University of Virginia Library

ROME.

THE FORUM, ARCHES, AQUEDUCTS, AND
TOMB OF THE SCIPIOS.

It was in the light of a clear atmosphere that we
stood upon the summit of the Capitol, and thoughtfully
gazed forth upon the city with its mountain-wall
circling broadly in the distance. From so
commanding a position, we were enabled to expand
the faint idea into a sensible conception of the site
of ancient Rome, and the relative localities and
original aspect of her scattered and dimly defined
remains.

Directly beneath us stood a massive form, whose
sculptured and inscribed surface is uniformly tinged

with the melancholy hue imparted by the earth
which so recently encrusted it, and deepened by the
lapse of ages. And yet, beneath that arch have
earth's most splendid pageants passed; eyes bedewed
with the rich tears of grateful exultation, have dwelt
upon its now defaced splendour; its broad foundations,
resting heavily in their sunken bed, have
trembled beneath the proud tread of the triumphing,
and its concave rung with the inspiring shout of a
Roman greeting. It was the triumphal arch of
Septimius Severus.

Immediately beside it, in mournful companionship,
rise three mutilated columns, all that exists
of the noble tribute of gratitude raised by Augustus
to the god of thunder, when he returned unscathed
from the rush of his awful shaft. A slower but not
less sure agency has not passed negligently by the
monument, and the naked triumvirate, clustered, as
if in the `fellowship of grief,' but feebly represent
the living sentiment which gave them birth. The
same number of these erect and solitary relies, lifting
their burdenless capitals in air, furnish the commencement
of an outline which observation may
continue and imagination embody, of the temple of
Jupiter Stator. Cold chroniclers of thrilling times
are they; senseless spectators of what would kindle
even the enthusiastic, which else we might almost
envy. It seems as if something of pride yet lingered
about these decayed remnants of a once glorious
company. They bore the vaulted roof, which

echoed the most eloquent outpourings of moral indignation;
they stood around, silent and stern, when
about them were the not less inflexible forms of the
Roman soldiery, and the sudden gathering of her
alarmed citizens, and within, the deliberate and imposing
presence of the accuser, and the pale countenance
and hurried glances of the accused—for it
was here that Cicero condemned Catiline. The
temples of Concord and of Peace, the one boasting
eight remaining columns, and the other three fragmentary
arches, next attracted attention and suggested
similar reminiscences.

But soon we were obliged to quit a scene so
absorbing in its suggestive influences, to wander
among the dense ranges of modern buildings, and
descry, here and there, a few pillars or other remains
of what once stood forth contributing their now
isolated symmetry to the formation of a beautiful
and perfect whole. The arches of Titus, Constantine
and Janus respectively occupied and interested
us, particularly the former, from the sacred vessels
and symbols of the Jewish temple, exhibited in
basso relievo, upon its interior surface; the niches of
the latter are dispossessed of the statues which once
adorned them; the bronze fastenings which connected
the stones are gone, and broad gaps mark
the violence with which they were extricated. In
the vicinity, I attentively perused the little square
arch erected by the jewellers of the Forum to Septimius
and his wife, and passing on, observed the

pillars and site of the temples of Vesta and Fortune
transformed into churches.

When we found ourselves near the wonderful old
aqueducts contiguous to the walls, we were long
amused with the peculiarities and impressed with
the antiquated features of these strange and extensive
remains. From some elevated positions, we
gained a view of the neighbouring mountains, lifting
their undulating forms beneath the vapory masses
of the dim atmosphere, and reflecting in faint yet
rich tints, the few rays of sunshine which struggled
through the leaden clouds. We had seen no general
view more congenial with the ruins or more exciting
to the associations of Rome.

On another occasion we left the city by the
Appian Way, and were mindful of the circumstance
of St. Paul having entered by the identical road,
After a considerable walk, we reached the tomb of
the Scipios, situated by the road-side, and the entrance
not distinguishable from other similar gateways,
except by the inscription. Entering this, we
soon came to the vault, secured merely with loose
wooden doors, and having no distinctive beauty.
With a guide and tapers we explored the dark and
chilly avenues of this tomb, pausing here and there
to con the many inscriptions which exist upon the
walls. Two of the sarcophagi are in the Vatican,
but one or two yet remain. We soon hastened from
this damp and melancholy sepulchre, whose earthy
floor was worn by the feet of many curious pilgrims,

like ourselves, and pondering upon the contrast between
the men who once reposed there, their probable
anticipations of their country and the present,
we extended our walk and penetrated far into the
labyrinthine catacombs beneath the church of St.
Sebastian.

ST. PETER'S.

At length we arrived at the noble square with its
sweeping colonnade and old obelisk, which are about
St. Peter's. Having entered that edifice and immediately
passing through a side door, we commenced
ascending an inclined plane which winds round, is
bricked, and continues for a long distance until it
brings us out upon the roof. This wide space, with
its several cupolas, has been aptly compared to a
small village. We soon entered the first and second
interior gallery of the dome, and thence looked
down from an immense height upon the variegated
marble floor, or immediately around upon the coarse
mosaic figures. Still ascending, we reached the
lantern, and obtained a most comprehensive view,
embracing the city, the campagna, the distant snow-covered
mountains, with a glimpse of the Mediterranean,
and having stood in the copper ball which
surmounts the whole building, we descended.[1]

At one visit to St. Peter's, the several scenes presented
most effectually aided me in realizing the vastness
of the building. Two of the chapels were
filled with children receiving Sabbath instruction,
whose singing resounded pleasingly through the expanse.
In one corner, some lads, seemingly designed
for the priesthood, were loudly engaged in a
dialogue, the purport of which was an exposition of
the church ceremonies; these were eagerly listened
to by a surrounding crowd. Around the circular
and illuminated railing, which is about the descent
to the tomb of the great apostle, kneeled many female
figures, and another knot were clustered beneath his
bronze image, and fervently kissing the worn foot;
while, scattered upon the far spreading pavement,
and bending at the numerous shrines, were many
devotees apparently absorbed in prayer. The confession-boxes,
too, were unusually occupied, and the
whole area thickly studded with the figures of those
whom curiosity or devotion had brought thither.
And yet these numerous and variously occupied
human beings seemed, in no degree, to lessen the
apparent space enclosed by those immense walls and
that exalted dome, but rather to increase the impressiveness

of the whole. I ever gratefully remarked the
peculiar mildness and genial warmth of the atmosphere.
It is even pretended by some of the inhabitants,
that this phenomenon may be ascribed to the
heat, which the dense walls acquire during summer
—a heat so great and so well retained as to continue
partially latent, and be evolved during the few
weeks when comparative coolness prevails. Many
circumstances, however, contribute to the production
of so pleasing an effect, particularly the admirable
exposure of the building to the full influence of
the sun, which beams through one or another of
its many windows, during nearly the whole day,
while the arrangement of the entrances almost
precludes the admission of the external air.

But it was my special delight to visit St. Peter's,
not critically to examine, but to yield myself freely
to its sublimity and beauty. Sometimes I would
rest in front of the monument to the last of the
Stuarts, to sympathize in the mournful expression
of its basso relievo angels of death, extinguishing,
as if in sadness, the torch of life; or pause in
admiration of the lions of Canova surmounting
the tomb of Pope Clement XIII. As the setting
sun shone gorgeously through the glory, over
the main altar, and lingered upon the gilded cornices
of the wall, it was mysteriously exciting
to gaze on one of the splendid mosaic copies of
the most eminent originals; for instance, that of
Thomas satisfying his doubts. The perfect serenity

of our Saviour's countenance, the determined inspection
of the incredulous apostle, and, above all, the
sad, yet mild and affectionate expression of John,
riveted my gaze and touched my sensibilities. I
could almost believe that I saw a tremulous play
of the muscles, or living softness of the features, as
they were thus revealed in the twilight.

It was surpassingly interesting to roam through
the quiet and rich precincts of this magnificent edifice,
with an elevating sense of its excellence as a
place of religious enjoyment. There is a freedom,
a nobleness, a grandeur about St. Peter's, allied to
intellect and sentiment in their higher manifestations.
Within no structure, perhaps, does the human
form dwindle to greater apparent insignificance,
but in few spots does man yield more spontaneously
and legitimately to a sense of his capacity for excellence.
The idea that the building, which is filling
and delighting his spirit, was planned by the intellect
and reared by the labour of his species, and the
thought of that Being to whose praises it is devoted
—all this suggests itself with the view and its enjoyment.

Indeed, familiarity with the splendid temples of
worship for which Italy is remarkable, rather augments
than diminishes the spontaneous admiration
which a first inspection of them excites; or rather,
the primary emotions of pleasure melt into a calm
sentiment of satisfaction, far more favourable to a
discriminating view and just impression. The still

but most efficient teachings of those three happy
influences, painting, sculpture and architecture, seem
here combined for the most felicitous ends. I
could not but often think of it as one of those consoling
and redeeming things, which modify all the
evil in the world, that these were places dedicated
to Catholicism, but open to all and at all times;—
places for reflection, devotion and thought, where
one can wander contemplatively, the painted windows
imparting a mellow light in which the pictured
and sculptured forms seemed living things, and the
notes of the chanters falling in reverberated echoes
upon the ear, and worship after his own heart, or
muse holily till the fire burns.

ST. PIETRO IN VINCULI AND THE
CAPUCHIN CONVENT.

It was on a day marked by that deep azure, that
seemingly penetrable density of the sky, so often
celebrated by poets as the most enchanting natural
feature of southern Italy, that we were early on our
way to the Esquiline hill. Upon its summit stands,
in comparative solitude, the church of St. Pietro in
Vinculi, built to contain the chains of the great apostle
whose name it bears. The effect ever derivable
from simplicity, is signally exemplified upon entering
this chaste building; for its interior architecture
opens at once upon the vision, and, in its simple grandeur,
imparts a far more delightful impression, than
is often obtained from more extensive and gorgeous
constructions. The form of the Basilica is here admirably
preserved, the arched roof being supported
by two rows of beautiful columns, and the whole
space unbroken by any intermediate arches. These
columns, as well as the pavement of the sacristy,
were originally obtained from the baths of Titus;
the former are remarkably impregnated with sulphate
of lime, so as to emit a sulphurous odour when

slightly rubbed. Behind the altar is a richly wrought
marble chair, probably a consular seat, obtained
from the same ruins; the idea that Cicero might
once have occupied it, occurred to us, and increased
the interest with which we viewed so pleasing and
authentic a Roman relic. Most of the pictures and
frescos are illustrative of St. Peter's imprisonment
and angelic enfranchisement; and within two brazen
and embossed doors, are preserved the sacred fetters,
which are exposed to view only once a year.

But the grand attraction which had drawn us to
this church was a renowned work of art—the statue
of Moses by Michael Angelo. This collossal
figure at once evinces the workmanship of a peculiar
genius, the design differing wholly from what is
familiar in statuary. There is a muscular power, a
grandeur of outline, which sufficiently indicate the
author. Indignation and awful energy are distinctly
discernible in the heavy frown and stern expression
of God's chosen messenger to a guilty and erring
people.

The Capuchin convent—an example of another
class of churches—imparts a very tolerable idea of
the dreariness and sternness of a genuine monastic
retreat. The lay brother who conducted us looked
wonderfully thriving, and was withal surprisingly
affable for an old denizen of the damp and gloomy
apartments which he so complacently displayed.
The church, though by no means magnificent, contains
two frescos of great interest:—one representing

the archangel Michael triumphing over Satan, whose
dark brawny form seems completely subdued beneath
the light foot of his beautiful conqueror; the
other, a rough representation of St. Peter walking
on the waves—one of the most ancient examples of
this species of painting. Indeed this convent is many
centuries old, and the very hue and primitive
material of the Capuchin garb comport admirably
with the antique appearance of the whole building
and its contents. But the greatest peculiarity is the
cemetery beneath. A number of arches extend some
distance, against the walls of which are piled an
immense number of the bones of the deceased Capuchins.
In spaces left about mid-way, are stretched
skeletons, clad in the habit of the order, and others
stand in various parts of the awful repository, while
the ground, composed of `holy earth,' transported
at great expense from Jerusalem, is marked as the
last resting-place of the later dead. The very lamps
which hang from the walls, are composed of bones,
and the same material, distributed most fantastically,
furnishes meet accompanying ornaments. Perhaps
this kind of burial, if such it may be called, is
one of the rarest in practice by moderns. The
effect by torch-light, when an interment takes place,
must be impressive in the extreme; though with
the broad light of day shining through the windows,
the scene seemed more hideous than morally striking;
nor can one easily feel that the intended honour
is conferred upon the unbroken skeletons, by permitting
them to stand holding a card, upon which is
inscribed the name and age of the deceased, like
guardians of the mournful piles around them, in
which are merged the remains of their less distinguished
brethren.

THE VATICAN.

We crossed the Tiber in a broad barge, and during
the few moments which intervened ere our walk
re-commenced, we were naturally led to contrast
the turbid waters and the dim earth around us, with
the same scene, in its transcendent aspect, as existing
in the familiar picture of our fancy. The one was
the plain appearance of neglected and perhaps degenerate
nature; the other impressions derived from
nature's glowing commentator, the poet. Passing
by a retired path through the fields, we soon came
in view of a circular fortress, (the Castle of St. Angelo,)
now chiefly used as a prison, but originally
the tomb of Hadrian. And certainly, when its solid
proportions were decked with the numerous statuary
ornaments which once adorned them, it must have
formed a glorious final resting-place for a Roman.
There is a striking and melancholy inconsistency
observable in this, as in many instances, in the modern
appropriation of ancient monuments. So much
more honourable is it to the general, or at least to
the better sentiment of mankind, to leave unmarred

the few remnants of a nation's greatness, when not
one of her children exists. There is surely a kind
of sacrilege in disturbing works consecrated to
the dead, for purposes of selfish pride or narrow
utility. The beauty, the interest, the blessed inspiration
which so often hallow these ruins, are thus
invaded, while no commensurate advantage is obtained.
Have not as many smiles of ridicule or
sneers of reproach, as pious feelings, been awakened,
by the view of the apostle's figures surmounting the
triumphal pillars of Aurelius and Trajan? And
who can behold, without regret, the mausoleum of
the mighty dead transformed into a tomb for the
most wretched of the living?

We ascended a long flight of steps, entered a
square and corridor, and were soon in the Museum
of the Vatican. It were vain to endeavour to describe
what an impression of the richness of art is
inspired by the first general inspection of this vast
collection of her redeemed trophies; and far more
to paint the vivid and elevating conception of her
power which dawns, brightens, and finally glows in
the bosom, as face after face of thrilling interest,
figure after figure of embodied nature, and gem after
gem of exquisite material or workmanship attracts
the admiring eye; all unanimated by one spiritual
principal, and yet so legitimately the offspring of
the highest, and so perfectly significant, as to awaken
wonder, enkindle delight, and finally win love. We
devoted a season to the inspection and admiration of

the time-worn frescos, which exist upon the walls of
the Camere of Raphael. Constantine's victory is,
indeed, a splendid battle-piece. But of all the
figures, none struck me as grander than the group
representing the miraculous defeat of the ravager of
the temple, struck down by a cavalier, and two angels,
at the prayer of the priest. Most of the countenances
here depicted are separate and noble studies.
All the frescos were partially designed and executed
by Raphael. They present a worthy but melancholy
monument to his genius, impaired as they are
by age, and marred by his untimely death. Yet
artists of the present day are continually studying
these dim, though most admirable remains, and find
in their contemplation the happiest aids and incitements.
Notwithstanding this speaking testimony
to departed excellence, as well as that which beamed
in the admiring looks of the gazers around, there
was something of sadness in the very air of rooms
that bore the name, and shone with the embodied
talent of the beloved and early dead, which forced
itself irresistibly upon the mind, and tinged with
mournfulness the gratified thoughts.

But it is when we stand for the first time in the
presence of that being, if aught destitute of sensation
deserve the name, it is when the eye first rests, and
the heart first fastens with instinctive eagerness upon
the Apollo Belvidere, that we feel the triumph of
human art. And there springs up a rich sentiment
of satisfaction, not only that the poetical in native

feeling, the pure in taste, and the exalted in thought
are conscious of unwonted gratification, but because
we rejoice in the spiritual nobility of our common
nature; we glory in the thought that the senseless
marble radiates the beautiful and deep expressiveness
of intellectual life at the call of human genius,
and we are soothed by the testimony thus afforded
to the immortality of what we most love in ourselves
and kind, for we feel that such followers of nature
are allied to its author, and may humbly, but legitimately
aspire to yet higher teachings than are
evolved from the physical universe.

GARDENS OF SALLUST.

I entered, on a fine clear day, the large enclosed
tract called the Gardens of Sallust, being the site of
that beautiful historian's villa and grounds. There
are a few ill-defined ruins here situated, supposed to
be those of a temple dedicated to Venus Erycina,
and of the mansion, or its adjuncts. The general
aspect presented during my wanderings through
this extensive enclosure, was more in accordance
with the idea previously formed of the country than
any before obtained. The fertility of the grounds,
green with varied shrubbery and occasionally beautified
with field-flowers, and thickly planted with
vegetables, among which groups of labourers were
actively engaged, afforded remarkable evidence of
the actual mildness of the climate; while occasional
glimpses of an old aqueduct, or wall, gave to the
scene the surpassing charm of antiquity. Constant
blasts of cold wind, in which the dry reeds rattled
sullenly, and the snow-capt Apennines in the distance
were, however, sufficiently indicative of the
season. The free air and commanding situation of
this domain are well adapted to foster that concise

and clear energy, which so highly distinguishes
Sallust. If this was the favourite retreat to which
he retired to compose his history, it is not surprising
that he found in the situation and his employment
greater satisfaction than could be gleaned from
the enslaving luxury of the city, which lies so
attractively at the foot of his paternal mount. It
was a pleasant thought, that this very spot is that
which beguiled his early ambition from the hazardous
efforts of a political arena, to the quiet and dignified
employment of an elegant historian. And in
contemplating the result of this author's wise choice,
and comparing his with the lives of many of his
equally gifted countrymen, a new proof is afforded
of the surpassing excellence of well-directed literary
labour. More peaceful and elevated passes the
existence, and more certain and purely succeeds the
renown of the useful and excellent writer, than that
of the most successful aspirant for immediate popularity.
There is, too, a beautiful completeness in
the works and fame of Sallust, such as seldom
marks the memory or the labours of modern writers.
Confining himself to one sphere, and intent upon
comparatively few subjects, he shone pre-eminently
in the one, and threw over the other a light and
vigour of delineation, which render his works not
only universally interesting, as just and vivid chronicles,
but as most attractive illustrations of the
capacities of his native language.

PONTE MOLLE.

I proceeded at a similar season forth from the
city, by the spacious and beautiful entrance of the
Piazza del Popolo, towards the Ponte Molle. When
we reached this celebrated bridge, the beauty of the
adjacent country and distant scenery, as well as the
associations of the spot, detained me in long and
delightful contemplation. On the one side rises
Monte Mario, crowned with a verdant line of lofty
cypresses, and on the other, far away, stand the
hoary Apennine hills, while beneath runs the swift
and turbid Tiber. The picturesque, arched, and
heavy bridge on which I stood, still retaining portions
of its ancient material, and the pervading Sabbath
stillness, gave vividness and scope to the grand
scene of action, which memory and imagination
conjured up and arrayed upon its massive surface,
and along the broken banks of the river. But, happily,
in viewing the scene of Constantine's victory
and miraculous vision, we are not left to unaided
fancy in an attempt to renew the view preserved in
history. We have but to recall the almost living
delineation of Raphael, to arrive at a strong conception

of what could otherwise be but vaguely and
variously fancied. It is on such occasions that we
learn to recognize one, among our many obligations,
to genius and art. Gazing, after the lapse of centuries,
upon the renowned battle-ground where tyranny
received a signal overthrow, from a Christian warrior
eminent for victory, and finding nought but
the altered aspect of nature and a few decayed
relics of art, we can yet rehearse the history and the
song, and ponder the picture till they realize the
time-buried events of antiquity.

TOMB OF CECILIA METELLA.

It was one of those days when a pensive stillness
pervades nature; the sky overclouded, yet threatening
no rain, the sun peering dimly forth, and a quiet,
almost sad in its lifelessness, brooding over the
sullen fields and declining foliage; a day, in short,
the melancholy language of which brings something
of pleasure to the man of anxious temperament, and
to whose meditative influences even the practised
worldling not unwillingly yields himself; a day, on
which the student instinctively turns from his book
to ponder; the active denizen of the busy or gay
world is unwontedly and unwittingly thoughtful;
and many a day-dreamer or philosophical sportsman,
like old Walton, wanders longer through the
fields, and indulges in deeper imaginings and more
protracted reveries. Such a season was peculiarly
adapted to the purpose for which I had assigned it
—a visit to the tomb of Cecilia Metella. The very
thought of it brings to mind Childe Harold's characteristic
description:

This celebrated ruin, one of the most satisfactory,
as regards its authenticity and preservation, among
all the Roman antiquities, is situated about a league
from the centre of the city, upon the Via Appia.
Its circular form and remarkably dense walls, composed
on the exterior of marble, now partially decomposed,
proclaim its pristine magnificence. The
obscurity which veils the history and character of
her whose ashes it once contained, renders it, to one
at all given to vague imaginings, more eloquent than
if it were the concomitant of a most interesting and
elaborate chronicle. The inscription possesses the
same sublime simplicity, which is one of the noblest
indications of ancient Roman greatness, discoverable
in her monumental remains. As if, in announcing
the tomb to be that of Cecilia, wife of Crassus, and
daughter of Metellus, enough was expressed to convey
every adequate impression to the beholder of
whatever age or country! The near kinswoman of
two Roman citizens;—this one fact was deemed a
distinct indication to posterity of the actual nobility
of the entombed, while one glance at the splendid
sepulchre would convey ample testimony to her

worth and loss. But even we of later times, who
can smile at, while we admire such perfect confidence
in the simple greatness of citizenship and
individual character, and who can gaze with the
coldness of curiosity upon such a relic, even we can
scarcely fancy any record capable of exciting such
awakening sentiment. It comports, in its brevity,
with the great lesson it teaches—the rapid flight
and levelling influence of time; and designating a
double ruin, it affords a degree of knowledge which,
if extended, would but carry out and define where
vagueness is desirable. For free scope is thus given
to a species of conjecture, which it is mournfully
pleasing to indulge. Standing by the massive remains
of such a mausoleum, of which we can only
affirm that it was reared to the memory of a Roman
wife and daughter—what trait of energetic beauty,
of affectionate devotion, of moral courage, which
enters into the beau-ideal of the female character,
may we not confidently ascribe to this? What a
life of secluded, yet elevated virtue, what a death of
solemn dignity might not have been hers! How
large a part might she have taken in refining, ay,
and nerving the spirit of husband and child and
brother,—in producing that obsolete and wonderful
being—a Roman citizen! And if aught of such
fancies is correct, how like her earthly destiny to
that of innumerable of her sex, who live in the exercise
of thoughts and sentiments, which, if developed
through more conspicuous channels, would be
productive of deathless renown; but whose self-sacrificing
administrations, though immeasurably
influential, are as unseen as those of a guardian
angel, while the memory of their authors is only
embalmed in Heaven, or darkly transmitted, like
that of Cecilia Metella, by the simple record of their
names and kindred, upon the monument which conscientious
affection has reared.

THE COLISEUM.

Of all impressions from antiquity, derived from the
ruins at Rome, none is more vivid and lasting than
that inspired by the Coliseum, when viewed under
circumstances best calculated for effect. Such are
the quiet and mystery, the shadowy aspect and mild
illumination of moonlight. Availing myself of a
season like this, it was with something of awe that
I approached to partake of a pleasure, in its very
nature melancholy, yet in the highest degree attractive
to the imagination, and calculated to awaken
many of the deepest sentiments, especially those by
which the fellow-feeling of our race is nurtured and
sustained. And as the scene, in all its actual beauty,
environed by associations more impressive than its
past magnificence, and reposing in a light more tender
than gleamed from the eager eyes, which once
shone out from its now dim arches, broke upon
my sight, I seemed to have come forth to hold communion—not
with the material form, but with the
very spirit of antiquity. There, its massive walls
circling broadly, preeminent in lingering pride,
stands the Coliseum. As the monarch of ruins, its

dark outline seems defined with most commanding
prominence, while surrounding objects are lost or
blended in shade. Its many arched recesses are
rendered still more obscure by the veil of shadow,
or partially revealed in the congenial light.
Through some of them the silent stars may be seen
at their far-off vigils in the heavens, and again a
fragment, which the hand of time has spared, abruptly
bars the view. Over some, the long grass,
that sad frieze which antiquity ever attaches to the
architecture of man, hangs motionless, and, as a
lattice, divides the falling moonbeams, or waves
gently in the night breeze. But it is when standing
beneath one of those arches, and vainly scanning
the length of the half-illumined corridor, or looking
down upon the grass-grown area, marked by a single
path, that a sense of the events and times of
which this ruin is the monument, and its suggestions
the epitaph, gradually gains upon the attention,
like the home thoughts which a strain of familiar
music has aroused. The gorgeous spectacle of
Rome's congregated wisdom and beauty thronging
the vast galleries, now lost or crumbling through
age, the glitter of wealth, the pomp of power, the
eagerness of curiosity, and the enthusiasm of varied
passions, which once rendered this a scene of unequalled
pageantry,—all come, at the call of memory,
to contrast themselves with the same scene now,
clad in the solemnity of solitude and decay.

But yet another retrospection, inducing deeper

emotions, occupies the mind and throws over the
scene a higher interest. What an amount of human
suffering have these dark walls witnessed! Could
they but speak, what a tale of horror would be unfolded!
How often has man, in all his savage or
his cultivated dignity, been abandoned in this wide
area to the beasts of the forest,—more solitary when
surrounded by his unpitying kind, than when alone
with the lordly brute in his desert domain! How
much of human blood has this damp earth drunk,
and how often upon its clammy surface has the
human form been stretched in agony or death!
Nor was this the theatre of effort and woe only to
the physical nature. Who can estimate the pangs
of yearning affection which have wrung the departing
spirit, the feeling of utter desolation with
which the barbarian has laid down his unsupported
head and died in the midst of his enemies? Who
can distinctly imagine the concentration of every
sentiment in that of the love of existence, which has
nerved the arm of the combatant, and the stern
despair with which he has at length relinquished his
dearly sold life? Far less might one hope to realize
the deep energy with which the martyr to his
faith has here given proof of its power. There is
something holy in a spot which has witnessed the
voluntary sacrifice of existence to the cause of
Christianity. Of beautiful and sublime, as well as
terrible spectacles, has this been the scene. Where
has youth seemed so pure in its loveliness, or manhood
so noble in its might, or age so venerable in
its majesty, as here? If, in this ruined amphitheatre,
humanity has been most debased, by the despoiling
hand of cruelty, where has she exhibited
more of the sublimest of her energies—the spirit of
self-sacrifice? Often as this air has wafted the sigh
and groans of suffering and remorse, has it not likewise
borne upward the prayer of faith and the
thanksgiving of joyful confidence? Though glances
of ferocity and revenge have been turned, in impotent
malignity, through this broad opening to the
smiling sky above, how often have eyes, beaming
with forgiving love, or fixed in religious fervour,
looked into its blue depths, from the awful death of
the Coliseum!

And yet, while the abandonment and decay of
Flavian's amphitheatre plainly indicate the departure
of those ideas and customs, in accordance with
which it was reared, the question forcibly suggests
itself to the observer of its remains, has the principle,
which sustained so long an institution like this,
utterly and forever departed? Have we nothing in
our experience, resembling what seems to have originated
in a deeper sentiment than caprice, and
from its long continuance and popularity, has an
apparent foundation in our nature? The reply to
such self-interrogations is affirmative. What student
of humanity, or observer of man, does not
recognize the same principle operating eternally?
Those who hold the system of Christianity, in its

purity, hold the whole philosophy of the principle.
Individual man has arrayed against him the varied
force of circumstances without and passion within.
Of the insidiousness, the power of these opponents,
who is ignorant? And there are, too, spectators—
too often as heartless, curious, and cold lookers on,
as those which thronged the galleries of the Coliseum.

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.

CHURCH CEREMONIES.

A bright Sabbath morning found me seated in the
little chapel of a monastery, the dark and riveted
walls of which denoted its antiquity. A few individuals
were seated upon the wicker chairs around,
and between the lattice-work of the partition, several
nuns might be seen quietly engaged in their
devotions. I had come thither to witness the ceremony
by which two females entered upon their
noviciate. When the chapels on either side of the
lattice were well-nigh filled, and a priest, robed for
the occasion, had placed himself near the grate, an
elderly preacher approached, and seating himself,
addressed impassionately the kneeling females. His
discourse, couched in the symphonic accents of the
Italian, and delivered with singular energy, was not
without impressiveness. He painted in glowing
colours the temptations to which humanity is exposed
upon the arena of the world, the moral safety
and satisfaction of religious seclusion, the beauty
and acceptableness in the sight of Heaven of the
consecration of the young and the warm-hearted—
even such as they who knelt silently by—to the

cause of Christ and the Church. The priest and
his assistants then chanted from the ritual for some
time, the silvery voices of the nuns blending melodiously
with the choruses. At length the clear yet
hesitating voices of the noviciates might be heard as
they read their vows. Their interesting appearance
and the associations of the moment were not inoperative
upon those of us to whom the scene was new;
there was a kind of sad and thrilling poetry in their
very tones.

The first Sunday in Advent is one of those days
when services are attended by the Pope in the Sistine
Chapel. I willingly embraced the opportunity
to obtain a view of his Holiness. The comparatively
small room, one of the halls of the Vatican,
was surrounded at an early hour by a large concourse
of strangers. We passed through the whole
band of Swiss guards, drawn up in the colonnade.
These, although somewhat picturesque in their appearance,
always reminded me of the soldiers of the
opera-house or the stage, as the ruff they wear, and
something in their tout ensemble, seems more scenic
than actual—more designed for effect than action.
Upon entering, I looked intently upon a work of
art of which I had heard much—said to be, in fact,
the most meritorious and wonderful of paintings—
the Last Judgment, by Michael Angelo, covering
the entire back wall of the chapel. With all my
gazing, however, I could but descry numerous and
apparently most muscular figures, in various positions,

the centre one in the attitude of command.
Subsequent inquiry and reading, in some degree, explains
the disappointment caused by a first view of
this renowned production. Its chief merit consists
in the bold yet natural development of the forms,
and the mathematical precision of the execution. It
is, in a word, a grand study for the artist, and would
more immediately affect the merely curious, had
not time defaced, and did not a bad position obscure
its merits. The living pageant, however, soon
attracted attention. Many cardinals, bishops, and
other dignitaries, with their purple robes and ermine
decorations, occupied the innermost division. But
the Pope entering, riveted the eyes of most of the
audience. Nothing remarkable in his physiognomy
strikes the beholder, except an unusually prominent
nose. There was much apparent seriousness and
devotion evinced by this personage, and, indeed, by
the whole assembly; the chanting was solemn,
though not remarkable, and to one devotionally
disposed, the whole service was by no means void
of grateful influence.

MODERN ARTISTS.

At the studio of Thorwaldsen there is much to
interest and gratify the visitor, whether the intrinsic
and individual merit or the remarkable number
of his works be considered. The sunny face of the
shepherd boy, as he sits contemplatively with his
dog beside him, is truly inimitable; as are the Three
Graces, and Mercury in the act of taking advantage
of the sleep into which his music has lulled Argus.
Of all unclassical specimens of sculpture, the figure
of Lord Byron in a surtout and heavy shoes, with a
pencil in hand, with which he presses his lip meditatively,
here seen, is the most singular. The birthplace
of this distinguished artist is not certainly
known. His earliest recollection of himself is that
of being on board a ship in the capacity of cabin-boy.
His origin is, however, undoubtedly northern,
and most probably Icelandic. After surmounting
many difficulties, and attaining some rank in his
art, he visited Iceland. To this island, it is said, he
purposes bequeathing the greater part of his collections
and property. Some of his greatest works
have been executed for the northern nations; and

collossal statues of our Saviour and the twelve apostles
are now in progress for a church in Russia.

There is a work at present, only dead-coloured,
upon the easel of Overbeck, which, if completed in
the same noble manner that marks its conception,
will indeed prove glorious. It is called the Christian
Parnassus, representing the fine arts in the persons
of the great artists; and the groups ascending,
at length terminate in the figures of the Saviour and
Madonna. The likenesses, even in this early
sketch, are beautiful, and easily recognised; and the
gracefulness and vigour of delineation, with which
ninety-two forms are pictured on a comparatively
small canvass, indicates the genius of the artist. I
also remarked a very expressive and almost finished
painting, by the same hand—our Saviour at prayer
in the Garden. The impassioned, yet calm spirit of
earnest devotion, radiated from the wrapt countenances
of the kneeling form, is finely contrasted
with the angry and expectant glances of the distant
crowd pressing on through the still obscurity, to
seize upon their victim.

GRAVES OF SHELLEY AND KEATS.

When the literary pilgrim or susceptible observer
has become familiar with the aspect and suggestion
of Rome's antiquities and treasures of art, he has
yet another spot of hallowed earth to tread, another
locality to visit, as a shrine whose associations will
wreath his spirit as with incense, till it is penetrated
with sentiments of sympathy, sadness and love.
There may be here excited less of the sublime in
association, induced by the distance of the retrospect
with which the stricken and lone memorials of
extinct national greatness are pondered; but there
is room for more home-felt emotion, and occasion
for less grand and critical, but more touching comment,
than the antiquity of art and the ruins of grandeur
can present. This spot is indeed neglected by
the antiquarian, and has been often passed by, with
the greatest indifference, by the merely fashionable
visitor; but who of us that loves the poetry of his
native tongue, and rare specimens of human character,
will not fondly and feelingly linger in the
sequestered English burying-ground, at the graves
of Shelley and Keats? He will there read the same

lesson, which more imposing monuments had imparted,
with deeper emphasis perhaps, but not in
tones of more melting penetration. The romantic
imagination, remarkable mental independence, and
extreme sensitiveness of the former of these poets,
combined, as they were, with high native and
acquired powers, and associated with a fate so deeply
melancholy, give a truly poetical colouring to our
recollections of him. Short and unappreciated was
the life of poor Keats, and his death a martyrdom.
The little left for friendship to record of him was
the beautiful brilliancy of young genius, its primitive
hopefulness, the susceptibility which gave effect
to hireling opposition, and the gloomy flickering
and extinction of that vitality which alone connected
an unsophisticated genius to an unsympathizing
and uncongenial world. And what is this but
a common story in the chronicles of humanity?
Through the perspective and magnifying light of
time, it may possess more prominently mournful
features, but, wherever contemplated, it is essentially
the same; the conquest of gross power, grosser taste
and indiscriminate will over the casket of a gem,
the conventional form of an existence, the temporary
habitation of a soul. Thus has it been of old,
and this is alike the history of an ancient martyr
and the victim of a modern sacrifice. The intelligent
sentiment which impelled and sustained may
essentially differ, but the course, the consummation
is the same. The chief distinction between the suf
fering and final self-devotion of the unyielding in
faith, whose life was laid down in an ancient amphitheatre,
and that of Keats, is that the one perished,
according to the customs of the age, by the
hand of violence, and in the other the dormant fires
of disease were renewed, and the lingering progress
of decay speeded fatally onward. `Here lies one
whose name was writ in water;'—an epitaph dictated,
like this, at the very gates of death, yet bespeaks
the poet; and like every poetic sentiment is
replete with latent truth. That name was indeed
written in water, but the pencillings of a progressive
and discerning spirit could have deepened the
inscription upon an adamantine surface of crystal.
But what these have failed to do, pity and congeniality
are ever doing; and in innumerable hearts
the memory of Keats is cherished with a love surpassing
even what the efforts of his maturer genius
could have inspired.[5]

MODERN ROME.

Among the odd traits observable in the Roman population,
is their aversion to two luxuries, especially
esteemed in more northern countries, and though
somewhat matters of taste, not altogether unallied to
a higher sentiment; these are flowers and fire. The
latter, during winter, is as truly physically requisite
as in colder climates; but less surprise should be excited
by this antipathy among a people whose idea
of comfort is so widely different from our own, and
to whom this cheerful influence brings with it none
of the domestic associations which endear it to the
denizens of bleaker localities, and the possessors of a
better founded enthusiasm. The former distaste is
more remarkable, when we consider the proverbial
predilections of the Italians for the beautiful; and
yet it is to a surprising extent true, that most are
indifferent and many decidedly averse to flowers;
whereas, in Florence, we were ever beset with
flower-girls, and the Neapolitan peasants are seldom
seen without a nosegay. I have heard this peculiarity
of the Romans ascribed to their very delicate
sense of smell, which renders even a mild perfume

quite overpowering; but it is difficult to admit a
reason which is so inconsistent with their habitual
toleration of far less genial odours, particularly the
unwholesome exhalations from the buried aqueducts
and infected campagna.

Although the period of my sojourn was considered,
in some respects, an uncommon season, yet
the excellence of the climate of Rome, according to
my best information and experience, has been sadly
exaggerated. During winter, a southerly wind, with
the usual accompaniment of rain or humidity, or a
dry piercing northerly blast, generally prevail. The
bright summer-like days, when the deep azure of
the sky and the balmy softness of the breezes recal
our cherished imaginings of Rome, are too unfrequent,
at least to please the invalid. Yet one of
those beautiful interludes in the capricious shiftings
of the weather is, if freely enjoyed, unspeakably
renovating. A promenade upon the Pincian hill or
in the Villa Borgehese, or an excursion to Tivoli, at
such a time, inclines one to forgive and forget all
the past waywardness of the elements. In summer,
that awful vapoury infection—the malaria, and the
extreme heat are alike deleterious. It is very confidently
asserted by individuals who judge from experience,
that a vast change has occurred in the climate
of Rome within the last thirty years, and that, even
within a less period, a marked difference, as regards
constancy and mildness, is observable.

The supremacy of the pope and his cardinals, denominated

the sacred college, being all but absolute,
the risk incurred by such a sway renders the government
extremely tenacious and jealous, so that of
all culprits of whom the law takes cognizance, none
are at once more frequently or less deservedly its
victims than political offenders. But the chief evil
immediately resulting from this condition of things,
consists in the concessions which the rulers make
to the ruled, in order to maintain their authority.
Many of these involve the total subversion of the
very principles which government is mainly instituted
to maintain. Capital crime, for example, is
of all offences the least liable to retribution by the
operation of law in the Roman states. And such is
the sanguinary temperament of most of the people,
that any severe civil check upon it would inflame
opposition, and hence render their political yoke
more galling. Of the two evils, therefore, as might
be anticipated, government choose that which is
morally greatest, and politically least. Consequently,
the number of personal violences and murders is
almost incredible. An incarceration of a few
months for this highest of crimes, is often the sole
punishment; and even this is dispensed with, if the
offender can effect a pecuniary compromise with the
relations of the deceased. Within a short period,
the fourth murder, under the most atrocious circumstances,
alone sufficed to bring a noted culprit to the
gallows.

The present pope, it is believed, in executing

plans for the advancement of his own views, is gradually
undermining one of the strong holds of his
power. The re-erection of St. Paul's church, in the
environs of Rome, in a costly style, and the creation
of five new cardinals, both measures in every respect
unnecessary, are among the extravagant plans with
which he is charged. The means of carrying on
these is obtained from extensive loans, for the payment
of which his most valuable revenues are
pledged, and year after year, these are sacrificed to
his inability to meet the annual demand. I have
heard it confidently estimated, that, adopting the
past as a criterion, in the space of thirteen years,
the resources of the government will be absorbed;
and if the ability of the governed to support taxation,
at that juncture, is not better than at present,
there is no conceivable means of furnishing an adequate
supply to sustain the papal credit.[6] But it is
highly probable that another and more rapid agency
than the slow depreciation of the treasury will, ere
then, have permanently altered the political condition
not only of Rome, but of all Italy.

The degeneracy of modern Rome is a subject
ever forced upon the thoughtful resident, whenever
his mind is free to revert to the local and moral circumstances

by which he is surrounded. And to
one who is in anywise familiar with her past history
or susceptible to her present influences, it
becomes an almost absorbing theme. Vainly, at
times, do the glories of the Vatican allure him; their
delightful enchantments fade before a more impressive
reality. He cannot rejoice unreservedly in the
splendours of human art, when humanity is a wreck
around him; he cannot indulge in stirring retrospection
over the sculptured figure of an old Roman,
when it serves but to render more prominent the
moral deformity of his descendant. And if a gleam
of native enthusiasm excite him, caught from scenes
which the supremacy of character has hallowed, or
a sentiment of rich gratification steals over him from
the midst of material beauty, the idea which he most
loves to connect with these—the idea of his race
brings with it an overpowering sadness. Throughout
all that art or antiquity here unfolds, he feels as
if wandering in a beautiful garden, once blest with
a presence which shall know it no more. He feels,
in his inmost soul, that it was this non-existent object
of his love which lent an hitherto unknown
interest to the marble and canvass, to mount and
river; and while ever and anon their silent beauty
affords a sad pleasure, they oftener serve but to
remind him of the grave which has closed over the
beloved of his memory.

Yet he gradually derives consolation, which sometimes
brightens into happiness, in attaching himself

to such mementos; and when they recal most
strongly what has been, the thought of what may
yet be, brings home an exquisite and almost forgotten
delight. While melancholy even imparts its
sad hue to the moral observer of Rome's relies and
ruins, something of hope, of instinctive anticipation,
bears out the mental gratification which ever flows
from them.