Chapter 13 - Page 2

rich plain that seems to lie behind it,
bounded as it is by a wall of a distant and mysterious-looking, yet bold
range of the Apennines. Returning to the shore, which now begins to
incline more westwardly, we come to another swell of tufa, which has all
the characteristic fertility and abruptness of that peculiar formation,
a vast and populous town of near half a million of souls being seated,
in nearly equal parts, on the limits of the plain and along the margin
of the water, or on the hill-sides, climbing to their summits. From this
point the northern side of the bay is a confused mass of villages,
villas, ruins, palaces, and vines, until we reach its extremity, a low
promontory, like its opposite neighbor. A small island comes next, a
sort of natural sentinel; then the coast sweeps northward into another
and a smaller bay, rich to satiety with relics of the past, terminating
at a point some miles further seaward, with a high, reddish, sandy
bluff, which almost claims to be a mountain. After this we see two more
islands lying westward, one of which is flat, fertile, and more
populous, as is said, than any other part of Europe of the same extent;
while the other is a glorious combination of pointed mountains, thronged
towns, fertile valleys, castles, country houses, and the wrecks of
long-dormant volcanoes, thrown together in a grand yet winning
confusion. If the reader will to this description add a shore that has
scarce a foot that is not interesting with some lore of the past,
extending from yesterday into the darkest recesses of history, give life
to the water-view with a fleet of little latine-rigged craft, rendered
more picturesque by an occasional ship, dot the bay with countless boats
of fishermen, and send up a wreath of smoke from the summit of the
cone-like mountain that forms the head of the bay, he will get an
outline of all that strikes the eye as the stranger approaches Naples
from the sea.

The zephyr was again blowing, and the daily fleet of sparanaras, or
undecked feluccas, that passes every morning at this season, from the
south shore to the capital, and returns at this hour, was stretching out
from under Vesuvius; some looking up as high as Massa; others heading
toward Sorrento or Vico or Persano, and many keeping more before the
wind, toward Castel-à-Mare, or the landings in that neighborhood. The
breeze was getting to be so fresh that the fishermen were beginning to
pull in toward the land, breaking up their lines, which in some places
had extended nearly a league, and this, too, with the boats lying within
speaking distance of each other. The head of the bay, indeed, was alive
with craft moving in different directions, while a large fleet of
English, Russians, Neapolitans,