The Stourbridge Observer, Cradley Heath, Halesowen & District Chronicle.
Stourbridge, West Midlands, England, 1880-07-03 00:00:00

A NIGHT ASCENT OF VESUVIUS BY

RAIL.

The Daily News of Wednesday gave a very interesting
description of an ascent of Mount Vesuvius by railway, from
which we make the following extracts :

It is half-past seven in the evening. We have just
reached the Observatory half way up Vesuvius. We
left Naples nearly three hours ago, havine first pro-
tured tickets at the office of the Funicular Railway, as
it is officially called. They cost twenty francs each, and
for this sum the company is bound to take us from
Naples to the top of the railway and back again. We
are a party of ten, and have been provided with two
large carriages, each drawn by three horses. We
have traversed the often described route from Naples
to the Observatory, and are just entering the new
road made by the company to the foot of the cone.
i
Close. to the observatory s a little house for the
carabineers who guard this road. . . . Soon after
passing this house, we come to a gate and ticket office,
where we have to show the tickets we bought at
Naples. Two carabineers accompany us part of the
way to the station. We had left Naples blazing in
scorching sunlight, but now, as we look back, the
west is streaked with clouds, and before us the mists
are trailing their white skirts along the black and
ragged lava fields, often hiding the cone of Vesuvius
from sight. . . .

No photograph can give, beyond the mere outline,
any idea of Vesuvius. Seen even from Naples, no one
would imagine the diversity of hill and ravine, of cave
and hollow, the dense blackness of the scoria, the
vivid colour of the wild flowers amongst it, and the
rich green of the trees wherever a little damp has
been able to collect in some undisturbed valley.
Little oases nestle between the cruel streams which
from time to time have devastated this fertile land.
But now we have passed all traces of the least
vegetation, and we enter the cloud which has
been so long curling before us. As we look
back we see the curve of the shore at Naples,
the sea and the city gleaming in a mist of gold
from below the now grey fringes of this cloud. The
scenery around us is very wild, and reminds us of
some mountain pass in northern countries. The cloud
becomes so dense that we fear we are fated to see
nothing more. The air is damp andhill, and we are
glad to draw our plaids around us. We traverse the
well-made though desolate road, which is about two
miles and a half long, gradually ascending as it
winds in about half an hour; and reach the station
at the foot of the cone, 2,650 feet above the level of
the sea, just after eight o'clock. It is now nearly
dark, but we have already issued from the cloud,
which lies scattered and melting away at our
feet, permitting us to see the sea, flecked with
similar vapours, and to follow the dark line of coast
far below to where the lights of Naples begin to clus-
ter at the 'curve of the bay. But we have no time to
loiter now. We are in a hurry to examine the famous
railway. Groups of picturesquely dressed workmen
stand about and soon direct us to the station close at
hand. Imagine yourself at the foot of a steep stair-
case, which, however, is no staircase but a smooth in-
clined plane. Where the lowest steps of the stairs
would have been stands, or rather hangs, a pretty
little carriage divided into two compartments and
built of light polished wood in the style of a
tram Way carriage. The roof and bottom run
parallel with the inclined plane upon which
it stands, but the floors and seats are horizontal,
and naturally the floor of the upper compart-
ment is nearly a yard above that of the lower com-
partment, for the inclined plane is at angle of about
45 degrees. To reach these different levels, a platform
runs round the station at the height of the door of the
upper compartment, and a few steps lead down to the
little landing place fr Dm which you enter the lower
one. Where the inclined plane ends there is a cross
beam with four buffers, but the plane becomes a level,
running under the station. You look down, and see
some ropes disappearing under a wall. You look out
at the back of the station and see the inclined plane
going up and up, seemingly perpendicularly, till it
disappears in the darkness. A. small star of light is
all you can see of the upper station.
The inclined plane, 2,400 feet in length, is formed
of strong beams of wood, firmly fixed together, across
and diagonally, and forming a compact mass from top
to bottom. On it again are fixed two long oak beams,
each 26 centimetres broad and 47 deep, with one rail
on the top, and another running. along the bottom of
each side. These form the two lines of p, single top
rail for the two carriages. The top. rail is the one on
which the carriage runs. The carriage is mounted on
two wheels placed one in front and one behind, like a
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two rails at the sides of the long oak beam, and thus
preserve the equilibrum of the carriage. But these
wheels are not used as breaks, as is the case in s9me
other systems of mountain railways. Each carriage
has a strong brake in front, with a seat above for the
conductor. This break is provided with diamond
points, which, in case of accident, would so grasp
and penetrate the oak beam as to stop the carriage,
even on such a steep incline, almost. instantaneously.
The ropes which drag the carriages are about
three inches in diameter, and composed of 49
steel wires, with a hempen centre cord. They
are attached to the front of the carriage, and run
on rollers at each side of the line, nhich keep
them in place. They are always in a state
of tension, for the carriages ascend and descend alter-
nately, one always being at the top while the other is
at the bottom, each on its own line. There are two
ropes, and as each is capable of sustaining a weight of
25,000 kilogrammes, while the weight they have to
pull is only 5,000, it is clear that if one broke the
other would be quite sufficient to sustain the weight of
the carriages. Under the station are the immense
wheels round whiCh the ropes run, three for each
rope, one placed hokizontally and two perpendicu-
larly. Three other wheels communicate the
motive power from the engine, which, with the
boiler, is in a separate part of the building.
At the upper station there are only two horizontal
wheels to guide the ropes. All friction is carefully
prevented by various ingenious means. On entering
the carriage you feel it slightly sway from side to
side, but while in motion it is very steady, only creak-
ing and jerking a little as it passes over the joints of
the rails. There is scarcely any noise, the loudest
proceeding from the rollers at each side of the line. If
you do not look out of the window you have no other
sensation than that of moving forward, not up or
down.

After inspecting the line and the carriages, we went
to the pretty restaurant close by. It is decorated in
Pompeian style; has an open portico, supported
by two columns and paved with tiles, in the
centre a mosaic with the inscription " Salve."
At one side a tragic mask on the wall forms the
letter-box, for there are both post-office and tele-
graph-office here. There are a large eentre room
with many tables E three private dining-rooms, a
bureau, and a kit Chen, all lighted with gasoline.
We were provided with a very good dinner, which
we had ordered by telegraph from Naples. This
dinner, with wines and coffee after, cost us eighty
francs, but it was a dinner of seven courses ; and
if one considers that everything has to be trans-
ported to this height, it will not be thought too
much. Simple refreshments can be had at a much
cheoper rate. It is just ten o'clock when we enter
our carriage, the Vesuvius. While dining, we had
seen the Etna ascend and the Vesuvius come down,
and it awaited our pleasure, ready to start when we
pleased. We are five in each compartment, which
can contain six. Horn signals are exchanged with the
upper station and the signal-stations, of which there
are two along the line; a whistle is sounded, and we •
begin the ascent. The angle of inclination is at first4o
degrees, increases to 63 degrees, and has decreased again to
48 degrees when we enter the upper station, just eight
minutes after starting. The outline of the mountain edge
runs parallel with our course. Swiftly and smoothly,
we go up, and as we lean out of the window we forgot
the mountain, and feel as if we were in a balloon far
above the glimmering world below us. Nothing is
yet to be seen of the crater of eruption. The mighty
shoulder up which we are gliding hides it from us;
but we see its shadow, and that of the smoke pro-
jected on the side of the mountain to our left, for the
moon is rising above the edge on our right.
Flaring torches receive us at the upper station
3,540 feet above the level of the sea. It is still
unfinished, and looks like a mass of scaffolding. This
was the most difficult part of the undertaking, for
here the very little firm foundation to be found any-
where failed entirely—nothing but loose lapilli and
ashes. We leave the station, awl, going up some
little wooden steps and through a gate in an immense
wall of lava, which is one of three built to protect the
line from possible streams of the glowing matter, we
enter the narrow path which has been made in zigzag
up to the edge of the old crater, about a quarter of an
hour's walk. It is heavy work, because of the deep,
loose ashes which form its pavement; but this is
nothing compared with the fatigue formerly under-
gone in ascending the mountain. . . .
Till now the edge of the old dater has intervened
between us and the new eruptive cone, but as we leave
the little pathway and begin to cross the jagged lava,
a glow of red light bursts upon us, and rivets us to the
spot. The new cone, some hundred and fifty feet
high, and perhaps five times that number in diameter
at its base, is in a state of violent eruption. Preceded
by a sound which I scarcely know how to describe—
something like a sudden blast of wind in the naked
branches of a winter forest, or the fall of a crested
wave on a shingly coast—millions of glowing particles,
from the size of a cannon ball down to a tiny spark,
shoot high into the air, and fall slowly and gracefully
up the sides of the cone, sliding down it with a
crackling sound, and sprinkling it all over with
a fretwork of fire. The larger masses fell back
into the crater, or, if projected far enough, with a dull
thud on to the gigantic cinder-heap. A few seconds'
interval, during which the column of whirling smoke
looks very beautiful; Its lower part glowing in the red
light from the crater below, its upper part bluish white
in the moonbeams—and another fierce s—s—sh,
s—s—sh announces another shower. The smaller
sparks seem to serpentine in fiery streaks as they rise
and fall, and in ascending to be flattened at the top.
. . . All at once there is a stronger eruption, and the
glowing masses are hurled to a greater distance, one
falling not far from us. Our guide fetches it on the
end of a stick. It is rapidly cooling and growing
black, and like a piece of ragged sponge, so perforated
is it with holes.

What use to describe how we staggered about on
the torn and crumbling surface of the lava which now
fills the once deep crater of 1872, until we got to the
newest stream, which issued from the foot of the new
cone only three days ago, and was red hot only a few
inches beneath the crust on which we stood? The
acid and sulphureous fumes issuing from cracks all
about, and the increasing heat of the lava beneath
our feet, drove us back again. It was not pleasant
to think that a fiery abyss might open under
our very footsteps. We retreated to the lava
blocks at the edge of the old crater, which made a
pleasant seat, and felt comparatively cool, though if
you stretched your foot into one of the many cracks
it was found too hot to let it remain there. We sat
for a long tiMe adtairhirziature's fireworks, of- which
one could never tire. A black and lofty crag rose to
our right hand, and above it sh me the silver shield of
the-moon in exquisite contrast to the lurid glare from
the volcano. . • .
As to the new triumph of science and machinery
ever being able to extinguish the poetry of the moun-
tain, that is impozsible. The whole railway, stations

and adjuncts, seem a pigmy work on tat migaty
bosom of Vesuvius; and formerly, I am sure, no one
had time or strength during the painful toil of the
ascent to admire the steep outline of the mountain,
the effect of the moon rising behind its edge, or the
beauty of the landscape below. Now, as we gently
glide down in our tiny carriage, and see beneath us,
as in a well, the lights of the principal station, we have
time to observ.e everything. The most curious effect
is produced by seeing the ascending carriage
slip past us, as it were, up to Heaven, in spite of all
the laws of gravity. This new plaything is indeed
very delightful, and no one can spend a moonlight
night better than in such an unfatiguing ascent of
Vesuvius, ready, on arriving at the top, to enjoy the
sublime spectacle. How long the tiny railway will
last is another thing. In itself it is as strong and safe
a one as can be found; but if ever the volcano again
exerts its whole strength, a new (Tater might open,
and a stream of lava issue, on the very spot where
people now ascend and descend as easily as in the lift
of a modern hotel. . . .

At midnight we again stood beneath the flag-staff
on the broad platform' in front of the Pompeian
restaurant, and looked towards the west. A sea of
clouds, bathed in moonlight, lay at our feet; the tops
of its soft waves were white as wool, and its farthest
masses lcoked like a chain of mountains. Nothing
was to be seen of the real sea or shore, but the striking
of a church clock miles below at Resina rose
sweetly and faintly in the air, more felt than
heard. At four o'clock in the morning we reached
home; the moon was paling rapidly in the growing
daylight, and half Naples seemed awake. Another
hot and dusty day had begun, and we seemed to have
left behind us a Paradise of freshness and beauty at
the very gates of a hell of fire and brimstone.