Pompeii, Its Life and Art

by August Mau

Fig. 2.—Vesuvius as seen from Naples.

A glance at the map will show how conveniently situated Pompeii was to serve as a seaport for Nola and Nuceria; but it seems hardly credible that the inhabitants of Acerrae, which lay much nearer Naples, should have preferred for their marine traffic the circuitous route around Vesuvius to the Sarno. However that may have been, Pompeii was beyond doubt the most important town in the Sarno plain.

Pompeii formerly lay nearer the sea and nearer the river than at present. In the course of the centuries alluvial deposits have pushed the shore line further and further away. It is now about a mile and a quarter from the nearest point of the city to the sea; in antiquity it was less than a third of a mile. The line of the ancient coast can still be traced by means of a clearly marked depression, beyond which the stratification of the volcanic deposits thrown out in 79 does not reach. The Sarno, too, now flows nearly two thirds of a mile from Pompeii; in antiquity, according to all indications, it was not more than half so far away.

In point of climate and outlook, a fairer site for a city could scarcely have been chosen. The Pompeian, living in clear air, could look down upon the fogs which in the wet season frequently rose from the river and spread over the plain. And while in winter Stabiae, lying on the northwest side of Monte Sant' Angelo, enjoyed the sun for only a few hours, the elevation on which Pompeii stood, sloping gently toward the east and south, more sharply toward the west, was bathed in sunlight during the entire day.

Winter at Pompeii is mild and short; spring and autumn are long. The heat of summer, moreover, is not extreme. In the early morning, it is true, the heat is at times oppressive. No breath of air stirs; and we look longingly off upon the expanse of sea where, far away on the horizon, in the direction of Capri, a dark line of rippling waves becomes visible. Nearer it comes, and nearer. About ten o'clock it reaches the shore. The leaves begin to rustle, and in a few moments the sea breeze sweeps over the city, strong, cool, and invigorating. The wind blows till just before sunset. The early hours of the evening are still; the pavements and the walls of the houses give out the heat which they have absorbed during the day. But soon—perhaps by nine o'clock—the tree tops again begin to murmur, and all night long, from the mountains of the interior, a gentle, refreshing stream of air flows down through the gardens, the roomy atriums and colonnades of the houses, the silent streets, and the buildings about the Forum, with an effect indescribably soothing.

Fig. 3.—View from Pompeii, looking south.

How shall I undertake to convey to the reader who has not visited Pompeii, an impression of the beauty of its situation? Words are weak when confronted with the reality. Sea, mountains, and plain,—strong and pleasing background,—great masses and brilliant yet harmonious colors, splendid foreground effects and hazy vistas, undisturbed nature and the handiwork of man, all are blended into a landscape of the grand style, the like of which I should not know where else to look for.

If we turn toward the south, we have at our feet the level plain of the Sarno, in antiquity as now—we may suppose—not checkered with villages but dotted here and there with groups of farm buildings, surrounded with stately trees. Beyond the plain rises the lofty barrier of Monte Sant' Angelo, thickly wooded in places, its summit standing out against the sky in a long, beautiful profile, which, toward the right, breaks up into bold, rugged notches; the side of the mountain below is richly diversified with deep valleys, projecting ridges, and terraces that in the distance seem like steps, where among vineyards and olive orchards stand two villages fair to look on, Gragnano and Lettere, so near that individual houses can be clearly distinguished. Further west the plain before us opens out upon the sea, while the mountains are continued in the precipitous coast of the peninsula of Sorrento. Height crowds upon height, with villages wreathed in olive orchards lying between. Here the hills descend in terraces to the sea, covered with vegetation to the water's edge; there the covering of soil has been cast off from the steep slopes, exposing the naked rock, which shines in the afternoon sun with a reddish hue that wonderfully accords with the dark shades of the foliage and the brilliant blue of the sea. Further on the tints become duller, and the sight is blurred; only with effort can we distinguish Sorrento, resting on cliffs that rise almost perpendicularly from the line of the shore. Further still the outline of the peninsula sinks into the sea and gives place to Capri, island of fantastic shape, whose crags rising sheer from the water stand out sharply in the bright sunlight.