Departure for Rome.—Campagna Felice.—Aqueduct and Palace of
Caserta.—Capua.—Sessa.—The Appian Way, and Bridge upon
it.—Gaeta.—Cicero’s death.—Terracina.—The Pontine Marshes.—Peasants
mistaken for Banditti.—Velletri.—Albano.—The Campagna of
Rome.—Distant view of the City.—Entrance by the gate of St.
John.—St. Peter’s.—Vastness of the fabric.
Our time was up, and we reluctantly relinquished our hold of the “_pezzo
di cielo caduto in terra_.” The weather had got to be wintry and wet,
however, a state of the seasons in which Naples appears to the least
advantage; and then we had Rome before us, a pleasure that few
travellers who have been in Italy near fifteen months can anticipate.
Although accident and the weather have in a great measure controlled our
movements, I believe we have fallen on the pleasantest course, as we
have kept the best for the last.
A gentleman of Rome having occasion to send his carriage back, we took
that in addition to our own, and by the aid of two teams belonging to a
Savoyard, were enabled to set every body, and, what has got to be almost
as serious a matter, every _thing_, in motion. As the day was well
advanced before the caravan could move, we had named Capua as the end of
the first day’s march, making a _détour_, however, in order to visit the
palace and aqueduct of Caserta.
The latter was the place first seen; the road leading us directly across
the plain which is so well termed the Campagna Felice; This plain is
covered with habitations, like the great plain of Lombardy, and,
although so desirable to the agriculturist, is a little tame to the
traveller. However, as it rained most of the way, we lost little by its
monotony.
We entered the Apennines by the valley of the aqueduct, amid very
beautiful scenery. This aqueduct, or the portion of it that travellers
come to see, is merely a bridge to span the valley; but it is on a scale
so magnificent as to excite wonder. Apart from this, the structure is no
great matter, being under ground; but the portion thrown across the
valley is on a truly regal scale. The work is of bricks, beautifully
laid, and is a succession of arches in rows, one standing on another, to
the number of three. I cannot tell you the precise dimensions, for my
guide-books say nothing of it; but I should think it near half a mile
long, and two hundred feet high; a noble mass of masonry. It is easier
to admire it than to comprehend its necessity. The water is for the use
of the palace of Caserta, and it is difficult to suppose a trunk of the
necessary height might not be made sufficient-strong to contain a small
column of water, or to see the necessity of crossing a hill which was
easily turned.
I believe this is esteemed the second work of its kind now in existence;
that at Lisbon alone ranking before it. I have rarely seen a structure
that has so forcibly impressed me with the sense of its vastness. It is,
in short, literally bridging a valley. We ascended to the road, after
walking under and among the arches, and overlooked a fine view, in the
direction of Naples. The weather had become pleasant, but the recent
rain had set the mists in motion, and we got a glimpse of Italy in a new
character. The valley was not large, but exceedingly pretty; and the
road by which we had come wound through it, passing beneath the centre
of the aqueduct. Our carriages had taken it, and were winding their way
out of the valley, up to our own level, in order to rejoin us. The
effect of the whole was both noble and soft; for the distant bay, Capri,
Vesuvius, and the Campagna, were all bathed in the glories of a fine
sun-light, relieved by fleecy mists. The road on the summit of the
aqueduct is wide enough to receive the equipages of the king, who had
passed over not long before we were there. The trunk for the water was
by no means large.
The route from the aqueduct is very beautiful. It winds among the
mountains and through valleys, and is constructed as a royal drive,
leading merely to the aqueduct. Caserta, as a town, is not large; though
the palace is one of the finest in Europe. The latter stands on a
perfectly level plain, with no other view than can be got from the
windows, and that of the Apennines, which are too near for effect, or
indeed to be seen to advantage, the nearest heights concealing the more
lofty ranges in the distance. This palace is said to owe its existence
to the pride of Charles III., who, irritated at having been menaced by
an English fleet which ran under the walls of his residence in Naples,
and threatened to lay it in ruins unless the demands of its government
were complied with, declared he would build a palace where no insolent
foe could insult him. In this respect, Caserta has certainly the
advantage of both Castel-a-mare and Portici; but this is all, unless the
magnificence of the unfinished structure be included. The gardens,
however, are extensive, and there is probably good shooting in the
mountains.
The great staircase of the palace of Caserta is much the finest thing of
its kind in Europe. It is noble, beautiful, sufficiently light, and
admirably proportioned as well as ornamented. The staterooms are good,
though not more than half finished. But what palace in Europe _is_
finished? There may be a few, but I suspect that most are not. The
Louvre is half a waste, the Pitti has its uncovered arches mouldering
with time, and this of Caserta has not more than half of the best rooms
in a state fit to be used: still there are enough for so small a
kingdom, and more than are furnished. The palace on the exterior is a
parallelogram, of seven or eight hundred feet, by five or six hundred.
Internally, it has a beautiful distribution of courts, clustered round a
central nucleus, which nucleus contains the celebrated staircase. The
staircase is on the plan of that in the City Hall, New York, or a single
flight at the bottom, which is divided into two after the landing.
From Caserta we proceeded to Capua, where we passed the night. Some
ruins of no great moment, that are immediately on the highway, are
thought to point out the site of ancient Capua, the modern town being
about a mile distant. The latter is a mean dirty town, and certainly was
not the place that detained Hannibal so long.—By the way, this
much-talked-of delay was probably no more than the common expedient of
falling back from a wasted to a fertile country to recruit, and, in all
probability, was quite as much owing to exhaustion, as to a
demoralization of another kind. It is far more likely that his army
corrupted Capua, than that Capua corrupted his army.
The only specimen we had of Capuan luxury was a guitar at supper.
Finding we had lived in Florence, the musician gave us a song in honour
of “_Firenze, bella città_.” The guide-books say this word, Firenze,
means a red lily in the Etruscan dialect, and it is certain that there
is a lily in its arms. The arms of the Medici are literally
_pills_,—three _pills_, which were emblazoned all over the place. It is
a pity these pills are not a little more active, activity being all that
Tuscany wants.
We left Capua betimes next day, and, after driving some ten or twelve
miles, came to the termination of the Campagna Felice. This plain is
certainly very beautiful; and its northern termination we thought the
most beautiful of all, for it had much the character of park scenery. We
stopped to breakfast at a place called St. Agata, which was scarcely
more than a tavern. A small town called Sessa, known to be the ancient
Suessa Auruncorum, a Roman station, lies against the base of the
Apennines, about a mile distant. Between this town and St. Agata, is a
broad avenue-like road; and a noble bridge is thrown across a small
stream and a hollow on the way. When we had breakfasted, I proposed to
A—— to walk ahead of the carriages as far as this town, which is said to
contain some antiquities. We had got into its principal street, when I
perceived that the pavement was up, and that there was no visible
passage around the spot. Surprised at finding a post-road in such a
state, I inquired of the workmen in what manner our carriages were to
get through. We were told that the road did not pass in this direction
at all, but that it went _round_ the corner of the inn, at right angles
to the broad avenue. Of course we had walked a mile at right angles to
the true road; and on looking back, we perceived that the party had gone
on, undoubtedly under the impression that we were in advance of them.
Nothing remained but to turn and retrace our steps in order to get on
the proper road, as the carriages would certainly return on finding that
they did not overtake us. Luckily a priest was passing, mounted on an
ass, and he overheard the dialogue with the paviours. Understanding our
dilemma, he kindly offered to put us on a path which led diagonally into
the post-road, and by which we should save a mile.
This road was little more than a bridle-path, leading among bushes and
through a thicket. At first I was too eager to get on, to look about me;
but, after walking a quarter of a mile along it, I was struck with the
magnitude of the stones with which the path was still partly paved,
though long intervals occurred in which there was no pavement at all.
Pointing to these stones, I was about to ask an explanation, when the
good father nodded his head, with a smile, and said significantly, “_Via
Appia_.” We had thus blundered on near a mile of the Appian Way, the
greater part of which was still in tolerable condition, though in part
overgrown with bushes! I knew that the post-road between Rome and
Salerno, and indeed still farther south, ran, much of the way, over this
old road; but the latter is buried, in a way not to be seen. Here it was
above ground, and just as much the Appian Way as the bits that are seen
at Pompeii and Pozzuoli. At the farther end of this fragment of the
celebrated road, is a bridge of some length; but, unfortunately, the
priest had left us before we reached it, and I could not inquire as to
its date. It certainly belongs to the Appian Way; but the architecture
struck me as being that of the middle ages rather than that of Rome, for
it has a strong resemblance to those ruins of which I saw so many on the
shores of the gulf of Genoa, and which I believe, are known to date from
the latter period. It was long, narrow, and of irregular construction,
but appeared as solid as the day it was built.
This bridge is within a few rods of the post-road, and travellers, by
inquiring for the by-way to Sessa, when they get within a mile or a mile
and a half of the post-house at St. Agata, can at any time see it by a
delay of ten minutes,—and, with it, the first specimen of the Appian Way
that remains paved and above ground, I believe, north of Capua. None of
my guide-books speak of it, and I presume we are among the first
strangers who have seen it. The stones of the pavement are large and
irregularly shaped, like those of Pompeii.
We had other interesting objects, and more ruins at a spot that is
thought to have been the ancient Minturnum, after we found the
carriages, which turned back to meet us. The Garigliano, which flows by
this place, was the Liris, the stream that separated Magna Græcia from
Latium.
We slept at Mola di Gaeta. The inn was beautifully placed on the gulf,
and was reasonably good. The town of Gaeta is a short distance farther
advanced, on a peninsula, which curves in a way to make a sort of port
in front of Mola. Æneas has the credit of having founded Gaeta.
The next morning we passed a tomb, which vulgar report supposes to be
erected on the spot where Cicero fell. He certainly was killed somewhere
near this, and it is as likely to be here, as at another spot; although,
if I remember the history of that event, he is said to have been
attempting to escape in his litter _along the shore_, when overtaken and
slain, and these remains do not stand literally on the shore, but at
some distance from it. As _littus_ means a coast, as well as the
immediate beach, perhaps the difficulty may be got over.
The road now entered the mountains, which here buttress the
Mediterranean, and we passed the spot occupied by the Neapolitan army in
the late Austrian invasion. The position was strong, and most of the
works remain; but no position can resist treachery. Fondi, a small
crowded town in a valley, came next; and soon after, we reached a small
tower by the roadside, which marks the boundaries between the kingdom of
Naples and the States of the Church. The road, for several leagues, is
very solitary; and, the Apennines with their glens and forests bounding
it on all sides, this is the spot at which the robbery is most
apprehended. We passed unscathed, however, and without a sensation of
uneasiness on my part, though there was among us so good a prize for the
mountains.
Our halting-place for the night was Terracina, which is placed
beautifully on the very margin of the sea, beneath the mountains. At
this spot was the ancient Anxur, a city of the Volscians, and it is
still rich in ruins of different kinds. Among other things are the
remains of a port built by Antoninus Pius, which might still be used,
did not the great essential, water, fail. The mole is of bricks, and the
cement must have been as good as the material. Here our effects were
examined, and were permitted to pass, though the books were regarded a
little distrustfully. This caution is of little use; for several of the
works known to be proscribed,—such as the “Prince” of Machiavelli, for
instance,—were to be had even in Naples, without any difficulty.
We left Terracina _on empty stomachs_, notwithstanding the advice of the
guide-books, and immediately afterwards entered among the formidable
Pontine Marshes. The length of these marshes is more than twenty miles,
and their breadth varies from six to twelve. The lowest side is near
Terracina, where their waters find an outlet in the sea. Instead of
being the waste I had expected to find them, the parts near the road
were in meadows, covered with buffaloes. A canal runs near the highway,
which is a capital road constructed on the Appian Way, Appius Claudius
being the first person who attempted to drain the marshes. Perhaps it
was unreasonable to suppose that people who had just enjoyed a night’s
rest should feel a propensity to sleep; but it is certain that the only
thing drowsy we found about these marshes was the even monotony of the
road. As the spot is favourable to robberies, a great extent of country
being visible in either direction, the Papal government has placed
military posts along the highway, and we scarcely passed a mile without
seeing a patrole. These soldiers looked as well as other people; though
it is probable they are often changed.
On the whole, the scenery was pleasant, particularly in the direction of
the mountains, on the sides of which we could distinguish villages and
other objects of interest. Towards the sea there was much wood, and
nowhere any great appearance of impracticable bogs. The drainings,
however, have probably altered the face of the country. The buffalo
drivers, with long lances to goad their cattle with, and in a wild
costume, were galloping about the meadows, which in particular places
were also alive with wild geese feeding. I believe I speak within bounds
when I say that we often saw thousands on two or three acres. They took
no notice of us, though frequently quite near us, but continued to feed
as leisurely as the domesticated birds. We saw many men on the road
carrying muskets, but I did not observe one who appeared to be after the
geese.
We breakfasted at a tavern near the upper end of the marshes, where
several carriages arrived about the same time. Among others was that of
a Dutch family, the ladies of which alighted from their coach in common
caps, bringing with them their needlework, with an air of enviable
comfort. I question if there is a civilized people on earth so much
addicted to motion as our own, or another that travels with so little
enjoyment or so few comforts. Railroads and steam-boats do something for
us, it is true; but even they are reduced to the minimum of comfort,
because all things are reduced to a medium standard of habits. The
‘go-ahead’ propensities and ‘gregarious’ tastes of the nation set
anything above a very moderate mediocrity quite out of the question.
A league beyond the tavern, A—— had a good fright. I was reading, when
she drew my attention to a group of three men in the road, who were
evidently awaiting our arrival. I did not believe that three banditti
would dare to attack five men,—and such, including the postilions, was
our force,—and felt no uneasiness until I heard an exclamation of alarm
from A——. These men had actually stopped the carriage, and one of them
poked the end of a pistol (as she fancied) within a foot of her face. As
the three men were all armed, I looked about me; but the pistol proved
to be a wild duck, and the summons to “deliver,” an invitation to buy. I
believe the rogues saw the alarm they had created, for they withdrew
laughing when I declined the duck. So endeth alarm the third.
Near Cisterna, a short distance farther, we saw the skull of a robber,
in an iron cage, placed at the gate as a warning to evil-doers. This
object, previously to the incident of the duck, might have helped to
give greater interest to the adventure. This skull probably alarms the
travellers much more than it alarms the rogues.
We slept at Velletri, a town that may fairly claim to be Roman, though
more remotely a Volscian place. It is said Augustus came from this
vicinity. We were much struck with the prettiness of the female costumes
at this place, and quite as much so with the good looks of the wearers.
It was indeed a sensation to leave an inn in the morning with the
reasonable hope of seeing Rome before night! We had felt this with
respect to Paris; but how much more was it felt to-day on quitting
Velletri! We were no laggards, as you may imagine, but entered the
carriages betimes, and drove off to Albano to breakfast, full of
expectation. We were now in the classical region of _bona fide_ Rome.
Albano is said, by the ancient Roman traditions, to have been built by
Ascanius (Iulus); and I have a faint recollection of having somewhere
read that the Julian family, or that of the Cæsars, pretended to be
derived from him. At all events, Iulus and Julius will make as good a
pedigree as half of those the world puts faith in.
Albano, to quit blind tradition for better authenticated facts, is in
the region so long contested in the early wars of Rome; and the
celebrated battle of the Horatii is thought to have been fought here. A
tomb is still standing, though a ruin, near the town, which, it is
pretended, was erected in honour of them; but then the tomb of Ascanius
is also shown! The site of ancient Alba is a disputed point, the town
that now exists being quite modern, though surrounded by Roman remains.
It is, however, time I should give you some more distinct notions of the
localities.
Between Gaeta and Terracina the Apennines buttress the sea. At the
latter place, the mountains retire inland, and the plain extends
seaward, leaving between the coast and the crescent of the hills the
Pontine Marshes. At Albano, the Apennines make another sweep
north-easterly, as far as Tivoli, or even farther; when they again
incline north-westerly, and encircle, on nearly three sides, a vast
plain, which is the Campagna of Rome. Albano, therefore, stands at a
point whence the eye overlooks a wide horizon towards the sea, and
towards the mountains north of Rome. It is near a thousand feet above
the level of the Mediterranean; though the Alban Mount, the summit of
the range, is two thousand feet higher. On this mountain-top stood the
temple of Jupiter, where all the Latin tribes offered annual sacrifices.
The site of the ancient temple is now occupied by a Christian convent;
the religious successors of those who died by thousands as martyrs under
the decrees of the emperors!
From the town of Albano little is seen, on account of the surrounding
buildings and the trees; the vicinity being much frequented by the
nobles of Rome for country retreats. Even the popes have a palace near
it. The Alban Lake, and that of Nemi too, are also on these heights,
occupying the craters of extinct volcanoes. In the heats of summer,
these elevated mountain sides are not only healthful, but delightful
places to reside in. It was in this neighbourhood that the attempt was
made by banditti, a few years since, to carry off Lucien Bonaparte to
the mountains.
I was too impatient to await the slow movements of the _vetturino_, and
hurried on alone, afoot, as soon as my breakfast was swallowed. Passing
through a gateway, I soon found myself at a point whence I overlooked
much of the surrounding scenery. Such a moment can occur but once in a
whole life.
The road ran down a long declivity, in a straight line, until it reached
the plain, when it proceeded more diagonally, winding towards its
destination. But that plain! Far and near it was a waste, treeless,
almost shrubless, and with few buildings besides ruins. Long broken
lines of arches, the remains of aqueducts, were visible in the distance;
and here and there a tower rendered the solitude more eloquent, by
irresistibly provoking a comparison between the days when they were
built and tenanted, and the present hour. At the foot of the mountain,
though the road diverged, there was a lane of smaller ruins that
followed the line of the descent for miles in an air line. This line of
ruins was broken at intervals, but there were still miles of it to be
distinctly traced, and to show the continuity that had once existed from
Albano to the very walls of Rome. This was the Appian Way; and the ruins
were those of the tombs that once lined its sides,—the “stop traveller”
of antiquity. These tombs were on a scale proportioned to the grandeur
of the seat of empire, and they altogether threw those of Pompeii into
the shade; although the latter, as a matter of course, are in much the
best preservation. There were several near Albano, circular crumbling
towers, large enough to form small habitations for the living: a change
of destiny, as I afterwards discovered, that has actually befallen
several of them nearer the city.
Rome itself lay near the confines of the western view. The distance
(fourteen or fifteen miles) and the even surface of the country,
rendered the town indistinct, but it still appeared regal and like a
capital. Domes rose up above the plane of roofs in all directions; and
that of St. Peter’s, though less imposing than fancy had portrayed it,
was comparatively grand and towering. It looked like the Invalides seen
from Neuilly, the distinctness of the details and the gilding apart.
Although I could discern nothing at that distance that denoted ruins,
the place had not altogether the air of other towns. The deserted
appearance of the surrounding country, the broken arches of the
aqueducts, and perhaps the recollections, threw around it a character of
sublime solitude. The town had not, in itself, an appearance of being
deserted, but the environs caused it to seem cut off from the rest of
the world.
The carriages soon came rolling down the hill, and we proceeded in
company, absolutely silent and contemplative from an indescribable rush
of sensations. The distance across the waste appeared to be nothing, and
objects rose fast, on every side to heighten the feeling of awe. Here
was a small temple, insignificant in size and material, but evidently
Roman; there, another line of aqueducts; and yonder, a tomb worthy to be
a palace. We passed beneath one line of aqueduct, and drew near the
walls—the ancient unquestionable walls of Rome herself! How often had we
stood with interest over the ruins of works that had belonged to the
distant military stations of this great people! but here we were
actually beneath the ramparts of the Eternal City, which may still stand
another twenty centuries without material injury.
We were fortunate in entering Rome, for the first time, from the south,
this being out of all comparison the finest approach. The modern city
occupying the old Campus Martius, he who comes from the north is at once
received into the bosom of a town of our own days; but he who comes in
at the southern gate has the advantage of passing first among the
glorious remains of the city of the Cæsars.
We entered Rome by the gate of St. John, and looked about us with
reverential awe mingled with an intense curiosity. Little appeared at
first besides a few churches, broken aqueducts and gardens. On the left
was a deserted looking-palace, with a large church attached, the
buildings of St. John in the Lateran. An Egyptian obelisk, of great
antiquity, pointed to the skies. These edifices were vast and princely,
but they stood almost alone. Farther in advance was a straggling sort of
town, a mere suburb, and the line of houses often broken by waste spots.
Presently the carriage came under the walls of a huge oval structure of
a reddish stone, in which arches rose above arches to the height of an
ordinary church tower, a mountain of edifice; and, though not expecting
to see it, I recognised the Coliseum at a glance. Objects now crowded on
us, such as the arches of Constantine and of Titus, ruined temples, the
Forum, and then the town itself. My head became confused, and I sat
stupid as a countryman who first visits town, perplexed with the whirl
of sensations and the multiplicity of the objects.
We drove to the Hôtel de Paris, entirely across the city, near the Porto
del Popolo, and took lodgings. I ordered dinner; but, too impatient to
restrain my curiosity, as there was still an hour of daylight, I called
a _laquais de place_, and, holding little P—— by the hand, sallied
forth. “Where will the signore go?” asked the laquais, as soon as we
were in the street. “To St. Peter’s.”
In my eagerness to proceed, I looked neither to the right nor to the
left. We went through crooked and narrow streets, until we came to a
bridge lined with statues. The stream beneath was the Tiber. It was
full, turbid, swift, sinuous, and it might be three hundred feet wide,
or perhaps not quite so wide as the Seine at Paris at the same season.
The difference, however, is not material, and each is about half as wide
as the Thames above London Bridge on a full tide, which is again
three-fourths of the width of the Hudson at Albany. A large round
castellated edifice, with-flanking walls and military bastions, faced
the bridge: this was the tomb of Adrian, converted into a citadel by the
name of the Castle of St. Angelo, an angel in bronze surmounting the
tower. Turning to the left, we followed the river until a street led us
from its windings, and presently I found myself standing at the foot of
a vast square, with colonnades on a gigantic scale sweeping in half
circles on each side of me, two of the most beautiful fountains I had
ever seen throwing their waters in sheets down their sides between them,
and the façade of St. Peter’s forming the background. A noble Egyptian
obelisk occupied the centre of the area.
Every one had told me I should be disappointed in the apparent magnitude
of this church, but I was not. To me it seemed the thing it is, possibly
because some pains had been taken to school the eye. Switzerland often
misled me in both heights and distances, but a ship or an edifice rarely
does so. Previously to seeing Switzerland, I had found nothing to
compare with such a nature, and all regions previously known offered no
rules to judge by; but I had now seen too many huge structures not to be
at once satisfied that this was the largest of them all.
The laquais would have me stop to admire some of Michael Angelo’s
sublime conceptions, but I pressed forward. Ascending the steps, I threw
out my arms to embrace one of the huge half columns of the façade, not
in a fit of sentimentalism, but to ascertain its diameter, which was
gigantic, and helped the previous impression. Pushing aside the door in
common use, I found myself in the nave of the noblest temple in which
any religious rites were ever celebrated.
I walked about a hundred feet up the nave, and stopped. From a habit of
analyzing buildings, I counted the paces as I advanced, and knew how far
I was within the pile. Still men, at the farthest extremity, seemed
dwindled into boys. One, whose size did not appear disproportioned, was
cleaning a statue of St. Bruno, at the height of an ordinary
church-steeple, stood on the shoulder of the figure, and could just rest
his arm on the top of its head. Some marble cherubs, that looked like
children, were in high relief against a pier near me, and laying my hand
on the hand of one of them, I found it like that of an infant in
comparison. All this aided the sense of vastness. The _baldacchino_, or
canopy of bronze, which is raised over the great altar, filled the eye
no more than a pulpit in a common church; and yet I knew its summit was
as lofty as half the height of the spire of Trinity, New York, or about
a hundred and thirty feet, and essentially higher than the tower. I
looked for a marble throne that was placed at the remotest extremity of
the building, also as high as a common church tower, a sort of poetical
chair for the popes: it seemed distant as a cavern on a mountain.
To me there was no disappointment. Every thing appeared as vast as feet
and inches could make it; and as I stood gazing at the glorious pile,
the tears forced themselves from my eyes. Even little P—— was oppressed
with the sense of the vastness of the place, for he clung close to my
side, though he had passed half his life in looking at sights, and kept
murmuring, “_Qu’est-ce que c’est?—qu’est-ce que c’est?—Est-ce une
église?_”
It was getting dark, and perhaps the gloom magnified the effect. The
atmosphere even,—for this stupendous pile has an atmosphere of its own,
one different from that of the outer world,—was soothing and delicious;
and I turned away impressed with the truth that if ever the hand of man
had indeed raised a structure to the Deity in the least worthy of his
majesty, it was this!