protection is thrown over him, and he follows us up the road. I think the patronage must have pleased him, for he gathered a handful of wild flowers and presented them, and refused a coin. which was offered in return; but the refusal of this coin did not prevent his acceptance of two or three others, and a good dinner included, an hour or two

later in the day.

Still we climb the hill, going steadily up. Those of us who thought we could make the way on foot repent, for the way is steep

All

and the road is hard. around us is an ocean of chaos and death. There in all forms and shapes lie the lava streams that did their work in other days, black and cold and forbidding. You can trace the path of each eruption as distinctly as the windings of the stream from the mountain top. We are now high up on the mountain, and beneath

NEAPOLITAN BOY.

us is the valley and the Bay of Naples, with Ischia and Capri, and on the other horizon a range of mountains tinged and tipped with snow. In one direction we see the eruption of 1872; the black lava stream bordered with green. What forms and shapes! what fantastic, horrible shapes the fire assumed in the hours of its triumph! I can well see how Martial and Virgil and the early poets saw in these phenomena the strife and anger of the gods. Virgil describes Enceladus transfixed by Jove and the mountain thrown upon him, which shakes and trembles whenever he turns his weary sides. This is the scene, the very scene of his immortal agony.

There are no two forms alike; all is black, cold, and pitiless. If we could only see one living thing in this mass of destruction; but all is death, all desolation. Here and there, where the rains have washed the clay, and the birds, perhaps, may have carried seed, the grass begins to grow; but the whole scene is desolation. I thought of the earlier ages, when the earth was black and void, and fancied that it was just such an earth as this when Divinity looked upon it and said, "Let there be

light." I thought of the end of all things, of our earth, our fair, sweet and blooming earth, again a mass of lava, rock and ashes, all life gone out of it, rolling through space.

The presence of a phenomenon like this, and right above us the ever-seething crater, is in itself a solemn and beautiful sight. We all felt repaid with our journey; for by this time we had come to the journey's end, and our musings upon eternity and chaos did not forbid thoughts of luncheon. For the wind was cold and we were hungry. So when our illustrious captain intimated that we might seek a place of refuge and entertain

ment, a light gleamed in the eyes of the Marquis, and he reined us up at a hostelry called the Hermitage. This is the last resting-place before we reach the ascent of the crater. Here the roads stop, and the remainder of the journey must be made on foot. Just beyond the Hermitage is a Government institution known as the Observatory, a point where information for weather reports is gained. We thought when we came into these upper regions that we were in an atmosphere too pure for the beggars. We were congratulating ourselves upon this circumstance coming up the mountain side, but on descending we had a beggar or two to await us. I suppose they belonged to the hostelry, and were simply speculating upon us like our friend the baker, whom we had left haggling over his loaves far down in Naples. Some of us, the General certainly, had come this distance meaning to climb the crater. But it was very cold, and we had delayed our departure from the ship, so that the day was well on. So, instead of climbing the rocks and looking into a sulphurous crater, we organized a kind of picnic in the Hermitage. The house seemed to have been an inquisition or a dungeon-the rooms were so large, the walls were so thick, there were such mysterious, narrow passages and chambers. But people who build houses under the rim of Vesuvius must build for fire and flame, and showers of ashes and stones, and the Hermitage could stand a severe eruption before it became untenable. A slight crackling fire of twigs was made on the hearth, and a brazier of burning coals was brought into the room. We were some time in comprehending the brazier, but when its uses became apparent, it was comforting enough. There, in quite a primitive fashion, we had our luncheon, helping ourselves and each other in good homely American fashion, for we were as far from the amenities of civilization as though we were in Montana.

After luncheon we walked about, looking at the crater, where fumes were quite apparent—at the world of desolation around us, some of it centuries old, but as fresh and terrible as when it burst from the world of fire beneath us. But there was still another picture-one of sublime and marvelous beauty. There

beneath us, in the clear, sunny air-there was Naples, queen among cities, and her villages clustering about her. Beautiful, wondrously beautiful, that panorama of hill and field and sea, that rolled before us thousands of feet below! We could count twenty villages in the plain, their white roofs massed together and spangling the green plain like gems. There were Capri and Ischia-their rugged outlines softened by the purple-golden glow of the passing day-lying at the mouth of the bay as if to guard this rich valley. There was Naples, her rags and dirt quite veiled and only her beauty to be seen. There was Misenum, where Pliny saw the destruction of Pompeii. There was Nisita, where Brutus took refuge when he fled from the murder of Cæsar. There was Sorrento, where Tasso lived. Every village has its history and associations, for these plains and islands and promontories have been for ages the seats of a brilliant and glorious civilization—a civilization which even now only shows the beauty of decay. The splendor of a Roman imperial civilization has gone from Italy. Ages of darkness and superstition and despotism have rested upon her like the ashes which cover Pompeii. Let us hope that a new era is coming, which, based upon freedom and patriotism, will far excel even that of the Cæsars. These were our thoughts as we stood in the cold winds studying the magnificent scene. And thinking of the living, we thought of the dead-of the cities of the plains which perished one thousand seven hundred years ago. The romance that surrounds Naples only deepens the tragedy of Pompeii and Herculaneum, and we found our thoughts ever turning from the glory and majesty of all we saw to those buried cities of the plains, as we were hurried home again-home to our graceful vessel whose lights awaited us in the harbor.

On the 19th of December the General and his party visited Pompeii. We arrived at Pompeii early in the morning considering that we had a long ride. But the morning was cold. enough to be grateful to our northern habits, and there was sunshine. Our coming had been expected, and we were welcomed by a handsome young guide, who talked a form of English in a rather high key, as though we were all a little hard of