ROME, _October_ 29_th_.
We set out in the dark. Morning dawned over the Lago di Vico; its waters
of a deep ultramarine blue, and its surrounding forests catching the rays
of the rising sun. It was in vain I looked for the cupola of St. Peter’s
upon descending the mountains beyond Viterbo. Nothing but a sea of
vapours was visible.
At length they rolled away, and the spacious plains began to show
themselves, in which the most warlike of nations reared their seat of
empire. On the left, afar off, rises the rugged chain of Apennines, and
on the other side, a shining expanse of ocean terminates the view. It
was upon this vast surface so many illustrious actions were performed,
and I know not where a mighty people could have chosen a grander theatre.
Here was space for the march of armies, and verge enough for encampments.
Levels for martial games, and room for that variety of roads and
causeways that led from the capital to Ostia. How many triumphant
legions have trodden these pavements! how many captive kings! What
throngs of cars and chariots once glittered on their surface! savage
animals dragged from the interior of Africa; and the ambassadors of
Indian princes, followed by their exotic train, hastening to implore the
favour of the senate!
During many ages, this eminence commanded almost every day such
illustrious scenes; but all are vanished: the splendid tumult is passed
away; silence and desolation remain. Dreary flats thinly scattered over
with ilex, and barren hillocks crowned by solitary towers, were the only
objects we perceived for several miles. Now and then we passed a few
black ill-favoured sheep feeding by the way-side, near a ruined
sepulchre, just such animals as an ancient would have sacrificed to the
Manes. Sometimes we crossed a brook, whose ripplings were the only
sounds which broke the general stillness, and observed the shepherds’
huts on its banks, propped up with broken pedestals and marble friezes.
I entered one of them, whose owner was abroad tending his herds, and
began writing upon the sand, and murmuring a melancholy song. Perhaps
the dead listened to me from their narrow cells. The living I can answer
for: they were far enough removed.
You will not be surprised at the dark tone of my musings in so sad a
scene, especially as the weather lowered; and you are well acquainted how
greatly I depend upon skies and sunshine. To-day I had no blue firmament
to revive my spirits; no genial gales, no aromatic plants to irritate my
nerves and give me at least a momentary animation. Heath and furze were
the sole vegetation which covers this endless wilderness. Every slope is
strewed with the relics of a happier period; trunks of trees, shattered
columns, cedar beams, helmets of bronze, skulls and coins, are frequently
dug up together.
I cannot boast of having made any discoveries, nor of sending you any
novel intelligence. You knew before how perfectly the environs of Rome
were desolate, and how completely the Papal government contrives to make
its subjects miserable. But who knows that they were not just as
wretched in those boasted times we are so fond of celebrating? All is
doubt and conjecture in this frail existence; and I might as well attempt
proving to whom belonged the mouldering bones which lay dispersed around
me, as venture to affirm that one age is more fortunate than another.
Very likely the poor cottager, under whose roof I reposed, is happier
than the luxurious Roman upon the remains of whose palace, perhaps, his
shed is raised: and yet that Roman flourished in the purple days of the
empire, when all was wealth and splendour, triumph and exultation.
I could have spent the whole day by the rivulet, lost in dreams and
meditations; but recollecting my vow, I ran back to the carriage and
drove on. The road not having been mended, I believe, since the days of
the Cæsars, would not allow our motions to be very precipitate. “When
you gain the summit of yonder hill, you will discover Rome,” said one of
the postillions: up we dragged; no city appeared. “From the next,” cried
out a second; and so on from height to height did they amuse my
expectations. I thought Rome fled before us, such was my impatience,
till at last we perceived a cluster of hills with green pastures on their
summits, inclosed by thickets and shaded by flourishing ilex. Here and
there a white house, built in the antique style, with open porticos, that
received a faint gleam of the evening sun, just emerged from the clouds
and tinting the meads below. Now domes and towers began to discover
themselves in the valley, and St. Peter’s to rise above the magnificent
roofs of the Vatican. Every step we advanced the scene extended, till,
winding suddenly round the hill, all Rome opened to our view.
A spring flowed opportunely into a marble cistern close by the way; two
cypresses and a pine waved over it. I leaped up, poured water upon my
hands, and then, lifting them up to the sylvan Genii of the place,
implored their protection. I wished to have run wild in the fresh fields
and copses above the Vatican, there to have remained till fauns might
creep out of their concealment, and satyrs begin to touch their flutes in
the twilight, for the place looks still so wondrous classical, that I can
never persuade myself either Constantine Attila or the Popes themselves
have chased them all away. I think I should have found some out, who
would have fed me with milk and chestnuts, have sung me a Latian ditty,
and mourned the woeful changes which have taken place, since their sacred
groves were felled, and Faunus ceased to be oracular. Who can tell but
they would have given me some mystic skin to sleep on, that I might have
looked into futurity?
Shall I ever forget the sensations I experienced upon slowly descending
the hills, and crossing the bridge over the Tiber; when I entered an
avenue between terraces and ornamented gates of villas, which leads to
the Porto del Popolo, and beheld the square, the domes, the obelisk, the
long perspective of streets and palaces opening beyond, all glowing with
the vivid red of sunset? You can imagine how I enjoyed my beloved tint,
my favourite hour, surrounded by such objects. You can fancy me
ascending Monte Cavallo, leaning against the pedestal which supports
Bucephalus; then, spite of time and distance, hurrying to St. Peter’s in
performance of my vow.
I met the Holy Father in all his pomp returning from vespers: trumpets
flourishing, and a legion of guards drawn out upon Ponte St. Angelo.
Casting a respectful glance upon the Moles Adriani, I moved on till the
full sweep of St. Peter’s colonnade opened upon me, and fixed me, as if
spell-bound, under the obelisk, lost in wonder. The edifice appears to
have been raised within the year, such is its freshness and preservation.
I could hardly take my eyes from off the beautiful symmetry of its front,
contrasted with the magnificent though irregular courts of the Vatican
towering over the colonnade, till, the sun sinking behind the dome, I ran
up the steps and entered the grand portal, which was on the very point of
being closed.
I knew not where I was, or to what scene transported. A sacred twilight
concealing the extremities of the structure, I could not distinguish any
particular ornament, but enjoyed the effect of the whole. No damp air or
fetid exhalation offended me. The perfume of incense was not yet
entirely dissipated. No human being stirred. I heard a door close with
the sound of thunder, and thought I distinguished some faint whisperings,
but am ignorant whence they came. Several hundred lamps twinkled round
the high altar, quite lost in the immensity of the pile. No other light
disturbed my reveries but the dying glow still visible through the
western windows. Imagine how I felt upon finding myself alone in this
vast temple at so late an hour, and think whether I had not revelations.
It was almost eight o’clock before I issued forth, and, pausing a few
minutes under the porticos, listened to the rush of the fountains: then
traversing half the town, I believe, in my way to the Villa Medici, under
which I am lodged, fell into a profound repose, which my zeal and
exercise may be allowed, I think, to have merited.
_October_ 30_th_.—It was a clear morning; I mounted up to the roof of the
house, and sat under a set of open pavilions, surveying the vast group of
stately buildings below; then repaired immediately after breakfast to St.
Peter’s, which even exceeded the height of my expectations. I could
hardly quit it. I wish his Holiness would allow me to erect a little
tabernacle under the dome. I should desire no other prospect during the
winter; no other sky than the vast arches glowing with golden ornaments,
so lofty as to lose all glitter or gaudiness. But I cannot say I should
be perfectly contented, unless I could obtain another pavilion for you.
Thus established, we would take our evening walks on the field of marble;
for is not the pavement vast enough to excuse the extravagance of the
appellation? Sometimes, instead of climbing a mountain, we should ascend
the cupola, and look down on our little encampment below. At night I
should wish for a constellation of lamps dispersed about in clusters, and
so contrived as to diffuse a mild and equal light for us to read or draw
by. Music should not be wanting: one day to breathe in the subterraneous
chapels, another to mount high into the dome.
The doors should be closed, and not a mortal admitted. No priests, no
cardinals: God forbid! We should have all the space to ourselves, and to
such creatures, too, as resemble us.
The windows I should shade with transparent curtains of yellow silk, to
admit the glow of perpetual summer. Lanterns, as many as you please, of
all forms and sizes; they would remind us of China, and, depending from
the roof of the palace, bring before us that of the Emperor Ki, which was
twice as large as St. Peter’s (if we may credit the grand annals), and
lighted alone by tapers, for his Imperial Majesty, being tired of the
sun, would absolutely have a new firmament of his own creation, and an
artificial day. Was it not a rare fantastic idea? For my part, I should
like of all things to immure myself after his example, with those I love;
forget the divisions of time, have a moon at command, and a theatrical
sun to rise and set at pleasure.
I was so absorbed in my imaginary palace, and exhausted with contriving
plans for its embellishment, as to have no spirits left for the Pantheon,
which I visited late in the evening, and entered with a reverence
approaching to superstition. The whiteness of the dome offending me, I
slunk into one of the recesses, closed my eyes, transported myself into
antiquity; then opened them again, tried to persuade myself the pagan
gods were in their niches, and the saints out of the question; was vexed
at coming to my senses, and finding them all there, St. Andrew with his
cross, and St. Agnes with her lamb, etc., etc. Then I paced
disconsolately into the portico, which shows the name of Agrippa on its
pediment. I leaned a minute against a Corinthian column; I lamented that
no pontiff arrived with victims and aruspices, of whom I might inquire,
what, in the name of birds and garbage, put me so terribly out of humour!
for you must know I was very near being disappointed, and began to think
Piranesi and Paolo Panini had been a great deal too colossal in their
view of this venerable structure. I left the column, walked to the
centre of the temple, and, folding my arms, stood as fixed as a statue.
Some architects have celebrated the effect of light from the opening
above, and pretended it to be distributed around so as to give those who
walk beneath the appearance of mystic substances beaming with radiance.
Mighty fine, if that were the case! I appeared, to be sure, a luminous
figure, and never stood I more in need of something to distinguish me,
being forlorn and dismal in the supreme degree.
But though it is not so immense as I had expected, yet a certain
venerable air, an awful gloom, breathed inspiration, though of the
sorrowful kind.
I had expected a heap of Venetian letters, but could not discover one. I
had received no intelligence from England this many a tedious day; and
for aught I can tell to the contrary, you may have been dead these three
weeks. I think I shall wander soon in the Catacombs, which I am half
inclined to imagine communicate with the lower world; and perhaps I may
find some letter there from you, lying upon a broken sarcophagus, dated
from the realms of Night, and giving an account of your descent into her
bosom. Yet, I pray continually, notwithstanding my curiosity to learn
what passes in the dark regions beyond the tomb, that you will condescend
to remain a few years longer on our planet; for what would become of me,
should I lose sight of you for ever? Stay, therefore, as long as you
can, and let us have the delight of dozing a little more of this poor
existence away together, and steeping ourselves in pleasant dreams.
[Picture: Modern Rome]
_October_ 31_st_.—I absolutely will have no antiquary to go prating from
fragment to fragment, and tell me, that were I to stay five years at
Rome, I should not see half it contained. The thought alone, of so much
to look at, is quite distracting, and makes me resolve to view nothing at
all in a scientific way; but straggle and wander about, just as the
spirit chooses. This evening, it led me to the Coliseo, and excited a
vehement desire in me to break down and pulverize the whole circle of
saints’ nests and chapels, which disgrace the arena. You recollect, I
dare say, the vile effect of this holy trumpery, and would join with all
your heart in kicking it into the Tiber. A few lazy abbots were at their
devotions before them; such as would have made a lion’s mouth water;
fatter, I dare say, than any saint in the whole martyrology, and ten
times more tantalizing. I looked first, at the dens where wild beasts
used to be kept, to divert the magnanimous people of Rome with
devastation and murder; then, at the tame cattle before the altars.
Heavens! thought I to myself, how times are changed! Could ever
Vespasian have imagined his amphitheatre would have been thus inhabited?
I passed on, making these reflections, to a dark arcade, overgrown with
ilex. In the openings which time and violence have made, a distant grove
of cypresses discover themselves; springing from heaps of mouldering
ruins, relieved by a clear transparent sky, strewed with a few red
clouds. This was the sort of prospect I desired, and I sat down on a
shattered frieze to enjoy it. Many stories of ancient Rome thronged into
my mind as I mused; triumphal scenes, but tempered by sadness, and the
awful thoughts of their being all passed away. It would be in vain to
recapitulate the ideas which chased one another along. Think where I
sat, and you may easily conjecture the series. When the procession was
fleeted by (for I not only thought, but seemed to see warriors moving
amongst the cypresses, and consuls returning from Parthian expeditions,
loaded with strange spoils, and received with the acclamations of
millions upon entering the theatre), I arose, crossed the arena, paced
several times round and round, looked up to arcade rising above arcade,
and admiring the stately height and masses of the structure, considered
it in various points of view, and felt, as if I never should be satisfied
with gazing, hour after hour, and day after day. Next, directing my
steps to the arch of Constantine, I surveyed the groups of ruins which
surrounded me. The cool breeze of the evening played in the beds of
canes and osiers which flourished under the walls of the Coliseo: a cloud
of birds were upon the wing to regain their haunts in its crevices; and,
except the sound of their flight, all was silent; for happily no
carriages were rattling along. I observed the palace and obelisk of St.
John of Lateran, at a distance; but it was too late to take a nearer
survey; so, returning leisurely home, I traversed the Campo Vaccino, and
leaned a moment against one of the columns which supported the temple of
Jupiter Stator. Some women were fetching water from the fountain hard
by, whilst another group had kindled a fire under the shrubs and twisted
fig-trees, which cover the Palatine Hill. Innumerable vaults and arches
peep out of the vegetation. It was upon these, in all probability, the
splendid palace of the Cæsars was raised. Confused fragments of marble,
and walls of lofty terraces, are the sole traces of its ancient
magnificence. A wretched rabble were roasting their chestnuts, on the
very spot, perhaps, where Domitian convened a senate, to harangue upon
the delicacies of his entertainment. The light of the flame cast upon
the figures around it, and the mixture of tottering wall with foliage
impending above their heads, formed a striking picture, which I stayed
contemplating from my pillar, till the fire went out, the assembly
dispersed, and none remained but a withered hag, raking the embers, and
muttering to herself. I thought also it was high time to retire, lest
the unwholesome mists, which were streaming from the opening before the
Coliseo, might make me repent my stay. Whether they had already taken
effect, or no, I will not absolutely determine; but something or other
had grievously disordered me. A few centuries ago I should have taxed
the old hag with my headache, and have attributed the uncommon oppression
I experienced to her baleful power. Hastening to my hotel, I mounted
into the open portico upon its summit, nearly upon a level with the Villa
Medici, and sat, several hours, with my arms folded in one another,
listening to the distant rumours of the town. It had been a fine moment
to have bestrode one of the winds which piped around me, offering, no
doubt, some compact from Lucifer.
_November_ 1_st_.—Though you find I am not yet snatched away from the
earth, according to my last night’s bodings, I was far too restless and
dispirited to deliver my recommendatory letters. St. Carlos, a mighty
day of gala at Naples, was an excellent excuse for leaving Rome, and
indulging my roving disposition. After spending my morning at St.
Peter’s, we set off about four o’clock, and drove by the Coliseo and a
Capuchin convent, whose monks were all busied in preparing the skeletons
of their order, to figure by torchlight in the evening. St. John’s of
Lateran astonished me. I could not help walking several times round the
obelisk, and admiring the noble open space in which the palace is
erected, and the extensive scene of towers and aqueducts discovered from
the platform in front.
We went out at the Porta Appia, and began to perceive the plains which
surround the city opening on every side. Long reaches of walls and
arches, but seldom interrupted, stretch across them. Sometimes, indeed,
a withered pine, lifting itself up to the mercy of every blast that
sweeps the champagne, breaks their uniformity. Between the aqueducts to
the left, nothing but wastes of fern, or tracts of ploughed lands, dark
and desolate, are visible, the corn not being yet sprung up. On the
right, several groups of ruined fanes and sepulchres diversify the
levels, with here and there a garden or woody inclosure. Such objects
are scattered over the landscape, that towards the horizon bulges into
gentle ascents, and, rising by degrees, swells at length into a chain of
mountains, which received the pale gleams of the sun, setting in watery
clouds.
By this uncertain light we discovered the white buildings of Albano,
sprinkled about the steeps. We had not many moments to contemplate them,
for it was night when we passed the Torre di mezza via, and began
breathing a close pestilential vapour. Half suffocated, and recollecting
a variety of terrifying tales about the malaria, we advanced, not without
fear, to Veletri, and hardly ventured to fall asleep when arrived there.
_November_ 2_nd_.—I arose at daybreak, and forgetting fevers and
mortalities, ran into a level meadow without the town, whilst the horses
were putting to the carriage. Why should I calumniate the air? it seemed
purer and more transparent than any I had before inhaled. The mountains
were covered with thin mists, and the morning star sparkled above their
summits. Birds were twittering amongst some sheds and bushes, which
border the sides of the road. A chestnut hung over it, against which I
leaned till the chaise came up. Being perfectly alone, and not
discovering any trace of the neighbouring city, I fancied myself existing
in the ancient days of Hesperia, and hoped to meet Picus in his woods
before the evening. But, instead of those shrill clamours which used to
echo through the thickets when Pan joined with mortals in the chase, I
heard the rumbling of our carriage, and the curses of its postillions.
Mounting a horse, I flew before them, and seemed to catch inspiration
from the breezes. Now I turned my eyes to the ridge of precipices, in
whose grots and caverns Saturn and his people passed their life; then to
the distant ocean. Afar off rose the cliffs, so famous for Circe’s
incantations, and the whole line of coast, which was once covered with
her forests.
Whilst I was advancing with full speed, the sunbeams began to shoot
athwart the mountains, the plains to light up by degrees, and their
shrubberies of myrtle to glisten with dewdrops. The sea brightened, and
the Circean rock soon glowed with purple. I never felt my spirits so
exhilarated, and they could not have flowed with more vivacity, even had
I tasted the cup which Helen gave Telemachus. You will think me gone
wild when I tell you I was, in a manner, drunk with the dews of the
morning, and so enraptured with the prospects which lay before me as to
address them in verse, and compose charms to dispel the enchantments of
Circe. All day were we approaching her rock; towards evening Terracina
appeared before us, in a bold romantic site; house above house, and
turret looking over turret, on the steeps of a mountain, inclosed with
mouldering walls, and crowned by the ruined terraces of a delightful
palace: one of those, perhaps, which the luxurious Romans inhabited
during the summer, when so free and lofty an exposition (the sea below,
with its gales and murmurs) must have been exquisitely agreeable. Groves
of orange and citron hang on the declivity, rough with the Indian fig,
whose bright red flowers, illuminated by the sun, had a magic splendour.
A palm-tree, growing on the highest crag, adds not a little to its
singular appearance. Being the largest I had ever seen, and clustered
with fruit, I climbed up the rocks to take a close survey of it, and
found a spring trickling near its fount, bordered by fresh herbage. On
this I stretched myself on the very edge of the precipice, and looking
down upon the beach, and glassy plains of ocean, exclaimed with Martial:
“O nemua! O fentes! solidumque madentis arenæ
Littus, et æquoreis splendidus Anxur aquis!”
Glancing my eyes athwart the sea, I fixed them on the Circean promontory,
which lies right opposite to Terracina, joined to the continent by a very
narrow strip of land, and appearing like an island. The roar of the
waves lashing the base of the precipices, might still be thought the howl
of savage monsters; but where are those woods which shaded the dome of
the goddess? Scarce a tree appears. A few thickets, and but a few, are
the sole remains of this once impenetrable vegetation; yet even these I
longed to visit, such was my predilection for the spot.
Who knows but Circe might have led me to some other palace, in a more
secret and retired vale, where she dwells remote from modern mariners,
and the present inhabitants of her environs; universally changed to swine
for these many ages? Their metamorphoses being so thoroughly established
as to leave no further pretence for her operations, I can imagine her
given up to solitude, and the consciousness of her potent influence.
Notwithstanding the risks of the adventure, I wished to have attempted
it, and seen whether she would have allowed me, as night came on, to warm
myself by her cedar fire, and hear her captivating song. Perhaps, had
the goddess been propitious, I might have culled some herbs of wondrous
efficacy. You recollect, I dare say, how renowned the cliff was for
them, and remember that Circe’s attendants, deeply skilled, like their
mistress, in pharmacy, were continually gathering plants in the woods and
wilds which enriched her abode. It was thus the companions of Ulysses
found them employed, when, entering her palace, they unwarily drank the
beverage she offered. Ovid has told this story in a masterly manner, and
formed a lively picture of the magic dome, with the occupations of its
inhabitants. We see them judiciously arranging their plants, whilst
Circe directs and points out, with the nicest discernment, the simple and
compound virtues of every flower.
Descending the cliff, and pursuing our route to Mola along the shore, by
a grand road formed on the ruins of the Appian, we drove under an
enormous perpendicular rock, standing detached, like a watch-tower, and
cut into arsenals and magazines. Day closed just as we got beyond it,
and a new moon gleamed faintly on the waters. We saw fires afar off in
the bay, some twinkling on the coast, others upon the waves, and heard
the murmur of voices; for the night was still and solemn, like that of
Cajetas’s funeral. I looked anxiously on a sea, where the heroes of the
Odyssey and Æneid had sailed in search of fate and empire, then closed my
eyes, and dreamed of those illustrious wanderers.
Nine struck when we arrived at Mola di Cajeta. The boats were just
coming in (whose lights we had seen out upon the main), and brought such
fish as Neptune, I dare say, would have grudged Æneas and Ulysses.
_November_ 3_rd_.—The morning was soft, but hazy. I walked in a grove of
oranges, white with blossoms, and at the same time glowing with fruit,
some of which I obtained leave to gather. The spot sloped pleasantly
towards the sea, and here I amused myself with my agreeable occupation
till the horses were ready, then set off on the Appian, between hedges of
myrtle and aloes, catching fresh gales from the sea as I flew along, and
breathing the perfume of an aromatic vegetation, which covers the fields
on the shore. We observed variety of towns, with battlemented walls and
ancient turrets, crowning the pinnacles of rocky steeps, surrounded by
wilds, and rude uncultivated mountains. The Liris, now Garigliano, winds
its peaceful course through wide extensive meadows, scattered over with
the remains of aqueducts, and waters the base of the rocks I have just
mentioned. Such a prospect could not fail of bringing Virgil’s panegyric
of Italy full in my mind:
“Tot congesta manu præruptis oppida saxis
Fluminaque antiquos suhterlabentia muros.”
As soon as we arrived in sight of Capua, the sky darkened, clouds covered
the horizon, and presently poured down such deluges of rain as floated
the whole country. The gloom was general; Vesuvius disappeared just
after we had the pleasure of discovering it; lightning began to flash
with dreadful rapidity, and people to run frightened to their houses. At
four o’clock darkness universally prevailed, except when a livid glare of
lightning presented momentary glimpses of the bay and mountains. We
lighted torches, and forded several torrents almost at the hazard of our
lives. The fields round Naples were filled with herds, lowing most
piteously, and yet not half so much scared as their masters, who ran
about cursing and swearing like Indians during the eclipse of the moon.
I knew Vesuvius had often put their courage to proof, but little thought
of an inundation occasioning such commotions.
For three hours the storm increased in violence, and instead of entering
Naples on a calm evening, and viewing its delightful shores by
moonlight—instead of finding the squares and terraces thronged with
people and animated by music, we advanced with fear and terror through
dark streets totally deserted, every creature being shut up in their
houses, and we heard nothing but driving rain, rushing torrents, and the
fall of fragments beaten down by their violence. Our inn, like every
other habitation, was in great disorder, and we waited a long while
before we could settle in our apartments with any comfort. All night the
waves roared round the rocky foundations of a fortress beneath my
windows, and the lightning played clear in my eyes. I could not sleep,
and was full as disturbed as the elements.
_November_ 4_th_.—Peace was restored to nature in the morning, but every
mouth was full of the dreadful accidents which had happened in the night.
The sky was cloudless when I awoke, and such was the transparence of the
atmosphere that I could clearly discern the rocks, and even some white
buildings on the island of Caprea, though at the distance of several
miles. A large window fronts my bed, and its casements being thrown
open, gives me a vast prospect of ocean, uninterrupted except by the
peaks of Caprea and the Cape of Sorento. I lay half an hour gazing on
the smooth level waters, and listening to the confused voices of the
fishermen, passing and repassing in light skiffs, which came and
disappeared in an instant.
Running to the balcony the moment my eyes were fairly open (for till then
I saw objects, I know not how, as one does in dreams), I leaned over its
rails, and viewed Vesuvius rising distinct into the blue ether, with all
that world of gardens and casinos which are scattered about its base;
then looked down into the street, deep below, thronged with people in
holiday garments, and carriages, and soldiers in full parade. The woody,
variegated shore of Posilipo next drew my attention. It was on those
very rocks, under those tall pines, Sannazaro was wont to sit by
moonlight, or at peep of dawn, holding converse with the Nereids. ’Tis
there he still sleeps; and I wished to have gone immediately and strewed
coral over his tomb, but I was obliged to check my impatience, and hurry
to the palace in form and gala.
A courtly mob had got thither upon the same errand, daubed over with lace
and most notably be-periwigged. Nothing but—bows and salutations were
going forward on the staircase, one of the largest I ever beheld, and
which a multitude of prelates and friars were ascending in all the pomp
of awkwardness. I jostled along to the presence chamber, where his
Majesty was dining alone in a circular inclosure of fine clothes and
smirking faces. The moment he had finished, twenty long necks were poked
forth, and it was a glorious struggle amongst some of the most decorated
who first should kiss his hand. Doing so was the great business of the
day, and everybody pressed forward to the best of their abilities. His
Majesty seemed to eye nothing but the end of his nose, which is doubtless
a capital object.
Though people have imagined him a weak monarch, I beg leave to differ in
opinion, since he has the boldness to prolong his childhood and be happy,
in spite of years and conviction. Give him a boar to stab, and a pigeon
to shoot at, a battledore or an angling rod, and he is better contented
than Solomon in all his glory, and will never discover, like that sapient
sovereign, that all is vanity and vexation of spirit.
His courtiers in general have rather a barbaric appearance, and differ
little in the character of their physiognomies from the most savage
nations. I should have taken them for Calmucks or Samoieds, had it not
been for their dresses and European finery.
You may suppose I was not sorry, after my presentation was over, to
return to Sir W.’s and hear Lady H. play, whose music breathes the most
pastoral Sicilian ideas, and transports me to green meads on the
sea-coast, where I wander with Theocritus.
The evening was passing swiftly away in this delightful excursion of
fancy, and I had almost forgotten there was a grand illumination at the
theatre of St. Carlo. After traversing a number of dark streets, we
suddenly entered this enormous edifice, whose six rows of boxes blazed
with tapers. I never beheld such lofty walls of light, nor so pompous a
decoration as covered the stage. Marchesi was singing in the midst of
all these splendours some of the poorest music imaginable, with the
clearest and most triumphant voice, perhaps, in the universe.
It was some time before I could look to any purpose around me, or
discover what animals inhabited this glittering world: such was its size
and glare. At last I perceived vast numbers of ugly beings, in gold and
silver raiment, peeping out of their boxes. The court being present, a
tolerable silence was maintained, but the moment his Majesty withdrew
(which great event took place at the beginning of the second act) every
tongue broke loose, and nothing but buzz and hubbub filled up the rest of
the entertainment.
The last ballet, formed upon the old story of “Le Festin de Pierre,” had
wonderful effect, and terminated in the most striking perspective of the
infernal region. Picq danced incomparably, and Signora Rossi led the
Fandango, with a grace and activity that pleased me beyond idea. Music
was never more rapturous than that which accompanies this dance. It
quite enchanted me, and I longed to have sprung upon the stage. The
cadence is so strongly marked by the castanets, that it is almost
impossible to be out of time; and the rapidity of steps and varied
movements scarcely allows a moment to think of being tired. I should
imagine the eternal dance, with which certain tribes of American savages
think they are to be rewarded in a future existence, might be formed
somewhat on this model. Indeed the Fandango arrived in Spain with the
conquerors of the other hemisphere, and is far too lively and extatic to
be of European original.
_November_ 6_th_.—Till to-day we have had nothing but rains; the sea
covered with mists, and Caprea invisible. Would you believe it? I have
not yet been able to mount to St. Elmo and the Capo di Monte, in order to
take a general view of the town.
At length a bright gleam of sunshine roused me from my slumbers, and
summoned me to the broad terrace of Chiaja, directly above the waters and
commanding the whole coast of Posilipo. Insensibly I drew towards it,
and (you know the pace I run when out upon discoveries) soon reached the
entrance of the grotto, which lay in dark shades, whilst the crags that
lower over it were brightly illumined. Shrubs and vines grow luxuriantly
in the crevices of the rock; and their fresh yellow colours, variegated
with ivy, have a beautiful effect. To the right a grove of pines sprung
from the highest pinnacles: on the left, bay and chestnut conceal the
tomb of Virgil, placed on the summit of a cliff which impends over the
opening of the grotto, and is fringed with a florid vegetation. Beneath
are several wide apertures hollowed in the solid stone, which lead to
caverns sixty or seventy feet in depth, where a number of peasants, who
were employed in quarrying, made such a noise with their tools and their
voices as almost inclined me to wish the Cimmerians would start from
their subterraneous habitations, and sacrifice these profane to the
Manes.
Walking out of the sunshine, I seated myself on a loose stone immediately
beneath the first gloomy arch of the grotto, and looking down the vast
and solemn perspective, terminated by a speck of grey uncertain light,
venerated a work which some old chroniclers have imagined as ancient as
the Trojan war. ’Twas here the mysterious race I have just mentioned
performed their infernal rites, and it was this excavation perhaps which
led to their abode.
The Neapolitans attribute a more modern, though full as problematical an
origin to their famous cavern, and most piously believe it to have been
formed by the enchantments of Virgil, who, as Mr. Addison very justly
observes, is better known at Naples in his magical character, than as the
author of the Æneid. This strange infatuation most probably arose from
the vicinity of the tomb, in which his ashes are supposed to have been
deposited; and which, according to popular tradition, was guarded by
those very spirits who assisted in constructing the cave. But whatever
may have given rise to these ideas, certain it is they were not confined
to the lower ranks alone. King Robert, {240} a wise though far from
poetical monarch, conducted his friend Petrarch with great solemnity to
the spot; and, pointing to the entrance of the grotto, very gravely asked
him, whether he did not adopt the general belief, and conclude this
stupendous passage derived its origin from Virgil’s powerful
incantations? The answer, I think, may easily be conjectured.
When I had sat for some time, contemplating this dusky avenue, and trying
to persuade myself that it was hewn by the Cimmerians, I retreated
without proceeding any farther, and followed a narrow path which led me,
after some windings and turnings, along the brink of the precipice,
across a vineyard, to that retired nook of the rocks which shelters
Virgil’s tomb, most venerably mossed over, and more than half concealed
by bushes and vegetation. Drops of dew were distilling from the niches
of the little chamber, which once contained his urn, and heaps of
withered leaves had gathered on the pavement. Amongst these I crept to
eat some grapes and biscuits, having duly scattered a few crumbs as a
sort of offering to the invisible guardians of the place. I believe they
were sensible of my piety, and, as a reward, kept vagabonds and clowns
away.
The one who conducted me remained aloof at awful distance, whilst I sat
commercing with the manes of my beloved poet, or straggling about the
shrubbery which hangs directly above the mouth of the grot. I wonder I
did not visit the eternal shades sooner that I expected, for no squirrel
ever skipped from bough to bough more venturously. One instant I climbed
up the branches of a chestnut, and sat almost on its extremity, my feet
impending over the chasm below; another I boldly advanced to the edge of
the rock, and saw crowds of people and carriages, diminished by distance,
issuing from the bosom of the mountain, and disappearing almost as soon
as discovered in the windings of its road. Having clambered high above
the cavern, I hazarded my neck on the top of one of the pines, and looked
contemptuously down on the race of pigmies that were so busily moving to
and fro. The sun was fiercer than I could have wished, but the
sea-breezes fanned me in my aërial situation, which commanded the grand
sweep of the bay, varied by convents, palaces, and gardens, mixed with
huge masses of rock and crowned by the stately buildings of the
Carthusians and fortress of St. Elmo. Add a glittering blue sea to this
perspective, with Caprea rising from its bosom, and Vesuvius breathing
forth a white column of smoke into the ether, and you will then have a
scene upon which I gazed with delight, for more than an hour, almost
forgetting that I was perched upon the head of a pine, with nothing but a
frail branch to uphold me. However, I descended alive, as Virgil’s
genii, I am resolved to believe, were my protectors.