NAPLES.--POMPEII AND PAESTUM.
NAPLES, October 23d.
"See Naples and die!" is an old Italian proverb, which, it must be
confessed, is putting it rather strongly, but which still expresses,
with pardonable exaggeration, the popular sense of the surpassing
beauty of this city and its environs. Florence, lying in the valley of
the Arno, as seen from the top of Fiesole, is a vision of beauty; but
here, instead of a river flowing between narrow banks, there opens
before us a bay that is like a sea, alive with ships, with beautiful
islands, and in the background Vesuvius, with its column of smoke ever
rising against the sky. The bay of Naples is said to be the most
beautiful in the world; at least its only rival is in another
hemisphere--in the bay of Rio Janeiro. It must be fifty miles in
circuit (it is nineteen miles across from Naples to Sorrento), and the
whole shore is dotted with villages, so that when lighted up at night,
it seems girdled with watch fires.
And around this broad-armed bay (as at Nice and other points along the
Mediterranean), Summer lingers after she has left the north of Italy.
Not only vineyards and olive groves cover the southern slopes, but
palm trees grow in the open air. Here the old Romans loved to come and
sun themselves in this soft atmosphere. On yonder island of Capri are
still seen the ruins of a palace of Tiberius; Cicero had a villa at
Pompeii; and Virgil, though born at Mantua, wished to rest in death
upon these milder shores, and here, at the entrance of the grotto of
Posilippo, they still point out his tomb.
In its interior Naples is a great contrast to Rome. It is not only
larger (indeed, it is much the largest city in Italy, having half a
million of inhabitants), but brighter and gayer. Rome is dark and
sombre, always reminding one of the long-buried past; Naples seems to
live only in the present, without a thought either of the past or of
the future. A friend who came here a day or two before us, expressed
the contrast between the two cities by saying energetically, "Naples
is life: Rome is death!" Indeed, we have here a spectacle of
extraordinary animation. I have seen somewhere a series of pictures of
"Street Scenes in Naples," and surely no city in Europe offers a
greater variety of figures and costumes, as rich and poor, princes and
beggars, soldiers and priests, jostle each other in the noisy,
laughing crowd.
Even the poorest of the people have something picturesque in their
poverty. The lazzaroni of Naples are well known. They are the lowest
class of the population, such as may be found in all large cities, and
which is generally the most disgusting and repulsive. But here, owing
to the warm climate, they can live out of doors, and thus the rags and
dirt, which elsewhere are hidden in garrets and cellars, are paraded
in the streets, making them like a Rag Fair. One may see a host of
young beggars--little imps, worthy sons of their fathers--lying on the
sidewalk, asleep in the sun, or coolly picking the vermin from their
bodies, or showing their dexterity in holding aloft a string of
macaroni, and letting it descend into their mouths, and then running
after the carriage for a penny.
The streets are very narrow, very crowded, and very noisy. From
morning to night they are filled with people, and resound with the
cries of market-men and women, who make a perfect Bedlam. Little
donkeys, which seem to be the universal carryalls, come along laden
with fruit, grapes and vegetables. The loads put on these poor beasts
are quite astonishing. Though not much bigger than Newfoundland dogs,
each one has two huge panniers hung at his sides, which are filled
with all sorts of produce which the peasants are bringing to market.
Often the poor little creature is so covered up that he is hardly
visible under his load, and might not be discovered, but that the heap
seems to be in motion, and a pair of long ears is seen to project
through the superincumbent mass, and an occasional bray from beneath
sounds like a cry for pity.
The riding carts of the laboring people also have a power of
indefinite multiplication of the contents they carry. I thought that
an Irish jaunting-car would hold about as many human creatures as
anything that went on wheels, but it is quite surpassed by the country
carts one sees around Naples, in which a mere rat of a donkey scuds
along before an indescribable vehicle, on which half a dozen men are
stuck like so many pegs (of course they stand, for there is not room
for them to sit), with women also, and a baby or two, and a fat priest
in the bargain, and two or three urchins dangling behind! Sometimes,
for convenience, babies and vegetables are packed in the same basket,
and swung below!
With such variety in the streets, one need not go out of the city for
constant entertainment. And yet the charm of Naples is in its
environs, and one who should spend a month or two here, might make
constant excursions to points along the bay, which are attractive
alike by their natural beauty and their historical interest. He may
follow the shore from Ischia clear around to Capri, and enjoy a
succession of beautiful points, as the shore-line curves in and out,
now running into some sheltered nook, where the olive groves grow
thick in the southern sun, and then coming to a headland that juts out
into the sea. Few things can be more enchanting than such a ride along
the bay to Baiae on one side or from Castellamare to Sorrento and
Amalfi, on the other.
Our first visit was to POMPEII, so interesting by its melancholy fate,
and by the revelations of ancient life in its recent excavations. It
was destroyed in an eruption of Vesuvius in the reign of Titus, in the
year 79, and so completely was it buried that for seventeen hundred
years its very site was not known. It was only about the middle of the
last century that it was discovered, and not till within a few years
that excavations were prosecuted with much vigor. Now the city is
uncovered, the roofs are taken off from the houses, and we can look
down into the very homes of the people, and see the interior of their
dwellings, and all the details of their domestic life.
We spent four or five hours in exploring this buried city, going with
a guide from street to street, and from house to house. How strange it
seemed to walk over the very pavements that were laid there before our
Saviour was born, the stones still showing the ruts worn by the wheels
of Roman chariots two thousand years ago!
We examined many houses in detail, and found them, while differing in
costliness (some of them, such as those of Diomed and Sallust and
Polybius, being dwellings of the rich), resembling each other in their
general arrangement. All seemed to be built on an Oriental model,
designed for a hot climate, with a court in the centre, where often a
fountain filled the air with delicious coolness, and lulled to rest
those who sought in the rooms which opened on the court a retreat from
the heat of the summer noon. From this central point of the house, one
may go through the different apartments--bedroom, dining-room, and
kitchen--and see how the people cooked their food, and where they eat
it; where they dined and where they slept; how they lay down and how
they rose up. In almost every house there is a niche for the Penates,
or household gods, which occupied a place in the dwellings of the old
Pompeiians, such as is given by devout Catholics to images of the
Virgin and saints, at the present day.
But that which excites the greatest wonder is the decorations of the
houses--the paintings on the walls, which in their grace of form and
richness of color, are still subjects of admiration, and furnish many
a model to architects and decorators. A great number of these have
been removed to the Museum at Naples, where artists are continually
studying and copying them. In this matter of decorative art, Wendell
Phillips may well claim--as he does in his eloquent lecture on "The
Lost Arts"--that there are many things in which the ancients, whether
Romans, Greeks, or Egyptians, were superior to the boastful moderns.
Something of the luxury of those times is seen in the public baths,
which are fitted up with furnaces for heating the water, and pipes for
conveying it, and rooms for reclining and cooling one's self after the
bath, and other refinements of luxury, which we had vainly conceived
belonged only to modern civilization.
From the houses we pass to the shops, and here we find all the signs
of active life, as if the work had been interrupted only yesterday.
Passing along the street, one sees the merchant's store, the
apothecary's shop, and the blacksmith's forge. To be sure, the fire is
extinguished, and the utensils which have been discovered have been
carried off to the Museum at Naples; but it needs only to light up the
coals, and we might hear again the ring on the anvils where the hammer
fell, struck by hands that have been dust for centuries. And here is a
bakery, with all the implements of the trade: the stone mills standing
in their place for grinding the corn (is it not said that "two shall
be grinding at the mill; one shall be taken and the other left"?); the
vessels for the flour and for water, the trough for kneading the
bread, and the oven for baking--long brick ovens they are, just like
those in which our New England mothers are wont to bake their
Thanksgiving pies. Nay, we have some of the bread that was baked,
loaves of which are still preserved, charred and blackened by the
fire, and possibly might be eaten, although the bread is decidedly
well done.
Of course, the most imposing structures that have been uncovered are
the public buildings in the Forum and elsewhere--the basilica for the
administration of justice; the theatres for games; and the temples for
the worship of the gods.
I was curious as to the probable loss of life in the destruction of
the city, and conclude that it was not very great in proportion to the
population. We have no means of knowing exactly the number of
inhabitants. Murray's Guide Book says 30,000, but a careful
measurement shows that not more than 12,000 could have been within the
walls, while perhaps as many more were outside of it. As yet there
have been discovered not more than six hundred skeletons; so that it
is probable that the greater number made their escape.
But even these--though few compared with the whole--are enough to
disclose, by their attitudes, the suffering and the agony of their
terrible fate. From their postures, it is plain that the inhabitants
were seized with mortal terror when destruction came upon them. Many
were found with their bodies prone on the earth, who had evidently
thrown themselves down, and buried their faces in their hands, as if
to hide from their eyes the danger that was in the air. Some tried to
escape with their treasures. In one house five skeletons were found,
with bracelets and rings of gold, silver, and bronze, lying on the
pavement. A woman was found with four rings on one of her fingers, set
with precious stones, with gold bracelets and earrings and pieces of
money. Perhaps her avarice or her vanity proved her destruction. But
the hardest fate was that of those who could not fly, as captives
chained in their dungeons. Three skeletons were found in a prison,
with the manacles still on their fleshless hands. Even dumb beasts
shared in the general catastrophe. The horse that had lost its rider
pawed and neighed in vain; and the dog that howled at his master's
gate, but would not leave him, shared his fate. The skeletons of both
are still preserved.
Altogether, the most vivid account which has been given of the
overthrow of the city, is by the English novelist, Bulwer, in his
"Last Days of Pompeii." He pictures a great crowd collected for
gladiatorial combats. That the people had these cruel sports, is shown
by the amphitheatre which remains to this day; and the greatest number
of skeletons in any one spot was thirty-six, in a building for the
training of gladiators. In the amphitheatre, according to the
novelist, the people were assembled when the destruction came. The
lion had been let loose, but more sensitive than man to the strange
disturbance in the elements, crept round the arena, instead of
bounding on his prey, losing his natural ferocity in the sense of
terror. Beasts in the dens below filled the air with howls, till the
assembly, roused from the eager excitement of the combat, at length
looked upward, and in the darkening sky above them read the sign of
their approaching doom.
But no high-wrought description can add to the actual terror of that
day, as recounted by historians. There are some things which cannot be
overdrawn, and even Bulwer does not present to the imagination a
greater scene of horror than the plain narrative of the younger Pliny,
who was himself a witness of the destruction of Pompeii from the bay,
and whose uncle, advancing nearer to get a better view, perished.
A city which has had such a fate, and which, after being buried for so
many centuries, is now disentombed, deserves a careful memorial, which
shall comprise both an authentic historical account of its overthrow,
with a detailed report of the recent discoveries. We are glad,
therefore, to meet here a countryman of ours who has taken the matter
in hand, and is fully competent for the task. Rev. J. C. Fletcher,
who is well known in America as the author of a work on Brazil, which
is as entertaining as it is instructive, has been residing two years
in Naples, preparing for the Harpers a work on Pompeii, which cannot
fail to be of great interest, and to which we look forward as the most
valuable account we shall have of this long-buried city.
Another excursion of almost equal interest was to PAESTUM, some fifty
miles below Naples, the ruins of which are second only to those of the
Parthenon. It is an excursion which requires two days, and which we
accordingly divided. We went first to Sorrento, on the southern shore
of the bay, one of the most beautiful spots around Naples, a kind of
eyrie, or eagle's nest, perched on the cliff, and looking off upon the
glittering waters. Here we were joined by a German lady and her
daughter, whom we had met before in Florence and in Rome, and who are
to be our travelling companions in the East; and who added much to our
pleasure as we picnicked the next day in the Temple of Neptune. With
our party thus doubled we rode along the shore over that most
beautiful drive from Sorrento to Castellamare, and went on to Salerno
to pass the night, from which the excursion to Paestum is easily made
the next day.
Notwithstanding the great interest of this excursion, it has been made
less frequently than it would have been but for the fact that, until
quite recently, the road has been infested by brigands, who had an
unpleasant habit of starting up by the roadside with blunderbusses in
their hands, and assisting you to alight from the carriage, and taking
you for an excursion into the mountains, from which a message was sent
to your friends in Naples, that on the deposit of a thousand pounds or
so at a certain place you would be returned safely. If friends were a
little slow in taking this hint, and coming to the rescue, sometimes
an ear of the unfortunate captive was cut off and sent to the city as
a gentle reminder of what awaited him if the money was not forthcoming
immediately. Of course, it did not need many such warnings to squeeze
the last drop of blood out of friends, who eagerly drained themselves
to save a kinsman, who had fallen into the jaws of the lion, from a
horrible fate.
That these were not idle tales told to frighten travellers, we had
abundant evidence. Within a very few years there have been repeated
adventures of the kind. An English gentleman whom we met at Salerno,
who had lived some forty years in this part of Italy, told us that the
stories were not at all exaggerated; that one gang of bandits had
their headquarters but half a mile from his house, and that when
captured they confessed that they had often lain in wait for _him_!
These pleasing reminiscences gave a cheerful zest to the prospect of
our journey on the morrow, although at present there is little danger.
Since the advent of Victor Emmanuel, brigandage, like a good many
other institutions of the old regime, has been got rid of. Our English
friend last saw his former neighbors, as he was riding in a carriage,
and three of them passed him, going to be shot. Since then the danger
has been removed; and still it gives one a little excitement to drive
where such incidents were common only a few years ago, and even now it
is not at all disagreeable to see soldiers stationed at different
points along the road.
Though brigandage has passed away _here_, like many an other relic of
the good old times, it still flourishes in Sicily, where all efforts
to extirpate it have as yet proved unsuccessful, and where one who is
extremely desirous of a little adventure, may find it without going
far outside the walls of Palermo.
But we will not stop to waste words on brigands, when we have before
us the ruins of Paestum. As we drive over a long, level road, we see in
the distance the columns of great temples rising over the plain, not
far from the sea. They are perhaps more impressive because standing
alone, not in the midst of a populous city like the Parthenon, with
Athens at its base, but like Tadmor in the wilderness, solitary and
desolate, a wonder and a mystery. Except the custodian of the place
there was not a human creature there; nor a sound to be heard save the
cawing of crows that flew among the columns, and lighted on the roof.
In such silence we approached these vast remains of former ages. The
builders of these mighty temples have vanished, and no man knows even
their names. It is not certain by whom they were erected. It is
supposed by a Greek colony that landed on the shores of Southern
Italy, and there founded cities and built temples at least six hundred
years before the Christian era. The style of architecture points to a
Greek origin. The huge columns, without any base, and with the plain
Doric capitals, show the same hands that reared the Parthenon. But
whoever they were, there were giants in the earth in those days; and
the Cyclopean architecture they have left puts to shame the pigmy
constructions of modern times. How small it makes one feel to compare
his own few years with these hoary monuments of the past! So men pass
away, and their names perish, even though the structures they have
builded may survive a few hundred, or a few thousand years. What
lessons on the greatness and littleness of man have been read under
the shadow of these giant columns. Hither came Augustus, in whose
reign Christ was born, to visit ruins that were ancient even in his
day. Here, where a Caesar stood two thousand years ago, the traveller
from another continent (though not from New Zealand) stands to-day, to
muse--at Paestum, as at Pompeii--on the fate which overtakes all human
things, and at last whelms man and his works in one undistinguishable
ruin.