The long picture galleries and avenues of statuary of the palaces, the suburban drives to the various villas, as well as the villages Frascati, Albano, and the falls of Tivoli, with the picturesque costume of the peasants, all afford variety.
The antiquarian strolls among the triumphal arches of the Roman emperors, the broken columns of the Forum, or wanders among the ruins of the palaces of Nero and Cæsar, and the baths of Caracalla. When the eye tires with the sight of marbles, bronzes, or the interior decorations of churches, which are perfect museums of fine arts, by the old masters, one can mount the dome of Peter’s, or the Campidolio tower, and grasp the seven hills of ancient and modern Rome, with all their beauties and all their deformities, not forgetting one pretty spot which it is profitable to visit, and where, under the shady willows and rosebuds of the Strangers’ Cemetery, he can read the epitaphs of his friends or countrymen whose career is ended.
XCVI.
Naples, Italy, May 12, 1854.
I came to this city over a route which I once had occasion to describe to you, passing through Albano, the pleasant summer resort of the Romans, and crossing the once much dreaded pestilential Pontine marshes which have been improved by drainage. I spent a night at Terracina, the frontier coast town of the Pope’s dominions, passed Gaeta the following day, where his Holiness was exiled under the protection of the King of Naples, during his political troubles, and found myself here within forty-eight hours, from Rome, after three searchings of my luggage and five examinations of my passports.
You will naturally ask, “How have you passed your time on a third visit to Naples?” The question is easily answered. The half a million of population of this city and its suburbs is a study in itself. The race of lazzaroni deserve special attention; the beautiful garden, Villa Reale, with its fountains and statuary, on the borders of the bay, now abounding in foliage and flowers, is an agreeable retreat for those who occupy the large and commodious hotels which overlook these grounds. Or there is a ride along the coast to the ruins of Baiæ, the Grotto Pozzoli, or a quiet stroll through the grounds of Prince Roca Romano, an old gentleman of much taste who devotes his entire time to the embellishment of his villa, and is very civil to strangers. Aside from its beautiful position on the bay, its arbors, flowers, and tropical fruits, it has a collection of rare birds and animals, also a miniature museum, where I found preserved the Eyeless Fish from the Mammoth Cave of Kentucky, the gift of an American. The grottoes excavated on the margin of the sea are adorned with statuary and lighted on festival occasions; they contain a goodly number of flying fish of a bluish color, which are regularly fed, and of larger size than those found for sale in the markets of Curaçoa. A steamboat excursion to the island of Capri, to visit the Blue Grotto, occupies a day. The steamer lies off and on the rock; the passengers in small boats enter through the narrow opening at a favorable state of the tide. Sitting in the boat the hat touches the rock, so small is the entrance. One is struck with the beautiful mercurial-like color of the vaulted natural roof, and the great depth of the azure and limpid water. The boatmen for a fee throw themselves in, and to all appearance come out dripping with shining quicksilver.
Mount Vesuvius is now quiet. Having on a former visit ascended the summit and descended one thousand feet to the verge of the boiling crater, and with difficulty (from a change of wind) regained the point of descent, suffering from the inhalation of the sulphurous vapor, with boots burnt off, I had no desire to renew my acquaintance with it. I joined a party of ladies to visit the Hermitage about midway to the top of the volcanic mountain, where an excellent view of Naples and the valley is obtained, and a good idea is formed of the rolling action of the lava in its destructive descent upon the plain, and also of the fertility of the gardens which are formed from decomposed lava and cinders, and which produce the Lacrima Christi wine, which here enters in as part of a cold collation. A melancholy accident has just occurred. A young German gentleman, who breakfasted at our hotel in full health the morning of his ascent to Vesuvius, was brought down a corpse. While on the summit a small portion of the earth gave way and he was precipitated down the chasm; his cries were heard by his companions for an hour, but before cords could be obtained from below he had ceased to breathe. A few days may be spent profitably and delightfully in visiting the ancient cities of Pæstum and Salerno, and the villages of Amalfi, Minori, and Majori, all lying on the sea-coast. Things have changed since I first trod the silent streets of Pompeii; then it really appeared like the city of the dead. Many excavations have since been made, the results of which are mostly to be found in the Great Museum of Naples; now the railroad passes by, and the station of Pompeii is an important one. If those who still sleep under the cinders and lava of these entombed cities could awake to the shrill whistle and hoarse cough of the locomotive, they would be as much startled by them as they were by the fiery flames and ashes of Vesuvius. Invalided sentinels are quartered to protect the relics of antiquity from the ruthless hand of travellers. Many gates are to be opened, and of course the purse strings must be frequently unloosened. The ride along the railway to Castelmare passes through a number of sailing ports. The rock excavation gives a good idea of the quality and variety of lava as it rolls down to the bay.
The drive from Castelmare to Sorrento is most picturesque. The views of the Bay of Naples, and the islands of Capri, Ischia, and Procida, from bold rocky cliffs surrounded by orange groves, which abound here, have been much extolled, and I was almost inclined to become as enthusiastic as others, as I listened to the harp players, and watched the graceful forms of the peasants in the national tarantula dance.
The anniversary or festival of the patron saint of Massa, a small village across the mountain, took place while I was here, so, mounting a donkey, I found myself, preceded by about a dozen priests in black robes and three-cornered hats, mounted like myself, with boys beating the sides of the stupid animals. Our train was considerably augmented by peasant boys and girls in holiday costume trudging along, and we finally found ourselves in the square of the parochial church, which presented the appearance of a fair.
The temporary booths were supplied with all the eatables and drinkables requisite. The countrymen occupied their time in the examination of goats, sheep, and pigs, and in making sundry purchases, while the villagers and country lasses, with tidy white veils, were listening to a full military band playing church music during high mass. The priests of the surrounding villages were in full regalia, and the interior of the building was hung in red drapery fringed with gold leaf borders. Small cannon were mounted for a grand volley, which was given, after which these simple people returned home as much enchanted as if they had witnessed the pompous ceremonies of Rome, and heard the thundering cannon of San Angelo. My boy had loaded the donkey’s head with rosaries of stringed filberts and chestnuts, which fruit were much sought after by those who had not attended the festival.