NAPLES, CAPRI, VESUVIUS, AMALFI AND POMPEII.
Naples is the largest, dirtiest and most beautiful city in Italy. From
the balconies of our hotel, which stands high on the thickly-built
hillside, we have a matchless view--the cream-colored city at our feet,
with its red roofs and blue domes, rising from the water's edge and
climbing the embayed mountain like half of a vast amphitheatre; the
volcano of Vesuvius beyond, lifting its white plume of warning smoke by
day, and sometimes glaring red at night; the brown ruins of overwhelmed
but disentombed Pompeii a little to the right; then the cliffs of
Sorrento; and, stretching between us and them, the bay itself, with its
incomparable crescent of contiguous cities running like a fringe of
snow round its blue waters. There--
"The bridegroom Sea is toying with the shore,
His wedded bride; and in the fullness of his marriage joy
He decorates her tawny brow with shells,
Retires a space to see how fair she looks,
Then proud runs up to kiss her."
[Illustration: PANORAMA OF NAPLES.]
[Sidenote: Street Scenes in Naples.]
The contrast between the heavenly scenery of this bay and that
awful volcano, which stands over it like an ever-present threat of
destruction, reminds one of the cherubim which stood at the gate of
Eden to guarantee the restoration of redeemed and glorified humanity
to communion with God, along with the self-revolving sword which
symbolized the certainty and terribleness of divine vengeance upon
sin. But neither by the promises of his grace nor by the threat of
his vengeance do these people seem to be restrained from sin. Many
of them are sunk in vice. The contrast between splendor and squalor,
superfluous wealth and abject poverty, which characterizes all large
cities, is sharper, if possible, here than anywhere else. But it is the
latter, the picturesque misery of Naples, that makes most impression
upon the visitor. Some of the narrow streets, often not more than ten
or twenty feet wide, are indescribably filthy, and they swarm with
bareheaded, untidy women and half-naked children, yelling hucksters and
pertinacious beggars, dirty monks and gowned priests. All this, and
more which cannot here be set down, in one of the loveliest places on
this beautiful earth.
An observant and witty friend of mine says: "The people live outdoors,
and for the best of reason--they would die indoors.... Into most of
the living rooms on their narrowest streets the sun never shines....
At the best, the ordinary buildings feel sepulchral, and an overcoat
is to be worn here in the house, and not on the streets! Lining the
sides of many, if not most of the streets, are shops or booths. They
are, as far as one can see, single rooms, furnished about the door with
vegetables, or meats, or maccaroni, or wine bottles, or charcoal, or
bread, the rest of the room filled with beds and tables and dressers,
with dishes and food, and shrines and highly-colored chromos of the
saints and apostles. The children are washed and dressed in the
doorways, and their heads constantly watched and investigated, much
after the friendly fashion of monkeys. By the way, peddlers are forever
thrusting small boxes of combs into our faces, insisting upon our
buying. We have not purchased any yet--but who can tell? The people
do much of their cooking in small braziers outside the doors, on the
sidewalk, burning charcoal and fanning the fires with hats or aprons.
They have no hesitancy about eating out of the same dish and in the
public eye. Cows and goats are driven along the street and milked at
the doors into glasses or bottles, which seems a fair guarantee for the
milk being fresh. The calves and kids come to town, too, and take in
the ways of the city, along with what they get of their mothers' milk.
Women wash clothes at the public fountains, some bringing wash-boards
or flat stones, some treading the clothes in tubs with their feet. From
windows and balconies, on lines stretched along the streets and on
cane poles that almost touch the opposite houses, the wet things drip
and dry. Squads of soldiers in various uniforms pass and repass at all
times of day; old women knit and rest in the doorways; vegetable and
fish venders proclaim their wares in high, hard voices. At their cries
baskets are let down from upper windows, and the sharpest bargains
in the shrillest accents are driven in midair. If the goods are not
satisfactory, down go the baskets to the sidewalk."
Of course we visited the aquarium, said to be the finest in the world,
and the museum, with its two thousand mural paintings brought from
Pompeii, and its collection of ancient bronzes--also the finest in the
world.
But the things that interested us most were not in Naples, but around
it--such as Puteoli, where, many centuries ago, on a balmy spring day
like this, when the south wind was blowing softly over the sea, the
Apostle Paul landed, with Luke and Aristarchus, on his way to Rome; and
where the ruins of the Temple of Jupiter Serapis, bearing sea-marks
at various levels and having its columns perforated by lithodomites
and containing imbedded shells, shows how the building, by gradual
subsidence of the land, was first let down into the water, and then by
volcanic upheaval lifted again to the higher level.
[Sidenote: The Blue Grotto at Capri.]
Directly in front of us as we look from our windows, but far out over
the expanse of sunlit water, twenty-two miles away, we can see Capri,
lying like a turquoise gem on the bosom of the bay. Our party returned
from their visit to this enchanting island with quite new conceptions
of the color effects that may be produced by the combination of
sunlight and sea water. When the steamer stops at Capri, a short
distance beyond the town of Capri, the passengers get into small boats
and are rowed up to a lofty cliff, in the base of which, at the water
level, there is a small hole, four feet high and four feet wide, so
small, indeed, that it cannot be entered at all when the tide is up
or the water is rough. Even under favorable conditions, passengers
have to sit on the bottom of the boat and duck their heads. This is
the entrance to the wonderful Blue Grotto. "Once within, you find
yourself in an arched cavern about one hundred and sixty feet long,
one hundred and twenty wide, and about seventy high. How deep it is no
man knows. It goes down to the bottom of the ocean. The waters of this
placid subterranean lake are the brightest, loveliest blue that can be
imagined. They are as transparent as plate glass, and their coloring
would shame the richest sky that ever bent over Italy. No tint could be
more ravishing, no lustre more superb. Throw a stone into the water,
and the myriad of tiny bubbles that are created flash out a brilliant
glare like blue theatrical fires. Dip an oar, and its blade turns to
frosted silver, tinted with blue. Let a man jump in, and instantly he
is cased in an armor more gorgeous than ever kingly crusader wore." Two
boys, in the scantiest possible attire, who were standing on a ledge
when we entered, clothed themselves repeatedly in this celestial armor
for our delectation and their profit, by diving for the pennies flung
into the water by the passengers.
[Sidenote: The Ascent of Vesuvius.]
When you visit Vesuvius, make an early start and give yourself plenty
of time. It took our party four hours and a half, with a good team, to
drive from Naples to the foot of the steep cone at the top. The journey
takes you through some of the disagreeable parts of the city and gives
you a new impression of its extent. When at last you do turn from the
squalid streets and begin the ascent of the mountain, your enjoyment
begins. The fresh breeze, laden with the fragrance of orange blossoms,
tempers the heat, and at every turn of the winding, climbing road you
have the most entrancing views of the city and the bay. The mountain
itself is partly covered with the luxuriant greenery of orchards and
villas, and partly by the gloomy beds of lava thrown out by successive
eruptions--"a black ocean, which was tumbled into a thousand fantastic
shapes--a wild chaos of ruin, desolation and barrenness--a wilderness
of billowy upheavals, of furious whirlpools, of miniature mountains
rent asunder--of gnarled and knotted, wrinkled and twisted masses of
blackness that mimicked branching roots, great vines, trunks of trees
all interlaced and mingled together; and all these weird shapes, all
this turbulent panorama, all this stormy, far stretching waste of
blackness, with its thrilling suggestiveness of life, of action, of
boiling, surging, furious motion, was petrified!--all stricken dead and
cold in the instant of its maddest rioting!--fettered, paralyzed and
left to glower at heaven in impotent rage for evermore!"
[Illustration: A WINDY DAY ON MOUNT VESUVIUS.]
I had had the good fortune on a former visit to see the process of its
formation. At that time the lava was actually flowing from a breach
in the side of the mountain, a little below the cone which surrounds
the great crater, and a party of us walked over a half mile or so among
the wild rocks and congealed lava to get a sight of it. The rocks over
which we walked were too hot to touch with the naked hand, and scorched
the bottoms of our shoes. The fumes of sulphur escaping through the
crevices made the air almost suffocating. These conditions became more
aggravated the nearer we came to the object of our search, so that one
or two of the party became quite unnerved, gave up the expedition, and
returned. We felt like we were walking in a furnace. Then the guide
made a turn round some great boulders, and there it was--a slowly
moving stream of liquid fire, issuing from under a great rock, and
flowing down the side of the mountain. Every one threw his hands before
his face to protect it from the blistering heat. The guide, standing
behind a big rock, reached over with a long pole into this fearful red
river and lifted out a glob of the molten lava on the end of it, as you
would dip up a bit of hot molasses candy on the end of a fork, then,
withdrawing a little way, he disengaged the lava from the end of the
pole with a smaller stick, and, asking me for a penny, he laid the coin
on the lump of lava and pressed it well down into the mass which rose
round the edges of the coin, holding it firmly in its place--and thus
made for me a paper weight, which is my best souvenir of Vesuvius.
The ascent of the cone to the crater is next thing to trying to climb a
church steeple. Thanks to the enterprise of Thomas Cook & Sons, there
is an inclined railway which takes you from the foot of the cone up the
steep breast of the mountain nearly to the top--a dizzy ride, one that
makes you shut your eyes and grip the arms of your seat. Then comes
the worst of it--the final climb through warm cinders ankle deep, which
furnish very bad footing and come over your shoe tops at every step.
There are rude sedan chairs on poles, and chair-bearers who will gladly
carry you up for an additional fee--and there are often ludicrous
scenes when timid ladies essay this mode of ascent. The distance
is very short, so the ladies of our party determined to climb it
themselves, but, when about half way up, they were glad enough to take
hold of the looped ends of ropes while men at the other end pulled, and
so at last they stood on the very top of the great volcano. Not for
long, however, for, after they had walked round the edge of the great
crater and gotten a view of the new crater, formed within, and looking
like the heaped hole of a gigantic "doodle bug," with its slopes
made of cinders instead of sand, and sprinkled with orange-colored
sulphur, the wind veered suddenly and swept the stifling sulphur fumes
right into their faces. They ran, coughing, back over the cinders and
down again to the upper station of the railway, fully convinced that
Vesuvius, though not perhaps so impressive, was decidedly more pleasant
at a distance than at such close range.
[Illustration: ON THE ROAD FROM CASTELLAMARE TO AMALFI.]
[Sidenote: The Loveliness of Amalfi.]
Perhaps the most beautiful drive in the world is the drive from
Castellamare to Amalfi. Castellamare is about an hour and a half by
rail from Naples, and not far from Pompeii. It was here, indeed, that
the elder Pliny lost his life in the eruption of 79 A. D., which
destroyed Pompeii and Herculaneum. Taking a wagonette there about the
middle of the day, we followed this magnificent road nearly all the
afternoon, as it wound in and out along the mountainside, with the
towering cliffs on one hand and the intensely blue bay on the other,
seen ever and anon through openings between the silvery olive trees
which clothed all the slopes, the view backwards being terminated by
the majestic uplift of Vesuvius, wearing a soft plum-colored tinge that
we had never seen it have before. The soil here is wonderfully fertile,
and every hillside is terraced and cultivated with the utmost care.
The orange and lemon groves, with the trees trained over trellises
and protected from too intense heat by straw, laid on frames above,
were still blooming, though the trees were heavily laden with green
and golden fruit. Every now and then little boys and girls from the
villages which are perched on the rocks or cling to the hillsides would
run after us, throwing nosegays into the carriage and expecting "soldi"
in return. After a while the scenery became more rugged, not unlike
Switzerland, with little waterfalls trickling down the cliffs, and
Scotch broom and other wild plants taking the place of the vineyards
and orchards on the towering rocks. And now we begin to drive through
tunnels cut through the cliffs and to pass over solid stone bridges,
spanning glorious ravines at a dizzy height, with the transparent sea
making in far below us, and the mountains of gray rock towering skyward
above us. And at last, in the soft evening light, we reached the
culmination of all this wonderful beauty at Amalfi. When we stopped at
the foot of the cliff on which the Cappuccini Hotel stands, overlooking
the town and the sea, we found the uniformed portiere and other
attendants in a little lodge or office at the bottom of a long, zigzag
flight of stone steps, which leads up to the high perched hotel. But
there were sedan chairs and chair-bearers to spare the ladies and the
youngest of the children the long, lung-taxing climb, and we were soon
comfortably installed in the most romantically situated hotel I have
ever seen. It was a Cappucin monastery once, and the cloisters are
still there, but the cells are now used as bed-rooms. From the windows
and balconies, and from the long and lovely arcade, covered with grape
vines and lined with the most beautiful marguerites, lilies, roses
and geraniums, the guests look down upon the picturesque little city,
the boats drawn up on the beach, the burnished Mediterranean, and the
opaline islands in the offing. And how we Protestants did sleep in the
comfortably furnished cells of those ousted monks! Amalfi is the place
I wish to come to if I am ever again in Italy.
[Sidenote: The Ruins of Pompeii.]
When we tore ourselves away from Amalfi, we drove on around by Salerno,
another feast of beauty, and took the train at La Cava for Pompeii.
For days we had been reading, or re-reading, Bulwer's _Last Days of
Pompeii_ with breathless interest, or plodding through the dryer, but
hardly more accurate, details of the guide book--we had been to the
museum at Naples, where the mural paintings and other disentombed
relics of the city are shown, and we had stood on the crater of the
volcano that wrought its destruction--so that we came to the exhumed
ruins with as thorough preparation as we had found it possible to
make. But what description can prepare one for the impression of that
appalling catastrophe which one receives when he stands in the midst of
the ruins themselves, and _sees_ how sudden and terrible the overthrow
was?
[Illustration: COLONNADE OF THE HOTEL CAPPUCCINI, AMALFI.]
Pompeii had been shattered by an earthquake sixteen years before the
final catastrophe, but the warning had been disregarded. The place was
rebuilt with lavish outlay, and embellished with all the resources of
contemporary art, so that it was a new and splendid city which was
buried by the eruption of 79 A. D. On the 23rd of August in that year,
about two o'clock in the afternoon, terrible detonations were heard in
the mountain, and shortly afterwards an enormous column of watery
vapor issued from the top of it, remained suspended for a time in the
air, then condensed and fell in boiling rain on the mountain sides,
creating an irresistible torrent of mud, which quickly engulfed the
city of Herculaneum. Following this, later in the evening, apparently
about dark, came a roaring eruption of red hot pumice stones and
volcanic dust, succeeded quickly by other showers of the same material,
which covered Pompeii to the depth of fifteen or twenty feet. Thus was
the brilliant city, in all the exuberance of its gay life, plunged
into death in a single night. And all the inhabitants of that part of
Italy believed that they were about to share the same dreadful fate.
The air was so thick that for many miles from the volcano it was almost
stifling. It is said to have extended as far as Africa. It certainly
reached as far as Rome, and covered that city with a pall of darkness
so deep that the people took it for a sign of impending doom. They said
to each other, "The end of the world is come! the sun is going to fall
to the earth, or the earth mount up and be set on fire by the heavens."
The most graphic account of the horrors of that awful night at Pompeii
is to be found in the two letters of the younger Pliny to Tacitus.
Speaking of his efforts to remove his mother out of reach of harm,
while she was begging him to leave her to perish and save himself, he
says: "By this time the murky darkness had so increased that one might
have believed himself abroad in a black and moonless night, or in a
chamber where all the lights had been extinguished. On every hand were
heard the complaints of women, the wailing of children, and the cries
of men. One called his father, another his son, another his wife, and
only by their voices could they know each other. Many in their despair
begged that death would come and end their distress. Some implored the
gods to succor them, and some believed that this night was the last,
the eternal night which should engulf the universe! Even so it seemed
to me--and I consoled myself for the coming death with the reflection,
_Behold the world is passing away!_"
No one saw the sun rise on the morrow. The clouds of volcanic matter,
still pouring their pitiless rain upon the ruins, so darkened the sky
that people could not tell when the day came.
And there, under the superincumbent mass of stones and dust, the
city slept undisturbed till a few years ago, with everything as it
was in the days of Titus. "It was like a clock that stopped when the
householder died. Meats were on the table and bread was in the oven;
sentries were in their boxes and dogs on guard at house doors." Most of
the inhabitants escaped, but it is estimated, from the skeletons found
in the ruins, that not less than two thousand lost their lives. In the
museum by the entrance at the Marine Gate we are shown the blackened
loaves of bread, recovered from the bakeries, the beans and eggs, the
chickens and dogs, or their shapes from the moulds they left--and, most
distressing of all, human figures. "Plaster of Paris had been poured
into the hollows where bones were found, and in all the contortion of
suffocation or convulsion appeared the forms of men and women. How
little the ones whose brawny or whose delicate outlines we gazed upon
dreamt that they would be their own monuments to-day, and be seen by
the eyes of other races and ages, eyes curious, but not unsympathetic!
It was good to be in the warm sunshine again. A cloud of smoke floated
like a gray scarf--how gracefully and innocently!--from Vesuvius."
[Illustration: POMPEII.]
We walked up the narrow streets, paved with blocks of hard lava,
deeply rutted by chariot wheels, passing the Basilica, the Forum, the
Triumphal Arch, the temples, the theatres, the baths, the bakeries,
and the houses of Pansa, Diomedes, and the Tragic Poet--all laid bare
and clean to the view. We had the good fortune to see the process of
excavation itself--for while most of the city has been disentombed,
some of it still remains under the layers of small grayish white pumice
stones and brown dust. Three or four men were shovelling these away as
we passed. From most of the houses the furniture and wall paintings
have been taken away to the museums. But in the last large residence
exhumed, one which has only recently been brought to light, nearly
everything has been left as it was, except for a new roof of mica or
some such substance, which has been built over it for its protection.
Nearly all the frescoes are as fresh as on the day when they were
painted, and the fountain in the peristyle and its connecting pipes are
so perfectly preserved that, when the water was turned into them by the
excavators, the fountains began to play as they did on that fateful day
eighteen hundred years ago. "For as in the days that were before the
flood they were eating and drinking, marrying and giving in marriage,
until the day that Noah entered into the ark, and knew not until the
flood came, and took them all away," so it was with the careless
dwellers in this opulent city--and so it is with the careless dwellers
in many an opulent city to-day.
* * * * *
From Naples we turned our faces homeward, taking passage on the
_König Albert_, and coming by way of Gibraltar and the Azores. We
had a delightful ship's company, including Dr. Andrew D. White, the
accomplished ex-president of Cornell University and our late Ambassador
to Berlin, whom we found full of illuminating talk about Fra Paolo
Sarpi and other great men and great subjects. After a quiet and restful
voyage, affording a pleasant contrast with our experience of the
preceding summer when outward bound, we arrived at New York on the 10th
of June, 1903, deeply thankful for all the pleasure and benefit the
year had brought us, and fully convinced that, after all, ours is the
best country in the world.
INDEX.
Aberfoyle, 110.
Addison, Joseph, funeral of, 159.
Alfred the Great, 28, 147, 148.
Amalfi, 352-354.
America and England, proposed alliance of, 47.
America's future, English view of, 50, 51.
American Revolution, British view of, 42-45.
Amsterdam, islands and canals, 226.
built on piles, 227.
business activities, 227.
Jewish quarter, 228.
Aquinas, Thomas, retort to the pope, 303.
Ayr, 136.
Balfour, Arthur J., Prime Minister, 59.
Bibles, in Edinburgh churches, 84, 88.
Black, Rev. Hugh, 84.
Blackie, Prof. Stuart, on Jenny Geddes, 91.
on Oban, 119.
Blowing Stone of King Alfred,
148, 149.
Blue Grotto at Capri, 349.
Bologna, colonnades, 248.
leaning towers, 249.
University, 249.
Galvani's frog, 249.
House of the Virgin, 264.
Booth, General, and Salvation Army, 80.
Buddha canonized by Rome, 295.
British Government a republic, 55, 56.
Burns, Robert, birthplace, 136.
Burns, Rev. Thos., 84.
Caledonian Canal, 123.
Cambridge, 62-67.
Canterbury Cathedral, 187, 188.
Carnegie, Andrew, on America's future, 50, 51.
on intemperance, 104, 105.
Cathedrals in England, original significance, 177.
æsthetic influence, 178.
Romanizing tendency, 179-185.
Cenci, Beatrice, 300.
Charles I., "the martyr," 139.
Charles II., wax effigy of, in Westminster Abbey, 170.
defied by Bishop Ken, 33.
Chester, 137.
Church-going in Edinburgh, 88.
Claverhouse, victory and death at Killiecrankie, 133.
Coblentz, 238.
Coligni, Admiral, 201-203.
Cologne, cathedral, 238.
accident to baggage, 257.
Commons, House of, 57-61.
Confession of Faith, 153.
Confessional, the, in Rome, 309, 310.
Crieff, 135.
Crockett, S. R., author, 109.
Cromwell, Oliver, portrait at Sidney Sussex College, 62.
slandered by royalists, 174.
body disinterred and hanged, 175, 176.
statue at Westminster, 176.
Culloden Moor, battle of, 126.
Davis, Jefferson, name erased by Gen. Meigs, 173, 174.
Delft, 217.
Dickens, Charles, on the influence of Romanism, 312, 313.
Disruption of 1843 in Scotland, 93.
Dods, Marcus, D. D., 82, 83.
Drumtochty, 135.
Edinburgh and environs, 100.
slums, 101.
English Channel, 199.
English Education Bill, a sectarian measure, 51-54.
English lakes, 135.
English pronunciations, 140, 141.
English rural scenery, 23.
Episcopalians in Virginia, 192, 193.
Erasmus, statue of, 218.
Farrar, Dean, sermon in Westminster Abbey, 77.
Fingal's Cave, 121, 122.
Florence, art treasures, 250.
Savonarola, 251, 252.
Foxe, _Book of Martyrs_, 304.
Geddes, Jenny and her stool, 91, 92.
German steamships, 12.
Gibson, Mrs. Margaret D., LL. D., 65, 66.
Gladstone, on the papacy, 313.
Glasgow, 111.
cathedral, 115, 116.
Gray, Rev. Dr. J. Gordon, in Rome, 337-340.
Haarlem, flowers, tulip mania, 225.
Hague, The, 218.
Hawthorne, Nathaniel, on Borghese Gardens, 320, 321.
on sensual and spiritual art, 334, 335.
on the priests of Rome, 335, 336.
Heidelberg, 241.
Henry IV., death of, 157.
Henry V., tomb of, 271.
Henry VII.'s Chapel in Westminster Abbey, 161.
Henry VIII. detaches Church of England from the papacy, 181.
Henson, Canon, on Anglican narrowness, 190-192.
Holland, wrested from the sea, 212, 213.
dykes, canals, windmills, polders, 213-215.
scenery, 217.
art, 219.
Presbyterian faith and un-presbyterian church buildings, 220, 221.
queer customs, 228, 229.
cleanliness, 230, 231.
mother of America, 231-237.
Huguenots, worshipping in Canterbury Cathedral, 187, 188, 207.
origin of name, 201.
massacre of St. Bartholomew, 202.
other persecutions, 204, 205.
the world's debt to them, 205, 206.
revival in France, 208-210.
Intemperance in Scotland, 103-105.
Inverness, 124.
Iona, 120.
Iron Crown of Lombardy, 265-269.
Jerusalem Chamber Westminster Abbey, 154-160.
Johnson, Dr. Samuel, opinion of London, 40.
prejudice against Scotland, 71.
visits Flora Macdonald, 130.
house and monument at Lichfield, 137.
buried in Westminster Abbey, 165.
Kelvin, Lord, 116, 117.
Ken, Thomas, 31-33.
Knox, John, greatest of Scotchmen, 80.
comments on the ominous advent of Mary Queen of Scots, 85.
Kruger, Oom Paul, at Utrecht, 228.
Kuyper, Rev. Dr. A., Prime Minister of Holland, 220.
Lewis, Mrs. Agnes S., LL. D., 65, 66.
Leyden, siege, 222.
University, 223, 224.
Pilgrim Fathers, 224.
horse flesh as food, 224, 225.
interest in an American baby, 255.
Lichfield, 137.
Liguori's Moral Philosophy approved by Leo XIII., 309, 310.
Loch Katrine, 110.
Loch Leven, 135.
Loch Lomond, 111.
Loch Tay, 111.
London, soot, 34, 35.
brick houses, 36.
compared with Glasgow and Paris, 37-39, 200.
immensity, 38.
charm, 39, 40.
Lucerne, Lake, 243.
Lion of, 242.
Luther, monument at Worms, 241.
disenthrallment at Rome, 280.
Macaulay, Lord, on Romanism, 311, 312.
Macdonald, Flora, statue at Inverness, 125.
saves Prince Charlie, 126-128.
arrested, 128.
confined in Tower of London, 129.
marries, 130.
entertains Dr. Johnson and Boswell, 130.
moves to North Carolina, 130.
her husband defeated at Moore's Creek, 131.
returns to Scotland, 132.
Mal de mer, 11, 199.
Martyrs of Scotland, 100, 107-9.
Matheson, Geo., D. D., 82, 83.
Milan, cathedral, Leonardo's great picture, 244.
Milton, John, monument in Westminster Abbey, 173.
Miracles, alleged, of Christ's portrait, 280, 291.
Christ's footprints, 286.
Ghislieri, 298, 299.
Santissimo Bambino, 276-278.
St. Anne's bones, 264.
Sts. Cosmo and Damian, 299.
St. Dominic, 296, 297.
St. Giovanni de Matha, 299.
St. Gregory, 299.
St. Januarius' blood, 262.
St. Martin I., 299.
St. Paul's head, 284, 285.
St. Peter's head, 284.
St. Peter's knees, 283.
St. Veronica's napkin, 291.
the Virgin's house, 264.
the Virgin's image, 300.
Wafer, 279.
Monza, Iron Crown of Lombardy, 265-269.
Moravian Mission Agency, London, 79.
More, Sir Thos., imprisonment and death, 158.
McNeill, Rev. John, 112.
Naples, scenery and scenes, 346-348.
blood of St. Januarius, 262.
Newton, Sir Isaac, 159.
Oban, 119.
Ocean, a modern highway, 13.
Overtoun, garden party, 112.
Oxford, compared with Cambridge, 63-65.
Palissy the Potter, 202, 203.
Papal mania for building, 324.
Paris, beauty of, 37, 38, 199, 201.
customs in, 200.
Parker, Joseph, D. D., 78.
Parliament Houses, London, 56, 57.
Pasquinades, 301, 302, 307, 308.
_Penelope's Progress_, quoted, 88.
Perth, 133, 134.
Pisa, four monuments, 252.
Pompeii, 354-357.
Popes, general character of, 303.
retort of Thos. Aquinas, 303.
Pasquinades, 301, 302, 307, 308.
Adrian VI., excessive drinking of, 305.
Alexander VI., crimes of, 300, 306.
Clement VIII. and Beatrice Cenci, 300.
Gregory XIII. and assassination of Prince of Orange, 306.
Innocent VIII., illegitimate children of, 305.
Innocent X. and Olympia, 301, 302.
Joan, woman pope, legend of, 304, 305.
John XII., crimes of, 305.
Leo XIII., appearance, 317.
approval of Liguori's Moral Philosophy, 309.
audience, 315-318.
blessing machine, 302, 303.
last jubilee, 318.
Paul II., vanity of, 304.
Paul III., nepotism of, 305.
Paul V. and assassination of Paolo Sarpi, 306.
Pius V. and assassination of Queen Elizabeth, 306.
Pius X., a good man, 314.
Sixtus IV., enemy of Medici, 305.
Urban VIII., self-esteem of, 304.
Prayers, written, in Presbyterian churches, 186, 187.
Presbyterian Church, largest Protestant church in the world, 114.
Presbyterian Queen of Holland, 220.
Presbyterian services, 183, 184, 196-198, 220, 221.
Prestonpans, battle of, 87.
Prince Charlie, unique prayer for, 87.
victory at Prestonpans, 87.
defeat at Culloden, 126.
flight to Hebrides, 126.
saved by Flora Macdonald, 127, 128.
ingratitude, 128.
burial in St. Peter's Cathedral, 128.
Protestantism contrasted with Romanism by Macaulay, Dickens and
Gladstone, 311-313.
Queen Elizabeth, wax effigy in Westminster Abbey, 170.
Queen Wilhelmina, 220.
Quhele, Shoe Heel, Maxton, 134.
Relics--
Abraham's stone, 283.
Aaron's rod, 279, 281.
Bambino, Santissimo, 276-278.
Christ's blood, 281.
communion table, 278.
cross, 280, 291.
footprints, 286.
loaves and fishes, 279.
pillar, 282, 289.
portrait, 280, 291.
sandals, 280.
seamless coat, 278.
towel, 279.
devil's, the, missile against St. Dominic, 297.
John the Baptist's tooth, 265.
Maccabees, 286.
Santa Culla, 273-275.
Santissimo Bambino, 276-278.
Scala Santa, 279, 280.
St. Andrew's head, 291.
cross, 286.
St. Anne's bones, Quebec, 264.
St. Dominic's orange tree, 298.
St. Edmund's bones, 261.
St. Januarius' blood, 262.
St Lawrence's bones, 295, 296.
fat, 281.
St. Longinus' spear, 291.
St. Mark's bones, 260.
St. Paul's body, 290.
head, miraculous springs, 284, 285.
St. Peter's body, 290.
chains, 286-288.
chair, 290.
cross, 286.
head, 278.
knees, 283.
spring, 284.
St. Philomena's bones, 293, 294.
St. Stephens's bones, 295, 296.
St. Thomas' finger, 281.
St. Veronica's napkin, 291.
Virgin's hair, 281.
house, 263.
milk, 281.
stone seat, 283.
veil, 265, 281.
Rembrandt's "School of Anatomy," 217.
Renwick, James, martyr, 107.
Rhine, vintage, 239.
Robertson, Rev. Alex., quoted, 246, 261, 276, 280, 302, 303, 310.
Roman Catholicism in Italy, Dr. Mariano on, 308.
Macaulay, Dickens and Gladstone on, 311-313.
(See also Robertson.)
Rome--
Appian Way, 341.
Arrival at night, 253.
Art, sensual and spiritual, 334, 335.
Baths of Caracalla, 323.
Books on Rome, 343-345.
Borghese Gardens, 320, 321.
Building boom, 325, 326.
Cappucin Cemetery, 328, 329.
Catacombs, 341, 342.
Colosseum, 322, 323.
Deities worshipped, 332, 333.
Domine Quo Vadis, 286.
Fees before souls, 334.
Gray, Rev. Dr. J. Gordon, 337, 340.
Guido's "Michael," 333.
Inquisition, 331, 332.
Janiculum, view from, 321, 322.
Jesuit Church and the devil, 307.
Mamertine Prisons, 284.
Michael Angelo's "Moses," 287.
Morals of clergy, 269, 270, 310, 335, 336.
Pasquino, 307.
Piazza Scossa Cavalli, 282.
Pincian Hill, 320.
Pompey, statue, 342.
Presbyterian Church, 337-'40.
Priscilla and Aquila, house of, 340.
Quirinal, 322, 337.
Raphael, 335.
Royalties, visiting, 319, 320.
Rosary presented to St. Dominic by the Virgin, 297.
St. Peter's Cathedral, 289-291.
Tre Fontane, 284, 285.
Unwashed monks, 329.
Vatican, 315, 322.
Villa Doria Pamfili, 302.
Villa Medici, view from, 321.
(See also Miracles, Popes, Relics, and Roman Catholicism.)
Rosaries, introduced by Dominicans, 298.
Rugby, 143.
Sabbath observance in Scotland, 102.
Salisbury Cathedral, 21, 22.
Sanquhar Declaration, 109.
Sarpi, Fra Paolo, 247, 248.
Savonarola, 251, 252.
Sayce, Prof. A. H., 84.
Scotland, character of people, 80, 81, 102.
cities solid and stately, 37.
humor, 113.
oatmeal, 70, 71.
public worship, 71-90, 184-'5.
scenery, 68, 69.
sermon taster, 94.
weather, 84, 85.
Scott, Sir Walter, 69, 70, 100.
on superiority of Presbyterian worship, 183, 184.
Scottish and American repartee, 96-98.
Shorter Catechism, 151-156.
Simon Magus, discomfited by St. Peter, 283.
Simony at Rome, 302.
Southampton, 16.
Staffa, 121, 122.
Stirling, 107, 108.
Stonehenge, 24, 25.
Strasburg, clock, 241, 243.
Stratford-on-Avon, 138.
American window, 139.
sing-song of children, 140.
Stuart kings, buried in St. Peter's, 343, 344.
St. Peter's Cathedral, 289.
Switzerland, scenery in summer and winter, 241, 242.
Twain, Mark, on relics, 259, 260, 262, 263.
on differences between America and Italy, 329, 330.
on the Inquisition, 331, 332.
on the relative rank of the deities of Rome, 332, 333.
Venice, palaces, 245.
fallen Campanile, 245, 246.
Church of Jesuits, 246.
gondolas, 246, 256, 257.
Fra Paolo Sarpi, 247, 248.
bones of St. Mark, 260.
Vesuvius, ascent of, 350-352.
Victor Emmanuel, liberator of Italy, 309.
Wallace, Sir William, 107.
Walton, Izaak, 29, 30.
Watson, Rev. John, D. D.--
Financial Agent of Westminster College, 65.
Drumtochty Stories, 135.
_Young Barbarians_, 142.
Watts, Isaac, 17-20.
Westminster Abbey--
architectural interest, 160-'1.
burials, 163, 164.
coronations, 161, 162.
decorated for coronation, 152, 153.
Edward the Confessor's tomb, 171.
Henry VII.'s Chapel, 161.
Jerusalem Chamber, 154-161.
monuments, 164-167.
monuments denied to notable persons, 172, 173.
mutilated monuments, 171.
Poets' Corner, 164.
royal chapels, 168, 169.
wax effigies, 169, 170.
Westminster Assembly of Divines, 153-155.
Westminster College, Cambridge, 64.
White, Dr. Andrew D., on canonization of Buddha, 295.
on Fra Paolo Sarpi, 357.
White Horse Hill, 145-149.
Wiesbaden, 239, 240.
Wilson, Margaret, martyr, 107-109.
Winchester, Cathedral, 28-30.
college, 30, 31.
Worms, Luther monument, 241.
Zanardelli, Prime Minister, on the morality of the priests, 269, 270.
opposition to the papacy, 309.
Zola, Emile, on Roman megalo-mania, 322-326.
on the multitude of priests in Rome, 326, 327.
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| Transcriber's Note: |
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| Minor typographical errors have been corrected without note. |
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| Punctuation and spelling were made consistent when a predominant |
| form was found in this book; otherwise they were not changed. |
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| Ambiguous hyphens at the ends of lines were retained. |
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| Mid-paragraph illustrations have been moved between paragraphs |
| and some illustrations have been moved closer to the text that |
| references them. The Illustrations paginations were changed |
|accordingly. |
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| Italicized words are surrounded by underline characters, |
| _like this_. |
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| Ligatures are surrounded by brackets, like this: Ph[oe]nician. |
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| Superscripts are enclosed in brackets like this N{r}. |
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| Footnotes were moved to the end of chapters and numbered in one |
| continuous sequence. |
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