"Still was the story told,How well Horatius kept the bridge,In the brave days of old."
"Still was the story told,
How well Horatius kept the bridge,
In the brave days of old."
Looking around the horizon every summit recalls historical memories. There are the Sabine Hills, where lived the tribe from which the early Romans (who were at first, like some of our border settlements, wholly a community of men,) helped themselves to wives. Yonder, to the south, are the Alban Hills; and there, in what seems the hollow of a mountain, Hannibal encamped with his army, looking down upon Rome. In the same direction lies the Appian Way, lined for miles with tombs of the illustrious dead. Along that way often came the legions returning from distant conquests, "bringing many captives home to Rome," with camels and elephants bearing the spoils of Africa and the East.
These recollections increase in interest as we come down to the time of the Cæsars. This is the culminating point of Roman history, as then the empire reached its highest point of power and glory. Julius Cæsar is the greatest character of ancient Rome, as soldier and ruler, the leader of armies, and the man whose very presence awed the Roman Senate. Such was the magic of his name that it was said peculiaromens and portents accompanied his death. As Shakespeare has it:
"In the most high and palmy state of Rome,A little ere the mighty Julius fell,The graves stood tenantless, and the sheeted deadDid squeak and gibber in the Roman streets."
"In the most high and palmy state of Rome,
A little ere the mighty Julius fell,
The graves stood tenantless, and the sheeted dead
Did squeak and gibber in the Roman streets."
It was therefore with an interest that no other name could inspire, that we saw in the Capitol a statue, which is said to be the most faithful existing representation of that imperial man; and in the Strada Palace the statue of Pompey, which is believed to be the very one at the base of which "great Cæsar fell."[6]
With Cæsar ended the ancient Republic, and began the Empire. It was then that Rome attained her widest dominion, and the city its greatest splendor. She was the mistress of the whole world, from Egypt to Britain, ruling on all sides of the Mediterranean, along the shores of Europe, Asia, and Africa. And then the whole earth contributed to the magnificence of the Eternal City. It was the boast of Augustus, that "he found Rome of brick, and left it of marble." Under him and his successors were reared those palaces and temples, the very ruins of which are still the wonder and admiration of the world.
The knowledge of these ruins has been greatly increased by recent excavations. Till within a few years Rome was a buried city, almost as much as Pompeii. The débris of centuries had filled up her streets and squares, till the earth lay more than twenty feet deep in the Forum, choking up temples and triumphal arches; and even the lower part of the Coliseum had been submerged in the general wreck and ruin. In every part of the city could be seen the upper portions of buildings, the frieze on the capitals of columns, that werehalf under ground, and that, like Milton's lion, seemed pawing to be free.
But the work of clearing away this rubbish was so vast that it had been neglected from century to century. But during the occupation by the French troops, that Government expended large sums in uncovering these ruins, and the work has since been continued by Victor Emmanuel, until now, as the result of twenty years continuous labor, a buried city has been brought to light. The Forum has been cleared away, so that we may walk on its pavement, amid its broken columns, and see the very tribune from which Cicero addressed the Roman people. But beside this Central Forum, there were half a dozen others—such as the Forum of Julius Cæsar, and of Augustus, and of Nerva, and of Trajan, where still stands that marvellous Column in bronze (covered with figures in bas-relief, to represent the conquest of the Dacians), which has been copied in the Column of the Place Vendome in Paris. All of these Forums were parts of one whole. What is now covered by streets and houses, was an open space, extending from the Capitol as far as the Coliseum in one direction, and the Column of Trajan in another, surrounded by temples and basilicas, and columns and triumphal arches, and overlooked by the palaces of the Cæsars. This whole area was the centre of Rome, where its heart beat, when it contained two millions of people; where the people came together to discuss public affairs, or to witness triumphal processions returning from the wars. Here the Roman legions came with mighty tread along the Via Sacra, winding their way up to the Capitoline Hill to lay their trophies at the feet of the Senate.
Perhaps the best idea of the splendor and magnificence of ancient Rome may be gained from exploring the ruins of the palaces of the Cæsars. They are of vast extent, covering all the slopes of the Palatine Hill. Here great excavations have been made. The walk seems endless through what hasbeen laid open. The walls are built like a fortress, as if to last forever, and decorated with every resource of art known to that age, with sculptures and ceilings richly painted, like those uncovered in the houses of Pompeii. These buildings have been stripped of everything that was movable—the statues being transported to the galleries of the Vatican. The same fate has overtaken all the great structures of ancient Rome. They have been divested of their ornaments and decoration, of gilding and bas-reliefs and statues, and in some cases have been quite dismantled. The Coliseum, it is well known, was used in the Middle Ages as a quarry for many proud noble families, and out of it were built some of the greatest palaces in Rome. Nothing saved the Pantheon but its conversion from a heathen temple into a Christian church. Hundreds and thousands of columns of porphyry and alabaster and costly marbles, which now adorn the churches of Rome, were taken from the ruins of temples and palaces.
But though thus stripped of every ornament, ancient Rome is still magnificent in her ruins. One may wander for days about the palaces of the Cæsars, walking through the libraries and theatres, under the arches and over the very tessellated pavement where those proud emperors walked nearly two thousand years ago. He should ascend to the highest point of the ruins to take in their full extent, and there he will see, looking out upon the Campagna, a long line of arches reaching many miles, over which water was brought from the distant hills for the Golden House of Nero.
Perhaps the most massive ruin which has been lately uncovered, is that of the Baths of Caracalla, which give an idea of the luxury and splendor of ancient Rome, as quite unequalled in modern times.
But, of course, the one structure which interests most of all, is the Coliseum: and here recent excavations have made fresh discoveries. The whole area has been dug down manyfeet, and shows a vast system of passagesunderground; not only those through which wild beasts were let into the arena, but conduits for water, by which the whole amphitheatre could be flooded and turned into a lake large enough for Roman galleys to sail in; and here naval battles were fought with all the fury of a conflict between actual enemies, to the delight of Roman emperor and people, who shouted applause, when blood flowed freely on the decks, and dyed the waters below.
There is one reflection that often recurs to me, as I wander among these ruins—what it is of all the works of man that reallylives. Not architecture (the palaces of the Cæsars are but heaps of ruins); but the Romanlawsremain, incorporated with the legislation of every civilized country on the globe; while Virgil and Cicero, the poet and the orator, are the delight of all who know the Latin tongue. Thus men pass away, their very monuments may perish, but their thoughts, their wisdom, their learning and their genius remain, a perpetual inheritance to mankind.
After Imperial Rome comes Christian Rome. Many of the stories of the first Christian centuries are fables and legends. Historical truth is so overlaid with a mass of traditions, that one is ready to reject the whole. When they show you here the stone on which they gravely tell you that Abraham bound Isaac for the sacrifice; and another on which Mary sat when she brought Christ into the temple; and the staircase from Pilate's house, the Scala Santa, up which every day and hour pilgrims may be seen going on their knees; and a stone showing the very prints of the Saviour's feet when he appeared to Peter—one is apt to turn away in disgust. But the general fact of the early planting of Christianity here, we know from the new Testament itself. Ecclesiastical historians are not agreed whether Peter was ever in Rome (although he is claimed as the first Pope), but that Paul was here we know from his epistles,and from the Book of Acts, in which we have the particulars of his "appealing to Cæsar," and his voyages to Italy, and his shipwreck on the island of Malta, his landing at Puteoli, and going "towards Rome," where he lived two years in "his own hired house," "preaching and teaching, no man forbidding him." Several of his epistles were written from Rome. It is therefore quite probable that he was confined, according to the tradition, in the Mamertine Prison under the Capitol, and one cannot descend without deep emotion into that dark, rocky dungeon, far underground, where the Great Apostle was once a prisoner, and from which he was led forth to die. He is said to have been beheaded without the walls. On the road they point out a spot (still marked by a rude figure by the roadside of two men embracing), where it is said Paul and Peter met and fell on each other's neck on the morning of the last day—Paul going to be beheaded, and Peter into the city to be crucified, which at his own request was with his head downwards, for he would not be crucified in the same posture as his Lord, whom he had once denied. On the spot where Paul is said to have suffered now rises one of the grandest churches in the world, second in Rome only to St. Peter's.
So the persecutions of the early Christians by successive emperors are matters of authentic history. Knowing this, we visit as a sacred place the scene of their martyrdom, and shudder at seeing on the walls the different modes of torture by which it was sought to break their allegiance to the faith; we think of them in the Coliseum, where they were thrown to the lions; and still more in the Catacombs, to which they fled for refuge, where they worshipped, and (as Pliny wrote) "sang hymns to Christ as to a God," and where still rest their bones, with many a rude inscription, testifying of their faith and hope.
It is a sad reflection that the Christian Church, once established in Rome, should afterwards itself turn persecutor.But unfortunately it too became intoxicated with power, and could brook no resistance to its will. The Inquisition was for centuries a recognized institution of the Papacy—an appointed means for guarding the purity of the faith. The building devoted to the service of that tribunal stands to this day, close by the Church of St. Peter, and I believe there is still a Papal officer who bears the dread title of "Grand Inquisitor." But fortunately his office no longer inspires terror, for it is at last reduced to the punishment of ecclesiastical offences by ecclesiastical discipline, instead of the arm of flesh, on which it once leaned. But the old building is at once "a prison and a palace"; the cells are still there, though happily unoccupied. But in the castle of St. Angelo there is a Chamber of Torture, which has not always been merely for exhibition, where a Pope Clement (what a mockery in the name!) had Beatrice Cenci put to the torture, and forced to confess a crime of which she was not guilty. But we are not so unjust as to impute all these cruelties of a former and a darker time to the Catholic Church of the present day. Those were ages of intolerance and of persecution. But none can deny that the Church has always been fiercely intolerant. There is no doubt that the massacre of St. Bartholomew was the occasion of great rejoicings at Rome. The bloody persecution of the Waldenses found no rebuke from him who claimed to be the vicegerent of Christ; a persecution which called forth from Milton that sublime prayer:
Avenge, O Lord, thy slaughtered saints,Whose bones lie scattered upon the Alpine mountains cold!
Avenge, O Lord, thy slaughtered saints,
Whose bones lie scattered upon the Alpine mountains cold!
Amid such bitter recollections it is good to remember also the message of Cromwell to the Pope, that "if favor were not shown to the people of God, the thunder of English cannon should be heard in the castle of St. Angelo."
It seems as if it were a just retribution for those crimes of a former age that the Pope in these last days has had towalk so long in the Valley of Humiliation. Not for centuries has a Pontiff had to endure such repeated blows. The reign of Pius IX. has been longer than that of any of his predecessors; some may think it glorious, but it has witnessed at once the most daring assumption and its signal punishment—a claim of infallibility, which belongs to God alone—followed by a bitter humiliation as if God would cast this idol down to the ground. It is certainly a remarkable coincidence, that just as the dogma of Infallibility was proclaimed, Louis Napoleon rushed into war, as the result of which France, the chief supporter of the Papacy (which for twenty years had kept an army in Rome to hold the Pope on his throne), was stricken down, and the first place in Europe taken by a Protestant power. Germany had already humbled the other great Catholic power of Europe, to the confusion and dismay of the Pope and his councillors. A gentleman who has resided for many years in Rome, tells me that on the very day that the battle of Sadowa was fought, Cardinal Antonelli told a friend of his to "come around to his house that night to get the news; that he expected to hear of one of the greatest victories ever won for the Church," so confidently did he and his master the Pope anticipate the triumph of Austria. The gentleman went. Hour after hour passed, and no tidings came. It was midnight, and still no news of victory. Before morning the issue was known, that the Austrian army was destroyed. Cardinal Antonelli did not come forth to proclaim the tidings. He shut himself up, said my informant, and was not seen for three weeks!
And so it has come to pass—whether by accident or design, whether by the violence of man or by the will of God—that the Pope has been gradually stripped of that power and prestige which once so acted upon the imaginations of men, that, like Cæsar, "his bend did awe the world," and has come to be merely the bishop, or archbishop, of that portion of Christendom which submits to the Catholic Church.
I find the Rome of to-day divided into two camps. The Vatican is set over against the Quirinal. The Pope rules in one, and Victor Emmanuel in the other; and neither of these two sovereigns has anything to do with the other.
It would take long to discuss the present political state of Rome or of Italy. Apart from the right or wrong of this question, it is evident that the sympathies of the Italian people are on the side of Victor Emmanuel. The Roman people have had a long experience of a government of priests, and they do not like it. It seems as if the world was entering on a new era, and the Papacy, infallible and immutable as it is, must change too—it must "move on" or be overwhelmed.
CHAPTER XXIII.
THE PRISONER OF THE VATICAN.
Rome, October 15th.
It is a great loss to travellers who come to Rome to see the sights, that the Pope has shut himself up in the Vatican. In the good old times, when he was not only a spiritual, but a civil potentate—not only Pope, but King—he used to ride about a great deal to take a survey of his dominions. One might meet him of an afternoon taking an airing on the Pincian Hill, or on some of the roads leading out of Rome. He always appeared in a magnificent state carriage, of red trimmed with gold, with six horses richly caparisoned, and outriders going before, and the Swiss guards following after. [What would poor old Peter have said, if he had met his successor coming along in such mighty pomp?] The Cardinals too, arrayed in scarlet, had their red carriages and their fine liveries, and their horses pranced up and down the Corso. Thus Rome was very gay. The processions too were endless, and they were glorious to behold. It was indeed a grand sight to see the Pope and all his Cardinals, in their scarlet dresses, sweeping into St. Peter's and kneeling together in the nave, while the muskets of the Swiss guards rang on the pavement, in token of the might of arms which then attended the spiritual power.
But now, alas! all this is ended. The spoiler has entered into the holy place, and the Holy Father appears no more in the streets. Since that fatal day when the Italian troops marched into Rome—the 20th of September, 1870—he has not put his foot in a carriage, nor shown himself to the Romanpeople. The Cardinals, who live in different parts of the city, are obliged to go about; but they have laid aside all their fine raiment and glittering equipage, and appear only in solemn black, as if they were all undertakers, attending the funeral of the Papacy. The Pope has shut himself up closely in the Vatican. He is, indeed, just as free to go abroad as ever. There is nothing to prevent his riding about Rome as usual. But no, the dear old man will have it that he is restrained of his liberty, and calls himself "a prisoner!" To be sure he is not exactly in a guard-house, or in a cell, such as those in the Inquisition just across the square of St. Peter, where heretics used to be accommodated with rather close quarters. His "prison" is a large one—a palace, with hundreds of richly furnished apartments, where he is surrounded with luxury and splendor, and where pilgrims flock to him from all parts of the earth. It is a princely retreat for one in his old age, and a grand theatre on which to assume the role of martyr. Almost anybody would be willing to play the part of prisoner, if by this means he might attract the attention and sympathy of the whole civilized world.[7]
But so complete is this voluntary confinement of the Pope, that he has not left the Vatican in these five years, not even to go into St. Peter's, though it adjoins the Vatican, and he can enter it by a private passage. It is whispered that he did go in on one occasion,to see his own portrait, which is wrought in mosaic, and placed over the bronze statue of St. Peter. But on this occasion the public were excluded, and when the doors were opened he had disappeared. He willnot even take part in the great festivals of the Church, which are thus shorn of half their splendor.
How well I remember the gorgeous ceremonies of Holy Week, beginning with Palm Sunday, and ending with Easter. I was one of the foreigners in the Sistine Chapel on Good Friday, when the Pope's choir, composed of eunuchs, sang theMiserere; and on the Piazza of St. Peter's at Easter, when the Pope was carried on men's shoulders to the great central window, where, in the presence of an immense crowd, he pronounced his benedictionurbi et orbi; and the cannon of the Castle of St. Angelo thundered forth the mighty blessings which had thus descended on "the city and the world." I saw too, that night, the illumination of St. Peter's, when arches and columns and roof and dome were hung with lamps, that when all lighted together, made such a flame that it seemed as if the very heavens were on fire.
But now all this glory and splendor have gone out in utter night. There are no more blessings for unbelievers—nor even for the faithful, except as they seek them within the sacred precincts of the Vatican, where alone the successor of St. Peter is now visible. It is a great loss to those who have not been in Rome before, especially to those enthusiastic persons who feel that they cannot "die happy" unless they have seen the Pope.
But I do not need anything to gratify my curiosity. I have seen the Pope many times before, and I recognize in the photographs which are in all shop windows the same face which I saw a quarter of a century ago—only aged indeed by the lapse of these many years.It is a good face.I used to think he looked like Dr. Sprague of Albany, who certainly had as benevolent a countenance as ever shone forth in kindness on one's fellow creatures. All who know the Pope personally, speak of him as a very kind-hearted man, with most gentle and winning manners. This I fully believe, but is it not a strong argument against the systemin which he is bound, that it turns a disposition so sweet into bitterness, and leads one of the most amiable of men to do things very inconsistent with the meek character of the Vicar of Christ; to curse where he ought to bless, and to call down fire from heaven on his enemies? But his natural instincts are all good. When I was here before he was universally popular. His predecessor, Gregory XVI., had been very conservative. But when Cardinal Mastai Ferretti—for that was his name—was elected Pope, he began a series of reforms, which elated the Roman people, and caused the eyes of all Europe to be turned towards him as the coming man. He was the idol of the hour. It seemed as if he had been raised up by Providence to lead the nations in the path of peaceful progress. But the Revolutions of 1848, in Paris and elsewhere, frightened him. And when Garibaldi took possession of Rome, and proclaimed the Republic, his ardor for reform was entirely gone. He escaped from the city disguised as a valet, and fled for protection to the King of Naples, and was afterwards brought back by French troops. From that time he surrendered himself entirely to the Reactionary party, and since then, while as well meaning as ever, he is the victim of a system, from which he cannot escape, and which makes him do things wholly at variance with his kindly and generous nature.
Even the staunchest Protestants who go to see the Pope are charmed with him. They had, perhaps, thought of him as the "Giant Pope," whom Bunyan describes as sitting at the mouth of a cave, and glaring fiercely at Pilgrims as they go by; and they are astonished to find him a very simple old man, pleasant in conversation, fond of ladies' society, with a great deal of humor, enjoying a joke as much as anybody, with a merry twinkle in his eyes, and a face all smiles, as if he had never uttered an anathema. This is indeed very agreeable, but all the more does it make one astounded at the incongruity between such pleasant pastime and his awfulspiritual pretensions—for this man who stands there, chatting so familiarly, and laughing so heartily, professes to believe that he is the vicegerent of the Almighty upon earth, and that he has the power to open and shut the gates of hell! God forgive him for the blasphemy of such a thought! It seems incredible that he can believe it himself; or, if he did, that the curses could roll so lightly from his lips. But anathemas appear to be a part of his daily recreation. He seems really to enjoy firing a volley into his enemies, as one would fire a gun into a flock of pigeons. Here is the last shot which I find in the paper of this very day:
"The Roman Catholic papers at The Hague publish a pastoral letter from the Pope to the Archbishop of Utrecht, by which his Holiness makes known that Johannes Heykamp has been excommunicated, as he has allowed himself to be elected and ordained as archbishop of the Jansenists in Holland, and also Johannes Rinkel, who calls himself Bishop of Haarlem, who performed the ordination. The Pope also declares to be excommunicated all those who assisted at the ceremony. The Pope also calls this ordination 'a vile and despicable deed,' and warns all good Catholics not to have any intercourse with the perpetrators of it, but to pray without ceasing that God may turn their hearts."
It is noteworthy that all these anathemas are simply for ecclesiastical offences, not for any immorality, however gross. The Queen of Spain may be notorious for her profligacy, yet she receives no rebuke, she is even as a beloved daughter, to whom the Pope sends presents, so long as she is devout and reverent towards him, or towards the Church. So any prince, or private gentleman, may break all the Ten Commandments, and still be a good Catholic; but if he doubts Infallibility, he is condemned. All sins may be forgiven, except rebellion against the Church or the Pope. He has excommunicated Döllinger, the most learned Catholic theologian in Europe, and Father Hyacinthe, the most eloquent preacher. Poor VictorEmmanuel comes in for oft-repeated curses, simply because in a great political crisis he yielded to the inevitable.Hedid not seize Rome. It wasthe Italian people, whom he could no more stop than he could stop the inrolling of the sea. If he had not gone before the people they would have goneoverhim. But for this he is cut off from the communion of the Catholic Church, and delivered over, so far as the anathema of the Pope can do it, to the pains of hell.
And yet if we allege this as proof that some remains of human infirmity still cling to the Infallible Head of the Church, or that a very kind nature has been turned into gall and bitterness, we are told by those who have just come from a reception that he was all sweetness and smiles. An English priest who is in our hotel had an audience last evening, and he says: "The Holy Father was very jolly, laughing heartily at every pleasantry." It does one good to see an old man so merry and light-hearted, but does not such gayety seem a little forced or out of place? Men who have no cares on their minds may laugh and be gay, but for the Vicar of Christ does it not seem to imply that he attaches no weight to the maledictions that he throws about so liberally? If he felt the awful meaning of what he utters, he could not so easily preserve his good spirits and his merriment, while he consigns his fellow-men to perdition. One would think that if obliged to pronounce such a doom upon any, he would do it with tears—that he would retire into his closet, and throw ashes upon his head, and come forth in sackcloth, overwhelmed at the hard necessity which compelled the stern decree. But it does not seem to interfere with any of his enjoyments. He gives a reception at which he is smiling and gracious, and then proceeds to cast out some wretched fellow-creature from the communion of the Holy Catholic Church. There is something shocking in the easy, off-hand manner in which he despatches his enemies. He anathematizes with as little concern as he takes his breakfast, apparentlyattaching as much solemnity to one as the other. The mixture of levity with stern duties is not a pleasant sight, as when one orders an execution between the puffs of a cigar. But this holy man, this Vicegerent of God on earth, pronounces a sentence more awful still; for he orders what,according to his theory, is worse than an execution—an excommunication. Yet he does it quite unconcerned. If he does not order an anathema between the puffs of a cigar, he does it between two pinches of snuff. Such levity would be inconceivable, if we could suppose that he really believes that his curses have power to harm, that they cast a feather's weight into the scale that decides the eternal destiny of a human soul. We do not say that he is conscious of any hypocrisy. Far from it. It is one of those cases, which are so common in the world, in which there is an unconscious contradiction between one's private feelings and his public conduct; in which a man is far better than his theory. We do not believe the Pope is half as bad as he would make himself to be—half so resentful and vindictive as he appears. As we sometimes say, in excuse for harsh language, "he don't mean anything by it." Hedoesmean something, viz., to assert his own authority. But he does not quite desire to deliver up his fellow-creatures to the pains of eternal death.
We are truly sorry for the Pope. He is an old man, and with all his natural gentleness, may be supposed to have something of the irritability of age. And now he is engaged in a contest in which he is sure to fail; he is fighting against the inevitable, against a course of things which he has no more power to withstand than to breast the current of Niagara. He might as well take his stand on the brink of the great cataract, and think by the force of prayers or maledictions to stop the flowing of the mighty waters. All the powers of Europe are against him. Among the sovereigns he has not a single friend, or, at least, one who has any power to help him. The Emperor of Germany is this week on avisit to Milan as the guest of Victor Emmanuel. But he will not come to Rome to pay his respects to the Pope. The Emperor of Austria came to Venice last spring, but neither did he, though he is a good Catholic, continue his journey as far as the Vatican. Thus the Pope is left alone. For this he has only himself to blame. He has forced the conflict, and now he is in a false position, from which there is no escape.
All Europe is looking anxiously to the event of the Pope's death. He has already filled the Papal chair longer than any one of his two hundred and fifty-six predecessors, running back to St. Peter. But he is still hale and strong, and though he is eighty-three years old,[8]he may yet live a few years longer. He belongs to a very long-lived family; his grandfather died at ninety-three, his father at eighty-three, his mother at eighty-eight, his eldest brother at ninety. Protestants certainly may well pray that he should be blessed with the utmost length of days; for the longer he lives, and the more obstinate he is in his reactionary policy, the more pronounced does he force Italy to become in its antagonism, and not only Italy, but Austria and Bavaria, as well as Protestant Germany. May he live to be a hundred years old!
CHAPTER XXIV.
PICTURES AND PALACES.
Before we go away from Rome I should like to say a few words on two subjects which hitherto I have avoided. A large part of the time of most travellers in Europe is spent in wandering through palaces and picture galleries, but descriptions of the former would be tedious by their very monotony of magnificence, and of the latter would be hardly intelligible to unprofessional readers, nor of much value to anybody, unless the writer were, what I do not profess to be, a thorough critic in art. But I have certain general impressions, which I may express with due modesty, and yet with frankness, and which may perchance accord with the impressions of some other very plain, but not quite unintelligent, people.
One who has not been abroad—I might almost say, who has notlivedabroad—cannot realize how much art takes hold of the imagination of a people, and enters into their very life. It is the form in which Italian genius has most often expressed itself. What poetry is in some countries, art is in Italy. England had great poets in the days of Elizabeth, but no great painters, at a time when the churches and galleries of Italy were illuminated by the genius of Raphael and Titian and Leonardo da Vinci.
The products of such genius have been a treasure to Italy and to the world. Works of art are immortal. Raphael is dead, but the Transfiguration lives. As the paintings ofgreat masters accumulated from century to century, they were gathered in public or private collections, which became, like the libraries of universities, storehouses for the delight and instruction of mankind. Such works justly command the homage and reverence which are due to the highest creations of the human intellect. The man who has put on canvas conceptions which are worthy to live, has left a legacy to the human race. "When I think," said an old monk, who was accustomed to show paintings on the walls of his monastery, "how men come, generation after generation, to see these pictures, and how they pass away, but these remain, I sometimes think thatthese are the realities, and that we are the shadows."
But with all this acknowledgment of the genius that is thus immortal, and that gives delight to successive generations, there are one or two drawbacks to the pleasure I have derived from these great collections of art.
In the first place, there is theembarrassment of riches. One who undertakes to visit all the picture galleries, even of a single city like Rome or Florence, soon finds himself overwhelmed by their number. He goes on day after day, racing from one place to another, looking here and there in the most hurried manner, till his mind becomes utterly confused, and he gains no definite impression. It is as impossible to study with care all these pictures, as it would be to read all the books in a public library, which are not intended to be read "by wholesale," but only to be used for reference. So with the great collections of paintings, which are arranged in a certain order, so as to give an idea of the style of different countries, such as the Dutch school, the Venetian school, etc. These are very useful for one who wishes to trace the history of art, but the ordinary traveller does not care to go into such detail. To him a much smaller number of pictures, carefully chosen, would give more pleasure and more instruction.
Further, it has seemed to me that with all the genius of the old masters (which no one is more ready to confess, and in which no one takes more intense delight), there is sometimes aworshipof them, which is extended to all their works without discrimination, which is not the result of personal observation, nor quite consistent with mental independence. Indeed, there are few things in which the empire of fashion is more absolute, and more despotic. It is at this point that I meekly offer a protest. I admit fully and gratefully the marvellous genius of some of the old painters, but I cannot admit that everything they touched was equally good. Homer sometimes nods, and even Raphael and Titian—great as they are, and superior perhaps to everybody else—are not always equal to themselves. Raphael worked very rapidly, as is shown by the number of pictures which he left, although he died a young man. Of course, his works must be very unequal, and we may all exercise our taste in preferring some to others.
In another respect it seems to me that there is a limitation of the greatness even of the old masters, viz., in the range of their subjects, in which I find a singularmonotony. In the numberless galleries that we have visited this summer, I have observed in the old pictures, with all their power of drawing and richness of color, a remarkable sameness, both of subject and of treatment. Even the greatest artists have their manner, which one soon comes to recognize; so that he is rarely mistaken in designating the painter. I know a picture of Rubens anywhere by the colossal limbs that start out of the canvas. Paul Veronese always spreads himself over a large surface, where he has room to bring in a great number of figures, and introduce details of architecture. Give him the Marriage at Cana, or a Royal Feast, and he will produce a picture which will furnish the whole end of a palace hall. It is very grand, of course; but when one sees a constant recurrence of the same general style, he recognizesthe limitations of the painter's genius. Or, to go from large pictures to small ones, there is a Dutch artist, Wouvermans, whose pictures are in every gallery in Europe. I have seen hundreds of them, and not one in which he does not introduce a white horse!
Even the greatest of the old masters seem to have exercised their genius upon a limited number of subjects. During the Middle Ages art was consecrated almost wholly to religion. Some of the painters were themselves devout men, and wrought with a feeling of religious devotion. Fra Angelico was a monk (in the same monastery at Florence with Savonarola), and regarded his art as a kind of priesthood, going from his prayers to his painting, and from his painting to his prayers. Others felt the same influence, though in a less degree. In devoting themselves to art, they were moved at once by the inspiration of genius and the inspiration of religion. Others still, who were not at all saintly in their lives, yet painted for churches and convents. Thus, from one cause or another, almost all the art of that day was employed to illustrate religious subjects. Of these there was one that was before all others—the Holy Family, or the Virgin and her Child. This appears and reappears in every possible form. We can understand the attraction of such a subject to an artist; for to him the Virgin wasthe ideal of womanhood, to paint whom was to embody his conception of the most exquisite womanly sweetness and grace. And in this how well did the old masters succeed! No one who has a spark of taste or sensibility can deny the exquisite beauty of some of their pictures of the Virgin—the tenderness, the grace, the angelic purity. What sweetness have they given to the face of that young mother, so modest, yet flushed with the first dawning of maternal love! What affection looks out of those tender eyes! In the celebrated picture of Raphael in the Gallery at Florence, called "The Madonna of the Chair," the Virgin is seated, and clasps herchild to her breast, who turns his large eyes, with a wondering gaze, at the world in which he is to live and to suffer. One stands before such a picture transfixed at a loveliness that seems almost divine.
But of all the Madonnas of Raphael—or of any master—which I have seen, I prefer that at Dresden, where the Virgin is not seated, but standing erect at her full height, with the clouds under her feet, soaring to heaven with the Christ-child in her arms. When I went into the room set apart to that picture (for no other is worthy to keep it company), I felt as if I were in a church; every one spoke in whispers; it seemed as if ordinary conversation were an impertinence; as if it would break the spell of that sacred presence.
Something of the same effect (some would call it even greater) is produced by Titian's or Murillo's painting of the "Assumption" of the Virgin—that is, her being caught up into the clouds, with the angels hovering around her, over her head and under her feet. One of these great paintings is at Venice, and the other in the Louvre at Paris. In both the central figure is floating, like that of Christ in the Transfiguration. The Assumption is a favorite subject of the old masters, and reappears everywhere, as does the "Annunciation" by the Angel of the approaching birth of Christ, the "Nativity," and the coming of the Magi to adore the holy child. I do not believe there is a gallery in Italy, and hardly a private collection, in which there are not "Nativities" and "Assumptions" and "Annunciations."
But if some of these pictures are indeed wonderful, there are others which are not at all divine; which are of the earth, earthy; in which the Virgin is nothing more than a pretty woman, chosen as a type of female beauty (just as a Greek sculptor would aim to givehisideal in a statue of Venus), painted sometimes on a Jewish, but more often on an Italian, model. In Holland the Madonnas have a decidedlyDutch style of beauty. We may be pardoned if we do not go into raptures over them.
When the old masters, after painting the Virgin Mary, venture on an ideal of our Lord himself, they are less successful, because the subject is more difficult. They attempt to portray the Divine Man; but who can paint that blessed countenance, so full of love and sorrow? That brow, heavy with care, that eye so tender? I have seen hundreds of Ecce Homos, but not one that gave me a new or more exalted impression of the Saviour of the world than I obtain from the New Testament.
But if it seems almost presumption to attempt to paint our Saviour, what shall we say to the introduction of the Supreme Being upon the canvas? Yet this appears very often in the paintings of the old masters. I cannot but think it was suggested by the fact that the Greek sculptors made statues of the gods for their temples. As they undertook to give the head of Jupiter, so these Christian artists thought they could paint the Almighty! Not unfrequently they give the three persons of the Trinity—the Father being represented as an old man with a long beard, floating on a cloud, the Spirit as a dove, while the Son is indicated by a human form bearing a cross. Can anything be more repulsive than such a representation! These are things beyond the reach of art. No matter what genius may be in certain artistic details, the picture is, and must be, a failure, because it is an attemptto paint the unpaintable.
Next to Madonnas and Holy Families, the old masters delight in the painting of saints and martyrs. And here again the same subjects recur with wearying uniformity. I should be afraid to say how many times I have seen St. Lawrence stretched on his gridiron; and youthful St. Sebastian bound to a tree, and pierced with arrows; and old St. Anthony in the desert, assaulted by the temptations of the devil. No doubt these were blessed martyrs, but after being exhibitedfor so many centuries to the gaze of the world, I should think it would be a relief for them to retire to the enjoyment of the heavenly paradise.
Is it not, then, a just criticism of those who painted all those Madonnas and saints and martyrs, to say, while admitting their transcendent genius, that still their works presenta magnificent monotony, both of subject and of treatment, and at last weary the eye even by their interminable splendors?
Another point in which the same works are signally defective, is in the absence oflandscape painting. It has been often remarked of the classic poets, that while they describe human actions and passions, they show a total insensibility to the beauties of nature. The same deficiency appears in the paintings of the old masters. Seldom do they attempt landscape. Sometimes a clump of trees, or a glimpse of sky, is introduced as a background for figures, but it is almost always subordinate to the general effect.
Here, then, it seems to me no undue assumption of modern pride to say that the artists of the present day are not only the equals of the old masters, but their superiors. They have learned of the Mighty Mother herself. They have communed with nature. They have felt the ineffable beauty of the woods and lakes and rivers, of the mountains and the meadows, of the valleys and the hills, of the clouds and skies, and in painting these, have led us into a new world of beauty. As I am an enthusiastic lover of nature, I feel like standing up for the Moderns against the Ancients, and saying (at the risk of being set down as wanting in taste) that I have derived as much pleasure from some of the pictures which I have seen at the Annual Exhibitions in London and Paris, and even in New York, as from any,except a few hundred of the very bestof the pictures which I have seen here.
I am led to speak thus freely, because I am slightly disgusted with the abject servility in this matter of many foreigntourists. I see them going through these galleries, guide-book in hand, consulting it at every step, to know what they must admire, and not daring to express an opinion, nor even to enjoy what they see until they turn to what is said by Murray or Bædeker. Of course guide-books are useful, and even necessary, and one can hardly go into a gallery without one, to serve at least as a catalogue, but they must not take the place of one's own eyes. If we are ever to know anything of art, we must begin, however modestly, to exercise our own judgment. While therefore I would have every traveller use his guide-book freely, I would have him use still more his eyes and his brain, and try to exercise, so as to cultivate, his taste.
Is it not time for Americans, who boast so much of their independence, to show a little of it here? Some come abroad only to learn to despise their own country. For my part, the more I see of other countries, while appreciating them fully, the more I love my own; I love its scenery, its landscapes, and its homes, and its men and women; and while I would not commit the opposite mistake of a foolish conceit of everything American, I think our artists show a fair share of talent, which can best be developed by a constant study of nature. Nature is greater than the old masters. What sunset ever painted by Claude or Poussin equals, or even approaches, what we often see when the sun sinks in the west, covering the clouds with gold? If our artists are to paint sunsets, let them not go to picture galleries, but out of doors, and behold the glory of the dying day. Let them paint nature as they see it at home. Nature is not fairer in Italy than in America. Let them paint American landscapes, giving, if they can, the beauty of our autumnal woods, and all the glory of the passing year. If they will keep closely to nature, instead of copying old masters, they may produce an original, as well as a true and genuine school of art, and will fill our galleries and our homes with beauty.
From Pictures to Palaces is an easy transition, as these are the temples in which works of art are enshrined. Many years ago, when I first came abroad, a lady in London, who is well known both in England and America, took me to see Stafford House, the residence of the Duke of Sutherland, saying that it was much finer than Buckingham Palace, and "the best they had to show in England," but that, "of course, it was nothing to what I should see on the Continent, and especially in Italy." Since then I have visited palaces in almost every capital in Europe. I find indeed that Italy excels all other countries in architecture, as she does in another form of art. When her cities were the richest in Europe, drawing to themselves the commerce and the wealth of the East, it was natural that the doges and dukes and princes should display their magnificence in the rearing of costly palaces. These, while they differ in details, have certain general features in which they are all pretty much alike—stately proportions, grand entrances, broad staircases, lofty ceilings, apartments of immense size, with columns of porphyry and alabaster and lapis lazuli, and pavements of mosaic or tessellated marble, with no end of costliness in decoration; ceilings loaded with carving and gilding, and walls hung with tapestries, and adorned with paintings by the first masters in the world. Such is the picture of many a palace that one may see to-day in Venice and Genoa and Florence and Rome.
If any of my readers feel a touch of envy at the tale of such magnificence, it may comfort them to hear, that probably their own American homes, though much less splendid, are a great deal more comfortable. These palaces were not built for comfort, but for pride and for show. They are well enough for courts and for state occasions, but not for ordinary life. They have few of those comforts which we consider indispensable in our American homes. It is almost impossible to keep them warm. Their vast halls are cold and dreary.The pavements of marble and mosaic are not half so comfortable as a plain wooden floor covered with a carpet. There is no gas—they are lighted only with candles; while the liberal supply of water which we have in our American cities is unknown. A lady living in one of the grandest palaces in Rome, tells me that every drop of water used by her family has to be carried up those tremendous staircases, to ascend which is almost like climbing the Leaning Tower of Pisa. Of course a bath is aluxury, and not, as with us, an universal comfort. Nowhere do I find such a supply of that necessary element of household cleanliness and personal health, as we have in New York, furnished by a river running through the heart of a city, carrying life, as well as luxury, into every dwelling.
The English-speaking race understand the art of domestic architecture better than any other in the world. They may not build such grand palaces, but they know how to buildhomes. In country houses we should have to yield the palm to the tasteful English cottages, but in city houses I should claim it for America, for the simple reason that, as our cities are newer, there are many improvements introduced in houses of modern construction unknown before.
When Prince Napoleon was in New York, he said that there was more comfort in one of our best houses than he found in the Palais Royal in Paris. And I can well believe it. I doubt if there is a city in the world where there is a greater number of private dwellings which are more thoroughly comfortable, well warmed and well lighted, well ventilated and well drained, with hot and cold baths everywhere: surely such materials for merely physical comfort never existed before. These are luxuries not always found, even in kings' palaces.
But it is not of our rich city houses that I make my boast, but of the tens of thousands of country houses, so full of comfort, full of sunshine, andfull of peace. These are thethings which make a nation happy, and which are better than the palaces of Venice or of Rome.
And so the result of all our observations has been to make us contented with our modest republican ways. How often, while wandering through these marble halls, have I looked away from all this splendor to a happy country beyond the sea, and whispered to myself,