University of Virginia Library

THE PANTHEON, PALACES, CHURCHES.

Next to the Coliseum, as an architectural remain, is
the Pantheon. Its magnificent dome, antiquated
and immense pillars, and old pavement, combine to
realize the high anticipations with which it is
visited. The proximity of this grand building to
the scenes of ordinary life, exposed to the sounds
and influences ever present in populous cities, and
especially marred by the emblems of the popular
faith, and surrounded by the filth of a market-place—
these are circumstances which strike one most disagreeably,
and break in most inharmoniously upon
his cherished associations.

The ruins called the `Baths of Caracalla,' are
massive and broken walls, indicative of former magnificence
only from their number. Rank weeds
have quite overgrown the space which they enclose.
All the decorations and luxurious arrangements are
gone; the former are either destroyed, converted
into ornaments for modern churches, or preserved
in the public museums. As one walks amid these
deserted remains, a sense of solitude and mournfulness

powerfully affects him even beneath the cheerful
light of noon-day. The extensive site of these
baths realizes, in a measure, our ideas of the state of
elegant luxury to which the Romans had attained.
The Baptistry of St. Constantine, a small octagonal
building, contains several pillars of red porphyry
and two brazen gates, taken from these haths.

The summit of the Palatine Hill is, however, occupied
with ruins still more remarkable, even considered
as architectural vestiges. So complete is
the deformity and decay which time and violence
have worked upon that luxurious abode of royalty,
the Palace of the Cæsars, that no observation, however
critical, can discover any evidence of former
splendour, except what is discoverable in the extent
and solidity of the broken and straggling walls.
These stand in heavy groups, or isolated and towering
fragments, while about them the gay forms of
vegetable life flourish, with a fertility that seems to
mock the barrenness of the ruins which their green
and clustering beauty but imperfectly conceals. As
I wandered there, the mildness of the air was wonderful
for the season, and the bright sun-light, verdant
earth, and beautiful surrounding prospect, took
from the view the sadness usually observable in
scenes, the prominent features of which are antiquated.
Yet, though the sterner shades of the picture
were thus mellowed, its solemn lesson was as
forcibly imparted.

In the statue gallery of the Museum of the Capitol,
comparatively little is found to excite admiration
in the mind of one familiar with the treasures
of the Vatican. The Dying Gladiator differed
essentially from the notion I had previously entertained
respecting it. The chief, the particular merit
of this celebrated statue seems to consist in its
admirable expression of physical suffering. The
position, in view of the wound, is so perfectly true
to nature (as described and illustrated by Dr. Bell),[2]
that one cannot but study it with growing gratification.
But he must, I think, be very imaginatively
disposed to discover that look of mental anguish
and dying sentiment, which might be naturally
anticipated.

In the Borgehese Palace I paid frequent and admiring
attention to the most interesting work it
contains—Raphael's Deposition from the Cross.
The picture hall of the Palazzo Colonna must, when
illuminated, present one of the finest scenes of the
kind in Rome. After inspecting the views by
Claude, and several works by the old masters,

I became much interested in examining a beautiful
cabinet, the frontal exterior of which is very ingeniously
carved in ivory. The middle pannel represents,
in exquisite basso relievo, the master-piece
painting of M. Angelo, and affords a much better
idea of the design of that work than a distant view
of the defaced original can give. At the old dreary
palace of the Barbarini, I paused long before two
famous original paintings—Raphael's Fornarina and
Guido's Portrait of Beatrice Cenci; the one from
the perfection displayed in its execution, the other
from the melancholy history of its subject,[3] are
highly attractive.

The Churches of St John Lateran[4] and St. Maria
Maggiore are next to St. Peters in extent and richness.
Among the numerous temples of worship
delightful to frequent, is the Chiesa St. Maria degli
Angeli, a noble building in the form of the Greek
Cross, and rendered imposing by a grand dome and
extensive pavement; it contains a famous meridian

and two fine frescos—St. Peter performing a cure,
and the Baptism of Our Saviour. The celebrated
Sybils of Raphael are in the Church of St. Maria
della Pace, and the Christ of M. Angelo in that of
St. Maria sopra Minerva. There is, too, a small
church near the Forum, said to be the identical prison
where St. Peter and St. Paul were confined.
When visiting this building, we descended a considerable
flight of steps, and came to a gloomy dungeon,
the traditionary cell of the great apostles.
The very stone, fenced strongly with iron, to which
they were chained, is designated. While endeavouring
to feel that this very vault had, indeed,
been the scene of suffering and prayer to the revered
martyrs, a severe task was imposed upon our credulity.
A small excavation in the wall above the
staircase, guarded like the relic below, we were
informed was occasioned by a blow which the
guard gave St. Peter as he descended, causing his
head to strike and miraculously shatter the stone.
In a neighbouring church, called Ara Cœli, we admired
an exquisite marble altar, said to have been
erected by Augustus.