thin its red-hot caverns. So sudden are
the actions, and so capricious the moods of this Monster of the Burning
Mountain, that no one can tell the day, or even the hour, wherein he will
give us an exhibition of his fiery temper, though, it is true, in the case
of violent eruptions he is kind enough to afford timely warning by means
of a succession of earthquakes and other signals almost equally alarming.
His Majesty's presence is felt everywhere; each morning as we open our
window upon the dazzling waters of the Bay, we note with relief his
tranquil aspect; each night, ere we retire to sleep, we find ourselves
inevitably drawn to watch the glare thrown by the molten lava within the
crater upon the thick vapour overhead. The nightly expectation of this
aerial bonfire possesses an extraordinary fascination for the stranger.
Some times the lurid glare is continuous; at other times there are long
intervals of waiting, and even then the reflected light is very faint, a
mere speck of reddish glow in the surrounding blackness, gone in the
twinkling of an eye. But, strangely enough, one grows to understand the
Mountain better from a distance and by watching its moods from afar, like
the Neapolitans themselves, who never ascend to probe its mysteries,
except a few vulgar guides and touts who batten on the curiosity of the
foreigner.

On clear windless days the intermittent clouds of vapour sent up from the
crater assume the most fantastic shapes--trees, ships, men, birds,
animals--ever changing like the forms of Proteus. It would seem as if the
Spirit of the Mountain were idly amusing himself, like a child blowing
bubbles, or a vendor at a fair-stall carving out little figures of
gingerbread to tickle the fancy of country boys and girls. The clouds so
formed sometimes cause amusement by their uncanny shapes, but not
unfrequently they inspire alarm. The superstitious peasant of the
_Paduli_, looking up suddenly from his work amidst the early peas or
tomatoes, beholds against the blue sky a vague nebulous form that to his
untutored mind suggests a gigantic crucifix upheld in mid-air above the
Mountain, and he crosses himself devoutly ere he bends down to earth once
more to his work in the rich dark soil. "Such stuff as dreams are made of"
appear in truth the weird phantoms that the sly Demon of Vesuvius flings
up into the pure aether, and if credulous mankind likes to draw inferences
for good or bad from these unsubstantial creatio