"If you only had enough funds to carry you there you'd change your tune. But go on."
"But Rome arises before me as the parent of the latter time. By her the old battles between Freedom and Despotism were fought long ago, and the forms and principles of Liberty came forth, to pass, amid many vicissitudes, down to a new-born day."
"There! I'm coming to the point now!"
"About time, I imagine. The editor will get into despair."
"There is but one fitting approach to Rome. By any other road the majesty of the Old Capital is lost in the lesser grandeur of the Medieval City. Whoever goes there let him come up from Naples and enter by the Jerusalem Gate."
"Jerusalem fiddlesticks! Why, there's no such gate!"
"There the very spirit of Antiquity sits enthroned to welcome the traveller, and all the solemn Past sheds her influences over his soul--"
"Excuse me; there is a Jerusalem Gate."
"Perhaps so--in Joppa."
"There the Imperial City lies in the sublimity of ruin. It is the Rome of our dreams--the ghost of a dead and buried Empire hovering over its own neglected grave!"
"Dick, it's not fair to work off an old college essay as European correspondence."
"Nothing may be seen but desolation. The waste Campagna stretches its arid surface away to the Alban mountains, uninhabited, and forsaken of man and beast. For the dust and the works and the monuments of millions lie here, mingled in the common corruption of the tomb, and the life of the present age shrinks away in terror. Long lines of lofty aqueducts come slowly down from the Alban hills, but these crumbled stones and broken arches tell a story more eloquent than human voice.
"The walls arise before us, but there is no city beyond. The desolation that reigns in the Campagna has entered here. The palace of the noble, the haunts of pleasure, the resorts of the multitude, the garrison of the soldier, have crumbled to dust, and mingled together in one common ruin. The soil on which we tread, which gives birth to trees, shrubs, and wild flowers without number, is but an assemblage of the disintegrated atoms of stones and mortar that once arose on high in the form of palace, pyramid, or temple."
"Dick, I advise you to write all your letters before you see the places you speak of. You've no idea how eloquent you can be!"
"Now if we pass on in this direction, we soon come to a spot which is the centre of the world--the place where most of all we must look when we search for the source of much that is valuable in our age.
"It in a rude and a neglected spot. At one end rises a rock crowned with houses; on one side are a few mean edifices, mingled with masses of tottering ruins; on the other a hill formed altogether of crumbled atoms of bricks, mortar, and precious marbles. In the midst are a few rough columns blackened by time and exposure. The soil is deep, and in places there are pits where excavations have been made. Rubbish lies around; bits of straw, and grass, and hay, and decayed leather, and broken bottles, and old bones. A few dirty shepherds pass along, driving lean and miserable sheep. Further up is a cluster of wine-carts, with still more curious horses and drivers.
"What is this place?--what those ruins, these fallen monuments, these hoary arches, these ivy-covered walls? What? This is--
"'The field of freedom, faction, fame, and blood;
Here a proud people's passions were exhaled,
From the first hour of Empire in the bud
To that when further worlds to conquer failed;
The Forum where the immortal accents glow,
And still the eloquent air breathes, burns with Cicero!'
"Yet if you go up to one of those people and ask this Question, he will answer you and tell you the only name, he knows--The Cow Market!'"
"Is that all?" inquired Buttons, as Dick laid down his paper.
"That's all I've written as yet."
Whereupon Buttons clapped his bands to express applause, and all the others laughingly followed his example.
"Dick," said the Senator, after a pause, "what you have written sounds pretty. But look at the facts. Here you are writing a description of Rome before you've seen any thing of the place at all. All that you have put in that letter is what you have read in books of travel. I mention this not from blame, but merely to show what a wrong principle travellers go on. They don't notice real live facts. Now I've promised the editor of our paper a letter. As soon as I write it I'll read it for you. The style won't be equal to yours. But, if I write, I'll be bound to tell something new. Sentiment," pursued the Senator, thoughtfully, "is playing the dickens with the present age. What we ought to look at is not old ruins or pictures, but men--men--live men. I'd rather visit the cottage of an Italian peasant than any church in the country. I'd rather see the working of the political constitution of this 'ere benighted land than any painting you can show. Horse-shoes before ancient stones, and macaroni before statues, say I! For these little things show me all the life of the people. If I only understood their cursed lingo," said the Senator, with a tinge of regret, "I'd rather stand and hear them talk by the hour, particularly the women, than listen to the pootiest music they can scare up!"
"I tried that game," said Mr. Figgs, ruefully, "in Naples. I went into a broker's shop to change a Napoleon. I thought I'd like to see their financial system. I saw enough of it; for the scoundrel gave me a lot of little bits of coin that only passed for a few cents apiece in Naples, with difficulty at that, and won't pass here at all!"
The Senator laughed. "Well, you shouldn't complain. You lost your Napoleon, but gained experience. You have a new wrinkle. I gained a new wrinkle too when I gave a half-Napoleon, by mistake, to a wretched looking beggar, blind of one eye. I intended to give him a centime."
"Your principle," said Buttons, "does well enough for you as a traveller. But you don't look at all the points of the subject. The point is to write a letter for a newspaper. Now what is the most successful kind of letter? The readers of a family paper are notoriously women and young men, or lads. Older men only look at the advertisements or the news. What do women and lads care for horse-shoes and macaroni? Of course, if one were to write about these things in a humorous style they would take; but, as a general thing, they prefer to read about old ruins, and statues, and cities, and processions. But the best kind of a correspondence is that which deals altogether in adventures. That's what takes the mind! Incidents of travel, fights with ruffians, quarrels with landlords, shipwrecks, robbery, odd scrapes, laughable scenes; and Dick, my boy! when you write again be sure to fill your letter with events of this sort."
"But suppose," suggested Dick, meekly, "that we meet with no ruffians, and there are no adventures to relate?"
"Then use a traveller's privilege and invent them. What was imagination given for if not to use?"
"It will not do--it will not do," said the Senator, decidedly. "You must hold on to facts. Information, not amusement, should be your aim."
"But information is dull by itself. Amusement perhaps is useless. Now how much better to combine the utility of solid information with the lighter graces of amusement, fun, and fancy. Your pill, Doctor, is hard to take, though its effects are good. Coat it with sugar and it's easy."
"What!" exclaimed the Doctor, suddenly starting up. "I'm not asleep! Did you speak to me?"
The Doctor blinked and rubbed his eyes, and wondered what the company were laughing at. In a few minutes, however, he concluded to resume his broken slumber in his bed. He accordingly retired; and the company followed his example.
CHAPTER XIX
.
ST. PETER'S!--THE TRAGIC STORY OF THE FAT MAN IN THE BALL.--HOW ANOTHER TRAGEDY NEARLY HAPPENED.--THE WOES OF MEINHERR SCHATT.
Two stately fountains, a colonnade which in spite of faults possesses unequalled majesty, a vast piazza, enclosing many acres, in whose immense area puny man dwindles to a dwarf, and in the distance the unapproachable glories of the greatest of earthly temples--such is the first view of St. Peter's.
Our party of friends entered the lordly vestibule, and lifting the heavy mat that hung over the door-way they passed through. There came a soft air laden with the odor of incense; and strains of music from one of the side chapels came echoing dreamily down one of the side aisles. A glare of sunlight flashed in on polished marbles of a thousand colors that covered pillars, walls, and pavement. The vaulted ceiling blazed with gold. People strolled to and fro without any apparent object. They seemed to be promenading. In different places some peasant women were kneeling.
They walked up the nave. The size of the immense edifice increased with every step. Arriving under the dome they stood looking up with boundless astonishment.
They walked round and round. They saw statues which were masterpieces of genius; sculptures that glowed with immortal beauty; pictures which had consumed a life-time as they grew up beneath the patient toil of the mosaic worker. There were altars containing gems equal to a king's ransom; curious pillars that came down from immemorial ages; lamps that burn forever.
"This," said the Senator, "is about the first place that has really come up to my idee of foreign parts. In fact it goes clean beyond it. I acknowledge its superiority to any thing that America can produce. But what's the good of it all? If this Government really cared for the good of the people it would sell out the hull concern, and devote the proceeds to railways and factories. Then Italy would go ahead as Providence intended."
"My dear Sir, the people of this country would rise and annihilate any Government that dared to touch it."
"Shows how debased they have grown. There's no utility in all this. There couldn't be any really good Gospel preaching here.
"Different people require different modes of worship," said Buttons, sententiously.
"But it's immense," said the Senator, as they stood at the furthest end and looked toward the entrance. "I've been calc'latin' that you could range along this middle aisle about eighteen good-sized Protestant churches, and eighteen more along the side aisles. You could pile them up three tiers high. You could stow away twenty-four more in the cross aisle. After that you could pile up twenty more in the dome. That would make room here for one hundred and fifty-two, good-sized Protestant churches, and room enough would be left to stow away all their spires."
And to show the truth of his calculation he exhibited a piece of paper on which he had pencilled it all.
If the interior is imposing the ascent to the roof is equally so. There is a winding path so arranged that mules can go up carrying loads. Up this they went and reached the roof. Six or seven acres of territory snatched from the air spread around; statutes rose from the edge; all around cupolas and pillars rose. In the center the huge dome itself towered on high. There was a long low building filled with people who lived up here. They were workmen whose duty it was to attend to the repairs of the vast structure. Two fountains poured forth a never-ceasing supply of water. It was difficult to conceive that this was a roof of a building.
Entering the base of the central cupola a stairway leads up. There is a door which leads to the interior, where one can walk around a gallery on the inside of the dome and look down. Further up where the arch springs there is another. Finally at the apex of the dome there is a third opening. Looking down through this the sensation is terrific.
Upon the summit of the vast dome stands an edifice of large size, which is called the lantern, and appears insignificant in comparison with the mighty structure beneath. Up this the stairway goes until at length the opening into the ball is reached.
The whole five climbed up into the ball. They found to their surprise that it would hold twice as many more. The Senator reached up his hand. He could not touch the top. They looked through the slits in the side. The view was boundless; the wide Campagna, the purple Apennines, the blue Mediterranean, appeared from different sides.
"I feel," said the Senator, "that the conceit is taken out of me. What is Boston State House to this; or Bunker Hill monument! I used to see pictures of this place in Woodbridge's Geography; but I never had a realizing sense of architecture until now."
"This ball," said Buttons, "has its history, its associations. It has been the scene of suffering. Once a stoutish man came up here. The guides warned him, but to no purpose. He was a willful Englishman. You may see, gentlemen, that the opening is narrow. How the Englishman managed to get up does not appear; but it is certain that when he tried to get down he found it impossible. He tried for hours to squeeze through. No use. Hundreds of people came up to help him. They couldn't. The whole city got into a state of wild excitement. Some of the churches had prayers offered up for him though he was a heretic. At the end of three days he tried again. Fasting and anxiety had come to his relief, and he slipped through without difficulty."
"He must have been a London swell," said Dick.
"I don't believe a word of it," said Mr. Figgs, looking with an expression of horror, first at the opening, and then at his own rotundity. Then springing forward he hurriedly began to descend.
Happy Mr. Figgs! There was no danger for him. But in his eagerness to get down he did not think of looking below to see if the way was clear. And so it happened, that as he descended quickly and with excited haste, he stepped with all his weight upon the hand of a man who was coming up. The stranger shouted. Mr. Figgs jumped. His foot slipped. His hand loosened, and down he fell plump to the bottom. Had he fallen on the floor there is no doubt that he would have sustained severe injury. Fortunately for himself he fell upon the stranger and nearly crushed his life out.
The stranger writhed and rolled till he had got rid of his heavy burden. The two men simultaneously started to their feet. The stranger was a short stout man with an unmistakable German face. He had bright blue eyes, red hair, and a forked red beard. He stared with all his might, stroked his forked red beard piteously, and then ejaculated most gutturally, in tones that seemed to come from his boots--
"Gh-h-h-r-r-r-r-r-acious me!"
Mr. Figgs overwhelmed him with apologies, assured him that it was quite unintentional, hoped that he wasn't hurt, begged his pardon; but the stranger only panted, and still he stroked his forked red beard, and still ejaculated--
"Gh-h-h-r-r-r-r-r-acious me!"
Four heads peered through the opening above; but seeing no accident their owners, one by one, descended, and all with much sympathy asked the stranger if he was much hurt. But the stranger, who seemed quite bewildered, still panted and stroked his beard, and ejaculated--
"Gh-h-h-r-r-r-r-r-acious me!"
At length he seemed to recover his faculties, and discovered that he was not hurt. Upon this he assured Mr. Figgs, in heavy guttural English, that it was nothing. He had often been knocked down before. If Mr. Figgs was a Frenchman, he would feel angry. But as he was an American he was glad to make his acquaintance. He himself had once lived in America, in Cincinnati, where he had edited a German paper. His name was Meinherr Schatt.
Meinherr Schatt showed no further disposition to go up; but descended with the others down as far as the roof, when they went to the front and stood looking down on the piazza. In the course of conversation Meinherr Schatt informed them that he belonged to the Duchy of Saxe Meiningen, that he had been living in Rome about two years, and liked it about as well as any place that he had seen.
He went every autumn to Paris to speculate on the Bourse, and generally made enough to keep him for a year. He was acquainted with all the artists in Rome. Would they like to be introduced to some of them?
Gracious Me!
[Illustration: Gracious Me!]
Buttons would be most charmed. He would rather become acquainted with artists than with any class of people.
Meinherr Schatt lamented deeply the present state of things arising from the war in Lombardy. A peaceful German traveller was scarcely safe now. Little boys made faces at him in the street, and shouted after him, "Mudedetto Tedescho!"
Just at this moment the eye of Buttons was attracted by a carriage that rolled away from under the front of the cathedral down the piazza. In it were two ladies and a gentleman. Buttons stared eagerly for a few moments, and then gave a jump.
"What's the matter?" cried Dick.
"It is! By Jove! It is!"
"What? Who?"
"I see her face! I'm off!"
"Confound it! Whose face?"
But Buttons gave no answer. He was off like the wind, and before the others could recover from their surprise had vanished down the descent.
"What upon airth has possessed Buttons now?" asked the Senator.
"It must be the Spanish girl," said Dick.
"Again? Hasn't his mad chase at sea given him a lesson? Spanish girl! What is he after? If he wants a girl, why can't he wait and pick out a regular thorough-bred out and outer of Yankee stock? These Spaniards are not the right sort."
In an incredible short space of time the figure of Buttons was seen dashing down the piazza, in the direction which the carriage had taken. But the carriage was far ahead, and even as he left the church it had already crossed the Ponte di S. Angelo. The others then descended. Buttons was not seen till the end of the day.
He then made his appearance with a dejected air.
"What luck?" asked Dick, as he came in.
"None at all," said Buttons, gloomily.
"Wrong ones again?"
"No, indeed. I'm not mistaken this time. But I couldn't catch them. They got out of sight, and kept out too. I've been to every hotel in the place, but couldn't find them. It's too bad."
"Buttons," said the Senator, gravely, "I'm sorry to see a young man like you so infatuated. Beware--Buttons--beware of wimmin! Take the advice of an older and more experienced man. Beware of wimmin. Whenever you see one coming--dodge! It's your only hope. If it hadn't been for wimmin"--and the Senator seemed to speak half to himself, while his face assumed a pensive air--"if it hadn't been for wimmin, I'd been haranguing the Legislatoor now, instead of wearying my bones in this benighted and enslaved country."
CHAPTER XX
.
THE GLORY, GRANDEUR, BEAUTY, AND INFINITE VARIETY OF THE PINCIAN HILL; NARRATED AND DETAILED NOT COLUMNARILY BUT EXHAUSTIVELY, AND AFTER THE MANNER OF RABELAIS.
Oh, the Pincian Hill!--Does the memory of that place affect all alike? Whether it does or not matters little to the chronicler of this veracious history. To him it is the crown and glory of modern Rome; the centre around which all Rome clusters. Delightful walks! Views without a parallel! Place on earth to which no place else can hold a candle!
Pooh--what's the use of talking? Contemplate, O Reader, from the Pincian Hill the following:
The Tiber, The Campagna, The Aqueducts, Trajan's Column, Antonine's Pillar, The Piazza del Popolo, The Torre del Capitoglio, The Hoar Capitoline, The Palatine, The Quirinal, The Viminal, The Esquiline, The Caelian, The Aventine, The Vatican, The Janiculum, St. Peter's, The Lateran, The Stands for Roast Chestnuts, The New York _Times_, the Hurdy-gurdys, The London _Times_, The Raree-shows, The Obelisk of Mosaic Pharaoh, The Wine-carts, Harper's Weekly, Roman Beggars, Cardinals, Monks, Artists, Nuns, The New York _Tribune_, French soldiers, Swiss Guards, Dutchmen, Mosaic-workers, Plane-trees, Cypress-trees, Irishmen, Propaganda Students, Goats, Fleas, Men from Bosting, Patent Medicines, Swells Lager, Meerschaum-pipes, The New York _Herald_, Crosses, Rustic Seats, Dark-eyed Maids, Babel, Terrapins, Marble Pavements, Spiders, Dreamy Haze, Jews, Cossacks, Hens, All the Past, Rags, The original Barrel-organ, The original Organ-grinder, Bourbon Whisky, Civita Vecchia Olives, Hadrian's Mausoleum, _Harper's Magazine_, The Laurel Shade, Murray's Hand-book, Cicerones, Englishmen, Dogcarts, Youth, Hope, Beauty, Conversation Kenge, Bluebottle Flies, Gnats, _Galignani_, Statues, Peasants, Cockneys, Gas-lamps, Dundreary, Michiganders, Paper-collars, Pavilions, Mosaic Brooches, Little Dogs, Small Boys, Lizards, Snakes, Golden Sunsets, Turks, Purple Hills, Placards, Shin-plasters, Monkeys, Old Boots, Coffee-roasters, Pale Ale, The Dust of Ages, The Ghost of Rome, Ice Cream, Memories, Soda-Water, Harper's Guide-Book.
CHAPTER XXI
.
HARMONY ON THE PINCIAN HILL.--MUSIC HATH CHARMS.--AMERICAN MELODIES. --THE GLORY, THE POWER, AND THE BEAUTY OF YANKEE DOODLE, AND THE MERCENARY SOUL OF AN ITALIAN ORGAN-GRINDER.
The Senator loved the Pincian Hill, for there he saw what he loved best; more than ruins, more than churches, more than pictures and statues, more than music. He saw man and human nature.
He had a smile for all; of superiority for the bloated aristocrat; of friendliness for the humble, yet perchance worthy mendicant. He longed every day more and more to be able to talk the language of the people.
On one occasion the Club was walking on the Pincian Hill, when suddenly they were arrested by familiar sounds which came from some place not very far away. It was a barrel-organ; a soft and musical organ; but it was playing "Sweet Home."
"A Yankee tune," said the Senator. "Let us go and patronize domestic manufacture. That is my idee of political economy."
Reaching the spot they saw a pale, intellectual-looking Italian working away at his instrument.
"It's not bad, though that there may not be the highest kind of musical instrument."
"No," said Buttons; "but I wonder that you, an elder of a church, can stand here and listen to it."
"Why, what has the church to do with a barrel-organ?"
"Don't you believe the Bible?"
"Of course," said the Senator, looking mystified.
"Don't you know what it says on the subject?"
"What the Bible says? Why no, of course not. It says nothing."
"I beg your pardon. It says, 'The sound of the grinding is low.' See Ecclesiastes, twelfth, fourth."
The Senator looked mystified, but said nothing. But suddenly the organ-grinder struck up another tune.
"Well, I do declare," cried the Senator, delighted, "if it isn't another domestic melody!"
It was "Independence Day."
"Why, it warms my heart," he said, as a flush spread over his fine countenance.
The organ-grinder received any quantity of _baiocchi_, which so encouraged him that he tried another--"Old Virginny."