"Did these bones cost no more the breeding, but to play at loggats with them? Mine ache to think on't."
"Did these bones cost no more the breeding, but to play at loggats with them? Mine ache to think on't."
The colonnades are paved with marble, and are scrupulously clean. Some have exquisite monuments and statuary, the figures most eloquently expressive of tender feelings of both joy and sorrow. The draperies and lacework are wonderfully real. One we thought especially beautiful. The bereaved mourners are reluctant to part with their beloved relative and endeavour to detain him, but an angel gently leads him away; and he, though expressing love and sympathy for his friends, gladly follows his winged guide to a happier world above. Another portrays a little girl, tripping joyfully out from the tomb, over roses and other blossoming flowers. There are hundreds of others, full of deep pathos, works of Italy's greatest sculptors.
One tomb is said to have cost some £5000. The patriot Mazzini is buried here. At the highest point of the cemetery is a rotunda chapel, with very fine statuary of Moses and the prophets, Adam and Eve, and many other subjects.
There is an echo in this chapel that is wonderfully and unusually clear and distinct.
The shops at Genoa are small but handsomely furnished. The Genoese jewellery is very beautiful, particularly the gold and silver filagree work. We were surprised to learn that the gold so-called is only silver twice gilt.
The postal arrangements here are very convenient. By leaving your address at the poste-restante, you have all your letters sent to you at the hotel without delay. There is a nice sheltered colonnade, a kind of Burlington Arcade, running half-way up at the back of the Via Roma, where the Hotel Isotta is situated, and close to the post-office; but on a rainy day, the noise made by those talking and promenading there is somewhat of a nuisance to visitors in the hotel. A very favourite promenade—indeed, the best in Genoa—is that before mentioned, in front of the harbour, but only when shaded from the heat of the sun, as the glare of its rays on the white marble is scarcely to be borne. Here in the evenings, when fine, the ladies of Genoa are seen to advantage, with their charming dress at once so elegant, modest, and becoming. English women might well take a few hints from its simplicity. These ladies are mostly handsome, and their movements are exceedingly graceful.
Here and there among the houses you sometimes see between two windows a painting simulating a third window half open, with perhaps a lady looking out into the street below, and this is so natural, that for the moment you fancy it is real. The houses are mostly six stories high, and the shops and lowerapartments are consequently extremely gloomy. The upper rooms are the most suitable to dwell in, but visitors frequently find it exceedingly fatiguing to toil up and down the stairs; and some of the stone-paved passages, miscalled streets, are almost perpendicular. Altogether, one needs extraordinary strength in this city of precipices. It is thus very unsuitable to invalids, apart from its variable climate. It is subject to very rapid changes of temperature, warm winds from the south alternating constantly with dry cold winds from the north, which render it very trying to delicate people.
The weather was so very cold during our visit, that, despite the great interest with which Genoa inspired us, we were glad to leave it for Pisa, which we understood would be milder. We had intended going hence to Milan, Florence, and Venice, but the cold warned us not to go further north; and we therefore altered our plans, and left Genoa on the 9th of January for Pisa,en routefor Rome.
Pisa—Hotel Victoria—Pisan weather—The poet Shelley—Historic Pisa—Lung 'Arno—San Stefano di Canalia—Cathedral—Baptistery—Leaning Tower—Campo Santo—The divine angels—The great chain of Pisa—Leghorn—Smollett's grave—Poste-restante—A sweet thing in Beggars—Ugolino's Tower—Departure for Rome.
Pisa—Hotel Victoria—Pisan weather—The poet Shelley—Historic Pisa—Lung 'Arno—San Stefano di Canalia—Cathedral—Baptistery—Leaning Tower—Campo Santo—The divine angels—The great chain of Pisa—Leghorn—Smollett's grave—Poste-restante—A sweet thing in Beggars—Ugolino's Tower—Departure for Rome.
We arrived at Pisa towards evening, and got into comfortable quarters at the Hotel Victoria, a quiet house, reminding us of the Swiss hotels in its style of entertainment. We soon had a nice little dinner set before us, and were hungry enough to do justice to it.
The next morning we found to our great disgust that it rained heavily. Our hotel was close to the river Arno, the river of Dante and Petrarch. It looked sandy and muddy as it flowed rapidly by. There were several gondola-like barges being towed by ropes on the other side, and Shelley's lines occurred to my memory, more in association of the poet with the place, than from the poetical look of the river itself—
"Within the surface of the fleeting riverThe wrinkled image of the city layImmovably unquiet, and for everIt trembles, but never fades away."
"Within the surface of the fleeting riverThe wrinkled image of the city layImmovably unquiet, and for everIt trembles, but never fades away."
It is impossible to visit Pisa without recallingtouching memories of the unfortunate and gifted poet who passed the last few years of his stormy life here, and only left it in the summer of 1823 for the Casa Magni, on the wild sea coast between Lerici and San Terenzio. It was from here that theDon Juanset out on its fatal trip to Leghorn one July morning—never to return.
Pisa is another very ancient city. It was founded about six centuriesB.C., and was one of the twelve Etruscan cities. Like Genoa, it underwent many changes and vicissitudes, one of the greatest of which was the unexpected receding of the sea for some three or four miles, changing it from a busy, prosperous port to a comparatively unimportant inland town. It is still, however, much respected on account of its ancient greatness and learning, and is generally looked upon as the cradle of Italian art. In these latter days it is again becoming wealthy and enterprising. It is considered a remarkably good place for consumptive invalids. A fellow-traveller informed me that a friend of his had lived here for many years withboth lungs gone! The climate is exceedingly mild, almost humid from the quantity of rain that falls: there is said to be, on an average, seventy-three days of rain, and one of snow, between October and April. We remained there only two days, and it rained almost incessantly during the whole time; the place looking very miserable under the circumstances. However, the inhabitants appeared quite used to it, and walked about unconcernedly enough,with theirgreenumbrellas, evidencing at least some sunny days in the past.
The busiest part of the town is the Lung 'Arno (Street along the Arno), a broad, handsome quay extending down both banks of the river. The houses here are very imposing; one, in particular, is fronted with marble so exquisitely smooth and pure it might serve as a looking-glass.
Fortunately for visitors, most of the objects of interest are concentrated in one spot—a large square some ten minutes' walk from our hotel. The streets we passed through on our way thither were very quaint, the overhanging shops and cloistered pavements reminding us much of Chester. On the way we visited San Stefano di Cavalier, the church of the Knights of the Order of St. Stephen, and were much interested in the number of flags—Turkish trophies captured from the Moslem by the valiant Knights Crusaders. There were also some beautiful ceiling paintings of the battle of Lepanto, and other subjects.
On reaching the Piazza del Duomo, we found the four chief objects of interest we had come to seek. Forsyth pithily observes, "Pisa, while the capital of a republic, was celebrated for its profusion of marble, its patrician tower, and its grave magnificence. It can still boast some marble churches, a marble palace, and a marble bridge. Its towers, though no longer a mark of nobility, may be traced in the walls of modernized houses. Its gravity pervades every street, but its magnificence is now confined to one sacredcorner. There stands the Cathedral, the Baptistery, the Leaning Tower, and the Campo Santo, all built of the same white marble, all varieties of the same architecture, all venerable with years, and fortunate both in their society and their solitude."
The Cathedral is indeed very fine; the columns, arches, and carvings are curiously beautiful. It was built by the Pisans after their great naval victory in 1063, and is, I think, the finest specimen now existing of the style called by the Italians the Gotico-Moresco. Baedeker says, "This remarkably perfect edifice is constructed entirely of white marble, with black and coloured ornamentation. The most magnificent part is the façade, which in the lower storey is adorned with columns and arches attached to the wall; in the upper parts with four open galleries, gradually diminishing in length: the choir is also imposing. The ancient bronze gates were replaced in 1602 by the present doors, with representations of scriptural subjects, executed by Mocchi, Tacca, Mora, and others from designs by Giovanni da Bologna." The interior is upborne by sixty-eight ancient Greek and Roman columns, captured by the Pisans in war. The nave, transept, and dome are most beautifully decorated with paintings, frescoes, and sculpture by Italy's greatest master, of whom Ariosto truly says—
"Michael, piu che mortal, angel divino."(Michael, less man than angel, and divine.)
"Michael, piu che mortal, angel divino."(Michael, less man than angel, and divine.)
Altogether it is one of the most beautiful CathedralsI have ever seen, more particularly in its external architecture.
Opposite, and but a few yards distant, is the Baptistery, but, unfortunately, we were too late to obtain admittance. It is a beautiful, circular structure some 160 feet in diameter, surrounded by columns below, and a gallery of smaller detached columns above, covered with a conical dome 190 feet high. The building was commenced in 1153, but was not finally completed until 1278. It is famous for its wonderful echo.
The Campanile, or, as it is usually styled, the "Leaning Tower," is on the other side of the Cathedral. It is 188 feet high, 53 feet round the base, and about 14 feet out of the perpendicular. It is now, I believe, generally understood that this obliquity was occasioned by the imperfect state of the foundations and the sinking of the soil, which is light and sandy, and which caused it to settle down on one side while the building was still uncompleted; and this defect was afterwards provided for by its architect. This is evident from the staircase, of some 294 steps, being also at an angle. There are some very heavy bells on the topmost towers, to counterbalance the deviation. It is supposed to have been constructed about 1174, by William of Innsprück, and afterwards finished by Italians, but it was not finally completed until 1350. It rises in storeys, which, like the Baptistery, are surrounded by half columns and six colonnades.
It is said that Galileo, who was born at Pisa, took advantage of the peculiarity of the leaning tower to make his experiments regarding the laws of gravitation; and there is in the Cathedral a great silver chandelier suspended after his design—by a simple rod—from the great height of the roof. This was so mathematically correct that the celebrated astronomer took his idea of the pendulum from it. There is a very fine view from the top of the tower, well repaying the trouble of ascending. We were very pleased with the old "leaning tower of Pisa," so familiar in our childhood as "one of the eight wonders of the world," and were not in the least degree disappointed, but rather wondered at its height and circumference. It seems perilous to have erected other buildings in its proximity, yet there are several handsome houses in its immediate vicinity, affording, perhaps, additional grounds for the theory of its accidental settlement.
The Campo Santo, or burial-ground, was the next place we visited, accompanied by the custodian. It is not so beautiful in statuary as that of Genoa, but from its great antiquity is even more interesting. It is a long parallelogram 430 feet in length, with a covered cloister running all round; the central part supported by beautiful pilasters adorned with painting and frescoes, chiefly by Giotto, Orgagna, and Memmi, some of them almost obliterated. There is a very ancient and interesting collection of Roman, Etruscan, and Mediæval sculpture and sarcophagi, important links in the history of early Italian sculpture. Thepavement is formed by the tombstones of those who have been interred here. Through the round and beautifully traced arched windows you look out on the original burial-ground in the centre, which is open to the sky, and, tradition says, is filled in with some fifty-three ship-loads of earth brought from Mount Calvary in the twelfth century (after the loss of the Holy Land), by the Archbishop of that time, so that the dead might repose in holy ground. I have heard that this Campo Santo is very impressive when viewed by moonlight, which can be done by arranging with the custodian at suitable times.
One other memento of past naval glory that we saw, was the great chain across the more ancient part of Pisa. This was carried away by the Genoese as a trophy, after their conquest of the city, but was afterwards generously returned.
One of the pleasures of travelling not to be overlooked is that of retrospection: picture after picture and memory after memory rises to the mind, and one could go on for ever rebuilding in fancy all that has pleased and interested. With all my heart I can echo Dickens' words—"I find it difficult to separate my own delight in recalling, from your weariness in having them recalled."
We took train to Leghorn, to procure our letters from the post-restante there. The weather was so unpleasantly wet that, under the circumstances, we did not find the place very interesting. Leigh Huntsums uphisimpressions in a few exceedingly apt, albeit somewhat unkind, words: "Leghorn is a polite Wapping, with a square and a theatre." The grave of Smollett, who lived here for some time, is one of the objects of interest to visitors from the British Isles. There is always a degree of melancholy pleasure in coming across the last resting-place of a distinguished countryman in a foreign land.
While at the post-restante, we experienced a singular example of the persistency and malevolence of the typical Italian beggar. This time it was a woman and her child, both extremely dirty, the latter evidently alive with vermin. The woman, on my wife's refusing to give her anything, deliberately told her poor neglected child to rub up against her—in order, no doubt, to communicate some of her infirmity. To relieve only a portion of the beggars of all kinds who pursue you wherever you go in Italy, although this pest has been greatly reduced of late years, would leave you with very little time or money.
On returning, we had a fine view of Pisa. In the distance it appears like a city of white marble, with its tower leaning at one end, and the blue mountains far away in the background, looking, however, much nearer than is actually the case. Distance is almost annihilated in this clear, dry, Italian atmosphere, which also to a great extent prevents decay, the most ancient buildings looking often singularly fresh. "Antiquity refuses to look ancient in Italy; it insists on retaining its youthful aspect."
TheTorre del Fame, or "Tower of Famine," where Ugolino and his sons were starved to death, stood "a littel out" of Pisa, as old Chaucer has it, but the very site of this monument of cruel tyranny and vengeance is now lost, or at any rate apocryphal.
We were really glad to reach the Hotel Victoria once more, our journey having been performed in the presently falling rain. There is much of interest in this old city, but our time was limited, and we were compelled to press on towards the south, and therefore left on the evening of the second day for Rome, the weather clearing up just about the time of our departure.
The Pisans have a significant motto:
"Pisa pensa a chi posa."(Pisa sits illOn those who sit still.)
"Pisa pensa a chi posa."(Pisa sits illOn those who sit still.)
We did not, however, stay long enough in the town to experience the truth of the aphorism.
Arrival in Rome—Hotel de la Ville—The Corso—The Strangers' Quarter—Roman Guides—View from the Capitol—"How are the Mighty fallen!"—The sculpture-gallery of the Capitol—The Dying Gladiator—The Venus—Hawthorne's Marble Faun—Bambino Santissimo—The Mamertine Prison—The Forum—Palaces—The Coliseum—Longfellow's "Michael Angelo."
Arrival in Rome—Hotel de la Ville—The Corso—The Strangers' Quarter—Roman Guides—View from the Capitol—"How are the Mighty fallen!"—The sculpture-gallery of the Capitol—The Dying Gladiator—The Venus—Hawthorne's Marble Faun—Bambino Santissimo—The Mamertine Prison—The Forum—Palaces—The Coliseum—Longfellow's "Michael Angelo."
Travelling by the slow second-class train, we did not arrive at Rome until nearly 11 p.m.; yet the journey proved interesting, especially as we approached our destination. The stillness of night increased the impressive awe that inspired us as we neared the "Eternal City." It was not only cold and dark, but foggy; and we could see very little; conjecture, however, was busy as we caught, through an occasional gleam of light, the shadows of outlying monuments and ruins. As we crossed the silent-rolling Tiber, and the reverberations of the railway bridge smote on our ears with a hollow, sepulchral sound, we felt, almost with a shiver, that we were entering a city of the dead.
The fog was extremely cold and penetrating, striking one almost like the malaria, and we were glad to get to the well-lighted station, and minglewith the cheerful animated crowd on the platform, and did not even feel the intrusive hotel omnibus-conductors a nuisance, but gladly consigned ourselves to the guidance of one, and drove away. However, we soon found that Rome wasImperialin her charges. The first hotel wanted from ten to twelve francs for a bedroom per night, the second likewise. Ultimately we were safely housed about midnight in the Hotel de la Ville, in the Piazza del Popolo, at the head of the Corso. Though perhaps a little out of the way, and less conveniently situated than the more central hotels in the Piazza di Spagna, it has many advantages in comfort, is quiet and moderate in charge, and close to the English church.
This Hotel de la Ville was once the palace and museum of the Marquis Campana. It is surrounded by so-called "English gardens," beautifully decorated with columns, statues, fountains, and orange trees full of golden fruit.
The next morning, on rising, we felt the dream of many years was at last realized!
"Thou art truly a world, O Rome!" says Goethe; and we indeed felt it so, as, having breakfasted, we sallied forth, eager to begin our explorations. Our first visit was naturally to the English bookseller's, where we purchased a guide-book. A plan of Rome may always be obtained at one's hotel, and it is well to study the streets, etc., and arrange one's campaign of sight-seeing. A good way is to begin by visiting the nearest objects of interest, which can beaccomplished on foot; then to make use of the omnibus; and finally, of the carriages, for more distant places outside the walls. These latter are cheap enough, as you may drive from one end of Rome to the other for a franc.
The Corso, the main street in the city, is very narrow, and about a mile in length. Starting from the Piazza del Popolo, it extends to the foot of the Capitol. Most of the shops are situated here, and when lined with fashionable carriages, it is very crowded, particularly just outside thecafés. The other principal thoroughfares are the Strada del Babbuina, ending in the Piazza di Spagna; and the Strada di Ripetta, leading to the Tiber. Most of the streets converge into the Piazza di Venezia, where is situated the tramway station, from which omnibuses run to all parts of the town. This corner of the city is usually known as the "Stranger's Quarter." Groups of military men were lounging about, and blocking the pavements, characteristically indulging indolce far nienteaided by the eternal cigarette; indeed, the whole population appear to smoke all day long; both wine and tobacco being too cheap and plentiful for the good of the people.
I believe there are very fewgoodguides in Rome—few at least who do their duty conscientiously, and with interest, but all asking some twelve francs a day, just to ride about with you and smoke innumerable cigarettes. A really good guide is worth securing, and saves much time, trouble, and expense, besides giving most valuable information sometimes. On the first day,we were lucky enough to pick up one of the right sort, with a toga, cloak, and Roman profile; but unfortunately his pronunciation of English was such a jargon we were quite unable to make head or tail of it, especially when most eager to obtain some information of interest, which he was willing and even anxious to convey.
He took us to the top of the Capitol—at least, I accompanied him to the very flagstaff; but it was blowing so tempestuously that my wife was obliged to be content to remain a flight of steps below, and, being the hour of noon, the great bell (which Garibaldi struck when he called the Romans "to arms") boomed out twelve mighty strokes with its immense clapper, and nearly deafened her. The wind was so strong that I had to take off my hat and cling to the parapet. But how interesting was the panorama that met my gaze! Right over the Eternal City beneath me, and far away beyond the plains around it, lay that great range of bare mountains over which, in the day of her distress, poured Rome's Gothic enemies, in wild and overwhelming hordes. Wasted and enfeebled by the constant drain made on her resources to supply the many provinces of her fair empire, her very vitals insidiously sapped and impoverished by the selfish luxury and vice to which her pagan civilization had brought her, what wonder that she fell an easy prey. Yet the heart still yearns over her in her mighty fall, and as I looked, and caught the enthusiasm of my Roman guide, the lament of Byron rose to my lips:
"O Rome! my country! city of the soul![96]The orphans of the heart must turn to thee,Lone mother of dead empires! and controlIn their shut breasts their petty misery.What are our woes and sufferance? Come and seeThe cypress, hear the owl, and plod your wayO'er steps of broken thrones and temples, yeWhose agonies are evils of a day!—A world is at our feet as fragile as our clay."The Niobe of nations! there she stands,Childless, and crownless, in her voiceless woe;An empty urn within her wither'd hands,Whose holy dust was scatter'd long ago:The Scipios' tomb contains no ashes now;The very sepulchres lie tenantlessOf their heroic dwellers; dost thou flow,Old Tiber! through a marble wilderness?Rise, with thy yellow waves, and mantle her distress."The Goth, the Christian, time, war, flood, and fireHave dealt upon the seven-hill'd city's pride;She saw her glories star by star expire,And up the steep barbarian monarchs ride,Where the car climb'd the capitol; far and wideTemple and tower went down, nor left a site:—Chaos of ruins! who shall trace the void,O'er her dim fragments cast a lunar light,And say, 'Here was, or is,' where all is doubly night?"Alas! the lofty city! and alas!The trebly hundred triumphs! and the dayWhen Brutus made the dagger's edge surpassThe conqueror's sword in bearing fame away!Alas, for Tully's voice, and Virgil's lay,And Livy's pictured page! but these shall beHer resurrection; all beside—decay.Alas, for earth, for never shall we seeThat brightness in her eye she bore when Rome was free!"
"O Rome! my country! city of the soul![96]The orphans of the heart must turn to thee,Lone mother of dead empires! and controlIn their shut breasts their petty misery.What are our woes and sufferance? Come and seeThe cypress, hear the owl, and plod your wayO'er steps of broken thrones and temples, yeWhose agonies are evils of a day!—A world is at our feet as fragile as our clay.
"The Niobe of nations! there she stands,Childless, and crownless, in her voiceless woe;An empty urn within her wither'd hands,Whose holy dust was scatter'd long ago:The Scipios' tomb contains no ashes now;The very sepulchres lie tenantlessOf their heroic dwellers; dost thou flow,Old Tiber! through a marble wilderness?Rise, with thy yellow waves, and mantle her distress.
"The Goth, the Christian, time, war, flood, and fireHave dealt upon the seven-hill'd city's pride;She saw her glories star by star expire,And up the steep barbarian monarchs ride,Where the car climb'd the capitol; far and wideTemple and tower went down, nor left a site:—Chaos of ruins! who shall trace the void,O'er her dim fragments cast a lunar light,And say, 'Here was, or is,' where all is doubly night?
"Alas! the lofty city! and alas!The trebly hundred triumphs! and the dayWhen Brutus made the dagger's edge surpassThe conqueror's sword in bearing fame away!Alas, for Tully's voice, and Virgil's lay,And Livy's pictured page! but these shall beHer resurrection; all beside—decay.Alas, for earth, for never shall we seeThat brightness in her eye she bore when Rome was free!"
Around lay the seven hills on which Rome wasoriginally built. The Capitoline, on which I was standing, the Palatine, Quirinal, Cœlius, Aventine, Esquiline, Viminal. Some of them appeared merely green mounds, the remains of the wonderfully strong and ancient walls, and here and there the broken outline of some palace of the great Cæsars. Immediately beneath us lay the mighty Coliseum, the Forum, and other monuments of Rome's ancient grandeur and departed glory. Away to the north-west, across the muddy, silent Tiber, lay decaying papal Rome, crested by the dome of St. Peter's and the Vatican. Again, to the north-east, right over ancient Rome, and towards the Quirinal and Esquiline hills, young Italy, emancipated and free, her national flag floating in the breeze from the palace of the king. It was a grand and impressive sight, and one never to be forgotten.
On descending from the tower, we passed through storehouses filled with broken remains of figures, capitals, plinths, and other fragments disentombed from the Forum, etc. The three palaces which comprise the principal buildings of the modern Capitol were designed by Michael Angelo, and form three sides of a square. In the centre stands the noble equestrian statue of Marcus Aurelius. The open side faces the modern part of Rome. The palace on the left side, or Capitoline Museum, as it is called, contains one of the finest collections of sculpture in Italy. It is quite a day's work to see it properly, but we had to be content with an hour or two.
Here we saw that most noble and pathetic presentment of Death, grappled with, and almost conquered, in the statue of the Dying Gladiator. The right arm was restored by Michael Angelo, and the guide informed me that by general agreement it should have been brought a little more forward, and that the great sculptor, although aware of it, was unable for some reason to restore it in this way. I think, however, that his conception as resting, must be the right and natural posture, as the wounded man seems to depend on the support of that arm entirely, while struggling in the agonies of death. You may almost see the moisture on his manly brow, while in the intensely expressive face you catch glimpses of that lifetime which is passing across his memory in the space of a moment—thoughts of the wife and little ones in that far-away home to which he will never return. It is a fine subject, exquisitely conceived and executed, and worthily described in Byron's two immortal stanzas. Upstairs, in a small rotunda-shaped temple, enshrined in a niche in the wall, we saw that most beautiful conception of womanhood, known as the Venus of the Capitol. She appears as though suddenly disturbed while taking her bath, and the expression of frightened innocence and maiden shame upon the face, and the graceful shrinking attitude of the limbs, form a picture of perfect purity and loveliness. The guide turned the figure upon its pedestal so that we might catch the beauty of its curves and soft outline, and though theaction seemed half profane, rudely disturbing one's semi-entranced admiration, I did not until then catch the full beauty of "the statue that enchants the world." An almost living memorial of the "Age of Beauty," there seems in this one radiant figure to be enfolded the whole wealth of love and loveliness that distinguished so richly those times when—
"Human hands first moulded, and then mockedWith moulded limbs, more lovely than its own,The human form, till marble grew divine."
"Human hands first moulded, and then mockedWith moulded limbs, more lovely than its own,The human form, till marble grew divine."
Yet one other masterpiece of ancient art we eagerly looked for was the marble Faun of Praxiteles, around which the graceful genius of Nathaniel Hawthorne has woven such a delicate web of romance, the figure itself being inimitably described in the opening chapter. But this and other immortal works are made familiar to us by so many gifted writers, that I need but to mention their names to conjure them in all their beauty to the eye of the intelligent reader, who instantly recalls to mind some beautiful passage in poetry or prose, to which any words I could pen would be superfluous. "All men are poets by nature," but "adequate expression is rare;" and though a vivid sense of beauty and a passionate appreciation of the grand and sublime is open to all, yet to genius alone it is given to clothe the fleeting thought with words of haunting music, which shall live as long as the idea that gave them birth.
Close by the museum is the Church of Santa Maria di Ara Cœli, ascended by some 124 steps.Here we were reverently ushered by a monk into a little chapel, to see the Santissimo Bambino. After opening the shutter, he approached the altar, and from an iron door in the top drew out a drawer, inside which was a box; from this he carefully lifted out, reverently crossing himself as he touched it, a doll of wax or painted wood, supposed to be an image of the Infant Jesus. The legend runs, that an angel appeared in the porch of the church at midnight, and, ringing the bell, flew back to heaven, leaving the image of the Sacred Babe to the care of the church, just as a poor child is dropped at the door of a foundling hospital. The doll is literally covered with jewellery, and diamond-rings, and other gems and trinkets, sewn into its dress, the offerings of its misguided devotees. It is said that the priests at the church "farm" this Bambino, and make a good income by exhibiting it, letting it out on special occasions for large profits. Leave the priests alone for their ability to work on the ignorance and credulity of the people! It is sometimes carried to the houses of the sick, being supposed to possess miraculous healing properties. After duly displaying this treasure, the monk carefully replaced it, locking it up with a profound sigh.
This is only one of the many wonderful relics that are shown, and absurd legends that are told, and one hardly knows whether to treat with pity or contempt the ignorant credulity shown by the lower orders of Roman Catholics and their priesthood.
Between the Capitol and the Forum is the Mamertine prison, where among other illustrious captives were confined Jugurtha, Sejanus, and the Catiline conspirators; St. Paul, too, noblest of men, was here held in durance vile, and Popish tradition says St. Peter also. Passing through a little church, we were lighted down into a dark dungeon, and below this found another, communicating by narrow stone steps; but it is said the poor prisoners weredroppedfrom the one to the other through a hole or trap-door. They were confined below until sentenced to death, when they were brought up the steps to the dungeon above, where they were executed, and their bodies thrown out for the satisfaction of the people thronging the Forum. There is a dint in the stone wall where it is said St. Paul's head was battered by his inhuman gaoler; this, though it sounds improbable enough, is gravely related as a fact. A subterranean passage extends to a considerable distance, which I penetrated as far as I was able, till a cold blast of air, evidently from the river Tiber, almost extinguished my candle, and the guide shouted to me to return.
It is remarkable how much lower that part of ancient Rome surrounding the Forum lies compared to the rest of the city—certainly from ten to fifteen feet. Modern or mediæval Rome seems in some instances to be partially built over the older portion. Why this should have been, it is difficult to say. New and interesting excavations are made continuously, and I could have remained here thelive-long day, watching the gradual disentombment of the beautiful columns, statuary, and other long-buried mementoes of Rome's past greatness—and, as her foundations were laid bare, rebuilding and repeopling, according to my own ideal fancies, this great temple of eloquence. "What men have crossed the shadows of these very columns! What thoughts that have moved the world were born beneath them!" Scene after scene rose to my mind which had been enacted in this very spot, one fair vision standing out like a star from the rest—Virginia, "the sweetest maid in Rome," in her white garments, as though prepared for the sacrifice, satchel in hand, tripping with "her small glancing feet along the Forum," and up the sacred street from the schools, the remains of which may still be seen cavernlike.
After all, what is left of Rome's greatness? A few broken columns only? Surely not. We are still as deeply moved as ever by the history of her mighty rise and fall; the world still acknowledges the governing wisdom of her imperishable laws, and is still benefited by the inspiring example of her noble men and virtuous women. But the true "Eternal City" must be looked for elsewhere than in the most powerful of pagan nations. This indeed must have solaced the little fraternity of Christians at ancient Rome, when so cruelly persecuted: and what a glorious triumph is theirs now!
We did not omit to pay a visit to the palaces of the Cæsars, which lie clustered above and about theForum. It is rather difficult to understand how the Romans obtained sufficient light for their dwellings, the rooms being generally small, and without external windows. What there was, however, usually came from above, as the courts were open; and also by radiation, the large marble tanks in these courts being filled with water, on which the descending light smote, and was dispersed around. There is a subterranean passage leading from the palaces to the Coliseum, which was made use of by the emperor and his suite for their transit thither; and a terribly anxious little journey that must often have been to the great Cæsars.
The grand old Coliseum still rears its crumpling walls proudly towards the skies, though almost two-thirds lie in ruins. The centre has been filled in with earth, so that we scarcely see the original bottom, but there is sufficient left to show clearly to what use this great amphitheatre was put. One intelligent guide points out the evidences of formerly existing hydrants, which had led to the Tiber, and thus flooded the lower part with water for the exhibition of mock naval engagements. Then, when the water was let out again, great scaffolding poles were inserted into stone sockets, and a platform suspended on a level with the dens, from which the wild beasts were let into the arena. And here the gladiators fought, and the Christians and criminals were torn to pieces, to make sport for the countless multitude sitting, crowded tier upon tier around, while the blue heavens looked down on the inhuman and bloody sight, and the poormartyr Christians, fearlessly awaiting their doom, sighed upwards, "How long? how long?" We could also see the trap-doors from whence buffoons were hoisted on to the stage. To trace all this was interesting, though it saddened one to reflect on all the horrors that had been enacted here. Much of the brickwork had evidently been veneered with slabs of marble, most of which has now disappeared; but it rather puzzled me to see so many great chips made in certain parts of the marble columns. Our guide, however, informed me that they had bars of iron in the centre, and it was to obtain this iron for making into spear-heads for the defence of Rome that the marble was so broken and chipped at the joints—an inglorious ending truly for these witnesses of past splendour!
It has been said that Byron's celebrated description of the Coliseum is better than the reality; that "he beheld the scene in his mind's eye, through the witchery of many intervening years, and faintly illumined it with starlight instead of the broad glow of moonshine." Be this as it may, the noble stanzas are all too well known to bear further quotation. The reader may possibly be less acquainted with the fine lines on the subject, which Longfellow has put in the mouth of Michael Angelo, in the fragmentary tragedy of that name lately published in America:
"Tradition says that fifteen thousand menWere toiling for ten years incessantlyUpon this amphitheatre.Behold,How wonderful it is! The queen of flowers,[105]The marble rose of Rome! Its petals tornBy wind and rain of twice five hundred years;Its mossy sheath half rent away, and soldTo ornament our palaces and churches,Or to be trodden under feet of manUpon the Tiber's bank; yet what remainsStill opening its fair bosom to the sun,And to the constellations that at nightHang poised above it like a swarm of bees."The rose of Rome, but not of Paradise;Not the white rose our Tuscan poet saw,With saints for petals. When this rose was perfectIts hundred thousand petals were not saints,But senators in their Thessalian caps,And all the roaring populace of Rome;And even an Empress and the Vestal Virgins,Who came to see the gladiators die,Could not give sweetness to a rose like this.The sand beneath our feet is saturateWith blood of martyrs; and these rifted stonesAre awful witnesses against a peopleWhose pleasure was the pain of dying men."Look at these walls about us and above us!They have been shaken by earthquakes, have been madeA fortress, and been battered by long sieges;The iron clamps, that held the stones together,Have been wrenched from them; but they stand erectAnd firm, as if they had been hewn and hollowedOut of the solid rock, and were a partOf the foundations of the world itself.... A thousand wild flowers bloomFrom every chink, and the birds build their nestsAmong the rained arches, and suggestNew thoughts of beauty to the architect."
"Tradition says that fifteen thousand menWere toiling for ten years incessantlyUpon this amphitheatre.Behold,
How wonderful it is! The queen of flowers,[105]The marble rose of Rome! Its petals tornBy wind and rain of twice five hundred years;Its mossy sheath half rent away, and soldTo ornament our palaces and churches,Or to be trodden under feet of manUpon the Tiber's bank; yet what remainsStill opening its fair bosom to the sun,And to the constellations that at nightHang poised above it like a swarm of bees.
"The rose of Rome, but not of Paradise;Not the white rose our Tuscan poet saw,With saints for petals. When this rose was perfectIts hundred thousand petals were not saints,But senators in their Thessalian caps,And all the roaring populace of Rome;And even an Empress and the Vestal Virgins,Who came to see the gladiators die,Could not give sweetness to a rose like this.The sand beneath our feet is saturateWith blood of martyrs; and these rifted stonesAre awful witnesses against a peopleWhose pleasure was the pain of dying men.
"Look at these walls about us and above us!They have been shaken by earthquakes, have been madeA fortress, and been battered by long sieges;The iron clamps, that held the stones together,Have been wrenched from them; but they stand erectAnd firm, as if they had been hewn and hollowedOut of the solid rock, and were a partOf the foundations of the world itself.... A thousand wild flowers bloomFrom every chink, and the birds build their nestsAmong the rained arches, and suggestNew thoughts of beauty to the architect."
Trajan's Gate—The Appian Way—The English Cemetery—Catacombs of St. Calixtus—Reflections on the Italian seat of government—Churches—S. Paolo Fuori le Mura—Santa Maria Maggiore—S. Pietro in Vincoli—"Was St. Peter ever in Rome?"—Fountains of Rome—Dell' Aqua Felice—Paulina—Trevi—Rome's famous Aqueducts—Beggars—Priests.
Trajan's Gate—The Appian Way—The English Cemetery—Catacombs of St. Calixtus—Reflections on the Italian seat of government—Churches—S. Paolo Fuori le Mura—Santa Maria Maggiore—S. Pietro in Vincoli—"Was St. Peter ever in Rome?"—Fountains of Rome—Dell' Aqua Felice—Paulina—Trevi—Rome's famous Aqueducts—Beggars—Priests.
Trajan's Gate, near the Coliseum, is a beautiful piece of architecture. No Jew can ever be prevailed upon to pass beneath it—at which we can hardly wonder, for it is like forcing them again to walk under the "Caudine forks," reminding them all too forcibly of their conquerors, the destruction of their beloved city, and the bitter humiliation they have ever since suffered.
After passing the Arch of Trajan, we soon reach the great high-road, paved with diamond-shaped blocks of lava stone, extending a vast distance, even beyond Naples. This is the celebrated Via Appia. It takes its name from Appius Claudius the Censor. How the mind travels back into centuries long past! How the imagination recalls the glory of ancient times! Like Milton, we seem to see—
"The conflux issuing forth, or entering in:Proctors, proconsuls, to their provincesHasting, or on return, in robes of state;[107]Lictors and rods, the ensigns of their power;Legions and cohorts, turms of horse and wings;Or embassies from regions far remote,In various habits, on the Appian road."
"The conflux issuing forth, or entering in:Proctors, proconsuls, to their provincesHasting, or on return, in robes of state;[107]Lictors and rods, the ensigns of their power;Legions and cohorts, turms of horse and wings;Or embassies from regions far remote,In various habits, on the Appian road."
The road, apart from itself, has many interests from the numerous relics and monuments of distant ages all along its way. First, we pass the tomb of the Scipios, just inside the Gate of St. Sebastian, and the Arch of Drusus; then the tombs of Augustus and Livia, and many others, mentioned by St. Paul as belonging to Cæsar's household; then, crossing the Aqua-taccio, is the old church Domine quo Vadis, or "Whither goest thou?" where, according to tradition, St. Peter, flying from persecution, met the Saviour, who caused him to return by asking this question. Then we come to the tomb of Cæcilia Metella:
"Standing with half its battlements alone,And with two thousand years of ivy grown,The garland of eternity."
"Standing with half its battlements alone,And with two thousand years of ivy grown,The garland of eternity."
The "stern round tower" looks little like a woman's grave. Many other tombs, all possessing more or less interest, we passed, and I must not forget the English cemetery, where—