University of Virginia Library

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.