Chapter XIII: Part 13

The galleries for the most part contain specimens of the great masters,—such as Titian, Guido Reni, Vandyke, and almost every other master of note,—though most frequently of the Italian masters and artists. Some of these collections are very extensive. That of the Borghese Palace occupies no less than twelve rooms. Among so many pictures there is always to be found a great amount of mediocrity, interspersed with works and gems of the highest art, over which one could gladly linger. On most of them age has bestowed its mellow tint. There is a richness and power in these old masters which one misses in modern galleries; and after visiting the principal collections in Italy, and fresh from the Louvre in Paris, I felt as if landed in a new world on entering the Royal Academy in London.

In some of the galleries persons are usually to be seen making copies of more or less merit of noted paintings, the copying of pictures being apparently, as it is in other Italian cities, a considerable branch of business in Rome. The casino of the Rospigliosi is visited principally for the celebrated Aurora of Guido Reni, with which that of Guercino cannot compare. It is a large work of art, which, like too many others, is painted on a ceiling, at all times an awkward position in which to be seen; and so awkward, too, for the artist, that to copy it always seems a very wonderful effort of execution. In this case, however, with much consideration for visitors’ necks, a mirror is placed on a table below for the purpose of reflecting it at a convenient angle, and in this way it can be studied. As the masterpiece of the great painter (for Guido can hold his place alongside of Titian and Raphael), this picture is a very favourite subject of copy; and while we were in the room, there were three or four artists making copies of it varying in size. I asked the price of one good–sized copy, the execution of which was remarkably good, and the answer was, 600 francs—£24 nominally, or about £21 calculating according to the then state of the exchange (which, however, does not enter into the artist’s calculations) with England. There was a good deal of work upon it, and it might possibly be fairly worth the money; but, according to the Italian mode of dealing, more may have been stated than would be taken, although it is only fair to say that in any transactions I have myself had with the Italian painters, this does not seem to be a practice which extends to them.

At the Barberini Palace, the favourite subject of copy is what is termed the head of Beatrice Cenci, by Guido Reni, although doubt has been cast upon the statement that it is the portrait of her who was executed upon being, rightly or wrongly, condemned as one of the murderers of her father. Whoever it may represent, the eyes in this lovely pale face, with a quiet, tender, inexpressible sorrow, fix themselves on the spectator; but it is a melancholy and suggestively sad picture, to which the white headgear very much adds. Why people should desire to have copies of it, it is difficult to say. Its attraction lies in its inimitable painting, which none of the copies reproduce. Indeed, some of them are simply hideous or grotesque. Yet copies, more or less bad, are seen everywhere; and not merely is the head copied on canvas, but it is transferred to china, to wood, and other material on which reproduction is necessarily coarse; as if the subject in itself were attractive.

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Besides the palaces, there are regular galleries, such as the Academia di San Luca, a collection of the old masters, although not very extensive. Visitors also can obtain admittance to the studios of artists and sculptors, who are always glad to see them. We did not do much, however, in this way. We called on Mr. Glennie, an English artist settled in Rome, to whom we had an introduction, and had the pleasure of seeing several of his pictures, principally in water–colour. Mr. Lawrence MacDonald, the venerable–looking old Scotchman, since deceased, kindly with his son showed us over their studio, in which were many fine pieces of sculpture; and Signor Rosetti was also good enough to let us see his collection, which contained a large number of finely conceived and executed sculptures in white marble, at prices much below what is expected at home for similar works. A small fee (1 franc) is given at leaving to the workman who attends or opens the door.

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We heard that the Royal Palace (Quirinal) could be seen, and accordingly visited it. After inscribing our names in a visitors’ book, we were shown round the rooms by an attendant. The palace is on the Quirinal Hill, and is one of several which the King of Italy maintains; some of which, I doubt not, he would gladly dispense with, as adding unnecessarily to the cost of his establishment. It formerly belonged to the Popes, and the room was shown us in which the cardinals used to sit in conclave for the election of the Pope, which, when completed, was announced from a balcony to the people congregated outside. There are several spacious apartments in the building, adorned by some interesting paintings and sculptures. We were taken through the audience and other public _salons_, including the ballroom, which is decorated in a peculiar manner, especially by mirrors, on which appropriate figures have been depicted. The ceiling is painted to represent dancers in the air, and the floor is of polished wood. Some of the rooms are tapestried. A franc to the attendant, and a half–franc to the porter who had charge of our umbrellas, was all that was expected.

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The grounds of some of the villas about Rome are also opened to the public; but they are not kept with the neatness and tidiness which characterize gentlemen’s grounds at home. The most important or most extensive is probably the Villa Borghese. The gate of entrance to this great park, laid out in a way which is peculiarly Italian, is just outside the Porta del Popolo. The grounds are open daily, except on Mondays, and it is a favourite resort for all classes in the afternoon. After a long drive through them we reached the Casino, a building of many rooms, on two floors, devoted to a very large collection of sculptures, which well merits several visits. The Roman ladies, like other Italians, are very fond of driving about in style, with coachman and footman on the box; and a good part of their afternoon appears to be spent in these grounds and on the Pincian Hill, which adjoins, and in the gardens of which a band of music plays in the afternoons, attracting, as the only public garden—and it is of small dimensions—which the Romans seem to have, a fashionable crowd. The Pincian gardens are very prettily laid out, and there are excellent views of Rome from this height (one of the two highest of the hills of Rome), especially looking towards St. Peter’s. A splendid survey of the city is also obtained from the hill on which San Pietro in Montorio stands, being to the south–west of St. Peter’s, and therefore facing the Pincian Hill. From both points, as well as from others in Rome, the eye takes in the prospect of the Campagna, and of the mountains beyond; among which nestle several villages by name well known, such as Albano, Frascati, and Tivoli.

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To see the last mentioned, together with a little of the Campagna, we devoted a day. For this purpose we hired a carriage, the charge for which was 35 francs. Bædeker says it is 25 francs; one of those instances which show that implicit reliance cannot always be placed on guidebook figures, although it is quite possible that a person resident in Rome, and acquainted with the ways and language, might bargain for the lesser sum.

There had been some wet weather, and the morning on which we were to start was overcast; but our coachman was confident that the day would be fine, as indeed it proved, and we left at half–past seven—a necessarily early hour, so as both to afford time for the trip and to obtain the cool of the day for the drive. Although the excursion was very enjoyable, a great part of the road lay through the flat, uninteresting Campagna, relieved by here and there a few houses, by an old robber’s castle, and by other ruins. It is melancholy to observe these extensive plains now so unhealthy, formerly so salubrious and fertile; now apparently all but uninhabited, but in the days of Rome’s glory so full of life. Hardly a tree is to be seen, and one could wish very much that there was an extensive planting of the Eucalyptus tree, which, if it would thrive, might probably contribute to the restoration of the land to a healthy condition, or to some extent neutralize the malaria, believed to arise from the destruction of the villas and gardens and groves with which it was formerly covered, and from the festering of the ruins below ground. It is said that the natives, who probably get to a certain extent inured to residence in a locality so unhealthy, object to plantation; and perhaps the climate might in winter be too severe for a tree which is easily blighted by the frost. Other and hardier trees may, however, be equally well adapted for the purpose, and as the whole subject has been and is under consideration of the authorities, perhaps we may soon hope to see better things. Indeed, I should imagine that the Campagna has already been improved by drainage or otherwise; at all events, if haze be a symptom of the unhealthiness, we did not observe much haze hanging over the fields. The way was enlivened by occasionally passing regiments of Italian soldiers, here as elsewhere engaged closely at drill, no doubt in preparation for the possibility of being called upon to engage on one side or the other (for the side was a matter uncertain) in the war which had then recently been commenced, or at least declared, between Russia and Turkey, and into which there seemed the lamentable possibility of the other European nations being drawn. These little Italian soldiers were clad as usual in that compound of warm and light clothing which is suitable for a climate where one part of the day is cold and another hot. In fact, it is very curious, in a country with which one associates so much of sun and heat, to see how universally the Italian men, at all events in spring–time, go about with heavy thick cloth greatcoats or cloaks, sometimes half on, dangling from the shoulder, but ready to be wrapped about them when the cold descends. We also occasionally passed one of those picturesquely–dressed mounted shepherds which are seen in pictures; more frequently we overtook some of the country carts, drawn by the strong and patient buffaloes, so common in Italy, but which strike a native of Britain as singularly primitive.

About half–way to Tivoli, which is sixteen miles from Rome, we approached the Lago di Tartari and a sulphurous stream which issues from it and flows under the road, scenting the air for some distance around. As we drew near to the mountains, which are all along in sight, the country improved; and diverging by a road to the right, we arrived at Hadrian’s Villa, the admission to which is by ticket, 1 franc each. This is the ruin of an extraordinary country residence, built by the Emperor Hadrian on a most magnificent and extensive scale. It contained a theatre, a hippodrome, baths, temples, and every description of edifice in use in the time of the Romans, and that on a grand plan, and adorned with marble and sculptures, some of which have been recovered from the ruins—a walk among which gives, though imperfectly, a wonderful idea of the extraordinary splendour and opulence of the Roman emperors.

Returning to the main road, and slowly proceeding up a long, steep ascent, the town or village of Tivoli was reached. It stands high, and the ruins of two temples are situated close upon the famous waterfalls. Visitors here stop at the little Sibylla Hotel, usually bringing their lunch with them, as we did, and a table is spread under the temple of the Sibyl, on a platform which commands views towards the falls and mountains. For the accommodation so afforded we were charged 4 francs, and we enjoyed their Frascati wine. When we rose to make the usual round, we were besieged by loitering guides and idle people offering to take us to the falls. Having hired a donkey for my wife, I told the rest we had no need for them. But they would take no refusal; and although informed decidedly they were not wanted, two men with a chaise _à porteur_ persistently followed us all the way down, asking to be engaged, and diminishing their demands as we descended and the prospect of employment became more and more hopeless. We were also annoyed by all sorts of begging and methods of asking money; one respectable–looking woman, who had a child suspended in a peculiar sort of go–cart, which, as a curiosity, we were looking at, was not ashamed to ask for some _soldi_ in respect of the ‘bambino;’ in fact, nobody there, or elsewhere in Italy, seems ashamed to beg.

The falls were not so grand as we had expected to find them, although there is one thundering cascade. We had intended going to see the Villa d’Este, but a lady who had been there before dissuaded us, as not worth seeing, though I understand the grounds are; and as it would have taken time, and we were anxious to be home early, for it is not good to be out in the Campagna after dusk, we left in the afternoon in spite of the protestations of the coachman, who for some unknown reason would have detained us two hours longer, and got back to Rome about half–past six, in time for dinner, and sufficiently late at that season to be out. Outside the walls we stopped at the Church of San Lorenzo fuori le mura, and entered it. Its old pillars, pavement, and mosaics, its pulpit and its peculiar construction, make it remarkable, and well worthy of a visit. On returning to the carriage, one of the ladies missed a cloak, which in all likelihood had been adroitly abstracted by a loitering beggar, of whom there were several at the gate of the church.

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In any mention of a visit to Rome, one can scarcely omit some notice of the Roman shops. I suppose that no visitor to Rome leaves without making purchases of one description or another, or of all. Apparently, the Americans go in more largely than others for purchases of all kinds, and one reason for that may possibly be the fear their visit to Italy may never be repeated. One lady, in the house in which we were, had bought so many things of divers sorts that she required to get seven boxes made to hold them. They comprised marble busts, copies of paintings, bronzes, photographs, and I know not what besides. All these can be bought at prices not only greatly less than in America, where everything is dear, but also much less than in Great Britain, if indeed they can be had out of Italy; but to the price the purchaser requires in his calculations to add the cost of carriage and import duty (where exigible), and to take into view the risk of transit.

There are many photograph shops in Rome, and at most of them one can purchase cheaply all descriptions. They are often filled with people selecting examples, chiefly of buildings and pictures. It is needful to know where to go, but this is soon learned, either by experience or by recommendation of fellow photograph–hunters. I have seen the same photographs, and equally good, sold at one shop at half the price they were sold at another. The cheaper shops are therefore crowded, while the others (in which, however, some large and good photographs claiming to be high–class are sold) enjoy their _otium cum dignitate_. Some of the photographs exhibited in the windows—as, for example, of St. Peter’s and the Colosseum—are of great size, requiring to be printed on two or three large sheets.

Another description of shop, the most numerous of all, is that for the sale of Roman, mosaic, and other species of jewellery. The windows of these jewellers’ shops are filled with very elegant specimens of mosaic work, in the form of brooches, bracelets, ear–drops, shawl–pins, etc., composed of minute coloured stones put together in all sorts of devices, sometimes in miniature copies of well–known pictures. The execution is marvellous.[36] The prices are moderate, but one requires to keep in mind, in some cases, the Italian method of demanding a larger price than will be taken. Even in shops professedly dealing on the principle of fixed prices, the shopkeepers are not insusceptible of a diminution, at least upon goods of a high price, although an offer of a lower price should be made only when it seems likely to be accepted. The Italians’ idea of selling in general apparently is, that if they can make a profit, however small, rather to sell than lose the chance. The system of asking a long price, to be met with an equally low offer, and by gradual approximations to come to terms, is a mode of transacting extremely repugnant to British habits, but it is sometimes encountered. I have heard of the same article being offered to an English person at one price, and sold to a native at little more than half. At the same time, it is only right to say that this was not in Rome, where, I think, on the whole, prices seem to be fair and fixed.

Ladies find in the pretty silk Roman sashes and ribbons, woven, I believe, by girls on antiquated small looms in the shops where they are sold, another species of attraction.

Other shops, again, are devoted to the sale of bronze and marble copies, on a small scale, of statues, heads, and ruins, particularly columns in the Forum and elsewhere; and some have small alabaster or Roman marble copies of sculptures, though for such articles Florence is the greater mart. Other shops sell copies of celebrated paintings. The visitor, therefore, has very little difficulty, if possessed of time, inclination, and money, in making a good collection to take home of objects of _virtu_, or, at least, of what will give a pleasing recollection of what one has seen in Old Rome.

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But what one sees in Rome can only give the faintest idea of what it was when mistress of the world. In place of being confined to the comparatively circumscribed limits of the walls, a space which at present it only partially covers, the city, besides being composed of high, many–storied houses, like those in the Old Town of Edinburgh, extended for miles over the Campagna, and that perhaps very densely. Instead of a population now of scarcely a quarter of a million, the population then is thought to have greatly exceeded that of London at the present day. Indeed, some have not hesitated to state it at as high a figure as 14,000,000, while others, more moderate in their calculations, have placed it at from 4,000,000 to 6,000,000. But whatever it may have been (for this is a _questio vexata_), it was many times what it has now become. Then consider the magnificent multiplicity of its buildings and decorations. For, besides 700 temples[37] and other structures of whose number no record perhaps exists, there were in ancient Rome at one time, 31 theatres, 11 amphitheatres (and we have seen the scale upon which these erections were constructed), 48 obelisks, 66 ivory statues, 82 equestrian statues, 3785 bronze statues, 1352 fountains, 2091 prisons, 9025 baths, 17,097 palaces. Then keep in view that this was all during a period when classic taste prevailed, and everything, as the remains now left testify, was in the utmost perfection of art, and sometimes of the most wonderful magnificence. Keep also in view that thousands of Roman citizens were then of immense opulence, one evidence of which was that they were possessed of crowds of slaves, some of them having as many as 10,000 or even 20,000; and think what pomp and style must have been kept up in the 17,000 palaces of Rome, surging out upon its 360 spacious streets and its countless minor _vias_, and one approaches to an idea of the superb grandeur of the great city; in the presence of which it does make us feel small to think, that while we lavish millions on war, we cannot so much as, at the hundredth part of the cost of one of our little wars, build and complete a single temple in the perfection of the ancients, seeing we have the National Monument on the Calton Hill, so bravely begun, in a condition calculated merely to expose the indifference to high art with which the British nation is afflicted. But we cannot be sorry for the fall of Rome, and only should take warning from it, because its power was built up on military force, and its riches were got, not by the successful prosecution of peaceful pursuits, but by the conquest and plunder and the subjection of other nations.

Nor can we any more deplore that modern Rome is now shorn of the prestige it enjoyed while the Popes were once all–potent. Strangers can no longer be gratified by the sight of priestly pageants and papal shows. But let us be thankful that, as the Pope hides his head, the civil power has risen; and now, in place of persecution, torture, and death for those who would not bow the knee to a corrupted religion, the Inquisition—that cruel, hateful instrument of religious intolerance and priestly tyranny—is at an end, and every one can worship God within the walls of Rome as his conscience dictates, none daring to make him afraid. The only strange reflection[38] which arises is, that while so many in England, where education prevails and people should know better, are allowing themselves to be drawn back again into the trammels of Rome, the people of Rome and of Italy, with all their ignorance, are shaking off a yoke which neither they nor their fathers were able to bear, and rejoicing to be free.

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We had been nine days in Rome, and before seeing it further, thought it advisable to take a run to Naples, and rest in that locality, for so much sight–seeing was fatiguing. During even this short time we had done a great deal, and the break of going away operated, as it were, as a first visit, preliminary to a further investigation upon our second visit of what then became to us in a manner as familiar old friends. Even in both our visits, made out of the common motive of curiosity, and with no higher aims, we could only consider we had examined things in a most superficial way, leaving besides a great deal that was unexplored. It is often said that even a whole winter in Rome is inadequate to do justice to its sights. In a single forenoon we have been to as many as a dozen different places. We entered Rome with the idea that it would be the first and only visit of a lifetime. We left it with the feeling that we had only seen enough to make it more easy for us to comprehend the subject at home, so that some years later we might all return to investigate it together in greater detail, or with more perfect acquaintance with what we had to see, to know, and to think about. Alas! how little did we then anticipate that that future day, to one of us at least, whose hopes were bright and whose enjoyment of all was deep and thorough, would never come!

XIII.

_NAPLES, POMPEII, SORRENTO._

IT proved a very wet morning in Rome on the day we had settled to go to Naples (for it can rain in Rome remarkably well); but we had taken our rooms at a hotel in Naples, and were packed and ready to go, and accordingly left, arriving at the station at half–past eight for the train leaving at 9.20, and were not a bit too soon. The traveller has to hang on for his turn to get his luggage weighed and to purchase his railway tickets; and after these operations were accomplished, and admission was at last accorded to the _salle–d’attente_ (for none, according to the evil custom which keeps ladies hanging about on their feet, can enter previously), we had but a few minutes to wait in that apartment until the doors were opened and announcement made that passengers might now hurry to the train.

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For a considerable part of the way the rain fell and heavy clouds hung upon the mountains, so that little could be seen of the scenery in the early part of the journey, which is the most interesting, as the line commands in many parts historical ground. We passed the Alban and Volscian Mountains; the town of Capua, where are interesting Roman remains; Caserta, where there is an immense royal palace; and many curious old towns resting upon the hills which the railway skirted. It would have been well worth while to have stayed at Capua and Caserta to have seen them, but it is difficult to arrange for doing so without spending a night by the way, or continuing the journey by a night train, because trains do not suit. This being the 26th of March, vegetation was in a very backward state, the trees just beginning to show symptoms of being about to throw out their buds, so that everything looked somewhat dreary. At last we arrived in Naples, after a seven hours’ ride, just in time to settle down before dinner.

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The following morning we took a cab to drive through and see the town, and, looking to select a good one, I was beset by a host of cabmen, all wanting to be engaged, even after I had engaged one, and told them so positively. There is very little choice among them. The vehicles are all equally shabby, and the drivers all equally dirty. Their fares are very low, which may account for the disreputable appearance of the men and cabs, which are as numerous as bees in a hive. The coachmen will take any amount of trouble to get a hire. If, upon going to a place, say the Museum, they be dismissed, they will hang about for an hour, hoping to get the return fare. But driving is really the only way by which one can see some parts of Naples. The town swarms with people to an extent which, unless seen, can hardly be either realized or credited. In England, every rod may maintain its man, but in Naples, and even all about the Bay of Naples, it would seem as if not merely every square yard, but almost every square foot maintained its man, woman, or child. But how they all live, or even where they all sleep, is a mystery. The main street, the Toledo, a mile long, is so crowded, that one wonders how the carriages can possibly penetrate; and the people are such notorious thieves and such adroit pickpockets, that it is dangerous to attempt to walk on foot. Even in driving, the passenger must be very careful, as a thief will think nothing of abstracting loose articles, even in his very sight. At the railway station the traveller should keep a sharp look–out that the very porter who is taking his portmanteau to a carriage does not quietly run off with it. Knowing these habits, we left the most of our luggage at Rome, and only took with us what was indispensable, as every additional package is in such a case an additional anxiety.

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The Bay of Naples is naturally the first point of attraction. One hears so much of its transcendent beauty that expectation is highly raised. I thought the accounts of it exaggerated; but then it was not summer, and therefore we could not see it in perfection; while we had just recently come from Mentone, where we had been living for months in sight of lovely bays. The blue waters of the Mediterranean in brilliant sunshine are always charming, and here they are enclosed in a very large bay—for it is about twenty miles each way—with one long arm stretching away and terminated by the island of Ischia, and the other long arm stretching away and terminated by the island of Capri; the outlines of all being picturesque, and all sides being dotted with villages. In the centre of the landward side Vesuvius boldly rises (the eruptions from time to time causing variations in its height, which, however, averages about 4000 feet), with a stream of smoke, betokening its character, constantly ascending from the summit as if from some colossal chimney; while below, a line of houses stretches continuously from Naples, probably fifteen miles, or perhaps even more, indicating how populous is this part of Italy. In the distance, behind Naples and Vesuvius, a range of the Apennines lies.

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Naples itself, the largest and most populous city in Italy, is, from a little distance, picturesque, resting, somewhat like Genoa, on a half–circle of sloping heights, with a broad margin to the shore, the houses towards which are lofty, many being five and even six storeys high. In the central and denser parts of the town they are even higher, while in these portions the streets are mere lanes, 15 to 20 feet wide, and irregular; and if they be not absolutely unsafe to visit, must form a very labyrinth of perplexity to the stranger. In the newer parts of the city the streets are spacious and elegant. Every here and there, a jutting prominence or a bold height crowned with some peculiar structure gives character to the scene. The Chiaja is a long strip of land turned into a public garden or park lying in or towards the north end of the town, and fronting the sea. A broad street, the Riviera di Chiaja, flanks it, lined by the trees of the park on the one side, and by hotels and other buildings on the other, and terminated at the north end by Posilipo, a hill perforated by the famous grotto of that name, or tunnel, I presume half natural and half excavated, which affords an access to the other side. Up from the Chiaja, on a height, the Castle of St. Elmo stands, the interior of which our limited time did not afford us opportunity of seeing. Leaving the Chiaja by a handsome drive which has been formed by the shore, we pass the Castel del Ovo, which stands out into the sea, cresting a large rock or small island connected with the land by a mole or breakwater. It is ugly and old, but can scarcely, because it is so, be called picturesque, though at least it is striking or prominent; and I suppose it does or can, with other fortifications, offer some protection to the port; but it was, and perhaps still is, used as a prison, and, in spite of sunshine, is gloomy enough for that. From this point southward, commencing with the broad Strada San Lucia, the harbour lies, in which there is a moderate amount of shipping, but small as compared with that of Genoa. Life abounds about this harbour and the adjoining quays, along which broad streets run, filled with sellers of fish and other commodities, and with crowds of pedestrians and carriages. The road turns up from S. Lucia into the large open space called the Piazza del Plebiscito—one side occupied by a handsome semicircular colonnade, and the other by the royal palace, where the king was at the time of our visit residing, two equestrian statues in the centre of the piazza contributing to its adornment. The Toledo or High Street of Naples issues out of it. Proceeding farther along the harbour, and at its extreme south, we come to the Castel del Carmine, also forming a feature in the landscape, and from it a road leads up to the railway station, which is just outside the inhabited part of Naples. From the harbour, or any point which commands a view, the town looks bright and picturesque, and in rather striking contrast with its dirty population. Ascent of the lighthouse for the sake of the view is recommended.

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The only church in Naples which we thought at all comparable to those in Rome was the cathedral, which is a large and handsome building. One of its side chapels is that of the famous St. Januarius, where the blood and other relics of the martyr are preserved.

The hotels are situated principally on the line of buildings facing the sea from the Chiaja southward to S. Lucia. But some new hotels have been opened on the high ground near the Castle of St. Elmo, thought to be a more healthy locality. This may or may not be, but one requires to be careful as to where he lives in Naples. In fact, the natural air of Naples must be extremely salubrious, to counteract, as it seems to a large extent to do, the evil influences arising from so large a population living upon so comparatively small a portion of the tideless Mediterranean. Were it otherwise, fever would be constantly raging, and Naples depopulated.

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We spent the forenoon of the following day in the Museum. This is an immense collection of antiquities, principally from Pompeii, and is well worthy of several visits, without which, in fact, it cannot be properly studied. Illustrated catalogues can be procured, which are no doubt useful, but are expensive. Our time would only allow of a general examination. The Museum contains thousands of articles of great interest, and very many which show to what a state of perfection art had arrived at the time Pompeii was destroyed. The sculptures of all descriptions and pictures are very numerous, and among many others deserving of special note was the grand group called the Toro Farnese, of masterly power. It is composed of five graceful and pleasing human figures, besides the bull rampant and a dog, and other sculpture, and if cut out of one block of marble, would seem to be a miracle of art. Why it should have been removed from Rome to Naples I am not aware. But the Museum at Naples is very spacious and extensive, and may have afforded better accommodation than any place in Rome. Some of the rooms are filled with articles of domestic use recovered from the ruins of Herculaneum and Pompeii; and, what is very curious, in one room loaves of bread, grain of various sorts, dates, and other edibles 1800 years old are exhibited. Many of the curious frescoes found upon the walls of Pompeii have been removed to the Museum and built bodily into its walls. The colours of these frescoes are considerably faded, but copying them seems to afford employment to a number of artists, who, however, impart to their copies the supposed original brightness of the pictures, and one seldom sees an original Pompeian fresco possessing that vividness of colouring which representations of them usually manifest. One room is fitted up as a reproduction of a Pompeian bedroom, and gives a greater idea of luxurious comfort than one would imagine possible from the appearance of the rooms, now in ruins, which we afterwards saw in Pompeii itself.

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The afternoon is the time for seeing the Chiaja, for then all the private carriages of Naples may be witnessed driving about; and on one occasion we had the good fortune to pass the Princess Margherita, now the Queen of Italy. Girls are on the watch to sell large and beautiful bouquets of flowers at marvellously cheap prices. An aquarium has been built near the centre of the Chiaja gardens, which we visited the morning of the day following, before going to Castellamare. It is not nearly so large as that at Brighton, but it is interesting enough. It contained, _inter alia_, a good many octopi, which repulsive fish is said to be sold and eaten in Naples, and, in all probability, occasionally appears under some disguised name at the hotel dinners.

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Naples is a great place for the sale of photographs and articles of bijouterie in lava, and of coral and tortoiseshell. At Mr. Sommer’s Fine Art Establishment near the Chiaja, a large collection of beautiful photographs of almost all places in Italy is to be found. These are very moderate in price—the cheapest in Italy—as well as good, and in number exceed five thousand. I laid in a good stock, and only wish I had taken more. Any of them can be at once procured by reference to the number they bear. They are best kept flat, but if rolling be preferred, they should always be rolled up with the photograph side outwards. Why it is that photographs of a size which cost a shilling at Naples should be charged five shillings or six shillings, or even more, at home, I don’t know. But the consequence is that people buy the Italian photographs by the hundred, whereas at home, if they buy at all, it is by the unit. Our dealers plainly miss the market by their high prices. Mr. Sommer might do well to extend his operations to the towns of France and to Switzerland, where photographs are expensive.

Among other shops we also visited Squadrilli’s, which is recommended in Bædeker. Here we found a well–stocked store of articles in lava and coral, but owing, I suppose, to the thieving which exists in Naples, and from which, no doubt, they have sometimes suffered, we were rather unpleasantly watched by three persons, a circumstance of which others who had been there also complained. The articles, however, seemed to be good, while the prices are fixed, though a discount of five per cent, was allowed for cash. The gold used in Naples for bijouterie is considered to be inferior to the standard quality of England, and even of Rome, which professes to be, like England, of eighteen carats. Squadrilli allowed that their gold was only fourteen carats, and perhaps his estimate might not apply to all his articles. There are many imitations, however, even of this inferior gold, and some articles, possibly ‘job lots,’ are sold in Naples at astonishingly low prices. The articles supposed to be of lava are, I believe, in reality cut out of the limestone rocks of Somma, one of the peaks of Vesuvius.

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We were anxious to make our stay in Naples as short as possible, as so much is heard of its insalubrity. After the general survey we had thus made of it, we took train to Castellamare, the railway passing Mount Vesuvius on the one side and the coast on the other, so that we were in view of the bay nearly all the way. Castellamare is a convenient halting–place for seeing Pompeii, which, however, may be visited from Naples itself, either by hiring a carriage from Naples,—making a pretty long drive, and, I believe, of little interest, the road being a continuous street of houses,—or by taking the train as far as Torre dell’ Annunciata, and a carriage thence to Pompeii, which is not two miles off. Castellamare is one of those populous unclean towns which lie upon the bay. Friends had said it was a remarkably nice place to stop at, and the Hotel Quisisana, on the height above the town, is a fairly comfortable one, commanding a splendid view of the bay, of Vesuvius, and of Naples beyond. Perhaps we did not remain long enough to acquire a knowledge of its beauties, but we were not taken with the dirty town; while the garden of the hotel, which might have been laid out to great advantage, and thus have helped to reconcile us to the place, was no better than such Italian gardens usually are. I suppose that Nature has been so lavish of her bounties when the sun shines, that the Italians think it unnecessary to supplement her labours. Yet I have sometimes thought that the time of waiters, who between meals in foreign places have often little to do, might, not unprofitably to the hotels, and with some advantage in health to themselves, be occupied in trimming the hotel gardens. Our bedrooms looked towards the bay, and therefore were, I presume, considered more choice; but being a northern or north–western exposure, we found them extremely cold at night. It was, however, intensely interesting to look across to Vesuvius, which I had seen emitting a red light on our second evening at Naples, without being aware, unfortunately, till afterwards that this light was unusual, and that had I watched it for half an hour longer I should have seen it become more intensely bright. People were then in full expectation of an eruption, and even the very day had been predicted, although the premonitory symptoms of streams drying up had not appeared; but expectation was not gratified.

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We arranged the following morning to drive to Pompeii, which is about three miles distant.

Pompeii on being approached seems like a huge mound, somewhat akin in the distance to a fortified place. The excavated town itself is not visible from the road. The visitor is deposited at the door of what appears to be a sort of tavern or place of refreshment, through which, threading one’s way among tables, entrance is had to the excavations. We found the tavern filled with people taking an early dinner, or rather breakfast, rendering the access by no means an agreeable one. Here leaving with the _cameriere_ our wraps,—not without some misgivings, fortunately not realized, that we should never see them again,—we passed up a stair, and through a magazine for sale of lava ornaments, etc., the prices asked for which, as usual in show places, were exorbitantly and forbiddingly high. Outside the magazine we paid two francs each for admission and for the assistance of a guide (children being charged only a half–franc each), and procured a little French–speaking guide in smart uniform and side arms, whom we found very obliging and attentive. These guides are necessary, and must be taken, though sometimes respectable people who have been there before are allowed to go without them; perhaps not always with advantage to the ruins, as it is a very common trick with people who should know better, and who might not be expected to do such a thing, to pocket stones which can be of no use whatever to themselves, but the abstraction of which is detrimental to the place whence they are taken. On one occasion in Italy, a lady of a party in which I was—who acknowledged to being in the habit of bringing away a stone from every place to which she had been—quietly pocketed a piece of marble lying on the ground, when the custodier, who was keeping a sharp look–out, went up to her and desired her to replace it. It was a numbered piece, and he would, he said, be responsible for it to the authorities. The practice of chipping stones from a building of note, or taking up loose pieces, cannot be too severely reprehended, and ought sometimes to be punished. The guides at Pompeii are not allowed to receive any gratuity from the visitors, but they make a little by an accorded permission to sell photographs of the ruins.

Passing through an old gateway, we were ushered into a museum, the contents of which are not numerous, as the bulk of the articles found is sent to the large Museum of Naples. It contains, however, some things of great interest, particularly the casts of men and women found in Pompeii who had perished in the great overthrow, and whose bodies had been so curiously enveloped with the scoriæ as to form a close–fitting, indurated mould, and a cast from it, when the dust is blown out, reproduces every line of the body or of the clothing of the suffocated person. Some of the casts so taken give a clear representation of the form of the features; and I noticed that the dress of the men seemed to be very similar to what is still worn by those in the vicinity, particularly in the tight–fitting, wrought woollen jacket covering the body. If I was right in this supposition, it is another instance of the manner in which the people cling to ancient habits and modes of dress.

We were then taken to the excavations which are being systematically carried on, and our examination commenced with the forum, a large open space, containing the remains of the pillars by which it was surrounded. From these remains and the remains of other public buildings, it is evident that Pompeii was a very elegantly adorned city. It had temples, no less than nine being marked upon the plan, but they are all in ruins; only fragments exist, the pillars and superincumbent building having been almost everywhere thrown down. In some of them, such as the temple of Venus and temple of Isis, a few columns, with their entablature, stand, to indicate the beauty of their construction. Besides temples there have been excavated two theatres and a large amphitheatre, in excellent preservation, capable of accommodating 20,000 persons, and nearly, in length and breadth, as large as that at Nismes; also, as usual in Roman towns, baths, besides other public buildings. But probably the greatest interest attaches to the remains of the private dwellings. It is rarely that private houses exhibit, after a lapse of nearly 2000 years, even in ruins, what they were when in occupation. Here, however, the lava or scoriæ or dust of Vesuvius by hermetical seal closed up these houses, in order that they might be seen by the people of a long–distant age. Many of the houses in Pompeii belonged to men of wealth, and they are all laid out, in the better class at least, upon much the same plan, entering upon a square court, open in the centre to the outer air, in the middle of which a marble fountain played. The rooms were built around or beyond, the principal or public rooms being to the back—a mode of design probably suitable to the climate, at least in summer, and admitting, no doubt, of great elegance of arrangement and design, and of which such houses as those of Marcus Holconius, of the Faun, of Sallust, of the poet, of Meleager, and of Cornelius Rufus afford examples,—all containing beautiful fluted pillars and other decorations, sometimes in marble, still standing, while the walls were tastefully decorated with that peculiar description of painting well known as Pompeian. Some of the houses appear to be only one storey high, but stairs indicate a second storey, and it is even supposed that in some cases there may have been a third. But they had no appearance to the street, while the streets themselves are narrow, so much so that it is impossible to see how in many of them even the smallest carriages could pass each other without encroaching on the equally narrow footway or _trottoir_ (discovery of the remains of it here revealing its use in ancient times); but the large stones or slabs forming the street pavement are in some places marked with a deep rut, indicating a good deal of carriage traffic. The shops on the streets are small, and are sometimes built into the dwellings, so that shop floors then were probably as remunerative as they seem to be now with ourselves, although persons now in similar rank of life in Great Britain would little like to allow a portion of their mansions to be so occupied. As, however, the streets were so confined, there could have been no view from the house itself upon the front facing the street; yet, no doubt, from some windows in the upper apartments behind there might be fine glimpses of the bay and of Vesuvius, as well as of the surrounding country. At all events, we obtained excellent views from the ruins, especially from the walls. Vesuvius appears close at hand, and one feels astonished at the foolhardiness of people building towns and houses so close under the fiery mountain after the tremendous warnings received in the destruction of Pompeii and Herculaneum. We were shown at one place in the ‘House of Diomede’ a long vault or cellar, in which the remains were found of seventeen unfortunate persons who had taken refuge there during the awful time when they knew not where to flee, and supposed that the walls of the house would cover them from calamity. We could not look upon such places without thinking what an appalling time it must have been, and what heartrending agonies must then have been endured. Notwithstanding all the elegance of the public portions of the houses, and perhaps even of the private chambers, it seemed as if the actual comfort of the inhabitants could not be great, and especially in the matter of bedroom accommodation, for I imagine the sleeping–rooms were of the smallest dimensions—mere closets, not such as people of the present day in good circumstances would approve.

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It would, however, be impossible, in small compass, to give any adequate idea of these houses or of their decorations. Books have been written upon the subject, and an excellent recent account of Pompeii, its history, buildings, and antiquities, containing nearly 300 illustrations, has been written by Dr. Thomas H. Dyer. Nothing, indeed, but a visit to Pompeii itself can convey a sufficient idea of the resuscitated city; but a study of Mr. Dyer’s book before going, as well as after a visit, will help materially to an understanding of it. Pompeii is a place of engrossing interest entirely unique, and in some respects it offers, I think, more attractions to a visitor than any other in Italy, and well merits more than one visit. The excavations are still proceeding, and it will probably be many years before they are completed, as there is still a large piece of ground, probably as much again as has already been opened, on which to operate.

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Having seen Pompeii, we did not care to stay longer at Castellamare, and next day, taking a carriage with three horses, the bells jingling cheerily all the way, drove to Sorrento. The drive occupied an hour and a half, and is considered to be one of the finest to be had in Italy. The road borders the bay, and passes through several large Italian villages most picturesquely situated, and across a deep ravine, evidently the result of an earthquake, by a beautiful bridge. Sorrento is a long town, and the road through its suburbs is shut in by lofty and most objectionable garden walls. As we drove down the road towards it, from the height to the eastward the place looked very charming, surrounded by hills on every side except the north, which is open to the sea. Turning down a long narrow lane, we arrived at the Tramontano Hotel (kept by an Irish landlady, an active and most obliging woman), where everything is remarkably comfortable, and the accommodation is ample. It is situated on classic ground, Tasso having resided in a house which, or its site, is now part of the hotel. A garden, where, no doubt, Tasso often meditated, encloses the hotel upon the south, while the north windows and terraces command magnificent views of the bay, of the islands, of Naples lying opposite, and of Vesuvius, whose smoke, always ascending, is an excellent indicator of the direction of the wind. The garden extends away to the eastward, where a dependence or additional house is kept for the accommodation of the guests. A large public room, with windows to the bay, was being added to the main house, so that now both _salon_ and _salle–à–manger_ are large rooms. Having had experience of the cold of northerly chambers at Castellamare, we chose cheerful rooms on the south side overlooking the hotel yard, with all its enlivening bustle, and the garden and green hills behind.

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