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Far away in the obscurity of eastern twilight glared the smouldering cone of Vesuvius a crimson blot upon the darkness a Cyclop's eye, bloodshot and menacing. The company in the Piccola Sentinella, young and old, were decrepit, with an odd, rheumatic, shrivelled look upon them. The dining-room reminded me, as certain rooms are apt to do, of a ship's saloon.
It was on a dark sultry night after the evening meal had been finished, when the many guests of the Piccola Sentinella were sitting in the public rooms or on the terrace overlooking the hotel gardens.
One of its old-established inns is called La Piccola Sentinella. The first sight on entrance is an open gallery, with a pink wall on which bloom magnificent cactuses, sprays of thick-clustering scarlet and magenta flowers. This is a rambling house, built in successive stages against a hill, with terraces and verandahs opening on unexpected gardens to the back and front.
Kent, the assistant-surgeon, was so kind as to make for me some measurements with the barometer: he found many marine remains along the shores of the whole bay, at a height of about twenty feet; and from the hill of Sentinella behind Talcahuano, at the height of 160 feet, he collected numerous shells, packed together close beneath the surface in black earth, consisting of two species of Mytilus, two of Crepidula, one of Concholepas, of Fissurella, Venus, Mactra, Turbo, Monoceros, and the Balanus psittacus.
The English landlady of the Piccola Sentinella, who herself had an almost miraculous escape on the occasion, gave us a most vivid and heart-rending description of how her hotel and most of its inmates were overwhelmed on that awful July night, and how the existing inn is literally built upon foundations that are filled with many unrecovered bodies of victims.
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