The first sun that rose after our arrival in Naples was mild and warm
as a May sun, though we were quite in the heart of November. We early
strolled out under it into the crowded ways of the city, and drew near
as we might to that restless, thronging, gossiping southern life,
in contrast with which all northern existence seems only a sort of
hibernation. The long Toledo, on which the magnificence of modern
Naples is threaded, is the most brilliant and joyous street in
the world; but I think there is less of the quaintness of Italian
civilization to be seen in its vivacious crowds than anywhere else
in Italy. One easily understands how, with its superb length and
straightness, and its fine, respectable, commonplace-looking houses,
it should be the pride of a people fond of show; but after Venice and
Genoa it has no picturesque charm; nay, even busy Milan seems less
modern and more picturesque. The lines of the lofty palaces on the
Toledo are seldom broken by the façade of a church or other public
edifice; and when this does happen, the building is sure to be coldly
classic or frantically baroque.
You weary of the Toledo's perfect repair, of its monotonous iron
balconies, its monotonous lofty windows; and it would be insufferable
if you could not turn out from it at intervals into one of those
wondrous little streets which branch up on one hand and down on the
other, rising and falling with flights of steps between the high,
many-balconied walls. They ring all day with the motleyest life of
fishermen, fruit-venders, chestnut-roasters, and idlers of every age
and sex; and there is nothing so full of local color, unless it be the
little up-and-down-hill streets in Genoa. Like those, the by-streets
of Naples are only meant for foot-passengers, and a carriage never
enters them; but sometimes, if you are so blest, you may see a mule
climbing the long stairways, moving solemnly under a stack of straw,
or tinkling gayly down-stairs, bestridden by a swarthy, handsome
peasant--all glittering teeth and eyes and flaming Phrygian cap. The
rider exchanges lively salutations and sarcasms with the by-standers
in his way, and perhaps brushes against the bagpipers who bray
constantly in those hilly defiles. They are in Neapolitan costume,
these _pifferari_, and have their legs incomprehensibly tied up in the
stockings and garters affected by the peasantry of the provinces,
and wear brave red sashes about their waists. They are simple,
harmless-looking people, and would no doubt rob and kill in the most
amiable manner, if brigandage came into fashion in their neighborhood.
Sometimes the student of men may witness a Neapolitan quarrel in these
streets, and may pick up useful ideas of invective from the remarks of
the fat old women who always take part in the contests. But, though
we were ten days in Naples, I only saw one quarrel, and I could have
heard much finer violence of language among the gondoliers at any
ferry in Venice than I heard in this altercation.
The Neapolitans are, of course, furious in traffic. They sell a great
deal, and very boisterously, the fruit of the cactus, which is about
as large as an egg, and which they peel to a very bloody pulp, and lay
out, a sanguinary presence, on boards for purchase. It is not good
to the uncultivated taste; but the stranger may stop and drink, with
relish and refreshment, the orangeade and lemonade mixed with snow and
sold at the little booths on the street-corners. These stands looks
much like the shrines of the Madonna in other Italian cities, and a
friend of ours was led, before looking carefully into their office,
to argue immense Neapolitan piety from the frequency of their
ecclesiastical architecture. They are, indeed, the shrines of a god
much worshiped during the long Neapolitan summers; and it was the
profound theory of the Bourbon kings of Naples, that, if they kept
their subjects well supplied with snow to cool their drink, there was
no fear of revolution. It shows how liable statesmen are to err, that,
after all, the Neapolitans rose, drove out the Bourbons, and welcomed
Garibaldi.
The only part of the picturesque life of the side streets which seems
ever to issue from them into the Toledo is the goatherd with his
flock of milch-goats, which mingle with the passers in the avenues as
familiarly as with those of the alley, and thrust aside silk-hidden
hoops, and brush against dandies' legs, in their course, but keep on
perfect terms with every body. The goatherd leads the eldest of the
flock, and the rest follow in docile order and stop as he stops to ask
at the doors if milk is wanted. When he happens to have an order, one
of the goats is haled, much against her will, into the entry of a,
house, and there milked, while the others wait outside alone, nibbling
and smelling thoughtfully about the masonry. It is noticeable that
none of the good-natured passers seem to think these goats a great
nuisance in the crowded street; but all make way for them as if they
were there by perfect right, and were no inconvenience.
On the Toledo people keep upon the narrow sidewalks, or strike out
into the carriage-way, with an indifference to hoofs and wheels which
one, after long residence in tranquil Venice, cannot acquire, in
view of the furious Neapolitan driving. That old comprehensive gig of
Naples, with which many pens and pencils have familiarized the reader,
is nearly as hard to find there now as the _lazzaroni_, who have gone
out altogether. You may still see it in the remoter quarters of
the city, with its complement of twelve passengers to one horse,
distributed, two on each thill, four on the top seats, one at each
side, and two behind; but in the Toledo it has given place to much
finer vehicles. Slight buggies, which take you anywhere for half a
franc, are the favorite means of public conveyance, and the private
turn-outs are of every description and degree. Indeed, all the
Neapolitans take to carriages, and the Strand in London at six o'clock
in the evening is not a greater jam of wheels than the Toledo in the
afternoon. Shopping feels the expansive influence of the out-of-doors
life, and ladies do most of it as they sit in their open carriages
at the shop-doors, ministered to by the neat-handed shopmen. They are
very languid ladies, as they recline upon their carriage cushions;
they are all black-eyed, and of an olive pallor, and have gloomy rings
about their fine eyes, like the dark-faced dandies who bow to them.
This Neapolitan look is very curious, and I have not seen it elsewhere
in Italy; it is a look of peculiar pensiveness, and comes, no doubt,
from the peculiarly heavy growth of lashes which fringes the lower
eyelid. Then there is the weariness in it of all peoples whose summers
are fierce and long.
As the Italians usually dress beyond their means, the dandies of
Naples are very gorgeous. If it is now, say, four o'clock in the
afternoon, they are all coming down the Toledo with the streams
of carriages bound for the long drive around the bay. But our
foot-passers go to walk in the beautiful Villa Reale, between this
course and the sea. The Villa is a slender strip of Paradise, a mile
long; it is rapture to walk in it, and it comes, in description, to
be a garden-grove, with feathery palms, Greekish temples, musical
fountains, white statues of the gods, and groups of fair girls in
spring silks. If I remember aright, the sun is always setting on the
bay, and you cannot tell whether this sunset is cooled by the water
or the water is warmed by the golden light upon it, and upon the city,
and upon all the soft mountain-heights around.