FROM CONSTANTINOPLE TO FLORENCE.
“Land of the Sun! where’er my footsteps roam,
My thoughts return to thee--thou art my spirit’s home.”
J. H. PRINGLE.
And thus the days of Constantinople had gone by, and we were on our
voyage back, westward ho! The ship had spread its sails, and the fresh
north wind sped us on our way. The sea was very rough; but the movement
of the ship, going with the wind, was not unpleasant.
The second night of our voyage I slept very soundly; the waves had
rocked me to sleep. Suddenly I was roused by cannon shots, which
appeared to be fired-off close to my cabin-window, and shook our vessel.
I rose quickly, and found that we had cast anchor in the harbour of
Piræus, which was full of men-of-war and other vessels belonging to
different nations. All had hoisted their flags, and the Greek vessels
were cannonading, for it was the 5th of May--King George’s birthday. But
I had no time to lose in looking at what was going on in the harbour of
Piræus, for in a few hours our boat would leave for Messina, and I
wanted to see Athens during that time. I am almost ashamed to say that
we did not stop a few days at Athens, but there is only one boat in the
week that leaves Athens for Messina, and as we could not spare a week,
we had to content ourselves with a few hours. But shall I say the
pleasure was not great because it was short? Are not most of the
greatest joys of life counted by minutes and hours rather than by weeks
and months?
It was a splendid morning, full of clouds and sunshine. The clouds hung
over the mountains, but over head smiled the blue Ionian sky. What a
pleasant drive it was from Piræus to the Acropolis. After the roads of
Turkey it was a great pleasure to drive at a quick pace over a good one.
The road was white and dusty, a true summer-road, of which I am very
fond. I should most probably have liked it better, if the dust had not
been blown into our faces, but I was that morning not in a humour to
find fault with anything. I think, in spite of much that is attractive
and interesting, I was inwardly glad to be out of Turkey, and if ever I
see it again it will not be from choice. The road, after we had driven
through some waste and barren land, led through cornfields, where the
corn seemed almost ripe; through hayfields and vineyards, which were
studded with olive and fruit trees.
Before I left England, the wife of a soldier, who had accompanied her
husband to the Crimean war, told me that she had also been at Athens,
and that it was “not far from Greece.” I found it, however, farther from
Piræus than I expected. It is an hour’s sharp drive, and although the
hour passed pleasantly, it seemed long; perhaps because my wish to see
the Acropolis was great. We stopped, however, first before the Temple of
Theseus; I had seen it at some distance from the window of our carriage,
and had admired the grand and noble structure. When I saw it near I
found it was but small, and admired the art that could make a
comparatively small and very simple building look so imposing.
A short walk brought us to the Acropolis, and when the keeper unlocked
the wooden gate, my heart beat at the thought that I was in ancient
Greece. With a strangely solemn feeling I ascended the steps of the
Propylæa, and then I found myself surrounded by the glorious remains of
those noble works of art which, for simple grandeur and beauty, are
unsurpassed by anything the genius of man has since produced. Through
those noble columns I beheld the very same features of land and sky on
which the sages, the orators, the artists of Greece had gazed. I
gathered a handful of flowers that grew among the ruins. I picked up
some tiny fragment of marble, and looked at it with a feeling akin to
that with which a devout Roman Catholic contemplates a relic of his
patron saint. At the same moment my foot stumbled against a broken piece
of a cannon-ball. And then I remembered that the “barbarous Turk,” more
than the ravages of time, had changed these precious monuments of
ancient art into ruins; that the Turks had made a powder magazine of the
Parthenon, which exploded through a Venetian bomb, and destroyed the
Temple of Minerva. And I felt that the Greeks were not to blame for
hating them. I felt as if I should have liked to pull down with my own
hands the rude, ugly remains of the walls with which they have
disfigured the temples of the gods. I felt also very indignant against
the Venetians who had no small share in the destruction of those art
treasures. They should have known better than to commit such sacrilege.
And shall I not say that Lord Elgin, too, committed a great wrong in
carrying off those marbles that still adorned the Parthenon? There,
under the blue sky of Greece, was their home, and they ought to have
remained there. It is true enough that now they can be seen by “the
million” that visit the dim rooms of the British Museum; but he has for
ever robbed those that might have seen them where they were first
placed, of one of the greatest enjoyments art can give to those that
love the beautiful.
When we left the fine harbour of Piræus, the Captain pointed out to us
the Bay of Salamis, the Throne of Xerxes, the Tomb of Themistocles, and
other famous and interesting spots; but I listened only with half
attention, for my eyes tried still to distinguish the Acropolis, and I
cast many a “long, lingring look behind;” steam and wind, however,
carried me quickly away, and soon I saw nothing but the bare, cheerless
coast of Greece.
Towards evening the movement of the ship became more violent; the sea
rolled in large foaming waves, and when towards nine o’clock we turned
Cape St. Angelo, we had some very heavy gusts of wind, which produced
such rolling of the boat, that I held to the bench in order to keep my
seat. It was a grand sight, but I have no liking for that kind of
grandeur, so I stumbled down stairs as well as I could, in order to see
no more of it.
On awaking next morning, I found, to my great satisfaction, that the
ship moved along with a motion hardly perceptible, the sky was almost
cloudless, and the air mild and balmy. That day passed pleasantly. I
wrote my letter to my children, read a Waverley Novel, and watched the
poor little swallows and turtledoves, that came with weary wing to
rest on the masts of our ship. One was so tired that a boy belonging
to the crew caught the little wanderer in his hand. We gave it some
food and water and a free passage to Sicily, where it was set free.
I awoke early next morning, and peeping through my cabin window, saw in
the rays of the rising sun the coast of Calabria. “Ah mio Lindoro presto
vedremo l’Italia.” I sang, and awoke my husband. We were soon on deck.
The sea was calm, and the air as soft and balmy as the day before. The
coast of Calabria lay before us, and a little towards the left towered
Mount Etna, from whose snow-covered crater arose a white column of
smoke, as if Nature was bringing there her morning sacrifice. As we
neared the coast the sea became enlivened with boats, whose white sails
were reflected in the mirror of the calm sea. We gradually came so close
to the coast of Calabria, that we could distinguish houses, trees,
gardens, and even human beings and cattle. Through my opera glass I
distinguished the very colours of the gaily dressed peasant women that
were going to mass, for it was Sunday, and about church time.
The first place at which I looked with special interest was Milito, the
little village where Garibaldi ran his ship ashore, when he came to
conquer Naples, and was pursued by Neapolitan men-of-war. The Captain
that pointed the place out to us, told us that there were still some
débris left of the vessel that brought the deliverer of Southern Italy
to the shores of Calabria. Then came Reggio, the Neapolitan fortress
which the brave Garibaldians took under the command of our friend
Colonel Chiassi, and a little further on lay Aspramonte. What a story
those three places tell! I looked with a feeling of deep sadness at the
mountains over which the flying Garibaldians had carried their wounded
General, and thought of Columbus brought back to Spain in chains, of
poor John Huss burned at the stake, of Galileo languishing in the
prisons of the Inquisition, and how the world has ever cried “crucify
him” against its benefactors.
The coast of Calabria looked cheerful and well cultivated; the mountains
have wild strange shapes, but at their feet are orange groves, and
mulberry plantations, with here and there, growing in the midst of the
bright green, the sombre foliage of the olive. I observed many new
comfortable looking houses, with large windows and green shutters, which
I hope speak of an improved state of the country, and which contrast
favourably with the old dwellings of the Italian peasantry. The latter
are generally very wretched looking places, with small dismal looking
holes instead of windows.
We stayed a day at Messina, and profited by it to look at the town, the
churches, etc. How everything is relative in this world. Had I gone to
Messina after visiting Florence and Naples, instead of before, I should
most likely have thought it a very insignificant looking place. But
after Constantinople and Smyrna, it looked a town of palaces. The nice
pavement, the fine large stone houses, with their balconies before every
window, on which dark girls in gay Sunday dress stood among flowers. It
looked quite grand, and very pleasant. The churches are rich in precious
marbles and gildings, but built in a very degenerate style of
architecture. The pictures with which they are decorated generally
represent tortured saints, and are even less satisfactory than the
buildings themselves. I wanted to see a little of the country, and we
therefore took a drive. I saw however nothing of it, except a dusty road
between high walls, which seemed to enclose orchards, for the branches
of orange, fig, mulberry, and olive trees, were visible above the walls.
I cannot tell whether all the roads around Messina are like this one, or
if our coachman was to blame for his choice. We found it difficult to
understand the Sicilian dialect, and almost required an interpreter to
translate it into Italian.
We left Messina the following afternoon. The weather was still calm and
beautiful; the sky cloudless, and the sea shining in the sunlight, as
calm as a lake. A short time after we had left Messina, we passed Scylla
and Charybdis, the first only discernible by a very slight movement in
the water, the latter a rather prominent rock on the opposite coast. It
must have been very different in the time of Homer, I should think, for
even the boldest imagination could not see in the present Scylla and
Charybdis, anything like what Homer describes it to have been. As for
Schiller’s beautiful description of it, in his ballad “The Diver,” it is
purely imaginative, for Schiller never visited Italy. The next day we
passed Stromboli, an island formed by a large volcano rising out of the
sea. The mountain, a grand and imposing cone, was in a somewhat active
state, much more so than Etna. I was sorry we did not see it by night,
for the thick column of smoke that rises out of it, then looks red and
fiery. It was however out of sight long before evening, but there were
other lights burning through the balmy night, and throwing rays of
silver light across the placid waters, Hesperus and “Cynthia’s shining
orb.” It was past midnight before we went down stairs, and we had slept
but few hours, when the bustle and noise that always follow the arrival
of the boat in port, awoke me. When I got on deck, the sun was rising
over Naples. I saw the Bay, and Vesuvius and Capri. All these wonderful
names were no longer empty sounds, but had become a reality, and I
rejoiced in that thought.
I have not spoken of any of my travelling companions since I left
Constantinople. The reason is, that they hardly deserved any special
notice. They were such people as any one is likely to meet. Several
English families, that had wintered abroad, and returned most of them
with coughs and sore throats. Some of the girls were very pretty,
perhaps all the more so because they looked so fragile, it seemed one
cold East wind would blow the pretty blossoms away. Then there was a
rich Jewess from Constantinople, with three daughters, who were all
“musical young ladies.” They were going to some European watering-place,
not for their health though, I should think, for they looked as strong
and hearty as one could wish. The Messageries Impériales steamers are
unfortunately provided with a piano, which I consider a most
inconsiderate arrangement on the part of the Company; for I had to
listen for several hours daily to the performances of these young
ladies, playing either singly or in couples. The nuisance became almost
intolerable, when they were joined at Messina by a musical young
gentleman, an officer from Malta, who, between the fantasias and sonatas
of the young ladies, treated us to a succession of quadrilles and
polkas. It broke into and spoiled the calm enjoyment of one of the most
beautiful moonlight-nights on the Mediterranean, when nature seemed so
hushed and still, that I involuntarily spoke in whispers.
There were also two interesting honey-moon couples on board: one of them
always sitting in out-of-the-way corners, so that perhaps I might have
been altogether unaware of their presence, so little were they in any
body’s way, had they not turned up regularly at meal times. The other
couple never turned up at all, at least not the lady. She was very
poorly, and in fair or foul weather always lying down in the Ladies’
Saloon; to the open door of which the devoted young husband came ever so
many times a day, offering lemonade, coffee, and other refreshments to
the sufferer, who however seemed unable to relish any thing.
And I must not forget Miss L--, because of the singular adventure that
happened to her. She was of middle age and rather delicate constitution,
had spent the winter with some friends at Malta, and was now on her way
home. We had been neighbours at dinner, and exchanged a few words. Early
in the evening, after we had left Messina, where she came on board, she
came to me in great agitation, and asked my advice under what were
certainly trying circumstances. The stewardess in showing her to her
cabin, had said that there would be but one other occupant, viz. a
“jeune demoiselle.” How surprised and horrified therefore was the poor
lady when, wishing to retire early, she had gone into her cabin, and saw
standing before the other berth a pair of man’s boots, and a man lying
dressed on it, who had his face covered with a silk handkerchief. She
rushed back and told the stewardess that there was a man in her cabin.
The stewardess however replied good humouredly, and with a smiling face:
“Non, Madame, ce n’est pas un homme, mais une jeune demoiselle noire qui
s’habille comme çà.” She told her at the same time that she was sorry
there was no empty berth in any other cabin, as she seemed to dislike
sleeping with the “jeune demoiselle noire.” At this information, the
slight knowledge of the French language which Miss L-- possessed, seemed
quite to forsake her, she found no words to reply, and came in despair
to me, as the only person with whom she had exchanged a few words on
board. “What am I to do?” so the poor thing concluded her story, “I
cannot sleep in the Saloon because it is full of gentlemen, and to
remain on deck would be sure to make me ill, as I am very susceptible to
colds.” I took her to my husband, as the tribunal to which I appeal in
difficult cases, and he at once reassured her by his promise that he
would take care she should not sleep in the same room with the black
person, who travelled under the name of a “jeune demoiselle.” He went
straight to the Captain, and what the stewardess said she could not do,
the Captain arranged. She slept comfortably in the same room with some
other ladies, who neither wore male attire, nor “the shadowy livery of a
warmer sun.”
Her gratitude to my husband was boundless, and she remained my constant
companion till we reached Naples, where we landed, while she proceeded
to Genoa and Marseilles. We saw the “jeune demoiselle,” as we called the
black person, a good deal on deck and at meals. Miss L-- always kept as
far as possible away from her, and I did not wonder at it. In looking at
the African I felt more than ever, that, although in theory the
Americans may be to blame for their manifest dislike to the Negroes; in
practice I should find it very difficult not to do as they do, and avoid
any intercourse with them. And I admired more than ever the heavenly
kindness of Mrs. Beecher Stowe’s little Eva, who broke her heart at the
fate of this race. I forget at this moment, if, according to Mr.
Darwin’s theory, we have a common origin with them, or are descended
from them. In the latter case I hope nobody will ever ask me the
question Farinato addresses to Dante in the Inferno: “Chi fur i maggior
tuoi”--as I should be rather ashamed to mention these ancestors.
Goethe quotes Pliny’s description of Naples, and what Goethe did I
surely may be allowed to do. Instead, therefore, of trying to describe
Naples myself, I will translate what he has quoted: “So happy, lovely,
blessed is that region, that one perceives Nature has rejoiced in her
work there. Such vital air, such continued salutary clemency of the sky,
such fruitful fields, such sunny hills, such innoxious woods, such shady
groves, such useful forests, such airy mountains, such far-extending
cornfields, such an abundance of vines and olive-trees, such fine wool
of the sheep, such fat necks of the oxen, so many lakes, such an
abundance of irrigating rivers and streams, so many seas, so many
harbours! The earth opens her bosom everywhere to commerce, and, almost
anxious to assist man, stretches her arms into the sea.” After reading
such a description, the well-known “Vedi Napoli e poi mori,” does not
seem very exaggerated; nor when Goethe writes of his father: “It is said
that he who has seen a ghost can never more be joyful, so on the
contrary one might have said of him (his father) that he could never
become quite unhappy, because he thought himself always back again at
Naples.” That the days I spent there brought me enjoyment and delight,
every one will easily suppose. People always call Paris a “gay” place,
and such no doubt it is, still thousands and thousands lead a dreary and
dismal life there, which seems hardly possible in Naples. Nature
supplies all the necessaries of life in such abundance that even poverty
ceases to cause real suffering. The climate is so mild that the want of
what we should call indispensable clothing brings no discomfort; while a
plate of macaroni, a dried fish, or a slice of melon seems to be all the
food they require. They are exceedingly fond of music and dancing, and
the Neapolitan airs are lively and pretty, and pleased me more than any
I have heard in Italy. The performers who sing before the hotel, the
caffés and restaurants, and accompany their songs with the guitar and
the liveliest expression and gesticulations, look delightfully merry and
cunning. Many of them improvise in a ready, pretty manner. Who can be
sad and morose in a place like this, where everybody looks smiling,
good-natured and contented? To be merry, joyful and happy lies in the
air there, and is contagious like an epidemic. And I do not think the
expression of good-nature and contentment one sees in almost every
face, belies their feelings. The Neapolitans appeared to be very
kind-hearted, and to delight in giving pleasure. We received, during our
short stay at Naples, several marks of good will from them, of which I
remember one especially with pleasure. We had stopped, on our way back
from a short excursion to Posilipo, at a pretty restaurant, where we
took some refreshments on an open platform overlooking the sea. While
sitting there, and looking at the Bay and all the beauty surrounding it,
a boat passed with a merry party in it, four of whom were amateur
musicians. They played on two guitars, a flute, and a trombone. As soon
as they saw us they stopped the boat right under our platform and played
a pretty Neapolitan air, with the simple intention of giving us
pleasure. When they had finished they greeted us and left. We returned
the kind salute, and listened to their “renewed strain” till it became
indistinct, and the accompanying sounds of the trombone only reached us.
After the great variety of Eastern costume the dress of the Neapolitans
looked rather tame. The dress of the women is neat and clean, their full
black hair is well plaited and shines like satin; but they wear nothing
that can be called a costume, and I found even crinoline introduced to a
great extent. If it were not for the dress of the different orders of
monks and nuns, of boatmen and fishermen, and here and there a contadina
in her pretty dress, the crowd would be not much more picturesque than
an English one, from which however it would be easily distinguished by
the darker complexion of the people, the animated features, and the
lively gesticulations with which they accompany all they say.
We were at Naples the week after the first Sunday in May, which is one
continual festival in honour of St. Gennaro, the great patron saint of
Naples. Thus I had an opportunity of witnessing the celebrated miracle
of liquefaction of the blood of the saint, which is kept in two phials
in the chapel “del Tesoro” adjoining the cathedral, for the blood
liquefies daily during the festival when high mass is celebrated. The
chapel is wonderfully magnificent; the three altars with their
ornaments, and the statues of more than forty saints, being all of
silver. The most magnificent of all is, of course, that of Saint Gennaro
standing on the high altar, whose mitre of gold is covered with precious
stones of great size, and who wears round his neck enough ornaments to
deck a whole crowd of queens and duchesses. They are the gifts of
different kings and queens of Naples. Napoleon I., who stripped so many
churches of their treasures, made a present to this all-powerful saint,
and Victor Emanuel seems to have thought that in this respect he too
must follow the example of his predecessors, for the saint wears two
magnificent crosses of amethysts and diamonds, the gift of the Rè
Galantuomo. My husband did not approve of this, and even expressed a
wish that Garibaldi had melted down the gold and silver saints, and
invested the money so obtained in schools for the people, and other
public and charitable institutions.
But who can tell if even Garibaldi, the idol of the people of Naples,
and the saint they perhaps most adore after St. Gennaro, could have done
this. The priest to whom I expressed my astonishment, that the treasures
of this chapel had escaped the vicissitudes of so many revolutions and
wars, said it was evidently a miracle wrought by the saint.
If the great St. Gennaro has as yet escaped peculation, the common
little saints that used to stand at every street corner of Naples, have
not fared so well of late. They were all of them removed in one night,
by order of General La Marmora, then Governor of Naples. The people,
especially the women, became clamorous and noisy on the discovery next
morning, but were told that the Governor was so fond of the Saints, that
he wished to take better care of them. He had therefore removed the
Saints from their uncomfortable quarters in the street, to snugger ones
in the Churches and Convents, where they would be much better off. This
entirely satisfied the crowd.
The removal of the Saints, and that of the pigs of St. Antonio, which
Garibaldi effected, has much changed the appearance of the streets of
Naples. The pigs of the Convent of St. Antonio, that used to run about
in the principal streets of Naples, even in the fine Strada Toledo, and
which lived upon public charity, were a terrible nuisance. The ignorant
populace held these pigs of the holy fathers in great veneration, and
fed them well, and I have been assured on good authority, that if a man
had with his cart or carriage run over a child in the streets, he might
possibly have escaped unpunished, but had he hurt a pig in that way, the
infuriated mob would almost have killed him.
The morning I went to hear High Mass in the Chapel del Tesoro, it
presented an animated and magnificent spectacle. The windows were
darkened by crimson blinds, to keep the strong sunlight out, and the
chapel was lighted up by numberless candles, the light of which was
reflected by the silver ornaments that deck the whole chapel. The way up
to the altar was lined with soldiers, I suppose to prevent disturbances
in the eager crowd that longed to kiss the liquefied blood.
The people walked up in good order to the altar, but on the sides down
which they returned, there was a good deal of squeezing and pushing. The
priest that held the little glass case, containing the two phials in his
hand, and who showed them to the congregation, shook the liquefied blood
about, and thrust the case into the people’s faces with so rudely
irreverent a manner, that I, who am no believer in the miracle, felt
shocked; what impression it made upon the other people I cannot tell.
They looked however quite contented and pleased. They were mostly
priests and nuns, and persons of the lower orders, but I observed also
some who appeared to belong to the upper classes.
While the crowd kissed the blood of the Saint the choir sang a most
beautiful mass, and the rich voices with which bountiful Nature has
endowed so many of her children under the blue sky of Naples, filled the
chapel with harmony, and made the chords of my heart vibrate in unison.
There was a bass voice among them that reminded me of Lablache.
On the evening of the same day I had witnessed the miracle of the
liquefaction in the Chapel del Tesoro, the son of the famous conjuror
Bosco repeated the trick before the boxes crowded with elegant ladies at
the Theatre St. Carlo, but I did not go to see it. Ever since I am out
of my teens, I no longer care for conjuring tricks; besides I had seen
it done so well in the morning. I was however told that the trick in the
evening succeeded quite as well, and was repeated several times before a
smiling and applauding audience. I visited most of the other principal
churches of Naples. The Church of St. Severo is full of fine modern
statues. One representing a man who is trying to free himself from the
meshes of a net in which he is entangled, and which is called “the
snares of the world,” is very clever. Another one called “Modesty” is
graceful, but as a representation of modesty, might have a somewhat
thicker veil. At the Museo Borbonico, now called “Reale,” I admired some
of the finest Greek marbles I have ever seen. The grand Torro Farnese,
the wonderful Hercules, of the same famous collection, a Flora, that
looks something between a Juno and a Venus, stately and graceful at the
same time, the most charming representation of virgin youth I have ever
seen. There is a whole room full of Venuses, of which one is certainly
very beautiful, although apparently too conscious of her charms to
please me very much.
“I must go up Mount Vesuvius before we leave Naples,” I said to my
husband, and he, not less desirous than myself to visit a volcano, set
out with me early the next morning, for the ascent of the mountain.
I know it is considered a beautiful sight to see the sun rise from the
top of Vesuvius, but as it rises in the middle of May at a most
unreasonably early hour, we despaired of getting to the top before the
sun, so we let the god travel alone for several hours, and did not leave
our hotel in the Chiatamone till a little after six o’clock. An hour’s
quick drive brought us to Resina. Our way to the latter led us through
the village of St. Giovanni, where one sees nothing but macaroni and
pigs. Most of the houses are small macaroni manufactories, and the fresh
macaroni are on long sticks, hung out into the street to dry. Most of
the manufacturers keep a pig, which is tied to some post in the street,
not far from the door of the house, or if a very tame, good little pig,
runs about free.
After St. Giovanni, we passed through Portici, the home of Masaniello
and his poor sister Fenella. Here there are delightful villas, with
gardens sloping down to the bay, and close to it lies Resina, where the
ascent of the mountain on horseback begins. There used to be a fine
carriage road as far as St. Salvator, which is about an hour’s ride up
the mountain, but the lava streams of the great eruption of 1859, have
entirely destroyed it. We had not been more than ten minutes on our
horses, when we came to these formidable traces of the last great
eruption of the volcano. In broad thick masses the lava had flowed down
the sides of the mountain into the blooming orchards and fruitful
vineyards, to which the dark, dead rivers of stone presented a striking
contrast.
These lava streams have a strange and diverse appearance. Sometimes the
surface is roughly even and resembles immense masses of curiously
twisted burnt trunks, and branches of trees. At other places it is more
like a roughly ploughed field that by a sharp frost has become still
more broken up than by the plough. Between the lava are large beds of
ashes and cinders.
The ride to the foot of the cone, which lasted about an hour and a half,
presented no difficulty, for the road rises very gradually and is
broad, and lava presents a rough surface on which the horses’ feet do
not slip. The cone must be climbed on foot, and is a very tiring piece
of work even with the assistance of two guides, the one to pull you up
with the help of a band fastened round his waist, the other pushing you
up by placing one of his hands against your back. As climbing does not
easily tire me I wanted to walk up, to which my husband however
objected; so I had to sit down in a chair in which the guides carried me
up. One guide in front held the two poles which were fastened to the
chair in his hands, two men behind carried each one on his shoulder, and
thus kept the chair in a horizontal position. It must be very hard work
indeed to carry any body for an hour up so steep an ascent; for my
husband, although he was assisted in the already described manner by two
guides, found it very tiring indeed. The men did it however cheerfully,
and with less appearance of fatigue than I had expected. When we had
reached the top, and my husband and the men had rested awhile, we walked
to the brink of the crater, and now I saw, with my own eyes, the strange
and grand spectacle to the description of which I remember to have
listened with almost incredulous wonder when a little school girl, and
which to see I had longed for ever since we had passed Mount Etna and
Stromboli.
The volcano was in a very fair state of activity. Thick volumes of smoke
issued from it, and about every two minutes there was a loud report as
of thunder or cannon, and then flames appeared, and ashes and stones
were ejected flying high up into the air, and falling down with a
rattling noise. It must not however be thought that we stood close to
the terrible opening out of which rose the flames and smoke. Within the
large crater from the brink of which we witnessed the spectacle, rises,
what looks a Vesuvius on a smaller scale, and on the top of this, which
is however below the level of the place where we stood, is the real
crater. It is very fascinating to watch the eruptions, and we found it
difficult to turn our backs upon it, and look a little at the scene
around us in the beautiful world below.
The top of Vesuvius looks terribly dreary; the dread abode of horror and
destruction. Nothing but the dark lava stones and ashes all around.
There is of course no trace of animal or vegetable life visible
anywhere. The sad monotony is however a little relieved by the different
colours of the lava and the stones; especially by the bright yellow of
the sulphur one sees in large quantities. This hideous image of death
and destruction rises abruptly out of Elysian plains and vallies; its
foot is washed by the azure sea dotted with emerald islands, and above
smiles a limpid sky.
The view is very extensive, because Vesuvius is a mountain of
considerable altitude; yet as it rises so abruptly out of the plain and
sea, the view has the distinctness of no great distance, which adds much
to its charm. It is lovely on all sides; but from the point that
overlooks Naples, the Bay and its lovely shores, the Mediterranean, and
the islands of Capri, Ischia and Procida, it is deservedly considered
one of the most lovely in the world.
In going up the volcano the guides had chosen a stony, rough stream of
lava, which affords a safe footing; in going down, on the contrary, they
chose a bed of fine cinders and ashes, and ran or slid rapidly down.
What it had taken us an hour to ascend, my husband descended in six
minutes, and I, chair and all, took only about double that time. It is a
very dusty affair, the black ashes whirl up under the feet of the men,
and envelope one completely. Never was a tepid bath more refreshing than
the one I enjoyed in the evening after I had come home from my visit to
Vesuvius.
The guides had pointed out to us the lava streams of the different
eruptions, and the immense stones and pieces of rock which were ejected
by the volcano in 1822. In looking at these formidable pieces of rock,
of which some were at a great distance from the crater, one gets an idea
of the power that is working within it, and the fate of Herculaneum and
Pompeii becomes intelligible. The latter place we had visited the day
before. All I felt there is expressed in those few words: “Sic transit
gloria mundi.” But never before had I realized so fully what the
instability of all earthly greatness means. In this city of the dead I
felt far, far removed from the present, and my mind for a moment seemed
to realize what the future really means. A time, when the lovely city I
had just left would have disappeared from the face of the earth, and its
old site be a matter of doubt and uncertainty, when the language of
Dante would survive perhaps in his book only, when the very features of
sea and mountain around me might be changed; for had not eighteen
hundred years ago, the waves of the gulf washed the walls of Pompeii
that now lies far inland, and another Vesuvius burned than the one we
ascended? And I saw with my mind’s eye the proud city across the sea,
which I had left a few months before, as Macaulay, thinking of a time to
come, describes it, a heap of ruins; and a traveller in a strange
dress, speaking a language which is not yet formed, sitting on a broken
arch of London Bridge, meditating like me at that moment on the truth of
the words, “Sic transit gloria mundi.” We did not, as Murray recommends,
enter Pompeii by the Strada dei Sepolcri, but through the Porta del
Mare, and I liked it better, as the Strada de Sepolcri forms the fittest
finale of the town.
I have heard of people who have been disappointed in Pompeii, others
have said the same of the Acropolis. I cannot understand such people.
They must be more dead than the very stones there, for they spoke to me,
and what they said moved me deeply. When I first entered the city of the
dead, I felt strange and bewildered like in a dream. Surely “reality is
stranger than fiction.” What can be more strange than that the sun
should shine again into the streets, and light up the painted walls and
mosaic pavement of Pompeii. And yet so it is. That very old Pompeii,
that lay for nearly eighteen centuries buried, is risen again. We walk
through its streets, and tread the very stones worn out by the footsteps
of Roman citizens, and by the wheels of their chariots.
We see their houses, their temples, their judgment halls, their baths
and theatres, their gardens and court-yards, in which however the little
fountain is silenced for ever. In walking into their houses we seem to
become strangely familiar with their former inhabitants; we see
everywhere traces of their being, of their virtues and vices, of their
greatness and their folly. I daresay by night the spirits of the
departed haunt the silent town; but it was by broad cheerful daylight
that I visited it, and therefore it seemed inhabited only by pretty
little lizards, which I saw flitting about on every wall, and between
the delicate ferns that grow in the silent streets of Pompeii.
Of our journey from Naples to Leghorn, there is not much to be said,
although it was very pleasant. We went with the Italian steamer
“Principe Umberto,” which was filled with passengers, most of whom were
going like ourselves to Florence, for the Dante festival, which was to
be celebrated there on the 14th, 15th, and 16th of May. Several of the
passengers were deputies sent to Florence from different towns in
Calabria. The company was lively and merry. The piano in the saloon
sounded almost the whole day, but being touched by skilful fingers it
did not annoy me like the performances of the young ladies from
Constantinople, or the quadrilles of the young English officer.
We arrived at Leghorn on the 13th of May, after a journey of
twenty-four hours, there we remained the night, not daring to proceed to
Florence, for we knew that all the hotels were over-crowded, and that we
should find it difficult to get a room if we arrived late at night.
After a stroll through the town, which is a well built modern place, we
went to rest, in order to be better able to bear the fatigues, and enjoy
the pleasures of the days to come.