‘Off before me, and to my left, crowning the slope, are the grey ruins of some ancient church or castle, and far above me to the right, nestled against the lava crags, behind and above it, standing out white and clear, I see the strong buttressed mass of the monastery of St. Michael. How hard it is to realise that this noble and lovely scene, full of every leafy beauty, was once the innermost bowl of a volcano; that every stone around me, now glorious in colour with moss and lichen, sedum and geranium, was once a glowing mass, vomited from out that fiery and undiscovered abyss, which these placid waters now bury in their secret chambers.’
The line of demarcation between active and extinct volcanoes is not easily drawn, as eruptions have sometimes taken place after such long intervals of repose as to warrant the belief that the vents from which they issued had long since been completely obliterated. Thus, though nearly six centuries have passed since the last eruption of Epomeo in the island of Ischia, we are not entitled to suppose it extinct, since nearly seventeen centuries elapsed between this last explosion and the one which preceded it. Since the beginning of the fourteenth century Vesuvius also enjoyed a long rest of nearly three hundred years. During this time the crater got covered with grass and shrubs, oak and chestnut trees grew around it, and some warm pools of water alone reminded the visitor of the former condition of the mountain, when, suddenly, in December 1631, it resumed its ancient activity, and seven streams of lava at once burst forth from its subterranean furnaces.
While, in many volcanic districts, such as that of the Eifel on the left bank of the Rhine, and of Auvergne, in Central France, the once active subterranean fires have long since been extinguished, and no eruption of lava has been recorded during the whole period of the historic ages, new volcanoes, situated at a considerable distance from all previously active vents, have arisen from the bowels of the earth, almost within the memory of living man. From the era of the discovery of the New World to the middle of the last century, the country between the mountains Toluca and Colima, in Mexico, had remained undisturbed, and the space, now the site of Jorullo, which is one hundred miles distant from each of the above-mentioned volcanoes, was occupied by fertile fields of sugarcane and indigo, and watered by two brooks. In the month of June 1759, hollow sounds of an alarming nature were heard, and earthquakes succeeded each other for two months, until, at the end of September, flames issued from the ground, and fragments of burning rocks were thrown to prodigious heights. Six volcanic cones, composed of scoriæ and fragmentary lava, were formed on the line of a chasm, which ran in the direction of N.E. to S.W. The least of the cones was 300 feet in height, and Jorullo, the central volcano, was elevated 1,600 feet above the level of the plain. The ground where now, in Central America, Isalco towers in proud eminence, was formerly the seat of an estancia or cattle-estate. Towards the end of the year 1769, the inhabitants were frequently disturbed by subterranean rumblings and shocks, which constantly increased in violence, until on February 23, 1770, the earth opened, and pouring out quantities of lava, ashes, and cinders gave birth to a new volcanic mountain.