(November 11, 1647), rode to Titchfield, the Earl of Southampton’s
place, where he might have sailed by Portsmouth Harbour to the
Continent, as his intention was; but, by a mistake, Colonel Hammond,
the Governor of the Isle of Wight, was brought to Titchfield, and he
conducted the King to Carisbrooke, where he became again a prisoner.
Here three attempts seem to have been made, chiefly by some gentlemen
of the island, to give him freedom during the twelve months of his
detention. On the first of these occasions it was arranged that Charles
should pass through the window of his room, and let himself down to
the ramparts, below which a guide with a horse was waiting, and a boat
was ready to take him to a ship in the offing; but an iron bar in the
window prevented his getting through, and so the King had to wave off
his friends. The window in question is discernible from the outside
of the King’s lodgings; it adjoins the only buttress of the wall, and
is walled up. On another occasion implements having been provided for
him, Charles managed to saw through and remove the bar which impeded
him, and all arrangements were made for his flight, but a rascally
officer, one Major Rolfe, was entrusted with the secret and betrayed
it. So, when the King was about to make the attempt, he observed below
more people than were expected, and wisely decided to remain where
he was. It was said that Rolfe intended to have shot the King as he
descended. After being there for a year, Charles was removed, with
scant ceremony or respect from Carisbrooke. At daybreak one morning a
party of soldiers were sent, who, rousing him from bed, took him off to
Hurst Castle, a fort on the mainland, standing at the extremity of the
spit of land, near Lymington, which stretches across the Solent Strait
to within a mile of the opposite island. Here the King was detained for
a month, when he was taken to Windsor. To Carisbrooke were sent the two
royal children, the year succeeding their father’s judicial murder, but
in less than a month the Princess Elizabeth was found dead in her room,
her face resting on the Bible given her by her father at their last
interview. Prince Henry remained there nearly two years. An attack was
made on the castle at the outbreak of the civil war by the mayor and
people of Newport, in obedience to the instructions of the Parliament,
in order to get rid of the King’s captain, the Earl of Portland,
and his successor, Lord Pembroke; and the fortress was yielded on
honourable terms. After the Restoration, the governor, Lord Cutts, made
great and lamentable alterations in the old fabric, quite modernizing a
part of it; but at a recent date the Government have restored the work
in a judicious manner, and brought to light some hidden and interesting
features.
The Norman keep of Richard de Redvers stands on the ancient English
mound at the north-east angle of the inner ward, surrounded by its
moat; it is an irregular polygon in shape, a shell keep sixty feet
across, with walls of great strength and thickness, the access to which
is by a long flight of stairs, the postern being protected by double
gates and a portcullis. One room only remains, in which is a deep well,
the others are destroyed, but there remains a small staircase to the
top, whence a very fine view is obtained; at the foot was a sally-port
defended by a bastion, which has disappeared. The entrance is on the
west by a fine machicolated gateway, flanked by two round embattled
towers, through a high pointed archway with portcullis grooves; all
this was built by Anthony, Lord Scales, who had the lordship in 1474,
and whose arms are on the gatehouse, as they are on Middleton Tower
near Lynn with the Rose of York. Inside are the older gates, with
latticed ironwork, and on the right the ruins of the guardhouse, and
the chapel of St. Nicholas, built in 1738 on the site of the ancient
chapel. On the north are the ruins of the buildings occupied by King
Charles, a small room being shown as his bedroom. The governor’s
quarters, barracks and other buildings are all of different periods.
In the centre of the south wall are remains of a mural tower, and there
are the ruins of the Mountjoy, a Norman tower in the south-east corner,
the walls here being eighteen feet thick: east are two other towers.
Anciently there must have been some outworks, as in the Domesday
Survey, the area of this castle is said to be one virgate, or twenty
acres.
THE PANTHEON
AUGUSTUS J. C. HARE
The Pantheon, the most perfect pagan building in the city, was built
B.C. 27, by Marcus Agrippa, the bosom friend of Augustus
Cæsar, and the second husband of his daughter Julia. The inscription,
in huge letters, perfectly legible from beneath, “M. Agrippa, L. F.
Cos. Tertium Fecit,” records its construction. Another inscription
on the architrave, now almost illegible, records its restoration
under Septimius Severus and his son Caracalla, _c._ 202, who,
“_Pantheum vetustate corruptum cum omni cultur restitverunt._”
Some authorities have maintained that the Pantheon was originally only
a vast hall in the baths of Agrippa, acknowledged remains of which
exist at no great distance; but the name “Pantheum” was in use as early
as A.D. 59.
[Illustration: THE PANTHEON, ITALY.]
In A.D. 399 the Pantheon was closed as a temple in obedience
to a decree of the Emperor Honorius, and in 608 was consecrated as
a Christian church by Pope Boniface IV., with the permission of
the Emperor Phocas, under the title of Sta. Maria ad Martyres. To
this dedication we owe the preservation of the main features of the
building, though it has been terribly maltreated. In 663, the Emperor
Constans, who had come to Rome with great pretence of devotion to its
shrines and relics, and who only stayed there twelve days, did not
scruple, in spite of its religious dedication to strip off the tiles
of gilt bronze with which the roof was covered, and carry them off with
him to Syracuse, where, upon his murder, a few years after, they fell
into the hands of the Saracens. In 1087, it was used by the anti-pope
Guibert as a fortress, whence he made incursions upon the lawful pope,
Victor III., and his protector, the Countess Matilda. In 1101, another
anti-pope, Sylvester IV., was elected here. Pope Martin V., after
the return from Avignon, attempted the restoration of the Pantheon
by clearing away the mass of miserable buildings in which it was
encrusted, and his efforts were continued by Eugenius IV., but Urban
VIII. (1623–1644), though he spent 15,000 scudi upon the Pantheon, and
added the two ugly campaniles, called in derision “the asses’ ears,” of
their architect, Bernini, did not hesitate to plunder the gilt bronze
ceiling of the portico, 450,250 lbs. in weight, to make the baldachino
of St. Peter’s, and cannons for the Castle of Saint Angelo. Benedict
XIV. (1740–1758) further despoiled the building by tearing away all the
precious marbles which lined the attic to ornament other buildings.
The Pantheon was not originally, as now, below the level of the piazza,
but was approached by a flight of five steps. The portico, which is one
hundred and ten feet long and forty-four feet deep, is supported by
sixteen grand Corinthian columns of oriental granite, thirty-six feet
in height. The ancient bronze doors remain. On either side are niches,
once occupied by colossal statues of Augustus and Agrippa.
The Interior is a rotunda, 143 feet in diameter, covered by a dome.
It is only lighted by an aperture in the centre, twenty-eight feet in
diameter. Seven great niches around the walls once contained statues
of different gods and goddesses, that of Jupiter being the central
figure. All the surrounding columns are of giallo-antico, except four,
which are of pavonazzetto, painted yellow. It is a proof of the great
value and rarity of the giallo-antico, that it was always impossible to
obtain more to complete the set.
Some antiquarians have supposed that the aperture at the top of the
Pantheon was originally closed by a huge “Pigna,” or pine-cone of
bronze, like that which crowned the summit of the mausoleum of Hadrian,
and this belief has been encouraged by the name of a neighbouring
church being S. Giovanni della Pigna.
The Pantheon has become the burial-place of painters, Raphael, Annibale
Caracci, Taddeo Zucchero, Baldassare Peruzzi, Pierino del Vaga, and
Giovanni da Udine, are all buried here.
The third chapel on the left contains the tomb of Raphael (born April
6, 1483; died April 6, 1520). From the pen of Cardinal Bembo is the
epigram:
“Ille hic est Raphael, timuit quo sospite vinci
Rerum magna parens, et moriente mori.”
Taddeo Zucchero and Annibale Caracci are buried on either side of
Raphael. Near the high altar is a monument to Cardinal Gonsalvi
(1757–1824), the faithful secretary and minister of Pius VII., by
Thorwaldsen. This, however, is only a cenotaph, marking the spot where
his heart is preserved. His body rests with that of his beloved brother
Andrew in the church of S. Marcello.
During the Middle Ages the Pope always officiated here on the day of
Pentecost, when, in honour of the descent of the Holy Spirit, showers
of white rose-leaves were continually sent down through the aperture
during service.
In the Piazza della Rotunda is a small obelisk found in the Campus
Martius. Following the Via della Rotunda from hence, in the third
street on the left is the small semicircular ruin called, from a
fancied resemblance to the favourite cake of the people, Arco di
Ciambella. This is the only remaining fragment of the baths of Agrippa,
unless the Pantheon itself was connected with them.
Behind the Pantheon is the Piazza della Minerva, where a small obelisk
was erected in 1667 by Bernini, on the back of an elephant. It is
exactly similar to the obelisk in front of the Pantheon, and they were
both found near this site, where they formed part of the decorations of
the Campus Martius. The hieroglyphics show that it dates from Hophres,
a king of the 25th dynasty.
ST. LAURENCE, NUREMBERG
LINDA VILLARI
Once in the train bound for Nuremberg, every sight on the road seems
to bring one nearer to Mediæval Germany, and is a fitting prelude to
its charms. The storied prettiness of the Rhine district left behind,
ripening vines give way to festoons of hops and plots of tobacco; you
pass through forests of fir and larch, and come to fields of gold
brocade where the lupines are in bloom. Woodlands merge into pleasant
meadows watered by swiftly-running streams; every village is crowned
by a ruined castle; and there are storks’ nests on clustered roofs
about the red church spires. Flaxen-haired children are driving flocks
of fat geese; here and there is a battlemented monastery; then come
tracts of moorland flushed pink and purple with heather; you dive into
hill-sides; you sight dark masses of pine-trees beyond a winding river
crossed by an occasional ferry; you halt at mediæval towns capped by
crumbling yellow walls of palace and prison, and before long at the
spick and span station of manufacturing Fürth (where most of the toys
and wood-carvings are now made). And then you see a confusion of dusky,
jagged roofs pierced by lofty spires and high walls; massive towers
loom above the greenery of a steep hill-side, and you know that your
goal is reached. This is Nuremberg, the “jewel-casket of the German
Empire.” Your first impression is that it should rather be named the
city of wonderful roofs. Mighty roofs heave their four and five rows
of dormers high in air above a forest of lower dwellings, with roofs
of every degree of steepness, covered for the most part with small
inverted tiles of reddish-brown hue. This arrangement gives them a
soft and curious shagginess that greatly adds to their effect. Driving
first round the town, before passing its gates, you see that it is
almost entirely surrounded by dark-red walls, studded by numerous
steeple-crowned watch-towers, and further guarded by a dry moat a
hundred feet wide and fifty deep, now draped with vines and planted
with vegetables and fruit-trees. The River Pegnitz runs through the
city, and issues from it in two arms at either end; its islands and
covered bridges, with smaller bridges (_hinterbrücke_) swung
underneath, supply deliciously pictorial incidents of towers and sheds
and mills and timber-yards, with fascinating peeps up and down stream
into the interior of the town.
[Illustration: ST. LAURENCE, GERMANY.]
St. Sebald is the patron saint of the older part of the city near the
castle, St. Laurence of the portion across the river, dating from the
Thirteenth Century.
Passing through the “Lady Gate,” with its massive Sixteenth Century
fortifications, the König’s Strasse lies before us, and we are in the
Germany of the Middle Ages. What matter modern shop-fronts or gliding
trams? We hardly see them; can only look at the wonderful houses on
either hand, their steep, jagged roofs, their gables and stepped
gables, their pepper-caster towers, projecting casements, bays and
oriels and mullions, carved doors and eaves and balconies, fantastic
gargoyles and cross-timbered fronts. In short, all the exquisite
irregularities and details of mediæval domestic architecture. And, as
we look, we think of Grimm’s household tales, the beloved dog’s eared
treasure of our childish days. Yonder broad-shouldered inn, _Zum
grünen Weinstock_ (the Green Vine) might well be the lodging where
the soldier with the blue light played his naughty pranks on the king’s
daughter.
But now the street widens; other gabled avenues branch off from it,
and we are face to face with the red-brown bulk of St. Laurence. There
it is, the beautiful church of the twin towers, with its sculptured
portals and grand wheel windows! It almost seems to fill the square
in which it stands, and where ancient red houses, deep-porched with
jutting galleries and many-storied roofs are set about the stones of
the precincts.
We wandered round the church to admire its exterior, and dally as
it were with the wonderland within, but a fierce easterly wind gave
an edge to our desire, and we speedily knocked at the side entrance
appointed to sightseers. A wonderland indeed--rather a perfect
symphony of form and colour! St. Laurence is certainly one of the
most beautiful, perhaps one of the finest Gothic interiors in Europe,
with a special charm of its own, that makes your first moments in it
moments breathless with delight. Presently you begin to analyze your
sensations, and study the details of the lovely scene that has stirred
your sense of beauty to so reverent a joy. St. Laurence is very lofty
and admirably proportioned, being 322 feet long by 104 broad. Its
pointed Gothic arches spring from their tall, slender shafts with the
grace and somewhat the effect of a grove of palms. Windows of richest
stained glass lend a magic glow to the delicate avenues of stone, and
on all sides are picturesque details: monuments, statues, paintings,
and relics of ancient days. Midway up the nave is suspended the
coloured group in wood carved by the famous Veit Stoss, and known as
the “Angel’s Greeting.” Sculptured saints and virgins project from the
columns, and make you in love with the naïve realism of early German
art. One wooden Madonna is absolutely romping with her babe. The side
chapels are lined with quaint, rich tapestries from the designs of
Albert Dürer, representing Scriptural scenes. There are many pictures
of the Nuremberg school, of which the best are those of Wohlgemuth,
Dürer’s master; several interesting mural tombs and curious crucifixes.
But the chief art treasure of the church is, of course, the Ciborium,
or “Sacraments Hauslein” of Adam Krafft, erected against one of the
pillars of the choir. It is a poem in stone. Its leading motive is the
crown of thorns, but all the scenes of the passion are represented on
small tablets in high relief; its base is supported by the kneeling
figures of the sculptor and his two assistants. It is in the shape of a
five-sided tower, gradually tapering to a curled finial sixty-four feet
from the ground. Every detail is a marvel of grace and delicacy, and
the faces of Krafft and his men are full of life and expression. They
had worked on this masterpiece for four years.
In this beautiful church you are grateful to the happy tolerance that
has preserved the art relics of Catholicism in the temple of a purer
faith. Nuremberg was one of the first cities to protest against the
sale of indulgences, to adopt the tenets of Luther and Melancthon, and
in 1530 it subscribed to the Augsburg Confession.
This great change was accomplished in the most peaceable way. One
by one, the convents and monasteries were suppressed, and when the
Catholic bishop of Bamberg called on the Swabian Bund to oppose
these measures by force, he was told that the Bund had no concern in
the matter, and that the free city claimed the right of freedom of
conscience.
So much for the history, but we cannot leave St. Laurence without
relating some of the old-world legends attached to its walls. The
cathedral was begun in 1278, but the Fifteenth Century was growing old
before its completion; and when the north tower (finished in 1498) was
commenced there was a great squabble among the builders. The master
mason was unjustly dismissed by the intrigues of two of his men, who
were jointly promoted to his post. But the accomplices soon quarrelled,
and, vowing a mortal hate, each sought the other’s destruction.
One day they had to mount the half-built tower together to inspect
the works, and as one leant forward from a window the other rushed
on him and tried to throw him out. But the first man turned on his
assailant, gripped him hard; both fell and both were dashed to pieces
on the stones below. It chanced that their ill-treated predecessor was
crossing the square at the time, and was standing still gazing at the
tower he was to have built just when his two enemies came crashing
down within an inch of him. The town council heard of his miraculous
escape, and likewise how the dead men had ousted him from his post.
So they reinstated him as master builder, and decreed him the right
of recording on the tower stones in what manner God had chastised the
guilty and preserved the life of the innocent. But the master builder
refused to exercise this privilege, and only craved permission to
destroy all trace of the dreadful event. He had the window walled up,
and it remained so for centuries. And even after the gilded roof was
struck by lightning in 1865, and half the tower had to be rebuilt, the
blank window was still left untouched. Only in 1874 public opinion was
roused on the subject, and satirical rhymes circulated on the offence
to taste of this blind window. So now, north and south towers have an
equal number of openings.
Another legend recounts how in the Thirteenth Century a monk was
solemnly walled up in the south-western corner of the church, where
the bell-ropes hang. The criminal was young, his offence slight, and
general horror and pity were excited by his dreadful doom. People
shuddered as they passed that darksome corner, but for the sacristan’s
pretty daughter it seemed to have a curious attraction. She had wept
bitterly on hearing the fate of the young monk whom she had so often
seen praying at the altar, but her pity did not affect her appetite,
for it was noticed that this had suddenly increased. One day the
bell-ringers of St. Laurence were surprised to see a rat spring from a
hole in the wall with a fresh cabbage-leaf in his mouth. They talked of
the strange sight; a watch was set, search made. And when the hole was
enlarged, behold! it led to the niche of the condemned monk, who was
found not only alive, but well nourished, after having been buried for
weeks! The sacristan’s daughter had supplied him with food through the
crack in the wall. The affair made a great noise. It was the hand of
Providence cried the townsfolk. And so the prisoner was pardoned, and
allowed to go free. There the story ends, but we hold to the idea that
he did not go alone.
But the most picturesque of the many legends, of which the cathedral is
the scene, is that of the “Mass of the Dead.”
A lady of the Imhoff family, being left a widow in her youth, could
in no way resign herself to God’s will, remained sunk in grief and
attended every service at St. Laurence in the vain hope of obtaining
relief by prayer. Even in the coldest winter season she was always
to be seen at early mass. One All Saint’s Eve she was awakened from
her first sleep by the sound of the church-bells. The moon was still
shining, but the lady thought it was the first break of day, and,
rising from her bed, wrapped herself in a thick cloak and hastened
across the square to the church. Its doors stood wide open, and an
unusually large congregation was already assembled. Kneeling in her
accustomed place, she saw that the priest was already bending before
the altar, and the candles burnt with so strange a light that the
faces of her fellow-worshippers appeared ghastly pale. And when the
priest turned she recognized him as one who had died and been buried
during the past year. She glanced right and left with terrified eyes,
and on all sides were persons she had once known but who were no longer
living. As she sank back in her chair in mortal dismay, there glided
close to her an old friend whose death she had recently mourned and
whose body she had helped to clothe in the garments of the grave. In
faint, far-away tones the friend whispered in her ear: “Beloved Clara,
as soon as the bell rings for the elevation of the Host fly thou
quickly from the church, or Death will chastise thee for disturbing by
thy presence the souls of the dead.” And having uttered these words,
the form vanished from her side, and Widow Clara fled towards the door
as fast as her trembling limbs could carry her. She heard a dreadful
rustling and clattering behind; it seemed as though the whole ghostly
company were in full pursuit at her heels. As she hurried through the
churchyard she saw that all the graves were gaping, and fell fainting
on her own threshold. There she was found by her attendants, who,
alarmed by hearing her rise and go out in the middle of the night,
were coming to seek her just as the church-bell struck one. The moon
had gone down, and the deepest stillness reigned in the cathedral
precincts. The next day the cloak, which had slipped from the lady’s
shoulders in her terrified flight, was found torn into tiny fragments
and scattered among the gravestones.
THE TORRE DEL ORO
EDMUNDO DE AMICIS
I arrived at a hotel, threw my valise into a _patio_, and went to
roam about the city. It seemed to me to be a larger, a more beautiful
and an enriched Cordova. The streets are wider, the houses taller, and
the _patios_ more spacious; but the general appearance of the city
is the same. Here is the same spotless whiteness, the same intricate
network of small streets, the general odour of oranges, the delightful
feeling of mystery and that strange Oriental look that produces in the
heart that sweet sentiment of melancholy and in the mind the thousand
fancies, desires and visions of a far-away world, a strange life, an
unknown people and an earthly paradise full of love, delight and peace.
In these streets you read the history of the city: every balcony,
fragment of sculpture and solitary cross-road recall the nocturnal
adventures of a king, the dreams of a poet, the adventures of a beauty,
a love-scene, a duel, an abduction, a fable, and a feast. Here is a
reminiscence of Maria de Pedilla, there of Don Pedro, farther away
one of Cervantes and elsewhere of Columbus, Saint Theresa, Velasquez
and Murillo. A column reminds you of the Roman rule; a tower, the
magnificence of the monarchy of Charles V.; an Alcazar recalls the
splendours of the Arabian courts. Superb marble palaces stand beside
modest white houses; the tiny, winding streets lead to immense squares
filled with orange-trees; from lonely and silent cross-streets you
emerge, after a sharp turn, into a street filled with a noisy crowd.
Wherever you go, through the graceful gratings of the _patios_,
you see flowers, statues, fountains, rooms, walls covered with
arabesques, Arabian windows and slender columns of precious marble; and
at every window and in every garden there are women dressed in white
half hidden, like shy nymphs, behind the grapevines and rose-bushes.
[Illustration: THE TORRE DEL ORO, SPAIN.]
Passing from one street to another, at last I come to a promenade on
the banks of the Guadalquiver, called the Christina, which bears the
same relation to Seville that the Lungarno does to Florence. Here you
may enjoy a sight that is simply enchanting.