Rambles in Germany and Italy in 1840, 1842, and 1843/Part 3/Letter 23
LETTER XXIII.
Excursion to Amalfi.
I have always had a great desire to penetrate into the south of Italy, which I believe to be the most beautiful country in the world; joining the rich aspect of culture to the graces of nature,
"In all her wildness, all her majesty,
As in that elder time, ere man was made."[1]
If I were a man, I know of no enterprise that would please my imagination more than seeking, in this district, for the traces of lost wealth, science, and civilisation. These blessings flourished in this neighbourhood at two distinct periods, apparently widely separated from each other; yet, if examined, we might find that the link had never been broken. Magna Grecia was the mother of many philosophers, and the richest portion of ancient Italy; and there is nothing violent in the supposition, that Amalfi, hemmed in by mountains, and Salerno, almost equally sheltered, should have preserved and extended, rather than originated, the trade and science which rendered them famous at a time when, all around, every effort of human enterprise was merged in offensive and defensive wars.
Amalfi was the first republic of modern Italy. As the power of the Roman Empire waxed weak, and the transplanting of the seat of empire to Constantinople, placed Italy in the novel position of a distant neglected province, frequently invaded by barbarians, the fabric of national government fell to pieces, while municipal communities remained. Two of these, from their happy position on the sea, and the great traffic there carried on by means of the Mediterranean, were eminently prosperous. One in the north, Venice, acquired power, and preserved its independence for centuries; the other in the south, Amalfi, was swallowed up by the kingdom of Naples, after having been pillaged by the Pisans in 1137—for thus early did municipal rivalry, the bane of Italy, begin to divide and ravage the peninsula. It seems to me that sound knowledge of the results of political institutions might be gathered from studying the state of society in a town whose citizens were, when free, intelligent and courageous—whose maritime laws, instituted at a time (the ninth century) when Europe was sunk in barbarism, has served as a basis for every subsequent commercial code—who covered the sea with their ships—who almost discovered the mariner's compass. What are they now?
Their intelligence, their capacities, I am sure remain; their affections also must warm their hearts as kindly; must we not seek in their political history for the causes wherefore superstition and vice have replaced ardour for science and the virtues of industrious and brave citizens?
Though I could not fulfil in any way a favourite design of visiting Calabria, yet we have crept on as far as Amalfi. It had been my idea to spend a month in this town, when I could have told you more of the present state of its inhabitants. I was not able to do this; so, can only mention the impression made by the visit of a day.[2]
We had secured a boat to be ready for us at the Marinella, on the other side of the promontory, and set out on mules for the Scaricatojo, the name given to the descent from the mountain that overhangs the eastern sea. We reached the height which we had often before visited, whence a view is commanded of the two seas. To the west the Bay of Naples, landlocked, as we looked on it, by the islands of Ischia and Procida, and the promontory of Misenum; while, more to the north, the shining edifices of the city of Naples are distinctly visible, and in the depth of the bay, Vesuvius rises up immediately from the shore. On the other side, the eye plunged down from the height of the myrtle-clothed mountain on which we stood, to the sea far below, gleaming at the foot of the precipices—vexing itself against the rocks of the Syrens: eastward, the coast that runs in a long line to the south; the lowlands on which Pæstum is situated, with the back-ground of lofty mountains, was this day—as it almost always is—hidden in mist.
The descent of the Scaricatojo is very steep, and long and fatiguing. At first we made light of it; but as we went on under a burning sun, the path grew more craggy and precipitous: sometimes it was formed only of a rough sort of steps cut in the mountain-side, or constructed of shattered masses of rock; or of zigzags, which grew shorter, more numerous, more precipitous, and more slippery, till we despaired of ever reaching the beach.
But all things human end; and at last—most agreeable change!—we were seated in a boat beneath the lofty inaccessible hills that rise almost sheer from the water, with here and there a little break, where a brief space of beach intervenes, and a town or village rises beside it. The voyage was not quite as agreeable as it might have been, for there was a swell of the sea, and our little boat was deeply laden with people. We were glad to see Amalfi open on us. Salvator Rosa best represents the peculiar beauty of the southern Italian coast; its steep promontories, the varied breaks of its mountainous shores, all green with forest-trees, adorned by isolated ruins, and clothed with a radiance which is the peculiar gift of the atmosphere of this clime; encircled by the lucid transparency of the tideless sea—for it was here that he often retreated, leading, some have said, a bandit's life,[3] but most surely a lover and studier of nature; his landscapes are so many exquisite views taken from this part of the country. Look at them, wherever you can, and learn in what its loveliness consists. The landing-place of the town is open, busy, and cheerful. There is a Capuchin convent most beautifully situated near the sea; it was secularised by the French, and long served for an hotel. The mother of the present King of Naples often visited Amalfi, and slept at this inn. The expelled monks gathered round her, and led her to consider it a matter of conscience that they should be reinstated. She obtained this favour from her son before she died; the Capuchins are come back; and travellers are turned out from what may be fairly named the most beautiful ion in the world. The present house, however, is by no means bad, and overlooks the Marina. We obtained good rooms and a tolerable dinner, being waited on by three sons of the host—handy little fellows, from ten to fifteen, who performed their duties promptly and quietly.
As soon as we had rested and were refreshed, we wished, though still much fatigued, to see something of the place. We visited the cathedral, an ancient edifice, built upon the site of a pagan temple, and rambled about the town, which is busy. Though fallen from the commercial prosperity it enjoyed twelve centuries ago, Amalfi carries on considerable traffic, and its citizens are well to do. There is a large manufacture of maccaroni, another of paper, another for working the iron of Elba. Every one can find work, living is cheap, and want is happily unknown.
The paper-mills are picturesquely situated in a ravine, shut in by lofty mountains, beside a cascade; it was not so far but that we might visit them during the evening. Two donkeys were brought to carry us thither. Accustomed to the excellent mules of Sorrento, we were not prepared for the poor little creatures, with things on their backs which it was ridiculous to call saddles. However, I and a young lady who accompanied me mounted. If you have the book, look at the vignette to "Italy" of Amalfi; you will perceive its situation, and how just behind the town the mountains are cloven and divided by a deep ravine—our way led up this narrow pass, down which sped a torrent, whose "inland murmur," or rather dashing, was grateful to our ears, long accustomed only to the roaring of the surges of the sea.
The scene was wholly different from anything near Sorrento. The valley and the mountain-sides were beautifully green and fresh—grassy uplands shone between groves of forest trees, and villages with their churches here and there peeped out—while the torrent dashed over the rocks, sparkling and foaming—and dressing its banks, which grew higher and more rocky as we ascended the pass, in luxuriant and bright verdure. Our first visit was to a paper-mill, whence a view of the ravine is commanded—and then we clambered up the hill-side to the road above. Golden evening gave a refreshing coolness to the air, and picturesque shadows to the hills. It was a scene,—an hour,—when Nature imparts a quick and living enjoyment akin to the transports of love and the ecstacy of music—it touches a chord whose vibration is happiness. Faint from excessive weariness, yet with regret I consented to return. Night with her stars gathered round us, and with much difficulty our poor little stumbling animals carried us back to the town.
This same evening we wished to prepare for our excursion on the morrow; the plan of which was to visit Ravello, and then to descend the mountain to the sea-shore—take boat, and sail to Salerno, and after dinner to drive back to Sorrento.
Our evening's experience showed that the poor little asses were not fit for such an expedition—we must have recourse to the other alternative, portantini,—arm-chairs placed on poles, borne by two men; we required three, for the three ladies of the party. P——— and his friend, were to walk.
We were told ——— but, remember, I consider all that we heard as very problematical as regards truth—we had no time to learn the real state of things, and I relate the story more to show the sort of wild excuses the Italians make when they want to carry a point profitable to themselves—losing to us. We were told that the bearers of the portantini all belonged to a village, Vettici, some miles up the mountain—that when these were wanted they were sent for the previous evening—locked up all night at Amalfi, to prevent them from being enticed away, I don't why or by whom. We were told that we had arrived too late to get these men; that we must engage some of the town's-people. We ought to have four bearers to each chair; thirty men came forward to claim the employment—and the polizia begged us to choose twelve from among them. My friends went to the polizia for this purpose—the scene was highly comic. Thirty men vociferating, insisting, supplicating—eager. Among these was the master of the boat who was to take us to Salerno, and his three sons—they were evidently respectable men, and at once selected—but among the rest who could choose? My friends could only laugh; they pointed out a dozen as possessing the best physiognomies.
We were to set out early, and therefore retired early. Night scarcely veiled the sea. The quay had been busy all day, lading ships with grain; several parties of men were still at work. It was a lively scene compared with the quiet of the Cocumella, yet so unlike were the tiny barks in the offing, and appearance of the men at work, lading and unlading vessels, from anything one is accustomed to that the ancient times of Magna Græcia, when the busy ports sent corn to Rome, occurred; or rather, I confess, that with me another association was awakened. When excited, the mind is apt to recur to the impressions of childhood—like sympathetic ink exposed to fire—the covert but not expunged pictures which the soul first received, revive and become visible. Les Aventures de Télémaque recurred to my mind. I was haunted by the description therein given of the busy sea-ports of Tyre and Crete. The broad luminous sea before, the jutting headlands, the not inharmonious cries of the men at work, the frequent tread of their feet, formed a sort of picture which it seemed to me I had seen in childhood drawn by the pen of Fénelon. I went to sleep while it still flitted, as it were, beneath my closed eyelids.
The morrow came, and with it our guide, our chairs, our bearers—such a crowd. The thirty men had been disputing all night as to which among them had been chosen; the conclusion they came to was, that they would all go. Travellers often (I among the number) have had the whole pleasure of an excursion marred by a struggle with guides, muleteers, &c. It is often necessary to contest a thousand points, and to resist exactions, and the temper gets soured, and the divine influence of nature on the mind is marred. I was determined that I would not lose the pleasure I might snatch during my hasty visit to the outskirts of Calabria, by tormenting myself with these people; for being the one of our party most conversant with Italian, the brunt of the battle must fall upon me. I made up my mind at once that these fellows should have their way, and I would be entertained instead of annoyed by exactions of all kinds.
We had our guide—an erect old man, loquacious enough, with a very amusing assumption of dignity towards the other men. We had our thirty bearers, and in addition (recommended by the police, to keep so large a band in order) two police-officers, with unloaded muskets and cartouche-boxes innocent of ammunition. Eight men devoted themselves to my chair—the best of the number, I believe; and away we went, up the rocky path through the ravine, beside the torrent, beneath the chesnut woods, climbing higher and higher up the mountain-side, the bright golden morning sun flinging long shadows from the hills.
The scenery is quite unlike Sorrento; as far as earth is concerned, it is far more sublime. The mountains are loftier, and more picturesque, parted by deeper and wider ravines, terminated in abrupter peaks, their sides clothed by magnificent forest-trees; and when we reached a summit and looked around ——— travellers visit Switzerland and speak of the sublime works of creation among seas of ice and avalanches and towering Alps, bare and craggy, crested with perpetual snow; there, nature is sublime, but she shows the power and the will to harm; here she is gracious as well as glorious; she is our friend, or rather our exalted and munificent queen and benefactress.[4]
From the height of Ravello we gazed on a wide and various panorama of vale and mountain, spread in picturesque and infinite variety around; deep below was a sunny beach, shut in by steep headlands, and a placid, wide-spread southern sea, basking in the noontide heat. The cathedral of Ravello is an ancient, venerable edifice. In the sacristy were some old paintings of what may be called the seraphic school, such as I had admired at Florence. Saints, whose countenances show that they are blessed; virgins, whose gentleness is full of majesty, whose humility is that of one who, placing herself last, shall be first. Since those days men have lost the power of portraying the passion of adoration in the countenance. Either in venerable age or beautiful youth, what specimens there are in the first painters of great and good beings absorbed by grateful, joyful worship of the greatest and best of all. One of the most charming of the pictures at Ravello was an Annunciation;—the beaming sweetness of the angel, the chaste joy of Mary, spread a halo over the canvas. They told us that an Englishman had wished to buy these pictures, but the Bishop had very properly refused to commit the sacrilege of selling them.
The unclouded sun shone hotly above; there was a breeze, however, and the landscape showed green and fresh. Sometimes our numerous party were clamorous among one another, disputing how their pay should be shared; when the confusion grew high, our old guide—sovereign over all in his own conceit—cried, "Silenzio! silenzio!" in an authoritative voice, and the stream of sound was, for a moment, checked. They were all well-behaved towards us. We asked our good-natured sbirri, with their harmless guns, whether there were any banditti now in Calabria? All, they assured us, was safe and quiet; or if there was any disturbance, they were sent, and order was restored—by what means I cannot guess, except that the aspects of these men were peculiarly placid and peaceful.
The descent was very precipitous, much of it being down flight after flight of steep steps, cut in the rock. It was far too warm and fatiguing to think of walking, and rather frightful to be carried down. However, by turning the chair, and riding backwards, we got through it without much alarm.
The Ponente had risen as we reached the beach. The sea sparkled fresh and free. The boat was large and commodious. The master-boatman had a great sense of his own respectability and that of his sons, and of the excellence of his vessel. He spoke his own praises in a sonorous voice, keeping time to his speech with the strokes of his oar:—"Sarete contenti di me, Signori. Io sono un' galant' uomo: miei figli sono galant' uomini: la mia barca è buona e bella. Tutti i Signori forestieri sono contenti di me."
As soon as we had made something of an offing, the sails were set, and we changed our marinaro's rhapsody of self-eulogy to some national airs sung by his sons. Their voices were good, and our navigation was prosperous and pleasant.
We were thoroughly tired out when we arrived at Salerno, which is less picturesquely situated than Amalfi, the shore around being low. When Amalfi was a great commercial sea-port, the medical school of Salerno was famous for its knowledge of the healing art. The students went to study in Arabia and Spain; and they returned to their native town to dispense, among crowds of rich and noble patients, the treasures of their skill. Salerno in those days was regarded as illustrious among the cities of modern Italy—the women were beautiful, and the men were honest; thus Gibbon transcribes the praise of William of Apulia—
"Urbs Latii non est hac delitiosor urbe:
Frugibus, arboribus, vinoque redundat; et unde
Non tibi poma, nuces, non pulchra palatia desunt
Non species muliebris abest probitasque virorum."
But we saw less of the remnants of this magnificence than even of Amalfi, for we arrived fatigued; and after a few hours' repose and dinner, we set out in a carriage homewards. We drove through a beautiful valley towards Castelamare, between wooded hills. There is a very pretty hotel at Cava, where travellers often remain several weeks. I should prefer, however, the sea-shore at Amalfi. Castelamare is a busy town on the beach, in the very depth of the bay. Numbers of villas are scattered over the wooded sides of the mountains and through the shady valley. There is a good railroad to Naples: the distance, rather more than twenty miles, is performed in about an hour and a half. Castelamare is a more fashionable resort than Sorrento. The villas are more numerous and more elegant; the rides more diversified; the intercourse with the capital easier. It is not so well suited for a short stay, for the hotels are all in the midst of a noisy town; and the villas, which let at a high price, can only be taken for the season—six, or at least, four months. On the other hand, for excursions on the sea, Sorrento is very far to be preferred. Castelamare, at the depth of the bay, affords only a small lake-like basin for boating. To view the shores, or visit the islands, east or west, you must first reach Sorrento or Naples. In the former, you seem happily placed, as in a centre, to diverge at will in excursions on the water. Sorrento is in every way cheaper and more practicable for those who are not rich.
The road from Castelamare to Sorrento, about twenty miles, is excellent, constructed on the edge of the cliffs overhanging the sea. As we proceeded we gladly hailed our return to a familiar scene, and welcomed various glimpses of views which we looked on as peculiarly our own. We passed Vico—half-way—and then turning the shoulder of a headland, rattled down towards the populous plain of Sorrento—with its many villages, its orange gardens and sheltering hills—and reached our quiet hotel, where we were gladly welcomed. The Cocumella has become a home—it is a joy to return to our terrace, to breathe the fragrance of the orange-flowers—to see the calm sea spread out at our feet, as we look over the bay to Naples—while above us bends a sky—in whose pure depths ship-like clouds glide—and the moon hangs luminous, a pendant sphere of silver fire.
- ↑ Rogers's Italy.
- ↑ Among modern historians Sismondi and Gibbon dwelt with pleasure on the commerce and prosperity of Amalfi. It was an oasis where the mind of the historian reposed, fatigued by barbarous wars and innumerable acts of cruelty. Gibbon quotes the description given by Guglielmus Apulus—
"Nulla magis locuples argento, vestibus, oro,
Pontibus innumeris; hic plurimus urbe moratur
Nauta maris cœlique vias aperire peritus.
Huc et Alexandri diversa feruntur ab urbe
Regis, et Antiochi. Quis hæc freta plurima transit.
His Arabes, Indi, Siculi nascuntur et Afri.
Hæc gens est totum prope nobilitata per orbem
Et mercando ferens, et amans mercata referre." - ↑ Rogers's Italy.
- ↑ "Until that moment I was not fully sensible of the vast superiority of the Italian landscapes over all others. Switzerland astonishes, and it even often delights; but Italian nature wins upon you until you come to love it as a friend. I can only liken the perfection of the scene we gazed upon this evening to a feeling almost allied to transport; to the manner in which we dwell upon the serene expression of a beloved and lovely countenance. Other scenes have the tints, the hues, the outlines, the proportions, the grandeur, and even the softness of beauty; but these have the character that marks the existence of a soul. The effect is to pour a flood of sensations on the mind, that are distinct from the commoner feelings of wonder that are excited by vastness and magnificence. The refinement of Italian nature appears to distinguish it as much from that of other countries, as the quality distinguishes the scene of sentiment and intellect from the man of mere interests. In sublimity of a certain sort—more specially in the sublimity of desolation, Switzerland probably has no equal on earth; and perhaps to this may be added a certain unearthly aspect which the glaciers assume in particular conditions of the atmosphere; but these Italian scenes rise to a sublimity of a different kinds, which, though it does not awe, leaves behind it a tender sensation allied to that of love. I can conceive even an ardent admirer of nature wearying in time of the grandeur of the Alps; but I can scarce imagine one who could ever tire of the witchery of Italy."—C. F. Cooper; "Excursions in Italy." Vol. 1.; Letter XIV.