bad taste and want of education the middle, utter arrogance and
superficiality the upper class. The distinctions between one set of
human beings and another are held to be absolute, and the inferiority of
opportunity, carefully preserved and exaggerated, is regarded as
intrinsic, not accidental. Vain is it to plead the democratic allowances
of the Catholic church. The equality of man before God is here purely
abstract and disembodied. The name of God, on the contrary, is invoked
to authorize the most flagrant inequalization that ignorance can prepare
and institutions uphold. The finest churches, the fairest galleries, you
will say, are open to the poorest as to the richest. This is true. But
the man's mind is the castle and edifice of his life. Look at these
rough and ragged people, unwashed, uncombed, untaught. See how little
sensible they are of the decencies and amenities of life. Search their
faces for an intelligent smile, a glance that recognizes beauty or
fitness in any of the stately circumstances that surround them. They are
kept like human cattle, and have been so kept for centuries. And their
dominants suppose themselves to be of one sort, and these of another.
But give us absolutism, and take away education, even in rich and roomy
America, and what shall we have? The cruel and arrogant slaveholder, the
vulgar and miserable poor white, the wronged and degraded negro. The
three classes of men exist in all constituted society. Absolutism allows
them to exist only in this false form.
This race is not a poor, but a robust and kindly one. Inclining more to
artistic illustration than to abstract thought, its gifts, in the
hierarchy of the nations, are eminent and precious. Like the modern
Greek, the modern Celt, and the modern negro, the Italian peasant asks a
century or two of education towards modern ideas. And all that can be
said of his want of comprehension only makes it the more evident that
the sooner we begin, the better.
It should not need, to Americans or Englishmen, to set out any formal
argument against absolutism. Among them it has long since been tried and
judged. Enough of its advocacy only remains to present that opposition
which is the necessary basis of action. And yet a word to my countrymen
and countrywomen, who, lingering on the edge of the vase, are lured by
its sweets, and fall into its imprisonment. It is a false, false
superiority to which you are striving to join yourself. A prince of
puppets is not a prince, but a puppet; a superfluous duke is no dux; a
titular count does not count. Dresses, jewels, and equipages of
tasteless extravagance; the sickly smile of disdain for simple people;
the clinging together, by turns eager and haughty, of a clique that
becomes daily smaller in intention, and whose true decline consists in
its numerical increase,--do not dream that these lift you in any time
way--in any true sense. For Italians to believe that it does, is
natural; for Englishmen to believe it, is discreditable; for Americans,
disgraceful.
Leaving philosophy for the moment, I must renew my sketchy pictures of
the scenes I pass through, lest treacherous memory should relinquish
their best traits unpreserved. Arrived in Rome, at a very prosaic and
commonplace station, I had some difficulty in recognizing the front of
Villa Negroni, an old papal residence belonging to the Massimi family,
in whose wide walls the relatives I now visit had formerly built their
nest. A cosy and pleasant one it was, with the view of the distant
hills, a large _entourage_ of gardens, a fine orange grove, and the
neighborhood of some interesting ruins and churches. With all the
cordiality of the old time these relatives now met me. My labors of
baggage and conveyance were ended. One leads me to the carriage, where
another waits to receive me. Time has been indulgent, we think, to both
of us, for each finds the other little changed.
And now we begin in earnest to tread the fairy land of dreams. Here are
the Quattro Fontane, there is the Quirinal, yonder the dome of domes. We
thread the streets in which I used to hunt for small jewelry and
pictures at a bargain, enacting the part of the prodigal son, and
providing a dinner of husks for the sake of a feast of gewgaws. A
certain salutary tingling of shame visits my cheeks at the remembrance
of the same. I find the personage of those days poor and trivial. But
here is the Forum of Trajan, and soon we drive within a palatial
doorway, and our guides lead us up a stately marble staircase--a long
ascent; but we pause finally, and a great door opens, and they say,
Welcome! We are now at home.
Through a long hall we go, and through a sweep of apartments unmatchable
in Fifth Avenue, at least in architectural dignity, seconded by rich and
measured taste--green parlor, crimson parlor, drab parlor, the lady's
room, the signore's room, the children's room. And in the guest-chamber
I confronted my small and dusty self in the glass--small, not especially
in my human proportions. But the whole of my modest house in B. Place
would easily, as to solid contents, lodge in the largest of those lofty
rooms. The Place itself would equally lodge in the palace. I regard my
re-found friends with wonder, and expect to see them execute some large
and stately manoeuvre, indicating their possession of all this space.
And now, dinner served in irreproachable style, and waited on by two
young men whose air and deportment would amply justify their appearance
at Papanti's Hall on any state occasion. We soon grow used to their
polite services; but at first Mario and Giuseppe somewhat intimidate us.
And after dinner, talk of old times and old friends, question of this
region and the other, the cold limbo as to weather, whence we come. Long
and familiar is our interchange of facts, and sleep comes too soon, yet
is welcome.
ST. PETER'S.
The first day in Rome sees us pursuing the phantom of the St. Peter
ceremonies, for all of which, tickets have been secured for us. Solid
fact as the performance of the _functions_ remains, for us it assumes a
forcible unreality, through the impeding intervention of black dresses
and veils, with what should be women under them. But as these creatures
push like battering-rams, and caper like he-goats, we shall prefer to
adjourn the question of their humanity, and to give it the benefit of a
doubt. We must except, however, our countrywomen from dear Boston, who
were not seen otherwise than decently and in order. Into the
well-remembered _palco_ we now drag the trembling neophyte, dished up
in black in a manner altogether astonishing to herself. And we push her
youthful head this way and that. "See, there are the cardinals; there is
the pope; there, in white-capped row, sit the pilgrims. Now, the pope's
mitre being removed, he proceeds with great state to wash the pilgrims'
feet." But she, like sister Anne in the Blue Beard controversy, might
reply, "I see only a flock of black dresses, heaped helter-skelter, the
one above the other." Some bits of the picture she does get, certainly,
which may thus be catalogued: "Pope's nose, black dress, ditto
skull-cap, black dress, a touch of cardinal's back, black dress--and
now? Bla--ck dre--ss, for the rest of the time. But what is this
commotion?" For now the he-goats begin to jump in the most extraordinary
way, racing out of the tribune as eagerly as they had pressed into it.
Their haste is to see the _tavola_, or pilgrims' table, up stairs, where
the pope and cardinals are to wait upon the twelve elect, whose
foot-washing we have just tried to see. Silence, decency, decorum--all
are forgotten. One in diamonds calls to a friend in the crowd outside,
"Hollo, Hollo! Come along with us!" and at the top of her voice. If "the
devil take the hindmost" be the moving cause of this gymnastic, I would
humbly suggest that, on these occasions, the devil certainly seems to be
in the foremost. With a little suppressed grumbling, we tumble out of
the tribune, and descend to the body of the church, where the double
line of Swiss guards detains us so long as to render our tickets for the
_cupola_, where the pilgrims' feast takes place, nearly useless. This
detention seems to be entirely arbitrary; for when, after endless
entreaty, we are allowed to reach the door, an easy ingress is allowed
us. And here, bit by bit, the neophyte puzzles out the significance of
the scene before her--a table set with massive golden ornaments (silver
gilt at best), the twelve white caps behind; the great church
dignitaries handing plates of fish, vegetables, and fruit towards the
table; the pope hidden behind some black dress or other, and a chanting
of prayers or texts, we know not what. The whole is much like the stage
banquet in Macbeth, the part of Banquo's ghost being played by the
spirit of the Christian religion.
And now away, away! to the door of the Sistine Chapel, where the
_Miserere_ will be sung at six of the clock, it now being one of the
same. So, in profane haste, we reach that door, already occupied by a
small mob of women of the politer sort, and others. Here one maintains
one's position till two o'clock, when the door opens, and, in shocking
disorder, the mob enter. Those who keep the door exclaim, "Do not push
so, ladies; there is room for all." But the savageness of the
Anglo-Saxon race has full scope to-day, not being on its good behavior,
as at home. So the abler-bodied jam and cram the less athletic without
stint. After falling harmlessly on my face, I breathe freely, and obtain
an end seat on the long benches reserved for the unreserved ladies.
And here passed three weary hours before the office began, and another
hour after that before the musical _bonne bouche_, coveted by these
people, and little appreciated by many of them, was offered to their
tired acceptance. The first interval was mostly employed in the
resuscitating process of _chawing_ upon such victuals as had not proved
contraband for such an occasion. And here were exchanged some little
amenities which revived our sinking hopes of the race. Biscuits,
sandwiches, and chocolate pastilles were shared. "Muffin from the Hotel
de Russie" was offered by a face not unknown. Munching thereon with
thankfulness, we interrogate, and find with joy a Boston woman. O
comfort! be my friend; and when the next black rush doth come, if
fisticuffs should become general and dangerous, be so good as to belabor
the woman who belabors me.
The office begins at five. It consists mostly of linked sameness long
drawn out. The chapel is by this time well filled with ceremonial
amateurs in every sort and quality. Men of all nationalities, in
gentlemen's dress, fill the seats and throng the aisle. Priests,
_militaires_, and even Sisters of Charity, vary the monotony of the
strict coat and pantaloon. Upon an upright triangle, as is well known,
are spiked the fifteen burning candles, of which all, save one, must be
quenched before we can enjoy our dear-bought _Miserere_. Much of our
attendant zeal is concentrated upon the progress visible in their
decline. The effect of the chanting is as square and monotonous as would
be the laying down of so many musical paving-stones. We tried to peep at
the Latin text of a book of prayers in the hand of a priest on our left;
but the pitiless Swiss guard caused him and his Breviary to move on, and
this resource was lost. About half way through the office, a pause came
over matters, very unwelcome to our hurry. A door on the left of the
altar opened, and the pope entered, preceded by his guard. He walked to
his throne on the right of the altar, and the chanting was resumed. Some
time before this, however, the _treni_ or lamentations were sung. These
were chanted in a high voice, neither fresh nor exact, and did not make
on me the impression of sixteen years ago. The extinguishing of the
candles was a slow agony, the intervals appearing endless. Finally, all
the lights were out. The one burning taper which represented Christ was
removed out of sight, the pope sank upon his knees before the altar, and
the verses of the _Miserere_ were sung. Twilight and fixed attention
prevailed through the chapel, whose vaulted roof lends a certain magic
of its own to the weird chant. Yet, with the remembrance of sixteen
years since, and with present judgment, I am inclined to consider the
supremacy of the _Miserere_ a musical superstition. I know not what
critical convictions its literal study would develop, but, as I heard
it, much of it seemed out of tune, and deformed by other than musical
discords. The _soprani_, without exception, were husky, and strained
their voices to meet the highest effects. The vaulted roof, indeed,
gives a lovely scope to such melody as there is. The dim, majestic
frescos, which you still feel, though you see them no longer,--the
brilliancy and variety of the company, its temporary stillness,--all
these circumstances in this _ne plus ultra_ of the Roman aesthetic
combine to impress you. But the kneeling pontiff and his cardinals did
not appear to me invested with any true priesthood. I could feel no
religious sympathy with their movements, which seemed a show, and part
of a show--nothing more. And when the verses were all sung, and the
shuffling of feet at the end got through with, I staid not to see the
procession into the Pauline Chapel, nor the adoration of the relics, nor
the mopping of St. Peter's altar. I had seen enough of such sights, and,
quietly wrapping the twilight about my discontent, I thankfully went
where kindred voices and a kindred faith allowed me to claim the shelter
of home.
SUPPER OF THE PILGRIMS.
Faster go these shows than one can describe them. On Good Friday evening
we attempted only to see the supper of the female pilgrims at the
Trinita dei Pellegrini. This again I undertook for the neophytes' sake,
having myself once witnessed the august ceremony. Here, as everywhere at
this time, we found a crowd of black dresses, with and without veils,
which, on this occasion, are optional. Another mob of women, small but
energetic; another rush to see what, under other circumstances, we
should hold to be but a sorry sight. The pilgrims are waited upon by an
association of ladies, who wear a sort of feminine overall in scarlet
cotton, nearly concealing a dress, usually black, of ordinary wear. They
are also distinguished by a pictorial badge, representing, I think, the
Easter Lamb, in some connection. Some of these ladies are of princely
family, others of rank merely civic. Princess Massimo, of first-rate
pretensions, keeps the inner entrance to the rites, and accords it only
to a limited number in turn. We tumble down the dividing stairs in the
usual indecorous manner, and walk through two rooms, in each of which
the pilgrims sit with their feet in tubs of water, the attendant ladies
being employed either in scrubbing them clean, or in wiping them dry.
All were working women from the country, their faces mostly empty of
thought and rude with toil. Some of the heads were not without
character, and would easily have made, with their folded head-dresses, a
_genre_ picture. In general, they and their attire were as rough and
uninteresting as women and their belongings can be. A number of them
carried infants, whose appearance also invited the cleansing
ministration, which did not include them. In either room an ecclesiastic
recited prayers in Latin, and a pretty young lady at intervals rattled a
box, the signal for the participants to make the sign of the cross,
which they did in a business-like manner. From this _lavanda_ we passed
to other rooms, in which the supper tables were in process of
preparation. The materials for the meal were divided into portions. To
each one was allotted a plate of salad and sardines, one of _bacala_, or
fried salt fish, two small loaves of bread, and a little pitcher of
wine, together with figs and oranges. The red-gowned ministrants
bestirred themselves in dividing and arranging these portions, with much
apparent good nature. Many of them wore diamond earrings, and one young
lady, whom we did not see at work, was adorned as to the neck with a
rich collar of jewelled lockets, an article of the latest fashion. All
of these ladies are supposed to be princesses, but several of them
talked house-gossip in homely Italian. To us the time seemed long, but
at length arrived the _minestra_ in a huge kettle. This universal
Italian dish is a watery soup, containing a paste akin to macaroni. And
now the pilgrims, having had all the washing they could endure, came in
to take possession of the goods prepared for them. Those of the same
family tried to sit together, but did not always manage to do so. For
every babe a double portion is allowed, and the coin (ten cents)
received at departure is also doubled. We had feared lest the pilgrims
might have found the presence of numbers a source of embarrassment. But
it did not prove so. They attacked their victuals with the most
practical and evident enjoyment. The babies were fed with _minestra_,
fish, salad, and wine. Of these one was two weeks old, and its mother
had walked four days to get to Rome. Each pilgrim carried either a
bottle or a tin canteen, into which the superior waiting-women decanted
the wine allowed, that they might carry it home with them. A Latin grace
was rehearsed before they fell to. Cardinals and _monsignori_ were seen,
here and there, talking with friends among the spectators. Observing
that pilgrims eat much like other people, we left them still at table,
and came away, to find the Prince Massimo in pink cotton, at the bottom
of the staircase, and a stupid Swiss, with ill-managed bayonet, guarding
the outer entrance. He, a raw recruit, carried his weapon as carelessly
as a lady waves a bouquet. Close to the eye of the neophyte he thrusts
it, through inattention. A scream from me makes her aware of the danger,
but affects him not. Under the weight of my objurgation he falters not,
but makes a vehement pass at a harmless dog, which runs by unhurt. And
my reflections upon his sheer brutishness were the closing ones of the
day.
EASTER.
St. Peter's on Easter called us with the magical summons of the silver
trumpets, blown at the elevation of the host, and remembered by me
through these sixteen years. To the tribunes, however, I did not betake
myself, but, armed with a camp stool, wandered about the church, getting
now a _coup d'oeil_, now a whiff of harmony. The neophytes had our
tickets, and beheld the ceremonies, which, once seen, are of little
interest to those to whom they are not matters of religion. The pope and
cardinals officiate at high mass, with the music of the Sistine singers.
The pope drinks of the consecrated cup through a golden tube, the cup
itself having previously been tasted of by one commissioned for the
purpose. This feature clearly indicates the recognized possibility of
poison. It is probably not observed by most of those present, who have,
after all, but a glimpse of what passes. The effect of the trumpets is
certainly magical. The public has no knowledge of their whereabouts, and
the sound seems to fall from some higher region. Having enjoyed this
aesthetic moment, one hurries out into the piazza in front of the church,
where a great assemblage waits to receive the papal benediction. Here
seats and balconies can be hired, and a wretched boy screeches, "_Ecco
luoghi_," for half an hour, as if he had a watchman's rattle in his
head. At last the blessed father in his palanquin is borne to that upper
window of the church, over which the white canopy rests: his mitres are
all arranged before him. The triple crown, glittering with jewels, is on
his head. On either side of him flutter the peacock fans. Cannons clear
the way for his utterance, and holding up two fingers, he recites the
apostolic benediction in a voice of remarkable distinctness and power.
It is received by good Catholics on their knees. Another cannon shot
closes the performance, and at the same moment two or three papers,
containing indulgences, fall from the pontiff's hand. Then the crowd
disperses, and you yourself, having witnessed "the most impressive
ceremony in the world," become chiefly occupied with the getting home,
the crowd of carriages being very great, and the bridge of St. Angelo
reserved for the passage of the _legni privilegiati_. And on the way,
query as to this impressiveness. If one could suppose that the pope had
any special blessing to bestow, or that he thought he had, one would
certainly be desirous and grateful to share in it. If one could consider
him as consecrated by anything better than a superstition for anything
better than the priestly maintenance of an absolute rule, one might look
in his kindly old face with a feeling stronger than that of personal
good-will or indifference. But I, standing to see and hear him, was in
the position of Macbeth.
"I had most need of blessing, but Amen
Stuck in my throat."
And I concluded that common sense, common justice, and civil and
religious liberty,--the noblest gifts of the past and promises of the
future,--had been quite long enough
"Butchered to make a Roman holiday."
As for the evening illumination, it was just as I remember it on two
former occasions, separated from this and from each other by long
intervals. A magical and unique spectacle it certainly is, with the
well-known change from the paper lanterns to the flaring _lampions_.
Costly is it of human labor, and perilous to human life. And when I
remembered that those employed in it receive the sacrament beforehand,
in order that imminent death may not find them out of a state of grace,
I thought that its beauty did not so much signify.
We have a dome, too, in Washington. The Genius of Liberty poises on its
top; the pediment below it is adorned with the emblems of honest thrift
and civic prosperity. May that dome perish ere it be lit at the risk of
human life, and lit, like this, to make the social darkness around it
more evident by its momentary aureole.
WORKS OF ART.
Enough of shows. Galleries and studios are better. Rome is rich in both,
and with a sort of studious contentment, one embraces one's Murray,
picks out the palace that unfolds its art treasures to-day, and travels
up the stairs, and along the marble corridors, to wonderful suites of
apartments, in which the pasteboard programmes lie about waiting for
you, while the still drama of the pictures acts itself upon the
thronged wall, yourself their small public, and they giving their
color-eloquence, whether any one gives heed or not.
They are precious, the Colonna, Doria, Sciarra, Borghese, and we have
seen them. We have picked out our old favorites, and have carried the
neophytes before them, saying, "I saw this, dear, before you were born."
But this past, whose reflex fold inwraps us, does not exist for the
neophytes, who look at it as out of a moment's puzzle, and then conclude
to begin their own business on their own responsibility, without any
reference to these outstanding credits of ours.
Of the pictures it is little useful to speak. Your description enables
no one to see them, and the narration of the feelings they excite in you
is as likely to be tedious as interesting to those who cultivate
feelings of their own. Copies and engravings have done here what you
cannot do, and the best subjects are familiar to art students and lovers
in all countries. A little sigh of pleasure may be allowed you at this,
your third sight of the Francias, the Raphaels, Titian's Bella, Claude's
landscapes, and the scientific Leonardo's heavily-labored heads and
groups. But do not therefore put the trumpet to your lips, and blow that
sigh across the ocean, to claim the attention of ears that invite the
lesson for the day. The lesson for this day is not written on canvas,
and though it may be read everywhere in the world, you will scarcely
find its clearest type in Rome.
And here, perhaps, I may as well carry further the philosophizing which
I began a week ago with regard to the objects and resources of Roman
life, and their compatibility with the thoughts and pursuits most dear
and valuable to Americans.