But I am digressing; for the fact is that I always see more of sacerdotalism afloat than I do on land. We are getting on pleasantly as regards social companionship. It was very cold in the train to Dover, and I felt inclined to take rather a gloomy view of the situation. It was worse on board the Dover and Calais packet, where the whole of the deck was set apart for first-class passengers, while we unfortunate second-class men were sent down below to see what we could out of the cabin windows. But once in the French second-class carriages, really much nicer than our own, reserve was broken, the tongue began to wag, and all went merry as a marriage-bell. I was much pleased with my neighbour—a Yorkshireman, I think, who had brought with him a bag of new farthings to be utilized for backsheesh. He offered me some, but I refused. At my time of life I should not like to be caught by a wild Arab of the desert to whom I had offered a new farthing for the familiar sovereign, the use of which is known from China to Peru. The pompous elderly first-class passenger amuses me. He has got his English paper, and he carries it with him everywhere, in spite of the fact that its news is some days old. One of my fellow-passengers had bought himself at Marseilles a small footstool to keep his feet dry—a needless precaution, as all the seats are built with a view to protect the passengers from the damp of the decks, always rather moist after the early morning scrub and scour. The daily bath is in much request. The young Englishman must have his morning bath—a favourable sign, if it be true that cleanliness is next to godliness. We are rather a miscellaneous lot—there are Scotchmen, whose sweet Doric I fail to understand, and Cockneys, who ignore the letter h; but some of the ladies are charming, and that is saying a good deal.
Long before we reach Naples the awnings are put up and we rejoice in all the warmth of an English summer; and never did the far-famed bay look more beautiful, and the towns and castles and convents that line the cliffs in every direction for miles look more bright. The usual babel of sounds reigned in the bay as singers and divers and dealers in fruit and other articles of Neapolitan production were clamorous to sell them. The worst feature of the Neapolitan petty dealer is that he is too anxious to kill the goose that lays the golden eggs. I know of many English who stay in Rome merely because the people deal fairer with the stranger within its gates. It is quite otherwise in Naples. The native pays fourpence for his two pounds of bread; the Englishman always has to pay fivepence. It is in vain you go to another baker. For a week he will charge you fourpence, and then he raises his price. One peculiarity of the Naples tradesman is that men of the same trade always stick together; and he does not spread out his business like the English shopkeeper of to-day. For instance, if he is a baker he does not deal in pastry, and the pastrycook does not interfere with him. But away from the trading classes the poverty of the people is really awful. You see men very lightly dressed sleeping on the broad pavement at all hours; and yet they adore their King, and are now building him a grand new monument just in front of the Royal Palace. Naples still needs better drainage; and the substitution of current money in gold or silver for its copper coinage would be a great improvement. Personally, this time I had no reason to find fault with the people. I found an honest boatman who rowed me to the ship for half a franc.
The one redeeming point in Naples is the untiring efforts of the Protestant ministers of all denominations—Church, Baptist, Presbyterian, and Wesleyan, the latter especially active and doing a good work in the way of schools. I called in at the Sailors’ Rest, an awful climb to get to, but a real rest when you get there. The present missionary is Mr. Burrowes, and his wife, the latter a genuine Scotchwoman of the better sort. They deal in the institution and on board ships with other peoples, with other religions and political opinions, and the result is very satisfactory. The number of destitute persons who have been relieved is as large as ever. Seamen are relieved and weaned from drink. Almost every evening there is something going on bright and cheerful at the Rest. The Sunday evening services have been found especially useful. After the evening service of a Sunday a large number of men stop to sing their favourite hymns, and the number of interesting temperance and religious works circulated is very large. The English colporteur, Mr. Copley, has given away 1,000 copies of the New Testament during the year, and he is aided by a band of foreign colporteurs quite as active as himself. It is work that ought to be more liberally supported by Christians at home. The good it does is great; its needs are pressing. I hope I may not appeal for the Sailors’ Home of Rest at Naples in vain. During the year 1895, 176 persons stayed in the Home, including those sent there by the British and foreign consuls, passing travellers from ships. Many stayed only one night, such as seamen from warships. About 140 persons got free teas, not including the relief given to destitute people. It is a pity that such a real good work should languish for want of popular support amongst the wealthy English residents at Naples and at home.
CHAPTER III.
NAPLES OF TO-DAY.
Once more I am in Naples, with its houses rising one over another, in front of me, and Vesuvius looking down on me, and across the loveliest bay the world has yet seen. There is little to see in Naples beyond its museum, which no one should omit to visit, and Pompeii, to which you are conveyed by train, where you come face to face with ancient civilization and ancient life. For the traveller the city is rich in hotels, and at one of them—the Hôtel Vesuve, a magnificent structure with stately halls—I once spent a happy week. I had come with money enough to defray my two days’ expenses; but, to my horror, I had to stay longer than I intended, and you may judge of my delight when the manager, who knew me, at the end of the week refused a penny for my board and daily food. I wish I could speak as well of the shopkeepers, who fleece you as much as possible, and are prone to give you bad money for good.
The people are industrious, and mostly very poor; but they don’t drink, and content themselves with water and a slice of lemon—always on sale in the streets. They are devout Roman Catholics, but, nevertheless, an official said to me, ‘Morality is unknown here.’ I met with a man from Newcastle, an engineer, who employs a thousand people here, and gave them an excellent character. ‘Do you employ any English?’ I asked. ‘Not one,’ was his reply; ‘they drink too much and are too troublesome.’ Taxes are awful and Custom dues ditto. I landed here once with twenty-five cigars, a present from one of the gentlemanly captains of the Orient line. I could have put them in my pocket, and no one would have been any wiser. I thought, however, ‘Italy is a poor country, and I might as well contribute my mite towards its exhausted exchequer.’ My confidence was misplaced; for those cigars I had to pay a duty—incredible as it may seem—of three shillings and ninepence! Only fancy!
What I like best in Naples are its tram-cars, which are cheap, and the attendants are civil. Riding and driving seem to be the principal amusements of the people, especially on a Sunday, when the poor horses have to rattle along with tremendous loads, which makes one regret that in this part of the world there seems to be no society for the prevention of cruelty to animals. Pope Pius IX. did not think one required. Artistic manufactures seem to constitute the staple trade. In every hotel there are fine marble busts for sale. Vesuvius supplies abundant lava, which is utilized in a thousand forms. On many a housetop you may see the macaroni spread out to dry, and in many a street you may watch through the windows the tortoiseshell manufacturers at work. To the city there appears to be no end, as it stretches away to the right and left, and climbs up the hills on which it is built. It boasts two Gothic cathedrals, and numerous churches, and many public buildings of a handsome order. Little of female loveliness, however, is to be seen in the streets—not half so much as in Oxford Street at home any day in the week. Miss Cobbe writes: ‘Naples struck me on my first visit—as it has done again and again—as presenting the proof that the Beautiful is not by itself the root out of which the Good spontaneously grows.’ I quite agree with Miss Cobbe.
In the wide and sunny expanse of blue waters that surrounds Naples there is much to be seen. Rocky Capri lies just opposite—the home of artists and English residents. In the bay on our left are Baiæ and Puteoli, the latter the port at which St. Paul landed on his way as a prisoner to Rome to appeal to Cæsar. Baiæ was the Brighton of ancient Rome; the remains of its temples and baths are scattered freely among the fig-trees and olives of the peasant. Emperors dwelt there. There Cæsar sought retirement, and the warm springs on the side are yet called by his name. Behind, Virgil placed the entrance of Avernus, and not far off is his reputed tomb. Between Baiæ and Puteoli was the Lucrine Lake, over which coloured sails wafted the small yachts of fashionable visitors, and which contained the oyster-beds for the luxurious tables of Rome. Vitellius the beastly, as Gibbon calls him, seems to have been the greatest oyster-eater in the ancient world. He is said to have eaten oysters all day long and to have swallowed a thousand at a sitting. There are no oysters in the Lucrine Lake now, for the simple reason that an earthquake long ago destroyed the lake. All that now remains of that famous fishery is a small and shallow stream, which is separated from the sea by a narrow strip of sand. Further north is Misenum, where Æneas came to land; where the navy of old Rome rode secure; from whence Pliny sailed away to get a nearer view of the celebrated eruption of Vesuvius, and where he met with his death by the ashes discharged from the burning mountain. On the other side of the bay lie Sorrento and other charming spots. It was here the Greeks sent colonists. The Greeks were the colonizing people of antiquity, as much as the English are colonizing people of to-day. It is pleasant of a night to stand on the deck of the steamer to see the gas-lamps on the shore glittering like glow-worms or fireflies all along the romantic coast.
If possible, the tourist should find time to have a look at Pæstum. In his diary Rogers the poet thus describes his visit: ‘Country green and level. The temples in a plain shut in on three sides by the mountains, on the fourth open to the sea; and the sea itself half shut in them by the promontory of Sorrentum, within which are the Isles of the Sirens. A magnificent theatre, worthy of such objects: the columns almost bare—broken and of an iron-brown, like iron rust; the floor green with moss and herbage; the columns and cornices of the richest tints, and climbed by the green lizards that fly into a thousand chinks and crevices at your approach; fluted fragments of columns and moulded cornices among briars strew the middle space between the temple and the basilica.’ Let me add, the temples are all in the same Doric style. Poseidonia, as its inhabitants, the Greek colonists, called it, was founded in the seventh century b.c., and, as the name imports, was specially sacred to Poseidon, or Neptune. The principal temple, which was probably that of Neptune, was that of the sea god.