Part 3

The weather changed soon after we came to Naples, and it has taught us what is really meant by Neapolitan skies. Until the middle of October, I had no notion of the extent of their beauty, which, though not absolutely unknown to us, is of a kind that we know the least. There is a liquid softness in the atmosphere, during the autumnal months, that you must have observed, for we are not without it in America. By this, however, I do not mean, the bright genial days of September and October, that are vulgarly praised as the marks of a fine autumn, but the state of the air, which renders every thing soft, and lends prismatic colours, in particular to the horizon, morning and evening. These colours are quite unlike the ordinary gorgeousness of an American sunset, being softer, more varied, and quicker in their transitions. I have often seen them, in October and November, near the American coast, when at sea, in latitudes as low as 40°; but they are by no means frequent on shore; still we have them, though seldom, perhaps never, in the perfection they are seen here.

You will smile at my old passion for fine skies and landscape scenery, but I have climbed to the castle of St. Elmo a dozen times within the last month to see the effect of the sunset. Just as the day disappears, a soft rosy tint illumines the base of Vesuvius, and all the crowded objects of the coast, throwing a glow on the broad Campagna that enables one almost to fancy it another Eden. While these beautiful transitions are to be seen on the earth, the heavens reflect them, as the cheek of a young girl reflects the rose in her bosom. Of the hues of the clouds at such moments, it is impossible to speak clearly, for they appear supernatural. At one time the whole concave is an arch of pearl; and this perhaps is succeeded by a blush as soft and as mottled as that of youth; and then a hundred hues become so blended, that it is scarcely possible to name or to enumerate them. There is no gorgeousness, no dazzling of the eye in all this, but a polished softness that wins as much as it delights the beholder. Certainly, I have never seen sunsets to compare with these, on shore, before this visit to Naples; though at sea, in low latitudes, they are more frequent, I allow.

I presume these are the peculiar charms of the Italian skies, of which the poets and painters have spoken from time immemorial. The American who runs in and out of Naples nine months in the year, although he may see beautiful transitions of light in the heavens, can know nothing of these particular beauties unless he happen to hit the right months.

I have said nothing of the Museum, which contains the articles found at Pompeii and Herculaneum, because travellers have written so much about them, that little remains to be said. We have witnessed the slow, nice, and one might almost say, bootless task of unrolling the manuscripts found at the latter place, and it certainly speaks well for the patience of mankind, and of the disposition of this government to encourage learning. I say, found at Herculaneum, for I believe none have been found at Pompeii, nor would they be burned like these had any been found there.

All the manuscripts of the ancients appear to have been kept on wooden rollers: if any were folded in the manner of the modern book, I have not seen them. The heat of the lava has reduced the parchments or papyrus of those found at Herculaneum to a state so near that of cinder or ashes, that a breath of wind will commonly separate the fibres. Still they exist in scrolls, and the object is to unroll them, in order to get a sight of the writing. Fortunately, an ancient manuscript’s legibility does not depend at all on the chirography of the author. As printing was unknown, of course all works that were thought worthy of publication, if such a term can properly be applied to such a state of things, were properly written out by regular copyists, in a large fair hand, that was nearly as legible, if not quite as legible, as large type. If any thing remarkable is ever to be discovered among the manuscripts of Herculaneum, we shall be indebted to this practice for its possession. As yet, I believe nothing of particular merit, or of particular value, either in the way of art or history, has been found.

To return to the process, which is sufficiently simple in practice, though difficult to be understood from a verbal or written description. The wooden scroll is secured, in a way that admits of its turning, at the bottom of a small frame that a little resembles one of the ordinary frames on which females extend their needlework. This frame is secured. Threads of silk are attached to screws in the upper part of the frame, and their lower ends are made to adhere to the outer end of the manuscript, by means of the white of eggs and goldbeater’s skin. These threads, of which there are several along the edge of the manuscript, are tightened gently, by means of the screws, like fiddle-strings, and then the workman commences separating the folds by inserting the thin blade of a proper instrument. If the manuscript has a hole, or it yields, it is strengthened by applying goldbeater’s skin. It is gradually—and very gradually, as you may suppose—unrolled by tightening the threads, until a piece is raised as high as the frame, where it is examined by a man of letters and carefully copied. The letters, owing to the chemical properties of the ink, are more easily distinguished than one would at first imagine. The colour is all black, or a dark brown; but the letters are traced by a species of cavities in the substance,—or perhaps it were better to say, by offering a different surface,—for the whole fabric is almost reduced to the consistence of gossamer. The unrolled manuscript has more or less holes in it, and the vacancies in the text are to be guessed at.

We saw people busily employed in all the stages of the process. Some were mere mechanics, others scholars capable of reading the Latin, and of detecting the more obscure words, as well as of comprehending the abbreviations. The first copy, I believe, in all instances, is a facsimile; after which it is turned over to a higher class of scholars, to have the vacuums in the text conjectured, if possible, and for commentaries and examination.

This operation has now been going on for years, with extraordinary zeal and patience. The Americans who travel in this country are a little too apt to deride the want of “energy” in the government, and a large class falls into the puerile mistake of fancying it patriotism to boast of what we could do under the same circumstances. Certainly, I shall not pretend to compare the benefits of any other political system, _as a whole_, with those of our own, nor do I object to throwing the truth into the teeth of those who ignorantly contemn every thing American; but we have our weak spots as well as our neighbours, and I very much question if any Congress could be found sufficiently imbued with a love of learning, or sufficiently alive to its benefits even to our own particular and besetting motive, gain, to persevere in voting funds, year after year, to carry on the investigations that are now making in Naples. Neither a love of the fine arts nor a love of learning has yet made sufficient progress in America to cause the nation to feel or to understand the importance of both on general civilization, without adverting to their influence on the happiness of man, the greatest object of all just institutions. We have too many omissions of our own to throw about us these sneers indiscriminately.

The number of manuscripts that has been found in different places is said to exceed two or three thousand; though it is probable many are duplicates. The greater portion of them, too, are past decyphering; as would have been the case with all, had the ancients used no better paper than the moderns. England, it is true, might possibly resist an eruption; but as for France and America, and Germany, and Italy herself, the heat of the volcano, in an ordinary time, would almost destroy their cobweb fabrics, if exposed to it any where near the crater.

The collection of familiar articles found in the ruins, and collected in the museum, is of great interest; but the publications concerning them are so minute, that a description by me is unnecessary. I was much struck with the beauty of the forms, and with the classical nature of the ornaments. Thus, the weights of steel-yards, and many other things of the most familiar uses, are in the shape of heads, most probably busts, and possibly commemorative of the distinguished men of the country.

America might do something in this way that should speak well for the sentiment and tastes of the nation. Alter the coin, for instance, which is now the ugliest in Christendom. The same may almost be said of the flag; though it is not an easy matter to make one uglier than some one sees here. Could the miserable hermaphrodite yclept Liberty that now disfigures the American coin be replaced by the heads of those citizens who have become justly eminent, the expedient would be a worthy substitute for that of statues and medals. To have one’s head on the coin, would possess all the advantages of a patent of nobility, free from the evils. To prevent abuses, the solemn votes of the states might be taken, unanimity as states required, and the honour postponed until the party had been dead half a century. This, you know, is the mode in which the Romish Church makes saints. These honours might be graduated too, giving to the most illustrious the honours of the gold, to the next those of the silver, and to another class those of the copper coin. The _quasi_, or ephemeral great, might still figure on the bank notes, as they do to-day. We could begin with Washington and Franklin, two names of which Rome herself might have been proud, in the best days of the republic. The copper coin might, in due time, take most of the presidents, on which, I fancy, they would very generally be placed by posterity. Perhaps old John Marshall might work his way up to the silver; though I fear original thinkers are too rare in America to resist the influence of fifty years. _The American_ jurist is yet to make his appearance.

What should we do with Jefferson under such a plan? Put him on the gold—certainly not. He was too much a party man for that. Even Franklin would get there as a physical philosopher, and not as a moral philosopher, or even as a politician; for as the first of these last he was too mean, and for the second too managing. John Jay might get up to the silver; certainly, had he not retired so early; and as to integrity and motives, he merits the gold. Jefferson might get on the silver, but I fear it would be with some alloy. Poor Hamilton, whose talents and honesty deserve the gold, would fail after all; or, at least, he would get on the _reverse_ of the coin, because he was elsewhere on the wrong side.

A great deal of poetic justice might be thrown into the scheme, you see. I fear we should have to import a few hogsheads of _cowries_ from Africa, for the _oi polloi_ of American greatness. It clearly would never do to trust the decision to Congress, as every man in it would vote for his neighbour, on condition that his neighbour voted for him. The coin might want _rolling_, but it should not be “_log-rolling_.”

To treat a grave matter seriously, the tastes of the ancients are fast producing an influence on the tastes of the moderns; most of the beautiful forms that are embellishing the bronzes of France and Italy being directly derived from models found at Pompeii and Herculaneum.

One is a little puzzled with the moral evidence of many of the articles in the Museum. It is not easy to say whether they prove extreme depravity of taste and great dissoluteness of manners, or extreme innocence and simplicity. Taking Juvenal and Ovid as guides, it is to be feared the first is the true solution. The proofs are of the most extraordinary kind, and quite on a level with those which Captain Cook found in some of the South Sea Islands. But the world of the nineteenth century, in decency, whatever it may be in facts, is not the world of any other era. The frescos of Andrea del Sarto, in the _loggie_ of churches even, and the tastes of the _divine_ Raphael himself, to say nothing of that of his scholars, sufficiently show this.

It is startling to see _rouge_, play-tickets, knives, spoons, and other familiar things, that were used two thousand years ago. Every one is surprised to see how little these articles have been changed. As to the _rouge_, it is not surprising, for it is a relic of barbarism, and nations cease to use it as they approach nearest to the highest civilisation. It is said that no lancets have been found; from which some infer that bleeding was unknown to the ancients, who may have used leeches and cupped. Forks, also, are said to have been unknown. I do not remember to have seen any. Of course, there was no silver-fork school; a singular blessing for a common-sense people.

I think it quite evident, from the articles in the Museum, as well as from the houses in Pompeii, that the ancients were much in advance of the moderns in many matters, and as much behind them in others. In most things pertaining to beauty of forms, and what may be termed the poetry of life, the advantage would seem to have been with them; but it is scarcely exaggerated to say, that one may detect the absence of the high morality introduced by Christ, in a great portion of their habits. Domestic life does not appear to have been enjoyed and appreciated as it is now; though I confess this is drawing conclusions from rather slender premises.

The Romans, like the French, lived much in public; and yet the English, who lay such high claims to domesticity, do not cherish the domestic affections to the same degree as these very French. It is quite possible to enjoy baths, forums, public promenades, theatres and circuses, and yet have no passion for celibacy, club-houses, and separate establishments. The Americans, who have less publicity than common in their pleasures, have scarcely any domestic privacy, on account of “the neighbours;” while the French have actually a species of family legislation, and a species of patriarchal government, that are both beautiful and salutary.

LETTER XX.

Departure for Rome.—Campagna Felice.—Aqueduct and Palace of Caserta.—Capua.—Sessa.—The Appian Way, and Bridge upon it.—Gaeta.—Cicero’s death.—Terracina.—The Pontine Marshes.—Peasants mistaken for Banditti.—Velletri.—Albano.—The Campagna of Rome.—Distant view of the City.—Entrance by the gate of St. John.—St. Peter’s.—Vastness of the fabric.

Our time was up, and we reluctantly relinquished our hold of the “_pezzo di cielo caduto in terra_.” The weather had got to be wintry and wet, however, a state of the seasons in which Naples appears to the least advantage; and then we had Rome before us, a pleasure that few travellers who have been in Italy near fifteen months can anticipate. Although accident and the weather have in a great measure controlled our movements, I believe we have fallen on the pleasantest course, as we have kept the best for the last.

A gentleman of Rome having occasion to send his carriage back, we took that in addition to our own, and by the aid of two teams belonging to a Savoyard, were enabled to set every body, and, what has got to be almost as serious a matter, every _thing_, in motion. As the day was well advanced before the caravan could move, we had named Capua as the end of the first day’s march, making a _détour_, however, in order to visit the palace and aqueduct of Caserta.

The latter was the place first seen; the road leading us directly across the plain which is so well termed the Campagna Felice; This plain is covered with habitations, like the great plain of Lombardy, and, although so desirable to the agriculturist, is a little tame to the traveller. However, as it rained most of the way, we lost little by its monotony.

We entered the Apennines by the valley of the aqueduct, amid very beautiful scenery. This aqueduct, or the portion of it that travellers come to see, is merely a bridge to span the valley; but it is on a scale so magnificent as to excite wonder. Apart from this, the structure is no great matter, being under ground; but the portion thrown across the valley is on a truly regal scale. The work is of bricks, beautifully laid, and is a succession of arches in rows, one standing on another, to the number of three. I cannot tell you the precise dimensions, for my guide-books say nothing of it; but I should think it near half a mile long, and two hundred feet high; a noble mass of masonry. It is easier to admire it than to comprehend its necessity. The water is for the use of the palace of Caserta, and it is difficult to suppose a trunk of the necessary height might not be made sufficient-strong to contain a small column of water, or to see the necessity of crossing a hill which was easily turned.

I believe this is esteemed the second work of its kind now in existence; that at Lisbon alone ranking before it. I have rarely seen a structure that has so forcibly impressed me with the sense of its vastness. It is, in short, literally bridging a valley. We ascended to the road, after walking under and among the arches, and overlooked a fine view, in the direction of Naples. The weather had become pleasant, but the recent rain had set the mists in motion, and we got a glimpse of Italy in a new character. The valley was not large, but exceedingly pretty; and the road by which we had come wound through it, passing beneath the centre of the aqueduct. Our carriages had taken it, and were winding their way out of the valley, up to our own level, in order to rejoin us. The effect of the whole was both noble and soft; for the distant bay, Capri, Vesuvius, and the Campagna, were all bathed in the glories of a fine sun-light, relieved by fleecy mists. The road on the summit of the aqueduct is wide enough to receive the equipages of the king, who had passed over not long before we were there. The trunk for the water was by no means large.

The route from the aqueduct is very beautiful. It winds among the mountains and through valleys, and is constructed as a royal drive, leading merely to the aqueduct. Caserta, as a town, is not large; though the palace is one of the finest in Europe. The latter stands on a perfectly level plain, with no other view than can be got from the windows, and that of the Apennines, which are too near for effect, or indeed to be seen to advantage, the nearest heights concealing the more lofty ranges in the distance. This palace is said to owe its existence to the pride of Charles III., who, irritated at having been menaced by an English fleet which ran under the walls of his residence in Naples, and threatened to lay it in ruins unless the demands of its government were complied with, declared he would build a palace where no insolent foe could insult him. In this respect, Caserta has certainly the advantage of both Castel-a-mare and Portici; but this is all, unless the magnificence of the unfinished structure be included. The gardens, however, are extensive, and there is probably good shooting in the mountains.

The great staircase of the palace of Caserta is much the finest thing of its kind in Europe. It is noble, beautiful, sufficiently light, and admirably proportioned as well as ornamented. The staterooms are good, though not more than half finished. But what palace in Europe _is_ finished? There may be a few, but I suspect that most are not. The Louvre is half a waste, the Pitti has its uncovered arches mouldering with time, and this of Caserta has not more than half of the best rooms in a state fit to be used: still there are enough for so small a kingdom, and more than are furnished. The palace on the exterior is a parallelogram, of seven or eight hundred feet, by five or six hundred. Internally, it has a beautiful distribution of courts, clustered round a central nucleus, which nucleus contains the celebrated staircase. The staircase is on the plan of that in the City Hall, New York, or a single flight at the bottom, which is divided into two after the landing.

From Caserta we proceeded to Capua, where we passed the night. Some ruins of no great moment, that are immediately on the highway, are thought to point out the site of ancient Capua, the modern town being about a mile distant. The latter is a mean dirty town, and certainly was not the place that detained Hannibal so long.—By the way, this much-talked-of delay was probably no more than the common expedient of falling back from a wasted to a fertile country to recruit, and, in all probability, was quite as much owing to exhaustion, as to a demoralization of another kind. It is far more likely that his army corrupted Capua, than that Capua corrupted his army.

The only specimen we had of Capuan luxury was a guitar at supper. Finding we had lived in Florence, the musician gave us a song in honour of “_Firenze, bella città_.” The guide-books say this word, Firenze, means a red lily in the Etruscan dialect, and it is certain that there is a lily in its arms. The arms of the Medici are literally _pills_,—three _pills_, which were emblazoned all over the place. It is a pity these pills are not a little more active, activity being all that Tuscany wants.