DICKENS

No matter that the snow and ice lie thick upon the summit of Vesuvius,
or that we have been on foot all day at Pompeii, or that croakers
maintain that strangers should not be on the mountain by night, in such
unusual season. Let us take advantage of the fine weather; make the best
of our way to Resina, the little village at the foot of the mountain;
prepare ourselves, as well as we can, on so short a notice, at the
guide's house, ascend at once, and have sunset half-way up, moonlight at
the top, and midnight to come down in!

At four o'clock in the afternoon, there is a terrible uproar in the
little stable-yard of Signor Salvatore, the recognized head guide, with
the gold band round his cap; and thirty under-guides who are all
scuffling and screaming at once, are preparing half-a-dozen saddled
ponies, three litters, and some stout staves, for the journey. Every one
of the thirty quarrels with the other twenty-nine, and frightens the six
ponies; and as much of the village as can possibly squeeze itself into
the little stable-yard, participates in the tumult, and gets trodden on
by the cattle.

After much violent skirmishing, and more noise than would suffice for
the storming of Naples, the procession starts. The head guide, who is
liberally paid for all the attendants, rides a little in advance of the
party; the other thirty guides proceed on foot. Eight go forward with
the litters that are to be used by and by; and the remaining
two-and-twenty beg. We ascend, gradually, by stony lanes like rough
broad flights of stairs, for some time. At length, we leave these, and
the vineyards on either side of them, and emerge upon a bleak, bare
region where the lava lies confusedly, in enormous rusty masses; as if
the earth had been plowed up by burning thunder-bolts. And now, we halt
to see the sunset. The change that falls upon the dreary region and on
the whole mountain, as its red light fades, and the night comes on--and
the unutterable solemnity and dreariness that reign around, who that has
witnessed it, can ever forget!

It is dark, when after winding, for some time, over the broken ground,
we arrive at the foot of the cone, which is extremely steep, and seems
to rise, almost perpendicularly, from the spot where we dismount. The
only light is reflected from the snow, deep, hard, and white, with which
the cone is covered. It is now intensely cold, and the air is piercing.
The thirty-one have brought no torches,