round among the churches, although after enjoying at Rome the splendid
display from the time of Constantine to the present day, those of Naples
appear rather flat and insipid. To begin with the cathedral. You are
told that it was built by Constantine on the ruins of the temple of
Apollo; sounding words, not entirely without meaning, since if not true
of the main body of the cathedral itself, it may be partly so, with
reference to a small church of Santa Restituta, opening into the
cathedral, and forming a sort of large side chapel. The body of the
present edifice was begun under Charles the First, of Anjou, in 1280,
and a building was completed by Charles the Second in 1299. This is said
by Vasi to have been ruined by an earthquake in 1456, and restored in
the Gothic style by Nicola Pisano, under Alphonsus the First. Now we do
not know precisely the date either of the birth, or death of this
artist, but we find Giovanni da Pisa, who was probably his son, employed
in the Campo Santo at Pisa in 1278, and Nicola was probably at that time
either dead, or advanced in years. It is then possible that he was
employed at Naples in the original edifice, but not in this restoration.
Milizia attributes the front to a pupil of Nicola, named Maglione, but
even this can only apply to the primitive erection, and not to any
restoration under Alphonso. The front was erected in 1407, (therefore
before the earthquake) but restored in 1788. As it is still Gothic, I
suppose this restoration to have consisted merely in bungling repairs of
the old work. We may consider, therefore, the original design as far as
we can trace it, as an example of the architecture of the beginning of
the fifteenth century at Naples, a period at which Brunelleschi was
flourishing at Florence, and the Gothic forms were already discarded. I
conceive it to have offered the sort of arrangement exhibited in the
following sketch, with a large gable in the middle, perhaps formed on an
equilateral triangle, and a smaller and more acute one on each side.
[Illustration: Illustration of church front]
The upper gable is now truncated, and the spaces between the smaller
ones and the building, are walled up, forming an uglier front than you
can well conceive, out of what really appears to have been a pleasing
composition. The cathedral at Mantua seems to have been an edifice of
the same style.
The inside is almost all modernized; two or three of the side chapels
alone retaining traces of the time of their erection. It is said to
contain 110 columns of Egyptian granite and African breccia, belonging
to the ancient temple of Apollo; but if so, they must have been very
small, less than eighteen inches in diameter, and they are now all
covered with stucco. (You see the English churchwardens have authority
for what they do.) I rather, however, doubt the fact. On the left hand
is the ancient church of Santa Restituta; here are indubitably many
ancient shafts. They are all small, but vary both in size, and material.
The capitals are in bad condition; one or two may have been good, but in
general they are of poor design, and bad workmanship; few of them fit
the shafts; large moulded blocks are placed above the capitals to
receive the springing of the arches. These are now pointed, but were at
first probably semicircular. The Gothic work patched upon the original
building has been _rococoed_,[21] and the whole is perfectly devoid of
architectural effect.
Opposite the church of Santa Restituta is the Chapel of San Gennaro,
which has the form of a Greek cross, and is perhaps more splendid than
beautiful, although not without some architectural merit. Two elegant
columns of verde antico adorn the entrance. The whole is rich, with
various marbles, and with several showy altars, and forms in itself a
little church. On a feast-day, fifty-three busts of the saints,
protectors of Naples, are exhibited to the devotion of the people in
this chapel; thirty-five of these are of silver, the remaining eighteen
of bronze. Behind the principal altar there is a little cupboard in the
wall, closed with doors of silver, where I am told that the skull of St.
Januarius is preserved, and the famous blood, which forms the standing
miracle of the city. There are in this chapel some admirable productions
of Domenichino; and Guido was also engaged to employ here his pencil,
but the jealousy of the Neapolitan artists prompted them to poison the
former, and the latter was frightened away by their machinations and
conspiracies against him. In the treasury behind, you are shewn a
multitude of relicks, and rich presents, but nothing which has made much
impression on my memory. There are some Gothic tombs in this church, and
a fine Gothic pulpit and canopy. In this part of Naples we find several
buildings of the _renaissance_, (I wish I could express this neatly in
English), and many little chapels and altars in the churches of that
style, which is everywhere very distinctly marked. The relief of the
different parts is small, the entablature frequently breaks round the
pilaster, which thus becomes a mere decoration; the ornaments are light
and elegant, and the execution generally beautiful; the character is
rather Greek than Roman, though the plans are such as the purity of
Greek taste would not have tolerated. In the edifices of that period
there is always something to be admired, yet it must be confessed that
it is a mode of art which succeeds better in small compositions than in
large structures; and the former, whether from the abundance of talent
among the artists, or from some other circumstance with which I am
unacquainted, are almost always good: possessing beautiful proportions,
and just feeling.
The Church of the Gerolomini is very near the cathedral. The nave is
formed by beautiful granite shafts, supporting arches, and above them
are an entablature, a second order, and a flat ceiling; the decorations
are exceedingly tawdry, but the proportions are good.
At a short distance is the Church of San Paolo, where two fine ancient
Corinthian columns, with a portion of the architrave over each, advance
from the front of the building, and seem to wonder at their own
situation, now perfectly unmeaning. They are the remains of a temple of
Castor and Pollux, built by one Julius Tarsus, freedman of Tiberius. The
portico was entire so late as the year 1688, when Misson saw it, but it
was thrown down by an earthquake towards the end of that year. There are
some other traces about, of the walls of this temple, but nothing of any
interest. Within the church there is a profusion of gilding and fine
marbles. The disposition is bad, with alternate large and small arches,
the largest of which are too small for the order employed in them. Yet
the dark rich marbles harmonize with the low proportions, and produce a
pleasing impression in spite of the faults of the architecture.
There is a little chapel in this neighbourhood belonging to the princes
of Sangro, famous for three statues, in which the artist has endeavoured
to please by a trick, and the appearance of difficulty overcome. The
first is the figure of Modesty, covered with a thin, transparent veil.
_Disinganno_ is represented under the figure of a man struggling to
liberate himself from a net, which envelops his body, and the third is a
dead Christ, also covered with a veil, but less thin and delicate than
that which seems half to conceal the figure of Modesty. They are all
fine things in their way.
The Church of San Domenico Maggiore is more interesting to the
antiquary, than beautiful in the eyes of the architect; indeed, almost
the only things which will interest the latter, are two chapels of the
_cinque cento_, (1508 and 1513) which however, are not very fine
examples of the style of that period. The stone-work is Gothic. The
piers were originally square, with a semicircular shaft on each side,
but these shafts have been cut away, in order to make a sort of pilaster
of the remainder, and the deficiency of strength is supplied by iron
ties. The building is further defaced by modern stucco and whitewash.
There are Gothic tombs of 1340, 1357, 1385.
The Church of Santa Chiara is also Gothic externally, and modernized
within. The front has not been completed, but as far as we can judge of
the intended arrangement, it was good. There were three doors below, a
rose window above, and a tower-like buttress at each angle. Internally,
it consists of a large simple nave, with low side chapels of little
projection on the sides, and a gallery over them. It is a very light and
elegant room, too light perhaps for a church. I suspect that it owes
much of its cheerful magnificence to the comparative smallness of the
lower order, the upper range of arches, in which the windows are placed,
thus becoming the principal. Perhaps also the same cause may make it
appear larger than it otherwise would, as the smaller arches are easily
compared to the human figure. It is certainly a finely proportioned
room, and though the details are not good, yet on the whole the parts
are well distributed. Here also are four Gothic tombs; two of them bear
date 1365 and 1362. The other two are without date, but one of them at
least appears earlier than the dated ones. They are all nearly of the
same style, and the ancient high altar of the church corresponds with
them. Columns, with angels in front, support the soros; above this,
under a tent, or pavilion, lies the figure of the deceased, and two
angels are holding back the curtains. In one of them a statue of the
Virgin is placed over this pavilion. A lofty tower, detached from the
church, exhibits the Grecian orders, and as it is said to have been
built by the elder Masuccio in 1310, the Neapolitans have claimed the
merit of being the first to bring back the Roman architecture. The
mistake is, however, sufficiently palpable; the lower part of the
structure is indeed of that early date, and in a very fine, bold style
of art, but without the least trace of Greek or Roman forms; the upper
is adorned with two orders; but it differs from the lower in the
character of the workmanship, as well as in the style of design, and is
considerably posterior.
The Church of the Trinità Maggiore, or of Gesù Nuovo, is principally
remarkable for having the face of each stone in front cut into a
pyramidal form. The inside is a mixture of plaster and rich marble,
excessively gaudy, and in the worst taste imaginable.
These churches are all in the same part of Naples, and are seen in a
walk from the Toledo to the cathedral. The Church of the Annunciation is
more distant. It is really a noble edifice, of modern architecture,
though the disposition is rather too complicated. There are three
chapels on each side of the nave, with doubled columns between them, and
a continued unbroken entablature. The plan of the choir is more
intricate, and reminded me of Santa Maria in Campitelli, at Rome. I
first saw this church on a feast-day, when it was adorned with hangings
of white muslin, and blue and crimson satin, forming a sort of lofty
tent over the altar, enriched with gold and silver spangles and
ornaments, and festoons of flowers. Neapolitan taste here seemed to be
quite at home. It was the prettiest thing of the kind I ever saw, for
the Roman hangings, though very rich, have a sort of gravity, not to say
heaviness about them, producing an effect totally different from the
gaiety and splendour of this decoration.
The Church of San Pietro ad Aram is not far from that of the
Annunciation; it is large and rich, with eight arches on each side of
the nave; this is a frequent number in the Neapolitan churches, while
those in Rome seldom have more than three principal divisions, with
perhaps a smaller one adjoining the intersection.
The Carmine is also a large and rich church, but inferior in point of
architecture. The _ex voto_ offerings are here very numerous. I visited
several other churches, in which there is a profusion of architectural
ornament, but the general character is that of dull, commonplace
extravagance, as devoid of imagination, as it is of graceful proportion
and good sense.
You will not suppose that I could reside at Naples, during the time of
the liquefaction of the blood of Saint Januarius, or San Gennajo, or
Gennaro, as he is called here, without going to witness this celebrated
miracle. I was at the cathedral on the 19th, but it did not succeed on
that day. The blood is exhibited for eight days successively, and it
rarely if ever happens that it melts every day: it would be making the
miracle too common. On the 26th I went again. There were many persons in
the chapel, but it was by no means full, and they readily admitted me
beyond the railing, into the inclosure by the altar. In a few minutes
the officer appeared with his keys, and opened the little cupboard
behind the altar, in which the blood is kept, and the priest took out
the vessel. I looked as attentively as I could, to see if there were any
appearance of ice in the cupboard, but I saw nothing. The outer vessel
is in the shape of a large circular snuff-box, with a glass top and
bottom: on one side is a handle, which appeared to be a hollow tube,
open at the bottom, and to have no connexion with the interior of the
vessel; opposite to this is a crown, and in the midst of the crown a
moveable crucifix, fixed only at the base, which falls about as the
vessel is held in different positions, but I do not think that either
the crown or the handle had any thing to do with the liquefaction.
Within this outer vessel are two vials, one very small, and spotted
internally with a dark substance which adheres to the glass, and which
may probably have been blood; this suffers no change: the other is a
larger vial, in the form of a flattened spheroid, with a short neck,
containing a dark looking substance, opake or nearly so, and forming a
level line at about two thirds of the height of the vial. After this
vessel was taken from its cupboard, it was placed upon a stand, and some
old women, who are said to be hired for that purpose, began to squall.
The silver bust of Saint Januarius was then produced, dressed in a
mitre, and other garments of the priesthood; and a cross suspended to a
collar of pearls was hung round his neck. This mitre was soon afterwards
changed for another, two nosegays of artificial flowers were stuck in
his breast; and thus adorned, he stood on the altar with his face
towards the people, during the whole of the ceremony. When this was
arranged, the officiating priest (I do not know whether it was the
archbishop,) resumed the vessel containing the blood, kissed it, put it
to his forehead, and kissed it again, as he had done on taking it out of
the cupboard, and began to recite a service. After the regular service
on the occasion, other prayers, &c. were added, since the blood shewed
yet no inclination of dissolving. Meanwhile the old women became more
and more noisy, their voices were elevated to the highest scolding
pitch, and one would imagine they were abusing all the saints in heaven,
instead of praying for mercy. At last the blood melted, and they began
to bless St. Januarius, and to weep for joy. The first indication of
fluidity was, that the dark looking mass slipped round, when the vessel
was inverted; the external matter then very soon became quite fluid, but
there was a lump in the middle which diminished continually, but was not
entirely gone when I came away. I was near enough to have touched the
officiating priest during any part of the ceremony, and therefore you
may depend upon this as an accurate account of what took place that day.
All the appearances seem to indicate the effect of increased
temperature, affecting, as it naturally would do, first the external
part of the mass. The chapel became very hot during the ceremony, from
the great number of people and of candles, but it is evident, from the
way in which it is kept, that this warmth can penetrate very slowly to
the vial of blood. One difficulty seems to arise from the unequal times
at which it melts, under circumstances apparently very similar. A
morning or two before, Mr. L. saw it performed in ten minutes, and yet
there were not many persons present; the morning in which I saw it, it
took thirty-five minutes, and sometimes it does not melt at all. The
part that became fluid was not merely softened. It ran quite freely, and
without adhering to the glass. I should conceive it to be some resinous
substance dissolved in spirits of turpentine, and if there were such a
mixture which would dissolve at uncertain temperatures, I should be glad
to suppose it to be that, because it is unpleasant to charge such a
number of persons, as must necessarily partake in it, with so gross an
imposture. But I am afraid my condition will be pronounced impossible.
Every Italian city has some peculiarities of custom or language which
are amusing to a stranger, though sometimes, it must be confessed, they
are rather annoying. Here about daybreak, or a little before, I am
awaked by a number of confused sounds, but I go to sleep again in spite
of them. My breakfast is usually taken at a coffee-house, and in my way
there, I discover in what these voices consisted, at least in some
degree; for as the language here is any thing but pure Tuscan, I cannot
pretend to understand the whole of it. Perhaps in all countries the
criers of goods form something of a dialect of their own, as in London,
where a stranger might well be puzzled to find out their meaning. And
then there are elisions, which are only explained by the action, or by
the goods exposed for sale. One is bawling “_quattro grani, quattro
grani_,” meaning that he has figs to sell, at four grains the rotolo. A
Neapolitan rotolo consists of thirty-three ounces, and amounts very
nearly to two pounds avoirdupois. The grain is a tenth part of a
carline, and that again the twelfth of a piastre, which wants a few
grains of a Spanish dollar. A grain is therefore something less than one
halfpenny. The coins which represent it may afford some new lessons in
arithmetic. Theoretically, two tornesi are equal to one grain. But we
have pieces of ten tornesi worth four grains, of eight tornesi equal
also to four grains, eight tornesi equal two grains and a half, five
tornesi equal two grains: when the coins are very numerous, even these
erroneous marks are better than none at all, as they enable us to
identify the piece with certainty. What is pleasant enough is, that the
copper coins of 1816 have the head of Ferdinand the Fourth, while those
of 1817 have, in the legend, Ferdinand the First, his majesty having
been graciously pleased in the interval to annihilate three of his
ancestors. To return to the figs, they are small, but very good, and
neatly piled up in small round baskets, with leaves between them, and
flowers stuck among them by way of ornament. Close by, another fellow is
calling “_tre grani, quattro grani_,” as the price of the different
sorts of grapes, which are disposed in the same manner, and with the
same attention to decoration. This indeed is quite the character of the
Neapolitan. “_O che bella cosa_,” cries his neighbour, and he has cut up
a melon into pieces, which he sells for half a grain each. “_Quanto è
bello_,” thunders forth the butcher, who admires with rapture the meat
he wishes you to buy.
You find by this time that my way from the inn to the Toledo lies
through a sort of market, but it is merely a short street of shops and
stalls. “_Carità, signore, carità, pell’ amore di Maria santissima._”
“_Signore, ps, signore_,” says the shoeblack, and he points to my shoes,
requesting I would permit him to black them. They have just been
cleaned; no matter, he is ready to clean them again. “_Andiamo_,” cries
a vetturino, or rather callessiere. I ask where we are to go, and he
runs over the names of half a dozen places in the neighbourhood,
Portici, Pozzuoli, Baia. I take shelter from all this in a coffee-house,
endeavouring to choose one where they are not roasting coffee at the
door, or preparing cakes of chocolate within; and where they do not
permit the customers to have their boots cleaned in the room. Perhaps
after breakfast I wish to go to some place in the neighbourhood, and I
have no difficulty in finding a conveyance. “How much,” I ask, “must I
give you to take me to Pozzuoli?” “_Tre piastre, va bene?_” “No,” I
reply, “it is too much.” “Well, how much will you give?” “Five
carlines,” is my answer. “Oh Sir! five carlines to go seven miles, and
stay there all day, and bring you back again?” things, by the by, which
he did not at all intend to include in his first bargain. “But I do not
want you to stay, or to bring me back, but merely to take me there.”
“_Una piastra, va bene?_” “No.” “Including _buona mano_ and every
thing.” I walk on. “_Ps Signore, otto carlini?_” “No.” “_Sette?_” “No.”
“_Sei?_” “Well, including the _buona mano_.” “Oh! you will give me a
bottle.” “Not a grain more, six carlines and nothing beside.”
“_Andiamo._” He brings up his little one-horse chaise, in which two
people can just sit. I get in, and he seats himself at the bottom, or
perhaps gets up behind, offering me the reins, which I never take, but
retaining himself the whip. This he smacks, and we set off at a round
trot, or perhaps at a gallop. At the end of the journey, he affects to
be very much surprised that you pay him no more than his bargain. The
next contest is with the Ciceroni of the place, who are ambitious of the
honour of serving you for half a dollar, or for less, if they are rather
thin of visitors; and last again with the vetturini in returning. With
all this, whether they succeed or fail, they are never uncivil. You have
to bargain at the shops almost as much as with the vetturini. “Amongst
so many,” said a French gentleman to me, soon after my arrival, “it is
not possible that there should not be some honest man; I can only say,
that during a residence of eight years, I have not had the good fortune
to meet with one.” “It would be very uncharitable to suppose,” observed
an English gentleman, who had equal, or superior opportunities of
knowing, and the conversation happened on the same day, “that among a
population of six millions, there should be no honest man; and it is
possible that one or two whom I know may be men of honour, but the
exceptions are so few, that it is fair to say, that from the king upon
the throne, to the lowest lazzaroni in the streets, they are all
knaves.”
Eating and drinking are more expensive here than at Rome, which is said
to be owing to heavier duties; but it must be confessed that you are
better treated at the _trattorie_, and better served. There is no
bargaining at these places; they have printed lists of their articles,
with the prices affixed. If you prefer ordering a dinner altogether, you
may have an excellent one for six carlines, or, if you wish to be
luxurious, for ten, when you will have eight dishes, besides various
little things to excite the appetite, fruit, and wine of a better
quality than that commonly drunk.
There cannot be a stronger contrast than between Rome and Naples. In the
former city every thing breathes repose; the streets are not deserted,
but you meet only with persons going soberly about on their several
occasions; and except perhaps, for about an hour in an evening in the
Corso, there is no crowd, no bustle. If you pass beyond the walls, you
may walk for miles along the silent and open roads of the Campagna, and
see only a few shepherds tending their flocks. Here it is one
everlasting tumult, every street seems crowded, the whole population is
out of doors, and in incessant motion. You look along the Toledo (the
principal street in Naples) and see nothing but heads, and here and
there a carriage passing among them at a quick pace, while the driver is
incessantly calling out “_Badi_,” to warn the foot passengers to get out
of his way. Accidents seem unavoidable, yet they rarely happen, and the
punishment is, I understand, very severe. The roads about the city are
everywhere full of people, the same incessant motion prevails
everywhere. The Neapolitans are very noisy, yet they are fond of
answering by signs rather than by words, and in the shops I find them
very sparing of their replies and of their trouble. When I have had
occasion to ask for anything not quite in common use, one shopkeeper has
replied very civilly “_No, signore_,” a second answers plain “_No_,” a
third thinks he has it, but does not know where it is. If I will call
again, perhaps he may find it; a fourth merely screws up his mouth into
a semicircle, and a fifth cocks up his chin, both of which are
Neapolitan negatives. However you must take care what you are about, for
another screw of the mouth means yes, and when they have to give you any
direction, they point with the chin. This language of signs and
inarticulate sounds is not that of nature, it is just as arbitrary and
conventional as that of words.
In an evening I often walk down to the Strada de’ Giganti, to watch the
explosions of Vesuvius. In the day time we only see puffs of smoke, but
at night there are frequent bursts of red hot cinders, like a great
Chinese gerb. They are often so abundant, that for a few seconds after
the explosion, the top of the mountain appears red hot. On passing Torre
del Greco one night after dark, these explosions appeared very
magnificent, and I could distinguish the individual stones, and see them
roll down the mountain, and hear the dull heavy noise of their fall like
distant thunder.