CHOICE OF A ROUTE—THE “ERCOLANO”—SYRACUSE—THE ALBERGO DEL SOLE—SICILIAN COBBLER—THE EAR OF DIONYSIUS—BEAUTIFUL GARDENS—MUSEUM—MESSINA—ANCIENT FRESCO—TROPEA—STROMBOLI—NAPLES—“HOTEL DE NEW YORK”—HERCULANEUM—POMPEII—STREETS—SHOPS—PRIVATE HOUSES—PROGRESS OF EXCAVATION.
During my imprisonment in the Lazaretto, I had employed some of my leisure time in selecting the most agreeable route homewards, for towards England I had pretty much determined to go. My desire to revisit Italy increased in proportion as I approached its shores, and I determined to make the best of my way to Naples, and examine at leisure its manifold beauties and wonders. The “Ercolano,” a fine Sicilian steamer, touching at Messina and Syracuse, seemed to offer a good opportunity for visiting those cities, and catching a distant glimpse of Etna. I took leave of Malta on a beautiful evening in April. The accommodation on board this boat was superior even to that of the French line of packets, and I found my berth so comfortable when I turned in about the hour of ten, that I soon fell asleep, and enjoyed a night of uninterrupted rest, a gratification which the rheumatism had long before refused me. Nor did I wake until we were ready to drop our anchor in the harbour of Syracuse, when my friend P——s, whom I had been so fortunate as to meet on board, came down to arouse me.
The view from the deck of our ship was lovely. It was a most sultry morning, and the landscape with its glowing sky and blue water, positively rivalled, in intensity of brightness, the odd gummy-looking coloured lithographs in black borders, which one meets with in all the Italian printshops. In the distance towered Etna, faintly smoking, whilst the yellow-looking houses of Syracuse, coming down almost to the water’s edge, were reflected so distinctly therein, that had we stood upon our heads, the same landscape must have greeted us. There was not a breath of air, and the sun, even so early as eight o’clock, shone out as though it would scorch the very fish. No wonder that old Archimedes could set ships on fire with his burning-glasses, at half-a-mile off!
We had no sooner come to a stand-still, and commenced blowing off our steam, than there was a slight stir perceptible on shore, and two or three lazy boatmen pulled off towards us. At an inn near the shore, the Albergo del Sole, (for here the sun seems to influence everything, animate and inanimate,) we found a cool room and a breakfast, both of which were duly appreciated. But Syracuse is too rich in antiquities, to allow of much repose in-doors during a stay limited to twelve hours only, and therefore, though it was positive labour to walk about, I knocked the ashes out of my pipe, and sought the street. At the door of the inn, I found a fierce-looking unshaven cobbler, who presented himself as a cicerone, probably finding the buona-mano of travellers yield a more profitable revenue than the stall under the windows of the “Sole.” Closing with his offer of service, I strolled off to visit the contorni of Syracuse, which abound with theatres, aqueducts and fountains, the relics of former greatness, whilst traces of the engineering labours of Archimedes are everywhere manifest.
Perhaps the greatest curiosity of the neighbourhood is the celebrated “Ear of Dionysius,” an excavation in the solid rock, occupying one corner of a large quarry. It measures about seventy yards in length, with an average height of forty or fifty feet, but was evidently at one time much more lofty, being now partially filled up. The external orifice is in its form something like a horse’s ear, and the sharp angle at the top, runs along to the extreme end, where it terminates in an opening of a yard square, leading to a chamber. Here, as the story goes, the tyrant used to secrete himself, and feast his ears with the groans of his victims, an assertion which our shoemaking guide declared to be beyond dispute. Those among the Sicilians, however, who have bestowed any thought upon the subject, conjecture that the ear was connected with an adjacent theatre, and that its natural acoustic properties were in some way made subservient to orchestral purposes. This supposition, far-fetched though it may appear, will not seem so improbable, when the relative positions of the ear and that portion of the theatre already excavated, have been duly considered. The mere tearing of a piece of writing-paper, is loudly echoed, and one is really afraid to cough, in consequence of the distressing asthmatic effects which ensue from the other end of the gallery. The noise produced by the discharge of a sixpenny cannon is absolutely deafening, and not only are you obliged to submit to it, but expected to pay also for the injury sustained by your tympanum. I felt glad to escape again into the bright sunshine, and was next conducted by my guide to a garden, the property of some Sicilian nobleman, one of the loveliest spots I ever set foot in. It lies sheltered in the bosom of an ancient quarry, which completely encloses it, and the eye is here greeted with rare shrubs, both foreign and indigenous, whilst the sense of smell is regaled with the odours of flowers and tropical fruits. Ripe lemons and citrons dangled amid the dark green foliage, and as this little Eden was not garnished with stiff-looking pieces of painted tin, requesting the visitor “not to touch,” we touched, handled, and tasted to our heart’s content, of the produce of the garden, the old gardener culling here and there for our gratification. He even insisted upon our carrying away with us some lemons of a strange species, of delicious flavour, the pulp being the eatable part. This was white and sweet, and of the consistency of cream-cheese.
Returning to the city, I visited a museum but recently established, possessing already some rarities of great value. The most striking, is a headless statue of Venus, of exquisite symmetry, dug up near some neighbouring catacombs. I never saw so beautiful a figure. Though carefully sought for, the head has not yet been discovered, but the statue was considered to possess such merit, that Canova was sent for to supply the missing portion. He died, however, before he could execute it.
In the evening, we were again summoned on board, and another night’s steaming brought us to Messina, where we had a similar leave of absence from our captain. Two or three of us took a calesse, and saw some of the curiosities of the place, but the town, noisy and bustling, and in respect of its quays and shipping, not unlike Rouen, was soon quitted by us for the more genial campagna, where we strolled at leisure among the hills which rise at the back of the city, from whence the view of the Straits and the Calabrian shore is very beautiful. In an old convent in the suburbs, we were shown a fresco of “the Last Supper,” bearing a striking resemblance to that of Leonardo da Vinci, at Milan, and in precisely the same relative situation at the end of the refectory. It is of very recent discovery, and was accidentally brought to light by the removal of a thick coat of plaster which covered the wall.
Tropea, on the Calabrian coast, seems a charming spot, embosomed in a little rocky valley. Here we took on board a large boat-load of the country people in their picturesque costumes, and amongst them, looking very much out of place, an English engineer, employed in the working of some newly-opened mines. Stromboli, which rises from the water like a vast cone, crowned with a perpetual wreath of thin smoke, was in view a great part of the day. To pass the night below, I found impossible, for a calm evening on the Mediterranean is productive of too much enjoyment, to be snored away altogether in one’s berth. All our passengers seemed alike inclined to shun the cabin, and long after dark, we sat lounging in groups upon the deck, listening to the songs of the Sicilian sailors forward, or watching the lights created under our bows, as we cleaved the water. I never saw the phosphorescent appearance to greater advantage than on this occasion. The froth produced by our paddles was altogether illumined, and looked like a shower of fiery sparks, whilst our wake, almost as far back as the eye could reach, seemed to be a reflection of the milky way.
Morning brought us to Naples, and I was once more landed at the custom-house. A solitary pound of Latakia, the last of my stock, was seized upon with evident avidity. I had foolishly imagined that by making no attempt to conceal it, it might escape notice. Two of my friends were more fortunate. They succeeded in running a couple of bags, containing a dozen or more pounds, by hanging them over the arm in their cloaks, the officers who handled their pockets omitting to notice those garments. I put up at the “Hotel de New York,” close to the quay, in preference to the more expensive houses of the Chiaja, usually patronized by our countrymen. Two of my fellow-travellers, one a Russian, the other a brave Belge, bore me company, and we had no reason to regret our choice. Here I had the good fortune to meet with a laquais de place, who could speak no broken English whatever, and finding that his French would likewise have stood a poor chance of being recognised in the Palais Royal, I engaged him immediately.
On the morning after my arrival at Naples, I arose with feelings akin to those of the school-boy, to whom the pedagogue has granted a whole holiday, and whose excitement at the consciousness of some extraordinary pleasure to come, prompts him to jump out of bed some hours before there is any occasion. I was about to visit Pompeii,—the very idol of all my wishes, since the day, when seated in my lofty cane-bottomed chair, I was allowed, by way of especial treat to see, but not to touch, the curious pictures in Sir William Gell’s book. Now, I was about to roam at will through its deserted streets, and realize some of those feelings which I had experienced as a child, when listening to the wondrous tales of travelled friends, or the more glowing pages of some pleasant author, whose imagination has enabled us to mix with its busy and unconscious multitudes at the very moment of its destruction.