are best worth visiting. In building Sta. Chiara the architect would seem
to have aimed at embodying, as far as possible, the idea of the church
militant, the exterior resembling a fortress rather than a place of
worship. In accordance with the notions of church restoration which
prevailed in the last century, Giotto's famous frescoes have been covered
with a thick coating of whitewash, the sapient official who was
responsible for the restoration considering these paintings too dark and
gloomy for mural decoration. Now the most noteworthy objects in the church
are the Gothic tombs of the Angevin kings.
The two churches of S. Domenico and S. Lorenzo are not far off, and the
sightseer in this city of "magnificent distances" is grateful to the
providence which has placed the three most interesting churches in Naples
within a comparatively circumscribed area. S. Domenico should be visited
next, as it contains some of the best examples of Renaissance sculpture in
Naples as Sta. Chiara does of Gothic art. It was much altered and repaired
in the course of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, but still
remains one of the handsomest of the Neapolitan churches. Its most
important monument is the marble group in relief of the Virgin, with SS.
Matthew and John, by Giovanni da Nola, which is considered to be the
sculptor's best work. The Gothic church of S. Lorenzo has fortunately
escaped in part the disfiguring hands of the seventeenth century restorer.
This church is of some literary and historical interest, Petrarch having
spent several months in the adjoining monastery; and it was here that
Boccaccio saw the beautiful princess immortalized in his tales by the name
of Fiammetta.
In order to appreciate the true historical and geographical significance
of Naples, we must remember that the whole of this volcanic district is
one great palimpsest, and that it is only with the uppermost and least
important inscription that we have hitherto concerned ourselves. To form
an adequate idea of this unique country we must set ourselves to decipher
the earlier-written inscriptions. For this purpose we must visit the
National Museum, which contains rich and unique collections of antiquities
elsewhere absolutely unrepresented. Here will be found the best treasures
from the buried towns of Cumæ, Herculaneum, and Pompeii. The history of
nearly a thousand years may be read in this vast necropolis of ancient
art.
To many, however, the living present has a deeper interest than the buried
past, and to these the innumerable beautiful excursions round Naples will
prove more attractive than all the wealth of antiquities in the Museum.
Certainly, from a purely æsthetic standpoint, all the best things in
Naples are out of it if the bull may be allowed. To reach Pozzuoli and the
classic district of Baiæ and Cumæ, we pass along the fine promenade of the
Villa Nazionale, which stretches from the Castello dell' Ovo (the Bastille
of Naples) to the Posilipo promontory, commanding, from end to end, superb
unobstructed views of the Bay. Capri, the central point of the prospect,
appears to change its form from day to day, like a fairy island.
Sometimes, on a cloudless day, the fantastic outlines of the cliffs stand
out clearly defined against the blue sea and the still bluer background of
the sky; the houses are plainly distinguished, and you can almost fancy
that you can descry the groups of idlers leaning over the parapet of the
little piazza, so clear is the atmosphere. Sometimes the island is bathed
in a bluish haze, and by a curious atmospheric effect a novel form of
_Fata Morgana_ is seen, the island, appearing to be lifted out of the
water and suspended between sea and sky.
The grounds of the Villa Nazionale are extensive, and laid out with taste,
but are disfigured by inferior plaster copies, colossal in size, of famous
antique statues. It is strange that Naples, while possessing some of the
greatest masterpieces of ancient sculptors, should be satisfied with these
plastic monstrosities for the adornment of its most fashionable promenade.
The most interesting feature of the Villa Nazionale is the Aquarium. It is
not merely a show place, but an international biological station, and, in
fact, the portion open to the public consists only of the spare tanks of
the laboratory. This institution is the most important of its kind in
Europe, and is supported by the principal European Universities, who each
pay for so many "tables."
[Illustration]
At the entrance to the tunneled highway known as the Grotto di Posilipo,
which burrows through the promontory that forms the western bulwark of
Naples, and serves as a barrier to shut out the noise of that overgrown
city, is a columbarium known as Virgil's Tomb. The guide-books, with their
superior erudition, speak rather contemptuously of this historic spot as
the "so-called tomb of Virgil." Yet historical evidence seems to point to
the truth of the tradition which has assigned this spot as the place where
Virgil's ashes were once placed. A visit to this tomb is a suitable
introduction to the neighborhood of which Virgil seems to be the tutelary
genius. Along the sunny slopes of Posilipo the poet doubtless occasionally
wended his way to the villa of Lucullus, at the extreme end of the
peninsula. Leaving the gloomy grotto, the short cut to Pozzuoli, on our
right, we begin to mount the far-famed "Corniche" of Posilipo, which
skirts the cliffs of the promontory. The road at first passes the
fashionable Mergellina suburb, fringed by an almost uninterrupted series
of villa gardens. This is, perhaps, one of the most beautiful drives in
the South of Europe. Every winding discloses views which are at once the
despair and the delight of the painter. At every turn we are tempted to
stop and feast the eyes on the glorious prospect. Perhaps of all the fine
views in and around Naples, that from the Capo di Posilipo is the most
striking, and dwells longest in the memory. At one's feet lies Naples, its
whitewashed houses glittering bright in the flood of sunshine. Beyond,
across the deep blue waters of the gulf, Vesuvius, the evil genius of this
smiling country, arrests the eye, from whose summit, like a halo,
"A wreath of light blue vapor, pure and rare,
Mounts, scarcely seen against the deep blue sky;
* * * * *
... It forms, dissolving there,
The dome, as of a palace, hung on high
Over the mountains."
Portici, Torre del Greco, and Torre del' Annunziata can hardly be
distinguished in this densely populated fringe of coast-line, which
extends from Naples to Castellamare. Sometimes at sunset we have a
magnificent effect. This sea-wall of continuous towns and villages lights
up under the dying rays of the sun like glowing charcoal. The
conflagration appears to spread to Naples, and the huge city is "lit up
like Sodom, as if fired by some superhuman agency." This atmospheric
phenomenon may remind the imaginative spectator of the dread possibilities
afforded by the proximity of the ever-threatening volcano towering _in
terrorem_ over the thickly populated plain. There is a certain weird charm
born of impending danger, which gives the whole district a pre-eminence in
the world of imagination. It has passed through its baptism of fire; and
who knows how soon "the dim things below" may be preparing a similar fate
for a city so rashly situated? These dismal reflections are, however, out
of place on the peaceful slopes of Posilipo, whose very name denotes
freedom from care.
The shores of this promontory are thickly strewed with Roman ruins, which
are seldom explored owing to their comparative inaccessibility. Most of
the remains, theaters, temples, baths, porticoes, and other buildings,
whose use or nature defies the learning of the antiquary, are thought to
be connected with the extensive villa of the notorious epicure Vedius
Polio. Traces of the fish-tanks for the eels, which Seneca tells us were
fed with the flesh of disobedient slaves, are still visible. Descending
the winding gradients of Posilipo, we get the first glimpse of the lovely
little Bay of Pozzuoli. The view is curious and striking. So deeply and
sharply indented is the coast, and so narrow and tortuous are the channels
that separate the islands Ischia, Procida, and Nisida, that it is
difficult to distinguish the mainland. We enjoy a unique panorama of land
and sea, islands, bays, straits, capes, and peninsulas all inextricably
intermingled.
Continuing our journey past the picturesque town of Pozzuoli, its
semi-oriental looking houses clustered together on a rocky headland, like
Monaco, we reach the hallowed ground of the classical student. No one who
has read his Virgil or his Horace at school can help being struck by the
constant succession of once familiar names scattered so thickly among the
dry bones of the guide-books. The district between Cumæ and Pozzuoli is
the _sanctum sanctorum_ of classical Italy, and "there is scarcely a spot
which is not identified with the poetical mythology of Greece, or
associated with some name familiar in the history of Rome." Leaving
Pozzuoli, we skirt the Phlegræan Fields, which, owing to their
malaria-haunted situation, still retain something of their ancient
sinister character. This tract is, however, now being drained and
cultivated a good deal. That huge mound on our right, looking like a
Celtic sepulchral barrow, is Monte Nuovo, a volcano, as its name denotes,
of recent origin. Geologically speaking, it is a thing of yesterday,
being thrown up in the great earthquake of September 30th, 1538, when, as
Alexandre Dumas graphically puts it, "One morning Pozzuoli woke up, looked
around, and could not recognize its position; where had been the night
before a lake was now a mountain." The lake referred to is Avernus, a name
familiar to all through the venerable and invariably misquoted classical
tag, _facilis descensus Averni_, etc. This insignificant-looking volcanic
molehill is the key to the physical geography of the whole district.
Though the upheaval of Monte Nuovo has altered the configuration of the
country round, the depopulation of this deserted but fertile country is
due, not to the crater, but to the malaria, the scourge of the coast. The
scarcity of houses on the western horn of the Bay of Naples is very
marked, especially when contrasted with the densely populated sea-board on
the Castellamare side. Leaving Monte Nuovo we come to a still more fertile
tract of country, and the luxuriant vegetation of these Avernine hills
"radiant with vines" contrasts pleasingly with the gloomy land "where the
dusky nation of Cimmeria dwells" of the poet. The mythological traditions
of the beautiful plain a few miles farther on, covered with vineyards and
olive-groves and bright with waving corn-fields, where Virgil has placed
the Elysian Fields, seem far more appropriate to the landscape as we see
it. Perhaps a sense of the dramatic contrast was present in the poet's
mind when he placed the Paradiso and the Inferno of the ancients so near
together.
Quite apart from the charm with which ancient fable and poetry have
invested this district, the astonishing profusion of ruins makes it
especially interesting to the antiquary. A single morning's walk in the
environs of Baiæ or Cumæ will reveal countless fragmentary monuments of
antiquities quite outside of the stock ruins of the guide-books, which the
utilitarian instincts of the country people only partially conceal, Roman
tombs serving as granaries or receptacles for garden produce, temples
affording stable-room for goats and donkeys, amphitheaters half-concealed
by olive-orchards or orange-groves, walls of ancient villas utilized in
building up the terraced vineyards; and, in short, the trained eye of an
antiquary would, in a day's walk, detect a sufficient quantity of antique
material almost to reconstruct another Pompeii. But though every acre of
this antiquary's paradise teems with relics of the past, and though every
bay and headland is crowded with memories of the greatest names in Roman
history, we must not linger in this supremely interesting district, but
must get on to the other beautiful features of the Gulf of Naples.
Capri, as viewed from Naples, is the most attractive and striking feature
in the Bay. There is a kind of fascination about this rocky island-garden
which is felt equally by the callow tourist making his first visit to
Italy, and by the seasoned traveller who knew Capri when it was the center
of an art colony as well known as is that of Newlyn at the present day. No
doubt Capri is now considered by super-sensitive people to be as
hopelessly vulgarized and hackneyed as the Isle of Man or the Channel
Isles, now that it has become the favorite picknicking ground of shoals of
Neapolitan excursionists; but that is the fate of most of the beautiful
scenery in the South of Europe, if at all easy of access. These fastidious
minds may, however, find consolation in the thought that to the noisy
excursionists, daily carried to and from Naples by puffing little
cockle-shell steamers, the greater part of the island will always remain
an undiscovered country. They may swarm up the famous steps of Anacapri,
and even penetrate into the Blue Grotto, but they do not, as a rule, carry
the spirit of geographical research farther.
The slight annoyance caused by the great crowds is amply compensated for
by the beauties of the extraordinarily grand scenery which is to be found
within the island desecrated by memories of that "deified beast Tiberius,"
as Dickens calls him. What constitutes the chief charm of the natural
features of Capri are the sharp contrasts and the astonishing variety in
the scenery. Rugged precipices, in height exceeding the cliffs of
Tintagel, and in beauty and boldness of outline surpassing the crags of
the grandest Norwegian fiords, wall in a green and fertile garden-land
covered with orange-orchards, olive-groves, and corn-fields. Cruising
round this rock-bound and apparently inaccessible island, it seems a
natural impregnable fortress, a sea-girt Gibraltar guarding the entrance
of the gulf, girdled round with precipitous crags rising a thousand feet
sheer out of the sea, the cliff outline broken by steep ravines and rocky
headlands, with outworks of crags, reefs, and Titanic masses of tumbled
rocks.
These physical contrasts are strikingly paralleled in the history of the
island. This little speck on the earth's surface, now given up solely to
fishing, pastoral pursuits, and the exploitation of tourists, and as
little affected by public affairs as if it were in the midst of the
Mediterranean, instead of being almost within cannon-shot of the
metropolis of South Italy, has passed through many vicissitudes, conquered
in turn by Phoenicians, Greeks, and Romans; under Rome little known and
used merely as a lighthouse station for the benefit of the corn-galleys
plying from Sicily to Naples, till the old Emperor Augustus took a fancy
to it, and used it as a sanatorium for his declining years. Some years
later we find this isolated rock in the occupation of the infamous
Tiberius, as the seat of government from which he ruled the destinies of
the whole empire. Then, to run rapidly through succeeding centuries, we
find Capri, after the fall of Rome, sharing in the fortunes and
misfortunes of Naples, and losing all historic individuality till the
beginning of the present century, when the Neapolitan Gibraltar became a
political shuttlecock, tossed about in turn between Naples, England, and
France; and now it complacently accepts the destiny Nature evidently
marked out for it, and has become the sanatorium of Naples, and the Mecca
of artists and lovers of the picturesque.
One cannot be many hours in Capri without being reminded of its tutelary
genius Tiberius. In fact as Mr. A. J. Symonds has forcibly expressed it,
"the hoof-print of illustrious crime is stamped upon the island." All the
_religio loci_, if such a phrase is permissible in connection with
Tiberius, seems centered in this unsavoury personality. We cannot get away
from him. His palaces and villas seem to occupy every prominent point in
the island. Even the treasure-trove of the antiquary bears undying witness
to his vices, and shows that Suetonius, in spite of recent attempts to
whitewash the Emperor's memory, did not trust to mere legends and fables
for his biography. Even the most ardent students of Roman history would
surely be glad to be rid of this forbidding spectre that forces itself so
persistently on their attention. To judge by the way in which the simple
Capriotes seek to perpetuate the name of their illustrious patron, one
might almost suppose that the Emperor, whose name is proverbial as a
personification of crime and vice, had gone through some process akin to
canonization.
Capri, though still famous for beautiful women, whose classic features,
statuesque forms, and graceful carriage, recall the Helens and the
Aphrodites of the Capitol and Vatican, and seem to invite transfer to the
painter's canvas, can no longer be called the "artist's paradise." The
pristine simplicity of these Grecian-featured daughters of the island,
which made them invaluable as models, is now to a great extent lost. The
march of civilization has imbued them with the commercial instinct, and
they now fully appreciate their artistic value. No casual haphazard
sketches of a picturesque group of peasant girls, pleased to be of service
to a stranger, no impromptu portraiture of a little Capriote fisher-boy,
is now possible. It has become a "sitting" for a consideration, just as if
it took place in an ordinary Paris atelier or a Rome studio. The idea that
the tourist is a gift of Providence, sent for their especial benefit, to
be looked at in the same light as are the "kindly fruits of the earth,"
recalls to our mind the quaint old Indian myth of Mondamin, the beautiful
stranger, with his garments green and yellow, from whose dead body sprang
up the small green feathers, afterwards to be known as maize. However, the
Capriotes turn their visitors to better account than that; in fact, their
eminently practical notions on the point appear to gain ground in this
once unsophisticated country, while the recognized methods of agriculture
remain almost stationary. The appearance of a visitor armed with
sketch-book or camera is now the signal for every male and female Capriote
within range to pose in forced and would-be graceful attitudes, or to
arrange themselves in unnatural conventional groups: aged crones sprout
up, as if by magic, on every doorstep; male loungers "lean airily on
posts"; while at all points of the compass bashful maidens hover around,
each balancing on her head the indispensable water-jar. These vulgarizing
tendencies explain why it is that painters are now beginning to desert
Capri.
But we are forgetting the great boast of Capri, the Blue Grotto. Everyone
has heard of this famous cave, the beauties of which have been described
by Mr. A. J. Symonds in the following graphic and glowing picture in
prose: Entering the crevice-like portal, "you find yourself transported to
a world of wavering, subaqueous sheen. The grotto is domed in many
chambers; and the water is so clear that you can see the bottom, silvery,
with black-finned fishes diapered upon the blue-white sand. The flesh of a
diver in this water showed like the face of children playing at
snap-dragon; all around him the spray leaped up with living fire; and when
the oars struck the surface, it was as though a phosphorescent sea had
been smitten, and the drops ran from the blades in blue pearls." It must,
however, be remembered that these marvels can only be perfectly seen on a
clear and sunny day, and when, too, the sun is high in the sky. Given
these favorable conditions, the least impressionable must feel the magic
of the scene, and enjoy the shifting brilliancy of light and color. The
spectators seem bathed in liquid sapphire, and the sensation of being
enclosed in a gem is strange indeed. But we certainly shall not experience
any such sensation if we explore this lovely grotto in the company of the
noisy and excited tourists who daily arrive in shoals by the Naples
steamer. To appreciate its beauties the cave must be visited alone and at
leisure.
Those who complain of the village of Capri being so sadly modernized and
tourist-ridden will find at Anacapri some of that Arcadian simplicity they
are seeking, for the destroying (æsthetically speaking) fingers of
progress and civilization have hardly touched this secluded mountain
village, though scarcely an hour's walk from the "capital" of the island.
We will, of course, take the famous steps, and ignore the excellently
engineered high-road that winds round the cliffs, green with arbutus and
myrtle, in serpentine gradients, looking from the heights above mere loops
of white ribbon. Anacapri is delightfully situated in a richly cultivated
table-land, at the foot of Monte Solaro. Climbing the slopes of the
mountain, we soon reach the Hermitage, where we have a fine bird's-eye
view of the island, with Anacapri spread out at our feet, and the town of
Capri clinging to the hillsides on our right. But a far grander view
rewards our final climb to the summit. We can see clearly outlined every
beautiful feature of the Bay of Naples, with its magnificent coast-line
from Misenum to Sorrento in prominent relief almost at our feet, and
raising our eyes landwards we can see the Campanian Plain till it is
merged in the purple haze of the Apennines. To the south the broad expanse
of water stretches away to the far horizon, and to the right this
incomparable prospect is bounded by that "enchanted land" where
"Sweeps the blue Salernian bay,
With its sickle of white sand."
and on a very clear day we can faintly discern a purple, jagged outline,
which shows where "Pæstum and its ruins lie."