the Emperor Titus—Herculaneum and Pompeii buried under a muddy alluvium—Herculaneum first discovered in 1713.

Of all the volcanic eruptions recorded in history there is none more celebrated than that which, on the 23rd of August, A.D. 79, buried the towns of Herculaneum and Pompeii under a deluge of mud and ashes. Many other eruptions have no doubt been on a grander scale, or may have spread ruin and desolation over a wider area, but never has a volcano, awakening from the slumber of a thousand years, devastated a more smiling paradise than the fields of happy Campania, or buried more beautiful cities.

Before that terrible catastrophe, Mount Vesuvius, now constantly smoking, even in times of rest, had, ever since the first colonisation of South Italy by the Greeks, exhibited no signs of volcanic activity. Even tradition knew of no previous disturbance. No subterranean thunder, or sulphurous steams, or cast-up ashes, gave token of the fires slumbering beneath its basis; and the real nature of the apparently so peaceful mountain could only be conjectured from the similarity of its structure to other volcanoes, or from the ancient lava-streams that furrowed its abrupt declivities. At that time also its shape was very different from its present form, for instead of two apices, it exhibited, from a distance, the regular outlines of a sharply truncated cone. Plutarch relates that rough rock walls, piled round its summit, and overgrown with wild vines, inclosed the waste of the crater.

When, in 73 B.C., Spartacus, with seventy of his comrades, broke the fetters of an insupportable slavery, he found a secure retreat in this natural stronghold, which could only be scaled by a single narrow and difficult path. By degrees 10,000 fugitive slaves gathered round his standard, and Rome began to tremble for her safety. The prætor Clodius led an army against the rebels, and surrounded the mountain; but Spartacus caused ropes to be made of the branches of wild vines, by means of which he, with the boldest of his followers, was let down from the rocks, where they were supposed to be totally inaccessible, and, falling unawares upon the prætor, put his troops to flight and took his camp. The declivities of the mountain, thus become historically renowned, were covered with the richest fields and vineyards, and at its foot, along the beautiful Bay of Naples, lay the flourishing towns of Herculaneum and Pompeii, the seats of luxury and refinement. Who could, then, have imagined that this charming scene was so soon to be disturbed in so terrible a manner, and that the time was nigh when the ancient volcanic channels, from which, in unknown ages, lava-streams and ashes had so frequently broken forth, were once more to be re-opened? The first sign which announced the awakening energies of the volcano was an earthquake, which, in 63 A.D. devastated the fertile regions of Campania. From that time to the crowning disaster of 79, slight tremors of the earth frequently occurred, until, finally, the dreadful eruption took place which Pliny the Younger so vividly describes in his celebrated letter to Tacitus.

‘My uncle,’ says the Roman, ‘was at Misenum, where he commanded the fleet. On the 23rd of August, about one o’clock in the afternoon, my mother informed him that a cloud of an uncommon size and form was seen to arise. He had sunned himself (according to the custom of the ancient Romans), and taken his usual cold bath, then dined, and studied. He asked for his sandals, and ascended an eminence, from which the wonderful phenomenon could be plainly seen. The spot from whence the cloud ascended, in a shape like that of an Italian pine-tree, could not be ascertained on account of the distance; its arising from Vesuvius only subsequently became known.

‘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!

No lava has flowed over Pompeii since that city was buried, but with Herculaneum the case is different. Although the substance which fills the interior of the buildings in that doomed city must have been introduced in a state of mud like that found in similar situations in Pompeii, yet the superincumbent mass differs wholly in composition and thickness.

Herculaneum was situated several miles nearer to the volcano, and has, therefore, been always more liable to be covered, not only by showers of ashes, but by alluvium and streams of lava. Accordingly, masses of both have accumulated on each other above the ancient site of the city, to a depth of nowhere less than 70, and in many places of 112 feet; while the depth of the bed of ashes under which Pompeii lies buried seldom exceeds 12 or 14 feet above the houses, and it is even said that the higher part of the amphitheatre always projected above the surface.

Yet, strange to say, Herculaneum, though far more profoundly hidden, was discovered before Pompeii, by the accidental circumstance that a well sunk in 1713 came right down upon the theatre where the statues of Hercules and Cleopatra were found. Many others were afterwards dug out and sent to France by the Prince of Elbeuf, who, having married a Neapolitan princess, became proprietor of the field under which the theatre lies buried. Further excavations were, however, forbidden by Government, and only resumed in 1736. But the difficulty of removing the large masses of lava accumulated above the city, and the circumstance of its partly lying under the modern towns of Portici and Resina have confined the exploration of Herculaneum within narrow limits. The large theatre alone is open for inspection, and can be seen only by torchlight, so that its dark galleries, cut through the tuff, are but seldom visited by strangers; while no traveller leaves Naples without having wandered through the ruins of Pompeii, for Italy hardly affords a more interesting sight than that of these streets and forums, these theatres and temples, these houses and villas, which require but the presence of their ancient inhabitants to complete the picture of a Roman town, such as it was eighteen hundred years ago.