CHOICE OF A ROUTE--THE “ERCOLANO”--SYRACUSE--THE
ALBERGO DEL SOLE--SICILIAN COBBLER--THE EAR OF
DIONYSIUS--BEAUTIFUL GARDENS--MUSEUM--MESSINA--ANCIENT
FRESCO--TROPEA--STROMBOLI--NAPLES--“HOTEL DE NEW
YORK”--HERCULANEUM--POMPEII--STREETS--SHOPS--PRIVATE HOUSES--PROGRESS
OF EXCAVATION.
During my imprisonment in the Lazaretto, I had employed some of my
leisure time in selecting the most agreeable route homewards, for
towards England I had pretty much determined to go. My desire to
revisit Italy increased in proportion as I approached its shores,
and I determined to make the best of my way to Naples, and examine
at leisure its manifold beauties and wonders. The “Ercolano,” a fine
Sicilian steamer, touching at Messina and Syracuse, seemed to offer
a good opportunity for visiting those cities, and catching a distant
glimpse of Etna. I took leave of Malta on a beautiful evening in April.
The accommodation on board this boat was superior even to that of the
French line of packets, and I found my berth so comfortable when I
turned in about the hour of ten, that I soon fell asleep, and enjoyed
a night of uninterrupted rest, a gratification which the rheumatism had
long before refused me. Nor did I wake until we were ready to drop our
anchor in the harbour of Syracuse, when my friend P----s, whom I had
been so fortunate as to meet on board, came down to arouse me.
The view from the deck of our ship was lovely. It was a most sultry
morning, and the landscape with its glowing sky and blue water,
positively rivalled, in intensity of brightness, the odd gummy-looking
coloured lithographs in black borders, which one meets with in all the
Italian printshops. In the distance towered Etna, faintly smoking,
whilst the yellow-looking houses of Syracuse, coming down almost to the
water’s edge, were reflected so distinctly therein, that had we stood
upon our heads, the same landscape must have greeted us. There was not
a breath of air, and the sun, even so early as eight o’clock, shone out
as though it would scorch the very fish. No wonder that old Archimedes
could set ships on fire with his burning-glasses, at half-a-mile off!
We had no sooner come to a stand-still, and commenced blowing off
our steam, than there was a slight stir perceptible on shore, and
two or three lazy boatmen pulled off towards us. At an inn near the
shore, the Albergo del _Sole_, (for here the sun seems to influence
everything, animate and inanimate,) we found a cool room and a
breakfast, both of which were duly appreciated. But Syracuse is too
rich in antiquities, to allow of much repose in-doors during a stay
limited to twelve hours only, and therefore, though it was positive
labour to walk about, I knocked the ashes out of my pipe, and sought
the street. At the door of the inn, I found a fierce-looking unshaven
cobbler, who presented himself as a cicerone, probably finding the
_buona-mano_ of travellers yield a more profitable revenue than the
stall under the windows of the “Sole.” Closing with his offer of
service, I strolled off to visit the _contorni_ of Syracuse, which
abound with theatres, aqueducts and fountains, the relics of former
greatness, whilst traces of the engineering labours of Archimedes are
everywhere manifest.
Perhaps the greatest curiosity of the neighbourhood is the celebrated
“Ear of Dionysius,” an excavation in the solid rock, occupying one
corner of a large quarry. It measures about seventy yards in length,
with an average height of forty or fifty feet, but was evidently at
one time much more lofty, being now partially filled up. The external
orifice is in its form something like a horse’s ear, and the sharp
angle at the top, runs along to the extreme end, where it terminates
in an opening of a yard square, leading to a chamber. Here, as the
story goes, the tyrant used to secrete himself, and feast his ears with
the groans of his victims, an assertion which our shoemaking guide
declared to be beyond dispute. Those among the Sicilians, however, who
have bestowed any thought upon the subject, conjecture that the ear
was connected with an adjacent theatre, and that its natural acoustic
properties were in some way made subservient to orchestral purposes.
This supposition, far-fetched though it may appear, will not seem so
improbable, when the relative positions of the ear and that portion
of the theatre already excavated, have been duly considered. The mere
tearing of a piece of writing-paper, is loudly echoed, and one is
really afraid to cough, in consequence of the distressing asthmatic
effects which ensue from the other end of the gallery. The noise
produced by the discharge of a sixpenny cannon is absolutely deafening,
and not only are you obliged to submit to it, but expected to pay
also for the injury sustained by your tympanum. I felt glad to escape
again into the bright sunshine, and was next conducted by my guide to
a garden, the property of some Sicilian nobleman, one of the loveliest
spots I ever set foot in. It lies sheltered in the bosom of an ancient
quarry, which completely encloses it, and the eye is here greeted
with rare shrubs, both foreign and indigenous, whilst the sense of
smell is regaled with the odours of flowers and tropical fruits. Ripe
lemons and citrons dangled amid the dark green foliage, and as this
little Eden was not garnished with stiff-looking pieces of painted tin,
requesting the visitor “not to touch,” we touched, handled, and tasted
to our heart’s content, of the produce of the garden, the old gardener
culling here and there for our gratification. He even insisted upon our
carrying away with us some lemons of a strange species, of delicious
flavour, the pulp being the eatable part. This was white and sweet, and
of the consistency of cream-cheese.
Returning to the city, I visited a museum but recently established,
possessing already some rarities of great value. The most striking, is
a headless statue of Venus, of exquisite symmetry, dug up near some
neighbouring catacombs. I never saw so beautiful a figure. Though
carefully sought for, the head has not yet been discovered, but the
statue was considered to possess such merit, that Canova was sent
for to supply the missing portion. He died, however, before he could
execute it.
In the evening, we were again summoned on board, and another night’s
steaming brought us to Messina, where we had a similar leave of absence
from our captain. Two or three of us took a calesse, and saw some of
the curiosities of the place, but the town, noisy and bustling, and in
respect of its quays and shipping, not unlike Rouen, was soon quitted
by us for the more genial campagna, where we strolled at leisure among
the hills which rise at the back of the city, from whence the view
of the Straits and the Calabrian shore is very beautiful. In an old
convent in the suburbs, we were shown a fresco of “the Last Supper,”
bearing a striking resemblance to that of Leonardo da Vinci, at
Milan, and in precisely the same relative situation at the end of the
refectory. It is of very recent discovery, and was accidentally brought
to light by the removal of a thick coat of plaster which covered the
wall.
Tropea, on the Calabrian coast, seems a charming spot, embosomed in
a little rocky valley. Here we took on board a large boat-load of
the country people in their picturesque costumes, and amongst them,
looking very much out of place, an English engineer, employed in the
working of some newly-opened mines. Stromboli, which rises from the
water like a vast cone, crowned with a perpetual wreath of thin smoke,
was in view a great part of the day. To pass the night below, I found
impossible, for a calm evening on the Mediterranean is productive of
too much enjoyment, to be snored away altogether in one’s berth. All
our passengers seemed alike inclined to shun the cabin, and long after
dark, we sat lounging in groups upon the deck, listening to the songs
of the Sicilian sailors forward, or watching the lights created under
our bows, as we cleaved the water. I never saw the phosphorescent
appearance to greater advantage than on this occasion. The froth
produced by our paddles was altogether illumined, and looked like a
shower of fiery sparks, whilst our wake, almost as far back as the eye
could reach, seemed to be a reflection of the milky way.
Morning brought us to Naples, and I was once more landed at the
custom-house. A solitary pound of _Latakia_, the last of my stock,
was seized upon with evident avidity. I had foolishly imagined that
by making no attempt to conceal it, it might escape notice. Two of my
friends were more fortunate. They succeeded in _running_ a couple of
bags, containing a dozen or more pounds, by hanging them over the arm
in their cloaks, the officers who handled their pockets omitting to
notice those garments. I put up at the “Hotel de New York,” close to
the quay, in preference to the more expensive houses of the Chiaja,
usually patronized by our countrymen. Two of my fellow-travellers, one
a Russian, the other a _brave Belge_, bore me company, and we had no
reason to regret our choice. Here I had the good fortune to meet with
a _laquais de place_, who could speak no broken English whatever, and
finding that his French would likewise have stood a poor chance of
being recognised in the Palais Royal, I engaged him immediately.
On the morning after my arrival at Naples, I arose with feelings
akin to those of the school-boy, to whom the pedagogue has granted a
_whole holiday_, and whose excitement at the consciousness of some
extraordinary pleasure to come, prompts him to jump out of bed some
hours before there is any occasion. I was about to visit Pompeii,--the
very idol of all my wishes, since the day, when seated in my lofty
cane-bottomed chair, I was allowed, by way of especial treat to see,
but not to touch, the curious pictures in Sir William Gell’s book.
Now, I was about to roam at will through its deserted streets, and
realize some of those feelings which I had experienced as a child, when
listening to the wondrous tales of travelled friends, or the more
glowing pages of some pleasant author, whose imagination has enabled us
to mix with its busy and unconscious multitudes at the very moment of
its destruction.
A carriage with three stout black horses, unicorn-fashion, was at the
door of the hotel by half-past seven, and providing ourselves with
some cold fowl and Capri wine, we set off for Herculaneum, rattling
over the hard stones at a pace which would have been alarming, had our
horses been held in by any other than a Neapolitan coachman. A ride of
an hour brought us to Resina, and we alighted at the stone steps which
lead to an ancient theatre, freed only in part from the load of lava
which buried it. The sinking of a well by a peasant is said to have
led to its discovery, in the year 1713. The lad who provided us with
torches, and showed us over the place, pointed to the various spots
where such and such relics had been found, referring us to the Museum
at Naples for the farther gratification of our curiosity, and seeming
to agree with us that these interesting objects might, with equal
propriety, have been left where they were first discovered, instead
of being transplanted from the places with which they are associated,
to swell an already over-stocked collection. Such, however, has been
the fate of every moveable relic of antiquity disinterred at Pompeii
and Herculaneum. There is thus comparatively little left to interest
the visitor, and having strolled through the damp passages, and poked
our torches into the dark comers, we proceeded down one of the little
guttered streets of Resina, to the garden-gate, which serves as the
portal to Herculaneum. Having passed the threshold, and descended a few
steps, we stood upon the Appian Way. On each side of this, probably one
of the chief thoroughfares, the houses have been cleared of the lava,
which, like a boiling tide, flowed in upon and covered them, and the
visitor may now walk at will among the roofless dwellings of the city,
while his busy imagination vainly tries to invest them with the forms
and figures of those who trod the same stones eighteen hundred years
before. On some of the walls there are frescoes, which appear to have
retained their primitive brightness of colour, notwithstanding the
intense heat to which they have been exposed, and there are still many
beautiful pieces of mosaic in the floors of some of the houses, which,
from fear of breakage, have escaped translation to the Museum.
Owing to the great difficulty and expense of removing the solid lava,
but a small portion only of Herculaneum has been laid bare, and though
it is probable that a rich store of antiquities would be brought to
light by further excavation, it seems unlikely that the Neapolitan
Government will go to any more expense in that way.
Regaining our carriage, which had been waiting for us in the road
above, we pushed on for three or four miles, through thick clouds of
dust, to La Nunciata, catching an occasional glimpse of Castellamare
and the blue mountains beyond, whilst Vesuvius, rising from among the
cindery-looking vineyards of the rare _Lagrima_, formed the prominent
feature on our left hand. At every step, the evidences of volcanic
movement meet the eye. The foundations of the houses are of lava,
lying in huge masses by the road-side, just as they have been rolled
down from the mountain, and the carriage-way itself is so beautifully
hard, that it needs only an occasional shower to wash away the dust, to
retain it in perfect order.
Arrived at the gate of Pompeii, we regained the Via Appia, and leaving
our carriage under the thick shade of some almond-trees, entered the
street of tombs, or suburb of the ancient city. Here is the house said
to have been tenanted by the wealthy Diomede, with its ground and upper
floors, and walled garden, and a capacious cellar extending round three
sides of the quadrangle. It was here that the skeletons of seven
persons were found huddled together in a corner, most probably those
of the females of the family, who had retreated to the _souterrain_,
in the hope that they might be sheltered from the burning shower which
issued from the mountain. But the ashy rain penetrated and pervaded
everything, filtering through the crevices in the form of a fine
dust, filling up the very amphoræ, with which old Diomede, doubtless
a _bon vivant_, had plentifully stored his cellar. Farther on, are
several tombs in excellent preservation, and then passing through the
gate, we entered upon one of the chief streets of the city. The paved
carriage-way still shows the wheel-marks of former times, although
the street itself is so narrow, that it is difficult to believe there
was much passing to and fro. It seems more probable that horses and
vehicles were left at the _Osterie_, outside the gates, and that
locomotion within the city was principally confined to walking, with
the occasional luxury of a sedan.
The street in which we now found ourselves, appears to have been one of
the busiest thoroughfares of the city, to judge from the line of shops
on either side, which all bear more or less evidence of the business
once carried on therein. In that of the baker, for example, who ground
his flour, kneaded the dough, and baked his bread in one and the same
little shop, we found the mill, the slab, and the oven. It appears,
however, that so sudden was the alarm which seized the terrified
inhabitants, that the poor baker fled with the rest, leaving his batch
in the oven, whence it was drawn after a lapse of near two thousand
years, and deposited in the Borbonico. At the counter of the wine-shop,
the print of the measure is still apparent, whilst now and then the
eye is greeted with a sign, either on the sill or over the door-way,
of callings somewhat more objectionable. Shops and private houses
stand side by side, and close to the splendid dwellings, of which the
ownership has been assigned to Sallust, Cecilius Capella, and Modestus,
may be seen the modest shop of a blacksmith, and the laboratory of a
dispensing chemist. Farther on are baths, and an academy of music,
with the house of the Edile Pansa; a hotel, the studio of a painter,
and a crockery shop. The houses of private individuals are recognized
by the inscriptions in red-letters, even now perfectly legible, whilst
the identity of the particular business carried on in the shops is
less doubtfully established by the relics continually found in them.
The Terme, or baths, are in excellent preservation, from the bason
of marble down to the leaden pipe and water-cock. The house of the
Fauns has been lately discovered, and a number of interesting relics
were in course of removal at the time of our visit, though it was some
consolation to learn, that the beautiful tessellated pavement, which
adorns the whole ground-floor of this building, is to remain intact.
Each of our guides carried a large wet sponge, to bring out the colours
of the mosaics and frescoes. The former, indeed, are kept sedulously
concealed by a layer of dust and broken fragments, and would entirely
escape the eye of any traveller, unaccompanied by a _custode_.
Having examined the most interesting houses in the heart of the
city, we walked over an extensive tract of orchard-ground, to the
amphitheatre, which is in a state of great preservation. Here, the
range of benches appropriated to the Pompejan ladies appears to have
been the uppermost tier, as far as possible removed from the arena, and
therefore less exposed to risk from the accidental escape of any of
the animals. From the nature of the relics here discovered, it seems
probable that some spectacle was in course of performance, when the
first shower of hot ashes gave the signal for flight, though it would
appear that the danger was not so immediate, but that all had time to
make good their retreat.
On returning to the city, we paused to examine the Temple of Isis
and its oracle, a spot which the imagination of Sir E. B. Lytton has
invested with such peculiar interest, and passing into the ruins of
the Forum, we seated ourselves on some fragments of its chaste Doric
columns, and opened our wallets. Here we took a retrospective glance at
the wonders disclosed by our morning’s ramble, and fixed them upon our
minds whilst the recollection of them was still fresh. For more than
eighty years the process of excavation has been carrying on, and it
is supposed, that at the present rate of disinterment, another eighty
must elapse before the whole of Pompeii is uncovered. Not a third part,
indeed, of the ground within the walls, which are two miles round, has
yet been moved, and if the supposition be correct, that the whole of
this area is built upon, there is labour in store for many generations.