Mine are these waves, and mine the twilight depths
O'er which they roll, and all these tufted isles
That lift their backs like dolphins from the deep,
And all these sunny shores that gird us round!
Listen! O listen to the Sea-maid's shell!
Ye who have wander'd hither from far climes,
(Where the coy summer yields but half her sweets,)
To breathe my bland luxurious airs, and drink
My sunbeams! and to revel in a land
Where Nature--deck'd out like a bride to meet
Her lover--lays forth all her charms, and smiles
Languidly bright, voluptuously gay,
Sweet to the sense, and tender to the heart.
Listen! O listen to the Sea-maid's shell;
Ye who have fled your natal shores in hate
Or anger, urged by pale disease, or want,
Or grief, that clinging like the spectre bat,
Sucks drop by drop the life-blood from the heart,
And hither come to learn forgetfulness,
Or to prolong existence! ye shall find
Both--though the spring Lethean flow no more,
There is a power in these entrancing skies
And murmuring waters and delicious airs,
Felt in the dancing spirits and the blood,
And falling on the lacerated heart
Like balm, until that life becomes a boon,
Which elsewhere is a burthen and a curse.
Hear then--O hear the Sea-maid's airy shell,
Listen, O listen! 'tis the Syren sings,
The spirit of the deep--Parthenope--
She who did once i' the dreamy days of old
Sport on these golden sands beneath the moon,
Or pour'd the ravishing music of her song
Over the silent waters; and bequeath'd
To all these sunny capes and dazzling shores
Her own immortal beauty, and her _name_.
* * * * *
This is the last day of the Carnival, the last night of the opera; the
people are permitted to go in masks, and after the performances there
will be a ball. To-day, when Baldi was describing the excesses which
usually take place during the last few hours of the Carnival, he said,
"the man who has but half a shirt will pawn it to-night to buy a good
supper and an opera-ticket: to-morrow for fish and soup-maigre--fasting
and repentance!"
* * * * *
_Saturday, 23._--I have just seen a most magnificent sight; one which
I have often dreamed of, often longed to behold, and having beheld,
never shall forget. Mount Vesuvius is at this moment blazing like a
huge furnace; throwing up every minute, or half minute, columns of
fire and red-hot stones, which fall in showers and bound down the side
of the mountain. On the east, there are two distinct streams of lava
descending, which glow with almost a white heat, and every burst of
flame is accompanied by a sound resembling cannon at a distance.--
I can hardly write, my mind is so overflowing with astonishment,
admiration, and sublime pleasure: what a scene as I looked out on the
bay from the Sante Lucia! On one side, the evening star and the
thread-like crescent of the new moon were setting together over
Pausilippo, reflected in lines of silver radiance on the blue sea; on
the other the broad train of fierce red light glared upon the water
with a fitful splendour, as the explosions were more or less violent:
before me all was so soft, so lovely, so tranquil! while I had only to
turn my head to be awe-struck by the convulsion of fighting elements.
I remember, that on our first arrival at Naples, I was disappointed
because Vesuvius did not smoke so much as I had been led to expect
from pictures and descriptions. The smoke then lay like a scarcely
perceptible cloud on the highest point, or rose in a slender white
column; to-day and yesterday, it has rolled from the crater in black
volumes, mixing with the clouds above, and darkening the sky.
_Half-past twelve._--I have walked out again: the blaze from the
crater is less vivid; but there are now four streams of lava issuing
from it, which have united in two broad currents, one of which extends
below the hermitage. It is probable that by to-morrow night it will
have reached the lower part of the mountain.
_Sunday, 24._--Just returned from chapel at the English ambassador's,
where the service was read by a dandy clergyman to a crowd of fine and
superfine ladies and gentlemen, crushed together into a hot room. I
never saw extravagance in dress carried to such a pitch as it is by my
countrywomen here,--whether they dress at the men or against each
other, it is equally bad taste. The sermon to-day was very
appropriate, from the text, "_Take ye no thought what ye shall eat, or
what ye shall drink, or what ye shall put on_," and, I dare say, it
was listened to with singular edification.
_5 o'clock._--We have been driving along the Strada Nuova in L**'s
britschka, whence we had a fine view of Vesuvius. There are tremendous
bursts of smoke from the crater. At one time the whole mountain, down
to the very base, was almost enveloped, and the atmosphere round it
loaded with the vapour, which seemed to issue in volumes half as
large as the mountain itself. If horses are to be had we go up
to-night.
_Monday night._--I am not in a humour to describe, or give way to any
poetical flights, but I must endeavour to give a faithful, sober, and
circumstantial account of our last night's expedition, while the
impression is yet fresh on my mind; though there is, I think, little
danger of my forgetting. We procured horses, which, from the number of
persons proceeding on the same errand with ourselves, was a matter of
some difficulty. We set out at seven in the evening in an open
carriage, and almost the whole way we had the mountain before us,
spouting fire to a prodigious height. The road was crowded with groups
of people who had come out from the city and environs to take a nearer
view of the magnificent spectacle, and numbers were hurrying to and
fro in those little flying _corricoli_ which are peculiar to Naples.
As we approached, the explosions became more and more vivid, and at
every tremendous burst of fire our friend L** jumped half off his
seat, making most loud and characteristic exclamations,--"By Jove! a
magnificent fellow! now for it, whizz! there he goes, sky high, by
George!" The rest of the party were equally enthusiastic in a
different style; and I sat silent and quiet from absolute inability to
express what I felt. I was almost breathless with wonder, and
excitement, and impatience to be nearer the scene of action. While my
eyes were fixed on the mountain, my attention was, from time to time,
excited by regular rows of small shining lights, six or eight in
number, creeping, as it seemed, along the edge of the stream of lava;
and, when contrasted with the red blaze which rose behind, and the
gigantic black back-ground, looking like a procession of glowworms.
These were the torches of travellers ascending the mountain, and I
longed to be one of them.
We reached Resina a little before nine, and alighted from the
carriage; the ascent being so rugged and dangerous, that only asses
and mules accustomed to the road are used. Two only were in waiting at
the moment we arrived, which L** immediately secured for me and
himself; and though reluctant to proceed without the rest of the
party, we were compelled to go on before, that we might not lose time,
or hazard the loss of our _monture_. We set off then, each with two
attendants, a man to lead our animals and a torch-bearer. The road, as
we ascended, became more and more steep at every step, being over a
stream of lava, intermixed with stones and ashes, and the darkness
added to the difficulty. But how shall I describe the scene and the
people who surrounded us; the landscape partially lighted by a fearful
red glare, the precipitous and winding road bordered by wild looking
gigantic aloes, projecting their huge spear-like leaves almost across
our path, and our lazzaroni attendants with their shrill shouts, and
strange dresses, and wild jargon, and striking features, and dark
eyes flashing in the gleam of the torches, which they flung round
their heads to prevent their being extinguished, formed a scene so
new, so extraordinary, so like romance, that my attention was
frequently drawn from the mountain, though blazing in all its
tumultuous magnificence.
The explosions succeeded each other with terrific rapidity about two
in every three minutes; and the noise I can only compare to the
roaring and hissing of ten thousand imprisoned winds, mingled at times
with a rumbling sound like artillery, or distant thunder. It
frequently happened that the guides, in dashing their torches against
the ground, set fire to the dried thorns and withered grass, and the
blaze ran along the earth like wildfire, to the great alarm of poor
L**, who saw in every burning bush a stream of lava rushing to
overwhelm us.
Before eleven o'clock we reached the Hermitage, situated between
Vesuvius and the Somma, and the highest habitation on the mountain. A
great number of men were assembled within, and guides, lazzaroni,
servants, and soldiers, were lounging round. I alighted, for I was
benumbed and tired, but did not like to venture among those people,
and it was proposed that we should wait for the rest of our party a
little further on. We accordingly left our donkeys and walked forward
upon a kind of high ridge which serves to fortify the Hermitage and
its environs against the lava. From this path, as we slowly ascended,
we had a glorious view of the eruption; and the whole scene around us,
in its romantic interest and terrible magnificence, mocked all power
of description. There were, at this time, five distinct torrents of
lava rolling down like streams of molten lead; one of which extended
above two miles below us and was flowing towards Portici. The showers
of red-hot stones flew up like thousands of sky rockets: many of them
being shot up perpendicularly fell back into the crater, others
falling on the outside bounded down the side of the mountain with a
velocity which would have distanced a horse at full speed: these
stones were of every size, from two to ten or twelve feet in diameter.
My ears were by this time wearied and stunned by the unceasing roaring
and hissing of the flames, while my eyes were dazzled by the glare of
the red, fierce light: now and then I turned them for relief to other
features of the picture, to the black shadowy masses of the landscape
stretched beneath us, and speckled with shining lights, which showed
how many were up and watching that night; and often to the calm
vaulted sky above our heads, where thousands of stars (not twinkling
as through our hazy or frosty atmosphere, but shining out of "heaven's
profoundest azure," with that soft steady brilliance peculiar to a
highly rarified medium) looked down upon this frightful turmoil in all
their bright and placid loveliness. Nor should I forget one other
feature of a scene, on which I looked with a painter's eye. Great
numbers of the Austrian forces, now occupying Naples, were on the
mountains, assembled in groups, some standing, some sitting, some
stretched on the ground and wrapped in their cloaks, in various
attitudes of amazement and admiration: and as the shadowy glare fell
on their tall martial figures and glittering accoutrements, I thought
I had never beheld any thing so wildly picturesque.
The remainder of our party not yet appearing, we sent back for our
asses and guides, and determined to proceed. About half a mile beyond,
our companions came up, and here a division took place; some agreeing
to go forward, the rest turning back to wait at the Hermitage. I was
of course one of those who advanced. My spirits were again raised, and
the grand object of all this daring and anxiety was to approach near
enough to a stream of lava to have some idea of its consistency, and
the manner in which it flowed, or trickled down. The difficulties of
our road now increased, "if _road_ that might be called, which road
was none," but black loose ashes, and masses of scoria and lava heaped
in ridges, or broken into hollows in a manner not to be described.
Even my animal, though used to the path, felt his footing at every
step, and if the torch was by accident extinguished, he stopped, and
nothing could make him move. My guide, Andrea, was very vigilant and
attentive, and, in the few words of Italian he knew, encouraged me,
and assured me there was no danger. I had, however, no fear: in fact,
I was infinitely too much interested to have been alive to danger, had
it really existed. Salvador, well known to all who have visited Mount
Vesuvius, had been engaged by Mr. R. as his guide. He is the principal
cicerone on the mountain. It is his business to despatch to the king
every three hours, a regular account of the height of the eruption,
the progress, extent, and direction of the lava, and, in short, the
most minute particulars. He also corresponds, as he assured me, with
Sir Humphry Davy;[L] and is employed to inform him of every
interesting phenomenon which takes place on the mountain. This man has
resided at the foot of it, and been principal guide, for thirty-three
years, and knows every inch of its territory.
As the lava had overflowed the usual footpath leading to that conical
eminence which forms the summit of the mountain and the exterior of
the crater, we were obliged to alight from our sagacious steeds; and,
trusting to our feet, walked over the ashes for about a quarter of a
mile. The path, or the ground rather, for there was no path, was now
dangerous to the inexperienced foot; and Salvador gallantly took me
under his peculiar care. He led me on before the rest, and I followed
with confidence. Our object was to reach the edge of a stream of
lava, formed of two currents united in a point. It was glowing with an
intense heat; and flowing, not with such rapidity as to alarm us, but
rather slowly, and by fits and starts. _Trickling_, in short, is the
word which expresses its motion: if one can fancy it applied to any
object on so large a scale.
At this time the eruption was at its extreme height. The column of
fire was from a quarter to a third of a mile high; and the stones were
thrown up to the height of a mile and a quarter. I passed close to a
rock about four feet in diameter, which had rolled down some time
before: it was still red-hot, and I stopped to warm my hands at it. At
a short distance from it lay another stone or rock, also red-hot, but
six times the size. I walked on first with Salvador, till we were
within a few yards of the lava--at this moment a prodigious stone,
followed by two or three smaller ones, came rolling down upon us with
terrific velocity. The gentlemen and guides all ran; my first impulse
was to run too; but Salvador called on me to stop and see what
direction the stone would take. I saw the reason of this advice, and
stopped. In less than a second he seized my arm and hurried me back
five or six yards. I heard the whizzing sound of the stone as it
rushed down behind me. A little further on it met with an impediment,
against which it bolted with such force, that it flew up into the air
to a great height, and fell in a shower of red-hot fragments. All this
passed in a moment; I have shuddered since when I thought of that
moment; but at the time, I saw the danger without the slightest
sensation of terror. I remember the ridiculous figures of the men, as
they scrambled over the ridges of scoria; and was struck by Salvador's
exclamation, who shouted to them in a tone which would have become
Cæsar himself,--"Che tema!--Sono Salvador!"[M]
We did not attempt to turn back again: which I should have done
without any hesitation if any one had proposed it. To have come thus
far, and be so near the object I had in view, and then to run away at
the first alarm! It was a little provoking. The road was extremely
dangerous in the descent. I was obliged to walk part of the way, as
the guides advised, and but for Salvador, and the interesting
information he gave me from time to time, I think I should have been
overpowered. He amused and fixed my attention, by his intelligent
conversation, his assiduity, and solicitude for my comfort, and the
_naïveté_ and self-complacency with which his information was
conveyed. He told me he had visited Mount Ætna (_en amateur_) during
the last great eruption of that mountain, and acknowledged with
laudable candour, that Vesuvius, in its grandest moments, was a mere
bonfire in comparison: the whole cone of Vesuvius, he said, was not
larger than some of the masses of rock he had seen whirled from the
crater of Mount Ætna, and rolling down its sides. He frequently made
me stop and look back: and here I should observe that our guides
seemed as proud of the performances of the mountain, and as anxious to
show it off to the best advantage, as the keeper of a menagerie is of
the tricks of his dancing bear, or the proprietor of "Solomon in all
his glory" of his raree-show. Their enthusiastic shouts and
exclamations would have kept up my interest had it flagged. "O veda,
Signora! O bella! O stupenda!" The last great burst of fire was
accompanied by a fresh overflow of lava, which issued from the crater,
on the west side, in two broad streams, and united a few hundred feet
below, taking the direction of Torre del Greco. After this explosion
the eruption subsided, and the mountain seemed to repose: now and then
showers of stones flew up, but to no great height, and unaccompanied
by any vivid flames. There was a dull red light over the mouth of the
crater, round which the smoke rolled in dense tumultuous volumes, and
then blew off towards the south-west.
After a slow and difficult descent we reached the Hermitage. I was so
exhausted that I was glad to rest for a few minutes. My good friend
Salvador brought me a glass of _Lachryma Christi_ and the leg of a
chicken; and with recruited spirits we mounted our animals and again
started.
The descent was infinitely more slow and difficult than the ascent,
and much more trying to the nerves. I had not Salvador at my side, nor
the mountain before me, to beguile me from my fears; at length I
prevailed on one of our attendants, a fine tall figure of a man, to
sing to me; and though he had been up the mountain _six_ times in the
course of the day, he sang delightfully and with great spirit and
expression, as he strided along with his hand upon my bridle,
accompanied by a magnificent rumbling bass from the mountain, which
every now and then drowned the melody of his voice, and made me start.
It was past three when we reached Resina, and nearly five when we got
home: yet I rose this morning at my usual hour, and do not feel much
fatigued. About twelve to-day I saw Mount Vesuvius, looking as quiet
and placid as the first time I viewed it. There was little smoke, and
neither the glowing lava nor the flames were visible in the glare of
the sunshine. The atmosphere was perfectly clear, and as I gazed,
almost misdoubting my senses, I could scarcely believe in the reality
of the tremendous scene I had witnessed but a few hours before.
26.--The eruption burst forth again to-day, and is exceedingly grand;
though not equal to what it was on Sunday night. The smoke rises from
the crater in dense black masses, and the wind having veered a few
points to the southward, it is now driven in the direction of Naples.
At the moment I write this, the skies are obscured by rolling vapours,
and the sun, which is now setting just opposite to Vesuvius, shines,
as I have seen him through a London mist, red, and shorn of his beams.
The sea is angry and discoloured; the day most oppressively sultry,
and the atmosphere thick, sulphureous, and loaded with an almost
impalpable dust, which falls on the paper as I write.
_March 4._--We have had delicious weather almost ever since we arrived
at Naples, but these last three days have been perfectly heavenly. I
never saw or felt any thing like the enchantment of the earth, air,
and skies. The mountain has been perfectly still, the atmosphere
without a single cloud, the fresh verdure bursting forth all around
us, and every breeze visits the senses, as if laden with a renovating
spirit of life, and wafted from Elysium. Whoever would truly enjoy
nature, should see her in this delicious land: "où la plus douce nuit
succède au plus beau jour;" for here she seems to keep holiday all the
year round. To stand upon my balcony, looking out upon the sunshine
and the glorious bay; the blue sea, and the pure skies--and to feel
that indefinite sensation of excitement, that _superflu de vie_,
quickening every pulse and thrilling through every nerve, is a
pleasure peculiar to this climate, where the mere consciousness of
existence is happiness enough. Then evening comes on, lighted by a
moon and starry heavens, whose softness, richness, and splendour, are
not to be conceived by those who have lived always in the vapoury
atmosphere of England--dear England! I love, like an Englishwoman, its
fireside enjoyments, and home-felt delights: an English drawing-room,
with all its luxurious comforts--carpets and hearth-rugs, curtains let
down, sofas wheeled round, and a group of family faces round a blazing
fire, is a delightful picture; but for the languid frame, and the sick
heart, give me this pure elastic air, "redolent of spring;" this
reviving sunshine and all the witchery of these deep blue skies!--
* * * * *
Numbers of people set off post-haste from Rome to see the eruption of
Mount Vesuvius, and arrived here Wednesday and Thursday; just time
enough to be too late. Among them our Roman friend Frattino, who has
afforded me more amusement than all our other acquaintance together,
and deserves a niche in my gallery of characters.
Frattino is a young Englishman, who, if he were in England, would
probably be pursuing his studies at Eton or Oxford, for he is scarce
past the age of boyhood; but having been abroad since he was twelve
years old, and early plunged into active and dissipated life, he is an
accomplished man of fashion, and of the world, with as many airs and
caprices as a spoiled child. He is by far the most _beautiful_
creature of his sex I ever saw; so like the Antinous, that at Rome he
went by that name. The exquisite regularity of his features, the
graceful air of his head, his _antique_ curls, the faultless
proportions of his elegant figure, make him a _thing_ to be gazed on,
as one looks at a statue. Then he possesses talents, wit, taste, and
information: the most polished and captivating manners, where he
wishes to attract,--high honour and generosity, where women are not
concerned,--and all the advantages attending on rank and wealth: but
under this fascinating exterior, I suspect our Frattino to be a very
worthless, as well as a very unhappy being. While he pleases, he
repels me. There is a want of heart about him, a want of fixed
principles--a degree of profligacy, of selfishness, of fickleness,
caprice and ill-temper, and an excess of vanity, which all his courtly
address and _savoir faire_ cannot hide. What would be insufferable in
another, is in him bearable, and even interesting and amusing: such is
the charm of manner. But all this cannot last: and I should not be
surprised to see Frattino, a few years hence, emerge from his foreign
frippery, throw aside his libertine folly, assume his seat in the
senate, and his rank in British society; and be the very character he
now affects to despise and ridicule--"a true-bred Englishman, who
rides a thorough-bred horse."
* * * * *
Our excursion to Pompeii yesterday was "a pic-nic party of pleasure,"
_à l'Anglaise_. Now a party of pleasure is proverbially a _bore_: and
our expedition was in the beginning so unpromising, so mismanaged--our
party so numerous, and composed of such a heterogeneous mixture of
opposite tempers, tastes, and characters, that I was in pain for the
result. The day, however, turned out more pleasant than I expected:
exterior polish supplied the want of something better, and our
excursion had its pleasures, though they were not such as I should
have sought at Pompeii. I felt myself a simple _unit_ among many, and
found it easier to sympathise with others, than to make a dozen others
sympathise with me.
We were twelve in number, distributed in three light barouches, and
reached Pompeii in about two hours and a half--passing by the foot of
Vesuvius, through Portici, Torre del Greco, and l'Annonziata. The
streams of lava, which overwhelmed Torre del Greco in 1794, are still
black and barren; but the town itself is rising from its ruins; and
the very lava which destroyed it serves as the material to rebuild it.
We entered Pompeii by the street of the tombs: near them are the
semicircular seats, so admirably adapted for conversation, that I
wonder we have not sofas on a similar plan, and similar scale. I need
not dwell on particulars, which are to be found in every book of
travels: on the whole, my expectations were surpassed, though my
curiosity was not half gratified.
The most interesting thing I saw--in fact the only thing, for which
paintings and descriptions had not previously prepared me, was a
building which has been excavated within the last fortnight: it is
only partly laid open, and labourers are now at work upon it.
Antiquarians have not yet pronounced on its name and design; but I
should imagine it to be some public edifice, perhaps dedicated to
religious purposes. The paintings on the walls are the finest which
have yet been discovered: they are exquisitely and tastefully
designed; and though executed merely for _effect_, that effect is
beautiful. I remarked one female figure in the act of entering a
half-open door: she is represented with pencils and a palette of
colours in her hand, similar to those which artists now use: another
very graceful female holds a lyre of peculiar construction. These, I
presume, were two of the muses: the rest remained hidden. There were
two small pannels occupied by sea-pieces, with gallies; and two
charming landscapes, so well coloured, and drawn with such knowledge
of perspective and effect, that if we may form a comparative idea of
the best pictures, from the specimens of taste and skill in mere
house-painting, the ancients must have excelled us as much in painting
as in sculpture. I remarked on the wall of an entrance or corridor, a
dog starting at a wreathed and crested snake, vividly coloured, and
full of spirit and expression. While I lingered here a little behind
the rest, and most reluctant to depart, a ragged lazzarone boy came up
to me, and seizing my dress, pointed to a corner, and made signs that
he had something to show me. I followed him to a spot where a quantity
of dust and ashes was piled against a wall. He began to scratch away
this heap of dirt with hands and nails, much after the manner of an
ape, every now and then looking up in my face and grinning. The
impediment being cleared away, there appeared on the wall behind, a
most beautiful aërial figure with floating drapery, representing
either Fame or Victory: but before I had time to examine it, the
little rogue flung the earth up again so as to conceal it completely,
then pointing significantly at the other workmen, he nodded, shrugged,
gesticulated, and held out both his paws for a recompense, which I
gave him willingly; at the same time laughing and shaking my head to
show I understood his knavery. I rewarded him apparently beyond his
hopes, for he followed me down the street, bowing, grinning, and
cutting capers like a young savage.
The streets of Pompeii are narrow, the houses are very small, and the
rooms, though often decorated with exquisite taste, are constructed
without any regard to what _we_ should term comfort and convenience;
they are dark, confined, and seldom communicate with each other, but
have a general communication with a portico, running round a central
court. This court is in general beautifully paved with mosaic, having
a fountain or basin in the middle, and possibly answered the purpose
of a drawing-room. It is evident that the ancient inhabitants of this
lovely country lived like their descendants mostly in the open air,
and met together in their public walks, or in the forums, and
theatres. If they _saw company_, the guests probably assembled under
the porticoes, or in the court round the fountain. The houses seem
constructed on the same principle as birds construct their nests; as
places of retreat and shelter, rather than of assemblage and
recreation: the grand object was to exclude the sunbeams; and this,
which gives such gloomy and chilling ideas in our northern climes,
must here have been delicious.
Hurried on by a hungry, noisy, merry party, we at length reached the
Caserna (the ancient barracks, or as Forsyth will have it, the
prætorium). The central court of this building has been converted into
a garden: and here, under a weeping willow, our dinner table was
spread. Where Englishmen are, there will be good cheer if possible;
and our banquet was in truth most luxurious. Besides more substantial
cates, we had oysters from Lake Lucrine, and classically excellent
they were; London bottled porter, and half a dozen different kinds of
wine. Our dinner went off most gaily, but no order was kept
afterwards: the purpose of our expedition seemed to be forgotten in
general mirth: many witty things were said and done, and many merry
ones, and not a few silly ones. We visited the beautiful public walk
and the platform of the old temple of Hercules (I call it _old_,
because it was a ruin when Pompeii was entire); the Temple of Isis,
the Theatres, the Forum, the Basilica, the Amphitheatre, which is in a
perfect state of preservation, and more elliptical in form than any of
those I have yet seen, and the School of Eloquence, where R** mounted
the rostrum, and gave us an oration extempore, equally pithy,
classical and comical. About sunset we got into the carriages, and
returned to Naples.
Of all the heavenly days we have had since we came to Naples, this has
been the most heavenly: and of all the lovely scenes I have beheld in
Italy, what I saw to-day has most enchanted my senses and imagination.
The view from the eminence on which the old temple stood, and which
was anciently the public promenade, was splendidly beautiful, the
whole landscape was at one time overflowed with light and sunshine,
and appeared as if seen through an impalpable but dazzling veil.
Towards evening the outlines became more distinct: the little white
towns perched upon the hills, the gentle sea, the fairy island of
Rivegliano with its old tower, the smoking crater of Vesuvius, the
bold forms of Mount Lactarius and Cape Minerva, stood out full and
clear under the cloudless sky: as we returned, I saw the sun sink
behind Capri, which appeared by some optical illusion like a glorious
crimson transparency suspended above the horizon: the sky, the earth,
the sea, were flushed with the richest rose colour, which gradually
softened and darkened into purple: the short twilight faded away, and
the full moon, rising over Vesuvius, lighted up the scenery with a
softer radiance.
Thus ended a day which was not without its pleasures:--yet had I
planned a party of pleasure to Pompeii, methinks I could have managed
better. _Par exemple_, I would have deferred it a fortnight later, or
till the vines were in leaf; I would have chosen for my companions two
or at most three persons whom I could name, whose cultivated minds and
happy tempers would have heightened their own enjoyment and mine.
After spending a few hours in taking a general view of the whole city,
we would have sat down on the platform of the old Greek Temple which
commands a view of the mountains and the bay; or, if the heat were too
powerful, under the shade of the hill near it. There we would make our
cheerful and elegant repast, on bread and fruits, and perhaps a bottle
of Malvoisie or Champagne: the rest of the day should be devoted to a
minute examination of the principal objects of interest and curiosity:
we would wait till the shadows of evening had begun to steal over the
scene, purpling the mountains and the sea; we would linger there to
enjoy all the splendours of an Italian sunset; and then, with minds
softened and elevated by the loveliness and solemnity of the scenes
around, we would get into our carriage, and drive back to Naples
beneath the bright full moon; and, by the way, we would "talk the
flowing heart," and make our recollections of the olden time, our deep
impressions of the past, heighten our enjoyment of the present: and
this would be indeed a day of _pleasure_, of such pleasure as I think
I am capable of feeling--of imparting--of remembering with unmixed
delight. Such was _not_ yesterday.
* * * * *
M** brought with him this evening, for our amusement, an old man, a
native of Cento, who gains his livelihood by a curious exhibition of
his peculiar talents. He is blind, and plays well on the violin: he
can recite the whole of the Gerusalemme from beginning to end without
missing a word: he can repeat any given stanza or number of stanzas
either forwards or backwards: he can repeat the last words one after
another of any stanzas: if you give him the first word and the last,
he can name immediately the particular line, stanza, and book: lastly,
he can tell instantly the exact number of words contained in any given
stanza. This exhibition was at first amusing; but as I soon found that
the man's head was a mere machine, that he was destitute of
imagination, and that far from feeling the beauty of the poet, he did
not even understand the meaning of the lines he thus repeated up and
down, and backwards and forwards, it ceased to interest me after the
first sensations of surprise and curiosity were over.
* * * * *
After I had read Italian with Signior B** this evening, he amused me
exceedingly by detailing to me the plan of two tragedies he is now
writing or about to write. He has already produced one piece on the
story of Boadicea, which is rather a drama than a regular tragedy. It
was acted here with great success. After giving his drama due praise,
I described to him the plan and characters of Fletcher's Bonduca; and
attempted to give him in Italian some idea of the most striking scenes
of that admirable play: he was alternately in enchantment and despair,
and I thought he would have torn and bitten his Boadicea to pieces, in
the excess of his vivacity.
The subject of one of his tragedies is to be the Sicilian Vespers.
Casimir Delavigne, who wrote _Les Vêpres Siciliennes_, which obtained
some years ago such amazing popularity at Paris, and in which the
national vanity of the French is flattered at the expense of the
Italians, received a pension from Louis XVIII. B** spoke with contempt
of Casimir Delavigne's tragedy, and with indignation of what he called
"his wilful misrepresentation of history." He is determined to give
the reverse of the picture: the French will be represented as "_gente
crudeli--tiranni--oppressori, senza fede_;" Giovanni di Procida, as a
hero and patriot, _à l'antique_, and the Sicilians as rising in defence
of their freedom and national honour. The other tragedy is to be
founded on the history of the famous _Congiura dei Baroni_ in the
reign of Ferdinand the First, as related by Giannone. The simple facts
of this history need not any ornaments, borrowed from invention or
poetry, to form a most interesting tale, and furnish ample materials
for a beautiful tragedy, in incident, characters, and situations. B**
is a little man, dwarfish and almost deformed in person; but full of
talent, spirit, and enthusiasm. I asked him why he did not immediately
finish these tragedies, which appeared from the sketches he had given
me, so admirably calculated to succeed. He replied, that under the
present regime, he dared not write up to his own conceptions; and if
he curbed his genius, he could do nothing; "Besides," added he
mournfully, "I have no time; I am poor--poverissimo! I must work hard
all to-day to supply the wants of to-morrow: I am always surveillé by
the police, as a known liberal and _literato_." "_Davvero_," added he,
gaily, "I would soon do, or say, or write something to attract the
honour of their more particular notice, if I could be certain they
would only imprison me for a couple of years, and ensure me during
that time a blanket, bread and water, and the use of pen and ink: then
I would write! I would write! _dalla mattina alla sera_; and thank my
gaolers as my best friends: but pens are poignards, ink is poison in
the eyes of the present government; imprisonment for life, or
banishment, is the least I could expect. Now the mere idea of
imprisonment for life would kill me in a week, and banishment!--_Ah
lungi dallá mia bella Patria, come cantare! come scrivere! come
vivere! moriro io anzi nell' momento di partire!_"
* * * * *
I drove to-day, tête-à-tête with Laura, to the Lago d'Agnano, about a
mile and a half beyond Pausilippo. This lovely fair lake is not more
than two miles in circuit; and embosomed in romantic woody hills:
innumerable flocks of wild fowl were skimming over its surface, and
gave life and motion to the beautiful but quiet landscape. While we
were wandering here, enjoying the stillness and solitude, so
delightfully contrasted with the unceasing noise, bustle, and crowd of
the city, the charm was rudely broken by the appearance of the king;
who, attended by a numerous party of his guards and huntsmen, had been
wild boar shooting in the neighbouring woods. The waterfowl, scared by
the report of fire arms, speedily disappeared, and the guards shouted
to each other, and galloped round the smooth sloping banks; cutting up
the turf with their horses' hoofs, and deforming the whole scene with
uproar, confusion, and affright. Devoutly did I wish them all twenty
miles off. The famous Grotto del Cane is on the south bank of the
lake, a few yards from the edge of the water. We saw the torch, when
held in the vapour, instantaneously extinguished. The ground all
around the entrance of the grotto is hot to the touch; and when I
plunged my hand into the deleterious gas, which rises about a foot, or
a foot and a half, above the surface of the ground, it was so warm I
was glad to withdraw it. The disagreeable old woman who showed us this
place, brought with her a wretched dog with a rope round his neck,
bleared eyes, thin ribs, and altogether of a most pitiful aspect. She
was most anxious to exhibit the common but cruel experiment of
suspended animation, by holding his head over the mephitic vapour,
insisting that he was accustomed to it, and even liked it; of course,
we would not suffer it. The poor animal made no resistance; only
drooped his head, and put his tail between his legs, when his tyrant
attempted to seize him.
Though now so soft, so lovely, and so tranquil, the Lago d'Agnano owes
its existence to some terrible convulsion of the elements. The basin
is the crater of a sunken volcano, which, bursting forth here,
swallowed up a whole city. And the whole region round, bears evident
marks of its volcanic origin.
* * * * *
This morning we visited several churches, not one of them worthy of a
remark. The architecture is invariably in the vilest taste; and the
interior decorations, if possible, still worse: white-washing gilding,
and gaudy colours, every where prevail. We saw, however, some good
pictures. At the San Gennaro are the famous frescos of Domenichino and
Lanfranco: the church itself is hideous. At the Girolomini there is no
want of magnificence and ornament; but a barbarous misapplication of
both, as usual. The church of the convent of Santa Chiara was painted
in fresco by Ghiotto: it is now white-washed all over. At this
church, which I first visited during the merry days of the carnival, I
saw a large figure of our Saviour suspended on the cross, dressed in a
crimson domino, and blue sash. To what a pitch, thought I, must the
love of white-washing and masquerading be carried in this strange
city, where the Deity himself is burlesqued, and bad taste is carried
to profanation! To-day I saw the same crucifix in a suit of mourning;
why should not our South Sea missionaries come and preach here?
The church of San Severo is falling to ruins, owing to some defect in
the architecture. It is only remarkable for containing three
celebrated statues. The man enveloped in a net, and the Pudicità
draped from head to foot, pleased me only as specimens of the patience
and ingenuity of the sculptor. The dead Christ covered with a veil, by
Corradini, has a merit of a higher class: it is most painful to look
upon; and affected me so strongly, that I was obliged to leave the
church, and go into the air.
I went to-day with two agreeable and intelligent friends, to take
leave of the Studeo and the Museum. I have often resolved not to make
my little journal a mere catalogue of objects, which are to be found
in my pocket guide, and bought for a few pence; but I cannot resist
the temptation of making a few notes of admiration, and commemoration,
for my own peculiar use.
The Gallery of Painting contains few pictures; but among them are some
master-pieces. The St. John of Leonardo da Vinci (exquisite as it is,
considered as a mere painting), provoked me. I am sick of his eternal
simpering face: the aspect is that of a Ganymede or a young Bacchus;
and if instead of _Ecce Agnus Dei_, they had written over it, _Ecce
vinum bonum_, all would have been in character.
How I coveted the beautiful "Carità," the Capo d'Opera of
Schidone!--and next to it, Parmegiano's Gouvernante--a delicious
picture. A portrait of Columbus, said to be by the same master, is not
like him, I am sure; for the physiognomy is vacant and disagreeable.
Domenichino's large picture of the Angel shielding Innocence from a
Demon pleases me, as all his pictures do--but not perfectly: the devil
in the corner, with his fork, and hoofs, and horns, shocks my taste as
a ludicrous and vulgar idea, far removed from poetry; but the figure
of the angel stretching a shield over the infant, is charming. There
are also two fine Claudes, two Holy Families, by Raffaelle, in his
sweetest style; and one by Correggio, scarcely less beautiful.
The Gallery of Sculpture is so rich in chef-d'oeuvres, that to
particularise would be a vain attempt. Passing over those which every
one knows by heart, the statue of Aristides struck me most. It was
found in Herculaneum; and is marked with ferruginous stains, as if by
the action of fire or the burning lava; but it is otherwise
uninjured, and the grave, yet graceful simplicity of the figure and
attitude, and the extreme elegance of the drapery, are truly Grecian.
It is the union of _power_ with _repose_--of perfect _grace_ with
perfect _simplicity_, which distinguishes the ancient from the modern
style of sculpture. The sitting Agrippina, for example, furnished
Canova with the model for his statue of Madame Letitia--the two
statues are, in point of fact, nearly the same, except that Canova has
turned Madame Letitia's head a little on one side; and by this single
and trifling alteration has destroyed that quiet and beautiful
simplicity which distinguishes the original, and given his statue at
once a modern air.
The Flora Farnese is badly placed, in a space too confined for its
size, and too near the eye; so that the exquisite harmony and delicacy
of the figure are partly lost in its colossal proportions: it should
be placed at the end of a long gallery or vista.
There is here a statue of Nero when he was ten years old; from which
it would seem that he was not by nature the monster he afterwards
became. The features are beautiful; and the expression all candour and
sweetness.
One statue struck me exceedingly--not by the choice of the subject,
nor the beauty of the workmanship, but from its wonderful force of
expression. It is a dying gladiator; but very different from the
gladiator of the Capitol. The latter declines gradually, and sickens
into death; but memory and feeling are not yet extinct: and what
thoughts may pass through that brain while life is thus languishing
away! what emotions may yet dwell upon the last beatings of that
heart! it is the _sentiment_ which gives such profound pathos to that
matchless statue: but the gladiator of the Studii has only physical
expression: it is sudden death in all its horrors: the figure is still
erect, though the mortal blow has been given; the sword has dropt from
the powerless hand; the limbs are stiffening in death; the eyes are
glazed; the features fixed in an expression of mortal agony; and in
another moment you expect the figure to fall at your feet.
The Venus, the Hercules, the Atlas, the Antinous (not equal to that in
the Capitol,) the Ganymede, the Apollo, the equestrian statues of the
two Balbi, etc. are all familiar to my imagination, from the numerous
copies and models I have seen: but the most interesting department of
the Museum is the collection of antiques from Herculaneum and Pompeii,
which have lately been removed hither from Portici. One room contains
specimens of cooking utensils, portable kitchens, tripods, instruments
of sacrifice, small bronze Lares, and Penates, urns, lamps, and
candelabras of the most elegant forms, and the most exquisite
workmanship. Another room contains specimens of ancient armour,
children's toys, etc. I remarked here a helmet which I imagine formed
part of a trophy; or at least was intended for ornament rather than
use. It is exceedingly heavy; and on it is represented in the most
exquisite relievo the War of Troy. Benvenuto Cellini himself never
produced any thing equal to the chased work on this helmet.
In a third room is the paraphernalia of a lady's toilette: mirrors of
different sizes, fragments of combs, a small crystal box of rouge,
etc. Then follow flutes and pipes, all carved out of bone, surgical
instruments, moulds for pastry, sculptors' tools, locks and keys,
bells, etc.
The room containing the antique glass, astonished me more than any
thing else. I knew that glass was an ancient invention: but I thought
that its application to domestic purposes was of modern date. Here I
found window panes, taken from the Villa of Diomed at Pompeii; bottles
of every size and form, white and coloured; pitchers and vases;
necklaces; imitations of gems, etc.
There is a little jeu d'esprit of Voltaire's "La Toilette de Madame de
Pompadour," in which he wittily exalts the moderns above the ancients,
and ridicules their ignorance of the luxuries and comforts of life:
but Voltaire had not seen the museum of Portici. We can add few
distinct articles to the list of comforts and luxuries it contains:
though it must be confessed that we have improved upon them, and
varied them _ad infinitum_. In those departments of the mechanics
which are in any way connected with the fine arts, the ancients appear
to have attained perfection. To them belongs the invention of all that
embellishes life, of all the graceful forms of imitative art, varied
with such exquisite taste, such boundless fertility of fancy, that
nothing is left to us but to refine upon their ideas, and copy their
creations. With all our new invented machines, and engines, we can do
little more than what the ancients performed without them.
I ought not to forget one room containing some objects, more curious
and amusing than beautiful, principally from Pompeii, such as loaves
of bread, reduced to a black cinder, figs in the same state, grain of
different kinds, colours from a painter's room, ear-rings and
bracelets, gems, specimens of mosaic, etc. etc.
* * * * *
_March 7._--Frattinto brought me to-day the last numbers of the
Edinburgh and Quarterly Reviews: a great treat so far from home. Both
contain some clever essays: among them, an article on prisons, in the
Edinburgh, interested me most.
Methinks these two Reviews stalk through the literary world, like the
two giants in Pulci's Morgante Maggiore: the one pounding, slaying,
mangling, despoiling with blind fury, like the heavy orthodox
club-armed Morgante; the other, like the sneering, witty, half-pagan,
half-baptized Margutte, slashing and cutting, and piercing through
thick and thin; _à tort et à travers_. Truly the simile is more
à-propos than I thought when it first occurred to me.
I went the other day to a circulating library and reading-room kept
here by a little cross French-woman, and asked to see a catalogue. She
showed me, first, a list of all the books, Italian, French, and
English, she was allowed to keep and sell: it was a thin pamphlet of
about one hundred pages. She then showed me the catalogue of
prohibited books, which was at least as thick as a good sized octavo.
The book to which I wished to refer, was the second volume of
Robertson's Charles the Fifth. After some hesitation, Madame P** led
me into a back room; and opening a sliding pannel, discovered a shelf
let into the wall, on which were arranged a number of authors, chiefly
English and French. I was not surprised to find Rousseau and Voltaire
among them; but am still at a loss to guess what Robertson has done or
written to entitle him to a place in such select company.
8th.--Forsyth might well say that Naples has no parallel on earth.
Viewed from the sea it appears like an amphitheatre of palaces,
temples and castles, raised one above another, by the wand of a
necromancer: viewed within, Naples gives me the idea of a vast
Bartholomew fair. No street in London is ever so crowded as I have
seen the streets of Naples. It is a crowd which has no pause or
cessation: early in the morning, late at night, it is ever the same.
The whole population seems poured into the streets and squares; all
business and amusement is carried on in the open air: all those minute
details of domestic life, which, in England, are confined within the
sacred precincts of _home_, are here displayed to public view. Here
people buy and sell, and work, wash, wring, brew, bake, fry, dress,
eat, drink, sleep, etc. etc. all in the open streets. We see every
hour, such comical, indescribable appalling sights; such strange
figures, such wild physiognomies, picturesque dresses, attitudes and
groups--and eyes--no! I never saw such eyes before, as I saw to-day,
half languor and half fire, in the head of a ruffian Lazzarone, and a
ragged Calabrian beggar girl. They would have _embrâsé_ half London or
Paris.
I know not whether it be incipient illness, or the enervating effects
of this soft climate, but I feel unusually weak, and the least
exertion or excitement is not only disagreeable but painful. While the
rest were at Capo di Monte, I stood upon my balcony looking out upon
the lovely scene before me, with a kind of pensive dreamy rapture,
which if not quite pleasure, had at least a power to banish pain: and
thus hours passed away insensibly--
"As if the moving time had been
A thing as stedfast as the scene,
On which we gazed ourselves away."[N]
All my activity of mind, all my faculties of thought and feeling and
suffering, seemed lost and swallowed up in an indolent delicious
reverie, a sort of vague and languid enjoyment, the true "_dolce far
niente_" of this enchanting climate. I stood so long leaning on my
elbow without moving, that my arm has been stiff all day in
consequence.
"How I wish," said I this evening, when they drew aside the curtain,
that I might view the sunset from my sofa, and sky, earth and ocean,
seemed to commingle in floods of glorious light--"how I wish I could
transport those skies to England!" _Cruelle!_ exclaimed an Italian
behind me, _ôtez-nous notre beau ciel, tout est perdu pour nous_.