By dint of many rambles I am become fairly versed in the topography of
Rome; but its history, as elucidated by monuments or relics, is a
perpetual riddle to the beholder. The Republic, the Empire, the
Barbarian Invasions, Free Lances, Barons, Kings, and Popes--all are
suggested; all come before you in confused array; not unfrequently,
three or four at once. You shall go into a church to hear mass amid
modern tawdriness, entering through a mediaeval porch, taking your place
between walls that were put up long before the Christian era, and under
a roof supported by pillars whereon the sun of Phrygia has shone. Pagan
and Christian--all is jumbled; until finally, unless you have the
patience of Job and the zeal of an antiquarian, you begin to doubt all
legendary and historic lore, and to measure what you see by its
external attractiveness alone. One thing, however, is clearly marked.
You are groping about, in a state of vexed uncertainty; suddenly you
come upon an inscription, conspicuous, in large legible letters, often
gilded. Now you are grateful. You stride up; and lo, there stands,
emblazoned before you the interesting fact that such or such a Pontifex
Maximus, some Benedict, or Clemens, or Pius, or Leo, or Gregory,
restored, excavated, ornamented, or built, as the case may have been,
the object upon which you have been pondering. Neither, in the dearth of
desirable information, are you compensated by the opportunity of picking
up chronological knowledge in regard to the Papacy. These fulsome
records omit, not only all description that might be useful; they fail
to mention the year of the World, or the year of Grace, altogether. In
place thereof, you learn that the digging or decoration in question took
place in a certain year of the reign of a certain Pope; but as the chair
of St. Peter has had one hundred and sixteen occupants, between A.D.
1000 and A.D. 1860, "Anno VI. of Innocent VI." or "Anno II. of Julius
II." does not materially aid the memory as to dates. This petty craving
after chiselled or painted immortality is nowhere more contemptibly
exhibited than in Raphael's famous Loggie at the Vatican, where, over
each separate window, one reads in staring type, "Leo X., Pontifex
Maximus." Surely there is something strangely inconsistent, in a power
that boasts its remote origin and its endowment in perpetuity, thus
taking infinite pains to isolate its historical fragments.
A smile only--not a grunt of indignation--is elicited by another
peculiarity of Rome, which comes under the lounger's notice. Something
of the same sort is perhaps also observable in all large cities; but it
never struck me so strongly. I allude to the names of the streets and
squares and public places, which names by the way are carefully and
prominently labelled. The jumble is curious, though one starts a little
at times from what to Protestant eyes seems irreverent. Take a sample,
dispensing with the titles in Italian. You may stroll through the street
of the Three Virgins, of the Three Robbers, of Jesus, of the Tarpeian
Rock, of the Two Butchers' Shops, of the Baboon, of Divine Love, of the
New Benches, of the Prefects, of the House-tops, of Jesus and Mary, of
the Greeks, of the Tower of Blood, of the Triton, of the Guardian Angel,
of the Strumpet, of the Soul, of the Scrofula, of the Eagle, of the
Lion's Mouth, of the Five Moons, of Minerva, of the Incurables, of the
Wind, of the Wolf, of St. John Beheaded. You may halt in the square of
the Mouth of Truth, in that of the Field of Flowers, in that of the
Satyrs, in that of Consolation, in that of the Goose. It is evident that
no ruling mind or principle has regulated this public nomenclature. _Tot
homines, quot sententiae._
And is it not the same thing in private affairs? What variety of tastes!
Here is a specimen. Two young men of my acquaintance, who have been
campaigning in India, arrived here, the other day, on their first
visit. One of them had a relative here, of a scholastic turn of mind,
who was bringing a protracted sojourn to a close; and to him the cavalry
officers were in a measure consigned. "Can you tell me what's to be seen
at Ostia and Veii?" said one of them to me, forty-eight hours after
their arrival. "Our friend, B., is going to take us a day's excursion to
each place, to-morrow and the following day." I could scarcely keep my
countenance. The poor innocents were sold to an antiquarian. Ostia is
destitute of any objects that would repay a half-hour's walk. As for
Veii, the learned have only agreed of late whereabouts that ancient city
stood.