Passing along the noisy thronged street of the Chiaja and plunging thence into the chill gloomy recesses of the ancient grotto of Posilipo, we emerge at its further side into a new world, as it were, into a district where “there is scarcely a spot which is not identified with the poetical mythology of Greece, or associated with some name familiar in the history of Rome.” In truth, the headland of Posilipo presents a wonderful landmark in the history of Naples, for it forms a barrier between the busy world of to-day and the departed civilisation of the ancients: at the latter end of this tunnel, the fierce life and movement of a great commercial city; at its western exit, a tract of land teeming with recollections of the glorious past.

As our carriage emerges once more into the warmth and sunlight, we find ourselves in the miserable village of Fuorigrotta, which, by a strange coincidence, is associated with the memory of a famous Italian poet. For if the name and verses of Sannazzaro cling to Piedigrotta and the Parthenopean shore on the eastern side of the hill, the genius of Count Giacomo Leopardi sheds its melancholy radiance over the unlovely purlieus of Fuorigrotta. Here in the vestibule of the parish [pg 296]church of San Vitale, lie the ashes of that unhappy writer, the Shelley of Italian literature, who so bewailed the Austrian and Bourbon fetters that enchained his native land. Poor Leopardi! It was but eleven years before the first great movement of the Risorgimento swept over Italy in 1848 that he passed away; his poems were indeed songs before sunrise, a sunrise of which he failed to detect the far-off glimmering, so that he could only lament without hope the sad condition of his dismembered country, once the mistress and now the play-thing of the world, and the abject slave of hated Austria:

It is a flat dusty stretch of road that lies between Fuorigrotta and Bagnoli; the high walls give only occasional glimpses of well-tilled parterres—one cannot call these tiny patches of cultivation fields—with thriving crops of brilliant green corn, of claret-red clover, of purple lucerne, and of the white-flowered “sad lupin,” which Vergil has immortalised in verse. The round bright yellow beans of the lupin crop, known locally by the name of spassa-tiempÎ (time-killers), afford an article of food to the very poorest of the population. A quaint story runs that one day an impoverished philosopher, reduced to making his dinner off a handful of these beans, and imagining himself in consequence the most wretched wight in existence, was cheered and comforted by observing [pg 297]himself followed by a still more miserable fellow-mortal, who was engaged in picking up and eating the husks of the beans that, more italiano, he had thrown carelessly on to the pathway after their insipid farinaceous contents had been sucked out!

Above us to the right are the heights of Monte Spina, covered with groves of the umbrella pine, the typical tree of Naples; to our left extends the verdant ridge of Posilipo, ending in Cape Coroglio, beyond which the massive form of Nisida rises proudly from the blue expanse of water. All the landscape shows somewhat hard in the glare of noontide, and we find the enveloping clouds of fine white dust very oppressive and disagreeable. From time to time a lumbering country cart is passed with its attendant bare-footed peasant; otherwise there is little sign of life on the high road. The bright sunlight flashes upon the horse’s polished brass harness, and upon the elaborate erection of charms placed thereon, with the avowed object of averting the dreaded Evil Eye, that everlasting bugbear of all dwellers upon these southern shores. On his poor drooping head the worn-out old steed carries a large bell with four jingling clappers and two brazen crescents, the horns of one of which point upwards and of the other towards the ground. On the off-side of the headgear is a bunch of bright-coloured ribbands or woollen tassels, from which depends the single horn, the invaluable Neapolitan talisman that is supposed to protect every man, woman, child or beast, from the chance glance of a passing jettatore. Above this glowing mass of colour some three or four feathers of a pheasant’s tail are stuck, apparently with no ulterior purpose [pg 298]than that of ornament; but beside the bunch of ribbands there is also fixed a piece of wolf’s skin, to give strength to the jaded animal, for, remarks the sapient Pliny, “a wolf’s skin attached to a horse’s neck will render him proof against all weariness.” Personally, we should think a little more consideration and some elementary knowledge of farriery would have been of more service to the ill-used beasts round Naples than the excellent Pliny’s highly original receipt. Besides this powerful battery of charms to intercept the jettatura, there is the light brass headpiece engraved with sacred figures, so that any evil glance must be fully absorbed, baffled or exhausted, before it can fix itself upon the animal. In addition however to this shining mass of headgear, the horse carries on his back one of those curious high pommels that are peculiar to Southern Italy and Sicily. The front of the pommel itself is of well-polished brass, and covered with a number of studs, whilst at its back is fastened a miniature barrel, upon which there stands erect the figure of some local saint, generally that of San Gennaro. The exact part that the barrel and the row of studs play in this mystic battle against the Evil Eye is unknown, but the two revolving flags of brass that swing and creak above the pommel itself are believed to represent “the flaming sword which turned every way,” and finally expelled Adam and Eve from the Garden of Eden. Certainly this shimmering metal has the appearance of a flaming sword in the bright sunshine, so that it ought to prove efficacious in catching and averting any baleful glance. A second patch of wolf skin on the crest of the pommel, and [pg 299]some red worsted wound round the spindle of the flags complete the list of strange charms that are considered necessary to protect a Neapolitan horse from the pernicious influence of a casual passer-by.

We soon reach the sea-shore at Bagnoli, a little watering-place much frequented by Neapolitans of the middle classes, and on looking back we obtain a charming view of the headland of Posilipo and of stately Nisida, the Nesis of the ancients, with its memories of Brutus, “the noblest Roman of them all,” who on this little island bade farewell for ever to his devoted Portia. A very different tenant from the chaste Portia, however, who once possessed a villa in this sea-girt retreat during the Middle Ages, was Queen Joanna the Second, the last member of the Durazzo branch of the Angevin royal house, and sister and heiress of King Ladislaus II., whose splendid monument in San Giovanni a Carbonara is one of the chief artistic treasures of Naples. It is of course unnecessary here to remark that there were two Queens of Naples, both Joanna by name, and that the first of these, the contemporary of Petrarch (whose proper feeling she contrived to shock) was certainly not a pattern of female virtue, but that she shone as a moral paragon when contrasted with her name-sake and successor, the sister of King Ladislaus. Of this second Queen, tradition more or less accurate relates a host of stories, none of them to her credit; how she dabbled in necromancy and was immersed in love intrigues, the most celebrated of which was her amour with the handsome “Ser. Gianni,” Giovanni Caracciolo, head of an eminent family that has figured prominently in Neapolitan history from the days of Angevin monarchs to those [pg 300]of King Ferdinand. Little good did the fickle Queen’s favour do Ser. Gianni, who suffered an ignominious fate for having one day boxed Joanna’s ears during a lovers’ tiff. Murdered secretly by four assassins, Caracciolo’s body was laid to rest in the family chapel in San Giovanni a Carbonara beneath a splendid monument which is surmounted by the luckless favourite’s effigy. Joanna the First with all her faults was never guilty of such light conduct as this, but the peasant mind is always impatient of dry details of fact, so that in the popular imagination to-day both Queens are blended into one personage, whose character, it is needless to say, is about as vile as can be conceived. “Siccome la Regina Giovanna,” is a form of peasant execration around Naples that has some historical affinity with the time-honoured Irish malediction of the “Curse o’ Cromwell.”

Turning our backs on the island with its memories of Portia the Perfect and of Queen Joanna the Improper, we pursue our course along the sea-shore with rocks of ancient lava above us to the right, now heavily overgrown with brushwood and plants, amongst which we notice tufts of the pretty wild asparagus, that the observant Pliny centuries ago found flourishing in this district. As an early herb, coming into season long before its cultivated cousin is fit for cutting, this succulent vegetable is highly prized in the South, and its flavour though somewhat bitter is most palatable, so that an omelette aux pointes d’asperges sauvages is a dish not to be despised by those who get the opportunity of testing this local delicacy. Before us lies our goal, Pozzuoli, with its ancient citadel jutting into the placid waters and backed [pg 301]by the classic headland of Misenum, above which in turn towers the crest of distant Epomeo.

Pozzuoli in recent years has been much neglected by strangers, so much so that no inn worthy to be called an hotel now exists, and such trattorie as the place offers are all equally extortionate and detestable. Some time ago there was a comfortable pension at the edge of the town on the road to the Amphitheatre, but its English landlady has long since migrated elsewhere, and the comfortable “Hotel Grande Bretagne” is no more; whilst nowadays there are to be found no visitors hardy enough to endure a prolonged sojourn in the wretched hostelries of the town itself. The electric tram and the rail-road have in fact killed Pozzuoli as a winter resort, more’s the pity, for it is not only a spot of singular interest in itself but its climate is certainly superior to that of Naples, for the great headland which shuts off the city from the Phlegrean Fields serves also to act as a buffer against the icy tramontana that sweeps along the Chiaja in winter and early spring. Invalids used at one time to inhabit Pozzuoli on account of its mild atmosphere, and even to visit the Solfatara daily on mule-back, in order to inhale its sulphureous fumes, which were then believed to be good for weak chests. But medical fashions vary like all others, and consumptive patients now seek other places than Pozzuoli for their cure.

Many are the walks outside the town, and none are without beauty or interest, for, the neighbourhood of Syracuse excepted, we can think of no place in Italy wherein one is brought so closely into touch with the classical past. Nature has long clothed the [pg 302]ruined area of the ancient city with her kindly drapery of foliage and flowers, so that the crumbling masses of tawny brick that we come across in our rambles are all swathed in garlands of clematis, myrtle, honey-suckle and coronella. It is a delight to speculate upon the original use and appearance of these shapeless blocks of creeper-clad masonry, which attract the eye on all sides amidst the vineyards and orange groves, where the peasants delving in the rich soil frequently alight upon treasures of the antique world. What a delight it is to wander through the Street of Tombs—alas, long rifled of their contents!—where the gay valerian and the pink silene sprout from every fissure of the soft tufa rock, and lizards of unusual size and brilliancy play games of hide-and-seek in the warm sunshine. We moderns are afraid of graveyards and the paraphernalia of the dead: many a stout-hearted Englishman objects to passing through a church-yard at night; not so the pagan Romans, who placed their cemeteries in public places and were wont to proceed through lines of tombs as they entered the city of the living: a very salutary and practical reminder of the transitory nature of life itself. The whole neighbourhood in short is sprinkled with these memorials of Imperial Rome; there is not an orange or lemon orchard but stands above some forgotten villa, not an acre of tilth but must conceal some hidden mine of classical associations. Charming too are the walks by the sea-shore—now sadly disfigured by the Cantiere Armstrong, with its smoke and ugliness looking like a dirty smudge upon the delicate landscape of the Bay—for here again we find endless traces of the Imperial age. There can be no [pg 303]more fascinating employment than to wander along the beach after one of the heavy winter storms that so often vex the quiet of the Bay of Naples, and to search for fragments of precious marbles that have been spied by the waves amidst the sunken foundations of Roman villas, and thence idly flung upon the shore. Pieces of the choicest white Parian, squares of speckled Egyptian porphyry, of verde, rosso and giallo antico, of the coal-black Africano, all wet and glistening from the waves, can be picked up by the quick-sighted, and the gathering of these beautiful trifles, cut and polished by skilled hands nearly two thousand years ago, makes an interesting occupation. Nor is its classical lore the only feature of the Bay of Baiae, for though its actual scenery cannot compare with the grandeur of Capri nor its vegetation with the rich luxuriance of Sorrento, yet these shores have a quiet beauty of their own. Vine, olive and almond abound on all sides, and everywhere we see the groves of orange and lemon that in spring time scent the air with their perfumed blossoms. And in the early months of the year every patch of warm-coloured, up-turned earth is gay with sheets of that beautiful but rapacious weed, hated of the peasant, the oxalis, with its clusters of pale yellow flowers: a species of sorrel that is allied to our own white-blossomed variety. From many a point on the little ridges that rise behind Pozzuoli magnificent views can be obtained, whilst to those who care to study the scientific results of volcanic action the Phlegraean Fields afford endless occupation and interest. Every one of course visits the Solfatara, that curious semi-extinct crater, the Forum Vulcani of Strabo, which has remained for over seven hundred [pg 304]years in its present condition of languor. A strange experience it is to enter the heart of a volcano that is still comparatively active, and to observe woods of poplar and a large pine tree beneath which grow masses of spring flowers—bright blue bugloss, the crimson vetch, starch hyacinths, purple self-heal, and golden spurge—and to pass from these thickets on to a space of bare white-coloured ground that trembles and sways under the feet like a sheet of insecure ice. Beyond, one sees the little fissures (fumaroli) emitting fumes of sulphur, and the guides take us to stifling caverns in the hill-side where we are shown the beautiful primrose-coloured crystals. The Solfatara, the Amphitheatre and the Temple of Serapis, these are the recognised “sights” of Pozzuoli, which strangers visit to-day in the space of an hour or two, and then return to Naples comforted with the feeling that they have exhausted the attractions of the place. Certainly their reception in the town is not likely to inspire them with a wish to return, for the guides and touts swarm here more than in any other spot in Italy; “until he has spent half an hour in Pozzuoli,” says the author of Dolce Napoli, “let no man say that he understands the signification of the verb to pester.”

Putting aside even the objectionable habits of so many of its citizens, it cannot be said that the town itself of Pozzuoli to-day is particularly attractive, although its situation on the Bay of Baiae is charming and its quays are full of picturesque life and movement. Lines of irregular yellow-washed buildings, with faded green persiani and balconies draped with the domestic washing, with here and there a domed rococo church, look down upon the clear tide[pg 305]less waters that gently lap the ancient stone-work of the Mole, whilst a mixed crowd of fishermen with bare bronzed limbs, of chattering women with gay handkerchiefs tied over their thick black hair, and of blue uniformed dapper little customs officers,—lupi marini (wolves of the sea) as the poor people facetiously term these revenue officials of the coast—loiter in the sunlight amidst the piles of tawny fishing nets or the pyramids of golden oranges. From the quay we make our way to the Largo del Municipio, a typical square of a provincial town in the South, enclosed by shabby houses and adorned by a couple of stunted date-palms and a battered marble fountain, around which numberless children and some slatternly women noisily converse or dispute. There is an old proverb in the South, that a good housewife has no need to know any thoroughfares save those leading to her church and her fountain, and as conversation cannot well be carried on in the former, it is the daily visits to the well that usually afford the required opportunity for exchange of gossip or for the picking of quarrels. Two statues decorate this unlovely but not uninteresting space; one is that of a Spanish bishop, Leon y CardeÑas, one of King Philip the Third’s viceroys, which serves as a reminder of the many vicissitudes this classic land has experienced in the course of history:—Phoenician, Greek, Carthaginian, Roman, Barbarian, Norman, German, French, Spanish conquerors have all left “footprints on the sands of Time” in the coveted land of the Siren, which all have possessed in turn but none have held in perpetuity. His Excellency the Bishop CardeÑas stands therefore in the open as a solid memento of the glory that once [pg 306]was Spain, when half Europe and all America owned the sway of the Catholic King. The second statue, though not a thing of beauty, has always had the attraction of an unsolved puzzle, for we cannot decide whether it proves a complete absence or an abundant superfluity of humour in the Puteolani of to-day. It is the figure of a Roman senator, vested in his flowing toga, and owning (as the ancient inscription informs us) the grandiose name of Quintus Flavius Mavortius Lollianus, whose marble trunk was one of the earliest archaeological “finds” made in the excavations at Pozzuoli some two hundred years ago. Since the statue lacked a head and was otherwise of no especial value as a work of art, the Viceroy of Naples very generously presented this object to the place of its discovery, whose citizens, doubtless thinking the appearance of the headless statue uncanny, popped a stray antique occiput (of which a goodly number, more or less mutilated, are constantly brought to light by the peasants) upon Lollianus’ vacant shoulders. Anything more comical and at the same time more repellent than this hybrid statue it would be impossible to imagine, yet Lollianus of the unknown head remains a favourite with the people of Pozzuoli. Leaving the Largo del Municipio, with its weird senator and its dusty palms, we ascend by a zigzag lane between tall featureless houses to the Cathedral of San Proculo, which occupies the site of a temple of Augustus, that once dominated the ancient city and harbour below. Within, the cathedral of Proculus, who was a companion of St Januarius and a fellow-martyr, is gaudy and painted, one of those dismally gorgeous ecclesiastical interiors that are such a dis[pg 307]appointment to the antiquarian in Southern Italy. In opposition to the memorial of Spanish conquest in the square below, we find here an elaborate monument to a French viceroy, the Duke of Montpensier, who served for some time as Governor of Naples after Charles VIII.’s capture of the city. Except the tomb of the young musician Pergolese, who composed the original Stabat Mater there is little else to see, and we gladly ascend the tower in order to gain a bird’s eye view of the town from a point of vantage whither noisy coachmen, troublesome beggars and impudent ragamuffins cannot pursue. Captured by the Greek colonists of Cumae, who gave the city the name of Dicoearchia instead of its ancient one of Puteoli,—a corruption, perhaps, of the Syriac word petuli (contention)—this old Hellenic settlement was rechristened Puteoli by the conquering Romans, under whose beneficent rule the place rapidly aspired to wealth and prosperity. With the rise however of Naples, the fame of Puteoli began to grow dim, and its importance to decline, although throughout Imperial times it ranked after Ostia as the chief victualling port of Rome. And of the two celebrated cities which adorned the shores of this Bay in classical times, Puteoli was the seat of commerce, and Baiae the resort of pleasure and luxury; yet both were doomed to dwindle and almost perish in the disastrous years that followed the break-up of the Empire. The invading hordes of Germany, the raids of Saracen pirates, and the constant presence of malaria on this deserted coast were sufficient causes in themselves to reduce in the course of time the thriving port of Puteoli to the squalid town of to-day. From our lofty post we can easily distinguish the limits of [pg 308]the city in the days of Tiberius and Caligula, for to the north we turn our faces towards the ruined bulk of the Amphitheatre, now lying amidst fields and gardens, but well within the town walls at the time when Nero entertained the Armenian king Tiridates and shocked his Asiatic guest by himself descending into the arena and deftly performing the usual disgusting feats of a professional gladiator. To westward lies the Bay of Baiae, a semi-circle of glittering water surrounded by low hills amidst which the Monte Nuovo, unknown to the ancients, stands conspicuous. How completely have all traces of splendour and extravagance disappeared from these shores! At fashionable Baiae across the Bay there is nothing visible save a few shapeless ruins over the identity of which scholars dispute; at busy Puteoli there survive to-day but the ruined Amphitheatre, the Temple of Serapis, and the arches of the famous Mole, to prove to wondering posterity how great were the wealth, the population and the magnificence of a spot which is closely associated with all the power and culture of the Roman Empire in its zenith.