Part 14

Our course was northwesterly, for the headland of Pausilippo, which lay about eighteen miles distant, directly across the bay. We pulled several miles before we caught the land-breeze, which soon sent us in under the romantic coast for which we were steering. Passing between Pausilippo and Nisida, the island that is said to have been the temporary retreat of Brutus after the death of Cæsar, we hauled up into the little bay beyond, which is that of Baiæ. Here the town of Pozzuoli stands, on a low projection that runs into the water. There is little, perhaps no doubt, that this is the Puteoli of Paul. I thought of this apostle and of his perilous voyage as we rounded to at the quay, and pictured to myself the sort of vessel in which he had arrived, nearly eighteen centuries since, in the same harbour. She was called the Castor and Pollux, (what a thing to know even her name!) the ship of Alexandria, that had wintered in Melita, and which put into Syracuse, where she lay three days. Thence “we fetched a compass, and came to Rhegium.” This is the Reggio of Lower Calabria, which lies nearly opposite to Messina. “And after one day, the south wind blew, and we came the next day to Puteoli.” We learn some curious facts by the simple narrative of the apostle. He sailed, first, in a ship of Adramyttium, bound to some port that lay on the way to Rome. This was a regular convoy of prisoners; and we may gain some idea of the means of communication between the different parts of the empire, and of the relative insignificance of Jerusalem, at that period, by the circumstance that no direct conveyance offered. It has been objected to the authenticity of the Books of the Apostles, that the Roman writers did not speak of Christ. That the Jewish writers did not, (the well known allusion of Josephus being generally admitted to be an interpolation,) must be ascribed to his appearance conflicting with their own notions of the Messiah. There certainly _was_ a sect called Christians, who took their origin from a reputed Christ, and these facts _must_ have been known to the contemporary Hebrews, and yet _they_ are silent. But with the Romans it was different. The means of communication were so few, and Jerusalem was so unimportant in the eyes of the mistress of the world, that the philosophers who prided themselves in an elaborate system of mythology, in which an attempt is made to personify the attributes of the Deity,--a system that bears some such mystified relation to divine truths, as the black-letter notions of an old-school lawyer bear to abstract justice,--did not think such provincial opinions of sufficient interest to occupy their time and attention. On this point an error is sometimes committed by confounding the importance of Christianity at a later day, with the importance previously to, and immediately after, the Crucifixion.

Paul was put into a ship of Alexandria, in “Myra, a _city_ of Lycia.” At Lasea in Crete, they put into port, although the vessel was large enough to hold two hundred and seventy-six souls. Here there were serious notions of wintering! When they did put to see again, it was merely with the intention of running as far as Phenice, another port in the same island. They took a moment to do this, when “the south wind blew _softly_,” but were “caught” by the gale, that drove them up into the Adriatic, as is commonly thought, but into what was, more probably, no more than the Ionian sea. When they struck soundings, “four anchors” were let go by the stern. There are still relics of this usage, the smaller craft carrying many light anchors. I have seen as many as eleven on the deck of one small bark on the Lake of Geneva, and seven or eight are the common number. They lie in a row bristling on the forecastle. Anchoring by the stern is an old expedient: Nelson did it at the Nile. These anchors, however, are a proof that the vessel, notwithstanding her “two hundred three score and sixteen souls,” was small; as was also the fact that the crew, who were about to desert, were lowering _the_ boat under the plea of carrying out anchors from the bows in a gale of wind!

The seamen of the Mediterranean appear to have had the same practice of running into port, at every adverse turn of the wind, in the time of St. Paul, that they have to-day. An ordinary run from Palestine to Puteoli, in a good ship, would not exceed six or eight days, and here we find men wintering by the way, and putting into half a dozen ports, besides attempting to make several they could not enter. The ships of Alexandria were probably among the best of the sea, and yet even the one in which Paul arrived saw fit to winter in Malta, bound to Italy!

We passed close to a fragment of the ancient mole, which is commonly called the Bridge of Caligula, and which probably was used as a part of it; but I thought more of this arrival of Paul, as the different objects presented themselves, than of the luxury of Rome, and of all her emperors united. Where are the doctrines that Saul of Tarsus taught, and where now is Rome!

The whole shore of Baiæ is a succession of antiquities, or of natural curiosities. Puteoli, judging from its remains, was a place of some size; and this is the more probable from its proximity to the Baian shore, a spot devoted to taste and poetry. We saw the remains of the amphitheatre, and of various temples; but the ruins were indistinct, and much dilapidated. We walked, also, to the Solfatara, which may be termed the pulse of Vesuvius. When it is quiet, the mountain is deemed dangerous; but when it is in action, the volcano is thought to be in subjection. The distance between the two cannot be less than fifteen miles. This is a sort of low crater, out of which smoke and heat escape through cracks in the surface, rather than by a regular orifice. The surface is not unlike that of a brick-yard; and a large stone cast on it, gives a hollow menacing sound. The idea of breaking through into a mass of burning sulphur accompanies the experiment, though the crust is really too thick to make it at all dangerous.

In the Solfatara, we were joined by Mr. Hammett, the consul, who had come from Naples by land, to join our party. To this gentleman, whose education and long residence in Naples so well qualify him for the office, we have been indebted for a great deal of local information, and information that we prize the more as it is always, on such occasions, a source of happiness to exchange the marvels of a _laquais de place_, for the more accurate and chastened knowledge of a gentleman.

With this addition to our party, we re-embarked, and pulled across the bay, the distance of a mile or more, to the Lucrine Lake. The water was smooth as a mirror, and as our swarthy people, each of whom stood with his face towards the bows of the sparranara, pushed their heavy oars, I could almost fancy we were in a Roman galley, passing from one villa of Baiæ to another. It is scarcely possible to imagine a region that was once so renowned for its luxury and magnificence,--so teeming with historical associations, temples, palaces, baths, bridges, groves, and gardens,--that has more completely changed its character, than this. Of remains, and those of a nature to establish localities, there are abundance. It might be difficult to find another place in Italy, out of Rome, where so many are crowded into so small a space; but they are hidden, require to be sought, and all the glories of the past, so far as mere outward appearances are concerned, are completely supplanted by the present negligent and half-wasted aspect of the whole shore. The Lucrine Lake has almost disappeared, little remaining beyond a sort of pond in the sands; but, in its place, a natural curiosity has thrust itself, which serves strangely to add to the jumble of wonders that this extraordinary district offers. It is a small cone, or mountain, of volcanic embers and sand, which was forced upwards by a convulsion of nature, in 1538, and which is properly enough, in such a neighbourhood, called _Monte Nuovo_. It may be two or three hundred feet high, and has a sterile, naked look, the meagre verdure it possesses being altogether of a different hue from that of the rest of the soil. We can see this cone from the terrace at Sorrento.

We did not stop at the Lucrine to eat oysters, but followed a tangled path, between the upstart hill, and some of the more venerable heights that once groaned beneath palaces and Roman villas, to the shores of Avernus. Why Virgil chose this spot as the entrance to hell, I cannot tell you; unless it were for its reputed depth. It is a circular sheet of dark water, with shores that rise on every side except that by which we approached, and which are deserted and tangled. The ruins of a temple stand in the solitude, erected, it is said, in honour of Pluto.

Agrippa is thought to have cut a canal from this lake to the sea in order to form a port. The cost of such an undertaking at present would not be great, and it would make one of the best man-of-war harbours in the world; easy of access and of defence, and as snug as a _boudoir_. But to need a harbour, a people must have ships.

The path conducted us to the Sibyl’s Cave, a long narrow cavern cut in the rocks, beneath the palaces and villas, and which leads to nothing. These cuttings are curious as connected with the religious rites of antiquity, and Virgil probably had an eye to them in his descent to the nether world. We found a Styx within them, and seeing no Charon, but one who offered to carry us on his shoulders, we returned to try another route.

We retraced our steps to the beach, and visited some hot springs and remains of baths, which, right or wrong, have the reputation of once belonging to a country palace of Nero. The frequent occurrence of ruins in all this region is to me a constant matter of wonder. They embrace all ages, down to our own. Here is a broken pile on a rock,--it is a retreat of Tiberius; that on the opposite peak was inhabited by some Goth. This is the dilapidated residence of a Bourbon; yonder is a fallen citadel of the barbarians; and temples to all the gods of antiquity, with remains of churches erected in honour of the Ancient of days, dot the eminences and valleys!

We embarked and proceeded to Baiæ itself, a mere hamlet, to-day. Here are some tolerable remains, one in particular of a temple in honour of Venus, and also the heavy pile of citadel that is visible from Sorrento. We lingered on this site of Roman taste and indulgence several hours, and finding the day on the wane, bethought us of the coming night. The consul recommended Ischia, when we embarked with a light wind, and made sail in that direction. We glided immediately beneath Mysenum, which, for a novelty in this part of the world, is a high _sandy_ bluff; though all the Baiæan shore is more or less of sand. We looked into the little port, where the Roman galleys formerly lay, and whence Pliny departed when he proceeded to Stabia, to meet his death from the volcano. It is a small circular haven, with a very shallow draught of water at present, the padrone saying that the _Divina Providenza_ would find little enough for her wants. It was in part artificial, and the remains of the works are still distinctly to be traced.

We hauled up to windward of Procida, sailing through an element so limpid that we saw every rush and stone on the bottom in five fathom water. Having opened the channel between the two islands, we bore up for the town of Ischia, where we arrived a little before sunset. Here a scene presented itself which more resembled a fairy picture than one of the realities of this every-day world of ours. I think it was the most ravishing thing, in its way, eye of mine ever looked upon. We had the black volcanic peaks of the island for a background, with the ravine-like valleys and mountain-faces, covered with country-houses and groves, in front. The town is near the southern extremity of the land, and lies along the shore for more than a mile on a bit of level formation; but, after passing a sort or bridge or terrace, which I took to be a public promenade, the rocks rose suddenly, and terminated in two or three lofty, fantastic, broken fragment-like crags, which make the south-eastern end of the island. On these rocks were perched some old castles, so beautifully wild and picturesque, that they seemed placed there for no other purpose than to adorn the landscape. By a curvature of the land, these rocks sheltered the roadstead, and the quaint old structures were brought almost to impend over our heads. The whole population seemed to be out enjoying themselves after the heat of the day, and a scene in which a movement of life was so mingled with a superb but lovely nature, it is indeed rare to witness. Until that moment I was not fully sensible of the vast superiority of the Italian landscapes over all others. Switzerland astonishes, and it even often delights, by its union of the pastoral with the sublime; but Italian nature wins upon you until you come to love it like a friend. I can only liken the perfection of the scene we gazed upon this evening to a feeling almost allied to transport; to the manner in which we dwell upon the serene expression of a beloved and lovely countenance. Other scenes have the tints, the hues, the outlines, the proportions, the grandeur, and even the softness of beauty; but these have the character that marks the existence of a soul. The effect is to pour a flood of sensations on the mind, that are as distinct from the commoner feelings of wonder that are excited by vastness and magnificence, as the ideas awakened by an exquisite landscape by Claude are different from those we entertain in looking at a Salvator Rosa. The _refinement_ of Italian nature appears to distinguish it as much from that of other countries, as the same quality distinguishes the man of sentiment and intellect from the man of mere impulses. In sublimity of a certain sort, more especially in the sublimity of desolation, Switzerland probably has no equal on earth; and perhaps to this is to be added a certain unearthly aspect which the upper glaciers assume in particular conditions of the atmosphere; but these Italian scenes rise to a sublimity of a different kind, which, though it does not awe, leaves behind it a tender sensation allied to that of love. I can conceive of even an ardent admirer of Nature wearying in time of the grandeur of the Alps; but I can scarce imagine one who could ever tire of the witchery of Italy.

Climate has a great influence in bringing about these results. As the greater portion of the United States lies south of Naples, you may wish to know why we do not possess the same advantages. We want the accessories. A volcanic formation puts all competition at defiance, in the way of the picturesque. This feature alone frequently renders mountains of no great elevation in themselves sublime, while others of twice their height are tame. We want the water, the promontories, the bays, the peninsulas, the grand islands, and lastly, we want all the quaint and time-honoured forms that art assumed, in this region, three thousand years ago, seemingly never to abandon them.

Our attempts to obtain lodgings at the town of Ischia were unsuccessful, and we shaped our course for a villa on the coast two or three miles distant, where we were received. Our _coucher_ was a little unsophisticated, most of the party using mattresses on the floor; but we had brought tea with us, and made a good supper. Italy pays the penalty for the warmth that is thrown around its landscapes, in having little milk, the article, of all others, in which its great rival Switzerland abounds. Wine can be had any where, as may oil; but the excellent tribute of the cow is hard to be got. We found maccaroni, however, which is as much a standing dish in Naples as rice in Carolina.

Arrangements for the night were soon made. Every body had a mattress; though I afterwards found that Gelsomina slept in an open gallery, and Roberto in the cellar. The idea of putting two people in the same bed, even if married, scarcely ever comes into the heads of the Europeans of the continent; nearly every bed-room of the least pretension, if intended for the use of two, having its two beds. I have seen double-beds in Italy, it is true; but they were as large as small houses. That peculiar sentiment of the Western American, who “wondered that any man should be such a hog as to wish a bed all to himself,” appears never to have suggested itself to a people so destitute of “energy.”

We took a light breakfast, and left the shores of Ischia just as the sun rose. The island is volcanic, and blocks of lava looking as fresh as that at the foot of Vesuvius, lie along the margin of the sea; and yet no tradition, or history, speaks of the volcano as active! These visible proofs of the imperfection of our records, and of the course of time, have a tendency to create new views of things. I am glad to hear that theologians and philosophers are beginning to see the possibility of reconciling the text of sacred history with the evidences of science, and to be of a mind in believing this world vastly older than the vulgar understanding of the Mosaic account has, hitherto, led us to think. You are not to infer, however, that I believe the lava of Ischia so very ancient; the five thousand years will very well suffice for all the geological phenomena that I am acquainted with, and which lie on the surface of the earth.

The morning was calm, and we pulled towards the western point of Procida. This is one of the few islands of this region that is without any mountain. It is extremely populous, though quite small, having a good deal of shipping. We landed on the point, and, by way of exploring the island, walked to the town. It is the fashion to see a Greek character in this people, who were originally a Greek colony (as indeed were those on the adjacent main); but we saw no more than the same swarthy, dark-eyed race that throngs the streets of Naples.

Re-embarking at the port, we pulled towards the promontory of Mysenum, and landed behind the bluff, directing our galley to proceed and meet us near Baiæ. Nearly every foot of the shore, for several miles, was now historical, offering, amid a fatiguing sameness, and a sterility of surface, some relic of antiquity. An ordinary traveller, in passing along this place, would see as little to please him, or to attract his attention, as in any part of Italy I know; and yet Pompeii itself is scarcely more pregnant with recollections. The Elysian Fields of Virgil are now a tangled brake; the _Mare Morto_ is dead enough, and is scarcely worthy to be called a pool. Some imagine that the first was a place of interment for the wealthy, converted by the imagination of the poet into an arena of souls; and that the _sea_ was merely an inner basin of the port of Mysenum, transformed by the same subtle process into the Styx. It is more probable that the imaginations of other people converted the Elysian Fields of the poet into this, and the inner basin, if inner basin it ever was, into his Styx. It struck me that the popular notions about this place are altogether too sublimated for a true poet, and that the popular genius, instead of that of Virgil, has been at work here.

The remains of the Romans are in better keeping. The Piscina Mirabile is a stupendous work, and almost perfect; and it puts all modern reservoirs to shame. It is under ground, vast and contains arches and piers fit for the foundations of a palace. My respect for the Roman marine has never been very profound; but, if it be true that this place was intended to water their fleet, I know no modern nation that, under similar circumstances would be likely to effect the same object on a scale so magnificent and noble.

The supposed prisons of the Hundred Chambers have the same character of vastness and durability. But every thing Roman appears to be of this nature, and, in studying the remains, one is constantly provoked to make comparisons to the prejudice of us moderns. Were Naples to be deserted to-morrow, and this entire region depopulated, it is my opinion that they who visited the country a thousand years hence, would still find remains of the Romans, where every trace of the Neapolitans had disappeared. As for ourselves, the case is still worse. A period as short as that during which the country has been occupied, would probably obliterate every mark of our possession. We have a few forts, and a sea wall or two, that might resist the wear of a few centuries; but New York would not leave a trace, beyond imperishable fragments of stone, in two hundred years. Something may be ascribed to climate, certainly; but more is owing to the grand and just ideas of these ancients, who built for posterity as well as for themselves.

After looking at ruins, if works almost as perfect as they were the day they were completed can be so termed, we embarked, and made sail for the point of Pausilippo, with a light but fair wind. The little island of Nisida, which once had its villas too, is now the Lazaretto, and was filled with travellers in quarantine. The breeze served to carry us half across the bay, and it then deserted us. Our galley put out its oars, and we swept in towards the cliffs, on as lovely an evening as ever fell on this _pezzo di cielo_. Just as the day closed, the black mass of Capri became shut in by the headlands of Massa, and we approached the rocky shore of Sorrento beneath the light of a placid moon. Before nine, we were all safely housed in the _Casa detta del Tasso_.

LETTER XVI.

Capri.--Dread of Earthquakes.--Cruise to Pompeii.--The Sarno.--Approaching Squall.--Sorrentine Boatmen.--Siroccos.--Public Works.--Camaldoli Convents.--Islands of the Syrens.--A Sabbath Walk.--Monasteries on Hills.--Creature-Comforts.