Every Italian city has some peculiarities of custom or language which are amusing to a stranger, though sometimes, it must be confessed, they are rather annoying. Here about daybreak, or a little before, I am awaked by a number of confused sounds, but I go to sleep again in spite of them. My breakfast is usually taken at a coffee-house, and in my way there, I discover in what these voices consisted, at least in some degree; for as the language here is any thing but pure Tuscan, I cannot pretend to understand the whole of it. Perhaps in all countries the criers of goods form something of a dialect of their own, as in London, where a stranger might well be puzzled to find out their meaning. And then there are elisions, which are only explained by the action, or by the goods exposed for sale. One is bawling “quattro grani, quattro grani,” meaning that he has figs to sell, at four grains the rotolo. A Neapolitan rotolo consists of thirty-three ounces, and amounts very nearly to two pounds avoirdupois. The grain is a tenth part of a carline, and that again the twelfth of a piastre, which wants a few grains of a Spanish dollar. A grain is therefore something less than one halfpenny. The coins which represent it may afford some new lessons in arithmetic. Theoretically, two tornesi are equal to one grain. But we have pieces of ten tornesi worth four grains, of eight tornesi equal also to four grains, eight tornesi equal two grains and a half, five tornesi equal two grains: when the coins are very numerous, even these erroneous marks are better than none at all, as they enable us to identify the piece with certainty. What is pleasant enough is, that the copper coins of 1816 have the head of Ferdinand the Fourth, while those of 1817 have, in the legend, Ferdinand the First, his majesty having been graciously pleased in the interval to annihilate three of his ancestors. To return to the figs, they are small, but very good, and neatly piled up in small round baskets, with leaves between them, and flowers stuck among them by way of ornament. Close by, another fellow is calling “tre grani, quattro grani,” as the price of the different sorts of grapes, which are disposed in the same manner, and with the same attention to decoration. This indeed is quite the character of the Neapolitan. “O che bella cosa,” cries his neighbour, and he has cut up a melon into pieces, which he sells for half a grain each. “Quanto è bello,” thunders forth the butcher, who admires with rapture the meat he wishes you to buy.
You find by this time that my way from the inn to the Toledo lies through a sort of market, but it is merely a short street of shops and stalls. “Carità, signore, carità, pell’ amore di Maria santissima.” “Signore, ps, signore,” says the shoeblack, and he points to my shoes, requesting I would permit him to black them. They have just been cleaned; no matter, he is ready to clean them again. “Andiamo,” cries a vetturino, or rather callessiere. I ask where we are to go, and he runs over the names of half a dozen places in the neighbourhood, Portici, Pozzuoli, Baia. I take shelter from all this in a coffee-house, endeavouring to choose one where they are not roasting coffee at the door, or preparing cakes of chocolate within; and where they do not permit the customers to have their boots cleaned in the room. Perhaps after breakfast I wish to go to some place in the neighbourhood, and I have no difficulty in finding a conveyance. “How much,” I ask, “must I give you to take me to Pozzuoli?” “Tre piastre, va bene?” “No,” I reply, “it is too much.” “Well, how much will you give?” “Five carlines,” is my answer. “Oh Sir! five carlines to go seven miles, and stay there all day, and bring you back again?” things, by the by, which he did not at all intend to include in his first bargain. “But I do not want you to stay, or to bring me back, but merely to take me there.” “Una piastra, va bene?” “No.” “Including buona mano and every thing.” I walk on. “Ps Signore, otto carlini?” “No.” “Sette?” “No.” “Sei?” “Well, including the buona mano.” “Oh! you will give me a bottle.” “Not a grain more, six carlines and nothing beside.” “Andiamo.” He brings up his little one-horse chaise, in which two people can just sit. I get in, and he seats himself at the bottom, or perhaps gets up behind, offering me the reins, which I never take, but retaining himself the whip. This he smacks, and we set off at a round trot, or perhaps at a gallop. At the end of the journey, he affects to be very much surprised that you pay him no more than his bargain. The next contest is with the Ciceroni of the place, who are ambitious of the honour of serving you for half a dollar, or for less, if they are rather thin of visitors; and last again with the vetturini in returning. With all this, whether they succeed or fail, they are never uncivil. You have to bargain at the shops almost as much as with the vetturini. “Amongst so many,” said a French gentleman to me, soon after my arrival, “it is not possible that there should not be some honest man; I can only say, that during a residence of eight years, I have not had the good fortune to meet with one.” “It would be very uncharitable to suppose,” observed an English gentleman, who had equal, or superior opportunities of knowing, and the conversation happened on the same day, “that among a population of six millions, there should be no honest man; and it is possible that one or two whom I know may be men of honour, but the exceptions are so few, that it is fair to say, that from the king upon the throne, to the lowest lazzaroni in the streets, they are all knaves.”
Eating and drinking are more expensive here than at Rome, which is said to be owing to heavier duties; but it must be confessed that you are better treated at the trattorie, and better served. There is no bargaining at these places; they have printed lists of their articles, with the prices affixed. If you prefer ordering a dinner altogether, you may have an excellent one for six carlines, or, if you wish to be luxurious, for ten, when you will have eight dishes, besides various little things to excite the appetite, fruit, and wine of a better quality than that commonly drunk.
There cannot be a stronger contrast than between Rome and Naples. In the former city every thing breathes repose; the streets are not deserted, but you meet only with persons going soberly about on their several occasions; and except perhaps, for about an hour in an evening in the Corso, there is no crowd, no bustle. If you pass beyond the walls, you may walk for miles along the silent and open roads of the Campagna, and see only a few shepherds tending their flocks. Here it is one everlasting tumult, every street seems crowded, the whole population is out of doors, and in incessant motion. You look along the Toledo (the principal street in Naples) and see nothing but heads, and here and there a carriage passing among them at a quick pace, while the driver is incessantly calling out “Badi,” to warn the foot passengers to get out of his way. Accidents seem unavoidable, yet they rarely happen, and the punishment is, I understand, very severe. The roads about the city are everywhere full of people, the same incessant motion prevails everywhere. The Neapolitans are very noisy, yet they are fond of answering by signs rather than by words, and in the shops I find them very sparing of their replies and of their trouble. When I have had occasion to ask for anything not quite in common use, one shopkeeper has replied very civilly “No, signore,” a second answers plain “No,” a third thinks he has it, but does not know where it is. If I will call again, perhaps he may find it; a fourth merely screws up his mouth into a semicircle, and a fifth cocks up his chin, both of which are Neapolitan negatives. However you must take care what you are about, for another screw of the mouth means yes, and when they have to give you any direction, they point with the chin. This language of signs and inarticulate sounds is not that of nature, it is just as arbitrary and conventional as that of words.
In an evening I often walk down to the Strada de’ Giganti, to watch the explosions of Vesuvius. In the day time we only see puffs of smoke, but at night there are frequent bursts of red hot cinders, like a great Chinese gerb. They are often so abundant, that for a few seconds after the explosion, the top of the mountain appears red hot. On passing Torre del Greco one night after dark, these explosions appeared very magnificent, and I could distinguish the individual stones, and see them roll down the mountain, and hear the dull heavy noise of their fall like distant thunder.
Other cities have beautiful walks in the neighbourhood, but at Naples we find them within the town itself. It is a short walk from my lodging into the Toledo, a noble street, nearly a mile long, for which the Neapolitans are indebted to their viceroy, Don Pietro di Toledo, and from thence I enter the square, or as it is called here, the Largo del Palazzo, on one side of which is the royal palace, and on the other is to be the new church,[[22]] built in consequence of a vow made by his present majesty if he should ever be restored to his Neapolitan dominions.
The Strada de’ Giganti issues from the square on the side opposite the Toledo. On one side of it there are houses, on the other the royal printing-office and the arsenal; which are buildings on a so much lower level, that we overlook them, and command great part of the bay, and particularly mount Vesuvius.
Continuing our walk, after a short interruption of the scenery, which rather enhances than diminishes the pleasure, we arrive at Santa Lucia, whence the whole mountainous, and highly varied promontory of Sorrento is displayed; and passing beyond the point to which is appended the Castel dell’ Uovo, we arrive at the Chiaja, a walk adorned with ilices, sumach, acacia, and other trees; whence we may contemplate the promontory of Pausilippo, and the rugged island of Capri almost closing the bay. I give you the leading and central features only of each scene; each contains something of the adjoining ones, and it would be difficult to tell which is the most beautiful. In the midst of the Chiaja is a fountain, decorated with the celebrated group called the Toro Farnese, which was found in the baths of Caracalla at Rome. It consists of four figures besides the bull, but has required considerable restorations, and seems now to be suffering from the action of the sea air.[[23]]
Another walk, hardly beyond the city, will conduct us to Capo di Monte, a royal palace, in a delightful situation, but which I believe has never been finished. A pretty high range of sand hills extends, but in a descending line, from the Camaldoli to this place, and hereabouts it is covered with gardens and vineyards, and exhibits the most delightful views of Vesuvius and the bay of Naples, and as the hill is very much broken in its form, it offers also the advantage of continual variety in the accompaniments and position of the scene. Sometimes we find delightful little recesses in the ravines, home scenes, with little or nothing of the distance, but most inviting retreats from the heat of the day. Cultivation however covers every part so closely, that few of these are admitted, and besides, they are supposed to be unhealthy, and the present luxury would be too dearly paid for in a tertian fever. I was offered a suite of five rooms, opening on to a terrace, and commanding one of the best points of view, for fifty ducats per annum; there was also a kitchen, and one or two other rooms behind.
The sand is in most places, where the hill has been cut into, firm enough to maintain a perpendicular face. It has just that degree of tenacity which is most favourable to the operations of the miner, and accordingly, we here find the extensive catacombs of San Gennaro.