Leave Rome for Naples.--Scenery in the vicinity of
Rome.--Albano.--Malaria.--Veletri.--Classical associations.--The
Circean Promontory.--Terracina.--Ruined Palace.--Mountain
Groves.--Rock of Circe.--The Appian Way.--Arrive at Mola di
Gaieta.--Beautiful prospect.--A Deluge.--Enter Naples by night,
during a fearful Storm.--Clear Morning.--View from my
window.--Courtly Mob at the Palace.--The Presence Chamber.--The
King and his Courtiers.--Party at the House of Sir W. H.--Grand
Illumination at the Theatre of St. Carlo.--Marchesi.
November 1st, 1780.
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 torch-light in the evening. St. John’s of Lateran
astonished me. I could not help walking several times round the obelisk,
and admiring the noble 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, 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 enclosure. Such objects are scattered
over the landscape, which 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 2nd.
I arose at day-break, 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 pearly transparent air? it seemed
at least purer than any I had before inhaled. 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 cursing of
postilions. 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 cliff, so
famous for Circe’s incantations, and the whole line of coasts, which was
once covered with her forests.
Whilst I was advancing with full speed, the sun-beams began to shoot
athwart the mountains, the plains to light up by degrees, and their
shrubberies of myrtle to glisten with dew-drops. The sea brightened, and
the Circean promontory soon glowed with purple. All day we kept winding
through this enchanted country. Towards evening Terracina appeared
before us, in a bold romantic scite; house above house, and turret
looking over turret, on the steeps of a mountain, enclosed with
mouldering walls, and crowned by the ruined terraces of a 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 delightful. 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 yet seen, and clustered with fruit, I climbed up the
rocks to take a sketch of it; and looking down upon the beach and glassy
plains of ocean, exclaimed with Martial:
O nemus! O fontes! solidumque madentis arenæ
Littus, et æquoreis splendidus Anxur aquis!
Glancing my eyes athwart the sea, I fixed them on the rock of Circe,
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.
Descending the cliff, and pursuing our route to Mola along the shore, by
a grand road formed on the ruins of the Appian Way, 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 to fulfil their mystic destinies.
Nine struck when we arrived at Mola di Gaeta. 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 3rd.
The morning was soft, but hazy. I walked in a grove of orange trees,
white with blossoms, and at the same time glowing with fruit. The spot
sloped pleasantly toward the sea, and here I loitered till the horses
were ready, then set off on the Appian, between hedges of myrtle and
aloes. We observed a 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 into my mind:
Tot congesta manu præruptis oppida saxis
Fluminaque antiquos subterlabentia 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 discovered it. 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 plains of Aversa
were filled with herds, lowing most piteously, and yet not half so much
scared as their masters, who ran about raving and ranting 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.
November 4th.
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 thirty 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 æther,
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
shrubby, variegated shore of Posilipo drew my attention to the opposite
side of the bay. It was on those very rocks, under those tall pines,
Sannazaro was wont to sit by moonlight, or at peep of dawn, composing
his marine eclogues. It is 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 with awkward
pomposity. I jostled along to the presence chamber, where his Majesty
was dining alone in a circular enclosure 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, the great business of the day. 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. H.’s, where an interesting group of lovely women,
literati, and artists, were assembled--Gagliani and Cyrillo, Aprile,
Milico, and Deamicis--the determined Santo Marco, and the more
nymph-like modest-looking, though not less dangerous, Belmonte. Gagliani
happened to be in full story, and vied with his countryman Polichinello,
not only in gesticulation and loquacity, but in the excessive
licentiousness of his narrations. He was proceeding beyond all bounds of
decency and decorum, at least according to English notions, when Lady
H.[8] sat down to the pianoforte. Her plaintive modulations breathed a
far different language. No performer that ever I heard produced such
soothing effects; they seemed the emanations of a pure, uncontaminated
mind, at peace with itself and benevolently desirous of diffusing that
happy tranquillity around it; these were modes a Grecian legislature
would have encouraged to further the triumph over vice of the most
amiable virtue.
The evening was passing swiftly away, 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
seven rows of boxes one above the other 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 swarthy ill-favoured
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.