I returned over the hill of Pausilippo; for part of the way the view is confined between the walls of the vineyards, but wherever there is any opening, the scenery is delightful, including on one side, the bay of Pozzuoli, with the islands of Ischia, Procida and Nisida; and on the other, the city of Naples, which rising on this side on the Chiatamone, and terminated at one end by the castle of St. Elmo, and at the other by the Castel del Uovo, forms a most picturesque object. Beyond it lie Vesuvius, the long mountainous promontory of Sorrento, and the rugged island of Capri. I took the tomb of Virgil in the descent. It is a small, square, vaulted chamber, which has been surmounted by a circular edifice, formerly on the road side, but now on the edge of the cliff, which has been cut down full 50 feet to make the present road more commodious. It is very much ruined, and covered with ivy and creeping shrubs, and all the ornaments and inscriptions, external and internal, have been taken away.
I believe I told you that there were two Englishmen in the cabriolet in my journey to Naples. The statement was not quite correct, as they are Scotchmen, but we do not mind these little differences so far from home. We took a boat together a few days ago to visit Baiæ. There were three men, and the agreement was for sixteen carlines. The men were moderate in their demands, for at first they only asked thirty carlines, and perhaps had we gone without a bargain, would not have required more than forty, and as a general rule at Naples, the man who does not ask you more than twice what he ought to have beforehand, or three times as much after the service is performed, has treated you well. The trip was delightful, we set off about half-past eight, and touched first at the point beyond Pausilippo. Virgil’s school is here, and several other antiquities, christened the Temple of Fortune, of Augustus, the villa of Lucullus, of Pollio, and the fishponds of the latter, where he fed his lampreys on human flesh: but these pretended fishponds are long vaulted chambers, and were probably reservoirs for water, like so many others scattered in all directions in this neighbourhood. In a climate like England, where the rain is divided through the year, such reservoirs would be comparatively of little use; but here, where it rains in three days more than as many inches, and then no more for several months, they are of great value. A single fit of rainy weather, which usually lasts from three to five days, might fill a large reservoir to the depth of 12 or 15 feet, and provide a small but constant supply of water through the summer. There are other vaults scattered about in the vineyards, which have not been reservoirs, for they have doors in them. Other remains again are shapeless masses, or mere traces of foundations, some in the sea, and some on land, and so numerous, so mixed, and so confused, that it would be hardly possible to mark what belongs to one edifice, and what to another. Some of them indeed are so deeply buried in the hill, that they seem rather the productions of nature than of art: the prevailing style of workmanship is rubble, faced with a reticulated work of very soft stone, which is less durable than the mortar which cemented it, and yet the mortar here is seldom very good; but even this imperfection of materials enhances our wonder; where the waste is so considerable, and yet so much still remains, what must the edifices once have been! The hill consists of a soft, sandy rock, which has furnished the materials of the buildings, and we cannot help reflecting, that one stormy English winter would wash half these antiquities away. In one place, a long vault is cut in the rock, which perhaps furnished a subterraneous road to some villa. It is very extensive, but the earth has fallen in, and rendered the farther part inaccessible. Leaving this point, we passed by the island of Nisida, an extinct volcano, part of which has been eaten away by the tides, and thence crossed the bay of Pozzuoli to Cape Miseno. Here again we landed in the port, and examined the remains of the ancient city. There are the foundations of a small theatre and some other fragments; and at a short distance, on a little peninsula, are some caverns called the Dragonara, said to have been made by Nero, to convey the hot waters from Baiæ, but it has no appearance of a water conduit, and was perhaps a reservoir. The lower part of one opening, which is stuccoed, and appears to be ancient, seems adverse to my theory, but there is now fresh water standing in some parts, hardly if at all above the level of the sea. The port is very beautiful, but shallow. Just behind it is the Dead Sea, and on its shores the Elysian fields, which like so many other places about Naples, are covered with a grove of vine-supporting poplars. After satisfying ourselves here, we proceeded to Bauli, or as the boatmen pronounced it, Bagoli, near which is the Piscina mirabile, a reservoir of water supposed to have been constructed for the supply of the Roman fleet at Miseno. It is about 250 feet long, above 80 wide, and 25 high, or deep. The Romans seem to have been fond of these large reservoirs, and always vaulted them over. Here is a thick and very hard tartar deposited from the water over the stucco, but the stucco itself is not particularly hard, and those who tell you that it is, are speaking of the tartar. Thence we went to the Cento Camarelle, which consist of one room above, and various branched and winding passages below, all cut in the rock, but sometimes lined with rubble-work, and always with stucco. Some have imagined they were prisons, others fancy them to be substructions of some destroyed villa; there is no probability that they were either, but I cannot tell what to make of them. The situation is delightful, commanding the islands, the Mare Morto, and the Elysian fields. On the road between the landing-place and these antiquities, are many other remains which I shall not attempt to particularize. Quite on the shore is a fragment called the tomb of Agrippina, but it has rather the appearance of a little theatre. There is also a so-called temple of Hercules, but a few fragments of foundations may be named anything.
Returning to our boat, we proceeded to Baiæ, where are the temples of Venus Genitrix, of Diana Lucifera, and of Mercury, names which at least serve to distinguish the objects. The first is octagonal externally, built of brick and reticulated tufo: it forms a good object among the vines. Behind it are some small chambers ornamented in stucco, called the baths of Venus. The Temple of Mercury, called also Truglio, a word of uncertain derivation, is a large, domed room nearly entire, but in which the ground is considerably raised. It is about 130 feet in diameter, and is famous for an echo, which repeats a sound several times, an effect apparently owing to the manner in which the dome is broken: there are many smaller buildings about it, and it appears to be a place well worth investigation. The reticulated work in some of the vaults is covered with a stucco containing fragments of marble, which seem to have been commonly used as a sort of gauge, when a marble lining was intended. The Temple of Diana is also a rotunda, and half the dome remains, shewing that there was no opening at the top, which there is in the temple of Mercury. The hills seem to be cut away to make room for these buildings, many of which are still half underground. They are generally of tufo faced with brick, and sometimes with alternate layers of brick and tufo.
Among all these ruins there is perhaps no one which individually would make much impression, and the ornamental architecture has long disappeared, but the immense number of fragments scattered in all directions, keeps up a continual feeling of astonishment. Wherever we see some mass of masonry, or some half-ruined vault, we are reminded of Rome, of her luxurious senators, and of their eagerness to enjoy the delights which Baiæ could afford. The recollection is principally of selfishness, slavery, and cruelty. The stern virtues of republican Rome, which have so much power over the imagination, are not here called to mind. About Baiæ the peasants do not mention Cicero and Virgil, whose names cast something of a redeeming spell over the ruins at Pozzuoli and Pausilippo. All is vice, and the mind feels a sort of satisfaction in the destruction even of objects, which considered in themselves, might have been highly beautiful. Yet I doubt this. Architecture seems highly sensible of mental degradation, and the caprices of an over-indulged taste, tend rapidly to deprive her of every beauty. In point of scenery, nothing can be more enchanting. The broken coast rising into rocky hills of various forms; sometimes projecting into headlands, sometimes retiring into charming bays, where the unruffled mirror doubles by reflecting every beauty, presents an inexhaustible variety. It nowhere rises so high as to be of difficult access, it is everywhere inhabitable, and even now, everywhere inhabited and cultivated. The loose, steep banks, which at Hastings or the Isle of Wight would only be spotted with tufts of rank grass, are here luxuriantly covered with vines. The bay of Naples takes the appearance of a large lake, and Vesuvius, the bold and rugged promontory of Sorrento, and the high summit of Ischia, form a delightful contrast to the milder beauties of the near landscape. We did not get back till ten o’clock in the evening, and could not at that time enter the harbour, as no boats are admitted at night, but we landed at a part called Santa Lucia, which suited us better.
I walked a day or two after this to the Camaldoli, a convent on the summit of a hill, which rises above all the places I have just been describing. The roads about Naples are generally in close lanes between the walls of the vineyards, and the country is full of little villages; but as I began to ascend the hill, the walls were exchanged for high, sandy banks, sprinkled with bushes of chesnut. The more level ground is covered with vineyards to a considerable elevation, but extensive woods cover the higher part of the hill, and descend into the deep ravines which intersect it. From the garden of the monastery, the prospect is wonderfully fine, comprehending the whole bay of Naples, with the surrounding islands and mountains, the ridges of the Apennines, and the coast, as far as Monte Circello, sixty miles distant; yet there was an appearance of haziness in the atmosphere. The lake of Agnano seemed to be just below me. The fathers complain that the steeping hemp and flax in that lake renders the air unwholesome; yet it is two miles off, and the elevation of the convent must exceed 1,000 feet. Many winding ravines penetrate into this hill, which afford a solitary walk at a small distance from the city, and there are many little patches of wood, besides that which spreads over the summit of the hill, which afford a pleasant shade, and are interesting to the botanist by the variety of plants to be found there. Yet in spite of the glorious views from some points, and the romantic home scenes in others, the country about Naples is not generally an agreeable one for foot rambles. It is too uniformly covered, and I long at times for a quiet path, through pleasant meadows, to a country church. Perhaps one of the greatest defects I find here is, that there are no country churches; not that there are no churches in the country; on the contrary, they are numerous, but they all partake of what in persons we call shabby genteel; rags and lace: always a wish of display. Sometimes they are fine buildings, and sometimes occupy noble situations, with a platform in front, whence you have a magnificent prospect. But they are never calculated to excite those ideas of retiring, unobtrusive piety, which give so great a charm to our English ones. I believe too, I miss the churchyards.
“The rugged elms, the yew tree’s shade,
Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap,”
and where
“Their names, their years spelt by the unlettered muse,
The place of fame and elegy supply;