May 8th, 1830
Rode with a large party to Astroni, where they dined, but I did not. There were the Lushingtons, Prince and Princess Dentici (he is at the head of the Douane), Madame and Mademoiselle Galiati (she is remarkably pretty), ASTRONI Count (I believe) and Countess Rivalvia, her uncle, Lord A. Chichester, Count Gregorio, and a Mr. Stuart. The park, or whatever it is called—for it is the King’s chase and full of wild boars—is one of the most beautiful and curious places about Naples. Milton’s description of the approach to Eden applies exactly to Astroni; if ever he saw it it is likely that he meant to describe it—
To the border comes
Of Eden, where delicious Paradise,
Now nearer, crowns with her enclosure green,
As with a rural mound, the champaign head
Of a steep wilderness, whose hairy sides,
With thicket overgrown, grotesque, and wild,
Access denied; and overhead up grew
Insuperable height of loftiest shade,
A sylvan scene, and as the ranks ascend
Shade above shade, a woody theatre
Of stateliest view.
It is an immense crater of a volcano, the amphitheatre quite unbroken, and larger than that of Vesuvius, but covered with wood, and the bottom with very fine trees of various sorts and with fern—very wild and picturesque. There are several little hillocks, supposed to have been small craters; but although it is proved that this was a volcano from the lava under the soil and from its shape, there is no mention of it as an active volcano, and nobody can tell how many thousand years ago it was in operation. The King, with his usual good taste, is cutting down the finest trees, and has made a ride round the bottom, which he has planted with poplars in a double row, spoiling as much as he can all the beauty of the place. They dined in a shady arbour, made on purpose with branches of trees bound together, and on beds of fern, were very merry, pelting each other with oranges and cherries, and dealing about an abundance of manual jests.
Evening.—I have taken my last ride and last look at Naples, and am surprised at the sorrow I feel at quitting it, as I fear, for ever. Rode again to Astroni with Morier, and walked through the wood and tried to scale one of the sides of the mountain, but lost the path, and could only get half-way up; it is the most beautiful place about Naples. Came back by the Strada Nuova, and saw for the last time that delicious Bay with its coast and its islands, which are as deeply imprinted on my memory as if I had passed my life among them. To-night I have stood once more by the shore, and could almost have cried to think I should never see it again—
The smooth, surface of this summer sea—
nor breathe this delicious air, nor feast my eyes on the scene of gaiety, and brilliancy, and beauty around me. Nobody can form an idea of Naples without coming to it; every gale seems to bring health and cheerfulness with it, and appears ‘able to drive all sadness but despair.’
Naples, they tell me, does very well for a short time, but you will soon grow tired of it. To be sure, I have been here only three weeks, but I liked it better every day, and I am wretched at leaving it. What could I ever mean by thinking it was not gay, and less lively than Genoa? To-night, as I came home from riding, the shore was covered with lazaroni and throngs of people, dancing, singing, harping, fiddling—all so merry, and as if the open air and their own elastic spirits were happiness enough. I suppose I shall never come again, for when I have measured back the distance to my own foggy country, there I shall settle for ever, and Naples and her sunny shores and balmy winds will only be as a short and delightful dream, from which I have waked too soon.