exhibition of the girandola, or great fireworks, from the castle of St.
Angelo, which commences by a tremendous explosion, that represented the
raging eruption of a volcano. Red sheets of fire seemed to blaze upwards
into the glowing heavens, and then to pour down their liquid stream upon
the earth. This was followed by an incessant, and complicated display
of every varied device that imagination could figure,—one changing into
another, and the beauty of the first, effaced by that of the last.
Hundreds of immense wheels turned round with a velocity that almost
seemed as if demons were whirling them, letting fall thousands of hissing
dragons, and scorpions, and fiery snakes, whose long convolutions,
darting forward as far as the eye could reach in every direction, at
length vanished into air. Fountains, and jets of fire, threw up their
blazing cascades into the skies.
“The whole vault of heaven shone with the vivid fires, and seemed to
receive into itself innumerable stars and suns, which shooting up into
it, in brightness almost insufferable,—vanished—like earth-born hopes.
The reflection in the depth of the calm clear water of the Tiber, was
scarcely less beautiful than the spectacle itself, and the whole ended
in a tremendous burst of fire, which, while it lasted, almost seemed to
threaten conflagration to the world.
“The expense of the illumination of St. Peter’s, and of the girandola,
when repeated two successive evenings, as they invariably are at the
festival of St. Peter, is one thousand crowns; when only exhibited
one night, they cost seven hundred. Eighty men were employed in the
instantaneous illuminations of the lamps, which to us seemed the work of
enchantment. They were so posted as to be unseen.”
The conclusion of these ceremonies impresses one forcibly, with the
same feelings as the termination of a theatrical performance, when the
green curtain descends, and conceals from view the various actors of the
drama, all as yet retaining their appropriate situations, and ready to
recommence the exhibition, when the appointed period again comes round;
while the spectators hasten away to their respective homes carrying with
them vivid ideas of the pageantry with which they have been amused: thus
was it with Rome, which, like a vast amphitheatre, now began to pour
forth in all directions, the crowds of visitors, whom this scene of
pleasure, or sentiments of devotion, had attracted.
It was not a little interesting to contrast these religious spectacles
of modern, with the gigantic and martial amusements of ancient Rome; nor
is it possible to receive otherwise than a melancholy impression, of the
comparative littleness of the former, as well as the mistaken policy,
which has perverted the pure simplicity of a religion, primitively
plain and unadorned as that of Christianity, into the ground-work, and
vehicle, of affected ceremonial and gorgeous pageantry, for the purpose
of enslaving the human mind. Nor, after all, does any part of this
imposing scene strongly affect the imagination, so as to realize the
ideal expectation of its participators, except indeed the all powerful
and sublime misereres; the illumination of St. Peter’s; and the fireworks
of St. Angelo. These, indeed, work upon the mind with magic charms, and
transport it into a fairy world, beyond the limits of mortality.
I had a great desire to ascend to the summit of St. Peter’s,
notwithstanding a prohibition had lately been issued against persons
going up to the cross, on account, it was said, of a young English
midshipman having ascended late one evening, and attached privately to it
an union Jack, which he had carried in his pocket; so that next morning
the British flag was seen flying over the once mighty city of Rome. I
should rather however imagine, that the prohibition arose from fear of
accidents.
On leaving the church, we ascended a broad staircase formed of stone
steps, so easy of ascent, that you might have rode up or down with
perfect safety, which led to the upper part of the body of the church,
whence its dome springs, and where you are astonished by the vast extent
of the roof, with ranges of small houses and workshops upon it. Stone
seats are also placed for the accommodation of visitors, from whence may
be seen the cupolas of the side chapels, which are invisible from below.
I determined, however, to proceed into the ball, which every one is
permitted to do.
From this point we ascended the wonderful, and stupendous dome, by a
succession of staircases, each terminating in a gallery, from whence a
noble view of the city and surrounding country is to be seen.
The staircases gradually decreased as we ascended, until, at length,
they became so contracted, as scarcely to be capable of admitting a man
of more than ordinary size, and who, if he did succeed in reaching the
copper ladder which leads immediately into the ball, must have then
disencumbered himself of his dress, to have made good his entry into that
place.
On arriving within the ball, we found it capacious enough to contain
several persons, and were told that no less than from sixteen to twenty
had been within it at the same time; but they must have been of the same
quality with Pharaoh’s lean kine; or, as I have heard Scotchmen express
it, “a heap of fellows.”
During my stay in Rome, I frequently repeated my visits to its more
interesting points, as the Capitol, St. Peter’s, and the Pantheon, and
traversed the city and its neighbourhood; by which repetitions I imagine
that I gained almost as correct ideas, as if I had actually seen these
objects.
That beautiful and venerable building, the Pantheon, must not be passed
over without a more particular notice.
“Mark, how the dread Pantheon stands,
Amid the domes of modern hands,
Amid the toys of idle state,
How simply—how severely great.”
This temple, which from its round form, has obtained the name of the
Rotunda, is a hundred and fifty feet in height, and about the same
in diameter; it is divided into eight parts, one of which forms the
entrance gate: each of the other seven compartments, consists of two
fluted Corinthian pillars, and as many pilasters of _Giallo Antico_.
The capitals and bases are of white marble, and support a circular
entablature. The wall is perpendicular for half the height of the temple,
and then gradually slopes off as it ascends, forming a dome, the centre
of which consists of an aperture twenty-five feet in diameter.
There are no windows, the above opening at the top, admitting a
sufficiency of light, and producing a finer effect than windows could
have done. No great inconvenience can result from this opening; the
conical form of the temple prevents the rain from falling near the
walls where the altars now are, and where the statues of the gods were
formerly placed. The rain which falls in the middle, immediately passes
through holes which perforate a large piece of porphyry, that forms the
centre of the pavement; the whole of which consists of various pieces of
marble, agate, and other materials, which have been picked up from the
ruins, and now compose a singular kind of Mosaic work.
The portico was added by Agrippa, the son-in-law of Augustus; it is
supported by sixteen pieces of granite, five feet in diameter, and
each consisting of single pieces. Upon the frieze in the front, is an
inscription relative to its founder.
Some are of opinion that the Pantheon is much more ancient than the
Augustan age, and that the portico, which is the only part they admit to
be the work of Agrippa, though beautiful in itself, does not correspond
with the simplicity of the body of the temple.
But as it is not possible that I can convey any thing like a correct
idea of its beauties and magnificence, I shall venture to transcribe the
following account of this celebrated structure.
“Of the surviving edifices at Rome, the principal is the Pantheon itself.
It still retains its majestic portico, and presents its graceful dome
uninjured; the pavement laid by Agrippa and trodden by Augustus, still
forms its floor; the compartments, and fluted pillars of rich marble,
that originally lined its walls, still adorn its inward circumference;
the deep tints that age has thrown over it, only contribute to raise our
dignity and augment our veneration; and the traveller enters its portal,
through which thrice twenty generations have flowed in succession, with
a mixture of awe and religious veneration. Yet the Pantheon has suffered
greatly during the last eighteen centuries. The flight of steps that
conducted to its threshold, the marbles that clothed it, the statues that
graced its cornice, the bronze that blazed on its dome, that vaulted
its portico, and formed its sculptured doors, and the silver that lined
the compartments of its roof within, and dazzled the spectator with its
brightness, all have disappeared.”
My observations on this interesting city having extended themselves
beyond my expectation, I shall decline entering into any description
of the society and manners of its inhabitants, as also of the state of
the arts and science of modern Rome, since these points have been so
frequently and ably treated of by other authors.
Having now partaken freely of the rich intellectual feast, which this
venerable city affords, I prepared, in the first instance, to return to
Florence, getting my passport signed for that purpose, and arranging
with an intelligent friend, the Reverend ⸺ C⸺, to have the pleasure of
accompanying him to that city; but the nearer the moment of our proposed
departure approached, the more intense did I find an inclination to visit
Naples. This disposition was confirmed by the opinion of Dr. Clarke, that
the sulphurous vapour-baths of that place would be serviceable to my
health, although he strictly urged me not to continue there longer than
a month, in order to escape the injurious effects of the malaria arising
from the Pontine marshes, which would after that time become aggravated
by the heats of summer, and to which I must have been exposed on my
return, in case I should take the land route through Rome; it is true
they might have been avoided, by making a sea voyage to Leghorn, as I in
some measure contemplated.
Having thus been induced to alter my arrangements, I had my passports
made out accordingly, and secured my place in a cabriolet, which was to
set out on the following morning.
I was provided with some letters of introduction, and amongst the rest,
one to Mr. C⸺, a gentleman whom I afterwards felt assured, as it proved,
had been a most intimate friend of my own some years before, at which
time we crossed the Atlantic together from North America to England. I
was delighted with the supposed recognition, and in the sequel it will
be seen, that the renewal of our friendship proved most gratifying, and
advantageous to me.
CHAP. XVII.
JOURNEY TO NAPLES.
Taking our leave of Rome early on the morning of the first of May, we
reached Albano for breakfast, distant sixteen miles. Our party from
Rome, besides myself, consisted of an Italian gentleman, a German, and a
Frenchman; we were also accompanied by a lady, said to be a princess, and
attended by a handsome man-servant; after breakfast we received another
and our last passenger, who was a Roman officer. My companion in the
cabriolet was the German, whom I took to be an artist, but who was by no
means communicative, although he had some knowledge of the French, and a
perfect one of the Italian language.
At four o’clock we reached Veletri, where it was intended we should rest
for the night; but, notwithstanding this early hour, we were not indulged
with supper until eight o’clock, and then it was too scanty to satisfy
our hunger, I believe in consequence of the arrival of two English
ladies, shortly before it was served up for us. In the interim, we amused
ourselves with exploring the city, which my companions reported to be
a fine old town, but neglected, and thinly inhabited. After supper,
I retired to the hardest bed which I have met with on my tour; but
passengers in voitures are not to consider themselves entitled to the
best apartments; the Roman officer, Frenchman and myself, slept in one
room; the princess and her servant, I was informed, occupied another;
while the German was probably quartered with the vittureno.
In the morning at five o’clock, we left Veletri; and, as it was fine, I
walked some distance in company with the German. We had now to travel
along the famous Via Appia, originally a paved causeway extending from
Rome to Capua, and constructed by Appius Claudius the censor, in the year
of Rome, 441; the original bed still remains perfect in various places.
We soon, at the village of Cisterna, entered upon the Pontine marshes,
formed by an accumulation of the waters from various streams arising on
the neighbouring mountains, and prevented from running off, by a want
of declivity in the ground, so as to constitute a swampy fen, formerly
thirty miles in length and eight broad, and which is still in some
degree, a fertile source of infectious miasma, which not unfrequently
spreads disease and destruction into the very heart of the capital
itself. Through many centuries, the whole energies of the Roman people,
under their various consuls, emperors, and pontiffs, were in vain called
into action to drain them; the glory of success was reserved for the late
Pope Pius VI. who, in the year 1788, effectually removed this scourge of
Rome. The Appian road runs through the middle of these marshes, bounded
on the sides by canals, and shaded by double rows of elms and poplars. In
the middle of the marshes we stopped to breakfast about eleven o’clock,
at a very poor inn. Soon after which a carriage arrived containing the
two English ladies who had slept at Veletri at the same inn where we did;
but as they had taken breakfast previous to their departure, they were
not induced to leave their carriage.
About two or three miles before arriving at Terracina, we passed the
celebrated fountain of Feronia, situated within a few paces of the road,
and where the goddess of that name, formerly had a temple dedicated to
her, but which has now disappeared,—not a vestige,—not even a stone
remaining; while the once sacred grove by which it was surrounded,
has dwindled away; one single tree hanging a solitary mourner over
the violated fountain. It was here, that this goddess of liberty, and
_donatrix_ of personal freedom, bestowed the boon of emancipation
upon the slaves of ancient Rome, and which was confirmed by peculiar
ceremonies performed at her altar. The divinity of the place—unlike its
temple—imperishable and immortal—has taken flight to a more genial soil,
from whence it is diffusing blessings over the greater portion of a once
suffering world. Yes! Spirit of Liberty!
“⸺the Britannia’s isles adores.”
⸺
“Oh! could I worship ought beneath the skies,
That Earth has seen, or Fancy could devise,
Thine altar, sacred Liberty! should stand,
Built by no mercenary, vulgar hand,
With fragrant turf, and flow’rs as wild and fair
As ever dress’d a bank, or scented summer air.”—COWPER.
We arrived at Terracina at eight o’clock, and at five in the morning
recommenced our journey. After travelling five or six miles, we crossed
the barriers between the Roman and Neapolitan states, where our passports
were examined by the commandant of a small fort placed there. After
this, the country expands itself into the vale of Fondi, the mountains
retiring in such way, as to form a beautiful amphitheatre, richly clothed
with luxuriant and diversified woods. Our road passed through the middle
of this vale; a fine lake formed by the waters of innumerable mountain
streams, which run through the plain, bounding it on the right,—beyond
which lay the sea.
At Fondi, a small town situated in the above vale, the Appian road exists
in its original state, composed of broad rough flag stones closely laid
together, but without any cement interposed between them. The town of
Fondi, like most southern towns, has a gloomy appearance, in consequence
of the narrowness of the streets, and unglazed state of the windows. We
now passed through Castelone, and after descending a steep hill, reached
Mola de Gaieta, where we breakfasted at an excellent inn, delightfully
situated, and commanding a fine view of the sea. Near this place, on the
right of the road, we passed an ancient tower, said to be the tomb of
Cicero, erected on the spot where he was murdered.
“Mola is in itself an insignificant place, but it derives interest,
if not grandeur from its beautiful site; it consists of one street,
formed by the Via Appia on the side, at the foot of a range of broken
picturesque hills and mountains, covered with corn, vines, and
olive-trees, and topped with rocks, churches, and towers. The waters that
stream from these hills, unite and gush forth in a fountain close to the
town. The most conspicuous and striking object from the town of Mola, is
the fortress of Gaieta, crowning the rocky promontory of the same name,
with its white ramparts and batteries.”
On leaving Gaieta, we passed over the river Garigliano by means of a
wooden bridge. Our road after this, lay through the defiles of Mount
Massicus, which communicates with those of Callicula, a mountain covered
with forests, and we reached St. Agado about seven in the evening, when
we took up our quarters for the night; here I was compelled to sleep
in the same room with a man whom we had accidentally taken up on the
road, and to which, being satisfied he was an indifferent, character,
I at first strenuously objected, but finding I could get no other
accommodation, I at length acceded, on condition that a third bed in the
room should be also occupied; which was then filled by the servant of the
Italian lady.
We set out from St. Agado at four o’clock in the morning, and at ten
reached Capua for breakfast; here our vittureno drove us into the
stable-yard, and left us to get our breakfast where we could, for the
inn was fully occupied by Austrian officers, who were quartered at this
place: there was no resource, but to put up with a bad breakfast at a
miserable coffee-house.
We were informed, that an English carriage had been stopped by banditti
the preceding evening, about a post on the other side of St. Agado, one
of the horses shot dead, and their courier wounded; but the robbers
becoming alarmed, took to flight before they had secured their booty.
We congratulated ourselves upon an escape, having passed over the same
ground only two hours before this actually occurred.
Capua is a small unimportant town, distinct from the ancient city of
that name, which was situated at some distance, where remains of an
amphitheatre are still visible, and which before the building of that
of Vespasian, was considered superior to any in Rome itself; indeed
old Capua is said, at one time, to have vied with Rome and Carthage
themselves, in size and magnificence. It was here that the victorious
army of Hannibal, is said to have been enervated by the luxuries of
Italy. The alliance which this fated city formed with the Carthaginians,
in opposition to its former mistress, proved its ruin; in the spirit of
insulted majesty and retributive justice, it was besieged by the Consular
armies. In vain did Hannibal exert his high military talents for the
relief of his new friends; he could not force the Romans to abandon the
siege, and at length the unfortunate Capuans were compelled to bow under
the yoke of their conquerors.
Capua is distant sixteen miles from Naples, the intermediate country
comprising one of the most fertile tracts of Italy, upon which nature has
abundantly lavished her beauties and advantages.
About half way to Naples, we passed through the neat and modern town
of Averso, remarkable for having one of the best regulated and most
interesting lunatic asylums in the world, the results of which, as
tending to the restoration of the patients, have been most felicitous.
The system of treatment embraces an extended plan of amusement, of which
the charms of _music_ form an important feature.
“There is a charm, a pow’r that sways the breast,
Bids every passion revel and be still;
Inspires with rage, or all your cares dissolves;
Can soothe distraction, and almost despair;
That pow’r is music.”—ARMSTRONG.
We reached Naples about four o’clock in the afternoon, and after the
customary formalities of examining the baggage and passports, the former
of which was much facilitated by some trifling pecuniary arguments, we
were allowed to proceed to our respective quarters.
CHAP. XVIII.
NAPLES.
“Vedi Napoli e po mori,[1]” says a patriotic proverb of the country, in
which I was now residing; for the good people flatter themselves there is
nothing in the world worth seeing afterward: a farther instance of their
national partiality is contained in another adage, expressive of the
following sentiment: “When a Neapolitan is out of humour, he has only to
open his window and look at his country, to restore his complacency.” And
yet, alas! how wretchedly have these people defended that country!
[1] “See Naples and then die.”
Whatever might be the sensations with which I was affected on entering
this city, produced by my conceptions of its beauty and magnificence, I
could not avoid feeling rejoiced, at the circumstance of having reached
in safety, this boundary of my proposed pilgrimage, and the _ne plus
ultra_ of the generality of European travellers. But it was some time
before I could get comfortable accommodations. Our driver probably
imagining I should not be able to _see_ into his stratagem, took every
other passenger to his destined point, before he would attend to myself,
because the Largo Castello, to which I had directed him, happened to
be near his own quarters; consequently, it was six o’clock before I
arrived, and then I had the mortification to find the house too full to
receive me. I was compelled to search for apartments elsewhere, and only
with great difficulty at length succeeded, and was happy, after taking
refreshment, to get into a more comfortable bed than I had met with since
I left Rome.
Naples, or Napoli, was originally called Parthenope, a name said to have
been given by the Phœnicians, in consequence of its delightful situation.
This city is so ancient, that its original foundation is involved in the
obscurity of the earliest periods. It is reported to have been founded
by the Argonauts, thirteen centuries before the Christian era, and
afterwards strengthened and enriched, by colonies from Rhodes, Athens,
and Chalcis.
The impression I received on entering this city, was that of commercial
importance, from the bustle and confusion which I heard in some of the
streets through which we passed: but as all strangers are, in the first
instance, forcibly struck by the beauty of its situation, and magnificent
appearance, I cannot do better than quote the description given of it by
a favourite author, Dr. Moore.
“Naples is supposed to be founded by the Greeks. The charming situation
they have chosen, is one proof among thousands of the fine taste of that
ingenious people.
“The bay is about thirty miles in circumference, and twelve in diameter;
it has been named Crater, from its supposed resemblance to a bowl. This
bowl is ornamented with the most beautiful foliage, with vines, with
olives, mulberry and orange-trees, with hills, dales, towns, villas, and
villages.
“At the bottom of the bay of Naples, the town is built in the form of an
amphitheatre, sloping from the hills towards the sea.