Account of Vesuvius—The Hermitage—The famous Lagrima
Christi—Difficulties of the Path—Curious Appearance of the Old
Crater—Odd Assemblage of Travellers—The New Crater—Splendid
Prospect—Mr. Mathias, Author of the Pursuits of Literature—The
Archbishop of Tarento.
Mounted upon asses much smaller than their riders, and with each a
bare-legged driver behind, we commenced the ascent of Vesuvius. It was a
troublesome path worn through the rough scoria of old eruptions, and
after two hours’ toiling, we were glad to dismount at “the hermitage.”
Here lives a capuchin friar on a prominent rib in the side of the
volcano, the red-hot lava dividing above his dwelling every year or two,
and coursing away to the valley in two rivers of fire on either side of
him. He has been there twelve years, and supports himself, and probably
half the brotherhood at the monastery, by selling _Lagrima Christi_ to
strangers. It is a small white building with a little grass and a few
trees about it, and looks like an island in the black waste of cinders
and lava.
A shout from the guide was answered by the opening of a small window
above, and the shaven crown of the old friar was thrust forth with a
welcome and a request that we would mount the stairs to the parlour. He
received us at the top, and gave us chairs around a plain board table,
upon which he set several bottles of the far-famed wine of Vesuvius. One
drinks it, and blesses the volcano that warmed the roots of the grape.
It is a ripe, rich, full-bodied liquor, which “ascends me into the
brain” sooner than any continental wine I have tasted. I never drank
anything more delicious.
We remounted our asses and rode on, much more indifferent than before,
to the roughness of the path. It strikes one like the road to the
infernal regions. No grass, not a shrub, nothing but a wide mountain of
cinders, black and rugged, diversified only by the deeper die of the
newer streaks of lava. The eye wearied of gazing on it. We mounted thus
for an hour or more, arriving at last at the base of a lofty cone whose
sides were but slopes of deep ashes. We left our donkeys here in company
with those of a large party that had preceded us, and made preparations
to ascend on foot. The drivers unlaced their sashes, and passing them
round the waists of the ladies, took the ends over their shoulders, and
proceeded. Harder work could scarce be conceived. The feet had no hold,
sinking knee-deep at every step, and we slipped back so much, that our
progress was almost imperceptible. The ladies were soon tired out,
although more than half dragged up by the guides. At every few steps
there was a general cry for a halt, and we lay down in the warm ashes,
quite breathless and discouraged.
In something more than an hour from the hermitage we reached the edge of
the old crater. The scene here was very curious. A hollow, perhaps a
mile round, composed entirely of scoria (like the cinders under a
blacksmith’s window) contained in its centre the sharp new cone of the
last eruption. Around in various directions, sat some thirty groups of
travellers, with each their six or seven Italian guides, refreshing
themselves with a lunch after the fatigue of the ascent. There were
English, Germans, French, Russians, and Italians, each speaking their
own language, and the largest party, oddly enough, was from the United
States. As I was myself travelling with foreigners, and found my
countrymen on Vesuvius unexpectedly, the mixture of nations appeared
still more extraordinary. The combined heat of the sun and the volcano
beneath us, had compelled the Italians to throw off half their dress,
and they sat or stood leaning on their long pikes, with their brown
faces and dark eyes glowing with heat, as fine models of ruffians as
ever startled a traveller in this land of bandits. Eight or ten of them
were grouped around a crack in the crater, roasting apples and toasting
bread. There were several of these cracks winding about in different
directions, of which I could barely endure the heat, holding my hand at
the top. A stick thrust in a foot or more, was burnt black in a moment.
With another bottle or two of “lagrima Christi” and a roasted apple, our
courage was renewed, and we picked our way across the old crater,
sometimes lost in the smoke which steamed up through the cracks, and
here and there treading on beautiful beds of crystals of sulphur. The
ascent of the new cone was shorter, but very difficult. The ashes were
so new and light, that it was like a steep sand-bank, giving
discouragingly at the least pressure, and sinking till the next step was
taken. The steams of sulphur as we approached the summit, were all but
intolerable. The ladies coughed, the guides sneezed and called on the
Madonna, and I never was more relieved than in catching the first clear
draught of wind on the top of the mountain.
Here we all stood at last—crowded together on the narrow edge of a
crater formed within the year, and liable every moment to be overwhelmed
with burning lava. There was scarce room to stand, and the hot ashes
burnt our feet as they sunk into it. The females of each party sunk to
the ground, and the common danger and toil breaking down the usual stiff
barrier of silence between strangers, the conversation became general,
and the hour on the crater’s edge passed very agreeably.
A strong lad would just about throw a stone from one side to the other
of the new crater. It was about forty feet deep, perhaps more, and one
crust of sulphur lined the whole. It was half the time obscured in
smoke, which poured in volumes from the broad cracks with which it was
divided in every direction, and occasionally an eddy of wind was caught
in the vast bowl, and for a minute its bright yellow surface was
perfectly clear. There had not been an eruption for four or five months,
and the abyss, which is, for years together, a pit of fire and boiling
lava, has had time to harden over, and were it not for the smoking
steams, one would scarce suspect the existence of the tremendous volcano
slumbering beneath.
After we had been on the summit a few minutes, an English clergyman of
my acquaintance, to our surprise, emerged from the smoke. He had been to
the bottom for specimens of sulphur for his cabinet. Contrary to the
advice of the guide, I profited by his experience, and disappearing in
the flying clouds, reached the lowest depths of the crater with some
difficulties of foothold and breath. The cracks, which I crossed twice,
were so brittle as to break like the upper ice of a twice frozen pond
beneath my feet, and the stench of the exhaling gases was nauseating
beyond all the sulphuretted hydrogen I have ever known. The sensation
was painfully suffocating from the moment I entered the crater. I broke
off as many bits of the bright golden crystals from the crust as my
confusion and failing strength would allow, and then remounted, feeling
my way up through the smoke to the summit.
I can compare standing on the top of Vesuvius and looking down upon the
bay and city of Naples, to nothing but mounting a peak in the infernal
regions overlooking paradise. The larger crater encircles you entirely
for a mile, cutting off the view of the sides of the mountain, and from
the elevation of the new cone, you look over the rising edge of this
black field of smoke and cinders, and drop the eye at once upon Naples,
lying asleep in the sun, with its lazy sails upon the water, and the
green hills enclosing it clad in the indescribable beauty of an Italian
atmosphere. Beyond all comparison, by the testimony of every writer and
traveller, the most beautiful scene in the world, the loveliest water,
and the brightest land, lay spread out before us. With the stench of hot
sulphur in our nostrils, ankle deep in black ashes, and a waste of
smouldering cinders in every direction around us, the enjoyment of the
view certainly did not want for the heightening of contrast.
We made our descent by jumps through the sliding ashes, frequently
tumbling over each other, and retracing in five minutes the toil of an
hour. Our donkeys stood tethered together on the herbless field of
cinders, and we were soon in the clumsy saddles, and with a call at the
hermitage, and a parting draught of wine with the friar, we reached our
carriages at the little village of Resina in safety. The feet of the
whole troop were in a wretched condition. The ladies had worn shoes, or
slight boots, which were cut to pieces of course, and one very
fine-looking girl, the daughter of an elderly French gentleman, had,
with the usual improvidence of her nation, started in satin slippers.
She was probably lamed for a month, as she insisted on persevering, and
wrapped her feet in handkerchiefs to return.
We rode along the curve of the bay, by one of these matchless sunsets of
Italy, and arrived at Naples at dark.
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I have had the pleasure lately of making the acquaintance of Mr.
Mathias, the distinguished author of the “Pursuits of Literature,” and
the translator of Spenser and other English poets into Italian. About
twenty years ago, this well-known scholar came to Italy on a desperate
experiment of health. Finding himself better almost against hope, he has
remained from year to year in Naples, in love with the climate and the
language, until, at this day, he belongs less to the English than the
Italian literature, having written various original poems in Italian,
and translated into Italian verse, to the wonder and admiration of the
scholars of the country. I found him this morning at his lodgings, in an
old palace on the Pizzofalcone, buried in books as usual, and
good-humoured enough to give an hour to a young man who had no claim on
him beyond the ordinary interest in a distinguished scholar. He talked a
great deal of America naturally, and expressed a very strong friendship
for Mr. Everett, whom he had met on his travels, requesting me at the
same time to take to him a set of his works as a remembrance. Mr.
Mathias is a small man, of perhaps sixty years, perfectly bald, and a
little inclined to corpulency. His head is ample, and would make a fine
picture of a scholar. His voice is hurried and modest, and from long
residence in Italy, his English is full of Italian idioms. He spoke with
rapture of Da Ponte, calling me back as I shut the door, to ask for him.
It seemed to give him uncommon pleasure that we appreciated and valued
him in America.
I have looked over, this evening, a small volume, which he was kind
enough to give me. It is entitled “Lyric Poetry, by T. I. Mathias; a new
edition, printed privately.” It is dated 1832, and the poems were
probably all written within the last two years. The shortest extract I
can make is a “Sonnet to the Memory of Gray,” which strikes me as very
beautiful.
“Lord of the various lyre! devout we turn
Our pilgrim steps to thy supreme abode,
And tread with awe the solitary road
To grace with votive wreaths thy hallowed urn.
Yet, as we wander through this dark sojourn,
No more the strains we hear, that all abroad
Thy fancy wafted, as the inspiring God
Prompted ‘the thoughts that breathe, the words that burn.’
“But hark! a voice in solemn accents clear
Bursts from heaven’s vault that glows with temperate fire;
Cease, mortal, cease to drop the fruitless tear;
_Mute though the raptures of his full-strung lyre,_
_E’en his own warblings, lessened on his ear,_
_Lost in seraphic harmony expire_.”
I have met also, at a dinner party lately, the celebrated antiquary, Sir
William Gell. He, too, lives abroad. His work on Pompeii has become
authority, and displays very great learning. He is a tall,
large-featured man, and very commanding in his appearance, though lamed
terribly with the gout.
A friend, whom I met at the same house, took me to see the archbishop of
Tarento yesterday. This venerable man, it is well known, lost his gown
for his participation in the cause of the Carbonari (the revolutionary
conspirators of Italy). He has always played a conspicuous part in the
politics of his time, and now, at the age of ninety, unlike the usual
fate of meddlers in troubled waters, he is a healthy, happy, venerated
old man, surrounded in his palace with all that luxury can give him. The
lady who presented me took the privilege of intimate friendship to call
at an unusual hour, and we found the old churchman in his slippers, over
his breakfast, with two immense tortoise-shell cats, upon stools,
watching his hand for bits of bread, and purring most affectionately. He
looks like one of Titian’s pictures. His face is a wreck of commanding
features, and his eye seems less to have lost its fire, than to slumber
in its deep socket. His hair is snowy white—his forehead of prodigious
breadth and height—and his skin has that calm, settled, and yet healthy
paleness, which carries with it the history of a whole life of
temperance and thought.
The old man rose from his chair with a smile, and came forward with a
stoop and a feeble step, and took my two hands, as my friend mentioned
my name, and looked me in the face very earnestly. “Your country,” said
he, in Italian, “has sprung into existence like Minerva, full grown and
armed. We look for the result.” He went on with some comments upon the
dangers of republics, and then sent me to look at a portrait of Queen
Giovanna, of Naples, by Leonardo da Vinci, while he sat down to talk
with the lady who brought me. His secretary accompanied me as a
cicerone. Five or six rooms, communicating with each other, were filled
with choice pictures, every one a gift from some distinguished
individual. The present king of France has sent him his portrait! Queen
Adelaide has sent a splendid set of Sèvres china, with the portraits of
her family; the Queen of Belgium had presented him with her miniature
and that of Leopold; the King and Queen of Naples had half-furnished his
house; and so the catalogue went on. It seemed as if the whole continent
had united to honour the old man. While I was looking at a curious
mosaic portrait of a cat, presented to him on the death of the original,
by some prince whose name I have forgotten, he came to us, and said he
had just learned that my pursuits were literary, and would present me
with his own last work. He opened the drawer of a small bureau and
produced a manuscript of some ten pages, written in a feeble hand.
“This,” said he, “is an enumeration from memory of what I have not seen
for many years, the classic spots about our beautiful city of Naples,
and their associations. I have written it in the last month to wile away
the time, and call up again the pleasure I have received many times in
my life in visiting them.” I put the curious document in my bosom with
many thanks, and we kissed the hand of the good old priest and left him.
We found his carriage, with three or four servants in handsome livery,
waiting for him in the court below. We had intruded a little on the hour
for his morning ride.
I found his account of the environs merely a simple catalogue, with here
and there a classic quotation from a Greek or Latin author, referring to
them. I keep the MS. as a curious memento of one of the noblest relics I
have seen of an age gone by.
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