This Hermit is a Frenchman. _J’ai dansé dans mon lit tans de fois_[5],
said he: the expression was not sublime when speaking of an earthquake,
to be sure; I looked among his books, however, and found Bruyere. “Would
not the Duc de Rochefoucault have done better?” said I. “Did I never see
you before, Madam?” said he; “yes, sure I have, and dressed you too,
when I was a hair-dresser in London, and lived with Mons. Martinant, and
I dressed pretty Miss Wynne too in the same street. _Vit’elle encore?
Vit’elle encore?_[6] Ah I am old now,” continued he; “I remember when
black pins first came up.” This was charming, and in such an unexpected
way, I could hardly prevail upon myself ever to leave the spot; but Mrs.
Greatheed having been quite to the crater’s edge with her only son, a
baby of four years old; shame rather than inclination urged me forward; I
asked the little boy what he had seen; I saw the chimney, replied he, and
it was on fire, but I liked the elephant better.
That the situation of the crater changed in this last eruption is of
little consequence; it will change and change again I suppose. The
wonder is, that nobody gets killed by venturing so near, while red-hot
stones are flying about them so. The Bishop of Derry did very near get
his arm broke; and the Italians are always recounting the exploits of
these rash Britons who look into the crater, and carry their wives and
children up to the top; while we are, with equal justice, amazed at the
courageous Neapolitans, who build little snug villages and dwell with as
much confidence at the foot of Vesuvius, as our people do in Paddington
or Hornsey. When I enquired of an inhabitant of these houses how she
managed, and whether she was not frighted when the Volcano raged, lest it
should carry away her pretty little habitation: “Let it go,” said she,
“we don’t mind now if it goes to-morrow, so as we can make it answer by
raising our vines, oranges, &c. against it for three years, our fortune
is made before the fourth arrives; and then if the red river comes we can
always run away, _scappar via_, ourselves, and hang the property. We only
desire three years use of the mountain as a hot wall or forcing-house,
and then we are above the world, thanks be to God and St. Januarius,” who
always comes in for a large share of their veneration; and this morning
having heard that the Neapolitans still present each other with a cake
upon New-year’s day, I began to hug my favourite hypothesis closer,
recollecting the old ceremony of the wheaten cake seasoned with salt,
and called _Janualis_ in the Heathen days. All this however must still
end in mere conjecture; for though the weather here favours one’s idea
of Janus, who loosened the furrow and liquefied the frost, to which the
melting our martyr’s blood might, without much straining of the matter,
be made to allude; yet it must be recollected after all, that the miracle
is not performed in this month but that of May, and that St. Januarius
did certainly exist and give his life as testimony to the truth of our
religion, in the third century. Can one wonder, however, if corruptions
and mistakes should have crept in since? And would it not have been
equal to a miracle had no tares sprung up in the field of religion, when
our Saviour himself informs us that there is an enemy ever watching his
opportunity to plant them?
These dear people too at Rome and Naples do live so in the very hulk of
ship-wrecked or rather foundered Paganism, have their habitation so at
the very bottom of the cask, can it fail to retain the scent when the
lees are scarce yet dried up, clean or evaporated? That an odd jumble of
past and present days, past and present ideas of dignity, events, and
even manner of portioning out their time, still confuse their heads,
may be observed in every conversation with them; and when a few weeks
ago we revisited, in company of some newly-arrived English friends, the
old baths of Baiæ, Locrine lake, &c. Tobias, who rowed us over, bid us
observe the Appian way under the water, where indeed it appears quite
clearly, even to the tracks of wheels on its old pavement made of very
large stones; and seeing me perhaps particularly attentive, “Yes,
Madam,” said he, “I do assure you, that _Don_ Horace and _Don_ Virgil, of
whom we hear such a deal, used to come from Rome to their country-seats
here in a day, over this very road, which is now overflowed as you see
it, by repeated earthquakes, but which was then so good and so unbroken,
that if they rose early in the morning they could easily gallop hither
against the _Ave Maria_.”
It was very observable in our second visit paid to the Stuffe San
Germano, that they had increased prodigiously in heat since mount
Vesuvius had ceased throwing out fire, though at least fourteen miles
from it, and a vast portion of the sea between them; it vexed me to
have no thermometer again, but by what one’s immediate feelings could
inform us, there were many degrees of difference. I could not now bear my
hand on any part of them for a moment. The same luckless dog was again
produced, and again restored to life, like the lady in Dryden’s Fables,
who is condemned to be hunted, killed, recovered, and set on foot again
for the amusement of her tormentors; a story borrowed from the Italian.
Solfaterra burned my fingers as I plucked an incrustation off,
which allured me by the beauty of its colours, and roared with more
violence than when I was there before. This horrible volcano is by no
means extinguished yet, but seems pregnant with wonders, principally
combustible, and likely to break with one at every step, all the earth
round it being hollow as a drum, and I should think of no great thickness
neither; so plainly does one hear the sighings underneath, which some of
the country people imagine to be tortured spirits howling with agony.
It is supposed that Lake Agnano, where the dog is flung in, if the dewy
grass do not suffice to recover him, with its humidity and freshness,
as it often does; is but another crater of another volcano, long ago
self-destroyed by scorpion-like suicide; and it is like enough it may be
so. There are not wanting however those that think, or say at least, how
a subterraneous or subaqueous city remains even now under that lake, but
lies too deep for inspection.
_Sia come sia_[7], as the Italians express themselves, these environs are
beyond all power of comprehension, much more beyond all effort of words
to describe; and as Sannazarius says of Venice, so I am sure it may be
said of this place, “That man built Rome, but God created Naples:” for
surely, surely he has honoured no other spot with such an accumulation
of his wonders: nor can any thing more completely bring the description
of the devoted cities mentioned in Genesis before one’s eyes, than these
concealed fires, which there I trust burst up unexpectedly, and, attended
by such lightning as only hot countries can exhibit, devoured all at
once, nor spared the too incredulous inquirer, who turned her head back
with contempt of expected judgments, but entangling her feet in the
pursuing stream of lava, fixed her fast, a monument of bituminous salt.
Though surrounded by such terrifying objects, the Neapolitans are not,
I think, disposed to cowardly, though easily persuaded to devotional
superstitions; they are not afraid of spectres or supernatural
apparitions, but sleep contentedly and soundly in small rooms, made for
the ancient dead, and now actually in the occupation of old Roman bodies,
the catacombs belonging to whom are still very impressive to the fancy;
and I have known many an English gentleman, who would not endure to
have his courage impeached by _living wight_, whose imagination would
notwithstanding have disturbed his slumbers not a little, had he been
obliged to pass one night where these poor women sleep securely, wishing
only for that money which travellers are not unwilling to bestow; and
perhaps a walk among these hollow caves of death, these sad repositories
of what was once animated by valour and illuminated by science, strike
one much more than all the urns and lachrymatories of Portici.
How judicious is Mr. Addison’s remark, “That _Siste Viator!_ which has a
striking effect among the Roman tombs placed by the road side, loses all
its power over the mind when placed in the body of a church:” I think
he might have said the same, had he lived to see funereal urns used as
decorations of hackney-coach pannels, and _Caput Bovis_ over the doors in
New Tavistock-street.
It is worth recollecting however, that the Dictator Sylla is supposed
to be the first man of consequence who ordered his body to be burned
at Rome, as till then, burial was apparently the fashion: his death,
occasioned by the _morbus pedicularis_, made his interment difficult, and
what necessity suggested to be done for him, grew up into a custom, and
the sycophants of power, ever hasty to follow their superiors, now shewed
their zeal even in _post obit_ imitation. But while I am writing, more
modern and less tyrannic claimants for respect agreeably disturb one’s
meditations on the cruelty and oppression used by these wicked possessors
of immortal though ill-gotten fame.
The Queen of Naples is delivered, and we are all to make merry: the
_Castello d’Uovo_, just under our windows, is to be illuminated: and from
the Carthusian convent on the hill, to my poor solitary old acquaintance
the hermit and hair-dresser, who inhabits a cleft in mount Vesuvius, all
resolve to be happy, and to rejoice in the felicity of a prince that
loves them.--Shouting, and candles, and torches, and coloured lamps,
and Polinchinello above all the rest, did their best to drive forward
the general joy, and make known the birth of the royal baby for many
miles round the capital; and there was a splendid opera the next night,
in this finest of all fine theatres, though that of Milan pleases me
better; as I prefer the elegant curtains which festoon it over the boxes
there, to our heavy gilt ornaments here at Naples; and their boasted
looking-glasses, never cleaned, have no effect as I perceive towards
helping forward the enchantment. A _festa di ballo_, or masquerade,
given here however, was exceedingly gay, and the dresses surprisingly
rich: _our_ party, a very large one, all Italians, retired at one in
the morning to quite the finest supper of its size I ever saw. Fish of
various sorts, incomparable in their kinds, composed eight dishes of
the first course; we had thirty-eight set on the table in that course,
forty-nine in the second, with wines and dessert truly magnificent, for
all which Mr. Piozzi protested to me that we paid only three shillings
and sixpence a head English money; but for the truth of that he must
answer: we sate down twenty-two persons to supper, and I observed there
were numbers of these parties made in different taverns, or apartments
adjoining to the theatre, whither after refreshment we returned, and
danced till day-light.
The theatre is a vast building, even when not inhabited or set off
by lights and company: all of stone too, like that of Milan; but
particularly defended from fire by St. Anthony, who has an altar and
chapel erected to his honour, and showily decorated at the door; and on
Sunday night, January the twenty-second, there were fireworks exhibited
in honour of himself and his _pig_, which was placed on the top, and
illuminated with no small ingenuity: the fire catching hold of his tail
first--_con rispetto_--as said our Cicerone. But _il Rè Lear è le sue tre
Figlie_ are advertised, and I am sick to-night and cannot go.
Oh what a time have I chose out, &c.
To wear a kerchief--would I were not sick!
My loss however is somewhat compensated; for though I could not see our
own Shakespear’s play acted at Naples, I went some days after to one of
the charming theatres this town is entertained by every evening, and
saw a play which struck me exceedingly: the plot was simply this--An
Englishman appears, dressed precisely as a Quaker, his hat on his head,
his hands in his pockets, and with a very pensive air says he will
take that pistol, producing one, and shoot himself; “for,” says he,
“the politics go wrong at home now, and I hate the ministerial party,
so England does not please me; I tried France, but the people there
laughed so about nothing, and sung so much out of tune, I could not bear
France; so I went over to Holland; those Dutch dogs are so covetous and
hard-hearted, they think of nothing but their money; I could not endure
a place where one heard no sound in the whole country but frogs croaking
and ducats chinking. _Maladetti!_ so I went to Spain, where I narrowly
escaped a sun-stroke for the sake of seeing those idle beggarly dons,
that if they do condescend to cobble a man’s shoe, think they must do it
with a sword by their side. I came here to Naples therefore, but ne’er a
woman will afford one a chase, all are too easily caught to divert _me_,
who like something in prospect; and though it is so fine a country, one
can get no fox-hunting, only running after a wild pig. Yes, yes, I _must_
shoot myself, the world is so _very_ dull I am tired on’t.”--He then
coolly prepares matters for the operation, when a young woman bursts
into his apartment, bewails her fate a moment, and then faints away. Our
countryman lays by his pistol, brings the lady to life, and having heard
part of her story, sets her in a place of safety. More confusion follows;
a gentleman enters storming with rage at a treacherous friend he hints
at, and a false mistress; the Englishman gravely advises him to shoot
himself: “No, no,” replies the warm Italian, “I will shoot _them_ though,
if I can catch them; but want of money hinders me from prosecuting
the search.” _That_ however is now instantly supplied by the generous
Briton, who enters into their affairs, detects and punishes the rogue
who had betrayed them all, settles the marriage and reconciliation of
his new friends, adds himself something to the good girl’s fortune, and
concludes the piece with saying that he has altered his intentions, and
will think no more of shooting himself, while life may in all countries
be rendered pleasant to him who will employ it in the service of his
fellow-creatures; and finishes with these words, that _such are the
sentiments of an Englishman_.
Were this pretty story in the hands of one of our elegant dramatic
writers, how charming an entertainment would it make us! Mr. Andrews
shall have it certainly, for though very flattering in its intentions
towards our countrymen, and the _ground-plot_, as a _surveyor_ would call
it, well imagined; the play itself was scarcely written I believe, and
very little esteemed by the Italians; who made excuses for its grossness,
and said that their theatre was at a very low ebb; and so I believe it
is. Yet their genius is restless, and for ever fermenting; and although,
like their volcano, of which every individual has a spark, it naturally
throws out of its mouth more rubbish than marble; like that too, from
some occasional eruptions we may gather gems stuck fast among substances
of an inferior nature, which want only disentangling, and a new polish,
to make them valued, even beyond those that reward the toil of an
expecting miner.
The word gems reminds one of _Capo di Monte_, where the king’s
_cameos_ are taken care of, and where the medallist may find perpetual
entertainment; for I do believe nothing can exceed the riches of this
collection; though it requires good eyes, great experience, and long
study, to examine their merits with accurate skill, and praise them
with intelligent rapture: of these three requisites I boast none, so
cannot enjoy this regale as much as many others; but I have a mortal
aversion to those who encumber the general progress of science by
reciprocating contempt upon its various branches: the politician however,
who weighs the interests of contending powers, or endeavours at the
happiness of regulating some particular state; who studies to prevent
the encroachments of prerogative, or impede advances to anarchy; hears
with faint approbation, at best, of the discoveries made in the moon
by modern astronomers--discoveries of a country where he can obtain no
power, and settle no system of government--discoveries too, which can
only be procured by peeping through glasses which few can purchase, at
a place which no man can desire to approach. While the musical composer
equally laments the fate of the fossilist, who literally buries his
talent in the ground, and equally dead to all the charms of taste, the
transports of true expression, and the delights of harmony, rises with
the sun only to shun his beams, and seek in the dripping caverns of the
earth the effects of his diminished influence. The medallist has had much
of this scorn to contend with; yet he that makes it his study to register
great events, is perhaps next to him who has contributed to their birth:
and this palace displays a degree of riches _en ce genre_, difficult to
conceive.
I was, however, better entertained by admiring the incomparable
Schidonis, which are to be found only here: he was a scholar, or rather
an imitator, of Correggio; and what he has done seems more the result
of genius animated by observation, than of profound thought or minute
nicety; he painted such ragged folks as he found upon the _Chiaja_; yet
his pictures differ no less from the Dutch school, than do those which
flow from the majestic pencil of the demi-divine Caracci and their
followers, and for the same reason; their minds reflected dignity and
grace, his eyes looked upon forms finely proportioned, though covered
with tatters, or perhaps scarcely covered at all; no smugness, no
plumpness, no _vulgar_ character, ever crossed the fancy of Schidone;
for a _Lazaroni_ at Naples, like a sailor at Portsmouth, is no mean
character, though he is a coarse one; it is in the low Parisian, and the
true-bred London blackguard, we must look for innate baseness, and near
approaches to brutality; nor are the Hollanders wanting in originals I
trust, when one has seen so many copies of the human form from their
hands, divested of soul as I may say, and, like Prior’s Emma when she
resolves to ramble with her outlawed lover,
And mingle with the people’s wretched lee--
Oh line extreme of human infamy!--
Lest by her look or colour be exprest
The mark of aught high-born, or ever better drest.
Here is a beautiful performance too of the Venetian school--a
resurrection of Lazarus, by Leandro Bassano, esteemed the best
performance of that family, and full of merit--the merit of _character_
I mean; while Mary’s eyes are wholly employed, and her mind apparently
engrossed by the Saviour’s benignity, and almighty power; Martha thinks
merely on the present exertion of them, and only watches the deliverance
of her beloved brother from the tomb: the restored Lazarus too--an
apparent corpse, re-awakened suddenly to a thousand sensations at once,
wonder, gratitude, and affectionate delight!--How can one coldly sit to
hear the connoisseurs _admire the folds of the drapery_? Lanfranc’s St.
Michael too is a very noble picture; and though his angel is infinitely
less angelic than that of Guido, his devil is a less ordinary and vulgar
devil than that of his fellow-student, which somewhat too much resembles
the common peeping satyr in a landscape; whereas Lanfranc’s Lucifer seems
embued with more intellectual vices--rage, revenge, and ambition.
But I am called from my observations and reflexions, to see what the
Neapolitans call _il trionfo di Policinello_, a person for whom they
profess peculiar value. Harlequin and Brighella here scarcely share the
fondness of an audience, while at Venice, Milan, &c. much pleasantry is
always cast into _their_ characters.
The triumph was a pageant of prodigious size, set on four broad wheels
like our waggons, but larger; it consisted of a pyramid of men,
twenty-eight in number, placed with wonderful ingenuity all of one
size, something like what one has seen exhibited at Sadler’s Wells, the
Royal Circus, &c.; dressed in one uniform, viz. the white habit and
puce-coloured mask of _caro_ Policinello; disposed too with that skill
which tumblers alone can either display or describe; a single figure,
still in the same dress, crowning the whole, and forming a point at the
top, by standing fixed on the shoulders of his companions, and playing
merrily on the fiddle; while twelve oxen of a beautiful white colour, and
trapped with many shining ornaments, drew the whole slowly over the city,
amidst the acclamations of innumerable spectators, that followed and
applauded the performance with shouts.
What I have learned from this show, and many others of the same kind, is
of no greater value than the derivation of _his name_ who is so much the
favourite of Naples: but from the mask he appears in, cut and coloured so
as exactly to resemble a _flea_, with hook nose and wrinkles, like the
body of that animal; his employment too, being ever ready to hop, and
skip, and jump about, with affectation of uncommon elasticity, giving his
neighbours a sly pinch from time to time: all these circumstances, added
to the very intimate acquaintance and connection all the Neapolitans
have with this, the least offensive of all the innumerable insects
that infest them; and, last of all, _his name_, which, corrupt it how
we please, was originally _Pulicinello_; leaves me persuaded that the
appellation is merely _little flea_.
A drive to Caserta, the king’s great palace, not yet quite finished,
carries me away from this important study, and leaves me little time to
enjoy the praises due to a discovery of so much consequence.
The drive perhaps pleased us better than the palace, which is a
prodigious mass of building indeed, and to my eye appears to cover more
space than proud Versailles itself; court within court, and quadrangle
within quadrangle; it is an enormous bulk to be sure--not pile--for it
is not high in proportion to the surrounding objects somehow; and being
composed all of brick, presents ideas rather of squat solidity, than
of princely magnificence. Ostentation is expected always to strike, as
elegance is known to charm, the beholder; and space seldom fails in
its immediate effect upon the mind; but here the _valley_ (I might say
_hole_) this house is set in, looks too little for it; and offends one
in the same manner as the more beautiful buildings do at Buxton, where
from every hill one expects to tumble down upon the new Crescent below.
The stair-case is such, however, as I am persuaded no other palace can
shew; vastly wider than any the French king can boast, and infinitely
more precious with regard to the marbles which compose its sides. The
immensity of it, however, though it enhances the value, does not do much
honour to the taste of him who contrived it. No apartments can answer the
expectations raised by such an approach; and in fact the chapel alone is
worthy an ascent so fit for a triumphal procession, instead of a pair of
stairs. That chapel is I confess of exquisite beauty and elegance; and
there is a picture, by Mengs, of the blessed Virgin Mary’s presentation
when a girl, that is really _paitrie des graces_; it scarcely can be
admired or commended enough, and one can scarcely prevail on one’s self
ever to quit it. Her marriage, a picture on the other side, is not so
happily imagined; but it seems as if the painter thought that joke too
good to part with, that there never was a particularly excellent picture
of a wedding; and that Poussin himself failed, when having represented
all the six other sacraments so admirably, that of marriage has been
found fault with by the connoisseurs of every succeeding generation.
Well! if the palace at Caserta must be deemed more heavy than handsome,
I fear the gardens must likewise be avowed to be laid out in a manner
one would rather term savage than natural: all artifice is banished
however: the king of Naples scorns petty tricks for the amusement of
petty minds;--he turns a whole river down his cascade,--_a real one_;
and if its formation is not of the first rate for assuming an appearance
of nature, it has the merit of being sincerely that which others only
pretend to be: while I am told that his architects are now employed in
connecting the great stones awkwardly disposed in two rows down each side
the torrent, with the very rocks and mountains among which the spring
rises; if they effect this, their cascade will, so far as ever I have
read or heard, be single in its kind.
Van Vittelli’s aqueduct is a prodigiously beautiful, magnificent,
and what is more, a useful performance: having the finest models of
antiquity, he is said to have surpassed them all. Why such superb and
expensive methods should be still used to conduct water up and down
Italy, any more than other nations, or why they are not equally necessary
in France and England, nobody informs me. Madame de Bocages enquired long
ago, when she was taken to see the fountain Trevi at Rome, why they had
no water at Paris but the Seine? I think the question so natural, that
one wishes to repeat it; and one great reason, little urged by others,
incites me to look with envy on the delicious and almost innumerable
gushes of water that cool the air of Naples and of Rome, and pour
their pellucid tides through almost every street of those luxurious
cities: _it is this_, that I consider them as a preservative against
that dreadfullest of all maladies, canine madness; a distemper which,
notwithstanding the excessive heat, has here scarcely a name. Sure it is
the plenty of drink the dogs meet at every turn, that must be the sole
cause of a blessing so desirable.
My stay has been always much shorter than I wished it, in every great
town of Italy; but _here!_ where numberless wonders strike the sense
without fatiguing it, I do feel double pleasure; and among all the new
ideas I have acquired since England lessened to my sight upon the sea,
those gained at Naples will be the last to quit me. The works of art may
be found great and lovely, but the drunken Faun and the dying Gladiator
will fade from one’s remembrance, and leave the glow of Solfaterra and
the gloom of Posilippo indelibly impressed. Vesuvius too! that terrified
me so when first we drove into this amazing town, what future images can
ever obliterate the thrilling sensations it at first occasioned? Surely
the sight of old friends after a tedious absence can alone supply the
vacancy that a mind must feel which quits such sublime, such animated
scenery, and experiences a sudden deprivation of delight, finding
the bosom all at once unfurnished of what has yielded it for three
swiftly-flown months, perpetual change of undecaying pleasures.
To-morrow I shall take my last look at the Bay, and driving forward, hope
at night to lodge at Terracina.