Chapter IV: An Inch of Fringe (2)

Annette viewed it a little. “So it will,” she acquiesced. “A few large pins will keep it in place. But here is a little tear in the corner. Let me turn it the other way. There! that does nicely, doesn’t it, Lawrence?”

She turned in speaking to him, but he was not there. He had stepped out into the porch, and was beckoning Jack to drive the carriage up inside the grounds.

They took leave after a minute.

“Be sure you all pray for the success of our concert,” was Annette’s farewell charge to the sister. “We are to have our last rehearsal to-night.”

She glanced into her companion’s face as they drove along, but refrained from asking him any questions about his interview with Anita. His expression did not indicate that he had derived much pleasure from it.

TO BE CONTINUED.

MUSIC.

WHEN the heart is overflowing,
Now with sorrow, now with joy,
And its fulness mocks our showing,
Like a spell that words destroy:

When the soul is all devotion,
Till its rapture grows a pain
And to free the pent emotion
Even prayer’s wings spread in vain:

Then but one relief is given:
Not a voice of mortal birth,
But a language born in heaven,
And in mercy lent to earth:

Lent to consecrate our sighing,
Shed a glory on our tears,
And uplift us without dying
To the Vision-circled spheres.

AN ART PILGRIMAGE THROUGH ROME.

ROME as we saw it in 1863 was already so far modernized as to possess two railway lines, one on the Neapolitan and one on the Civita Vecchia side. The old and more romantic entrance was by the Porta del Popolo, which was reached by crossing the Ponte Molle. Two traditions help to invest this plain, strong bridge with peculiar interest. It was within sight of it that the great battle was fought which decided the triumph of Constantine and Christianity in the already tottering Roman Empire. Here the miraculous cross appeared to the great leader the night before the battle, lighting up the horizon with its mystic radiance, and blazoning forth those prophetic words: _In hoc signo vinces_—“In this sign shalt thou conquer”—which were afterwards graven as the motto of the emperor on his new standard, or _labarum_. Near the Ponte Molle, too, then called Pons Milviensis, were the spoils of the temple, and notably the seven-branched candlestick, thrown into the Tiber to save them from the hands of the invading Huns; and it is seriously believed that, were the river to be drained and carefully dredged in that spot, many rare and valuable historical relics would be found. It is supposed that, the flow of the water being very sluggish, and the mud, with its tawny color, oozy and detaining, these treasures may easily have remained embedded in their unsavory hiding-place.

The modern entrance from the Civita Vecchia side is unattractive in the extreme, but the new depot at the Piazza de’ Termini affords a very fair first view of Rome. Before reaching the city, a beautiful spectacle is presented by the long rows of aqueducts standing sharply defined out of the low, olive-spotted plain, and by the massive tomb of Cecilia Metella, rising in towering prominence among the lesser monuments of the Appian Way. Beautiful at all times, this scene of lovely and suggestive grandeur is still more beautiful by moonlight; and, if one could forget the unfortunate details of that most prosaic of modern buildings, a railway-station, the Piazza de’ Termini would hardly break the spell. On one side are the ruins of the baths of Diocletian, their brick walls covered with golden wall-flowers, and just beyond them the cloister and church of Santa Maria degli Angeli. The interior of this church is supported by huge monolith columns of granite, still bearing the marks of the fire which destroyed the baths, from whose adjoining halls they were taken. On the opposite side are the prisons for women—a far happier and more peaceful abode than most places of the sort, the _jailers_ being cloistered sisters specially vowed to this heroic work of self-devotion. A little further on is the great fountain, divided into three compartments, each backed by a _basso-rilievo_ of great merit, the centre one representing in gigantic proportions Moses striking the rock. The small domed church of the Vittoria, which faces the fountain, is the national _ex-voto_ commemorating the battle of Lepanto, and boasts a masterpiece of one of the sculptors of the Renaissance—a term too often convertible with artistic decadence. This is a languishing and affected but marvellously correct statue of S. Teresa on her death-bed; and the church is served by barefooted Carmelite friars. The streets branching from the Piazza, though not so narrow, are to the full as crooked as those in the lower portion of the city; but, to the practised Italian traveller, they will appear almost wide. Those of Genoa and Venice are veritable lanes, through which two wheelbarrows could not pass each other, and across which you could literally shake hands out of the windows of each floor; so that the Roman streets do not strike you as uncommonly narrow, unless you are fresh from Paris or Munich.

Here are the same peculiarities as in most other Italian towns, but fraught with a deeper meaning, since we are at the headquarters of the religion which gives them birth: the frequent shrines at the street-corners, chiefly of the Blessed Virgin and the divine Infant, rudely enough represented, but denoting the steadfast faith of the people, and kept perpetually adorned by a lighted oil-lamp in a blue or red glass; the stalls in the markets, which, by the way, stand only in the dingier thoroughfares round the Pantheon and S. Eustachio; the strange medley of meat, vegetables, flowers, antiquities; in summer, the mounds of cut water-melons (the Roman’s favorite fruit), and the ricketty stands piled with figs in all the confused shades of purple, black, green, and white; in winter, the _scaldini_, or little square boxes filled with charcoal, which the market-women carry about everywhere—to market, to church, and very often to bed; the curious antique lamps of brass with two or three beaks, each bearing a weak flame, and the whole thing a copy, line for line, of the old Roman lamps of two thousand years ago; on S. Joseph’s day, the 19th of March, the stalls decorated with garlands of green, and heaped with _fritellette_ (fried fish under various disguises); the peasant funeral winding slowly through the crowd, with the corpse, that of a young girl, lying uncovered, but enwreathed in simple flowers, on an open bier borne by the cowled members of a pious brotherhood specially dedicated to this work, and whose faces even are covered, leaving only the eyes visible through two narrow slits; the droves of Campagna oxen, cream-colored, mild, Juno-eyed, and with thick, smooth, branching horns; the flocks of Campagna buffaloes, shaggy and fierce, with eyes like pigs, humps on their necks, and short, crooked horns—a very fair impersonation of the evil one for an imaginary “temptation of S. Anthony”; then, finally, at Christmas time, the _pifferari_, peasants of the Abruzzi, whose immemorial custom it is to come on an annual musical pilgrimage to Rome, and play their mountain airs before every street-shrine in the city.

These latter are deserving of a more lengthened notice, and, indeed, no traveller can fail to be struck by the rugged picturesqueness of their appearance. Some one has not inappropriately called them the “satyrs of the Campagna,” though they belong rather to the mountain than to the plain. Their dress is that which we are erroneously taught to connect with the traditional ideal of a brigand (an ideal, by the way, very unjustly supposed to be realized by the honest, industrious, and deluded peasants of whom New York has recently said such hard things)—a high, conical felt hat, with a frayed feather or red band and tassels; a red waistcoat; a coarse blue jacket and leggings, sometimes of the shaggy hair of white goats (hence the title satyr), sometimes of tanned skin bound round with cords that interlace as far as the knee. The ample cloak common to all Roman and Neapolitan peasants completes the costume, and gives it a dignity which sits well upon them. Their instruments are very primitive, and the tunes they perform are among the oldest national airs of Italy, transmitted intact from father to son by purely oral teaching. They always go in couples, and, while one plays the _zampogna_, or bagpipe, the other accompanies him on the _piffero_, or pastoral pipe—a short, flute-like instrument. These are the men who make the fortunes of many an artist, and who, as models, are transformed as often as Proteus or Jupiter of old. The broad flight of steps leading from the Piazza di Spagna to the Pincian hill is their chief resort when off duty as _pifferari_, and on the lookout as models; and any guide could show you among them Signor So-and-So’s “Moses,” or Madame Such-a-one’s “S. Joseph,” besides innumerable other characters, Biblical and classical, sustained by at most only a dozen men of flesh and blood. A few women there are among them, some in the characteristic but rare costume which is erroneously supposed to be the only one worn in the neighborhood of Rome, namely, the square fold of spotless linen on the head (a style almost Egyptian in its massiveness) and narrow skirt of darkest blue, with an apron of carpet-like pattern and texture. A row of heavy coral beads encircles their throats, and the ample folds of their loose chemise of white cotton are confined by a blue bodice laced up the front. These figures suggest themselves as splendid models for a set of Caryatides, but they are more usually painted as typical peasant women, and sometimes, when old, as S. Elizabeth, S. Anne, or the Sibyls.

The confusion of gaily-attired or dark-robed figures in the streets is at first bewildering to the stranger, especially on a festival day, when one would think that the middle ages had broken up through the thin crust of levelling modern decorum. Here are Capuchin friars, in their coarse brown tunics confined round the waist by a white knotted cord, hurrying with large baskets on their arms from house to house to collect their meal of broken refuse; further on is a Papal zouave in his uniform of gray and his white half-leggings—a foreigner and very likely a noble, fair, slight, and dignified, like Col. de Charrette, the grandson of the great Vendean leader of 1793; here, again, comes an _abbate_, with his enormous black three-cornered hat and his long and ample cloak or garment gathered in a line of full, close folds at his back, and sweeping thence around his person with all the picturesque dignity of a Roman toga; jostling against this dark figure is the lithe, cat-like French soldier, cheery and open-faced; beyond him hurry lackeys in rich but faded liveries that look as if they had been fashioned out of tapestry; peasants in every garb, some clustering round a _scrivano_, or public letter-writer, established in the open air at a rickety table, with a few sheets of dirty paper and a heap of limp red wafers for his stock in trade; and others intent upon their birthright, _i.e._ noisy and successful begging.

Perhaps one of the most curious sights to a stranger is to be found in the back yards of houses inhabited by swarms of families who have but one well among them from which to draw water. The well is in the middle of the courtyard, and from it to every window of the house (and often of several adjoining houses) runs a strong wire cord. On this is slung a bucket, which is let down or drawn up by a pulley easily managed from the window; and all day long this ingenious manœuvre is constantly repeated with sundry whirring noises quite novel to the northern ear. It would need volumes to give any idea of the mere outer picturesqueness of Roman scenes, much more of the varied beauties that do not at once catch the eye. The Ghetto, or Jews’ quarter, affords one of the most peculiar street-sights. The streets here are narrower, darker, filthier than elsewhere, the stalls are dingier, the poverty more apparent. Rags everywhere and in every stage of dilapidation—rags hung out over your head like banners; rags spread on the knees of the industrious women, who with deft fingers are mending and darning them; rags laid in shelves and coffers; rags clothing the swarthy children that tumble about the grimy door-steps—a very nightmare of rags. And among them, exiles: gorgeous robes hidden away where you would least expect them, rare laces of gossamer texture and historical interest, brocades that once graced a coronation, and even gems that the Queen of Sheba might have envied. Mingled in race and broken in spirit as are these Jews, weak descendants of the stern old Bible heroes, one touching evidence of their loyalty to their ancient traditions remains. We were told of it by Dr. O——, of the Propaganda College, who had many friends among the Hebrew Rabbis. The Arch of Titus in the Forum, or what is now vulgarly called the Campo Vaccino (oxen’s field or market), is a magnificent trophy commemorating the last victory of Rome over Jerusalem. Its _bassorilievi_, both exterior and interior, represent the sacking of the Holy City and the despoiling of the temple. The carvings of the triumphal procession bearing aloft the rifled treasures of the Holy of Holies, the great seven-branched candlestick, the mystic table of the “loaves of proposition,” the golden bowls and censers, naturally enough excite feelings of bitter regret in the breast of the exiled and wandering race. So it happens that no good and true Jew passing through the Forum will ever follow the road that leads under this beautiful sculptured monument of his country’s fall, nor even let its shadow fall upon his head as he passes it by. This sign of faithful mourning certainly struck us as very significant and poetical. There are two synagogues in the Ghetto, and it is curious to reflect that these Hebrew temples were tolerated within the walls of Rome by a government which proscribed Anglican chapels and relegated the worship of the English visitors beyond the Porta del Popolo. This restriction may have unheedingly been called intolerant; but let us stay for a moment to examine its reason. Rome was a theocracy and swayed by directly opposite principles to any other existing state, and it could no more allow of promiscuous worship within its domain than of old the Hebrew high-priest could have allowed the Moabitish altars to be erected at the doors of the Ark of God. In speaking of the Rome of the popes, it is absolutely necessary for a non-Catholic to set his mind to a different focus from that which answers the ordinary purposes of travel and observation; it is necessary to do as Hawthorne says somewhere in his romance of the _Marble Faun_—that is, to look at the pictured window of a great cathedral _from the inside_, where the harmony of form, of color, and of distribution is plainly visible; not from the _outside_, where an unmeaning network of dark, irregular patches of glass vexes the eye of the gazer.

One is apt at first to wander through these Roman streets in the indecision brought on by _l’embarras des richesses_. Shall we seek the Rome of religion, of history, or of art? Shall we make a tour of the churches or the studios first? Or shall we go at once to the colossal ruins, and bury ourselves in the annals of the old republic? All these regions have been thoroughly explored, and there are guides, both living and dead, to lead one through the divers cities existing within the bosom of the whilom mistress of the world. The streets themselves are a series of pictures, from the Via Condotti—where the most finished masterpieces of antique jewellery are successfully imitated, and where wealthy strangers crowd round the counters, eager to take home keepsakes for less fortunate friends—to the Piazza Montanara, where the handsome peasants from the country mingle with the stalwart Frasteverini, who boast of being lineal descendants of the ancient Romans. One thing which is very apt to strike any thoughtful observer upon a first saunter through Rome (we speak of 1863) is the sovereignty of religion in every department of life. Art is wholly moulded by it, domestic life pervaded by it, municipal life simply founded on it. Every monument of note is stamped with its impress, as the Pantheon; every ruin is consecrated to its service, as the Coliseum. Every public building bears on its walls the keys and tiara of the Papacy side by side with the “S. P. Q. R.” of the city arms (_Senatus Populusque Romanus_). Even the private galleries are under government protection, and not one of the pictures can be sold without the leave of the authorities. The very collections of classic statuary are the work of successive ecclesiastical rulers. Education is essentially religious (as it always is in any country whose ideal still remains civilized and does not approximate to that of the irresponsible denizen of the forests), and at the same time national, since every nation has here its own representative college. The archæological discoveries in the catacombs and at the Dominican Convent of San Clemente open a new branch of research peculiar to Rome, while modern art instinctively follows in the same religious groove, and spends itself chiefly on the imitation of Christian mosaics, the manufacture of costly articles of devotion, such as reliquaries, crucifixes, rosaries, and the rivalry of both foreign and native artists to invent new æsthetical expositions of religious truth, new embodiments of religious symbols. From the street-shrines which we have passed to the studios of Christian artists and the examination of ancient Christian art there is, therefore, less distance than one would think. The same idea has created them, and the faith which keeps the lamp alight and inspires the _pifferaro’s_ tribute is the same that guides the chisel of the sculptor and the brush of the painter. It is certainly a remarkable fact that in Rome there is perhaps less landscape-painting than in many other schools and centres of art, and that, too, in a country so picturesque, so full of that pathetic southern beauty of luminous atmosphere and intense coloring. The human element, and, above all, the religious, seems, as by divine right, to blot out every other in this mystic capital, not of the world alone, but of the whole realm of intellect. Classicism itself, the child of the soil, seems an alien growth here, and one wanders through miles of antique statuary as one would through some gigantic collection of exotics in a northern clime, expecting every moment to return to a different and more normal atmosphere. So it is not to be wondered at, when exploring the field of modern art, that so many of those wild-looking Germans, with long, fair hair and bushy beards, extravagance of costume, and universal abundance of the plaid shawl serving as an overcoat, should be engaged on S. Jeromes or S. Catherines rather than on Apollos or Minervas.

The Italians are best represented among the sculptors, and Tenerani, Giacometti, and Benzoni have made their religious statuary famous through the Christian world. Discarding the influence of the Renaissance, they have returned to the austere ideal so well understood by Canova and exemplified in his figures of Justice and Mercy on the tomb of Clement XIV. in S. Peter’s—the ideal which Michael Angelo forsook when he introduced “muscular Christianity” into art. Tenerani’s “Angel of Judgment,” intended for the tomb of a Prussian princess, is a magnificent conception. Colossal in size, and divinely impassible in expression, this grand figure stands as if in the last dread pause before the call, holding uplifted in his mighty hand the trumpet that is to awaken the dead. It is impossible to give an adequate impression of this statue, so majestic and so simple, with its massive drapery falling straight to the feet, not tortured with a thousand undignified wrappings, nor flying like a stiffly frozen scarf around the bared limbs, as it does on the wretched angels whom Bernini has perched upon the bridge opposite the Mole of Adrian. The two lifelike statues of Christ and his betrayer, Judas, which are placed at the foot of the Scala Santa, one of the most venerated shrines of Rome, are also Tenerani’s handiwork. Judas clutches a bag of money in his left hand, which he tries to hide behind his back, while his bent body and the low animal cunning in his look betray the sordid eagerness that prompts him. Opposite this statue is that of our Saviour, whose attitude, full of dignity and repose, is more that of a lenient judge than of an entrapped victim. As far as marble can be god-like, this figure borrows something of the lofty characteristics of its original; and it is to be noticed that sculpture can more easily than painting attain such quasi-perfection. We have all been repeatedly struck by the effeminacy of almost every representation of our Lord, but this danger is much diminished in marble, the material itself being more or less incapable of sensuous interpretation. This is very evident in entirely or partially undraped figures, which are redeemed from the alluring repulsiveness of the same subjects on canvas by a certain firmness of outline and breadth of contour suggestive of strength rather than tenderness, dignity rather than charm.

One very beautiful group in marble was the “Taking down from the Cross,” which in 1863 was still in the _atelier_ of a German sculptor, whose name we have forgotten. The realistic details, such as the nails still embedded in the sacred hands of the Redeemer, the crown of thorns, the tears of the Magdalen who is embracing his feet, were marvellously and yet not painfully correct, while the whole expression of the artistically grouped figures was touchingly Christian. Benzoni’s Eve was another well-known masterpiece, of which many fac-similes by the sculptor himself were constantly sold to rich English or Russian patrons; but its chief merit was the wonderful hair, upon which the “mother of all the living” half sits, and which is chiselled with minute accuracy. The statue might be that of a beautiful bather or a grandly moulded Venus, save for the symbolic serpent twined around the stump of the tree on which she leans.

Gibson, the English sculptor, was the apostle of the revived art of tinting statues. He contended that such was the custom of the ancients, and brought forward many proofs in favor of his assertion, notably a statue of Augustus discovered at the baths of Livia during our stay in Rome, and which bore marks of gilding and vermilion on the fringes of its drapery. Gibson’s studio was a pagan temple, the representative of classic naturalism, very beautiful, but equally soulless. His tinted Venus was the marvel of the London Exhibition of 1862, and now he was at work giving the finishing touch to a very lovely tinted Hebe. The flesh was skilfully tinged to a faint pink hue, so faint that it suggested ivory with a glow upon it rather than actual flesh; and here and there, for instance, round the short kirtle and on the band around the forehead, ran a pencil-line of gold in delicate tracery. The artist, gray and withered, and pacing among his statues in a loose sort of _déshabillé_, reminded one of the ancient Greek philosophers discoursing on their favorite theories. He was altogether a cultivated and charming pagan, and had conceptions of the Greek myths which would have delighted Phidias. He explained his Bacchus to us most enthusiastically, dwelling on the mistake often made of delineating him as the bloated god of intemperance and coarse indulgence. “I have made him,” he said, pointing to his statue, crowned with vine-leaves, “not less beautiful than Apollo; for he was the god of youth and pleasure, of dance and song, and not the type of brutal revelry some people would have us believe. He left that to Silenus.” This statue was not tinted. Whether the ancients did or did not as a rule use color as an adjunct of sculpture, or whether, if they did, it was only in the degenerate stage of art, we cannot pretend to say; but, to our mind, such a practice seriously detracts from the severe beauty of statuary. It seems a pandering to passion, a compromise to allure the imagination, and even a confession of weakness on the part of the artist.

Story, the American sculptor, was and is by far the ablest representative of secular art in Rome. His two magnificent statues of Cleopatra and the Libyan Sibyl were the gems of the “Roman Court” in the London Exhibition of 1862. The former (or a _replica_ of it) is in Mr. Johnston’s gallery of modern pictures in New York. Story has given his heroine something of the Egyptian type, thereby forsaking the arbitrary rule that decreed the Greek type only to be admissible in sculpture; and, if he has lost in mere physical beauty, he has amply gained in power. In his Cleopatra, he has not given us the voluptuous woman, but the captive queen, brooding over the fall of her sovereignty, looking into futurity with gloomy apprehension; for she sees her empire enslaved, her nationality wiped out, her dynasty forgotten. We dare not pity her, for she is above such a tribute; we cannot despise her, for we feel that contempt would not reach her. She is here the tangible embodiment of a principle rather than the splendid sinner of flesh and blood; and involuntarily we admire and reverence her, and are silent before her imperial woe. The Libyan Sibyl is not unlike the Cleopatra in general effect, and bears the same stamp of loftiness of mind on the part of the artist.

Of Hoffman, a very different sculptor, and the adopted son of Overbeck, we remember but one work, as he died between our first and second visits to Rome, and our recollection of him dates, therefore, from a somewhat childish period. This work was the bust of a Madonna, in which seemed blended in some indescribable way the softness of the painter’s art and the firmness of the sculptor’s. The head is slightly bent forward, and the eyes look modestly down. Over the back of the head falls a veil, and the brow is bound by a simple crown of _fleur-de-lis_. The expression is radiant yet grave, and the artist has ventured to use the help of gilding to embellish the veil and circlet. But how different the effect from that produced by Gibson’s tinting! The thread-like mediæval tracery that forms the half-inch border to the veil, and the line of gold that just defines the contour of the crown, have not the least disturbing effect in the harmony of the whole pure composition. One would think that this was the head of the white-robed Virgin in Beato Angelico’s fresco in the Convent of San Marco at Florence, translated into marble.

Christian art in the department of painting is chiefly represented by the new German school of Overbeck. The master himself, a worthy follower of the religious painters of the XIVth and XVth centuries, was quite a study. His enthusiastic explanations of his cartoons of the Seven Sacraments, which were in his _atelier_ at the time we visited him, were very impressive. His own appearance was singularly in harmony with the tone of his works, and, by its dignified asceticism, could not fail to remind one that to paint as he did is to pray. One of his most beautiful productions is now at Munich—a half-length Madonna—in whose draperies he has managed to combine the most richly varied tints, all subdued to that velvety depth and mellowness which is so peculiar to some of the old Pre-Raphaelite masters, and which always suggests to our mind the tints seen in mediæval stained glass. The Christian revival linked with his name has spread far and wide, and all over England, Germany, and France are found memorials of its inspiration. The nudities of the Renaissance, the anatomies of the school of Michael Angelo, and the handsome, robust materialities of even the later manner of Raphael were banished to the realm of secular art, and the revived ideal of religious chivalry was no longer the muscular athlete, the handsome peasant, or the graceful _odalisque_. Many disciples followed the new artistic school, and one of these, Seitz, of whom we have had personal knowledge, may well find a place here. Seitz had his studio near the Piazza Barberini, and, when we went in a party to see him, he was at work on a beautiful group of saints arrayed round the throne of the Virgin and Child. It was a thoroughly characteristic picture, designed according to the mediæval custom of representing the family of the owner by their respective patron saints. It was destined for a Gothic chapel in England, and has since been transferred there, having been ordered by a connoisseur in religious art and ecclesiastical archæology. The minuteness and accuracy of detail, such as are required by the costumes of S. Charles Borromeo (cardinal), of S. Francis of Sales, (bishop), and S. Ida (a Benedictine nun), are perfect, yet without a trace of that pagan naturalism which, since the days of the Medici, has uncrowned every ideal, and lowered even historical dignity to the level of vulgar domesticity. The researches necessary to a correct representation of such royal garments as are distinctive of S. Constance, the daughter of the Emperor Constantine; S. Edith, the royal Saxon abbess; S. Edward the Confessor, who holds in his hand a model of his foundation, Westminster Abbey; and of S. Elizabeth of Hungary, the queenly almsgiver, whose loaves of bread were turned to wreaths of red roses as her husband was about to upbraid her for her too lavish generosity, are also shown, by the success of these figures, to have been deep and painstaking. S. Thomas of Canterbury, patron of the chapel for which the altar-piece was intended, is also very beautifully represented, the pallium and crozier faithfully copied, while a knife, placed transversely in the interstices of the pastoral staff, points out symbolically the manner of his heroic death. The main figures, the Virgin and Child, are radiant with heavenly grace as well as dignity, the tints of the former’s robe being exquisitely delicate, almost transparent in their ethereal suggestiveness, while the disposition of the folds is both grave and modest. The picture is on a gold ground, and divided into three panels by XIIth century _colonnettes_ of twisted gold, while the names of the saints are inscribed in Lombardic characters on the breadth of the frame. Before we take our leave of modern art, of which, of course, we do not pretend to have given more than a very superficial summary, we must not forget the restored mosaics in the Basilica of S. Paul. This is outside the walls of Rome, and has been in continual process of rebuilding and embellishment for over forty years. The great fire of 1822, which destroyed the old Basilica, and swept away the carved cedar roof which was one of its chief glories, only spared the apse containing some valuable mosaics of the Theodosian period—an enthroned Christ, around which was an inscription recounting how the Empress Galla Placidia and Pope Leo the Great had finished the decorations of the church, and several medallions purporting to represent the first twenty or thirty popes. Among the renovating tasks to be undertaken, that of continuing the series of Papal mosaics became one of the foremost. Those pontiffs of whom some authentic likeness remained, whether in casts, busts, medals, or on canvas, were represented according to these data; while, for the earlier popes of whom no reliable memorial was left, tradition and symbolism were appealed to. The artists took great pains in collecting and arranging their models, the ecclesiastical authorities gave them every help and encouragement in their power, and the result was a series of new mosaic medallions running all round the nave above the granite columns, hardly distinguishable from the IVth century work, and in every respect true to the almost forgotten traditions of this ancient branch of art.

Among other praiseworthy restorations of antique industry is the establishment of Signor Castellani, a true artist and enthusiast, who stands unrivalled in his application to the study of Etruscan and Roman jewellery. Here may be seen wonderful and exact reproductions of Roman _bullæ_, or golden ornaments, hung round the necks of youths before they attained the age at which they assumed the _toga virilis_, indicative of manhood and citizenship; _figulæ_, or brooches of gold, wrought with the heads of lions or leopards, or chased with vine-leaf patterns; plain, massive rings, armlets and golden waistbelts, delicate crowns of golden myrtle leaves, hair-pins and ornaments (those with which Roman ladies are said to have often struck their female slaves in capricious anger), and various nondescript jewellery. Engrafting upon these ornaments such later conceits as were appropriate, Castellani produced rings and brooches bearing the Greek word _Αει_ (for ever) in plain Etruscan letters, or the reversible words, _Amor_, _Roma_, etc. Perhaps the most perfect objects of art were the necklaces, with their little amphora-shaped pendants copied from those found in ancient tombs, and which are now so well known. The granulated gold-work used in many of the more solid pieces of jewellery is peculiar to Castellani’s new antique style, and cost much time, research, and patience to bring to the old standard, of which the results were also for a long time the only recipes.

To return to Christian art and its early origin, we cannot do better than go straight to the catacombs. Apart from their historical interest, they have the additional merit of being the birthplace of Christian symbolism. It should always be borne in mind that art is a means, not an end. If it aims only at mere physical beauty, it degrades itself to the level of a common trade. Its inspiration should come from on high, and its object be to lift the soul from vulgar to sublime thoughts. Thus began the art of the catacombs. It was eminently symbolical, like the language of Christ himself in the parables, and like the venerable traditions of the Old Testament. We should detain our readers too long were we to propose anything like an adequate examination of the various types found in the catacombs. The good shepherd surrounded by his flock, symbolizing the church; Moses striking the rock, symbolizing the grace of the sacraments, particularly baptism; and Jonas saved from the whale, and reposing under the miraculous gourd, typifying the resurrection and life everlasting, are some of the most oft-repeated subjects. The multiplication of the loaves and fishes also constantly recurs, meaning the eucharistic sacrifice and sacrament, the sacrifice of the Mass, and the sacrament of the body of the Lord under the appearance of bread. The Deluge and Noe’s ark are frequently depicted, for the sake of the symbol they contain—that of the church alone saving the human race amid the general corruption of sin. The fish is a double symbol, the five letters of the Greek word _Ιχθύς_ being the initials of the following words: Jesus, Christ, Son (of) God, Saviour, which form a complete confession of faith; and the animal itself, capable of existing only in the water, typifying that by baptism alone does the Christian soul live. Sometimes the fish is put for Christ himself; as in two very ancient catacomb frescos, where it is seen in the one swimming in the water, bearing a ship (the church) upon its back, and in the other bearing a basket of bread, the type of the Holy Eucharist. This symbol of the fish was so universally accepted, and became so fixed in men’s minds, that it originated the shape of the episcopal seal, which was and is still fashioned like a pointed oval or ogive. In many frescos, a female figure is depicted with outstretched hands, signifying, as some think, the church in prayer, or, as others say, the Mother of God interceding for the church. Among the Christian hieroglyphics, palms and crowns were frequent; a dove often represented the spirit at peace in Christ (this was frequently the only epitaph on a Christian’s tomb), and a peacock or a phœnix, immortality. Here the recollections of paganism were suited to Christian doctrines, and, like the converted temples, did duty in the service of truth. A curious instance of this is seen in the frequent recurrence of the myth of Orpheus depicted in the frescos of the catacombs, the Greek shepherd with his lyre standing for Christ, who by the magic of his doctrine and his grace tames the evil passions of man, as Orpheus tamed the wild beasts of the forest. In the earlier frescos, we see traces of the pure Greek models of ancient painting; the graceful draperies, the delicate borders remind us of Pompeian art, but there is nothing immodest, and the figures themselves are already of a graver and nobler type. In the later paintings, the beauty of detail and ornamentation grows less, but the grand ideal is yet more prominent. There is a transition in art, but the indelible stamp of Christianity is already impressed on the struggling types of a more perfect future. It was fitting that Christianity should only use pagan civilization with all its products as a pedestal—a noble basis, it is true, but still only a pedestal—and should rear above it a structure wholly her own. Thus from her inspiration rose a new architecture purely Christian; new arts, such as stained glass-making; in literature, new languages capable of more spiritual expressions. It is interesting to find in Rome the tradition of Christian art so unbroken, and especially to be able to compare the earliest efforts at a reverent and lucid illustration of the truths of faith with the latest development of the same sentiment in the new German pictures. From the catacombs and San Clemente to the school of Overbeck the transition is natural, and we find the same master-spirit guiding both pictorial expositions. The seed that produced such painters as Gian Bellini, Fra Angelico, Masaccio, Orcagna, Giotto, and Perugino was destined indeed to be crushed for full four centuries, but what a glorious harvest has the bruised grain yielded in this age! Of all the productions of the XIXth century, none to our mind ever deserved its reputation one-quarter so well as the Christian and Gothic revival, which is leading the human mind back to the spirit of the early church.[204]

We do not speak of the much-frequented galleries of the Borghese, Doria, or Corsini palaces, because every visitor to Rome knows them as well as we do; nor of the Stanza of Raphael in the Vatican—which we studied perhaps less than we ought—because we should probably offend many established predilections by so doing. The pictures most often under our eyes were those in the Sistine chapel and in S. Peter’s, and of the former a most painful impression remains upon our mind. The Christian ideal of art is there utterly violated by a painter who, as a man, was a most fervent and austere Christian. The taint of the Renaissance was upon Michael Angelo when he gave us an athlete enthroned, in the place of Christ the Judge; and we are happy to reflect that his spiritual conception of divine majesty was far different from his artistic conception. The _pictures_ in S. Peter’s, except one, are all mosaics, and a most marvellous triumph of artistic illusion. Domenichino’s Communion of S. Jerome especially is so accurately copied in this perplexing material that any one not forewarned will never dream that he is looking on anything but canvas. The single exception is the picture opposite the Porta Santa Marta, and represents the judgment that befell Ananias and Sapphira.

Of all monuments of early Christianity, whose interest is joined with that of art, none stands more conspicuous than the church of San Clemente, served by the Irish Dominicans, and under English protection. The discovery of the subterranean church and frescos, dating from the days of S. Clement, the _third_ successor of S. Peter, was an era in the history of ecclesiastical archæology. Believed to have been the site of S. Clement’s own dwelling, and to have originated in an oratory established there by himself, the Basilica of S. Clement is of a high antiquity. There are proofs of its existence in 417, when Pope Zosimus chose it as the scene of his condemnation of the Pelagian heresy. To this date or thereabouts may be referred a certain Byzantine Madonna in fresco; and the learned and enthusiastic F. Mullooly has built upon this apparent coincidence a very beautiful and possibly correct theory. “The very difference,” he says, “between the heads of S. Catherine and S. Euphemia, with hair flowing down from their jewelled crowns—_i.e._ human nature decked with the jewels of virginity and martyrdom—and the countenance of Our Lady, enshrined in a mass of ornaments, without a single lock appearing—_i.e._ human nature totally transformed by grace—indicates the limner’s scope.” And again: “_All_ the gifts of grace are signified by the necklace, breastplate, and the immense jewelled head-dress, with its triple crown, borne by Our Lady.” We hear of S. Clement’s Basilica again in 600, of its being restored in 795, and, a century later (855), of its being in “good order.” It is not accurately known whether it was destroyed by the earthquake of 896 or in the wars of Robert Guiscard and Pope Gregory VII. in 1084. At any rate, it disappears from history after this last convulsion, and not until 1857 was its existence proved by F. Mullooly’s successful excavations. He has published a book upon the subject, conspicuous for enthusiasm and archæological accuracy. Many portions of the Basilica were found in almost perfect preservation, the columns especially being of great beauty, variety, and costliness, both as to material and workmanship. But the frescos are the most important part of the silent testimony to Christian truth borne by this unearthed antiquity dating almost from the apostolic age. One in particular we commend to the notice of such advanced Anglicans as proclaim the “Roman” church of to-day to be other than the apostolic church of the first four centuries. It represents S. Clement celebrating Mass at a small, square altar. We quote F. Mullooly’s literal description: “The central compartment represents the interior of a church, from the arches of which are suspended _seven_ lamps, symbolizing the seven gifts of the Holy Ghost. That over the altar is circular in form,[205] much larger than the other six, and contains _seven_ lights, probably typical of the seven gifts of the same Holy Spirit. Anastasius the librarian, who lived in the IXth century, makes mention of this form of lamp, and calls it a _pharum cum corona_—a lighthouse with a crown—a crown from its form, a lighthouse from the brilliancy of the light it emitted.” He also says that it was in common use in all the Christian churches. S. Clement, in his pontifical robes (_i.e._ a chasuble, an alb, etc., and more particularly a _pallium_), is officiating at the altar, over which his name, _S. Clemens, Papa_—Pope S. Clement—is written in the form of a cross. He has the maniple between the thumb and forefinger of the left hand. The altar is covered with a plain white cloth, and on it are the missal, the chalice, and paten. The missal is open, and on one page of it are the words, _Dominus vobiscum_ (“The Lord be with you”), which the saint is pronouncing, his arms extended, as Catholic priests do even to this day when celebrating Mass. On the other page are the words, _Pax Domini sit semper vobiscum_ (“The peace of the Lord be ever with you”). These two phrases were introduced into the liturgy of the church by S. Clement himself, and are still retained. On the right of the saint are his ministers—namely, two bishops with croziers in their left hands, a deacon, and a subdeacon. They all have the circular tonsure (the distinguishing mark of the Latin rite), and the pope, in addition to the tonsure, has the nimbus, or glory, the symbol of sanctity.[206] In the neighboring fresco of the life and death of S. Alexius, the Pope, S. Boniface, is depicted again in similar pontifical garments, and is attended by two cross-bearers. Here, too, are the hanging lamps, four in number; the clerics, to the number of twenty, all wear the circular tonsure, and the pope has on his head a conical white mitre. It is noticeable in these early frescos that the shape of the lamps, chalice, crosses, and the fashion of the vestments, chasuble, alb, altar-cloth, and mitre, are exactly such as are now reproduced in the English establishments of Hardman & Co., and the Browns, of Manchester and Birmingham—the style now called Gothic. F. Mullooly notices the lavishness of these mural decorations in these significant words: “They appear to have been part of a series painted about the same time; and, when the colors were fresh, the Basilica must have presented a brilliant appearance very different from that Puritanical baldness which some suppose, but very falsely, to have been the _undefiled condition_ of church walls in the _early ages_.” A fuller investigation would reveal many interesting facts going far to prove, by human means alone, the identity of the church of Clement and that of Pius IX.; and, indeed, it is chiefly this that strikes all candid English-speaking visitors to the subterranean church. In the late Basilica built over the ruins of this early one are many objects of artistic interest, notably the chapel of S. Catherine of Alexandria, with her life painted in a series of frescos on the walls, and the curious marble enclosure, four feet in height, round the choir, with the two _ambones_, or marble desks, for the reading of the Gospel and the Epistle. These, together with the enclosure, which is raised a step or two above the level of the nave, are beautifully sculptured; and already, in these unusual types of birds, beasts, and flowers, we trace that departure from the tradition of the monotonous acanthus-leaf which was to blossom forth into such wonders at the Cathedrals of Cologne, Chartres, York, and Burgos. The frescos in S. Catherine’s chapel it would take too long to describe; a medallion head of the saint is especially noticeable for its great purity of outline and expression, and the heavenly suggestiveness which hallows and rarefies its human beauty. In a cursory sketch such as this, it is impossible to do justice to a subject so vast as Roman art, and we have therefore embodied in it but a few of our personal recollections. The deepest impressions, however, can never be told in words. No one who has visited Rome can ever succeed in fully expressing all his sentiments; there are undefinable sensations that will assert themselves, though the visitor should strive to the utmost to resist and stifle them; there are vivid influences which are felt by the infidel, the Puritan, and the Catholic alike, though the first will not acknowledge them, and the second has too much human respect to put them into tangible shape; still, they exist none the less strongly and may bear fruit when least expected.

Rome is too much of a landmark in the tale of any traveller’s life to be passed over in silence, and one might say of its charm and influence what Rousseau caused to be graven on the pedestal of a statue of Eros set up in his grounds near Geneva:

“Passant, adore; voici ton maître;
Il l’est, le fut, ou le doit être.”

(“Passing, adore; behold thy master.
He is, he was, or he ought to be.”)

TO BE FORGIVEN.

I CALL thee “love”—“my sweet, my dearest love,”
Nor feel it bold, nor fear it a deceit:
Yet I forget not that, in realms above,
The thrones of Seraphs are beneath thy feet.

If Queen of angels thou, of hearts no less:
And so of mine—a poet’s, which must needs
Adore to all melodious excess
What cannot sate the rapture that it feeds.

And then thou art my Mother: God’s, yet mine!
Of mothers, as of virgins, first and best;
And I as tenderly, intimately thine
As He, my Brother, carried at the breast.

My Mother! ‘Tis enough. If mine the right
To call thee this, much more to muse and sigh
All other honeyed names. A slave, I _might_—
A son, I _must_. And both of these am I.

TRAVELLERS AND TRAVELLING.

CONCLUDED.

ANOTHER shrine most welcome to all who have made a retreat in a house of the Jesuits is the grotto of Manresa. I went to Spain to visit this holy spot. I was enchanted with the wondrous appearance of Montserrat, the most unique mountain, perhaps, on the globe. It looks like some enormous temple or Valhalla built by the Scandinavians in honor of their gods. Picture to yourself a high table-land, and imagine this surmounted by the Giant’s Causeway (wherewith doubtless you are familiar from the geography plates), and this again crowned by a multitude of icebergs or by colossal models of the Milan Cathedral, all forming a structure four thousand feet in height and some miles in extent, situated in a beautiful country of rounded hills—the Switzerland of Spain—which make the great mountain more singular and imposing by the contrast. You may thus form an idea of Montserrat, which the pious Catalonians say was thus rent by the thunderbolts of God at the Crucifixion. A famous shrine of the Blessed Virgin lies far up the mount; thirteen hermitages formerly existed, but were destroyed by the French revolutionists. To the shrine of Mary the converted Knight of Loyola repaired for his general confession, and then, retiring to an open cavern in the side of a rocky hill, and having the sublime mountain in view, he entered on the famous retreat which resulted in that great work, the _Spiritual Exercises_. It was delightful to say Mass in that cavern, preserved in its original narrow nakedness, and the Mass served by a gentleman from New Granada, himself a pilgrim to this holy place; to see the same shelf of rock on which was written that celebrated book praised by so many popes, and which worked such wonders in the perfecting of soldiers in the spiritual warfare. But the House of Retreat, which still stands on the roof of that rocky cavern, was changed from its original purpose, and, having for a while been used as a hospital, lies now, since the expulsion of the Jesuits, in empty desolation; its altar literally stripped, its chapel in ruins, its library scattered, its corridors open to the elements. Here, at the shrine to which all the novices of the order in the noble church of Spain used to come on foot to refresh their spirit at the Mount of God, where Ignatius had received a message from on high, no one now remains but a lay brother in secular dress, who is allowed, by connivance of the police, to sweep the church and care for the chapels. Two other churches of the society and their colleges have now no trace of their possession; and of two hundred Jesuits who were formerly here, only three priests and two lay brethren are left, living on alms, and residing in a more wretched lane than could be found in New York.

No Jesuit, Dominican, Franciscan, or other religious, can to-day wear the dress of his order. Their property was confiscated, their libraries broken up; they are forbidden to live in community or receive novices, and no compensation is given them for the means of living whereof they were deprived. Such is a picture of religious life in that once most noble country, which controlled the empire of the world when she was most devoted to the church. In conversing with a young ecclesiastic, who guided me to the mean dwelling of the Jesuits, up three pairs of dark stairs, he said: “Every one notices the decay of faith and increasing corruption of morals, and all acknowledge that the church militant is practically weak when deprived of the services of her religious orders.” I might relate visits to other places, and describe other peoples—tell you of the Cathedral at Burgos, the bearishness of some people I met, the politeness characteristic of others, the beauty of Switzerland, the fresh simplicity of the Tyrol, the peculiar charm of Venice, the prison of SS. Peter and Paul at Rome, the Propaganda College, and so on endlessly; but I have only desired to illustrate a little the pleasure of travel, not to describe everything, which were impossible. So great is the attraction of travelling that a whole people, the gypsies, spend their lives in constant roaming over the world; but their condition, like that of certain classes in civilized communities, shows abundantly that continual wandering is conducive to advancement neither in morals, learning, nor real happiness.