Chapter III: Part 3

Going now to Piazza Navona with a sober and reasonable companion, I scarcely recognize it. At the Braschi Palace, which borders it, we pause, and enter to observe the square hall and the fine staircase of polished marble. This palace is now offered in a lottery, at five francs the ticket; and all orders in Rome, no doubt, participate in the venture it presents. The immense piazza is so filled and thronged with people that its distinctive features are quite lost. Its numerous balconies are crowded with that doubtful community comprehended in the title of the "better class." From many of its windows hang the red cotton draperies, edged with gilt lace, which supply so much of the color in Roman _festas_. Soldiers are everywhere mingled with the crowd, so skilfully as to present no contrast with them, but so effectually that any popular disorder would be instantly suppressed. The dragoons, mounted and bearing sabres, are seen here and there in the streets leading to the piazza. These constitute the police of Rome; and where with us a civil man with a badge interposes himself and says, "No entrance here, sir," in Rome an arbitrary, ignorant beast, mounted upon a lesser brute, waves his sabre at you, shrieks unintelligible threats and orders, and has the pleasure of bringing your common sense to a fault, and of making all understanding of what is or is not to be done impossible. Their greatest glory, however, culminates on public _festas_, when there are foreigners as well as Romans to be intimidated. At the Tombola they are only an _en cas_.

Well, the office of the Tombola is solemnized upon a raised stage, whereon stand divers officials, two seedy trumpeters, and a small boy in fancy costume, whose duty soon becomes apparent. Before him rests a rotatory machine, composed of two disks of glass, bound together by a band of brass: this urn of fate revolves upon a pivot, and is provided with an opening, through which the papers bearing the numbers are put in, to be drawn out, one by one, after certain revolutions of the machine. Not quite so fast, however, with your drawing. The numbers are not all in yet. A grave man, in a black coat, holds up each number to the public view, calls it in his loudest tones, and then hands it to another, who folds and slips it into the receptacle. When all of the numbers have been verified and deposited, the opening is closed up, the trumpeters sound a bar or two, the wheel revolves, the fancy boy paws the air with his right hand, puts the hand into the opening, and draws forth a number, which the second black coat presents to the first, who unfolds it, and announces it to the multitude. At the same moment, a huge card, some two feet square in dimensions, is placed in a frame, and upon this we read the number just drawn out. The number is also shown upon several large wooden frames in other parts of the square. Upon these it remains, so that the whole count of the drawing may be apparent to the eager public. This course of action is repeated until a stir in one part of the piazza announces a candidate for one of the smaller prizes. A white flag, repeated at all the counting frames, arrests the public attention. The candidate brings forward his ticket and is examined. Finally, a _quaterna_ is announced, formed by the agreement of four numbers on a ticket with four in the order of the drawing. The crowd applaud, the trumpets sound again, and the drawing proceeds. Unhappily, at one moment the persons on duty forget to close the valve through which the numbers are taken out. The omission is not perceived until several rotations have shaken out many of the precious papers. A roar of indignation is heard from the populace; the wheel is arrested, the numbers eagerly sought, counted, and replaced, under the jealous scrutiny of the public eye. Meanwhile, one of two copious brass bands, provided with five ophicleides each, and cornets, etc., to match, discoursed tarantellas and polkas. And we see the _quinquina_ (formed by five numbers) drawn, and then the first Tombola, and the second. And lo! there are four tombolas: but we await them not. But in all this crowd, busy with emotion and reeking with tobacco and Roman filth in all its varieties, who shall interest us like the _limonaro_ with his basket of fruit, his bottles of water, his lemon squeezer, and his eager thrifty countenance? A father of family, surely, he loves no plays as thou dost, Anthony. Pale, in shirt sleeves, he keeps the sharpest lookout for a customer, and in voice whose measure is not to be given, hammers out his endless sentence, "_Chi vuol bere? Ecco, il limonaro._" To the most doubtful order he responds, carrying his glasses into the thickest of the throng, and thundering, "_Chi ha comandato questo limone?_" For half a _bajoco_ he gives a quarter of a lemon, wrung out in a glass of tepid water, which his customers absorb with relish. Sometimes he varies this procedure by the sale of an _orzata_, produced by pouring a few drops of a milky fluid into a glass of water. On our way from the piazza we encounter other _limonari_,--dark, sleepy, Italian, not trenchant nor incisive in their offers. But our man, a blond, yet remains a picture to us, with his business zeal and economy of time. A thread of good blood he possibly has. We adopt and pity him as a misplaced Yankee.

SUNDAYS IN ROME.

Our first Sunday in Rome was Easter, in St. Peter's, of which we have elsewhere given a sufficient description. Our second was divided between the Tombola just described, in the afternoon, and the quiet of the American Chapel in the morning. We found this an upper chamber, quietly and appropriately furnished, with a pleasant and well-dressed attendance of friends and fellow country-people. The prayers of the Episcopal service were simply read, with no extra formality or aping of more traditional forms. It was pleasant to find ourselves called upon once more to pray for the President of the United States, although in our own country he is considered as past praying for. Still, we remembered the old adage, "while there is life there is hope," and were able, with a good conscience, to beseech that he might be plenteously endowed with heavenly grace, although the reception of such a gift might seriously compromise him with his own party. The sermon, like others we have heard of late, shows a certain progress and liberalization even in the holding of the absolute tenets which constitute what has been hitherto held as orthodoxy. In our youth, the Episcopal church, like the orthodox dissenters, preached atonement, atonement, atonement, wrath of God, birth in sin,--position of sentimental reprobation towards the one fact, of unavailing repentance concerning the other. The doctrine of atonement in those days was as literal in the Protestant church as in the Catholic, while the possibility of profiting by it was hedged about and encumbered by frightful perils and intangible difficulties. But to-day, while these doctrines are not repudiated by the denominations which then held them, they are comparatively set out of sight. The charity and diligence of Paul are preached, and even the sublime theistic simplicity of Jesus is not altogether contraband; though he, alas! is as little understood in doctrine as followed in example. For he has hitherto been like a beautiful figure set to point out a certain way, and people at large have been so entranced with worshipping the figure, that they have neglected to follow the direction it indicates.

Well, our American sermon was dry, but sensible and conscientious. It did not congratulate those who had accepted the mysterious atonement, nor threaten those who had neglected to do so. But it exhorted all men towards a reasonable, religious, and diligent life, and thus afforded the commonplace man a basis for effort, and a possible gradual amelioration of his moral condition. One little old-fashioned phrase, however, the preacher let slip. He cast a slight slur upon the moral, as distinguished from the religious man. Now, modern ethics do not recognize this distinction. For it, true morals are religion. He who exemplifies the standard does it more honor than he who praises, and pursues it not. And he who prays and plunders is less a saint than he who does neither. We passed this, however, and went away in peace.

Our third Sunday morning was passed in _S. Andrea delta Valle_, a large and sumptuous church, where we had been promised a fine _messa-cantata_, i.e., a mass performed principally in music. Mustafa, of the pope's choir, was there, with some ten other vocalists, who put into their _Kyrie_, _Miserere_, and so on, as much operatic emphasis and cadence as the bars could hold. The organ was harsh, loud, and overpowering, the music utterly uninteresting. Mustafa's renowned voice, which has suffered by time and use, has something nasal and _criard_ in it, with all its power. He still takes and holds A and B with firmness and persistence, but his middle notes are unequal and husky. Although the sopranos of to-day are merely falsetto tenors, and their unsexed voices a fiction, they yet acquire in process of time a tone of old-woman quality, which contrasts strangely with their usually robust appearance. On this occasion we did not conjecture whose might be the music to which we listened. It had a mongrel paternity, and hailed from no noble race of compositions. Having, however, our comfortable chairs, and being out of the murderous direct reverberation of the organ, we sat and saw as outsiders the flux and reflux of life which passed through the church. It was obviously, this morning, a place of fashionable resort; and many were the good dresses and comfortable family groups that first appeared, and then were absorbed among its crowded chairs and their occupants. The well-dressed people were mostly, I thought, of _medio ceto_,--middling class,--which in Rome is a term of strict reprobation, and answers to what we used to call Bowery in New York. Their devotion had mostly a business-like aspect. They hired their chair, brought it, sat down, made their crosses and courtesies, accompanied the priest with their books, went down on their knees at the elevation of the host, had benediction, and went. Mass was taking place at various side altars, and people were coming and going, as their devotions were past or future. Dirty and shabby figures mingled with the others; a group of little children from the street, holding each other by the hand; a crippled old woman, hobbling on two crutches, who, wonderfully, did not beg, of us at least; an elderly dwarf, of composed aspect, some thirty-eight inches high, who took a chair, but could not get into it, so squatted down beside it, and stared at us. A loud bell was rung, and one in yellow satin bore an object under yellow satin across the church. This was the sacrament, going to one of the altars for the beginning of the mass. Having mused sufficiently on the music and on the crowd, we desired to hear a Puritan sermon, and, there being none to be had, we went away.

Away to the Farnesina Palace, lovely with Raphael's frescos of Galatea and the story of Psyche, with Michael Angelo's grim charcoal head looming in the distance. The Psyche series has suffered much by restorations; and though the gracious outline and designs remain, the coloring, one thinks, is far other than that of the master. The Galatea has faded less, and has been less restored. The lovely Sodoma fresco up stairs--the family of Darius--was undergoing repairs, and could not be seen. The palace belongs to the ex-king of Naples. It was formerly visible at all times, but may now be seen only on Sunday. He himself now lives in Rome, and perhaps chooses to tread its banquet halls deserted, which possibly accounts for the present restriction. In the afternoon we were bidden to see the embalmed remains of an ancient pontiff,--Pius V.,--who should be happy to make himself useful to Catholic institutions at a period so remote from the intentions of Nature. The old body is shown in a glass case, upon an altar of Santa Maria Maggiore. He lies on his side, his darkened face adorned by a new white beard composed of lamb's wool. His hands are concealed by muslin gloves; his garments are white, and he wears a brilliant mitre. And the devout crowd the church to touch and kiss the glass case in which he resides. There is, moreover, a procession of the crucifix, and vespers are sung in pleasing style by a tolerable choir; and many _pauls_ and _bajocs_ are dropped hither and thither in pious receptacles by the pious in heart. So, I repeat it, the mummied pope, sainted also, is of use.

CATACOMBS.

Of all that befell us in the catacombs we may not tell. We betook ourselves to the neighborhood of St. Calixtus one afternoon. A noted ecclesiastic of the Romish church soon joined our party, with various of our countrymen and countrywomen. He wore a white woollen gown and a black hat. Before descending, he ranged us in a circle, and harangued us much as follows:--

"You will ask me the meaning of the word 'catacomb,' and I shall tell you that it is derived from two Greek words--_cata_, hidden, and _cumba_, tomb. You have doubtless heard that the whole city of Rome is undermined with catacombs; but this is not true. The American Encyclopaedia says this. I have read the article. But intramural burials were not allowed in Rome; therefore the catacombs commence outside the walls. They are, moreover, limited to an irregular extent of some three miles. Why is this? It is because they were possible only in the tufa formation. Why only in the tufa? Because it cuts easily and crumbles easily, hardening afterwards. And as the burials of the Christians were necessarily concealed, it was important for them to deal with a material easily worked and easily disposed of. The solid contents of the catacombs of Rome could be included within a square mile; their series, if arranged at full length, would not measure less than five hundred miles. In some places there are no less than seven strata of tombs, one below the other." All of this, with more repetitions than I can possibly signify, was delivered under the cogent stimulus of a roasting afternoon sun of the full Roman power. Being quite calcined as to the head and shoulders, we somewhat thankfully undertook the descent. The extreme contrast, however, between the outer heat and the inner chill and damp, proved an unwelcome alternative to most of us. Had we been allowed a somewhat brisk motion, we should have dreaded less its effects. But Father ---- fought his ground inch by inch, and continued to carry on a stringent controversy with imaginary antagonists. We will not endeavor to transcribe the catechism, at once tedious and amusing, with which he held captive a dozen of Yankees prepared to sell their lives dearly, but uncertain how to deal with his mode of warfare. He kept us long in the crypt of the pontiffs, where are found two fragments of marble tablets bearing names in mingled Latin and Greek character. One inscription records, "_Anteros episcopus_." The other is of another name--"_episcopus et martyr_." The father now led us into a narrow crypt, where his stout form wedged us all as closely as possible together. He showed us on the walls two time-worn frescos, one of which--Jonah and the whale--represented the resurrection, while the other depicted that farewell banquet at Emmaus in which Peter received the thrice-repeated charge, "Feed my sheep." To this symbolical expression the father added one later and more puzzling. The fish which appeared in one of the dishes represented, he told us, the anagram of Christ in the Greek language--_icthus_, the fish, _Jesus Christos theos_--I forget the rest. The fish was the only hint of the presence of Christ on this occasion, and its significance could be apprehended only with this explanation. These pictures, he insisted, sufficiently showed us that the early Christians had religious images--a point of great authority and significance in the Catholic church, for us how easily disposed of! The pictures and the symbolism of the primitive church are both alike features of its time. In periods when culture is rare and limited, the picture and the parable have their indispensable office. The one preserves and presents to the eye much that would otherwise be overlooked and forgotten; the other presents to the mind that which could not otherwise be apprehended. The painted Christs, Madonnas, and so on, were in their time a gospel to the common people. Even in Raphael's period, even in the Italy of to-day, how few of the populace at large are able to save their souls by reading the New Testament! The paintings undoubtedly answered a useful purpose, as all men must acknowledge; but the Catholic system, carried out in its completeness, would give a melancholy perpetuity to the class of people who cannot read otherwise than in pictures. Even where it teaches to read, it withholds the power of interpretation. Protestantism means direct and general instruction. It gives to the symbolism of the Bible its plainest and most practical interpretation, without building upon it a labyrinth of types whose threading asks the study of a lifetime.

The fear and danger of early times had, no doubt, much to do with the growth of symbolism, both in pictures and in language. The intercourse of the early Christians was limited and insecure. It was guarded by watchwords. Its bodily presence took refuge in pits and caves. Its thought buried itself in similitudes and allusions. But now, when Christianity has become the paramount demand of the world, this obscurity is no longer needed nor legitimate.

The parables of Christ may be supposed to have had a double object. The most usually recognized is that of popular instruction, in the form best suited to the comprehension of his hearers. Many of his sayings, however, point to another meaning; viz., the discrimination between those who were fitted to receive his doctrine, and those who were not. How many, among the multitudes who heard him, can we suppose to have been anxious about the moral lessons intended by his illustrious fables? Few indeed; and those few alone would be able to understand his teaching, and, in turn, to teach according to his method. So he represents the kingdom of heaven which he preached as a net thrown into the sea. His sermons were such castings of the net; he made his disciples fishers of men. The Christian church, like the Jewish, rapidly degenerated into a tissue of legends and observances--at first representative of morality, soon cumbrous, finally inimical to it.

All this time, however, we are standing wedged by Father ---- in a narrow compass, and, while the thought of one undertakes this long, swift retrospect, the temper of the others becomes irritated--not without reason. So we insist upon breaking out of the small quadrangle, and are led into the crypt in which were found the remains of St. Cecilia. Here tradition again holds a long parley with the representatives of modern thought. St. Cecilia, a noble Roman lady, was beheaded, but survived the stroke of the executioner three days, which she occupied in describing and explaining the doctrine of the trinity. (This, therefore, is the doctrine of those who have lost their head.) For this purpose she employed two fingers of the right hand and one of the left. All of this passes without controversy. Her body was found lying on its face, in an attitude perpetuated by the well-known statue in the church in Trastevere. But in this crypt are the relics of an altar, erected over the remains of another saint. The early Christian altars, our guide says, were always erected above the burial-place of some saint. Hence, no Catholic church is allowed to dispense with the presence of consecrated bones. Other graves, moreover, cluster around that which is supposed to have consecrated this altar: sums of money were paid for the privilege of interment in this proximity. This clearly shows the early Christians to have supposed that the saint himself had the power to benefit them, and the right of intercession. This we concede as quite possible; but does this go to show, O father, that the saint _had_ any such power? Let us go back after this fashion in other things. Fingers were made before knives and forks, skins were worn before tissues, and nakedness is of earlier authority than either. A predatory existence has older precedent than agriculture or commerce. Let us go backward like a crab, if you will, but let us be consistent.

In another crypt we are shown two marble sarcophagi, well carved, in each of which lies a mouldering human figure once embalmed, and now black, without features, and with only a dim outline of form. Elsewhere we are shown a large marble slab handsomely engraved, with the record of a Christian martyr on one side, and with an inscription concerning the Emperor Hadrian on the other, presenting the economic expedient of a second-hand tombstone. We passed also through various dark galleries, and down one staircase. Some chambers of the catacomb had a _luminarium_, or light from the top; many of them were entirely dark. Father ----'s style of explanation threatening to prolong itself till midnight, impatience became general, and one of our party ventured a remonstrance, which was made and met something after the following fashion:--

_Mr. F._ Hem--hem! Sir, I am old and infirm, and--

_Father ----._ O, sir, ask any questions you like. The more you ask, the better I can explain myself. (Repeated over some three times.)

_Mr. F._ But, sir, I do not wish to ask any questions. I only wish--

_Father ----._ Don't make any excuses, sir. I shall be very glad to have you ask any questions. I am very ready to answer and explain everything. (Several repetitions.)

After a number of efforts, the senior member of the party at length obtained the floor, and succeeded in expressing himself to the effect that he feared to take death of cold in the catacomb, and would gladly be piloted out by the commonplace youth who followed Father ---- as attendant, without views of any kind, except as to a possible _buona mano_. This suggestion of the elder met with so hearty a response from the remainder of the party as to bring the present exploration to an end, and Father ---- and his public simultaneously dispersed to carriages and horses. In view of the whole expedition, I would advise people in general to read up on the subject of the catacombs, but not to visit them in company with one intent on developing theories of any kind. The underground chill is unwholesome in warm weather, and a conversion made in these dark galleries and windings would be much akin to baptism at the sword's point. Meet, therefore, the theorist above ground, and on equal terms; and for the subterraneous proceeding, elect the society of swift and prosaic silence.

VIA APPIA AND THE COLUMBARIA.

Since my last visit to Rome, more progress has been made under ground than above it. Rome is the true antipodes of America. Our business is to build--her business is to excavate. The tombs on Via Appia are among the interesting objects which the spade and mattock, during the last seventeen years, have brought to view. I remember well the beginning of this work, and the marble tombs and sarcophagi which it brought to light. I also remember, in those unconscientious days, a marble head, in exceedingly flat relief, which was desired by me, and stolen for me by the faithful servant of a friend. At the commencement of the diggings, we descended from our carriage, and easily walked to the end of the way then opened. Via Appia now affords a long drive, set with tombs on either side. Many of these are in brick, and of large dimensions. Most of the marbles have, however, been removed to the Museum of the Vatican.

On this road, if I mistake not, are the two _columbaria_ discovered and excavated some seven years ago. They stand in a vineyard, which I saw in its spring bloom. The proprietor, a civil man, answers the little bell at the gate, and taking down a bunch of keys, unlocks for you the door of the small building erected over the vault. The original roof has fallen. All else looks as if it might have been used the day before for burial. The descent is by a steep, narrow stairway, of at least thirty steps, each of which is paved with a single lamina of coarse brick. The walls are honeycombed with small parallelogrammatic niches, in each of which was set a funeral vase or box. Over some of these places are such inscriptions as, "_Non tangite vestes mortales_," "_Vencrare deos manes_." There are many names, of which I have preserved but one, "_Castus Germanicus Caesaris_." This _columbarium_ belonged to the Flavian family. It has about it an indescribable gloom, like that of a family vault in our own time, but, it must be confessed, more aesthetic. One felt the bitter partings that death had made here, the tears, the unavailing desire to heap all the remaining goods of life upon the altar of departed friendship. Time healed these wounds then, no doubt, as he does to-day. The tears were dried, the goods enjoyed again; but, while Christianity has certainly lightened the dead weight of such sorrows, the anguish of the first blow remains what it was all those dim centuries ago. A glance into the _columbarium_ makes you feel this.

The second _columbarium_ is much like the first, excepting that the stair is not so well preserved. On emerging, the proprietor invited us to visit an upper room in his own house, in which were a number of objects, taken, he averred, from the two _columbaria_. These were mostly vases, tear-bottles, and engraved gems. But I doubted their genuineness too much to make any purchases from among them. The trade in antiquities is too cheap and easy a thing in Italy to allow faith in unattested relics.

Not very far beyond the _columbaria_ stand the catacombs of the ancient Hebrews, much resembling in general arrangement those of the Christians. We found in several places the image of the seven-branched candlestick impressed upon the tufa. In one of the rooms were some remains of fresco. At each of its corners was painted a date-palm with its fruit. In two other rooms the frescos were in good preservation. Some of the graves were sunk in the earth, the head and feet at right angles with the others. We were shown the graves of two masters of synagogues. The frescos are not unlike those in the Christian and pagan tombs, though as I remember them, the Christian paintings are the rudest of all, as respects artistic merit.

The subjects were usually genii, peacocks, the cock, fruits, garlands, the latter sometimes painted from end to end of the wall. Some of the small tombs were still sealed with a marble slab. An entire skeleton was here shown us, and a number of sarcophagi. Of these, one was sunk into the ground, and several graves were grouped around it, much after the fashion of those in the Christian catacombs, from which Dr. Smith inferred so largely, both concerning the sanctity of the saint's body and the post-mortem power of the saint.

We were taken also to see some interesting tombs in the Via Latina. These were recently brought to light from their long concealment in a tract of the Campagna, belonging to the Barberini family. Descending a flight of stone steps, the custode admitted us into two fine vaulted chambers, decorated each after its own manner. The ceiling of the first was adorned with miniature bas-reliefs in stucco. The small figures, beautifully modelled, were enclosed in alternate squares and octagons. The designs were exhibitions of genii, griffins, and of centaurs, bearing female figures on their backs. The sculptured sarcophagi found in this tomb were removed to the Lateran Museum.

In the second tomb the walls and ceilings were adorned with miniature frescos, also enclosed in small compartments. Many of these represented landscapes, sometimes including a water view, with boats. These were rather faint in style, but very good. Peacocks, also, were frequent; and in one compartment was painted a glass dessert vase, with the fruit showing through its transparency. This design amazed us, both as to its subject and execution. Some panels in this tomb bore stucco reliefs on grounds of brilliant red and blue. In its centre was found hanging a fine bronze lamp, which is now at the Barberini Palace. A large sarcophagus of stone still remains here, nearly entire, with a pointed lid. On looking through a small break in one side of it, we perceived two skeletons, lying side by side, supposed, the custode told us, to have been husband and wife. These tombs certainly belong to a period other than that of the _columbaria_ before described. The presence of sarcophagi, and of these skeletons, attests the burial of the dead in accordance with the usage of modern society, while the great elegance and finish of the ornamentation point to a time of wealth and luxury. I have heard no conjecture as to the original proprietorship of these tombs. They contain no military or civil emblems, and probably belonged to wealthy contractors or merchants. That day, no doubt, had its shoddy, and of the tricks practised upon the government one may read some account in Titus Livy, who, to be sure, wrote of an earlier time, but not a more vicious one.

Rome now boasts an archaeological society, not indeed of Romans, but composed of foreign residents, mostly of British origin. The well-known artist Shakspear Wood is one of its most energetic members. At his invitation I attended a lecture given by Mr. Charles Hemans, on the subject of the ancient churches and mosaics of the city. Complementary to this lecture was an expedition of the society to several of these churches, which I very gladly joined. Our first and principal object of interest was the old Church of San Clementi, a building dating from the eleventh or twelfth century. Here Mr. Hemans first led us to observe an ancient fresco in the apsis, which represents the twelve apostles in the guise of twelve lambs, a thirteenth lamb, in the middle of the row, and crowned with a nimbus, representing Christ. Here we saw also an ancient marble chair, a marble altar screen, and a pavement in the ribbon mosaic, of which archaeologues have so much to say. This mosaic is so named from the strips of colored stones which form its various patterns on the white marble of the pavement.

The church itself, however, occupied us but briefly. Beneath the church has recently been discovered and excavated a very extensive basilica, of a date far more ancient. This crypt was now lighted for us. Its original proportions are marred by walls of masonry built between its long rows of columns, and essential to the support of the church above. These walls are adorned by curious paintings of saints, popes, martyrs, and miracles. Among them is a very rude crucifixion; also a picture of Christ giving benediction after the fashion of the Greek church, and of a pontiff in the same act. Upon these things Mr. Hemans made many interesting comments. From the crypt we descended yet farther into a house supposed to date back at least to the empire, if not to the republic. It is a small but heavily-built enclosure, of two chambers, and contains a curious bas-relief in marble, representing a pagan sacrifice. In the narrow descent that led to it Mr. Wood showed me in three consecutive strata the tufa of the time of the kingdom, travertine of the republic, and brick of the empire.

The presence of the ancient basilica below the ancient church was suggested to one of the priests of the latter by the presence of a capital, rising just above the pavement of the church, and not accounted for by any circumstance in its architecture. This capital belonged to one of the columns of the basilica; but before so much could be ascertained, a long and laborious series of excavations had to be instituted. Father ----, the priest who first conjectured of the presence of this under building, has been indefatigable in following up the hint given by the capital, which he alone, in a succession of centuries, was clever enough to interpret. Most of the expense of this work has been borne by him.

From San Clementi the worshipful society went to the church of Santi Quattro. The object of interest here was a small chapel filled with curious old frescos, one series of which represents the conversion of Constantine. We see first depicted a dream, in which Sts. Peter and Paul appear to Constantine, warning him to desist from the murder of innocent children, whose blood was supposed to be a cure for his leprosy. Not disobedient to the heavenly vision, Constantine relinquishes the blood-bath, and releases the children. He sends for St. Sylvester, the happy possessor of an authentic portrait of the two apostles. The fresco shows us Sylvester responding to this summons, and bringing in his hand the portrait, which the emperor immediately recognizes. Farther on we see Sylvester riding in papal triumph, the emperor leading his palfrey--a haughty device for those days. Another fresco records the finding of the true cross by St. Helena. Coming at one time upon the three crosses she applied each of them in succession to the body of a dying person, who was healed at once by the contact of the true one.

The archaeological society also explores the interesting neighborhoods of Rome, the villas of emperors, statesmen, and poets. Thus life springs out from decay, and the crumbling relics of the past incite new activities in minds that cling, like the ivy, about relics and ruins. This society, ancient as are the facts about which it occupies itself, seemed to me one of the most modern features of Rome, especially as it travels by rail, and carries its luncheon with it. I was not fortunate enough to join its visits to the environs of the Eternal City, but I wish that on one of its excursions it would take with it the oldest nuisance of modern society, and forget to bring it back. There is room enough outside of Rome for that which, shut within its walls, crowds out every new impulse of life and progress. No harm to the old man; no violence to his representative immunity; only let him remember that the world has room for him, and that Rome has not.

NAPLES--THE JOURNEY.

From these brief, sombre notes of Rome, we slide at once to Naples and her brilliant surroundings. Here, taking the seven colors as the equivalents of the seven notes, we are at the upper end of the octave of color. Rome is painted in purple, gold, olive, and bistre--its shadows all in the latter pigment. Naples is clear red, white, and yellow. Orange tawny is its deepest shade. The sounds of Rome awaken memories of devotion. They call to prayer, although the forms now be empty, and the religious spirit resident elsewhere. The voice of Naples trills, shrieks, scolds, mingling laughter, wail, and entreaty, in a new and confused symphony. Little piano-fortes, played like a barrel organ, go about the streets, giving a pulse to the quick rhythm of life. The common people are pictures, the aristocracy caricatures. When you rise above low life, Italian taste is too splendid for good effects in costume. The most ill-married colors, the most ill-assorted ornaments, deform the pale olive faces, and contradict the dignity of the dark eyes and massive hair. This is somewhat the case in Rome, much more in Naples. The continual _crescendo_ of glare, as you go southward, points to the African crisis of orange and crimson, after which the negro nakedness presents an enforced pause, saying, "I can no more."

This land is the antipodes of the Puritan country. There all is concentration, inward energy, interior. Here all is external glow and glitter. If there be any interior, it can only belong to one of these three--passion, superstition, avarice. Every one who deals with you speculates upon your credulity. "Will you give four times the value of a thing, or five, or only twice?" is the question which the seller's eyes put to the buyer, however the tongue of the one may respond to that of the other. And here is a sad deforming of the Scripture parable; and he who has five in value gets ten in money for it, he who has three gets six, while the one talent, honesty,--the fundamental gift of God to man,--is indeed ignominiously buried in a dirty napkin, and laid nobody knows where. And while New England energy is a hundred-armed giant that labors, Italian sloth is a hundred-handed lazzaro that begs. If this is the result of the loveliest climate, the most brilliant nature, give me our snow and ice, ay, the east wind and all.

The journey from Rome to Naples at this season is hot, oppressive. Railway carriages, even as administered in Europe, make you acquainted with strange way-fellows. We chance upon a Neapolitan prince, with an English wife, returning to his own country and possessions after an absence of six years, the time elapsed since the inauguration of the new rule. He obviously regrets the changes over which the rest of the civilized world rejoices. In person, however, he and his partner are simple and courteous. Our car confines also a female nondescript carrying a dog, herself quite decently got up, but with an extraordinary smile, that is either lunatic or wicked, we cannot determine which. A certain steadiness and self-possession incline us to the latter theory, but we hold it subject to correction at a later day. She is obviously of Irish or low English extraction, and may be anything, from a discarded lady's maid to a reigning mistress. As we approach Naples, our princely friend begins to take notice. Here is Caserta, here its battle-field, where poor Francesco would certainly have had the victory, had not the French and Piedmontese interfered. "_Oh Richard, oh mon Roi!_" But we remember another saying: "And I tell you, if these had held their peace, the very stones would have cried out." Ay, those very stones, volcanic lava and tufa, worn by the chariot wheels of the wicked, from Tiberius to Napoleon and after, would have sobbed, "Let the feet of the messenger of peace, the beautiful feet, at last pass this way!" Arrived at the station, no warning can have taught you what to expect. It costs you forty cents to have your moderate effects transported from the cars to the omnibus of the hotel,--this not through any system, but because various people meddle with them, and shriek after you for recompense. At the Hotel de Rome, you are shown up many stairs into a dingy little room, a sort of spider's web. This will not do. You try the Hotel de Russie, opposite. Here you are forced to take an apartment much too fine for your means and intentions. The choice being this or none, you shut your eyes upon consequences, and blindly issue orders for tea and meats. To-morrow you will surely get a cheaper apartment. But to-morrow you do not.

The hotel book looks discouraging. Names of your countrymen are in it, not of your friends. Better remain apart than run the risk of ungenial society, and enforced fellowship. But the dull waters soon break into the sparkle of special providences. A bright little Briton, with a mild husband, hospitably makes your acquaintance. She is from Ireland, and has not the "thorough-bred British stare." All the more of a lady do we deem and find her. To her pleasant company is soon added that of an American of the sincere kind. He accepts us without fear or condition, and while we remain under the same roof with him, we have no cause to complain for want of sympathy or of countenance.

THE MUSEUM.

In the Museum we spend two laborious days. The first we give to the world-renowned marbles, finding again with delight our favorites of twenty years' standing. Prominent among these are the Amore Delfino, and the Faun bearing the infant Bacchus.

The Farnese Bull and the Farnese Hercules are admirable for their execution, but their subject has no special interest for us. We observe the Atlas, the Athletes, and the Venuses, one of whom is world-famous, but inexcusable. Here, too, is the quadriform relic of the Psyche, well known by copies, and the whole Balbo family on horseback. These marble knights once guarded the Forum of Pompeii. There is a certain melancholy in their present aspect, whether of fact or imagination we will not determine. One of the most interesting objects, from the vicissitudes through which it has passed, is the statue of Caligula, destroyed by the people with all other mementos of him after his death, the head having served, even in modern times, to steady the wheels of carriages in a ferry boat. The Naples Museum does not rival the Vatican in the merit of its nude marbles; but in draped statues it is far richer, as well as in statues of personal historical interest. The belief of the past has the most stately illustration in Rome, its life the most vivid record in Naples.

Many new treasures have been added to the collection during these years of our absence. Among them are some exquisite small bronzes, and three statuettes in marble, of which the eyes are colored blue, and the hair of a reddish tint. One of them is very pretty. It represents the seated figure of a little boy, and almost reconciles us to the strictly inadmissible invasion of color into the abstract domain of sculpture. Each art has, indeed, its abstraction. Sculpture dispenses with color, painting with the materiality of form. The one is to the other as philosophy to poetry.

From the marbles we flit to the Pompeian bronzes and mosaics, rich in number and in interest. Two tablets in mosaic especially detain us, from their representation of theatrical subjects. One of these shows the manager surrounded by several of his actors, to whom he dispenses the various implements of their art. At his feet, in a basket, lie the comic and tragic masks. Of the personages around him, one is pulling on his garment, another is trying the double tubes of a wind instrument. The second mosaic presents a group of three closely-draped figures. Actor is written on their faces, though we know not the scene they enact. The bronzes are numerous and admirable. Miniature art seems to have been held in great esteem among the Pompeians. Most of these figures are of small size, and suggest a florid and detailed style of adornment. Among other objects, we are shown the semicircular model of a Pompeian bath, on which are arranged the ornaments and water-fixtures just as they were found. One of these imitates a rampant lion standing on his hind legs, and delivering water from his mouth; another a serpent nearly upright. In the upper story of the Museum we see whole rooms floored with mosaic pavements removed entire from houses in Pompeii. The patterns are mostly in black and white, but of an endless variety. The contents of these rooms match well in interest with their pavements. Here, in glass cases, are carefully ranged and presented the tools and implements of Pompeian life; the loaves that never left the baker's shop, still fresh and puffy in outline, although calcined in substance; the jewels and silver vessels of the wealthy, the painter's colors, the workman's needles and thread: baths and braziers, armor in bronze and in iron, scarcely more barbaric than that of the middle ages; helmets, with clumsy metal network guarding the spaces for the eyes; spades, cooking utensils in great variety, fruits and provisions as various. Among the bronze utensils is a pretty and economical arrangement which furnishes at once hot water, a fire of coals to heat the room, with the convenience of performing at the same time the solemn rites of cookery. Hot water, both for bathing and drinking, seems to have been a great desideratum with the Pompeians. The stone cameos and engraved gems are shown in rows under glass cases. This Museum contains a well-known tazza, or flat cup, of onyx entire, elaborately carved in cameo on either side. It also possesses a vase of double glass, of which the outer or white layer has been cut, like a cameo, into the most delicate and elaborate designs. The latter is an object of unique interest and value, as is shown by the magnificence with which it has been mounted on a base of solid silver, the whole being placed under glass.

The Cumaean collection is less rich in objects of interest than the Pompeian. Its treasures are mostly Etruscan. It possesses many vases, Etruscan and Greek, many rude Etruscan sculptures, with household articles of various descriptions. It occupies a separate set of rooms, and is the gift of the Prince of Carignano.

Among the Pompeian remains we forgot to mention a mosaic tablet representing a cock-fight. One cock already bleeds and droops; above him the figure of his genius turns desponding away. The genius of the victorious cock, on the contrary, bears a crown and palm. The design is worthy of the Island of Cuba at the present day.

The frescos brought and transferred from Pompeii are beautiful and interesting. One of them shows thirteen dancing figures, all of which are frequently copied. Many inscriptions in marble are also preserved, but to decipher them would ask much time. We were interested in a small painted model of a Pompeian dwelling, called the House of the Poet. It shows the quadriform arrangement of the dark chambers around the open courts, of which one is the _atrium_, one the _peristylium_. The window-panes of the house of Diomed are shown,--not of glass, but talc, and only translucent. Windows, however, were rare in Pompeii. Perhaps the most pathetic relic that we observe is the skull of the sentinel in his helmet, as it was found.

We have here given only the most hurried and imperfect indication of the mines of wealth which this institution offers to the student of art and of history. A detailed account of its contents will be found in the valuable but prosaic Murray, and would here be superfluous. Its guardians, the custodi, are civil, and are not allowed to ask or receive any compensation from visitors. Several of them, nevertheless, manage to suggest that they would be glad to wait on you at your hotel, with books, objects of antiquity, and other small merchandise, which you hurriedly decline. You will be fortunate to get out of Naples in any state short of utter bankruptcy. How you are ever to get home to America, with temptations and expenses multiplying so frightfully upon you, sometimes threatens to become a serious question.

NAPLES--EXCURSIONS.

You have been two days in Naples, the hotel expenses and temptations of the street eating into your little capital. For value received your intellects have nothing to show. Your eyes and ears have been full, your brain passive and empty. You rouse yourself, and determine upon an investment. To learn something, you must spend something. These cherished napoleons must decrease, and you must, if possible, increase.

The first attempt is scarcely a success. Having heard marvels of the conventual church of San Martino, formerly belonging to the Cistercian brotherhood, you consult the porter of the hotel, and engage, for seven francs, a carriage to transport you thither. The drive is one immense climb under the heat of the afternoon sun. When you have gained the difficult ascent, your driver coolly informs you that the church is always closed at four P. M., the present time being 5.30. "Why did you not tell me so?" is the natural but useless question. "Because I could not in that case have got seven francs from you," would be the real answer. The driver shrugs his shoulders, and expects a scolding, which you are too indignant to give.

But you are not to be defeated in this way. A second expedition is planned and executed. To the gates of Pompeii you fly, partly by steam, and partly by horse-aid. You alight from your cloud of dust, demand a guide. "Yes; you can have the guide by paying also for the litter. This being Sunday, the entrance is free, and the government supplies no guide. You must have the _portantina_, or blunder about alone." The litter, with its pink gingham frill and cushion, looks hateful to you. You remember it twenty-three years ago with dislike. The sun of noon is hot upon you. The men are unpersuadable. Red and fierce as lava, you storm through the deserted streets of the ancient capital of seaside luxury. Like the lava, you soon cool, as to your temper--the rest of you continuing at 120 Fahrenheit. There are two of your party: one finds the litter convenient; the other also gives way, and you ride and tie, as the saying is, in very amicable style, and encourage the guide to tell you all he knows; but he, alas! has cropped but the very top of the clover. The fragments of history which he is able to give you, measure only his own ignorance and yours.

"Here is the Forum in which the Balbo statues were found. At the upper end were the court and seat of justice,--for a figure was found there bearing a balance; underneath were the prisons." Ah, the broken columns! Stately did they stand around the mounted statues, that expected to ride into perpetual fame on their marble horses--now most famous because so long forgotten. "Wherever four streets met, madam, stood a fountain. The Exchange stood also in the Forum. Here is the street of abundance, in which was found a marble bust bearing a horn of plenty. Here is the Temple of Isis. By this secret staircase the priest ascended and stood unseen behind the goddess, making the sounds which she was supposed to utter. Here was the bakery; behold the ovens. This was found filled with newly baked loaves. [Yes; for I myself beheld them in the Museum at Naples.] Ah, madam! the baths, with hot water and cold, and vapor. In those niches running around the wall were placed the vases with unguents. Here is the House of the Poet; here that of the Faun. See the frescos. What forms! what colors! Here is a newly excavated house, large and richly appointed. Each of these marble columns surrounding the inner court contains a leaden water-pipe with a faucet, so that from all at once water might flow to cool the extreme heats of summer. Here still stand two fine dragons carved in white marble, which must formerly have supported a marble slab. See what a garden this house had! What a fish-pond! Climb this stair, madam, if you would see the theatre. This larger one was for day performances. Yonder was the stage. There are still the grooves for the scenes to slide in. There was the orchestra [mostly flutes and fiddles]. Here sat the nobles, here the citizens, here the plebeians. From this eminence you can look over into the smaller theatre close at hand, in which night performances were given." And the stately dames, with those jewels which you saw stored at the Museo, and dressed and undressed like the frescos we have seen to-day, sat on their cushioned benches, and wafted their perfumes far and wide.

Here was the house of Diomed, rich and very extensive. The skeleton of Diomed (as is supposed) was found at the garden gate, with the key of the house and a purse of money. In one of the subterranean rooms is shown the impression of his wife's figure, merely a darker mark on a dark wall. Seventeen similar impressions were found. I think it is in this house that the walls of one of the rooms have an under-coating of lead to keep the moisture from the frescos, which are still brilliant. The _luxe_ of fountains was, as is known, great and universal in Pompeii, and the arrangement of its leaden conduits is ample and skilful. Besides the well-known frescos, with their airy figures and brilliant coloring, we are shown a bath, whose vaulted roof is adorned with stucco reliefs, arranged in small medallions, octagons alternating with squares.