growth of symbolism, both in pictures and in language. The intercourse
of the early Christians was limited and insecure. It was guarded by
watchwords. Its bodily presence took refuge in pits and caves. Its
thought buried itself in similitudes and allusions. But now, when
Christianity has become the paramount demand of the world, this
obscurity is no longer needed nor legitimate.
The parables of Christ may be supposed to have had a double object. The
most usually recognized is that of popular instruction, in the form best
suited to the comprehension of his hearers. Many of his sayings,
however, point to another meaning; viz., the discrimination between
those who were fitted to receive his doctrine, and those who were not.
How many, among the multitudes who heard him, can we suppose to have
been anxious about the moral lessons intended by his illustrious fables?
Few indeed; and those few alone would be able to understand his
teaching, and, in turn, to teach according to his method. So he
represents the kingdom of heaven which he preached as a net thrown into
the sea. His sermons were such castings of the net; he made his
disciples fishers of men. The Christian church, like the Jewish, rapidly
degenerated into a tissue of legends and observances--at first
representative of morality, soon cumbrous, finally inimical to it.
All this time, however, we are standing wedged by Father ---- in a narrow
compass, and, while the thought of one undertakes this long, swift
retrospect, the temper of the others becomes irritated--not without
reason. So we insist upon breaking out of the small quadrangle, and are
led into the crypt in which were found the remains of St. Cecilia. Here
tradition again holds a long parley with the representatives of modern
thought. St. Cecilia, a noble Roman lady, was beheaded, but survived the
stroke of the executioner three days, which she occupied in describing
and explaining the doctrine of the trinity. (This, therefore, is the
doctrine of those who have lost their head.) For this purpose she
employed two fingers of the right hand and one of the left. All of this
passes without controversy. Her body was found lying on its face, in an
attitude perpetuated by the well-known statue in the church in
Trastevere. But in this crypt are the relics of an altar, erected over
the remains of another saint. The early Christian altars, our guide
says, were always erected above the burial-place of some saint. Hence,
no Catholic church is allowed to dispense with the presence of
consecrated bones. Other graves, moreover, cluster around that which is
supposed to have consecrated this altar: sums of money were paid for the
privilege of interment in this proximity. This clearly shows the early
Christians to have supposed that the saint himself had the power to
benefit them, and the right of intercession. This we concede as quite
possible; but does this go to show, O father, that the saint _had_ any
such power? Let us go back after this fashion in other things. Fingers
were made before knives and forks, skins were worn before tissues, and
nakedness is of earlier authority than either. A predatory existence has
older precedent than agriculture or commerce. Let us go backward like a
crab, if you will, but let us be consistent.
In another crypt we are shown two marble sarcophagi, well carved, in
each of which lies a mouldering human figure once embalmed, and now
black, without features, and with only a dim outline of form. Elsewhere
we are shown a large marble slab handsomely engraved, with the record of
a Christian martyr on one side, and with an inscription concerning the
Emperor Hadrian on the other, presenting the economic expedient of a
second-hand tombstone. We passed also through various dark galleries,
and down one staircase. Some chambers of the catacomb had a
_luminarium_, or light from the top; many of them were entirely dark.
Father ----'s style of explanation threatening to prolong itself till
midnight, impatience became general, and one of our party ventured a
remonstrance, which was made and met something after the following
fashion:--
_Mr. F._ Hem--hem! Sir, I am old and infirm, and--
_Father ----._ O, sir, ask any questions you like. The more you ask, the
better I can explain myself. (Repeated over some three times.)
_Mr. F._ But, sir, I do not wish to ask any questions. I only wish--
_Father ----._ Don't make any excuses, sir. I shall be very glad to have
you ask any questions. I am very ready to answer and explain everything.
(Several repetitions.)
After a number of efforts, the senior member of the party at length
obtained the floor, and succeeded in expressing himself to the effect
that he feared to take death of cold in the catacomb, and would gladly
be piloted out by the commonplace youth who followed Father ---- as
attendant, without views of any kind, except as to a possible _buona
mano_. This suggestion of the elder met with so hearty a response from
the remainder of the party as to bring the present exploration to an
end, and Father ---- and his public simultaneously dispersed to carriages
and horses. In view of the whole expedition, I would advise people in
general to read up on the subject of the catacombs, but not to visit
them in company with one intent on developing theories of any kind. The
underground chill is unwholesome in warm weather, and a conversion made
in these dark galleries and windings would be much akin to baptism at
the sword's point. Meet, therefore, the theorist above ground, and on
equal terms; and for the subterraneous proceeding, elect the society of
swift and prosaic silence.
VIA APPIA AND THE COLUMBARIA.
Since my last visit to Rome, more progress has been made under ground
than above it. Rome is the true antipodes of America. Our business is to
build--her business is to excavate. The tombs on Via Appia are among the
interesting objects which the spade and mattock, during the last
seventeen years, have brought to view. I remember well the beginning of
this work, and the marble tombs and sarcophagi which it brought to
light. I also remember, in those unconscientious days, a marble head, in
exceedingly flat relief, which was desired by me, and stolen for me by
the faithful servant of a friend. At the commencement of the diggings,
we descended from our carriage, and easily walked to the end of the way
then opened. Via Appia now affords a long drive, set with tombs on
either side. Many of these are in brick, and of large dimensions. Most
of the marbles have, however, been removed to the Museum of the Vatican.
On this road, if I mistake not, are the two _columbaria_ discovered and
excavated some seven years ago. They stand in a vineyard, which I saw in
its spring bloom. The proprietor, a civil man, answers the little bell
at the gate, and taking down a bunch of keys, unlocks for you the door
of the small building erected over the vault. The original roof has
fallen. All else looks as if it might have been used the day before for
burial. The descent is by a steep, narrow stairway, of at least thirty
steps, each of which is paved with a single lamina of coarse brick. The
walls are honeycombed with small parallelogrammatic niches, in each of
which was set a funeral vase or box. Over some of these places are such
inscriptions as, "_Non tangite vestes mortales_," "_Vencrare deos
manes_." There are many names, of which I have preserved but one,
"_Castus Germanicus Caesaris_." This _columbarium_ belonged to the
Flavian family. It has about it an indescribable gloom, like that of a
family vault in our own time, but, it must be confessed, more aesthetic.
One felt the bitter partings that death had made here, the tears, the
unavailing desire to heap all the remaining goods of life upon the altar
of departed friendship. Time healed these wounds then, no doubt, as he
does to-day. The tears were dried, the goods enjoyed again; but, while
Christianity has certainly lightened the dead weight of such sorrows,
the anguish of the first blow remains what it was all those dim
centuries ago. A glance into the _columbarium_ makes you feel this.
The second _columbarium_ is much like the first, excepting that the
stair is not so well preserved. On emerging, the proprietor invited us
to visit an upper room in his own house, in which were a number of
objects, taken, he averred, from the two _columbaria_. These were mostly
vases, tear-bottles, and engraved gems. But I doubted their genuineness
too much to make any purchases from among them. The trade in antiquities
is too cheap and easy a thing in Italy to allow faith in unattested
relics.
Not very far beyond the _columbaria_ stand the catacombs of the ancient
Hebrews, much resembling in general arrangement those of the Christians.
We found in several places the image of the seven-branched candlestick
impressed upon the tufa. In one of the rooms were some remains of
fresco. At each of its corners was painted a date-palm with its fruit.
In two other rooms the frescos were in good preservation. Some of the
graves were sunk in the earth, the head and feet at right angles with
the others. We were shown the graves of two masters of synagogues. The
frescos are not unlike those in the Christian and pagan tombs, though as
I remember them, the Christian paintings are the rudest of all, as
respects artistic merit.
The subjects were usually genii, peacocks, the cock, fruits, garlands,
the latter sometimes painted from end to end of the wall. Some of the
small tombs were still sealed with a marble slab. An entire skeleton was
here shown us, and a number of sarcophagi. Of these, one was sunk into
the ground, and several graves were grouped around it, much after the
fashion of those in the Christian catacombs, from which Dr. Smith
inferred so largely, both concerning the sanctity of the saint's body
and the post-mortem power of the saint.
We were taken also to see some interesting tombs in the Via Latina.
These were recently brought to light from their long concealment in a
tract of the Campagna, belonging to the Barberini family. Descending a
flight of stone steps, the custode admitted us into two fine vaulted
chambers, decorated each after its own manner. The ceiling of the first
was adorned with miniature bas-reliefs in stucco. The small figures,
beautifully modelled, were enclosed in alternate squares and octagons.
The designs were exhibitions of genii, griffins, and of centaurs,
bearing female figures on their backs. The sculptured sarcophagi found
in this tomb were removed to the Lateran Museum.
In the second tomb the walls and ceilings were adorned with miniature
frescos, also enclosed in small compartments. Many of these represented
landscapes, sometimes including a water view, with boats. These were
rather faint in style, but very good. Peacocks, also, were frequent; and
in one compartment was painted a glass dessert vase, with the fruit
showing through its transparency. This design amazed us, both as to its
subject and execution. Some panels in this tomb bore stucco reliefs on
grounds of brilliant red and blue. In its centre was found hanging a
fine bronze lamp, which is now at the Barberini Palace. A large
sarcophagus of stone still remains here, nearly entire, with a pointed
lid. On looking through a small break in one side of it, we perceived
two skeletons, lying side by side, supposed, the custode told us, to
have been husband and wife. These tombs certainly belong to a period
other than that of the _columbaria_ before described. The presence of
sarcophagi, and of these skeletons, attests the burial of the dead in
accordance with the usage of modern society, while the great elegance
and finish of the ornamentation point to a time of wealth and luxury. I
have heard no conjecture as to the original proprietorship of these
tombs. They contain no military or civil emblems, and probably belonged
to wealthy contractors or merchants. That day, no doubt, had its shoddy,
and of the tricks practised upon the government one may read some
account in Titus Livy, who, to be sure, wrote of an earlier time, but
not a more vicious one.
Rome now boasts an archaeological society, not indeed of Romans, but
composed of foreign residents, mostly of British origin. The well-known
artist Shakspear Wood is one of its most energetic members. At his
invitation I attended a lecture given by Mr. Charles Hemans, on the
subject of the ancient churches and mosaics of the city. Complementary
to this lecture was an expedition of the society to several of these
churches, which I very gladly joined. Our first and principal object of
interest was the old Church of San Clementi, a building dating from the
eleventh or twelfth century. Here Mr. Hemans first led us to observe an
ancient fresco in the apsis, which represents the twelve apostles in the
guise of twelve lambs, a thirteenth lamb, in the middle of the row, and
crowned with a nimbus, representing Christ. Here we saw also an ancient
marble chair, a marble altar screen, and a pavement in the ribbon
mosaic, of which archaeologues have so much to say. This mosaic is so
named from the strips of colored stones which form its various patterns
on the white marble of the pavement.
The church itself, however, occupied us but briefly. Beneath the church
has recently been discovered and excavated a very extensive basilica, of
a date far more ancient. This crypt was now lighted for us. Its original
proportions are marred by walls of masonry built between its long rows
of columns, and essential to the support of the church above. These
walls are adorned by curious paintings of saints, popes, martyrs, and
miracles. Among them is a very rude crucifixion; also a picture of
Christ giving benediction after the fashion of the Greek church, and of
a pontiff in the same act. Upon these things Mr. Hemans made many
interesting comments. From the crypt we descended yet farther into a
house supposed to date back at least to the empire, if not to the
republic. It is a small but heavily-built enclosure, of two chambers,
and contains a curious bas-relief in marble, representing a pagan
sacrifice. In the narrow descent that led to it Mr. Wood showed me in
three consecutive strata the tufa of the time of the kingdom, travertine
of the republic, and brick of the empire.
The presence of the ancient basilica below the ancient church was
suggested to one of the priests of the latter by the presence of a
capital, rising just above the pavement of the church, and not accounted
for by any circumstance in its architecture. This capital belonged to
one of the columns of the basilica; but before so much could be
ascertained, a long and laborious series of excavations had to be
instituted. Father ----, the priest who first conjectured of the presence
of this under building, has been indefatigable in following up the hint
given by the capital, which he alone, in a succession of centuries, was
clever enough to interpret. Most of the expense of this work has been
borne by him.
From San Clementi the worshipful society went to the church of Santi
Quattro. The object of interest here was a small chapel filled with
curious old frescos, one series of which represents the conversion of
Constantine. We see first depicted a dream, in which Sts. Peter and Paul
appear to Constantine, warning him to desist from the murder of innocent
children, whose blood was supposed to be a cure for his leprosy. Not
disobedient to the heavenly vision, Constantine relinquishes the
blood-bath, and releases the children. He sends for St. Sylvester, the
happy possessor of an authentic portrait of the two apostles. The fresco
shows us Sylvester responding to this summons, and bringing in his hand
the portrait, which the emperor immediately recognizes. Farther on we
see Sylvester riding in papal triumph, the emperor leading his
palfrey--a haughty device for those days. Another fresco records the
finding of the true cross by St. Helena. Coming at one time upon the
three crosses she applied each of them in succession to the body of a
dying person, who was healed at once by the contact of the true one.
The archaeological society also explores the interesting neighborhoods of
Rome, the villas of emperors, statesmen, and poets. Thus life springs
out from decay, and the crumbling relics of the past incite new
activities in minds that cling, like the ivy, about relics and ruins.
This society, ancient as are the facts about which it occupies itself,
seemed to me one of the most modern features of Rome, especially as it
travels by rail, and carries its luncheon with it. I was not fortunate
enough to join its visits to the environs of the Eternal City, but I
wish that on one of its excursions it would take with it the oldest
nuisance of modern society, and forget to bring it back. There is room
enough outside of Rome for that which, shut within its walls, crowds out
every new impulse of life and progress. No harm to the old man; no
violence to his representative immunity; only let him remember that the
world has room for him, and that Rome has not.
NAPLES--THE JOURNEY.
From these brief, sombre notes of Rome, we slide at once to Naples and
her brilliant surroundings. Here, taking the seven colors as the
equivalents of the seven notes, we are at the upper end of the octave of
color. Rome is painted in purple, gold, olive, and bistre--its shadows
all in the latter pigment. Naples is clear red, white, and yellow.
Orange tawny is its deepest shade. The sounds of Rome awaken memories
of devotion. They call to prayer, although the forms now be empty, and
the religious spirit resident elsewhere. The voice of Naples trills,
shrieks, scolds, mingling laughter, wail, and entreaty, in a new and
confused symphony. Little piano-fortes, played like a barrel organ, go
about the streets, giving a pulse to the quick rhythm of life. The
common people are pictures, the aristocracy caricatures. When you rise
above low life, Italian taste is too splendid for good effects in
costume. The most ill-married colors, the most ill-assorted ornaments,
deform the pale olive faces, and contradict the dignity of the dark eyes
and massive hair. This is somewhat the case in Rome, much more in
Naples. The continual _crescendo_ of glare, as you go southward, points
to the African crisis of orange and crimson, after which the negro
nakedness presents an enforced pause, saying, "I can no more."
This land is the antipodes of the Puritan country. There all is
concentration, inward energy, interior. Here all is external glow and
glitter. If there be any interior, it can only belong to one of these
three--passion, superstition, avarice. Every one who deals with you
speculates upon your credulity. "Will you give four times the value of a
thing, or five, or only twice?" is the question which the seller's eyes
put to the buyer, however the tongue of the one may respond to that of
the other. And here is a sad deforming of the Scripture parable; and he
who has five in value gets ten in money for it, he who has three gets
six, while the one talent, honesty,--the fundamental gift of God to
man,--is indeed ignominiously buried in a dirty napkin, and laid nobody
knows where. And while New England energy is a hundred-armed giant that
labors, Italian sloth is a hundred-handed lazzaro that begs. If this is
the result of the loveliest climate, the most brilliant nature, give me
our snow and ice, ay, the east wind and all.
The journey from Rome to Naples at this season is hot, oppressive.
Railway carriages, even as administered in Europe, make you acquainted
with strange way-fellows. We chance upon a Neapolitan prince, with an
English wife, returning to his own country and possessions after an
absence of six years, the time elapsed since the inauguration of the new
rule. He obviously regrets the changes over which the rest of the
civilized world rejoices. In person, however, he and his partner are
simple and courteous. Our car confines also a female nondescript
carrying a dog, herself quite decently got up, but with an extraordinary
smile, that is either lunatic or wicked, we cannot determine which. A
certain steadiness and self-possession incline us to the latter theory,
but we hold it subject to correction at a later day. She is obviously of
Irish or low English extraction, and may be anything, from a discarded
lady's maid to a reigning mistress. As we approach Naples, our princely
friend begins to take notice. Here is Caserta, here its battle-field,
where poor Francesco would certainly have had the victory, had not the
French and Piedmontese interfered. "_Oh Richard, oh mon Roi!_" But we
remember another saying: "And I tell you, if these had held their peace,
the very stones would have cried out." Ay, those very stones, volcanic
lava and tufa, worn by the chariot wheels of the wicked, from Tiberius
to Napoleon and after, would have sobbed, "Let the feet of the messenger
of peace, the beautiful feet, at last pass this way!" Arrived at the
station, no warning can have taught you what to expect. It costs you
forty cents to have your moderate effects transported from the cars to
the omnibus of the hotel,--this not through any system, but because
various people meddle with them, and shriek after you for recompense. At
the Hotel de Rome, you are shown up many stairs into a dingy little
room, a sort of spider's web. This will not do. You try the Hotel de
Russie, opposite. Here you are forced to take an apartment much too fine
for your means and intentions. The choice being this or none, you shut
your eyes upon consequences, and blindly issue orders for tea and meats.
To-morrow you will surely get a cheaper apartment. But to-morrow you do
not.
The hotel book looks discouraging. Names of your countrymen are in it,
not of your friends. Better remain apart than run the risk of ungenial
society, and enforced fellowship. But the dull waters soon break into
the sparkle of special providences. A bright little Briton, with a mild
husband, hospitably makes your acquaintance. She is from Ireland, and
has not the "thorough-bred British stare." All the more of a lady do we
deem and find her. To her pleasant company is soon added that of an
American of the sincere kind. He accepts us without fear or condition,
and while we remain under the same roof with him, we have no cause to
complain for want of sympathy or of countenance.
THE MUSEUM.
In the Museum we spend two laborious days. The first we give to the
world-renowned marbles, finding again with delight our favorites of
twenty years' standing. Prominent among these are the Amore Delfino, and
the Faun bearing the infant Bacchus.
The Farnese Bull and the Farnese Hercules are admirable for their
execution, but their subject has no special interest for us. We observe
the Atlas, the Athletes, and the Venuses, one of whom is world-famous,
but inexcusable. Here, too, is the quadriform relic of the Psyche, well
known by copies, and the whole Balbo family on horseback. These marble
knights once guarded the Forum of Pompeii. There is a certain melancholy
in their present aspect, whether of fact or imagination we will not
determine. One of the most interesting objects, from the vicissitudes
through which it has passed, is the statue of Caligula, destroyed by the
people with all other mementos of him after his death, the head having
served, even in modern times, to steady the wheels of carriages in a
ferry boat. The Naples Museum does not rival the Vatican in the merit of
its nude marbles; but in draped statues it is far richer, as well as in
statues of personal historical interest. The belief of the past has the
most stately illustration in Rome, its life the most vivid record in
Naples.
Many new treasures have been added to the collection during these years
of our absence. Among them are some exquisite small bronzes, and three
statuettes in marble, of which the eyes are colored blue, and the hair
of a reddish tint. One of them is very pretty. It represents the seated
figure of a little boy, and almost reconciles us to the strictly
inadmissible invasion of color into the abstract domain of sculpture.
Each art has, indeed, its abstraction. Sculpture dispenses with color,
painting with the materiality of form. The one is to the other as
philosophy to poetry.