Part 28

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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