PUTEOLI AND THE GRANDEUR THAT WAS ROME
Passing along the noisy thronged street of the Chiaja and plunging thence
into the chill gloomy recesses of the ancient grotto of Posilipo, we
emerge at its further side into a new world, as it were, into a district
where “there is scarcely a spot which is not identified with the poetical
mythology of Greece, or associated with some name familiar in the history
of Rome.” In truth, the headland of Posilipo presents a wonderful landmark
in the history of Naples, for it forms a barrier between the busy world of
to-day and the departed civilisation of the ancients: at the latter end of
this tunnel, the fierce life and movement of a great commercial city; at
its western exit, a tract of land teeming with recollections of the
glorious past.
As our carriage emerges once more into the warmth and sunlight, we find
ourselves in the miserable village of Fuorigrotta, which, by a strange
coincidence, is associated with the memory of a famous Italian poet. For
if the name and verses of Sannazzaro cling to Piedigrotta and the
Parthenopean shore on the eastern side of the hill, the genius of Count
Giacomo Leopardi sheds its melancholy radiance over the unlovely purlieus
of Fuorigrotta. Here in the vestibule of the parish church of San Vitale,
lie the ashes of that unhappy writer, the Shelley of Italian literature,
who so bewailed the Austrian and Bourbon fetters that enchained his native
land. Poor Leopardi! It was but eleven years before the first great
movement of the _Risorgimento_ swept over Italy in 1848 that he passed
away; his poems were indeed songs before sunrise, a sunrise of which he
failed to detect the far-off glimmering, so that he could only lament
without hope the sad condition of his dismembered country, once the
mistress and now the play-thing of the world, and the abject slave of
hated Austria:
“O patria mia, vedo le mure e gli archi
E le colonne e i simulacri e l’ erme
Torri degli avi nostri,
Ma la gloria non vedo;
Non vedo il lauro e’l ferro ond’ eran carchi
I nostri padri antichi.”
It is a flat dusty stretch of road that lies between Fuorigrotta and
Bagnoli; the high walls give only occasional glimpses of well-tilled
_parterres_—one cannot call these tiny patches of cultivation fields—with
thriving crops of brilliant green corn, of claret-red clover, of purple
lucerne, and of the white-flowered “sad lupin,” which Vergil has
immortalised in verse. The round bright yellow beans of the lupin crop,
known locally by the name of _spassa-tiempî_ (time-killers), afford an
article of food to the very poorest of the population. A quaint story runs
that one day an impoverished philosopher, reduced to making his dinner off
a handful of these beans, and imagining himself in consequence the most
wretched wight in existence, was cheered and comforted by observing
himself followed by a still more miserable fellow-mortal, who was engaged
in picking up and eating the husks of the beans that, _more italiano_, he
had thrown carelessly on to the pathway after their insipid farinaceous
contents had been sucked out!
Above us to the right are the heights of Monte Spina, covered with groves
of the umbrella pine, the typical tree of Naples; to our left extends the
verdant ridge of Posilipo, ending in Cape Coroglio, beyond which the
massive form of Nisida rises proudly from the blue expanse of water. All
the landscape shows somewhat hard in the glare of noontide, and we find
the enveloping clouds of fine white dust very oppressive and disagreeable.
From time to time a lumbering country cart is passed with its attendant
bare-footed peasant; otherwise there is little sign of life on the high
road. The bright sunlight flashes upon the horse’s polished brass harness,
and upon the elaborate erection of charms placed thereon, with the avowed
object of averting the dreaded Evil Eye, that everlasting bugbear of all
dwellers upon these southern shores. On his poor drooping head the
worn-out old steed carries a large bell with four jingling clappers and
two brazen crescents, the horns of one of which point upwards and of the
other towards the ground. On the off-side of the headgear is a bunch of
bright-coloured ribbands or woollen tassels, from which depends the single
horn, the invaluable Neapolitan talisman that is supposed to protect every
man, woman, child or beast, from the chance glance of a passing
_jettatore_. Above this glowing mass of colour some three or four feathers
of a pheasant’s tail are stuck, apparently with no ulterior purpose than
that of ornament; but beside the bunch of ribbands there is also fixed a
piece of wolf’s skin, to give strength to the jaded animal, for, remarks
the sapient Pliny, “a wolf’s skin attached to a horse’s neck will render
him proof against all weariness.” Personally, we should think a little
more consideration and some elementary knowledge of farriery would have
been of more service to the ill-used beasts round Naples than the
excellent Pliny’s highly original receipt. Besides this powerful battery
of charms to intercept the _jettatura_, there is the light brass headpiece
engraved with sacred figures, so that any evil glance must be fully
absorbed, baffled or exhausted, before it can fix itself upon the animal.
In addition however to this shining mass of headgear, the horse carries on
his back one of those curious high pommels that are peculiar to Southern
Italy and Sicily. The front of the pommel itself is of well-polished
brass, and covered with a number of studs, whilst at its back is fastened
a miniature barrel, upon which there stands erect the figure of some local
saint, generally that of San Gennaro. The exact part that the barrel and
the row of studs play in this mystic battle against the Evil Eye is
unknown, but the two revolving flags of brass that swing and creak above
the pommel itself are believed to represent “the flaming sword which
turned every way,” and finally expelled Adam and Eve from the Garden of
Eden. Certainly this shimmering metal has the appearance of a flaming
sword in the bright sunshine, so that it ought to prove efficacious in
catching and averting any baleful glance. A second patch of wolf skin on
the crest of the pommel, and some red worsted wound round the spindle of
the flags complete the list of strange charms that are considered
necessary to protect a Neapolitan horse from the pernicious influence of a
casual passer-by.
We soon reach the sea-shore at Bagnoli, a little watering-place much
frequented by Neapolitans of the middle classes, and on looking back we
obtain a charming view of the headland of Posilipo and of stately Nisida,
the Nesis of the ancients, with its memories of Brutus, “the noblest Roman
of them all,” who on this little island bade farewell for ever to his
devoted Portia. A very different tenant from the chaste Portia, however,
who once possessed a villa in this sea-girt retreat during the Middle
Ages, was Queen Joanna the Second, the last member of the Durazzo branch
of the Angevin royal house, and sister and heiress of King Ladislaus II.,
whose splendid monument in San Giovanni a Carbonara is one of the chief
artistic treasures of Naples. It is of course unnecessary here to remark
that there were two Queens of Naples, both Joanna by name, and that the
first of these, the contemporary of Petrarch (whose proper feeling she
contrived to shock) was certainly not a pattern of female virtue, but that
she shone as a moral paragon when contrasted with her name-sake and
successor, the sister of King Ladislaus. Of this second Queen, tradition
more or less accurate relates a host of stories, none of them to her
credit; how she dabbled in necromancy and was immersed in love intrigues,
the most celebrated of which was her amour with the handsome “Ser.
Gianni,” Giovanni Caracciolo, head of an eminent family that has figured
prominently in Neapolitan history from the days of Angevin monarchs to
those of King Ferdinand. Little good did the fickle Queen’s favour do Ser.
Gianni, who suffered an ignominious fate for having one day boxed Joanna’s
ears during a lovers’ tiff. Murdered secretly by four assassins,
Caracciolo’s body was laid to rest in the family chapel in San Giovanni a
Carbonara beneath a splendid monument which is surmounted by the luckless
favourite’s effigy. Joanna the First with all her faults was never guilty
of such light conduct as this, but the peasant mind is always impatient of
dry details of fact, so that in the popular imagination to-day both Queens
are blended into one personage, whose character, it is needless to say, is
about as vile as can be conceived. “Siccome la Regina Giovanna,” is a form
of peasant execration around Naples that has some historical affinity with
the time-honoured Irish malediction of the “Curse o’ Cromwell.”
Turning our backs on the island with its memories of Portia the Perfect
and of Queen Joanna the Improper, we pursue our course along the sea-shore
with rocks of ancient lava above us to the right, now heavily overgrown
with brushwood and plants, amongst which we notice tufts of the pretty
wild asparagus, that the observant Pliny centuries ago found flourishing
in this district. As an early herb, coming into season long before its
cultivated cousin is fit for cutting, this succulent vegetable is highly
prized in the South, and its flavour though somewhat bitter is most
palatable, so that an omelette _aux pointes d’asperges sauvages_ is a dish
not to be despised by those who get the opportunity of testing this local
delicacy. Before us lies our goal, Pozzuoli, with its ancient citadel
jutting into the placid waters and backed by the classic headland of
Misenum, above which in turn towers the crest of distant Epomeo.
Pozzuoli in recent years has been much neglected by strangers, so much so
that no inn worthy to be called an hotel now exists, and such _trattorie_
as the place offers are all equally extortionate and detestable. Some time
ago there was a comfortable _pension_ at the edge of the town on the road
to the Amphitheatre, but its English landlady has long since migrated
elsewhere, and the comfortable “Hotel Grande Bretagne” is no more; whilst
nowadays there are to be found no visitors hardy enough to endure a
prolonged sojourn in the wretched hostelries of the town itself. The
electric tram and the rail-road have in fact killed Pozzuoli as a winter
resort, more’s the pity, for it is not only a spot of singular interest in
itself but its climate is certainly superior to that of Naples, for the
great headland which shuts off the city from the Phlegrean Fields serves
also to act as a buffer against the icy _tramontana_ that sweeps along the
Chiaja in winter and early spring. Invalids used at one time to inhabit
Pozzuoli on account of its mild atmosphere, and even to visit the
Solfatara daily on mule-back, in order to inhale its sulphureous fumes,
which were then believed to be good for weak chests. But medical fashions
vary like all others, and consumptive patients now seek other places than
Pozzuoli for their cure.
Many are the walks outside the town, and none are without beauty or
interest, for, the neighbourhood of Syracuse excepted, we can think of no
place in Italy wherein one is brought so closely into touch with the
classical past. Nature has long clothed the ruined area of the ancient
city with her kindly drapery of foliage and flowers, so that the crumbling
masses of tawny brick that we come across in our rambles are all swathed
in garlands of clematis, myrtle, honey-suckle and coronella. It is a
delight to speculate upon the original use and appearance of these
shapeless blocks of creeper-clad masonry, which attract the eye on all
sides amidst the vineyards and orange groves, where the peasants delving
in the rich soil frequently alight upon treasures of the antique world.
What a delight it is to wander through the Street of Tombs—alas, long
rifled of their contents!—where the gay valerian and the pink silene
sprout from every fissure of the soft tufa rock, and lizards of unusual
size and brilliancy play games of hide-and-seek in the warm sunshine. We
moderns are afraid of graveyards and the paraphernalia of the dead: many a
stout-hearted Englishman objects to passing through a church-yard at
night; not so the pagan Romans, who placed their cemeteries in public
places and were wont to proceed through lines of tombs as they entered the
city of the living: a very salutary and practical reminder of the
transitory nature of life itself. The whole neighbourhood in short is
sprinkled with these memorials of Imperial Rome; there is not an orange or
lemon orchard but stands above some forgotten villa, not an acre of tilth
but must conceal some hidden mine of classical associations. Charming too
are the walks by the sea-shore—now sadly disfigured by the _Cantiere
Armstrong_, with its smoke and ugliness looking like a dirty smudge upon
the delicate landscape of the Bay—for here again we find endless traces of
the Imperial age. There can be no more fascinating employment than to
wander along the beach after one of the heavy winter storms that so often
vex the quiet of the Bay of Naples, and to search for fragments of
precious marbles that have been spied by the waves amidst the sunken
foundations of Roman villas, and thence idly flung upon the shore. Pieces
of the choicest white Parian, squares of speckled Egyptian porphyry, of
_verde_, _rosso_ and _giallo antico_, of the coal-black _Africano_, all
wet and glistening from the waves, can be picked up by the quick-sighted,
and the gathering of these beautiful trifles, cut and polished by skilled
hands nearly two thousand years ago, makes an interesting occupation. Nor
is its classical lore the only feature of the Bay of Baiae, for though its
actual scenery cannot compare with the grandeur of Capri nor its
vegetation with the rich luxuriance of Sorrento, yet these shores have a
quiet beauty of their own. Vine, olive and almond abound on all sides, and
everywhere we see the groves of orange and lemon that in spring time scent
the air with their perfumed blossoms. And in the early months of the year
every patch of warm-coloured, up-turned earth is gay with sheets of that
beautiful but rapacious weed, hated of the peasant, the oxalis, with its
clusters of pale yellow flowers: a species of sorrel that is allied to our
own white-blossomed variety. From many a point on the little ridges that
rise behind Pozzuoli magnificent views can be obtained, whilst to those
who care to study the scientific results of volcanic action the Phlegraean
Fields afford endless occupation and interest. Every one of course visits
the Solfatara, that curious semi-extinct crater, the _Forum Vulcani_ of
Strabo, which has remained for over seven hundred years in its present
condition of languor. A strange experience it is to enter the heart of a
volcano that is still comparatively active, and to observe woods of poplar
and a large pine tree beneath which grow masses of spring flowers—bright
blue bugloss, the crimson vetch, starch hyacinths, purple self-heal, and
golden spurge—and to pass from these thickets on to a space of bare
white-coloured ground that trembles and sways under the feet like a sheet
of insecure ice. Beyond, one sees the little fissures (_fumaroli_)
emitting fumes of sulphur, and the guides take us to stifling caverns in
the hill-side where we are shown the beautiful primrose-coloured crystals.
The Solfatara, the Amphitheatre and the Temple of Serapis, these are the
recognised “sights” of Pozzuoli, which strangers visit to-day in the space
of an hour or two, and then return to Naples comforted with the feeling
that they have exhausted the attractions of the place. Certainly their
reception in the town is not likely to inspire them with a wish to return,
for the guides and touts swarm here more than in any other spot in Italy;
“until he has spent half an hour in Pozzuoli,” says the author of _Dolce
Napoli_, “let no man say that he understands the signification of the verb
to pester.”
Putting aside even the objectionable habits of so many of its citizens, it
cannot be said that the town itself of Pozzuoli to-day is particularly
attractive, although its situation on the Bay of Baiae is charming and its
quays are full of picturesque life and movement. Lines of irregular
yellow-washed buildings, with faded green _persiani_ and balconies draped
with the domestic washing, with here and there a domed rococo church, look
down upon the clear tideless waters that gently lap the ancient stone-work
of the Mole, whilst a mixed crowd of fishermen with bare bronzed limbs, of
chattering women with gay handkerchiefs tied over their thick black hair,
and of blue uniformed dapper little customs officers,—_lupi marini_
(wolves of the sea) as the poor people facetiously term these revenue
officials of the coast—loiter in the sunlight amidst the piles of tawny
fishing nets or the pyramids of golden oranges. From the quay we make our
way to the Largo del Municipio, a typical square of a provincial town in
the South, enclosed by shabby houses and adorned by a couple of stunted
date-palms and a battered marble fountain, around which numberless
children and some slatternly women noisily converse or dispute. There is
an old proverb in the South, that a good housewife has no need to know any
thoroughfares save those leading to her church and her fountain, and as
conversation cannot well be carried on in the former, it is the daily
visits to the well that usually afford the required opportunity for
exchange of gossip or for the picking of quarrels. Two statues decorate
this unlovely but not uninteresting space; one is that of a Spanish
bishop, Leon y Cardeñas, one of King Philip the Third’s viceroys, which
serves as a reminder of the many vicissitudes this classic land has
experienced in the course of history:—Phoenician, Greek, Carthaginian,
Roman, Barbarian, Norman, German, French, Spanish conquerors have all left
“footprints on the sands of Time” in the coveted land of the Siren, which
all have possessed in turn but none have held in perpetuity. His
Excellency the Bishop Cardeñas stands therefore in the open as a solid
memento of the glory that once was Spain, when half Europe and all America
owned the sway of the Catholic King. The second statue, though not a thing
of beauty, has always had the attraction of an unsolved puzzle, for we
cannot decide whether it proves a complete absence or an abundant
superfluity of humour in the Puteolani of to-day. It is the figure of a
Roman senator, vested in his flowing toga, and owning (as the ancient
inscription informs us) the grandiose name of Quintus Flavius Mavortius
Lollianus, whose marble trunk was one of the earliest archaeological
“finds” made in the excavations at Pozzuoli some two hundred years ago.
Since the statue lacked a head and was otherwise of no especial value as a
work of art, the Viceroy of Naples very generously presented this object
to the place of its discovery, whose citizens, doubtless thinking the
appearance of the headless statue uncanny, popped a stray antique occiput
(of which a goodly number, more or less mutilated, are constantly brought
to light by the peasants) upon Lollianus’ vacant shoulders. Anything more
comical and at the same time more repellent than this hybrid statue it
would be impossible to imagine, yet Lollianus of the unknown head remains
a favourite with the people of Pozzuoli. Leaving the Largo del Municipio,
with its weird senator and its dusty palms, we ascend by a zigzag lane
between tall featureless houses to the Cathedral of San Proculo, which
occupies the site of a temple of Augustus, that once dominated the ancient
city and harbour below. Within, the cathedral of Proculus, who was a
companion of St Januarius and a fellow-martyr, is gaudy and painted, one
of those dismally gorgeous ecclesiastical interiors that are such a
disappointment to the antiquarian in Southern Italy. In opposition to the
memorial of Spanish conquest in the square below, we find here an
elaborate monument to a French viceroy, the Duke of Montpensier, who
served for some time as Governor of Naples after Charles VIII.’s capture
of the city. Except the tomb of the young musician Pergolese, who composed
the original _Stabat Mater_ there is little else to see, and we gladly
ascend the tower in order to gain a bird’s eye view of the town from a
point of vantage whither noisy coachmen, troublesome beggars and impudent
ragamuffins cannot pursue. Captured by the Greek colonists of Cumae, who
gave the city the name of Dicoearchia instead of its ancient one of
Puteoli,—a corruption, perhaps, of the Syriac word _petuli_
(contention)—this old Hellenic settlement was rechristened Puteoli by the
conquering Romans, under whose beneficent rule the place rapidly aspired
to wealth and prosperity. With the rise however of Naples, the fame of
Puteoli began to grow dim, and its importance to decline, although
throughout Imperial times it ranked after Ostia as the chief victualling
port of Rome. And of the two celebrated cities which adorned the shores of
this Bay in classical times, Puteoli was the seat of commerce, and Baiae
the resort of pleasure and luxury; yet both were doomed to dwindle and
almost perish in the disastrous years that followed the break-up of the
Empire. The invading hordes of Germany, the raids of Saracen pirates, and
the constant presence of malaria on this deserted coast were sufficient
causes in themselves to reduce in the course of time the thriving port of
Puteoli to the squalid town of to-day. From our lofty post we can easily
distinguish the limits of the city in the days of Tiberius and Caligula,
for to the north we turn our faces towards the ruined bulk of the
Amphitheatre, now lying amidst fields and gardens, but well within the
town walls at the time when Nero entertained the Armenian king Tiridates
and shocked his Asiatic guest by himself descending into the arena and
deftly performing the usual disgusting feats of a professional gladiator.
To westward lies the Bay of Baiae, a semi-circle of glittering water
surrounded by low hills amidst which the Monte Nuovo, unknown to the
ancients, stands conspicuous. How completely have all traces of splendour
and extravagance disappeared from these shores! At fashionable Baiae
across the Bay there is nothing visible save a few shapeless ruins over
the identity of which scholars dispute; at busy Puteoli there survive
to-day but the ruined Amphitheatre, the Temple of Serapis, and the arches
of the famous Mole, to prove to wondering posterity how great were the
wealth, the population and the magnificence of a spot which is closely
associated with all the power and culture of the Roman Empire in its
zenith.
[Illustration: ON THE BEACH]
Of the various fragments of antiquity that are still standing in this
district of the Phlegrean Fields, the Mole of Puteoli is undoubtedly the
best preserved and the most interesting. So splendidly constructed is this
relic of the past, that but for continuous shocks of earthquake the whole
breakwater must have survived intact; as it is, more than half the Mole
has withstood the wear and tear of centuries of wind and storm. It is
built on the model of a Greek pier, a series of arches of massive masonry,
acting at once as a barrier against the force of the invading waves and as
a means of preventing the silting of the sand. Formed of brick, faced with
stone, and cemented with the local volcanic sand, which is consequently
known as _puzzolana_, this wonderful breakwater must originally have
stretched out into the Bay a total length of twenty-five arches, its
furthest extremity being crowned by a light-house. If we could only call
up in imagination the Bay of Baiae in the days of the Empire, when its
shores were fringed by sumptuous villas of famous or infamous Romans and
its expanse was thickly covered with every variety of vessel of pleasure
or merchandise, instead of the few fishing boats that now and again flit
across its glassy surface, we might better be able to realise the
extraordinary episode which is connected with this classical fragment in
the little port of Pozzuoli below us. For it was from the Mole of Puteoli
to the spit of land we see on the western shore opposite that the demented
tyrant, Caius Caligula, constructed his historic bridge of boats across
the Baiaean gulf. Every large vessel in the surrounding harbours had been
pressed into the service of the Emperor for this gigantic piece of folly,
so that the inhabitants of Rome were seriously inconvenienced by the
detention of their corn ships, and loud in consequence were the complaints
of the Roman populace, for whose anger, it is needless to state, the
Emperor cared not a fig. “History,” says Gibbon, “is but a record of the
crimes, follies and misfortunes of mankind;” and this smiling Bay of Baiae
will ever be memorable as the scene of what was perhaps the worst
exhibition of tyrannical caprice that the world has yet witnessed.
Using a double line of vessels well yoked together as a compact and solid
base, the Emperor now gave orders for a military road of the usual Roman
type to be constructed of planks of timber covered with earth and paved
with hewn stones. When this stupendous work was completed, the usual
station-houses were erected at various intervals, and fresh water was laid
on by means of pipes connected with the Imperial cisterns at Misenum. Upon
this broad road, laid across the Baiaean Gulf, the young Emperor now
advanced on horseback, followed by his whole army clad in array of battle.
Caligula on this occasion wore a historic coat of armour studded with rare
gems that had once belonged to Alexander the Great; a jewelled sword was
fastened to his thigh, and a crown of oak leaves bound his temples.
Solemnly the Emperor and his army crossed the broad expanse of water on
dry land and entered Puteoli with mock honours of war. After remaining a
day in the port to refresh his victorious troops, the Emperor was driven
back in a splendidly equipped chariot, which was surrounded by a number of
pretended captives of rank, some noble Parthian hostages being utilised
for the occasion. At the centre of the bridge the procession halted, and
the crazy prince next indulged in an absurd bombastic harangue, wherein he
congratulated his soldiers on their glorious campaign just concluded, and
declared to them that the famous feats of Xerxes and Darius had at length
been surpassed. Finally, he invited his troops to a magnificent banquet
upon this bridge of boats, an entertainment which lasted till far into the
night and was accompanied by lavish illuminations by land and sea. As
might only have been expected, the feast soon degenerated into a drunken
orgy, wherein every guest from the Master of the Roman world to his
meanest soldier became intoxicated, whilst many persons in their cups lost
their balance and fell into the waters, so that the sounds of music and
revelry throughout the midnight hours were mingled with groans and cries
of drowning men close at hand.
Apart from its senseless extravagance and innate folly, the story of the
bridging of the Baiaean Gulf, of this harnessing of old Ocean, affects us
moderns with astonishment at the extraordinary thoroughness of all the
ancient Roman feats of engineering; had this high road across the Bay been
intended to serve any useful purpose, instead of merely to satisfy the
passing whim of a selfish tyrant, we could have had no choice but to
admire the marvellous speed of the artificers and the completeness of the
scheme undertaken.
Quarter of a century later, and the Mole of Puteoli was destined to become
the scene of another event in the world’s history, which has left a far
more enduring impression on mankind than the so-called miracle of
Caligula. In the early spring of the year 62 A.D. there dropped anchor in
the port a certain Alexandrian corn-ship, the _Castor __and__ Pollux_,
coming from Malta after touching at Syracuse and Rhegium (Reggio) on her
way northward. Unnoticed amidst the vast phalanx of shipping that lined
the Mole and filled the broad harbour of Puteoli, the vessel emptied her
cargo on the quay, whilst there also disembarked from her hold a number of
prisoners of no great social consequence, who were on their way to Rome
under the guardianship of a kindly old centurion, named Julius, belonging
to the cohort _Prima Augusta Italica_. Amongst the persons under Julius’
charge was a Jew named Paul, who was accompanied by three of his friends,
Timothy, Luke and Aristarchus of Thessalonica, and all four, thanks to the
kindness of the centurion, who was evidently much attached to his
exemplary captive, were permitted to remain at this spot for seven days.
Paul himself was anxious to tarry at this spot, for of all the Italian
ports Puteoli was most frequented by men of his own nation, so that the
city possessed its little community of Christians, who naturally were
eager to detain the Apostle. So hopelessly intermingled are truth,
tradition and legend concerning the various places on Italian soil that St
Paul is known to have visited, that we cannot be too grateful for the
undoubted link with his journey to Rome that we possess in the existing
Mole of Puteoli, whose surface has undoubtedly been trodden by the
sandalled feet of the great Apostle of the West. Here Paul landed amid the
haughty scenes of Roman pride and power; above him he saw the pagan Temple
of Augustus, all gleaming with marble and gilded bronze that were mirrored
in the calm waters of the port: along this famous causeway he passed,
unmarked by the busy crowd, except perhaps to be mocked by some idler for
his nationality or his halting speech. Guided by Christian compatriots,
the Apostle with his three faithful friends was led through the noisy
jostling concourse of all countries that thronged the great Roman city to
the humble dwelling of his host. Where he lodged in that mighty city we
know not, but we do know for a certain fact that he landed on the Mole,
and that he passed along it to the shore; it is not much, perhaps, but
that little is very precious.
What a contrast do these two incidents connected with the Mole of Puteoli
afford! The Roman Emperor, glittering like the morning star in purple
mantle and jewelled cuirass, riding on his charger across the solid road
that to humour his own caprice had been flung across the buoyant waters,
accompanied by soldiery, by music, and by bands of wealthy sycophants; and
the Apostle, poor, in bonds, a despised prisoner in an alien land, meekly
threading his way through the crowds towards his mean lodging. Where is
the proud Temple of Augustus that beheld these two strange scenes, that
occurred with no great interval of time apart? Where are the villas and
quays that lined the Bay of Baiae? The very ruins of the palaces and
warehouses are swept away; the gorgeous temple is a Christian Cathedral
dedicated to a follower of the despised Jewish captive; the name of
Caligula lives but in human execration, whilst that of the Apostle is
enshrined in the hearts of the whole Christian world.
* * * * * *
It is but a three-mile walk along the beach from Pozzuoli to Baiae,
passing beside the Lucrine Lake and the southern slope of the Monte Nuovo,
which always seems to us a far more wonderful freak of Nature than the
Solfatara. Here we have a miniature mountain, a mile and a half round its
base and nearly five hundred feet high, that was made in the course of a
single night, and is to-day less than four hundred years old! The presence
of this brand-new intruder on the shore of the Baiaean Gulf must ever
remain a wholesome warning to all dwellers on these coasts, that their
tenure of King Pluto’s dominions is very insecure. One morning towards the
close of September 1538, after some days of earthquake shocks, “Pozzuoli
awoke,” says the flippant Alexandre Dumas, “and on looking about did not
recognise herself! She had left a lake the evening before, and lo! she
found a mountain; where she had owned a forest, she found ashes; and last
of all, where she had left a village, she perceived no trace!”
In one sense Dumas’ facetious description is correct: the New Mountain was
born with extraordinary celerity, and woods, lake and village—familiar and
beloved landmarks to the people of Baiae and Pozzuoli—disappeared at its
birth. But the event was no peaceful act of Nature; on the contrary, it
was accompanied by loud rumblings, by showers of red-hot stones, by clouds
of smoke, by torrents of scalding water, and by the retreating of the sea,
which left thousands of fish lying helpless on the exposed shore. The
village of Tripergola, a summer pleasaunce of the Angevin kings of Naples,
and many traces of ancient Roman villas and engineering works, all
perished in this notable cataclysm. Four eye-witnesses have left us
details of this strange scene of desolation, whilst only a few days after
Mother Earth had brought forth this new mountain, one of them, the Spanish
Viceroy of Naples, the valiant Don Pedro of Toledo, owned sufficient pluck
and curiosity to make the ascent of the Monte Nuovo, still smoking hot and
reeking of sulphur. Who can tell when this _parvenu_ volcano may spout
forth fire and ashes? Would any sane person have the courage ever to
settle within range of a possible eruption? No, the Phlegrean fields are
interesting to visit, but he must require a strong nerve who would fain
dwell beneath the shadow of this dormant crater.
It is a very short walk from the base of the Monte Nuovo to the “golden
shores” of Imperial Baiae, which is certainly not an imposing place in
these days. What with the destroying hand of time and the still more
obliterating action of the neighbouring volcano, there is little left for
the fancy to build upon; certainly the three ruined shells that are called
temples by courtesy, but served probably a much humbler purpose than that
of worship, are not particularly striking. It requires not only a good
classical knowledge, but also no small amount of imagination to picture
the Baiae of the Roman poets.
“If Pozzuoli has gone down in the world, still more so Baiae. It does not
require any more sinking; it is low enough as it is, so low that some of
its ancient villas and palaces can only be visited in a diving-bell. So
dreary and deserted is the site, that at first glance the visitor feels
mightily inclined to question the veracity of the historian, and to doubt
whether Baiae—Baiae the gay, the fashionable, the dissolute, the beloved
of emperors, statesmen and poets—ever existed. But when he is shown the
enormous sub-structures lying under water, and the masses of solid masonry
wherewith the surrounding hills are over-spread, incredulity gives place
to amazement. What towns of lath and plaster are Brighton, Newport and
Trouville, when compared with this ‘Rome by the sea,’ where the materials
used for the foundations of a single villa would more than suffice for the
construction of a dozen ‘genteel marine residences’ of the modern style!
What would a Roman architect think of the card-board streets and squares,
and the stucco crescents and terraces, of an English watering-place? of
those ‘eligible family mansions’ wherein dancing is dangerous, and to
venture on whose balconies is perilous in the extreme? Echo answers:
‘What!’ ”(13)
Here on this desolate strip of sea-shore, now dominated by the Spanish
viceroy’s frowning fortress on the hill above, the great and opulent of
ancient Rome founded a city composed wholly of palaces. Here were no noisy
market-places to annoy aristocratic nerves; no slums to afflict
plutocratic nostrils; no families of the proletariat to disturb the
refined senses of the jaded pleasure-seekers who retired hither in the
winter months. A writer, from whom we have just quoted, makes comparison
between Baiae and Brighton or Trouville; but in reality the fashionable
American resort of Newport has more in common with the old classical
watering-place than any modern European sea-side resort. The hot sulphur
baths on the Lucrine shore formed of course only a shallow excuse for the
annual migration of Roman fashionables to Baiae, where blue-blooded
senators and pushing plutocrats indulged in fierce social struggles for
individual pre-eminence. Yet certain of the natural warm springs had been
enclosed in splendid buildings, and were used by the luxurious citizens,
so that even to-day the Thermae of Nero (Stufe di Nerone) are pointed out
by the local guides. “Quid Nerone pejus? Quid thermis melius Neronianis?”
(what is worse than Nero? yet what more beneficent than his baths?) asks
the poet Martial, whose name will ever be bound up with the tales of
luxury and vice that are associated with this spot. Baiae in winter, Tibur
(Tivoli) in summer, the two names stand for the beau-ideal of a Roman
existence, the cynosure of every wealthy citizen.
But let us ascend out of the close and enervating air of low-lying Baiae
to the breezy heights of Misenum, which has immortalised the name of the
Trojan trumpeter whose end was mourned by the tears of pious Aeneas
himself. In gaining its summit and in gazing upon the landscape spread
around us, we have penetrated, so it seems, into the very heart of Italy:
not the Italy of Roman history, but the land of Ausonia itself, the fabled
shore that the Trojan hero sailed at his goddess-mother’s bidding to
discover, when all the world was young and the high dwellers of Olympus
still condescended to take a personal interest in the affairs of favourite
mortals. Surely the vine-clad terraces of Lake Avernus, the pools of the
Lucrine and the Mare Morto, the verdure-clad hillocks lying beneath us
must conceal the true secret of the antique Tyrrhenian country, in whose
history the rise and fall of Roman power afford but one amongst many
epochs. Looking to northward, beyond the little landing-stage of
Torregaveta, we behold the heights of Cumae, that was a flourishing city
with harbour and citadel hundreds of years before a certain Romulus built
a wall of mud near the banks of Tiber and slew his brother Remus for
leaping over his handiwork. The founding of Rome is enveloped in
impenetrable clouds of legend; the building of Cumae is a fact:—here then
we obtain a key to Italian history. Rome, whose origin is lost in mists of
obscurity, is a flourishing modern capital; Cumae is but a shapeless mass
of crumbling ruins, overgrown with ivy and cytizus, and inhabited by
lizards and serpents. But both cities, dead Cumae and living Rome, present
but passing events in the long slow progress of the centuries, which have
witnessed successive phases of civilisation and destruction in this
“Woman-country, wooed, not won,
Loved all the more by Earth’s male lands,
Laid to their hearts instead.”
Is the Genius of Italy, the Sibyl of Cumae, still living, we wonder, in
some dim recess, some secret cavern of Cimmerian gloom, beneath those
decaying heaps of the ancient Greek city? She was old, very old, we know,
when pious Aeneas found her shrieking her strange prophecies, and that was
long ages before Hellenic wanderers raised a fortress upon the wooded
heights above the dread lake of Avernus.—Venerable Mother of Italy! dost
thou still survive muttering thy strange warnings in some sunless
labyrinth, that the rapacious guides of Baiae have yet failed to
penetrate? Art thou, like King Arthur of romantic Wales, still keeping
watch over the destiny of thy country, ever ready to assist in the hour of
need?
“Thy cave was stored with scrolls of strange device,
The work of some Saturnian Archimage,
Which taught the expiations at whose price
Men from the gods might win that happy age
Too lightly lost, redeeming native vice;
And which might quench the earth-consuming rage
Of gold and blood—till men should live and move
Harmonious as the sacred stars above.”
For Italy has not wholly forgotten her ancient guardian and soothsayer,
who welcomed the founder of the victorious Roman race; nor did the artists
of the revived glories of the Renaissance neglect to honour the mysterious
priestess of the Cimmerian shore. With prophetic mien the Sibyl of Cumae,
that Michelangelo depicted, watches ever the come-and-go of humanity from
her lofty post within Pope Sixtus’ Chapel, bidding all remember her
ancient prophecy of the Judgment Day, which the Roman Church has included
in one of its most solemn canticles:
“Dies Irae! Dies illa!
Solvet saeclum in favilla,
Teste David cum Sibylla.”
INDEX
Abbondanza, Via dell’, 51
Abruzzi Mountains, 36, 122, 222
Acre, 270
Adrian IV., Pope, 156
Agerola, 123
Agropoli, 209
Alberada, 181
Albergo Cappuccini, 128
Alcubier, 11
Aleppo, 121
Alexander of Epirus, 206
Alexandria, 121
Alexius, Emperor, 179
Alfonso, Duke of Ferrara, 242
Algiers, 56
Alphonso V. of Naples, 277
Amalfi, 5, 36, 100, 106, 112, 126
Ana-Capri, 249, 259, 271
Angelo, Monte S., 28, 30, 63, 76
Annunziata, Torre, 19, 92, 94
Aosta, Duke and Duchess of, 93, 94
Appian Way, 62
Apulia, 181
—— William of, 135
Arabia, 134
Arco, 106
Arguth, Joseph, 292
Ariosto, Ludovico, 239
Aristarchus, 312
Arno, 2
Arnold of Brescia, 156
Arriengo, 123
Arthur, King, 318
Athens, 28, 39, 58
Atrani, 152
Atrio del Cavallo, 77
Augustus, Emperor, 59, 69
—— Temple of, 313
Aulus Vettius, Corvina, 55
—— —— Restitutus, 40, 55
Ausonius, 208
Avicenna, 177
Avvocata, Madonna dell’, 166
Baghdad, 121
Bagnoli, 296
Baiae, 253, 307
Bajalardo, Pietro, 117
Barbary, 209
Barisanus of Trani, 159
Barra, La, 8
Battipaglia, 198
Bembo, Cardinal, 282
Benevento, 111
Bergamo, 240
Berkeley, Bishop, 293
Bismarck, 186
Boccaccio, 137, 157
Bohemond, 179
Bomba, King, 6, 8, 16, 109, 284
Bosco-Trecase, 92, 97
Bowdler, Mr, 81
Braccini, Abate, 77
Breakspear, Nicholas, 156
Browning, R., 33, 36, 183
Brunetto Latini, 121
Butomilea, Landolfo, 182
Byzantium, 118, 142
Caecilius Jucundus, 40
Cairo, 121
Caligula, Emperor, 5, 308
Camaldoli, 18, 270
Campagna Felice, 66
Campanella, Punta della, 112
Canneto, 132, 140
Canossa, 180, 186
Capaccio, 209, 262
Capodimonte, 2
Capri, 4, 5, 13, 45, 63, 74, 90, 112, 249
Capua, 66
Capuano, Cardinal Pietro, 126, 143
Caracciolo, 2
Cardeñas, Bishop, 305
Cariteo, 277
“Carlo il Zoppo,” 102, 103, 121
Carmine, Church of the, 105
Casamicciola, 284
Casa Nuova, 53
Castellamare, 18, 25, 26, 100, 113
_ Castor and Pollux, The_, 311
Cathay, 121
Cava, La, 113
Celestine V., Pope, 292
Cellini, Benvenuto, 27
Cephalonia, 180
Cerrato, Monte, 168
Cetara, 134, 170
Chalcidicum, 49
Charles III. of Naples, 8
—— VIII. of France, 307
—— of Anjou, 102, 156, 167
Chiabrera, 89
Chiaja, 2
Chiosse, Monte di, 119
Cicero, 40
Clement VIII., Pope, 167
Clementia, Princess, 102
Clodius Glabrus, 70
Cluny, 184
Colonna, Giuliano, 104
—— Vittoria, 5, 277
Conca, Capo di, 125
Concordia Augusta, 51
Conradin, 156
Constantinople, 80, 134
Coppola, Monte, 28, 167
Corniche Road, 100
Costantinopoli, Strada, 2
Crassus, 70
Cumae, 4, 317
Damecuta, 261
Dante, 120, 121, 239, 278
Devonshire, 107
Domenichino, 161
Domitiana, Via, 62
Dragone, 152
Dumas, A., 9, 314
Durazzo, 178
Eboli, 198
Elbœuf, Prince d’, 11
Epidius Rufus, 40
Epirus, 178
Etna, 77, 291
Eumachia, 40, 49
Exeter, 40
Faito, Monte, 37
Falerio, Monte, 170
Faliero, Marino, 103
Farnese, Elizabeth, 27
—— Pier-Luigi, 5, 27
Ferdinand, King, 27, 270, 277
Ferrara, 240, 248
Filangieri, 103
Fiorelli, Signor, 53
Florence, 2, 112, 132, 148
Florus, 70
Forio, 289
Forsyth, J., 181
Francis, King, 109
Frederick II., Emperor, 27, 210
Fuga, 159
Fuorigrotta, 295
Furore, 123
Gaeta, 16, 36
—— Bay of, 4
Galen, 106, 177
Garibaldi, 6
Gaurus, Mons, 57, 76
Gavinius, 208
Gazola, Count, 211
Gell, Sir William, 44
Genoa, 157
Gibbon, Edward, 175, 309
Gioja, Flavio, 119
Glaucus, 261
Goethe, 13, 212
Gragnano, 20
Greco, Torre del, 8, 13, 18, 77
Gregory VII., Pope, 178
Grotta Azzurra, 259
Grotta Verde, 262
Guallo, 116
Guiscard, Robert, 5, 136, 155, 174
Gurgitello, 285
Hale, Sir Matthew, 110
Hamill, Major, 271
Hamilton, Sir William, 80
Hare, Augustus, 7
Hart, Emma, 80
Hauteville, House of, 174
Helbig, 44
Hélène, Princess, 94
Henry IV., Emperor, 180
Herculaneum, 1, 9
—— Gate of, 62
Hermolaus, 162
Hildebrand, 5, 180, 182, 184
Hippocrates, 177
Hohenstaufen, 163
Homer, 114
House of the Surgeon, 43, 56
—— Vettii, 53
Innocent IV., Pope, 152
Ischia, 4, 13, 78, 241, 252, 275
Joanna II., Queen, 144, 299
John XVI., Pope, 167
John of Procida, 184
Julius the Centurion, 311
Jupiter, Temple of, 52
Justinian, Emperor, 135
Keats, John, 229
La Barra, 8
La Cava, 172, 198
La Scala, 166
Lacaita, Mr, 262
Lacco, 288
Lactarian Hills, 101
Ladislaus II., King, 299
Lamarque, Gen., 271
Lauretta, 157
Lavoro, Terra di, 18
Lenormant, F., 214
Leo XIII., Pope, 288
Leonora d’Este, 243, 248
Leopardi, Giacomo, 295
Lepanto, 246
Libella, 64
Livia, 50
Livy, 73
Lowe, Sir Hudson, 271
Lubrense, Massa, 122
Lucrine Lake, 313
Ludius, 59
Luke, 312
Maddalena, Ponte della, 84
Majori, 166
Malta, 311
Mammia, 64
Manches, Colonel, 273
Manfred, King, 87, 152, 184
Manso, 243
Mansone II., Doge, 118
Macellum, 52
Marcellus II., Pope, 280
Margaret of Durazzo, 189
Marina, Porta, 39, 45
Martin V., Pope, 277
Matteucci, Professor, 94, 97
Matilda, Countess, 185
Mau, 44
Maurice, 142
Maximian, Emperor, 162
Melfi, 133
Mercato, Il, 2, 96
Mercury, Temple of, 52
Mergellina, 96
Messina, 91
Meta, 106
Metastasio, 8
Michelangelo, 283, 319
Milan, 278
Minerva, Cape of, 112, 117, 153
Minori, 166
Misenum, 71, 74, 249
Mole of Puteoli, 308
Monreale, 159
Mont’ Epomeo, 290
Montapertuso, 119
Monte Nuovo, 313
Montorio, S. Pietro in, 2
Montpensier, Duke of, 307
Murat, Joachim, 5, 8, 270
Muscettola, Sergio, 159
Museo Nazionale, 1
Naccarino, 145
Napoleon, 8, 270
Natale, Michele, 103
Nelson, 104, 269
Neptune, Temple of, 212
Nero, Emperor, 308
Nicholas II., Pope, 176, 185
Nicomedia, 162
Nisida, 297
Nola, 41
Nuceria, 41, 173
Ochino, Bernardino, 280
Oliveto, Monte, 96
Orico, 271
Orlando, Capo d’, 102
Oscan inhabitants, 41
Otranto, 178
Ottajano, 94, 98
Overbeck, 44
Ovid, 106, 261, 291
Oxford, 156
Paestum, 41, 57, 143, 173, 182, 198
Palermo, 91, 159
Palumbo, 155
Pansa, the Ædile, 40
Pantaleone, 142, 148, 161
Paolo Giovio, 278
Paris, Comte de, 94
Parthenope, 249
Paul III., Pope, 27
Pavia, 279
Pedimentina, La, 77
Pericles, 40
Pescara, Marquis of, 278
Petrarch, 116, 138, 239, 299
Philip the Bold, 102
Phillips, John, 68
Philodemus, 10
Piacenza, 185
Pimentel, Eleonora, 104
Piperno, Pietro, 111
Pisa, 136
Pistoja, 240
Pius II., Pope, 27, 144
Plato, 58
Pliny, 59, 71, 76
Pliny the younger, 71
Plutarch, 70
Pole, Cardinal, 280
Pompeii, 1, 5, 24, 38
Pomponianus, 72
Pontone, 152
Portici, 8, 80, 88, 97
Porzia de’ Rossi, 240
Posilipo, 1, 8, 37, 295
Positano, 119
Pozzano, 37
Pozzopiano, 106
Pozzuoli, 109, 301
Prajano, 124
Procida, 4, 237, 275
Puteoli, 5, 295
Quisisana, 27, 37
Ravello, 134, 152
Reggio, 311
Reid, Mr, 156, 262
Renée, Duchess of Ferrara, 280
Resina, 8, 79, 88, 98
Retina, 8, 72
Revigliano, 26
Rhegium, 311
Robert of Normandy, 178
—— the Wise, 116, 156
Roger, Count, 155, 180
—— King, 116, 136
Rome, 39, 94, 144, 156, 180, 312
Ruffo, Cardinal, 104
Rufolo, Niccolò, 155, 160
S. Agnello, 106
S. Alessio al Lavinaio, 105
S. Angelo, 13, 119, 122
S. Bridget of Sweden, 144
S. Brigida, 3
S. Chiara, 2
S. Costanzo, 251
S. Elia, Punta, 117
S. Elmo, 2, 67
S. Francis of Assisi, 144
S. Gennaro, 298
S. Giovanni a Teduccio, 8
S. Giovanni del Toro, 164
S. Giuseppe, 94
S. Luca, 124
S. Lucia, 3
S. Maria a Pozzano, 102
S. Maria del Gradillo, 162
S. Maria di Pompeii, 65
S. Martino, 2
S. Matteo, 173, 181
S. Michael, 35
S. Miniato, 2
S. Paul, 312
S. Pietro, Punta di, 123
S. Proculo, 307
S. Restituta, 291
S. Romualdo, 19
S. Salvatore a Bireta, 153
S. Trinità, 172
S. Vitale, 296
Salerno, 4, 36, 111, 117, 133, 172
Samnite Hills, 212
Sannazzaro, 295
Sanseverini, 169
Sardinia, 15
Sarno, 26, 41, 95
Scala, 134, 167
Scaletta, 152
Scaricotojo, Lo, 113, 118
Scutolo, Punta di, 106
Sebeto, 8
Sejanus, 256
Serapis, Temple of, 308
Serra, Gennaro, 104
Shelley, 13, 33, 64
Shrewsbury, 40
Sibyl of Cumae, 318
Sicily, 15
Sigilgaita, 161, 179
Silarus, 198
Sirens, Isles of the, 114
Sixtus IV., Pope, 318
Smith, Sir Sydney, 270
Soana, 184
Socrates, 40
Solaro, 268
Soldan, 246
Somma, Monte, 67, 94, 99
Sorrentine Plain, 5, 106
Sorrento, 5, 90, 221
Sottile, Cape, 123
Spartacus, 69, 76
Stabiae, 26, 72, 76
Stamer, W. J. A., 16, 52, 238, 265, 316
Staurachios, 142
Stolberg, Count, 202
Stowe, Mrs H. B., 16
Strabo, 69, 275
Strada Costantinopoli, 2
„ de’ Tribunali, 3
Stromboli, 91
Suetonius, 256
Syracuse, 58, 107, 311
Tacca, 51
Tacitus, 69, 71, 73
Tafuri, Bishop, 159
Tancred of Hauteville, 178, 180
Tarver, J. C., 258
Tasso, 5, 106, 145, 239
„ Bernardo, 106, 240, 277
Theocritus, 154, 292
Thermae of Nero, 316
Tiber, 116, 156
Tiberius, Emperor, 5, 50, 253, 308
Timgad, 38
Timothy, 312
Tiridates, 308
Titian, 27
Titus, Emperor, 10, 57, 71, 76
Toledo, The, 2
Torregaveta, 275, 317
Trafalgar, 270
Tragara, 263
Tripoli, 15
Tunis, 56, 246
Ulysses, 114
Urban IV., Pope, 144
Ustica, 91
Vaccaro, Il, 84
Valentinian, Emperor, 208
Valley of the Mills, 140, 149
Venice, 103, 112, 134, 148
Venosa, 181
Venus, Temple of, 52
Vergil, 208, 211, 275, 296
Vesuvius, 5, 11, 36, 66
Via Domitiana, 62
Vico Equense, 31, 102, 103
Victor III., Pope, 155
Victor Emmanuel III., King of Italy, 94
Vietri, 165, 171
Vigna Sersale, 247
Villa Jovis, 254
Villa Reale, 2
Vincenzo, 37
Vitruvius, 60, 69
Vittoria Colonna, 5, 277
Vivara, 276
Vomero, 3
Vozzi Family, 127
Wales, 107, 318
William Bras-de-Fer, 174
Wordsworth, 33
Worms, 185
Zampognari, 233
Zoppo, Carlo il, 102, 103, 121
FOOTNOTES
1 W. J. A. Stamer: _Dolce Napoli_.
2 W. J. A. Stamer: _Dolce Napoli_.
3 Professor John Phillips: _Vesuvius_.
4 Pliny’s Letters. (_Church’s and Brodribb’s Translation._)
_ 5 La Nazione_, April 24, 1906.
_ 6 The Decameron._ Novel IV. of the Second Day.
_ 7 The Decameron_—Novel I, of the Fourth Day.
8 F. Lenormant: _A travers l’Apulie et la Lucanie_.
9 W. J. A. Stamer: _Dolce Napoli_.
10 For an able defence of the Emperor Tiberius, the reader is referred
to Mr J. C. Tarver’s _Tiberius the Tyrant_, chap. xviii.
11 W. J. A. Stamer: _Dolce Napoli_.
12 A portion of this chapter has already appeared in an article by the
Author, entitled _The Island of Ischia_, in the _Westminster
Review_, December 1905.
13 W. J. A. Stamer: _Dolce Napoli_.
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE
The caption of two images (frontispiece, page 288) has been supplied from
the List of Images.
The following obvious typographical errors have been corrected:
page xi, “Republiques” changed to “Républiques”
page 55, “castastrophe” changed to “catastrophe”
page 90, quote mark added after “vendemmia?”
page 158, footnote, italics added to “The Decameron”, removed from
“Novel IV. of the Second Day”. (Other inconsistencies between the
two citations of the _Decameron_ were not changed.)
page 159, “mosiac” changed to “mosaic”
page 189, “gradully” changed to “gradually”
page 206, “Pæstum” changed to “Paestum” (twice)
page 212, “wheron” changed to “whereon”
page 238, “circomstane” changed to “circomstance”
page 241, double “the” removed
page 275, “costing” changed to “coasting”
page 300, “maledicton” changed to “malediction”
page 301, “then” changed to “than”
page 311, “aud” changed to “and”
In the Index, the following words have been changed to the spelling used
in the main text:
“Baiae” (was: “Baiæ”)
“Caecilius Jucundus” (was: “Cæcilius”)
“Cumae” (was: “Cumæ”)
“Hohenstaufen” (was: “Hohenstauffen”)
“Matteucci” (was: “Mateucci”)
“Paestum” (was: “Pæstum”)
“Pimentel” (was: “Pimental”)
“Rufolo, Niccolò” (was: “Nicoló”)
“Sannazzaro” (was: “Sannazaro”)
“Stabiae” (was: “Stabiæ”)
“Staurachios” (was: “Straurachios”)
“Thermae of Nero” (was: “Thermæ”)
“William Bras-de-Fer” (was: “Bras de Fer”)
“Zoppo, Carlo il” (was: “Zoppo, Carlo Il”)
Apart from the index and two occurrences of “Pæstum” in the main text, all
“æ” ligatures have been maintained: “ædile” (and “aedile”), “archæologist”
(and “archaeologist”), “æsthetic”, “Cannæ”, “Mediæval” (in a quotation,
otherwise “medieval”), “mærens”, “Prætor”, “tesseræ”.
Not changed or normalized were small errors in Italian or German
quotations (“a riverderla”, “Kultur-kampf”, “Bierhälle”), inconsistent
hyphenation (e. g. “boat-man”/“boatman”, “sea-shore”/“seashore”), spelling
variations (“Phlegraean”/“Phlegrean”) and unusual spellings (“elegible”
[in a quotation], “pleisosaurus”, “innoculating”, “choregraphic”).