‘Meanwhile high columns of flame burst forth from Vesuvius in various places, their brilliancy being increased by the darkness of the night. My uncle, with the intention of relieving apprehension, said that they proceeded from the villas which, abandoned by their terrified proprietors and left a prey to the flames, were now burning in solitude. He then retired and slept soundly, for his attendants before the door heard him fetch his breath, which, on account of his corpulence, was deep and loud. But now the court, into which the room opened, became filled to such a height with ashes and pumice that by a longer delay he would not have been able to leave it. They awaken him, he rises, and greets Pomponianus and the others who had watched. They consult together, whether to remain in the house or to flee into the open air, for the ground trembled from the repeated and violent shocks of the earth, and seemed to reel backwards and forwards. On the other hand, they feared in the open air the falling of the pumice-stones and cinders. On comparing these two dangers, flight was chosen; and, as a protection against the shower of stones, they covered their heads with cushions. Everywhere else the day was already far advanced, but the blackest night still reigned at Stabiæ. Provided with torches, they resolved to seek the shore, in order to ascertain whether they could venture to embark, but the sea was found to be too wild and boisterous. ‘My uncle now lay down upon a carpet, and asked for some cold water, of which he repeatedly drank. The flames and their sulphurous odour drove away his companions, and forced him to rise. Leaning on two slaves, he tried to move, but immediately sank down again, suffocated as I believe by the dense smoke, and by the closing of his larynx, which was by nature weak, narrow, and subject to frequent spasms. On the third morning after his death, the body was found without any marks of violence, covered with the clothes he had worn, and more like a person sleeping than a corpse.’ Thus perished, in his fifty-sixth year, one of the greatest naturalists and noblest characters of ancient Rome, the philosopher to whom we are indebted for the first general description of the world—a work which, in spite of its numerous imperfections and errors, is one of the most interesting monuments of classical literature. When the rage of the volcanic powers had subsided, the sun, now no longer obscured by clouds of ashes, shone upon a scene of utter desolation, where nature, embellished by art, had, but a few days before, appeared in all her loveliness. The mountain itself had changed its form, and rose with new peaks to the skies; a thick layer of stones and dust had settled with the curse of sterility on the fields; thousands of homeless wretches wandered about disconsolate, and three towns—Pompeii, Herculaneum, Stabiæ—had disappeared to be brought to light again in a wonderful manner after the lapse of many centuries.