Aquatic Excursions.--The weather.--Voyage of St. Paul.--Shore of
Baiæ.--The Solfatara.--Relics of Antiquity.--Shores of Avernus.--The
Sibyl’s Cave.--Ischia.--Fairy Scene.--Italian Nature.--Our
Villa.--Procida.--Elysian Fields.--Roman Remains.--Sail for
Pausilippo.
Our aquatic excursions have extended, by this time, to the whole coast
of the bay. We have visited all the islands, and nearly every object of
interest, from Ischia to Capri. As some of the pictures may amuse you,
we will make a short cruise in company over the same ground.
We embarked at the _Marina Grande_, in _La Divina Providenza_, with
our twenty-one oars (the odd one falling to the share of the padrone),
and your humble servant at the helm. The day had just opened, and the
bay was radiant, while all the mountains stood out distinct and clear.
This was a sign of northerly weather, and of a pure sky. We had now
been more than a month on the bay, and scarcely a drop of rain had
fallen. At our first arrival, we had frequently distrusted the day;
but our acquaintances laughed at the omens, and told us to go forth in
security, on occasions when I should have expected a thunder-shower.
The advice is good, and in no instance have we suffered. As the season
advances, however, we perceive symptoms of change, and we are told
that, ere long, we shall see rain.
Our boatmen made the water foam, and we soon saw the dark pile of Capri
looking out from behind the western headland, and the shore of Massa.
When one is at Naples, this fine island appears to lie directly in the
mouth of the bay; but, in fact, it is posted, like a sentinel, at one
of its corners, and Ischia is at the other.
Our course was northwesterly, for the headland of Pausilippo, which
lay about eighteen miles distant, directly across the bay. We pulled
several miles before we caught the land-breeze, which soon sent us
in under the romantic coast for which we were steering. Passing
between Pausilippo and Nisida, the island that is said to have been
the temporary retreat of Brutus after the death of Cæsar, we hauled
up into the little bay beyond, which is that of Baiæ. Here the town
of Pozzuoli stands, on a low projection that runs into the water.
There is little, perhaps no doubt, that this is the Puteoli of Paul.
I thought of this apostle and of his perilous voyage as we rounded to
at the quay, and pictured to myself the sort of vessel in which he
had arrived, nearly eighteen centuries since, in the same harbour.
She was called the Castor and Pollux, (what a thing to know even her
name!) the ship of Alexandria, that had wintered in Melita, and which
put into Syracuse, where she lay three days. Thence “we fetched a
compass, and came to Rhegium.” This is the Reggio of Lower Calabria,
which lies nearly opposite to Messina. “And after one day, the south
wind blew, and we came the next day to Puteoli.” We learn some curious
facts by the simple narrative of the apostle. He sailed, first, in a
ship of Adramyttium, bound to some port that lay on the way to Rome.
This was a regular convoy of prisoners; and we may gain some idea of
the means of communication between the different parts of the empire,
and of the relative insignificance of Jerusalem, at that period,
by the circumstance that no direct conveyance offered. It has been
objected to the authenticity of the Books of the Apostles, that the
Roman writers did not speak of Christ. That the Jewish writers did
not, (the well known allusion of Josephus being generally admitted to
be an interpolation,) must be ascribed to his appearance conflicting
with their own notions of the Messiah. There certainly _was_ a sect
called Christians, who took their origin from a reputed Christ, and
these facts _must_ have been known to the contemporary Hebrews, and
yet _they_ are silent. But with the Romans it was different. The means
of communication were so few, and Jerusalem was so unimportant in the
eyes of the mistress of the world, that the philosophers who prided
themselves in an elaborate system of mythology, in which an attempt is
made to personify the attributes of the Deity,--a system that bears
some such mystified relation to divine truths, as the black-letter
notions of an old-school lawyer bear to abstract justice,--did not
think such provincial opinions of sufficient interest to occupy their
time and attention. On this point an error is sometimes committed by
confounding the importance of Christianity at a later day, with the
importance previously to, and immediately after, the Crucifixion.
Paul was put into a ship of Alexandria, in “Myra, a _city_ of Lycia.”
At Lasea in Crete, they put into port, although the vessel was large
enough to hold two hundred and seventy-six souls. Here there were
serious notions of wintering! When they did put to see again, it was
merely with the intention of running as far as Phenice, another port
in the same island. They took a moment to do this, when “the south
wind blew _softly_,” but were “caught” by the gale, that drove them
up into the Adriatic, as is commonly thought, but into what was, more
probably, no more than the Ionian sea. When they struck soundings,
“four anchors” were let go by the stern. There are still relics of this
usage, the smaller craft carrying many light anchors. I have seen as
many as eleven on the deck of one small bark on the Lake of Geneva, and
seven or eight are the common number. They lie in a row bristling on
the forecastle. Anchoring by the stern is an old expedient: Nelson did
it at the Nile. These anchors, however, are a proof that the vessel,
notwithstanding her “two hundred three score and sixteen souls,” was
small; as was also the fact that the crew, who were about to desert,
were lowering _the_ boat under the plea of carrying out anchors from
the bows in a gale of wind!
The seamen of the Mediterranean appear to have had the same practice
of running into port, at every adverse turn of the wind, in the time
of St. Paul, that they have to-day. An ordinary run from Palestine to
Puteoli, in a good ship, would not exceed six or eight days, and here
we find men wintering by the way, and putting into half a dozen ports,
besides attempting to make several they could not enter. The ships of
Alexandria were probably among the best of the sea, and yet even the
one in which Paul arrived saw fit to winter in Malta, bound to Italy!
We passed close to a fragment of the ancient mole, which is commonly
called the Bridge of Caligula, and which probably was used as a part
of it; but I thought more of this arrival of Paul, as the different
objects presented themselves, than of the luxury of Rome, and of all
her emperors united. Where are the doctrines that Saul of Tarsus
taught, and where now is Rome!
The whole shore of Baiæ is a succession of antiquities, or of natural
curiosities. Puteoli, judging from its remains, was a place of some
size; and this is the more probable from its proximity to the Baian
shore, a spot devoted to taste and poetry. We saw the remains of the
amphitheatre, and of various temples; but the ruins were indistinct,
and much dilapidated. We walked, also, to the Solfatara, which may be
termed the pulse of Vesuvius. When it is quiet, the mountain is deemed
dangerous; but when it is in action, the volcano is thought to be in
subjection. The distance between the two cannot be less than fifteen
miles. This is a sort of low crater, out of which smoke and heat escape
through cracks in the surface, rather than by a regular orifice. The
surface is not unlike that of a brick-yard; and a large stone cast on
it, gives a hollow menacing sound. The idea of breaking through into a
mass of burning sulphur accompanies the experiment, though the crust is
really too thick to make it at all dangerous.
In the Solfatara, we were joined by Mr. Hammett, the consul, who had
come from Naples by land, to join our party. To this gentleman, whose
education and long residence in Naples so well qualify him for the
office, we have been indebted for a great deal of local information,
and information that we prize the more as it is always, on such
occasions, a source of happiness to exchange the marvels of a _laquais
de place_, for the more accurate and chastened knowledge of a gentleman.
With this addition to our party, we re-embarked, and pulled across the
bay, the distance of a mile or more, to the Lucrine Lake. The water was
smooth as a mirror, and as our swarthy people, each of whom stood with
his face towards the bows of the sparranara, pushed their heavy oars,
I could almost fancy we were in a Roman galley, passing from one villa
of Baiæ to another. It is scarcely possible to imagine a region that
was once so renowned for its luxury and magnificence,--so teeming with
historical associations, temples, palaces, baths, bridges, groves, and
gardens,--that has more completely changed its character, than this.
Of remains, and those of a nature to establish localities, there are
abundance. It might be difficult to find another place in Italy, out
of Rome, where so many are crowded into so small a space; but they are
hidden, require to be sought, and all the glories of the past, so far
as mere outward appearances are concerned, are completely supplanted by
the present negligent and half-wasted aspect of the whole shore. The
Lucrine Lake has almost disappeared, little remaining beyond a sort of
pond in the sands; but, in its place, a natural curiosity has thrust
itself, which serves strangely to add to the jumble of wonders that
this extraordinary district offers. It is a small cone, or mountain, of
volcanic embers and sand, which was forced upwards by a convulsion of
nature, in 1538, and which is properly enough, in such a neighbourhood,
called _Monte Nuovo_. It may be two or three hundred feet high, and
has a sterile, naked look, the meagre verdure it possesses being
altogether of a different hue from that of the rest of the soil. We can
see this cone from the terrace at Sorrento.
We did not stop at the Lucrine to eat oysters, but followed a tangled
path, between the upstart hill, and some of the more venerable heights
that once groaned beneath palaces and Roman villas, to the shores of
Avernus. Why Virgil chose this spot as the entrance to hell, I cannot
tell you; unless it were for its reputed depth. It is a circular sheet
of dark water, with shores that rise on every side except that by which
we approached, and which are deserted and tangled. The ruins of a
temple stand in the solitude, erected, it is said, in honour of Pluto.
Agrippa is thought to have cut a canal from this lake to the sea in
order to form a port. The cost of such an undertaking at present would
not be great, and it would make one of the best man-of-war harbours in
the world; easy of access and of defence, and as snug as a _boudoir_.
But to need a harbour, a people must have ships.
The path conducted us to the Sibyl’s Cave, a long narrow cavern cut in
the rocks, beneath the palaces and villas, and which leads to nothing.
These cuttings are curious as connected with the religious rites of
antiquity, and Virgil probably had an eye to them in his descent to
the nether world. We found a Styx within them, and seeing no Charon,
but one who offered to carry us on his shoulders, we returned to try
another route.
We retraced our steps to the beach, and visited some hot springs and
remains of baths, which, right or wrong, have the reputation of once
belonging to a country palace of Nero. The frequent occurrence of
ruins in all this region is to me a constant matter of wonder. They
embrace all ages, down to our own. Here is a broken pile on a rock,--it
is a retreat of Tiberius; that on the opposite peak was inhabited by
some Goth. This is the dilapidated residence of a Bourbon; yonder is
a fallen citadel of the barbarians; and temples to all the gods of
antiquity, with remains of churches erected in honour of the Ancient of
days, dot the eminences and valleys!
We embarked and proceeded to Baiæ itself, a mere hamlet, to-day. Here
are some tolerable remains, one in particular of a temple in honour
of Venus, and also the heavy pile of citadel that is visible from
Sorrento. We lingered on this site of Roman taste and indulgence
several hours, and finding the day on the wane, bethought us of the
coming night. The consul recommended Ischia, when we embarked with a
light wind, and made sail in that direction. We glided immediately
beneath Mysenum, which, for a novelty in this part of the world, is
a high _sandy_ bluff; though all the Baiæan shore is more or less of
sand. We looked into the little port, where the Roman galleys formerly
lay, and whence Pliny departed when he proceeded to Stabia, to meet
his death from the volcano. It is a small circular haven, with a
very shallow draught of water at present, the padrone saying that the
_Divina Providenza_ would find little enough for her wants. It was in
part artificial, and the remains of the works are still distinctly to
be traced.
We hauled up to windward of Procida, sailing through an element so
limpid that we saw every rush and stone on the bottom in five fathom
water. Having opened the channel between the two islands, we bore up
for the town of Ischia, where we arrived a little before sunset. Here
a scene presented itself which more resembled a fairy picture than one
of the realities of this every-day world of ours. I think it was the
most ravishing thing, in its way, eye of mine ever looked upon. We
had the black volcanic peaks of the island for a background, with the
ravine-like valleys and mountain-faces, covered with country-houses
and groves, in front. The town is near the southern extremity of the
land, and lies along the shore for more than a mile on a bit of level
formation; but, after passing a sort or bridge or terrace, which I took
to be a public promenade, the rocks rose suddenly, and terminated in
two or three lofty, fantastic, broken fragment-like crags, which make
the south-eastern end of the island. On these rocks were perched some
old castles, so beautifully wild and picturesque, that they seemed
placed there for no other purpose than to adorn the landscape. By a
curvature of the land, these rocks sheltered the roadstead, and the
quaint old structures were brought almost to impend over our heads. The
whole population seemed to be out enjoying themselves after the heat of
the day, and a scene in which a movement of life was so mingled with
a superb but lovely nature, it is indeed rare to witness. Until that
moment I was not fully sensible of the vast superiority of the Italian
landscapes over all others. Switzerland astonishes, and it even often
delights, by its union of the pastoral with the sublime; but Italian
nature wins upon you until you come to love it like a friend. I can
only liken the perfection of the scene we gazed upon this evening to
a feeling almost allied to transport; to the manner in which we dwell
upon the serene expression of a beloved and lovely countenance. Other
scenes have the tints, the hues, the outlines, the proportions, the
grandeur, and even the softness of beauty; but these have the character
that marks the existence of a soul. The effect is to pour a flood of
sensations on the mind, that are as distinct from the commoner feelings
of wonder that are excited by vastness and magnificence, as the ideas
awakened by an exquisite landscape by Claude are different from those
we entertain in looking at a Salvator Rosa. The _refinement_ of Italian
nature appears to distinguish it as much from that of other countries,
as the same quality distinguishes the man of sentiment and intellect
from the man of mere impulses. In sublimity of a certain sort, more
especially in the sublimity of desolation, Switzerland probably has no
equal on earth; and perhaps to this is to be added a certain unearthly
aspect which the upper glaciers assume in particular conditions of the
atmosphere; but these Italian scenes rise to a sublimity of a different
kind, which, though it does not awe, leaves behind it a tender
sensation allied to that of love. I can conceive of even an ardent
admirer of Nature wearying in time of the grandeur of the Alps; but I
can scarce imagine one who could ever tire of the witchery of Italy.
Climate has a great influence in bringing about these results. As the
greater portion of the United States lies south of Naples, you may
wish to know why we do not possess the same advantages. We want the
accessories. A volcanic formation puts all competition at defiance,
in the way of the picturesque. This feature alone frequently renders
mountains of no great elevation in themselves sublime, while others of
twice their height are tame. We want the water, the promontories, the
bays, the peninsulas, the grand islands, and lastly, we want all the
quaint and time-honoured forms that art assumed, in this region, three
thousand years ago, seemingly never to abandon them.
Our attempts to obtain lodgings at the town of Ischia were
unsuccessful, and we shaped our course for a villa on the coast two
or three miles distant, where we were received. Our _coucher_ was a
little unsophisticated, most of the party using mattresses on the
floor; but we had brought tea with us, and made a good supper. Italy
pays the penalty for the warmth that is thrown around its landscapes,
in having little milk, the article, of all others, in which its great
rival Switzerland abounds. Wine can be had any where, as may oil; but
the excellent tribute of the cow is hard to be got. We found maccaroni,
however, which is as much a standing dish in Naples as rice in Carolina.
Arrangements for the night were soon made. Every body had a mattress;
though I afterwards found that Gelsomina slept in an open gallery, and
Roberto in the cellar. The idea of putting two people in the same bed,
even if married, scarcely ever comes into the heads of the Europeans
of the continent; nearly every bed-room of the least pretension,
if intended for the use of two, having its two beds. I have seen
double-beds in Italy, it is true; but they were as large as small
houses. That peculiar sentiment of the Western American, who “wondered
that any man should be such a hog as to wish a bed all to himself,”
appears never to have suggested itself to a people so destitute of
“energy.”
We took a light breakfast, and left the shores of Ischia just as the
sun rose. The island is volcanic, and blocks of lava looking as fresh
as that at the foot of Vesuvius, lie along the margin of the sea;
and yet no tradition, or history, speaks of the volcano as active!
These visible proofs of the imperfection of our records, and of the
course of time, have a tendency to create new views of things. I am
glad to hear that theologians and philosophers are beginning to see
the possibility of reconciling the text of sacred history with the
evidences of science, and to be of a mind in believing this world
vastly older than the vulgar understanding of the Mosaic account has,
hitherto, led us to think. You are not to infer, however, that I
believe the lava of Ischia so very ancient; the five thousand years
will very well suffice for all the geological phenomena that I am
acquainted with, and which lie on the surface of the earth.
The morning was calm, and we pulled towards the western point of
Procida. This is one of the few islands of this region that is without
any mountain. It is extremely populous, though quite small, having a
good deal of shipping. We landed on the point, and, by way of exploring
the island, walked to the town. It is the fashion to see a Greek
character in this people, who were originally a Greek colony (as indeed
were those on the adjacent main); but we saw no more than the same
swarthy, dark-eyed race that throngs the streets of Naples.
Re-embarking at the port, we pulled towards the promontory of Mysenum,
and landed behind the bluff, directing our galley to proceed and meet
us near Baiæ. Nearly every foot of the shore, for several miles, was
now historical, offering, amid a fatiguing sameness, and a sterility of
surface, some relic of antiquity. An ordinary traveller, in passing
along this place, would see as little to please him, or to attract
his attention, as in any part of Italy I know; and yet Pompeii itself
is scarcely more pregnant with recollections. The Elysian Fields of
Virgil are now a tangled brake; the _Mare Morto_ is dead enough, and is
scarcely worthy to be called a pool. Some imagine that the first was
a place of interment for the wealthy, converted by the imagination of
the poet into an arena of souls; and that the _sea_ was merely an inner
basin of the port of Mysenum, transformed by the same subtle process
into the Styx. It is more probable that the imaginations of other
people converted the Elysian Fields of the poet into this, and the
inner basin, if inner basin it ever was, into his Styx. It struck me
that the popular notions about this place are altogether too sublimated
for a true poet, and that the popular genius, instead of that of
Virgil, has been at work here.
The remains of the Romans are in better keeping. The Piscina Mirabile
is a stupendous work, and almost perfect; and it puts all modern
reservoirs to shame. It is under ground, vast and contains arches and
piers fit for the foundations of a palace. My respect for the Roman
marine has never been very profound; but, if it be true that this place
was intended to water their fleet, I know no modern nation that, under
similar circumstances would be likely to effect the same object on a
scale so magnificent and noble.
The supposed prisons of the Hundred Chambers have the same character
of vastness and durability. But every thing Roman appears to be of
this nature, and, in studying the remains, one is constantly provoked
to make comparisons to the prejudice of us moderns. Were Naples to
be deserted to-morrow, and this entire region depopulated, it is my
opinion that they who visited the country a thousand years hence, would
still find remains of the Romans, where every trace of the Neapolitans
had disappeared. As for ourselves, the case is still worse. A period
as short as that during which the country has been occupied, would
probably obliterate every mark of our possession. We have a few forts,
and a sea wall or two, that might resist the wear of a few centuries;
but New York would not leave a trace, beyond imperishable fragments
of stone, in two hundred years. Something may be ascribed to climate,
certainly; but more is owing to the grand and just ideas of these
ancients, who built for posterity as well as for themselves.
After looking at ruins, if works almost as perfect as they were the day
they were completed can be so termed, we embarked, and made sail for
the point of Pausilippo, with a light but fair wind. The little island
of Nisida, which once had its villas too, is now the Lazaretto, and
was filled with travellers in quarantine. The breeze served to carry
us half across the bay, and it then deserted us. Our galley put out
its oars, and we swept in towards the cliffs, on as lovely an evening
as ever fell on this _pezzo di cielo_. Just as the day closed, the
black mass of Capri became shut in by the headlands of Massa, and we
approached the rocky shore of Sorrento beneath the light of a placid
moon. Before nine, we were all safely housed in the _Casa detta del
Tasso_.