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SQL Antipatterns
Avoiding the Pitfalls of Database
Programming
by Bill Karwin

Version: P4.0 (August 2014)

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Table of Contents
1. Introduction
Who This Book Is For
What’s in This Book
What’s Not in This Book
Conventions
Example Database
Acknowledgments
I. Logical Database Design Antipatterns
2. Jaywalking
Objective: Store Multivalue Attributes
Antipattern: Format Comma-Separated Lists
How to Recognize the Antipattern
Legitimate Uses of the Antipattern
Solution: Create an Intersection Table
3. Naive Trees
Objective: Store and Query Hierarchies
Antipattern: Always Depend on One’s Parent
How to Recognize the Antipattern
Legitimate Uses of the Antipattern
Solution: Use Alternative Tree Models
4. ID Required
Objective: Establish Primary Key Conventions
Antipattern: One Size Fits All
How to Recognize the Antipattern
Legitimate Uses of the Antipattern
Solution: Tailored to Fit
5. Keyless Entry
Objective: Simplify Database Architecture
Antipattern: Leave Out the Constraints
How to Recognize the Antipattern
Legitimate Uses of the Antipattern
Solution: Declare Constraints
6. Entity-Attribute-Value
Objective: Support Variable Attributes
Antipattern: Use a Generic Attribute Table
How to Recognize the Antipattern
Legitimate Uses of the Antipattern
Solution: Model the Subtypes
7. Polymorphic Associations
Objective: Reference Multiple Parents
Antipattern: Use Dual-Purpose Foreign Key
How to Recognize the Antipattern
Legitimate Uses of the Antipattern
Solution: Simplify the Relationship
8. Multicolumn Attributes
Objective: Store Multivalue Attributes
Antipattern: Create Multiple Columns
How to Recognize the Antipattern
Legitimate Uses of the Antipattern
Solution: Create Dependent Table
9. Metadata Tribbles
Objective: Support Scalability
Antipattern: Clone Tables or Columns
How to Recognize the Antipattern
Legitimate Uses of the Antipattern
Solution: Partition and Normalize
II. Physical Database Design Antipatterns
10. Rounding Errors
Objective: Use Fractional Numbers Instead of Integers
Antipattern: Use FLOAT Data Type
How to Recognize the Antipattern
Legitimate Uses of the Antipattern
Solution: Use NUMERIC Data Type
11. 31 Flavors
Objective: Restrict a Column to Specific Values
Antipattern: Specify Values in the Column Definition
How to Recognize the Antipattern
Legitimate Uses of the Antipattern
Solution: Specify Values in Data
12. Phantom Files
Objective: Store Images or Other Bulky Media
Antipattern: Assume You Must Use Files
How to Recognize the Antipattern
Legitimate Uses of the Antipattern
Solution: Use BLOB Data Types As Needed
13. Index Shotgun
Objective: Optimize Performance
Antipattern: Using Indexes Without a Plan
How to Recognize the Antipattern
Legitimate Uses of the Antipattern
Solution: MENTOR Your Indexes
III. Query Antipatterns
14. Fear of the Unknown
Objective: Distinguish Missing Values
Antipattern: Use Null as an Ordinary Value, or Vice Versa
How to Recognize the Antipattern
Legitimate Uses of the Antipattern
Solution: Use Null as a Unique Value
15. Ambiguous Groups
Objective: Get Row with Greatest Value per Group
Antipattern: Reference Nongrouped Columns
How to Recognize the Antipattern
Legitimate Uses of the Antipattern
Solution: Use Columns Unambiguously
16. Random Selection
Objective: Fetch a Sample Row
Antipattern: Sort Data Randomly
How to Recognize the Antipattern
Legitimate Uses of the Antipattern
Solution: In No Particular Order…
17. Poor Man’s Search Engine
Objective: Full-Text Search
Antipattern: Pattern Matching Predicates
How to Recognize the Antipattern
Legitimate Uses of the Antipattern
Solution: Use the Right Tool for the Job
18. Spaghetti Query
Objective: Decrease SQL Queries
Antipattern: Solve a Complex Problem in One Step
How to Recognize the Antipattern
Legitimate Uses of the Antipattern
Solution: Divide and Conquer
19. Implicit Columns
Objective: Reduce Typing
Antipattern: a Shortcut That Gets You Lost
How to Recognize the Antipattern
Legitimate Uses of the Antipattern
Solution: Name Columns Explicitly
IV. Application Development Antipatterns
20. Readable Passwords
Objective: Recover or Reset Passwords
Antipattern: Store Password in Plain Text
How to Recognize the Antipattern
Legitimate Uses of the Antipattern
Solution: Store a Salted Hash of the Password
21. SQL Injection
Objective: Write Dynamic SQL Queries
Antipattern: Execute Unverified Input As Code
How to Recognize the Antipattern
Legitimate Uses of the Antipattern
Solution: Trust No One
22. Pseudokey Neat-Freak
Objective: Tidy Up the Data
Antipattern: Filling in the Corners
How to Recognize the Antipattern
Legitimate Uses of the Antipattern
Solution: Get Over It
23. See No Evil
Objective: Write Less Code
Antipattern: Making Bricks Without Straw
How to Recognize the Antipattern
Legitimate Uses of the Antipattern
Solution: Recover from Errors Gracefully
24. Diplomatic Immunity
Objective: Employ Best Practices
Antipattern: Make SQL a Second-Class Citizen
How to Recognize the Antipattern
Legitimate Uses of the Antipattern
Solution: Establish a Big-Tent Culture of Quality
25. Magic Beans
Objective: Simplify Models in MVC
Antipattern: The Model Is an Active Record
How to Recognize the Antipattern
Legitimate Uses of the Antipattern
Solution: The Model Has an Active Record
V. Appendixes
A1. Rules of Normalization
What Does Relational Mean?
Myths About Normalization
What Is Normalization?
Common Sense
A2. Bibliography

Copyright © 2014, The Pragmatic Bookshelf.

What Readers Are Saying
About SQL Antipatterns
I am a strong advocate of best practices. I prefer to learn from other
people’s mistakes. This book is a comprehensive collection of those
other people’s mistakes and, quite surprisingly, some of my own. I
wish I had read this book sooner.

→ Marcus Adams
Senior Software Engineer
Bill has written an engaging, useful, important, and unique book.
Software developers will certainly benefit from reading the
antipatterns and solutions described here. I immediately applied
techniques from this book and improved my applications. Fantastic
work!

→ Frederic Daoud
Author of Stripes: ...And Java Web Development Is Fun Again
and Getting Started with Apache Click
SQL Antipatterns is a must-read for software developers, who will
frequently encounter the database design choices presented in this
book. It helps development teams to understand the consequences
of their database designs and to make the best decisions possible
based on requirements, expectations, measurements, and reality.

→ Darby Felton
Cofounder, DevBots Software Development
I really like how Bill has approached this book; it shows his unique
style and sense of humor. Those things are really important when
discussing potentially dry topics. Bill has succeeded in making the
teachings accessible for developers in a good descriptive form, as
well as being easy to reference later. In short, this is an excellent
new resource for your pragmatic bookshelf!
→ Arjen Lentz
Executive Director of Open Query (http://openquery.com);
Coauthor of High Performance MySQL, Second Edition
This book is obviously the product of many years of practical
experience with SQL databases. Each topic is covered in great depth,
and the attention to detail in the book was beyond my expectations.
Although it’s not a beginner’s book, any developer with a reasonable
amount of SQL experience should find it to be a valuable reference
and would be hard-pressed not to learn something new.

→ Mike Naberezny
Partner at Maintainable Software; Coauthor of Rails for PHP
Developers
This is an excellent book for the software engineer who knows basic
SQL but finds herself needing to design SQL databases for projects
that go a little beyond the basics.

→ Liz Neely
Senior Database Programmer
Karwin’s book is full of good and practical advice, and it was
published at the right time. While many people are focusing on the
new and seemingly fancy stuff, professionals now have the chance
and the perfect book to sharpen their SQL knowledge.

→ Maik Schmidt
Author of Enterprise Recipes with Ruby and Rails and Enterprise
Integration with Ruby
Bill has captured the essence of a slew of traps that we’ve probably
all dug for ourselves at one point or another when working with SQL
— without even realizing we’re in trouble. Bill’s antipatterns range
from “I can’t believe I did that (again!)” hindsight gotchas to tricky
scenarios where the best solution may run counter to the SQL
dogma you grew up with. A good read for SQL diehards, novices,
and everyone in between.

→ Danny Thorpe
Microsoft Principal Engineer; Author of Delphi Component
Design
Chapter 1

Introduction
An expert is a person who has made all the
mistakes that can be made in a very narrow field.

Niels Bohr

I turned down my first SQL job.

Shortly after I finished my college degree in computer and

information science at the University of California, I was approached
by a manager who worked at the university and knew me through
campus activities. He had his own software startup company on the
side that was developing a database management system portable
between various UNIX platforms using shell scripts and related tools
such as awk (at this time, modern dynamic languages like Ruby,
Python, PHP, and even Perl weren’t popular yet). The manager
approached me because he needed a programmer to write the code
to recognize and execute a limited version of the SQL language.

He said, “I don’t need to support the full language—that would be

too much work. I need only one SQL statement: SELECT.”

I hadn’t been taught SQL in school. Databases weren’t as ubiquitous

as they are today, and open source brands like MySQL and
PostgreSQL didn’t exist yet. But I had developed complete
applications in shell, and I knew something about parsers, having
done projects in classes like compiler design and computational
linguistics. So, I thought about taking the job. How hard could it be
to parse a single statement of a specialized language like SQL?

I found a reference for SQL and noticed immediately that this was a
different sort of language from those that support statements like if
and while, variable assignments and expressions, and perhaps
functions. To call SELECT only one statement in that language is like
calling an engine only one part of an automobile. Both sentences are
literally true, but they certainly belie the complexity and depth of
their subjects. To support execution of that single SQL statement, I
realized I would have to develop all the code for a fully functional
relational database management system and query engine.

I declined this opportunity to code an SQL parser and RDBMS engine

in shell script. The manager underrepresented the scope of his
project, perhaps because he didn’t understand what an RDBMS
does.

My early experience with SQL seems to be a common one for

software developers, even those who have a college degree in
computer science. Most people are self-taught in SQL, learning it out
of self-defense when they find themselves working on a project that
requires it, instead of studying it explicitly as they would most
programming languages. Regardless of whether the person is a
hobbyist or a professional programmer or an accomplished
researcher with a PhD, SQL seems to be a software skill that
programmers learn without training.

Once I learned something about SQL, I was surprised how different

it is from procedural programming languages such as C, Pascal, and
shell, or object-oriented languages like C++, Java, Ruby, or Python.
SQL is a declarative programming language like LISP, Haskell, or
XSLT. SQL uses sets as a fundamental data structure, while object-
Another Random Scribd Document
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mention that it is the flowers that form one of the principal features
in making up the display at the Carnival. We were a fortnight too
late to witness this display, but in Mentone we saw the Battle of
Flowers, a small affair compared with that of Nice, but still
characteristic. Along the streets was a profuse display of bunting,
lining the parapets with flags on Venetian masts, a gaily decorated
grand stand or tribune on each side of the road, filled with ladies
and children, each provided with a large basket or hamper of
flowers. At two o’clock the mayor opens the fair, or rather two or
three gendarmes come galloping along followed by the mayor, the
band strikes up and the battle commences; ladies, gentlemen, and
children dressed in fancy costumes; carriages dressed even to the
spokes of the wheels; coachmen decorated even to their whips;
some with masks and trunk hose; boys on donkeys; gay carriages
with fashionable residents; and visitors following each other in rapid
succession; the spectators defending and the occupants of the
chariots attacking, not forgetting to give their particular friend a bob
in the eye with a bunch as they sweep past. The battle lasted about
two hours, and the roadway was covered with flowers by the time
they had exhausted their supply. We were told some of the carriages
cost £50 and even £100 to decorate and supply with flowers as
ammunition.
Monte Carlo and Monaco are only three and four miles from
Mentone, a lovely walk along the coast. Monaco is the old town, built
on a peninsular rock raised some hundreds of feet above the sea,
where Prince Grimaldi has his palace, and a curious little kingdom it
is; he can see it all from his bed-room window. He lives in state, and
has an army of eight. The sergeant was busy drilling his last recruit
when we were there. There are only two streets in this little town,
and they are very narrow. There is not room to build another house,
but they have built on the table land adjoining, and this is what is
called Monte Carlo, one of the most beautiful spots in the world. I
can never forget the two days we were here, because they were
faultless days, the sky was blue and so was the Mediterranean, as
blue as ever I had seen it painted. A gentle slope of high table land
with the Maratime Alps for a back ground. Portions of the
approaches or lower parts of the mountains are covered with
sombre-looking olive groves, while the lower ground, sloping down
to the sea, is laid out as ornamental gardens–rare specimens of
shrubbery of distant lands, semi-tropical plants, such as palm and
aloes, evergreen shady bowers, fountains and cascades. The walks
and borders are so clean and perfect that you could not find a scrap
of paper or a loose pebble. The name of Monte Carlo, in my mind,
was associated with sharpers, cut throats, and other pests such as
we see in England associated with the turf, where you would require
to look after the safety of your pocket, but in this respect we were
quite mistaken, every thing is quiet and orderly there–there is a
gendarme at every point. The Grand Casino is a magnificent
building, situated in the Gardens. Strangers or visitors are only
admitted, i.e., no inhabitants of the town or neighbourhood. All the
visitor has to do is to enter his or her name in a book, and state the
hotel where he or she is staying. Everywhere is free, no fees are
expected. There is a fine reading-room, plentifully supplied with
newspapers and periodicals from all nations. There is a large crush
room or promenade, where you may enjoy the weed. Leading from
this is a very gorgeous concert room–a constant orchestra of over
100 musicians are always kept; performances of high-class music are
given twice a day. The other–a greater portion of the buildings–is
where the tables are, eight in number. The gaming business
commences at eleven in the morning and finishes at eleven at night.
The tables are presided over by croupiers, who pay and receive the
money and spin the wheel of fortune or deal the cards. The players
are standing or seated round the table; everybody is quiet, all the
noise you hear is the declaring of the winning number and the
clinking of the money as it is raked in or shovelled out. The players
consist of all classes, young and old of all nations, from gay and
licentious to the blue stocking of the dorcas meeting–a large
proportion are women–staking from 5 francs to 1000 francs and
more. The business is profitable to the proprietors of the tables,
keeps Prince Grimaldi a prince, and pays all the taxes in the town.
The principal object of our journey to the “Sunny South” was
health, to be best acquired by rest and sea breezes. It was now time
to take ship.
I had not an opportunity of shooting any brigands while in Italy,
because at Vintemille, they took charge of a very nice six-shooter
lent me by my friend, Jupiter. It happened just on the Italian frontier.
If you wish to carry a pistol it must be a foot long, and you must
carry it in a belt around the waist. My companion was wrath to see
these friendly Italians rudely destroying some choice plants and
roots he had so carefully collected at Mentone, saying, “not possibul,
coller ha,” being afraid of having cholera thus imported into Italy.
From Genoa we took berths by the Florio Rubittino steamer “Asia.”
Having twelve hours to wait at Leghorn we landed and went to Pisa
to see the leaning tower, the cathedral, and baptistry–a quiet, clean
old town, its greatness is recorded in ancient history. The only
noticeable feature about Leghorn is its fine harbour.
Two more days’ delightful sailing along the coast, passing the
small barren island of Elba, where the first Napoleon was banished
to for a time. Nearing the bay of Naples, the first land sighted is the
island of Ischia, where 2000 people lost their lives in 1883 by an
earthquake. It was evening when we sighted Vesuvius, about
twenty-five miles away, a red glare of fire issuing from its summit. As
we entered the bay, Naples looked as if it was illuminated, the rows
of gas lights so regular in line above each other; the night was fine
and clear, and the scene enchanting. We were too late that night to
be cleared by the Customs, so slept on board. Early in the morning
we were awakened by the cries of human voices belonging to the
Neapolitan boatmen waiting for their prey. Before breakfast we went
on deck to have a morning view of the bay of Naples. It was fine,
the sun was up. The bay looks like an inland sea of twenty miles in
width. The islands of Capri and Ischia stand at the opening of the
bay, and so close up the view to the open sea. The bold outline of
the mountains, the towns and villages can be seen here and there
on some elevated spot, the atmosphere being so fine, and the sea
glistening placid and clear. To the south of the bay stands Vesuvius,
steaming and smoking, throwing up its vapours to the sky, by night
a bright red glare; at the crown of the bay stands the far-famed
Naples, with its many-tinted houses piled one above another up the
hill that skirts the bay, crowned by the colossal castle of Elmo. The
curve of the bay is broken in the centre by a small mole, on which
stands the ruined-looking castle Dell Ova and the Palace Royal, and
further north, on the rising ground stands modern Naples, laid out
with fine hotels, villas, and gardens.
We left the steamer here to take another when we wished to
proceed further South. Here, as in all the Mediterranean ports, we
were anchored in the bay; hundreds of boats were clustered around
our steamer, and a ragged, noisy lot they were. We landed, were
searched and counter searched before we were clear, and able to
drive to our hotel. Naples is a place we have heard much of, writers
have painted it in words and artists in oil–they say, “see Naples and
then die.” If you happened to be a nervous man or troubled with
heart disease, you would soon die. I have been in Scotland Road
Market on Saturday night, I have been on London Bridge, the
greatest thoroughfare in the world, but in the Toledo, the Strada del
Mola, and the Strada del Piliera, you will hear noises far greater in
volume and variety than in London. I think it must be the language
that helps them on, every word appears to end with a ee, oo, ii;
they whistle, they shout, rush and jostle you about, and as the
streets are narrow you have to look after yourself or be run over.
The sense of smell will have a feast, with a few new specimens
which permeate the air on every side; outdoor cooking
arrangements, vegetables, and other mystic messes simmering and
spluttering in fat or oil. Their sanitary arrangements are worse than
in Paris, and their sense of decency is less shameless.
Naples like Genoa, in the old portion of the town, is so closely
huddled together, and the streets are so steep and narrow, that no
vehicles can pass up. They are generally so littered up with baskets
and hampers that foot passengers have a difficulty in threading their
way. The shoemaker brings his bench outside, and plys his trade in
the open street; the tailor with his clumsy-looking sewing machine,
and his dirty-looking apprentice, are likewise busy on the parapet.
The houses are eight or nine stories high with balconies, and
washing on each storey. On a bright day the streets look dark
because no sun can penetrate them, and the sky is hidden by the
various projecting obstructions. If you look into a shop window,
some miserable-looking fellow will ask you to go in and purchase. If
you do so he will ask for commission from the buyer, you may be
sure he will try and do his best with the seller. If you go into a shop
and price a certain article, they fix a price they never expect to get;
you say it is too dear, they immediately ask, How much will you
give? and if needs be will take one-half or one-third what was first
asked. There is no very marked difference between a Neapolitan and
an Englishman. They appear to be of the same family as our English
gipsy, dusky, with dark hair and eyes. Their dress, hat, and coat are
much the same as our fashion, but still there is a difference; perhaps
the pockets are fixed horizontally instead of perpendicular, or the
buttons are different; their boots are more namby-pamby, in contrast
with those the writer wore–there must be something. We were
marked at once as Englishmen. The cabman would get his eye upon
us, chase us about, back his horse across our path, and try and
cajole us into his car; once in, he would be sure to try and take you
to some place four times the distance you wished to go.
The Italians are true lovers of art, and sometimes carry it to a
ridiculous degree. It bespeaks a man’s taste if he has the goddess of
dancing or music painted on his house, but to see the same figures
on a stone cart, or bouquets of flowers on a manure cart, we
certainly think too, too æsthetic.
One of the many things that struck me in the streets of Naples
were the vehicles, and more especially the harness. The horses draw
from the breast, and therefore wear no collar; the harness, which is
very ornamental in shape, is covered with brass, tassels, &c. They
don’t groom their horses and mules, but clean their brass very
carefully. They yoke a horse and donkey together, a donkey and an
ox, a donkey and mule, or three donkeys and a mule. One day I
observed a horse, an ox, and a donkey drawing a cart of stones, all
with bells clanging.
In some few things they are in advance of us, for instance, we
don’t have a cow driven to our door, and see our quart of milk
drawn, as we did in the Via Roma, the Regent Street of Naples. You
may have goat’s milk if you like that better.
The outskirts of Naples are pretty undulating, you can never for
long lose sight of the bay or Vesuvius. By a drive of three or four
miles to the west, along the bay, you get a fairly good view of
Naples, embracing Pompeii and Herculaneum nestling insecurely at
the foot of Vesuvius, but not equal to the one as you enter the bay.
We were told the churches were not so gorgeous and rich as
those of Genoa, Pisa, or Rome, so we did not visit them. The only
public building of great interest is the Museum of Ancient Sculpture
and Paintings; it is large and well appointed, and contains more than
any other public building in Italy. I never was an enthusiast of
sculpture until now, but it was quite plain to see that the magnificent
ideas arose from the old heathen worship. The gods as heroes of
strength; the Farnese Hercules slaying the bull; the Gladiators
achieving wonderful feats of their scientific skill; Bacchus at his
feasts; Adonis wooing Venus; Venus in her various graceful
attitudes; Bacchus in his youthful revelry; Silenus, the fat jolly old
man; the Dancing Graces, the Apollos, the Jupiters, the colossal
figures of horses and lions, hundreds of Roman senators, statues in
white marble draped in black or coloured marble; statues buried for
a thousand years, some sadly mutilated and placed in position;
ancient inscriptions, Mosaic work of wonderful effect, galleries of
pictures of immense canvas, huge libraries, rooms full of papyri,
coins, antique jewellery, bronzes, crystals, and cameos. We spent
some time in inspecting these, but we should have had a week, or
even a month.
POMPEII.

HE base of Mount Vesuvius is about four miles from

Naples. In going to Pompeii you skirt the coast, having
the burning mountain on the left. Pompeii lies four miles
further on the margin of the bay, so that if another great
eruption was to take place, with an east wind, Naples
might stand in the same danger as Pompeii; still they build houses
and villages and grow grapes up the mountain side. One village has
been destroyed no less than eight times. We did not go to see the
crater, the day we had to spare was not bright and clear, and the
fatigue more than two invalids cared to undertake. But we went to
Pompeii. Within a few minutes from leaving the railway station you
reach a kind of hotel and lodge, buy permission tickets, and take a
guide. You enter by an arched gateway, something like the ancient
gates of Chester. The streets are about as broad and steep as
Watergate. Pompeii is about equal in area to the ancient City of
Chester. As you enter the gates you can see the deep ruts of the two
chariot wheels worn fully six inches into the solid blocks of stone
pavement. Their streets, which are straight and narrow, strike each
other at right angles, with a narrow parapet on each side. The
houses are of one storey, externally very plain–no projections or
balconies, but a simple doorway. You have to cross the threshold of
the houses to peer into the mode of life of these Pompeians, who
were suddenly swept out of existence on the 29th November, A.D. 79.
Bulwer Lytton has written a work on the supposed customs and
habits of these people. It would take a book to describe your
reflections on this “City of the Dead.” It has not the appearance of a
city destroyed by fire; all that has disappeared are the roofs, the
doors, the people, and the furniture. The walls and plaster for the
most part are perfect, the fountains and statues are there, the
Mosaic floors are bright and clean, and the fresco painting as bright
as when it was done. It seems strange that none of the present
habitations of the Italians resemble those of the ancients, so vastly
different to the tall stuccoed houses of Naples–one storey houses
with an entrance hall, and an open courtyard with large and small
chambers entering from a piazza that skirted the buildings. Some of
the richer houses have an inner courtyard with a garden in the
centre, and different offices leading from it; while others have
engraved on stone the name of the owner. The Forum, or principal
open square, seems to have suffered most; broken pillars and
Corinthian columns are scattered about the halls of justice and the
judge’s vacant seat; the dungeon where two prisoners, fettered,
were discovered a few years ago in a state of petrifaction–they had
been left to their fate on that fearful night. There are many public
buildings around the Forum, and the Latin tablets referring to the
business carried on in them; the steps that time and bustle and
business had worn; the Pagan temples with their tables of sacrifice,
are still to be seen. Then there are the theatres–the day theatre
open to the sky, and the night theatre covered. The tickets of
admission were rather peculiar, for instance, the musicians’ had a
lyre, those for the upper galleries a pigeon, and free tickets a skull–
all were carved ivory tokens. At the outskirts of the town is the
amphitheatre, which held 30,000 people, where senators used to
harangue their constituents and gladiators fought their deadly fights,
where prisoners were brought from their cells to fight with and to be
torn to pieces by hungry wild beasts. They have the street of
Fortune and the street of Merchants. You see the wine shop
displaying its sign, an earthenware jar, and inside you see the same
seats, the same wine jars, empty and desolate. The habitués are not
there discussing the topics of the day or revelling with the fulness of
the wine cup; they are gone eighteen centuries ago. There is the
apothecary’s shop with its sign–the twisted serpent, and bakeries
with deep brick ovens. In some respects fashions have not altered
much, in a baker’s oven were found black charred loaves with the
baker’s name stamped on them, the same squat shape as you see
carried about the streets of Naples to-day, and known in England as
cottage loaves; from the same oven they shew you a young sucking
pig, petrified to stone, that was there cooking for some one’s supper,
in their hurry and confusion they left this dainty morsel behind.
When a workman was one day using a pick he struck something
hollow, it was found when examined to be in shape like a human
body. Several of these hollow shells were afterwards exhumed, for
safety and preservation they were filled with liquid plaster of paris.
The fine ashes and the moisture of the body together formed this
human shell a man in the act of running, with a key in one hand and
some money in another. There is a beautifully formed girl of
seventeen, her face turned a little on one side, with sweet innocent
features clearly defined, with her hair dressed with girlish coquetry;
a boy of twelve has fallen on his face, and there he lay. There was
the body of a dog found with a collar round its neck in the vestibule
of a house; the poor dog must have died hard, it has rolled over in
its agony, and lies on its back with its mouth open, its limbs violently
contorted, and the whole frame twisted and wrenched in a manner
to denote severe pain. There was a girl found, with a golden clasp
brooch bearing the name of Julia Diamede, said to be the daughter
of one of the rich men of the city, whose house gives an idea of his
wealth from its costly fittings discovered. These wonderful relics are
shewn you in a small museum erected in Pompeii. You see the baths
with the niches and seats for undressing, with nails to hang up their
clothes; you are shewn the so-called Turkish bath, but what was
really the ancient Roman bath, with its small stone seats upon which
to sit while waiting for the hot air to induce perspiration.
There is abundance of proof that the people of Pompeii were
steeped in degradation and vice, for the frescos and inscriptions
were such that they have been moved from the view of women and
children.
In the Museum Nationale, Naples, they have a Pompeii section; it
contains almost everything you would find in a broker’s shop–pots,
pans, fish hooks, money chests, candelabras, buckets, handsome
cloak clasps (same as lately worn, and now produced in Birmingham
by the gross), cooking stoves, braziers, charred walnuts, barley,
olives with the drop of oil caused by the heat to stand out, a glass
bottle of oil, eggs, onions, dates, pears, tortoises, corks, portion of a
woman’s dress finely woven like merino, hinges, locks, taps, a
circulating hot-water boiler with brass tap, a cooking apparatus
similar to the French Bain Marie pan of the present day, leaden
pipes, scales and weights, the metal pen supposed to have been a
modern English invention, the safety pin, which is now so largely
made in Birmingham for use in the nursery; a banker’s paper,
receipts for money, a mass of copy in papyrus, legends, treaties,
forceps, lances, probes, speculum and different doctor’s instruments,
medicine phials, dice, and hundreds of articles supposed to be newly
invented, and sold nowadays as novelties. The cameos and intaglios
are of such rich and exquisite work that our modern lapidaries
cannot equal them.
ROME.

S you roll into the big railway station, and hear the
sonorous voice of the railway porter pronounce Roma,
there is an inward feeling of reverence and pride that
you have reached Rome–“The Eternal City.” It was late
in the evening when we arrived, and so we took up our quarters at
the Hotel Continental, a large and modern hotel, situated on a high
part of the town–one of the seven hills–and where malaria is not
likely to find its way.
There is a Mr. Forbes resident in Rome, who conducts and lectures
to parties on the spot, at points of interest; he takes a week to do
the city.
As we had only two or three days to stay we had a guide of our
own. When I bought a pair of easy boots for walking, my companion
enquired what commission he would get; this gave him great
offence, he said he was a gentleman, a rich man–proud men are
these Romans. In driving through the streets of Rome, there
appears to be nothing of a very remarkable character. You require to
know its brilliant history, and the deeds of its patriots and rulers You
may lazily climb up the hill leading to the Forum, but if you are
interrupted and told that on this spot Cæsar was murdered, or on
that spot his friend Anthony delivered his oration, you are
impressed. You require to live a few days in Rome to get through the
preface of the story of its eventful history. This history should be
divided into three eras–Ancient Rome, the time of its supreme
greatness; Old Rome, or the middle ages and the supremacy of the
Popes; and New Rome, since the entry of Garibaldi. I intend to say
little about this wonderful place; I am unable to do so, as it is too
classical, I will only give just a rough and crude idea of what
attracted my attention.
There is not a great deal of Ancient Rome left––the old buildings
appear to have been knocked down, levelled up, and new and mean
streets built over the top. In the dark ages they seem to have had
no regard to the grandeur of Ancient Rome, they buried up the
massive columns and statuary, and built up the present New Rome
over them, so that many of the places laid bare are ten or twelve
feet below the present street level, especially in the neighbourhood
of the Forum of Trajan and the Pantheon, and whenever they are re-
building in this part of the city they come across some old relic or
other. We visited the Roman Forum, the Triumphal Arch of Titus, the
Arch of Constantine, the remains of the great Colosseum that once
seated 90,000 Romans, and the Temple of Castor and Pollux. We
crossed the Tiber by Adrian’s Bridge, built A.D. 136, to the Castle of
St. Angelo, now so called, but really the Tomb of Trajan. The Tiber is
a muddy, sleepy-looking river, with about the same volume of water
as the Dee, at Chester, or scarcely as much.
The Pantheon, once a Pagan temple but now a church, is the only
ancient building left in a state fit for use; its walls are of brick twenty
feet thick, with an opening in centre of dome, as the only means of
lighting the interior. It contains the tomb of the late King Victor
Emmanuel, and other memorials, including one to Canova, the
sculptor, and is used also as a chapel. All the other remains are in a
dismantled, ruined state, every thing that was costly has
disappeared.
The Colosseum for centuries was used as a stone quarry. When
foundation and other stones were wanted for a new church they
were there ready for the builder; and in like manner the columns
and slabs of marble that had been brought from Greece and many
parts of the earth, for the public buildings, are now in St. Peter’s, St.
Paul’s, St. John’s, and the other churches in Rome. I cannot attempt
to describe St. Peter’s, except that it is considered the largest,
grandest, and most costly building in the world–taking twenty million
francs to pay for it–and will hold 45,000 people. It took 300 years to
complete, and although finished 300 years ago, it looks as bright
and clean as if it had been perpetually under a glass shade and
sponged down every morning. Every proportion about it is gigantic–
there is nothing small or paltry that would assist you in realising its
immensity. You see a figure inside the church, it looks life size, but
go up to it and you will find it twenty or thirty feet high.
St. Peter’s contains no oil paintings, as in most churches. The
Ascension, by Raphael, and all the other pictures of like size are of
Mosaic, prepared and executed in the Vatican; each picture is made
up of thirteen millions of small fragments of tinted Mosaics, and it
takes an artist thirty years to complete one. The ashes of St. Peter
are, or are said to be, here, under a bronze canopy, beneath the
centre of the great dome–this canopy is 96 feet high, and is of solid
bronze, taken from the Pantheon 270 years ago–the Cross of Christ,
from Calvary; the handkerchief with the print of His face still visible;
the spear the Roman soldier pierced His side with. This soldier, we
were told, happened to have a blind eye, on which a drop of blood
fell from the point of the spear, and instantly restored that orb. He
was made a saint, and his effigy now stands fifty feet high under the
great dome. We listened with wonder and amazement and tried to
believe. It was Saturday, and the church was nearly empty,
excepting a few hundreds of priests, and a beggar-like looking
woman with her shoeless, ragged children; she dragged these
children through this pile of grandeur with open mouths and eyes,
perhaps wondering if heaven could be grander than this.
Rome is built on seven hills–the Pincian Quirinale, the Capitol, and
Mount Palatine. From the Pincian Hill–the Hill of Gardens–you get
the best view of the Old City, the Corsa, and the River. From Mount
Palatine you get the best view of the Ruins of Ancient Rome, the
Forum, the Colosseum, the different Temples and Arches, the
Capitol, while, turning your face, the view is very fine–the Campana
stretching twenty miles crossed by the Appian way, and the great
aqueducts, now partially broken down, that carried the waters from
the distant mountains of Albany, twenty-five miles away; across the
plain are mounds of stone, very faint traces of the days of Titus,
when Rome is supposed to have had a population of three-and-a-
half millions, while a few hundred years later it had scarcely twenty
thousand. The fountains are, perhaps, one of the wonders of the
city. Hundreds of thousands gallons of water gush out in the gardens
of Mount Palatine, it comes out again at the Capitol, again at the
Quirinale, and again in a lower part of the city. There is perhaps no
city in the world with such an abundant water supply, so beautifully
dispersed by magnificent fountains. We saw King Humbert, on his
birthday, driving out in the Park of the Villa Borghese; we saw the
Via Nationale of New Rome, illuminated in Parisian style. We strolled
down the Corsa, with its well-stocked shops. In the Café de Roma
you will get a mid-day meal equal to any in Europe if you like Italian
cooking. The Corsa is a sort of Piccadilly and Regent Street mixed,
and it contains the best shops and mansions. The Piazza de Spragna
is the artists’ quarters–it is a sort of Bond Street. Shop after shop
with works of art, pictures, Mosaics, sculpture, photographs; here it
is you see the Roman living models flitting about–the good-looking
woman with her troop of roguish-looking children; the old man; the
old woman; the dark eyes of the young girl of Roman type of beauty,
dressed in the picturesque and highly-coloured garb of the
surrounding country districts, are all to be seen in this centre.
We had to leave Rome before we had seen a tenth of the pictures,
and statues, and bronzes. We began to like the place, and could
have done with a week here, but the steamer “Candia,” for Malta,
sailed on Tuesday, so we bid good bye to Rome, and passed another
night in that villainous Naples. Surely this is one of the wickedest
places on earth. We speak of England, its drunkenness, and the
wretchedness caused by drink, but go there and see the
degradation; they don’t drink, but the poor wretches will gamble
with their last franc. The banco lotto you see in a prominent part of
every street, as you do in Rome, where the offices are open for the
sale of tickets, even on Sundays. The Government realise fourteen
millions per annum from these lotteries. The obscenities and vice
that meet you at every street corner are so shocking that it would
make an Englishman shudder with disgust.
One curiosity you see in Naples I was almost forgetting, that is the
money changers. These relics of antiquity are at the corners of the
streets, seated in a wooden box, with piles of copper and other
coins, plying their trade. Under the portico of the Theatre Carlo
another antique relic still exists. With skull cap and silver spectacles,
the letter writer with his table, pens, ink, and paper, is always there,
and appears to enjoy a good practice writing business as well as love
letters for his customers. We were told that not more than one-third
of the Italians can read or write.
I have said unkind words about Naples, and she deserves them,
but being once more in the bay she looked most enchanting. It was
a fine clear evening when we steamed out of the bay, and took our
last view of Vesuvius as we rounded the point into the open sea.
Early next morning we found Stromboli busy throwing up her dense
smoke. We had two pleasant days in the Straits of Messina, calling
at Messina, in the Island of Sicily, thence to Reggio, almost the
extreme southerly point of Italy, returning to Messina, thence to
Catania and Syracuse. In driving through the town of Catania we
were struck with the peculiarity of its stuccoed buildings, with Mount
Etna standing boldly out as a good background, sending forth its
volumes of smoke and steam, yet capped with snow and wreathed
in clouds. Here we saw the fine monument erected to Bellini, the
composer, Catania being his birthplace; around the pedestal are four
life-sized figures in white marble, being principal characters from
some of his operas. The harness of the horses is very gay, being one
mass of coloured and gold or brass brocade, with a very peculiar
collar covered completely with polished brass and bells. The carts
are mostly painted yellow, the panels decorated with brilliant
landscapes of the locality. You see scores of these carts coming
down to the harbour from Mount Etna laden with the yellow sulphur
of commerce, the whole presenting a scene unique and pleasing. We
drove through the principal streets to look at the people and the
place, and were stared and jabbered at, as we supposed, as though
we were barbarians. We visited the gardens which were beautifully
laid out and full of flowers, returning thence to our steamer after the
usual wrangle with the cabby, who, like his London brother, asks for
more than he is entitled to, but, thanks to the offices of a Maltese
gentleman who was with us, he did not get more than he deserved,
at least in hard cash if he did in hard words. Another twenty-four
hours brought us up to the Mole in the Bay of Valetta, in Malta.
Although 2,000 miles away from home, we felt as if we were in
England, especially when we first saw the familiar red coats with
white Indian helmets, and the fife and drum struck up “The Girl I left
Behind me.” I had almost forgotten this was not the first time we
came across the British uniform, for at Syracuse some enterprising
outfitter had purchased the scarlet shell jackets of the British cavalry,
which were now on the backs of the howling Syracusian boatmen,
minus the buttons.
We stayed three days in Malta, made a tour of inspection round
the fortifications, had a chat with the British soldier, sounded him as
to his politics and the present Government, and found him right. We
visited the Dried Monks, at the Monastery of the Capuchins. We
were taken down into the basement, where, along the walls of the
corridors, we saw rows of monks, each in his particular niche. One
had been there nearly 800 years, and did not seem to object,
indeed, he had lost some of “his cheek.” These monks, when a
brother dies, bury him for twelve months without a coffin, and then
dis-inter him and bring him to his particular stand-point before
allotted, and label as brother Anselmo or whatever name he bore
when alive. Our guide pointed out the particular niche reserved for
himself. The draught blowing along the corridor, and not being
anxious to take into our open mouths of wonder any dried monk, we
retraced our footsteps and ascended to scenes brighter and more
salubrious.
The races by Arab horses mounted by British officers were very
good. Twenty-four horses started, and all came in neck and neck to
the winning post; they also rode what is called an omnibus race, two
riders on one horse; also the wardrobe race, each rider putting on
his braces, waistcoat, and jacket as he rode, before reaching the
winning post. The tent pegging and lemon slicing was quite new to
us.
The P. and O. boats from Australia, calling at Malta, are the best
service, so we took our berths to Gibraltar, a passage of four days.
The “Indus” carried about one hundred cabin passengers, principally
colonists. We were never out of sight of land the whole distance,
first skirting the African Coast off Tunis, then Algiers, Fez, and
Morocco, all picturesque and interesting. A lady remarked they had
been coasting Africa for a fortnight, at 12½ knots, and yet had three
days more to do, which gives a very faint idea of what a Continent
we were passing. We passed a whale spouting in these seas. Before
nearing Gibraltar the course directed to the Spanish Coast, and
during this portion of the voyage we had the boldest coast we had
ever seen.
Gibraltar is only a rock of about 1,200 feet, but it is more
picturesque than Malta. It is not very unlike the Great Ormes Head
from some points of view, but looks bolder. The base of the hill is
studded with pretty villas, these are occupied mostly by English
Officers and their families. The space for the town is very small; the
markets and houses are all within the fortifications. There are about
4,000 Spanish allowed to live here on sufferance, but are liable to be
ejected at a moment’s notice.
The principal feature of Gibraltar is its natural fortifications. The
Rock is pierced with two tunnels, called the Upper and Lower
Gallery. From these tunnels cannon are fixed at all points of defence.
A sergeant told us that it would take all the powers of Europe
combined to take Gibraltar.
We stayed here two days, and then shipped on the Cunard S.S.
“Morocco.” We had a fair passage–about two nights and two-and-a-
half days in the Bay of Biscay, with a head wind N.E., doing five
knots per hour. I had often wished to see the rollers of the Bay, and
I saw them. They were so grand that they took away the appetite I
should have had for my dinner. It was on the Thursday morning
preceding Good Friday that we rounded Holyhead.
We had not had any English news for a fortnight, because it takes
six days to go to Gibraltar and six back. We cleared the Bar and
steamed into the Alexandra Dock, after being away for six weeks
and three days, and, as my companion had carefully calculated,
covered over 5,000 miles.
E. GRIFFITH AND SON, PRINTERS, CAXTON WORKS, BIRKENHEAD.
Transcriber’s Notes:
Missing or obscured punctuation was corrected.
Typographical errors were silently corrected.
Inconsistent spelling and hyphenation were
made consistent only when a predominant
form was found in this book.
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