JOTTINGS FROM A TRAVELLERS JOURNAL.

Ashburton Guardian, Volume V, Issue 1031, 21 December 1883, Page 2

JOTTINGS FROM A TRAVELLERS JOURNAL.

SPECI ALLY WRITTEN FOR “ THE ASHBURTON GUARDIAN. ”] XXII. A. Disappointment—Jn Paul’s Footsteps—Virgil’s Tomb A Long Tunnel— Nisioa—An Extinct Craebr Vulcan Forum Pozzuoli -- Pual’s Landing Place. After a somewhat desponding look at the clouds my irrepressibly energetic companion suddenly exclaimed, “ When shall we ascend Vesuvius.” “That is more than lean tell,” Ireplied. “If this unsettled waUher con tinues 1 am afraid we shall have to give it up. You know our friends the Wheelers tried it, but they failed, and strongly adviiod us not to make the attempt.” “How provoking,” was the half-resigned rejoinder of my better half, “ I had set my heart upon getting to the top ot the mountain.” “ Ah 1 my dear,” I continued in moralising mood, “there are many mountains we should like to scale, but infirmities, mental as well as physical, often constrain ua to be content to plod along the prosaic level plain. In your case ‘ the spirit undoubtedly is willing, but the flesh is weak.” “Isuppose it is,” she admitted with a sigh, “ and certainly 1 should not like to suffer as Blanche and Edith Wheeler did.” The Wheelers were chance acquaintances whom we met at Marselles, and they had accompanied us through the Riviera, and like ourselves were now staying at Naples. They had given us a doleful account of their Vesuvian excursion. When they started the morning promised fair, as it did with us when we set out for Pompeii, but the issue was as unfavorable to them as it had been to ua After alighting from the railway which took them within a short distance of the crater, they made more than one attempt to reach the summit : but in vain ; the snow was so deep and the cold so intense, they were obliged

to given it up. 1 believe Blanche's graphic description of their fatigue and sufferings had been more effectual in reconciling my wife to the necessity of giving up her cherished desire, than all my moral arguments. “ Well, if we cannot go up Vesuvius, let us go somewhere else,” said she after a meditative pause of some duration, evidently resulting in submission, “It is not raining now, and I’ve no notion of sticking in doors all day.” “ With all my heart,” responded I. “ I was reading last night that suggestive narrative—“ and after one day the South wind blew, and we came the next day to Puteoli, where we found brethren and were desired to tarry with them seven days ; and so we went toward Rome.’ You are aware that the modern Pozzuoli is identical with the ancient Puteoli—suppose we devote the day to following, as near as maybe, the footsteps of the Apostle Paul.”

My proposal was assented to with pleasure. We hired a carriage—the same that had taken us to Pompeii; Giuseppe had taken a fancy to us and made us promise to patronise him and his vehicle —the weather seemed to smile upon our undertaking, for it was more genial than it had been for many days. The first place of interest on the road was the tomb of Virgil; or rather, I should say, the reputed place of his sepulture. The surroundings are not very classic. Two blacksmith’s forges flmk the entrance. Tis..j;olumbarium is on the hill above. Thera is no reliable evidence that the mortal remains of the Poet were entombed in the chamber which is shown ; but in the absence of local relics the visitor is compensated by the fine view of the bay obtained from the elevated site. 1 ought, perhaps, to qualify my incredulous remarks by saying there is no doubt about the fact of Virgil having possessed a villa at Posilipo, not far off, and it is possible his ashes may have been interred on the spot indicated. The legend, moreover, derives some support from the fact that 600 years ago, or thereabouts, a marble urn adorned the tomb hearing this inreriptiou ; “ Mantua me genuit, Calabri rapuere tenet nunc

Parthenope : cecini pascua, rura. duces. ” But all this does not amount to reliable evidence, if the reader is inclined to give the tradition the benefit of the doubt, eo be it.

We drove through the long tunnel, or as it is called, the Grotto di Posilipo. A dark narrow passage existed here in the days of Seneca, for he wrote of its gloomy features. But it has been enlarged, paved, and ventilated, and is now e busy thoroughfare lighted by gas. - At certain seasons of the year the horizontal beams of the setting sun penetrate the recesses of this subterranean way, and dissipate for a while the prevailing gloom. Emerging from the tunnel, the island of Nisida came in sight, with the sea and coast line beyond ; and on the right the volcanic hill, Monte Nuovo, s' cilled because it was thrown up from the plain in cne night, during an irruption that occurred in 1538. How astonished the people must have been when they first beheld the new feature in the landscape. I was greatly interested in the crater of Solfatara. It gives one a more vivid idea of the terrible forces of volcanic agencies than anything I have seen. It is quiescent now, but can scarcely be called extinct, because, at one corner of the large space enclosed by hills of pumice stone, there is a fissure or cavern running into the hill, full of sulphurous vapor and smoke. I stood at the entrance of this laboratory of Nature; the heat was very great, and a constant sound as of the roaring of a distant furnace made it fearfully apparent that a burning mystery was not far off.

I no longer wonder at the marvellous legends interwoven in the literature and mythology gof the ancients. The fiery facts suggested the fables. The terrific forces of Nature changing the contour of th. country from time to time, not unfrequently threatening to engulph the entire population of a district, and bury towns and temple;, and baths, and patrician palaces in a grave of ashes, or consume them with molten lava, might easily suggest to imaginative poetic minds the battles of the gods, the restless energies of Titan, the dangerous declivities of Avernus, the horrors of Tartarus, the infernal Styx, and tho flaming Phl»>gethon, mysteries and marvels seem like the natural offspring of such a fiery region. The hollow sounds that accompanied every step I took, told me that I was walking, not on solid ground, but on a crust—how thick I could not tell—that merely concealed from view those subterranean fires which prompted the ancients to designate Solfatara ‘he very forum of Vulcan.

Pozzuoli, as a town, is not specially attractive. It is the surrounding neighborhood and historic remains that give it notoriety and invest it with a charm. Passing by the Church of Se'laria delle Grazia the harborisbefore you. There rearing their time-worn tops above the waters are distinctly visible thirteen out of the twenty.five buttresses that supported the pier o.i which Paul landed so many centuries ago. The ordinary enjoyments of a traveller are as nothing compared with the privilege of standing on a spot c mseorated as the pier of Puteoli must ever be in the minds of those who appreciate the character of the great apostle of the Gentiles. The social features of the scene are not now the same as on the day when Paul landed from the Castor and Pollux; but as the modern traveller stands by the remains of the pier, now called Ponte di Caligula, he may assure himself that his eye is moving over a landscape in general form, and in most of Its primitive elements, the same as that on which the apostle gazed. This, to me, was the special charm of the locality. But on other and more general grounds, Pozzuoli and its environs are attractive beyond comparison. Almost every spot in the vicinity is classic ground. With Virgil for a companion, the visitor may find himself in the midst of the scenery described in portions of the Odyssey and Eneid. He can scarcely turn his eye in any direction without being reminded of the fascinating legends of Pagan poetry and romance. He may wance: in imagination amongst the ghostly spectres on the Cimmerian shore, or visit the spot which, according to the poet, was so fraught with terrors as to quicken the pulses of Hercules himself, and make Ullysses tremble. He may sail in safety over the waters of Avernus and venture, without fear, into the passage which was reputed to lead to the presence of Pluto himself without crossing the Mare Morto, or the necessity of paying old Charm the customary fee. The ruins of the temple of Serapis interested me very much. Gut of six marble columns that supported the portico, only three now remain. When Paul landed on the adjacent pier, the famous shrine of the Egyptian deity was standing in all the splendour of its perfect proportions. He saw the whole of the grand structure whose fragments I] was gazing upon. The site of this temple is especially attractive to geologists, furnishing undent, able evidences of great changes—elevations and depressions—the result of volcanic agency.

The amphitheatre of Novo was another special attraction. Paul no doubt passed it on his way to Rome. He may have been a spectator of the games and cruel sports of the arena. We know that he tarried seven days at Putoolie. Was he at perfect liberty all the time 1 Was the chain that bound him to his soldier guard laid aside ? Not likely, I think. Still leas likely that the soldier would be content to remain a whole week within sight

of the amphitheatre without entering it to witness the races and the fights. He may have dragged the Apostle to a seat in one of the upper tiers. The gentlemenly prisoner, to whom all things were_ lawful, though they might not be expedient and pleasant, may have waived personal scruples in order to propitiate and gratify his custodim. Will my readers blame mo for thus indulging imagination ; surely such imaginations are not altogether ridiculous as beyond the bounds of probability. Nay ! may I not venture a little further and conceive it to be possible that what Paul saw in the spirit and action of the winner of one of the races—his love of determination fixed on the laurel crown before him, a look not to be diverted by anything around or behind him, the plaudits of the crowds, the panting effjrts of the fellow-racers on either hand—his sustained pace becoming more rapid as he neared the goal, bis nerve, his endurance, his indomitable pluck. May not the vision of this man have lingered in the memary of the Apostle, and the ideas engendered by that spectacle have found expression in the letter he wrote not long afterwards. “ This one thing I do, forgetting those things which are behind, and reaching forth into those which are before, I press towards the mark for the priza of the high calling of God in Jesus Chris*.” ( To be continued )