urious
demand of the populace were again brought forth in solemn procession, and
exposed towards the face of the Mountain on the Ponte della Maddalena.
Thousands of quaking mortals gathered near this spot, joining in the
chanting of the priests and watching with pallid anxious faces the fiery
currents of lava slowly trickling down the south-western flank of Vesuvius
towards the city itself. A certain number of attendants meanwhile were
engaged in perpetually brushing away from the image of the Saint, from his
improvised altar, and from its votive garlands the ever-accumulating
mantle of grey dust, and it is scarcely to be wondered at that a certain
cool-headed Neapolitan artist, Il Vaccaro, should all this time have been
busily engaged in painting so characteristic and highly picturesque a
scene. Within the churches, and particularly in St Januarius' own
cathedral, enormous crowds of hysterical men and women had collected,
loudly bewailing their past sins and imploring the Divine mercy, for

"E belle son le supplice
Pompe di penitenza, in alto lutto."

Again the historic _palladium_ proved effectual, and the city, that was
never for a moment in danger, was once more saved! Naples received no
damage beyond a temporary panic and a heavy fall of ashes, which covered
every street and flat surface within the town to a depth of some inches
and which it took many days of enforced labour to remove. Again it was the
poor confiding vine-dressers and tillers of the Vesuvian soil who suffered
in this upheaval, for though the loss of life was very slight indeed, yet
numerous houses, fields and vineyards were totally destroyed and many more
were injured. Truly it is a maxim well proven by time:--_Napoli fa gli
peccati, e Torre gli paga._

Such, told baldly and briefly, is the history of the Mountain, which forms
the most conspicuous feature of the Bay of Naples and dominates one of the
fairest and most populous districts on the face of the globe. But it does
not take long to make visitors to the Neapolitan shore understand the
mysterious charm, not unmixed with awe, and the all-pervading influence of
Vesuvius. Go where we will within the circuit of the Bay of Naples and
even outside it, we are never out of sight of the obtruding Mountain and
its smoky wreath. We begin to feel that the Mountain is an animated thing,
that the destiny of the Parthenopean shore is locked up in the breast of
the Demon who has his dwelling wi