Trieste, its Extensive Commerce—Hospitality of Mr. Moore—Ruins
of Pola—Immense amphitheatre—Village of Pola—Coast of
Dalmatia, of Apulia and Calabria—Otranto—Sails for the Isles
of Greece.
Trieste is certainly a most agreeable place. Its streets are beautifully
paved and clean, its houses new and well built, and its shops as
handsome and as well stocked with every variety of things as those of
Paris. Its immense commerce brings all nations to its port, and it is
quite the commercial centre of the continent. The Turk smokes
cross-legged in the café, the English merchant has his box in the
country and his snug establishment in town, the Italian has his opera,
and his wife her cavalier, the Yankee captain his respectable
boarding-house, and the German his four meals a day at a hotel dyed
brown with tobacco. Every nation is at home in Trieste.
The society is beyond what is common in a European mercantile city. The
English are numerous enough to support a church, and the circle of which
our hospitable consul is the centre, is one of the most refined and
agreeable it has been my happiness to meet. The friends of Mr. Moore
have pressed every possible civility and kindness upon the commodore and
his officers, and his own house has been literally our home on shore. It
is the curse of this _volant_ life, otherwise so attractive, that its
frequent partings are bitter in proportion to its good fortune. We make
friends but to lose them.
We got under way with a light breeze this morning, and stole gently out
of the bay. The remembrance of a thousand kindnesses made our anchors
lift heavily. We waved our handkerchiefs to the consul, whose balconies
were filled with his charming family watching our departure, and with a
freshening wind, disappeared around the point, and put up our helm for
Pola.
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The ruins of Pola, though among the first in the world, are seldom
visited. They lie on the eastern shore of the Adriatic, at the head of a
superb natural bay, far from any populous town, and are seen only by the
chance trader who hugs the shore for the land-breeze, or the Albanian
robber who looks down upon them with wonder from the mountains. What
their age is I cannot say nearly. The country was conquered by the
Romans about one hundred years before the time of our Saviour, and the
amphitheatre and temples were probably erected soon after.
We ran into the bay, with the other frigate close astern, and anchored
off a small green island which shuts in the inner harbour. There is deep
water up to the ancient town on either side, and it seems as if nature
had amused herself with constructing a harbour incapable of improvement.
Pola lay about two miles from the sea.
It was just evening, and we deferred our visit to the ruins till
morning. The majestic amphitheatre stood on a gentle ascent, a mile from
the ship, goldenly bright in the flush of sunset; the pleasant smell of
the shore stole over the decks, and the bands of the two frigates played
alternately the evening through. The receding mountains of Istria
changed their light blue veils gradually to grey and sable, and with the
pure stars of these enchanted seas, and the shell of a new moon bending
over Italy in the west, it was such a night as one remembrances like a
friend. The “Constellation” was to part from us here, leaving us to
pursue our voyage to Greece. There were those on board who had
brightened many of our “hours ashore,” in these pleasant wanderings. We
pulled back to our own ship, after a farewell visit, with regrets
deepened by crowds of pleasant remembrances.
The next morning we pulled ashore to the ruins. The amphitheatre was
close upon the sea, and to my surprise and pleasure, there was no
_cicerone_. A contemplative donkey was grazing under the walls, but
there was no other living creature near. We looked at its vast circular
wall with astonishment. The Coliseum at Rome, a larger building of the
same description, is, from the outside, much less imposing. The whole
exterior wall, a circular pile one hundred feet high in front, and of
immense blocks of marble and granite, is as perfect as when the Roman
workman hewed the last stone. The interior has been nearly all removed.
The well-hewn blocks of the many rows of seats were too tempting, like
those of Rome, to the barbarians who were building near. The circle of
the arena, in which the gladiators and wild beasts of these then
new-conquered provinces fought, is still marked by the foundation of its
barrier. It measures two hundred and twenty-three feet. Beneath it is a
broad and deep canal, running toward the sea, filled with marble
columns, still erect upon their pedestals, used probably for the
introduction of water for the _naumachia_. The whole circumference of
the amphitheatre is twelve hundred and fifty-six feet, and the thickness
of the exterior wall seven feet six inches. Its shape is oblong, the
length being four hundred and thirty-six feet, and the breadth three
hundred and fifty. The measurements were taken by the captain’s orders,
and are doubtless critically correct.
We loitered about the ruins several hours, finding in every direction
the remains of the dilapidated interior. The sculpture upon the fallen
capitals and fragments of frieze was in the highest style of ornament.
The arena is overgrown with rank grass, and the crevices in the walls
are filled with flowers. A vineyard, with its large blue grape just
within a week of ripeness, encircles the rear of the amphitheatre. The
boat’s crew were soon among them, much better amused than they could
have been by all the antiquities in Istria.
We walked from the amphitheatre to the town; a miserable village built
around two antique temples, one of which still stands alone, with its
fine Corinthian columns, looking just ready to crumble. The other is
incorporated barbarously with the guard-house of the place, and is a
curious mixture of beautiful sculpture and dirty walls. The pediment,
which is still perfect, in the rear of the building, is a piece of
carving, worthy of the choicest cabinet of Europe. The thieveries from
the amphitheatre are easily detected. There is scarcely a beggar’s house
in the village, that does not show a bit or two of sculptural marble
upon its front.
At the end of the village stands a triumphal arch, recording the
conquests of a Roman consul. Its front, toward the town, is of Parian
marble, beautifully chiselled. One recognises the solid magnificence of
that glorious nation, when he looks on these relics of their distant
conquests, almost perfect after eighteen hundred years. It seems as if
the foot-print of a Roman were eternal.
We stood out of the little bay, and with a fresh wind, ran down the
coast of Dalmatia, and then crossing to the Italian side, kept down the
ancient shore of Apulia and Calabria to the mouth of the Adriatic. I
have been looking at the land with the glass, as we ran smoothly along,
counting castle after castle built boldly on the sea, and behind them,
on the green hills, the thickly built villages with their smoking
chimneys and tall spires, pictures of fertility and peace. It was upon
these shores that the Barbary corsairs descended so often during the
last century, carrying off for eastern harems, the lovely women of
Italy. We are just off Otranto, and a noble old castle stands frowning
from the extremity of the Cape. We could throw a shot into its
embrasures as we pass. It might be the “Castle of Otranto,” for the
romantic looks it has from the sea.
We have out-sailed the “Constellation,” or we should part from her here.
Her destination is France: and we should be to-morrow amid the [6]Isles
of Greece. The pleasure of realising the classic dreams of one’s
boyhood, is not to be expressed in a line. I look forward to the
succeeding month or two as to the “red-letter” chapter of my life.
Whatever I may find the reality, my heart has glowed warmly and
delightfully with the anticipation. Commodore Patterson is, fortunately
for me, a scholar, and a judicious lover of the arts, and loses no
opportunity, consistently with his duty, to give his officers the means
of examining the curious and the beautiful in these interesting seas.
The cruise, thus far, has been one of continually mingled pleasure and
instruction, and the best of it, by every association of our early days,
is to come.
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[6] It was to this point (the ancient Hydrantum) that Pyrrhus proposed
to build a bridge from Greece—_only_ sixty miles! He deserved to ride
on an elephant.
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