whiting] NIGHT ON MT. VESUIVIUS 25 



ence and the obvious lack of remuneration involved, soon led 

 them to desist from the chase. Thus were the laws of man 

 avoided, but the laws of nature were still in operation as I was soon 

 to learn. 



A hot and hurried two mile scramble over the endless lava 

 slopes carried me from the house of the guides to the north side of 

 the ash cone. The sun set a dull red ball. With the coming 

 of darkness making further progress not only difficult, but danger- 

 ous, there began to grow a sense of nearness to a real live volcano. 

 Here at the base of the cone, I spent the night, three thousand feet 

 above the Bay of Naples and some six hundred feet below the actual 

 summit of the mountain. 



The stars were soon shining overhead, and dare I say also under 

 foot? Yet so it seemed. The lights of Naples ten miles away to 

 the northwest appeared like the vast constellation of the Pleiades 

 drawn near. Other towns off to the northeast glimmered in the 

 darkness as if they were other smaller star clusters at my feet. 

 I felt as though in a void of outer space, floating among the stars. 

 My pleasure, though exquisite, was evanescent. 



Like the proverbial will o' the wisp, the lights began to fade 

 and the stars one by one to shut their sleepy eyes, as the evening 

 haze grew to a mist, the mist to a rain, and the rain to a storm. 

 Long before midnight, torrents of water drove me from the shelt- 

 ering gully where I had taken refuge from the wind. On a little 

 ridge, exposed to the full blast of the storm, with a restive umbrella 

 as a tent, I spent the remainder of the night. The thunder 

 roared, the volcano rumbled, and cinders as large as marbles fell 

 in intermittent showers. A smell of sulphur dioxide added spice 

 to the general downpour. Fortunately for me, the mountain 

 decided not to explode that particular night. A hunt without a 

 light for a safer or more comfortable position involved risk of a 

 fall. Moreover, curled up like a sleeping cat, I had some chance 

 of keeping fairly dry. Toward morning things began to calm 

 down a bit, or my senses became dulled for I managed to snatch 

 an hour's sleep. By seven in the morning the rain ceased. 



Above, in the whirling mist, towered the slippery pile of loose 

 rock powder called the ash cone. There is no better place on 

 earth to acquire a vivid idea of the meaning of the expression, 

 critical angle, or, angle of repose. Angle of repose seems a mis- 

 nomer when one tries to climb such a slope, for, at the least dis- 



