Acknowledging as I do the charms which the Rome of antiquity possesses
for me, it must still be confessed that the Rome of the present time
enchants me with attractions scarcely less potent. Religion has
consecrated many of the spots which history had made venerable, and thus
added a new lustre to their associations. I turn from the broken columns
and gray mouldering walls of old Rome to those fanes, "so ancient, yet
so new," in which the piety of centuries has found its enduring
expression. Beneath their sounding arches, by the mild light of the
lamps that burn unceasingly around their shrines, who would vex his
brain with antiquarian lore? We may notice that the pavement is worn
away by the multitudes which have been drawn thither by curiosity or
devotion; but we feel that Heaven's chronology is not an affair of
months and years, and that Peter and Paul, Gregory and Leo, are not mere
personages in a drama upon the first acts of which the curtain long
since descended. Who thinks of antiquity while he inhabits that world of
art which Rome encloses within her walls? Those are not the triumphs of
a past age alone; they are the triumphs of to-day. The Apollo's bearing
is not less manly, its step not less elastic, than it was in that remote
age when its unknown sculptor threw aside his chisel and gazed upon his
finished work. To-day's sunshine is not more clear and golden than that
which glows in the landscapes of Claude Lorraine, though he who thus
made the sunbeams his servants has been sleeping for nearly two
centuries in the dusty vaults of _Trinita de' Monti_. Were Raphael's
deathless faces more real while he was living than they are now? Were
Guido's and Domenichino's triumphs more worthy of admiration while the
paint was wet upon them? or were the achievements of that giant of art,
Michel Angelo, ever more wonderful than now? No; these great works take
no note of time, and confer upon the city which contains them something
of their own immortality.
I have heard people regret that so many of our artists should expatriate
themselves, and spend their lives in Rome or Florence. To me, however,
nothing seems more natural; and if I were a painter, or a sculptor, I
feel certain that I should share the common weakness of the profession
for a place of residence in harmony with my art. What sympathy can a
true artist feel with a state of society in which he is regarded by nine
people out of ten as a useless member, because he does not directly aid
in the production of a given quantity of grain or of cloth? Every stroke
of his brush, every movement of his hands in moulding the obedient clay,
is a protest against the low, mean, materialistic views of life which
prevail among us; and it is too much to ask of any man that he shall
spend his days in trying to live peaceably in an enemy's camp. When figs
and dates become common articles of food in Lapland, and the bleak sides
of the hills of New Hampshire are adorned with the graceful palm tree
and the luxuriant foliage of the tropics, you may expect art to flourish
in a community whose god is commerce, and whose chief religious duty is
money-getting.
Truly the life of an artist in Rome is about as near the perfection of
earthly happiness as is commonly vouchsafed to mortal man. The tone of
society, and all the surroundings of the artist, are so congenial that
no poverty nor privation can seriously interfere with them. The streets,
with their architectural marvels, the trim gardens and picturesque
cloisters of the old religious establishments, the magnificent villas of
the neighbourhood of the city, and the vast, mysterious Campagna, with
its gigantic aqueducts and its purple atmosphere, and those glorious
galleries which at the same time gratify the taste of the artist and
feed his ambition,--these are things which are as free to him as the
blessed sunlight or the water that sparkles in the countless fountains
of the Holy City. I do not wonder that artists who have lived any
considerable time in Rome are discontented with the feverish
restlessness of our American way of life, and that, after "stifling the
mighty hunger of the heart" through two or three wearisome years in our
western world, they turn to Rome as to a fond mother, upon whose breast
they may find that peace which they had elsewhere sought in vain.
The churches of Rome impress me in a way which I have never heard
described by any other person. I do not speak of St. Peter's, (that
"noblest temple that human skill ever raised to the honour of the
Creator,") nor do I refer to those other magnificent basilicas in which
the Christian glories of eighteen centuries sit enthroned. These have a
dignity and majesty peculiarly their own, and the most thoughtless
cannot tread their ancient pavement without being for the time subdued
into awe and veneration. But the parish churches of Rome, the churches
of the various religious orders and congregations, and those numerous
little temples which are so thickly scattered through the city, attract
me in manner especially fascinating. There is an air of cosiness and
at-home-ativeness about them which cannot be found in the grander fanes.
Some of them seem by their architectural finish to have been built in
some fine street or square, and to have wandered off in search of quiet
to their present secluded positions. It is beneath their arches that the
Roman people may be seen. Before those altars you may see men, women,
and children kneeling, their lips scarcely moving with the petitions
which are heard only in another world. No intruding tourists,
eye-glassed and Murrayed, interfere with their devotions, and the
silence of the sacred place is unbroken, save by the rattling of a
rosary, or at stated times by the swell of voices from the choir chapel.
These are the places where the real power of the Catholic religion makes
itself felt more unmistakably than in the grandest cathedrals, where
every form and sound is eloquent of worship. I remember with pleasure
that once in London, as I was passing through that miserable quarter
which lies between Westminster Abbey and Buckingham Palace, I was
attracted by the appearance of a number of people who were entering a
narrow doorway. One or two stylish carriages, with crests upon their
panels, and drivers in livery, stood before the dingy building which
seemed to wear a mysterious air of semi-cleanliness in the midst of the
general squalour. I followed the strange collection of the
representatives of opulence and the extremest poverty through a long
passage-way, and found myself in a large room which was tastefully
fitted up for a Catholic chapel. The simplicity of the place, joined
with its strictly ecclesiastical look, the excellent music, the crowded
and devout congregation, and the almost breathless attention which was
paid to the simple and persuasive eloquence of the preacher, who was
formerly one of the chief ornaments of the established church, whose
highest honours he had cast aside that he might minister more
effectually to the poor and despised,--all these things astonished and
delighted me. To see that church preserving, even in its hiddenness and
poverty, its regard for the comeliness of God's worship, and adorning
that humble chapel in a manner which showed that the spirit which
erected the shrines of Westminster, Salisbury and York, had not died
out, carried me back in spirit to the catacombs of Rome, where the early
Christians left the abiding evidences of their zeal for the beauty of
the house of God. I was at that time fresh from the continent, and my
mind was occupied with the remembrance of the gorgeous churches of
Italy. Yet, despite my recollection of those "forests of porphyry and
marble," those altars of _lapis lazuli_, those tabernacles glittering
with gold, and silver, and precious stones, and those mosaics and
frescoes whose beauty and variety almost fatigue the sense of the
beholder,--I must say that it gave me a new sense of the dignity and
grandeur of the ancient Church, to see her in the midst of the poverty
and obscurity to which she is now condemned in the land which once
professed her faith, and was once thickly planted with those
institutions of learning and charity which are the proudest monuments of
her progress. A large ship, under full sail, running off before a
pleasant breeze, is a beautiful sight; but it is by no means so grandly
impressive as that of the same ship, under close canvas, gallantly
riding out the merciless gale that carried destruction to every
unseaworthy craft which came within its reach.
I am not one of those who lament over the millions which have been
expended upon the churches of Rome. I am _not_ inclined to follow the
sordid principle of that apostle who is generally held up rather as a
warning than an example, and say that it had been better if the sums
which have been devoted to architectural ornament had been withheld and
given to the poor. Religion has no need, it is true, of these visible
splendours, any more than of set forms and modes of speech. For it is
the heart that believes, and loves, and prays. But we, poor mortals, so
enslaved by our senses, so susceptible to external appearances, need
every thing that can inspire in us a respect for something higher than
ourselves, or remind us of the glories of the invisible, eternal world.
And can we doubt that He who praised the action of that pious woman who
poured the precious ointment upon His sacred head, looks with
complacency upon the sacrifices which are made for the adornment of the
temples devoted to His worship? Is it a right principle that people who
are clad in expensive garments, who are not content unless they are
surrounded by carved or enamelled furniture, and whose feet tread daily
on costly tapestries, should find fault with the generous piety which
has made the churches of Italy what they are, and should talk so
impressively about the beauty of spiritual worship? I have no patience
with these advocates for simplicity in every thing that does not relate
to themselves and their own comforts.
"Shall we serve Heaven with less respect
Than we do minister to our gross selves?"
I care not how simple our private houses may be, but I advocate
liberality and splendour in our public buildings of all kinds, for the
sake of preserving a due respect for the institutions they enshrine. I
remember, in reading one of the old classical writers,--Sallust, I
think,--in my young days, being greatly impressed by his declaration
that private luxury is a sure forerunner of a nation's downfall, and
that it is a fatal sign for the dwellings of the citizens to be spacious
and magnificent, while the public edifices are mean and unworthy. Purely
intellectual as we may think ourselves, we are, nevertheless, somewhat
deferential to the external proprieties of life, and I very much doubt
whether the most reverential of us could long maintain his respect for
the Supreme Court if its sessions were held in a tap-room, or for
religion, if its ministers prayed and preached in pea-jackets and
top-boots.
Displeasing as is the presence of most of the English-speaking tourists
one meets in Rome, there are two places where they delight to
congregate, which yet have charms for me that not even Cockney vulgarity
or Yankee irreverence can destroy. The church of the convent of _Trinita
de' Monti_ wins me, in spite of the throng that fills its nave at the
hour of evening every Sunday and festival day. Some years since, when I
first visited Rome, the music which was heard there was of the highest
order of merit. At present the nuns of the Sacred Heart have no such
great artistes in their community as they had then, but the music of
their choir is still one of those things which he who has once heard can
never forget. It is the only church in Rome in which I have heard female
voices; and, though I much prefer the great male choirs of the
basilicas, there is a soothing simplicity in the music at _Trinita de'
Monti_ which goes home to almost every heart. I have seen giddy and
unthinking girls, who laughed at the ceremonial they did not understand,
subdued to reverence by those strains, and supercilious Englishmen
reduced to the humiliating necessity of wiping their eyes. Indeed, the
whole scene is so harmoniously impressive that its enchantment cannot be
resisted. The solemn church, lighted only by the twilight rays, and the
tapers upon the high altar,--the veiled forms of the pious sisterhood
and their young pupils in the grated sanctuary,--the clouding of the
fragrant incense,--the tinkling of that silvery bell and of the chains
of the swinging censer,--those ancient and dignified rites,--and over
all, those clear, angelic voices praying and praising, in litany and
hymn--all combine to make up a worship, one moment of which would seem
enough to wipe away the memory of a lifetime of folly, and
disappointment, and sorrow.
The Sistine Chapel is another place to which I am bound by an almost
supernatural fascination. My imperfect eyesight will not permit me to
enjoy fully the frescoes that adorn its lofty walls; but I feel that I
am in the presence of the great master and some of his mightiest
conceptions. I do not know whether the chapel is most impressive in its
empty state, or when thronged for some great religious function. In the
former condition, its fine proportions and its simplicity satisfy me so
completely, that I hardly wish for the pomp and splendour which belong
to it on great occasions. I know of nothing more grand than the sight of
that simple throne of the Sovereign Pontiff, when it is occupied by that
benignant old man, to whom more than two hundred millions of people look
with veneration as to a father and a teacher,--and surrounded by those
illustrious prelates and princes who compose a senate of moral and
intellectual worth, such as all the world beside cannot parallel. Those
venerable figures--those gray hairs--those massive foreheads, and those
resplendent robes of office, seem to be a part of some great historical
picture, rather than a reality before my eyes. There is nothing more
severe in actual experience, or more satisfactory in the recollection,
than Holy Week in the Sistine Chapel. The crowd, the fatigue, and the
presence of so many sight-seers, who have come with the same feeling
that they would attend an opera or a play, are not calculated to
increase one's bodily comfort, or to awaken the sentiments proper to so
sacred a season as that which is then commemorated. But after these have
passed away, there remains the recollection, which time does not
diminish, but makes more precious, of that darkening chapel and the
bowed-down heads of the Pope and cardinals, of the music, "yearning like
a god in pain," of the melodious woe of the _Miserere_, the plaintive
majesty of the Lamentations and the Reproaches, and the shrill
dissonance of the shouts of the populace in the gospel narrative of the
crucifixion. These are things which would outweigh a year of fatigue and
pain. I know of no greater or more sincere tribute to the perfections of
the Sistine choir, and the genius of Allegri and Palestrina, than the
patience with which so many people submit to be packed, like herring in
a box, into that small chapel. But old and gouty as I am, I would gladly
undergo all the discomforts of that time to hear those sounds once more.
I hear some people complain of the beggars, and wonder why Rome, with
her splendid system of charities for the relief of every form of
suffering, permits mendicancy. For myself, I am not inclined to complain
either of the beggars or of the merciful government, which refuses to
look upon them as offenders against its laws. On the contrary, it
appears to me rather creditable than otherwise to Rome, that she is so
far behind the age, as not to class poverty with crime among social
evils. I have a sincere respect for this feature of the Catholic Church;
this regard for the poor as her most precious inheritance, and this
unwillingness that her children should think that, because she has
organized a vast system of benevolence, they are absolved of the duty of
private charity. In this wisdom, which thus provides for the exercise of
kindly feelings in alms-giving, may be found one of the most attractive
characteristics of the Roman Church. This, no less than the austere
religious orders which she has founded, shows in what sense she receives
the beatitude, "Blessed are the poor in spirit." And the same kind
spirit of equality may be seen in her churches and cathedrals, where
rich and poor kneel upon the same pavement, before their common God and
Saviour, and in her cloisters, and universities, and schools, where
social distinctions cannot enter.
When I walk through the cloisters of these venerable institutions of
learning, or gaze upon the ancient city from _Monte Mario_, or the
Janiculum, it seems to me that never until now did I appreciate the
world's indebtedness to Rome. Dislike it as we may, we cannot disguise
the fact, that to her every Christian nation owes, in a great measure,
its civilization, its literature, and its religion. The endless empire
which Virgil's muse foretold, is still hers; and, as one of her ancient
Christian poets said, those lands which were not conquered by her
victorious arms are held in willing obedience by her religion. When I
think how all our modern civilization, our art, letters, and
jurisprudence, sprang originally from Rome, it appears to me that a
narrow religious prejudice has prevented our forming a due estimate of
her services to humanity. To some, the glories of the ancient empire,
the memory of the days when her sovereignty extended from Britain to the
Ganges, and her capital counted its inhabitants by millions, seem to
render all her later history insignificant and dull; but to my mind the
moral dignity and power of Christian Rome is as superior to her old
military omnipotence as it is possible for the human intellect to
conceive. The ancient emperors, with all their power, could not carry
the Roman name much beyond the limits of Europe; the rulers who have
succeeded them have made the majestic language of Rome familiar to two
hemispheres, and have built up, by spiritual arms, the mightiest empire
that the world has ever seen. For me, Rome's most enduring glories are
the memories of the times when her great missionary orders civilized and
evangelized the countries which her arms had won, when her martyrs sowed
the seed of Christianity with their blood, and her confessors illumined
the world with their virtues; when her pontiffs, single-handed, turned
back barbarian invasions, or mitigated the severities of the feudal age,
or protected the people by laying their ban upon the tyrants who
oppressed them, or defended the sanctity of marriage, and the rights of
helpless women against divorce-seeking monarchs and conquerors. These
things are the true fulfilment of the glowing prophecy of Rome's
greatness, which Virgil puts into the mouth of Anchises, when AEneas
visits the Elysian Fields, and hears from his old father that the
mission of the government he is about to found is to rule the world by
moral power, to make peace between opposing nations, to spare the
subject, and to subdue the proud:
"Tu regere imperio populos, Romane, memento;
Hae tibi erunt artes, pacisque imponere morem,
Parcere subjectis, et debellare superbos."