We made a second trip up the hill-side to the Roman Catholic cemetery, which gave us a charming view of the town, environed by gardens. The place itself was peacefully beautiful and full of mournful interest. We noticed at one of the tombs a young lady, evidently a German, who, assisted by her maid, was diligently employed in cleaning a marble statue placed over the grave. It was difficult to refrain from offering to help her in this labour of love, which appealed so pathetically to the heart. I do not think we care to display so much outward proofs of loving reverence for our dead as we often see abroad, in the shape of flowers and immortelles placed upon the graves by affectionate relatives and friends. Still, I believe it is only an external indifference. We have as much true and deep love in our hearts for our dear ones as those who are more demonstrative, though perhaps it is a pity that we do not allow ourselves to indulge in the pretty reverential sentiments of our French and Italian neighbours.

We were much amused during our stay here at the constant chorus the frogs kept up. They croak almost unceasingly, especially in the evening. It would seem that they wish to take the place of the song-birds, which we seldom hear in this part, as they are all shot to supply the table, nearly every kind being eaten—a needless cruelty, one would think, not only to the poor little birds, but also to those who miss their grateful song of joy and praise.

We had a pleasant carriage excursion to Monte Carlo, by the Corniche road, starting one brilliant morning soon after breakfast. Leaving Mentone behind us, we commenced the circuit of the cliff road, which gradually got higher and higher, occasionally passing through olive plantations, and then suddenly emerging from their sombre shade to the dazzling bright sea once more; then we doubled a finely wooded promontory, almost a sheer precipice, catching a glimpse of the beautiful little circling bays sparkling in the abyss below; sometimes passing sharp curves in the road, which required very skilful driving, there being but a low wall—and that partly broken in many places—to divide us from a fall of about sixty feet! Still ascending, we gained the summit of the first fine headland (I believe, the highest point), and from thence had a most entrancing outlook. On the extreme left, a lovely retrospective and bird's-eye view of charming Mentone; the towns and little villages on the distant shore as far as Bordighera; dimpling in the glowing sunshine, and before us, the long stretch of inimitable blue sea, with just a feathery ripple on the golden sandy shores below, winding in and out in a series of tiny bays and creeks; while beyond us, like a realized dream of Paradise, lay the beautiful plague-spot of the Riviera—the town of Monte Carlo, nested amid luxuriant gardens of semi-tropical foliage, the mosque-like minarets and cupolas of the casino standing boldly out on the heights and glittering in the sun. Beyond this, another fine bay and promontory, on the summit of which stands the Castle of Monaco; and below, surrounded by groves and gardens, the town and principality of Monaco, with roads stretching out, leading towards Villafranca and Nice.

I had seen Constantinople, Madeira, and many other parts of this fair earth of ours, but I do not remember anything that compares with this bit of Italian coast scenery, which I think is surely the loveliest in the world.

Dismissing our carriage, we walked through Monte Carlo to Monaco, and ascended to the palace of the prince. It stands on the summit of a bold headland, surrounded by fortifications, from which we had another splendid view. One can readily see how fair and beautiful a place, full of the sweetest harmonies of nature, and filling the human heart with a grateful sense of God's love, has, by the sordid wickedness of man, been perverted into a paradise of the Prince of Darkness, who, knowing too well the weakness and folly of poor erring humanity, lures by every artificial attraction and fascination even the poor pilgrim invalid, who hopefully journeys here to breathe the pure fresh air and to recover health; and also does his best to complete the moral degradation of the less innocent but infatuated gambler, who stakes his life upon the cast of a die and rushes madly and miserably to unutterable ruin.

I have already mentioned the plantations of olive trees we passed in our drive on the cliffs. Nothing strikes one more singularly, in coming to this part of the world, than the contrast in appearance between the olive tree and the rich, luxuriant foliage of the orange, lemon, myrtle, and other beautiful vegetation so prolific here. Toward evening especially, the gnarled and twisted olive has a strangely sad and sombre effect, with its long, pointed leaves of dull green lined with a chilly pale tint—as it were, a thing of a past period in the earth's existence, ancient and venerable, almost sacred, and little in harmony with the gay, luxuriant vegetable life around. I think nothing describes better its cold sombre aspect than the remark Marianne Hunt made to her husband during their first unfortunate visit to Italy. "They look," she said, "as if they were always standing in the moonlight." And, indeed, this is just the effect they have, as though having been once lighted on by Cynthia's cold, chaste glance, they had ever remained petrified and blanched. Still, there is much grace and beauty in the outlines of olive trees against a sunlit, blue-grey sky, the silver tints of their leaves quivering in the light.

It was interesting to watch a procession of caterpillars on the road to Monte Carlo, a distance of about a mile. They were moving from one part to another, probably because there was disease amongst them, or else in the trees in that neighbourhood, for there were many dead ones lying about. They advanced in one long line, following their leader, the head of the second joining the tail of the first, and so on. There were more than a hundred in a chain, a company of ten coming to join them, and large masses waiting in different parts of the road, and taking their places one by one as the procession approached. They looked like a long, thin snake. The marvellous instinct of these small insects, notwithstanding Mark Twain's ingenious stricture on the proverbial "ant," will ever remain a source of the deepest interest and wonder to thinking, reasoning, intellectual man.

This wonderful army of caterpillars suggested, as things in nature will often do if one takes heed of them, that it might be possible to introduce the culture of the silkworm here, and so substitute a profitable and honest industry for the present curse of this beautiful and otherwise highly favoured place. Silk is almost a staple of Italian industry, and doubtless the mulberry tree would flourish here as in other parts, and with as much success as at Beyrout, on the coast of Syria, a place not at all unlike Monte Carlo in its climate, the beauty of coast scenery, and luxuriance of vegetation.

[C] The recent destruction of the Grand Hotel at Giessbach is a convincing proof of the truth of these remarks. Had it occurred but a month earlier, there would inevitably have been a terrible loss of life.



CHAPTER VI.

Monte Carlo—In the Concert-room—The Gambling-saloons—The Tables—The moth and the candle—The true story of Monte Carlo—An International grievance and disgrace.

We reached Monte Carlo in time for the grand concert at two o'clock. Passing through the delightful gardens surrounded by cafes, we entered the dazzling and gorgeous concert-room. There was nothing to pay. Plush-liveried servants handed us to our seats, and we enjoyed their soft luxuriance, admired the handsome and profuse decorations, and scanned the mixed society around us, listening meanwhile to some of the finest classical music.

After spending a pleasant hour, we retired to make room for others. There was a silent expression on the countenances of the attendant croupiers, and also on many of the faces of the habitues of the place, which showed that, although this refined and intellectual enjoyment was the ostensible reason of their presence, the real and more appreciated object was the gaming-table.

Impelled by earnest desire to judge for ourselves as to the evils of Monte Carlo, we followed the stream of people through the gilded and handsome suite of ante-rooms, to the gambling-saloons. The obsequious lacqueys opened the doors to all who wished to pass, and no questions were asked, though I believe you are supposed to have your private visiting card in readiness.

"'Will you walk into my parlour?' said the spider to the fly."

There was no doubt on that day, at least, of the flies swarming in. Frith's celebrated picture occurred instantly to my mind, and I saw at a glance how faithful it was to the sad reality.

You cannot fail to be struck by the extreme quiet amongst so many people. Every one speaks in whispers. There is a certain solemnity about it, the same as that felt in a church; and truly this might be termed the house of the devil. The large and spacious rooms, with beautifully painted walls, Moorish ceilings, and polished floors, are without furniture save the long tables and chairs for those intending to play steadily. Here sit the yellow-faced, sleepless, hard-eyed croupiers, spinning the fatal ball, and mechanically sweeping in with their rakes the piles of money staked and lost by the infatuated players. These are not limited to those seated at the table and who form but the front row. What a mixture they are! Cadaverous, selfish old women; others, handsome, gay, and reckless, evidently in the interest of the table, and hired to act as decoys; others, again, young and inexperienced; and even ladies, pale, unhappy-looking,—were all represented. The men for the most part hardened and merciless, and many careless young gentlemen, some of them innocent-looking lads enough, but others, alas! showing painfully their habits of dissipation, in spite of their youth,—all waiting eagerly to clutch their winnings or silently lose their money.

Further up the room are other tables, at which higher stakes are played. Trente et quarante is perhaps a little more favourable to players than roulette, though it depends very much on the shuffling of the cards. Piles of gold and notes were laid upon the table, either for or against the numbers backed turning up. But here was the same sickening sight—mad, selfish infatuation; and we turned away, having had quite enough of the "shady side" of the lovely but too fascinating Monte Carlo, being glad to get out into the bright sunshine once more. In the rooms we had left, the blinds and curtains were closely drawn, excluding the pure light of heaven, as if those so earnestly engaged within preferred darkness to light because their deeds were evil.

A great number of people from the "tables" followed to catch the train, and we had the sad reflection that a fresh batch would soon arrive in time for the evening concert. Residents of Monaco and Monte Carlo are not supposed to be admitted, as it is not desirable that the half-frenzied losers should remain in these peaceful elysiums; a fresh and continuous stream of victims is much preferred.

But these Shylock millionaires, the owners of the tables—these Princes of Hades who alone profit by the wreck of their fellow-creatures, are perfectly content to fatten, like over-gorged leeches, on the weaknesses and follies of their prey. What matters it to them, the misery and unhappiness of others, so long as they thrive? What matter the means, so long as their end is obtained?

I am sorry to say that ladies are the greatest victims. They are more easily tempted by their love of excitement and adventure, and once they touch the fatal dice it is almost impossible to hold them in. Many ladies who come to Nice and Mentone as invalids, go to Monte Carlo, not only for the enchanting scenery, but for the fine concerts, which are free to all comers. Indeed, most invalids long for such a means of recreation, and it is a great pity they cannot obtain it elsewhere when visiting the Riviera. Then their curiosity is aroused about the gaming-tables, purposely encouraged by lying reports of people having made their fortunes by a single throw of the dice. After the concert, how natural to stroll into the gay saloons, the liveried servants so politely opening the doors to them! And all this is the most cruel part of the gambling fraternity—Messieurs Blanc and Co., who so heartlessly lay out these alluring baits. Perchance these ladies are accompanied by pure-minded daughters, all unthinking of the frightful contamination of the numbers of so-called "ladies of fashion"—habitues and hirelings, decoys simply in the pay of the gambling proprietaire. It is impossible to know the moral injury it will do these innocent young girls. Then, there is the husband who takes his wife, and permits her or himself to chance a napoleon. It is impossible to touch pitch without defilement, or to know where that one thoughtless yielding to temptation may lead. Yes! it is too often just one napoleon and no more. Unfortunately they win, and then of course they come again and again, with the sad result of eventually losing all that is worth living for.

Some of these invalid ladies actually starve themselves, when they ought to be nourishing and strengthening their poor bodies; acting meanly at their hotels in order to save sufficient money to go to Monte Carlo, and in the end it is all lost! Then they return to their homes with mind, health, and nerves completely shattered, to the grief and astonishment of kind friends and family doctors. There is no doubt that when people are once tempted, it creates in them quite a disease; this is called "play-fever."

An English gentleman staying at the same hotel with us told me that he came to the Riviera almost every year, and that he limited himself to L100 for the gaming pleasures at Monte Carlo, which he could not resist, and this sum he invariably lost at the end of the season.

But, of course, all those who frequent this place are not "innocents abroad." That is another evil resulting from this pandemonium. Blacklegs and adventurers of both sexes swarm here from all parts of Europe, demoralizing and degrading the lovely shores of the Mediterranean, by their vulgar and hateful presence. Thousands of invalids and others of all nations yearly visit the beautiful little towns along the Riviera, and this fatal trap at Monte Carlo, whereby so many are helplessly ruined, and so many suicides result, should at least have the moral voice of the world against it—in fact, an international protest, for it is a gross scandal and disgrace to the whole of Europe. All who know anything of this gambling Hades—what is done to keep it alive, its irresistible fascination over even strong minds, and the number of its victims, will, I think, acknowledge that it is even worse than slavery. For the poor negro has to bear physical degradation only, whilst here it is both moral and physical; body and soul-suffering to the victim and his friends. Why, then, should this place have been allowed to exist so long?

First of all, France secretly encourages and indirectly profits by it. Were she earnest in her endeavours to suppress this infernal machinery at Monte Carlo, it would soon be stopped, and she would have the thanks of the civilized world for her good efforts. Italy is not entirely without blame: the late Pope Pius IX. more than winked at it. Russia is also accessory to it; the propensity to gamble seems natural to her people; and the corrupt journalists on the continent gloss over and help to support it.

The story of Monte Carlo is perhaps not sufficiently well known. In consequence of his subjects revolting from his tyrannical rule, the Prince of Monaco lost part of his territory. France having annexed Nice and Savoy after the Italian campaign of 1859, the prince's fortunes were at a very low ebb indeed. But under the protection of Napoleon III., who put him up to a good thing in ground speculation at Paris, when Baron Hausmann was going ahead with his great building furore, the prince's coffers were not long empty. Then, the gambling-houses in Germany having been suppressed, the notorious Blanc—whose family, I believe, are still the proprietors of the tables at Monte Carlo—appeared upon the scene, doubtless accompanied by a few choice friends. The importance of Monaco, from a gambler's point of view, and the natural beauty of the place, were not lost sight of by him. The constant stream of visitors to Cannes, Nice, Mentone, and San Remo, must pass through Monte Carlo and pay there a terrible toll. An immense sum was lavished in making the place the delightful paradise it has become, less, of course, its Satanic evils. Beautiful gardens, cafes, concert and gaming-saloons, constructed with all the fascinating skill and taste that money and art could accomplish, were added to its natural attractions. The best of music and artistes procured, journalists bribed to advertize its advantages as a "health resort," men and women of fashion drawn hither, and then all was ready for the dupes.

Nice became an adjunct. The proprietors of the Monte Carlo Tables support the gaieties there, giving prizes at the races, and other inducements, to render it more attractive to visitors, the majority of whom would invariably find their way to Monte Carlo. Besides, it were better that their unfortunate and maddened victims should blow out their brains at Nice and other places, rather than give Monte Carlo a bad name! Though, frequently, they evade the gens d'armes, and at dawn of day are found in the beautiful gardens lifeless. The glorious sun rises over the dreadful scene, lighting up the lovely coast, and makes it a paradise, in spite of man's wickedness and merciless cruelty. At Monaco itself, there are thousands of pounds given away annually as the casino prizes, for the tame pigeon-slaughtering matches, which generally bring a great gathering. But the wonder is, that gentlemen will soil their hands with the stakes, tempting, as undoubtedly they are; and the marvel is that some of our leading newspapers, who righteously declaim against the iniquities of Monte Carlo, still condescend to advertize these decoy matches.

And thus the "owner of the tables" became exceedingly wealthy, and married his daughters to foreign princes—one to Prince Roland Bonaparte, and the other to Prince Radziwill. The Prince of Monaco shares the profits, amounting in the gross to some fourteen millions of francs annually. The people of his wretched principality are relieved of all taxes, even for gas and water—which secures their gratitude and silence: the profits from the gaming-tables pay for all. I believe it pays the entire expenses of the municipality, so that the prince has simply to draw the remainder of his share in this inhuman plunder.

Religion has been drawn in as a veil, as is so often the case with unscrupulous persons. Churches have been built to quiet and satisfy the Roman Catholic conscience,[D] after so many shocking deaths had occurred, or rather to "whitewash" the scandal. The Pope was satisfied with the liberality of the great gambling Croesus, and gave his blessing. Indeed, so religious has the place become that on Good Friday the Passion play is acted in the Cathedral, and without the least sense of incongruity.

The powerful alliances made with unscrupulous and needy princes of France and Russia by the family of the Croesus Croupier and Co., have enormously increased their power. Hence the difficulty in dislodging them.

But it is an international matter. Monte Carlo is a curse to the people of every nation who pass through it, and the voice of the civilized world should be raised to insist on its absolute suppression. The Prince of Monaco should be given to understand that he must do this, or cease to exist as a petty independent power. We English, who are so earnest to prevent even small nuisances in our own land, where it is an indictable offence for a poor itinerant Italian organ-grinder to refuse to "move on" when ordered; where the owner of an overloaded dust-bin, vitiating the atmosphere, is called to account;—we, proudly the foremost in suppressing wrong and upholding the right, should surely not be backward in striving to uproot this hell upon earth—existing solely for the inhuman greed of a few selfish individuals; this plague-spot threatening deadly contagion to soul and body, and causing misery, madness, and suicide of thousands of our fellow-creatures.[E]

While these pages are passing through the press, the author is greatly gratified to see the noble exertions Italy is making, both in her Parliament and through the press, for the suppression of this gambling principality—recounting the many terrible suicides so frequently occurring there. But, a still more hopeful sign is the action recently taken in our own House of Commons as evidenced by the following extract from the Morning Post of Feb. 12th, 1884:—

"A question is to be put to Lord E. Fitzmaurice to-morrow by Mr. Anderson (Glasgow) on the subject of the recent tragedies reported from Monte Carlo. The hon. member will ask whether her Majesty's Government will make friendly representations to the Governments of France and Italy, with the view of inducing them to unite for the suppression of the public gambling tables in that principality; and whether her Majesty's Government will also make friendly representations to the Government of France regarding the continuance of public gaming tables at Aix les Bains?"

Italy, however, would do well to set the example by the abolition of her State "Lotto Banks;" and we in England would do well to suppress the little "Monte Carlos" at our West End, and so called Proprietary Clubs and Stock Exchanges.

[D] The grand Cathedral is still in progress, under the auspices of the gambling fraternity.

[E] In my former work, "The Cruise of the Gorgon," my object was to expose the iniquity of the East African slave-trade, and our mode of suppressing it; and it is now my object to draw attention to the immorality of the Monte Carlo gambling principality, with a view to the exposure and suppression of its evils, for the benefit of those who, for health and pleasure, resort to these lovely shores of the Mediterranean.



CHAPTER VII.

Scenery en route—Bordighera—Pegli—Genoa—Its magnificent situation —The grandeur of its past—The harbour—Streets—Palaces—Churches— Cathedral of San Lorenzo—Sacred Catina—Chapel of St. John the Baptist —Italian Beggars—Sudden change in the atmosphere—The Campo Santo— Shops of Genoa—Marble promenade—City of precipices—Climate of Genoa.

After our visit to Monte Carlo, we returned to our hotel at Mentone, which we left early on the following day for Genoa, our next halting-place.

The country around Ventimiglia, Bordighera, and San Remo, is in many parts grand and beautiful, affording varied and interesting excursions. These three places are filled with visitors. The climate is somewhat more relaxing than at Nice or even Mentone. The date-palm seems to flourish at Bordighera, which is said to have the monopoly of supplying these graceful branches to Rome, for the Church ceremonies at Easter-time.

Savona was the largest town passed on our route. It has a very fine Cathedral, and was at one time a considerable port. A little further eastward on the coast is Pegli, a pretty little seaside place, fast growing into favour. The Imperial Princess of Germany stayed here with her children some time since.

* * * * *

After a very pleasant journey by rail we reached Genoa at 10 p.m.

Genoa, Genes, Genova, as it is called in English, French, and Italian, derives its name from the Latin word genu, the knee, supposed to be the shape of the large inlet of the sea around which the land lies in a vast semicircle. It is also called "La Superba," from its magnificent situation; indeed, few cities equal its imposing grandeur as seen from the sea. Handsome buildings line the shore for about the length of two miles; splendid palaces, churches, and convents rise tier upon tier on the steep sides of the hills, whose barren summits are crowned by formidable-looking forts and ramparts. Immediately behind are the Apennines, and upon these mountain heights are again several strong forts commanding the town, which is also enclosed by a double line of fortifications on the land side. The stern aspect of these works is relieved by gardens, whose foliage gives the one touch needed to soften the beauty of the whole. The harbour has a pier at each end, and upon one of these is a very fine lighthouse.

From time immemorial Genoa has been famous as a seaport, and as the contemporary and rival of fair Venice, and, like her, has had a proud and eventful history. How sadly are these splendid cities of the past, these great and wealthy republics of ancient times, sunk at the present day to a shadow of their former magnificence and grandeur! Their ruined splendour alone remains to show us what they were. But it is like gazing on the beauty of death; the soul, the spirit, is wanting, and we are continually haunted by the hollow mockery of the empty house which was once its dwelling. Doubtless the Genoese are proud of their city, yet it reminds one of the last descendant of a long and ancient pedigree, whose ancestors were once lords of many a fair manor, but who now has nothing but his name left, to recall the recollections of bygone days, and points on this side and on that, with the words "These lands once belonged to my illustrious family, of which I am the sole representative."

Baedeker says, "The beauty of its situation, and the interesting reminiscence of its ancient magnificence, render a visit to Genoa very attractive, especially to the traveller who is visiting Italy for the first time.... The Renaissance palaces are objects of extreme interest, surpassing in number and magnificence those of any other city in Italy. Many of the smaller churches are of very ancient origin, though usually altered in the Gothic period."

The many splendid palaces of the old nobility, with all their art treasures and galleries of fine paintings by the great masters, have been left to the city as a free gift, with the stipulation of their being open to visitors. Rubens and Vandyke both resided here, and there are a number of their greatest works to be seen. As an example of the wealth of the nobles even at the present day, and their patriotic pride in their city, the Duke of Galliera, who died in 1876, presented twenty million francs for the improvement of the harbour, on condition that the Government would advance the remainder of the sum required, and the work is now in progress.

This semicircular harbour is crowded with shipping, while all around are large warehouses, and stretching along the edge is a superb promenade of white marble on raised arches. The Gulf of Genoa is very stormy, and there are but few fish to be found in it.

The streets are paved with stone which tires one to walk on. Many of them are dark and crooked, particularly in the interior of the town and near the sea, and so steep and narrow that in some of them a carriage cannot pass through. Most people will remember Dickens' amusing remarks on this subject in his "Pictures of Italy."

Some of the streets, however, are very fine. The Via Roma stretches up the hill, and descends in an almost unbroken line to the valleys beneath the mountains, and is remarkably clean and pleasant. On either side are houses of stone, with overhanging roofs. In the Via Carlo Felice is the Via Carlo Felice Theatre, the third largest in Italy. The Via Garibaldi has no less than eighteen splendid marble palaces in succession, while the fine streets, Nuovissima, Balbi, and Carlo Alberto, are also lined with these grand old palaces of the Genoese nobility. Many of them contain rare and magnificent works of art, and their furniture and decorations are rich and beautiful in the extreme. They are usually on view from ten till three, on payment of a small fee to the keeper. In each saloon you find catalogues of the pictures, amongst which the works of Rubens, Titian, Correggio, and Vandyke are conspicuous.

Palace after palace, gallery after gallery; it is really embarras de richesse, and one gets quite bewildered with the wealth of artistic genius.

The churches are also very fine, but many of them are left in a very unfinished condition. The Capuchin church of St. Annunziata, in the Piazza del Annunziata, erected in 1587, has a portal upborne by marble columns, while the brick facade is left quite unfinished, with great holes between the brick and mortar, where seemingly the scaffold-poles had been inserted, and in which the birds have built their nests. The interior presents a striking contrast in its splendid and almost over-gorgeous decorations. It is in the form of a cross, with a dome, the vaulting supported by twelve fluted and inlaid columns, richly gilded and painted. But a far more interesting church is the old Cathedral of San Lorenzo, in the Piazza of the same name, and close to the Via Carlo Felice. It is in the Gothic style, or rather represents three different periods, the Romanique, the French Gothic, and the Renaissance. It was mostly built about the year 1100, and restored in 1300. It has a triple portal, with deep-recessed, pointed arches. Above these are several rows of arcades, a small rose window, and a tower with a little dome at the top, two hundred feet high. At the south corner above the central door is a bas-relief of the martyrdom of St. Lawrence, its patron saint, and many quaint carvings of monsters. The beautiful and curiously twisted columns, triple portals, arches, and arcades, as well as the whole facade and front exterior, are of black and white marbles; and there is some very fine bronze-work, painting, and statuary. In the sacristy they show the Sacred Catina (basin), a six-sided piece of glass brought from Caesarea in 1101, and reported to be that which held the Paschal lamb at the Last Supper of our Lord. It was given out to be a pure emerald, till the mistake was detected by a scientific judge. It may be seen for five francs—a large fee, evidently charged in the hope of some day making up for its deceptive intrinsic worth. Like Westminster Abbey, the interior of this church has the impress of antiquity, especially in its worn columns. I was invited by the old verger to view the Sacred Chapel of St. John the Baptist, but my wife was mysteriously prohibited, as women had been concerned in the saint's martyrdom. I believe this stern order is waived once a year, probably by payment of a pretty large fee for conciliation. There are other chapels, paintings, and relics that are well worthy the trouble and time of study, making this ancient cathedral the most interesting duomo in Genoa.

St. Ambrogio, in the Via del Sellag, is rich in pictures: Ruben's "Circumcision," and his "St. Ignatius," healing a man possessed of an evil spirit, and also Guido's "Assumption." It is splendid in colouring and wonderful in the elaboration of detail. These to some may appear too extravagant. The Santa Maria di Carignano, or Church of the Assumption, in the same street, is one of the finest in Genoa. The walk from here, along the walls and ramparts of St. Chiara, gives a splendid view.

Many other churches, some sixty in number, are well worth a visit; but, like the palaces, they require considerable time to properly appreciate them.

One scarcely likes to see all these gorgeous buildings, with so lavish a display of the money laid out on their profuse decoration, when the mendicant poor, the halt, maimed, and blind are crowding the porches, piteously begging alms; it spoils your pleasure and study of these beautiful edifices. We ought, however, to recollect that at home we have our crossing-sweepers, match and flower sellers, and many wretched objects of suffering and poverty, who perhaps make a similar impression on foreigners visiting our great and prosperous London, but who will perhaps marvel also at our lukewarmness and niggardliness in beautifying our St Paul's and other churches.

At the commencement of our stay here the weather was warm and bright, but on the day following our arrival a most sudden change occurred, and it was very wet, and on Sunday bitterly cold. We went to the English church, and afterwards walked to the top of the fine street leading from the Carlo Felice, right up the valley at the foot of the mountains, and there we had a most glorious view. The Campo Santo in the distance; the harbour on the right; and the great hills, with their strong forts perched on every projecting point and pinnacle, all covered with snow; quite a white world since the day before. We saw ice in the streets, and were glad to return to the Hotel Isotta. The poor fasting Priests seemed quite nipped up; and the Genoese ladies, who under more favourable circumstances would have been graceful and good-looking, appeared unaccustomed to this severity of weather, and hurried along with red noses and pinched faces.

Of all our visits to interesting places in this ancient city our excursion to the Campo Santo gave us the most pleasure. It is some three or four miles from the city: the weather continuing cold, we preferred walking. We went up the main street, through the valley at the foot of the snow-clad hills we had seen before, and in little more than an hour we arrived at the gates of the Cemetery. This Campo Santo is indeed most eloquently illustrative of loving reverence and remembrance of the dead, and is quite a museum of beautiful monumental statuary.

This burial-ground is a system of sheltered colonnades, where the dead are deposited in sarcophagi, resting on shelves on the inner walls, tier upon tier. Only the very poor people seem to be buried in the common earth, in the open spaces which lie before the colonnades, and these are crowded. It rather shocked us to see the gravedigger remove some bones from the ground and throw them into a kind of bin, which was there for the purpose, in order to make room for a new corpse. I thought, with Hamlet—

"Did these bones cost no more the breeding, but to play at loggats with them? Mine ache to think on't."

The colonnades are paved with marble, and are scrupulously clean. Some have exquisite monuments and statuary, the figures most eloquently expressive of tender feelings of both joy and sorrow. The draperies and lacework are wonderfully real. One we thought especially beautiful. The bereaved mourners are reluctant to part with their beloved relative and endeavour to detain him, but an angel gently leads him away; and he, though expressing love and sympathy for his friends, gladly follows his winged guide to a happier world above. Another portrays a little girl, tripping joyfully out from the tomb, over roses and other blossoming flowers. There are hundreds of others, full of deep pathos, works of Italy's greatest sculptors.

One tomb is said to have cost some L5000. The patriot Mazzini is buried here. At the highest point of the cemetery is a rotunda chapel, with very fine statuary of Moses and the prophets, Adam and Eve, and many other subjects.

There is an echo in this chapel that is wonderfully and unusually clear and distinct.

The shops at Genoa are small but handsomely furnished. The Genoese jewellery is very beautiful, particularly the gold and silver filagree work. We were surprised to learn that the gold so-called is only silver twice gilt.

The postal arrangements here are very convenient. By leaving your address at the poste restante, you have all your letters sent to you at the hotel without delay. There is a nice sheltered colonnade, a kind of Burlington Arcade, running half-way up at the back of the Via Roma, where the Hotel Isotta is situated, and close to the post-office; but on a rainy day, the noise made by those talking and promenading there is somewhat of a nuisance to visitors in the hotel. A very favourite promenade—indeed, the best in Genoa—is that before mentioned, in front of the harbour, but only when shaded from the heat of the sun, as the glare of its rays on the white marble is scarcely to be borne. Here in the evenings, when fine, the ladies of Genoa are seen to advantage, with their charming dress at once so elegant, modest, and becoming. English women might well take a few hints from its simplicity. These ladies are mostly handsome, and their movements are exceedingly graceful.

Here and there among the houses you sometimes see between two windows a painting simulating a third window half open, with perhaps a lady looking out into the street below, and this is so natural, that for the moment you fancy it is real. The houses are mostly six stories high, and the shops and lower apartments are consequently extremely gloomy. The upper rooms are the most suitable to dwell in, but visitors frequently find it exceedingly fatiguing to toil up and down the stairs; and some of the stone-paved passages, miscalled streets, are almost perpendicular. Altogether, one needs extraordinary strength in this city of precipices. It is thus very unsuitable to invalids, apart from its variable climate. It is subject to very rapid changes of temperature, warm winds from the south alternating constantly with dry cold winds from the north, which render it very trying to delicate people.

The weather was so very cold during our visit, that, despite the great interest with which Genoa inspired us, we were glad to leave it for Pisa, which we understood would be milder. We had intended going hence to Milan, Florence, and Venice, but the cold warned us not to go further north; and we therefore altered our plans, and left Genoa on the 9th of January for Pisa, en route for Rome.



CHAPTER VIII.

Pisa—Hotel Victoria—Pisan weather—The poet Shelley—Historic Pisa —Lung 'Arno—San Stefano di Canalia—Cathedral—Baptistery—Leaning Tower—Campo Santo—The divine angels—The great chain of Pisa—Leghorn —Smollett's grave—Poste-restante—A sweet thing in Beggars—Ugolino's Tower—Departure for Rome.

We arrived at Pisa towards evening, and got into comfortable quarters at the Hotel Victoria, a quiet house, reminding us of the Swiss hotels in its style of entertainment. We soon had a nice little dinner set before us, and were hungry enough to do justice to it.

The next morning we found to our great disgust that it rained heavily. Our hotel was close to the river Arno, the river of Dante and Petrarch. It looked sandy and muddy as it flowed rapidly by. There were several gondola-like barges being towed by ropes on the other side, and Shelley's lines occurred to my memory, more in association of the poet with the place, than from the poetical look of the river itself—

"Within the surface of the fleeting river The wrinkled image of the city lay Immovably unquiet, and for ever It trembles, but never fades away."

It is impossible to visit Pisa without recalling touching memories of the unfortunate and gifted poet who passed the last few years of his stormy life here, and only left it in the summer of 1823 for the Casa Magni, on the wild sea coast between Lerici and San Terenzio. It was from here that the Don Juan set out on its fatal trip to Leghorn one July morning—never to return.

Pisa is another very ancient city. It was founded about six centuries B.C., and was one of the twelve Etruscan cities. Like Genoa, it underwent many changes and vicissitudes, one of the greatest of which was the unexpected receding of the sea for some three or four miles, changing it from a busy, prosperous port to a comparatively unimportant inland town. It is still, however, much respected on account of its ancient greatness and learning, and is generally looked upon as the cradle of Italian art. In these latter days it is again becoming wealthy and enterprising. It is considered a remarkably good place for consumptive invalids. A fellow-traveller informed me that a friend of his had lived here for many years with both lungs gone! The climate is exceedingly mild, almost humid from the quantity of rain that falls: there is said to be, on an average, seventy-three days of rain, and one of snow, between October and April. We remained there only two days, and it rained almost incessantly during the whole time; the place looking very miserable under the circumstances. However, the inhabitants appeared quite used to it, and walked about unconcernedly enough, with their green umbrellas, evidencing at least some sunny days in the past.

The busiest part of the town is the Lung 'Arno (Street along the Arno), a broad, handsome quay extending down both banks of the river. The houses here are very imposing; one, in particular, is fronted with marble so exquisitely smooth and pure it might serve as a looking-glass.

Fortunately for visitors, most of the objects of interest are concentrated in one spot—a large square some ten minutes' walk from our hotel. The streets we passed through on our way thither were very quaint, the overhanging shops and cloistered pavements reminding us much of Chester. On the way we visited San Stefano di Cavalier, the church of the Knights of the Order of St. Stephen, and were much interested in the number of flags—Turkish trophies captured from the Moslem by the valiant Knights Crusaders. There were also some beautiful ceiling paintings of the battle of Lepanto, and other subjects.

On reaching the Piazza del Duomo, we found the four chief objects of interest we had come to seek. Forsyth pithily observes, "Pisa, while the capital of a republic, was celebrated for its profusion of marble, its patrician tower, and its grave magnificence. It can still boast some marble churches, a marble palace, and a marble bridge. Its towers, though no longer a mark of nobility, may be traced in the walls of modernized houses. Its gravity pervades every street, but its magnificence is now confined to one sacred corner. There stands the Cathedral, the Baptistery, the Leaning Tower, and the Campo Santo, all built of the same white marble, all varieties of the same architecture, all venerable with years, and fortunate both in their society and their solitude."

The Cathedral is indeed very fine; the columns, arches, and carvings are curiously beautiful. It was built by the Pisans after their great naval victory in 1063, and is, I think, the finest specimen now existing of the style called by the Italians the Gotico-Moresco. Baedeker says, "This remarkably perfect edifice is constructed entirely of white marble, with black and coloured ornamentation. The most magnificent part is the facade, which in the lower storey is adorned with columns and arches attached to the wall; in the upper parts with four open galleries, gradually diminishing in length: the choir is also imposing. The ancient bronze gates were replaced in 1602 by the present doors, with representations of scriptural subjects, executed by Mocchi, Tacca, Mora, and others from designs by Giovanni da Bologna." The interior is upborne by sixty-eight ancient Greek and Roman columns, captured by the Pisans in war. The nave, transept, and dome are most beautifully decorated with paintings, frescoes, and sculpture by Italy's greatest master, of whom Ariosto truly says—

"Michael, piu che mortal, angel divino." (Michael, less man than angel, and divine.)

Altogether it is one of the most beautiful Cathedrals I have ever seen, more particularly in its external architecture.

Opposite, and but a few yards distant, is the Baptistery, but, unfortunately, we were too late to obtain admittance. It is a beautiful, circular structure some 160 feet in diameter, surrounded by columns below, and a gallery of smaller detached columns above, covered with a conical dome 190 feet high. The building was commenced in 1153, but was not finally completed until 1278. It is famous for its wonderful echo.

The Campanile, or, as it is usually styled, the "Leaning Tower," is on the other side of the Cathedral. It is 188 feet high, 53 feet round the base, and about 14 feet out of the perpendicular. It is now, I believe, generally understood that this obliquity was occasioned by the imperfect state of the foundations and the sinking of the soil, which is light and sandy, and which caused it to settle down on one side while the building was still uncompleted; and this defect was afterwards provided for by its architect. This is evident from the staircase, of some 294 steps, being also at an angle. There are some very heavy bells on the topmost towers, to counterbalance the deviation. It is supposed to have been constructed about 1174, by William of Innsprueck, and afterwards finished by Italians, but it was not finally completed until 1350. It rises in storeys, which, like the Baptistery, are surrounded by half columns and six colonnades.

It is said that Galileo, who was born at Pisa, took advantage of the peculiarity of the leaning tower to make his experiments regarding the laws of gravitation; and there is in the Cathedral a great silver chandelier suspended after his design—by a simple rod—from the great height of the roof. This was so mathematically correct that the celebrated astronomer took his idea of the pendulum from it. There is a very fine view from the top of the tower, well repaying the trouble of ascending. We were very pleased with the old "leaning tower of Pisa," so familiar in our childhood as "one of the eight wonders of the world," and were not in the least degree disappointed, but rather wondered at its height and circumference. It seems perilous to have erected other buildings in its proximity, yet there are several handsome houses in its immediate vicinity, affording, perhaps, additional grounds for the theory of its accidental settlement.

The Campo Santo, or burial-ground, was the next place we visited, accompanied by the custodian. It is not so beautiful in statuary as that of Genoa, but from its great antiquity is even more interesting. It is a long parallelogram 430 feet in length, with a covered cloister running all round; the central part supported by beautiful pilasters adorned with painting and frescoes, chiefly by Giotto, Orgagna, and Memmi, some of them almost obliterated. There is a very ancient and interesting collection of Roman, Etruscan, and Mediaeval sculpture and sarcophagi, important links in the history of early Italian sculpture. The pavement is formed by the tombstones of those who have been interred here. Through the round and beautifully traced arched windows you look out on the original burial-ground in the centre, which is open to the sky, and, tradition says, is filled in with some fifty-three ship-loads of earth brought from Mount Calvary in the twelfth century (after the loss of the Holy Land), by the Archbishop of that time, so that the dead might repose in holy ground. I have heard that this Campo Santo is very impressive when viewed by moonlight, which can be done by arranging with the custodian at suitable times.

One other memento of past naval glory that we saw, was the great chain across the more ancient part of Pisa. This was carried away by the Genoese as a trophy, after their conquest of the city, but was afterwards generously returned.

One of the pleasures of travelling not to be overlooked is that of retrospection: picture after picture and memory after memory rises to the mind, and one could go on for ever rebuilding in fancy all that has pleased and interested. With all my heart I can echo Dickens' words—"I find it difficult to separate my own delight in recalling, from your weariness in having them recalled."

* * * * *

We took train to Leghorn, to procure our letters from the post-restante there. The weather was so unpleasantly wet that, under the circumstances, we did not find the place very interesting. Leigh Hunt sums up his impressions in a few exceedingly apt, albeit somewhat unkind, words: "Leghorn is a polite Wapping, with a square and a theatre." The grave of Smollett, who lived here for some time, is one of the objects of interest to visitors from the British Isles. There is always a degree of melancholy pleasure in coming across the last resting-place of a distinguished countryman in a foreign land.

While at the post-restante, we experienced a singular example of the persistency and malevolence of the typical Italian beggar. This time it was a woman and her child, both extremely dirty, the latter evidently alive with vermin. The woman, on my wife's refusing to give her anything, deliberately told her poor neglected child to rub up against her—in order, no doubt, to communicate some of her infirmity. To relieve only a portion of the beggars of all kinds who pursue you wherever you go in Italy, although this pest has been greatly reduced of late years, would leave you with very little time or money.

On returning, we had a fine view of Pisa. In the distance it appears like a city of white marble, with its tower leaning at one end, and the blue mountains far away in the background, looking, however, much nearer than is actually the case. Distance is almost annihilated in this clear, dry, Italian atmosphere, which also to a great extent prevents decay, the most ancient buildings looking often singularly fresh. "Antiquity refuses to look ancient in Italy; it insists on retaining its youthful aspect."

The Torre del Fame, or "Tower of Famine," where Ugolino and his sons were starved to death, stood "a littel out" of Pisa, as old Chaucer has it, but the very site of this monument of cruel tyranny and vengeance is now lost, or at any rate apocryphal.

We were really glad to reach the Hotel Victoria once more, our journey having been performed in the presently falling rain. There is much of interest in this old city, but our time was limited, and we were compelled to press on towards the south, and therefore left on the evening of the second day for Rome, the weather clearing up just about the time of our departure.

The Pisans have a significant motto:

"Pisa pensa a chi posa." (Pisa sits ill On those who sit still.)

We did not, however, stay long enough in the town to experience the truth of the aphorism.



CHAPTER IX.

Arrival in Rome—Hotel de la Ville—The Corso—The Strangers' Quarter— Roman Guides—View from the Capitol—"How are the Mighty fallen!"—The sculpture-gallery of the Capitol—The Dying Gladiator—The Venus— Hawthorne's Marble Faun—Bambino Santissimo—The Mamertine Prison—The Forum—Palaces—The Coliseum—Longfellow's "Michael Angelo."

Travelling by the slow second-class train, we did not arrive at Rome until nearly 11 p.m.; yet the journey proved interesting, especially as we approached our destination. The stillness of night increased the impressive awe that inspired us as we neared the "Eternal City." It was not only cold and dark, but foggy; and we could see very little; conjecture, however, was busy as we caught, through an occasional gleam of light, the shadows of outlying monuments and ruins. As we crossed the silent-rolling Tiber, and the reverberations of the railway bridge smote on our ears with a hollow, sepulchral sound, we felt, almost with a shiver, that we were entering a city of the dead.

The fog was extremely cold and penetrating, striking one almost like the malaria, and we were glad to get to the well-lighted station, and mingle with the cheerful animated crowd on the platform, and did not even feel the intrusive hotel omnibus-conductors a nuisance, but gladly consigned ourselves to the guidance of one, and drove away. However, we soon found that Rome was Imperial in her charges. The first hotel wanted from ten to twelve francs for a bedroom per night, the second likewise. Ultimately we were safely housed about midnight in the Hotel de la Ville, in the Piazza del Popolo, at the head of the Corso. Though perhaps a little out of the way, and less conveniently situated than the more central hotels in the Piazza di Spagna, it has many advantages in comfort, is quiet and moderate in charge, and close to the English church.

This Hotel de la Ville was once the palace and museum of the Marquis Campana. It is surrounded by so-called "English gardens," beautifully decorated with columns, statues, fountains, and orange trees full of golden fruit.

The next morning, on rising, we felt the dream of many years was at last realized!

"Thou art truly a world, O Rome!" says Goethe; and we indeed felt it so, as, having breakfasted, we sallied forth, eager to begin our explorations. Our first visit was naturally to the English bookseller's, where we purchased a guide-book. A plan of Rome may always be obtained at one's hotel, and it is well to study the streets, etc., and arrange one's campaign of sight-seeing. A good way is to begin by visiting the nearest objects of interest, which can be accomplished on foot; then to make use of the omnibus; and finally, of the carriages, for more distant places outside the walls. These latter are cheap enough, as you may drive from one end of Rome to the other for a franc.

The Corso, the main street in the city, is very narrow, and about a mile in length. Starting from the Piazza del Popolo, it extends to the foot of the Capitol. Most of the shops are situated here, and when lined with fashionable carriages, it is very crowded, particularly just outside the cafes. The other principal thoroughfares are the Strada del Babbuina, ending in the Piazza di Spagna; and the Strada di Ripetta, leading to the Tiber. Most of the streets converge into the Piazza di Venezia, where is situated the tramway station, from which omnibuses run to all parts of the town. This corner of the city is usually known as the "Stranger's Quarter." Groups of military men were lounging about, and blocking the pavements, characteristically indulging in dolce far niente aided by the eternal cigarette; indeed, the whole population appear to smoke all day long; both wine and tobacco being too cheap and plentiful for the good of the people.

I believe there are very few good guides in Rome—few at least who do their duty conscientiously, and with interest, but all asking some twelve francs a day, just to ride about with you and smoke innumerable cigarettes. A really good guide is worth securing, and saves much time, trouble, and expense, besides giving most valuable information sometimes. On the first day, we were lucky enough to pick up one of the right sort, with a toga, cloak, and Roman profile; but unfortunately his pronunciation of English was such a jargon we were quite unable to make head or tail of it, especially when most eager to obtain some information of interest, which he was willing and even anxious to convey.

He took us to the top of the Capitol—at least, I accompanied him to the very flagstaff; but it was blowing so tempestuously that my wife was obliged to be content to remain a flight of steps below, and, being the hour of noon, the great bell (which Garibaldi struck when he called the Romans "to arms") boomed out twelve mighty strokes with its immense clapper, and nearly deafened her. The wind was so strong that I had to take off my hat and cling to the parapet. But how interesting was the panorama that met my gaze! Right over the Eternal City beneath me, and far away beyond the plains around it, lay that great range of bare mountains over which, in the day of her distress, poured Rome's Gothic enemies, in wild and overwhelming hordes. Wasted and enfeebled by the constant drain made on her resources to supply the many provinces of her fair empire, her very vitals insidiously sapped and impoverished by the selfish luxury and vice to which her pagan civilization had brought her, what wonder that she fell an easy prey. Yet the heart still yearns over her in her mighty fall, and as I looked, and caught the enthusiasm of my Roman guide, the lament of Byron rose to my lips:

"O Rome! my country! city of the soul! The orphans of the heart must turn to thee, Lone mother of dead empires! and control In their shut breasts their petty misery. What are our woes and sufferance? Come and see The cypress, hear the owl, and plod your way O'er steps of broken thrones and temples, ye Whose agonies are evils of a day!— A world is at our feet as fragile as our clay.

"The Niobe of nations! there she stands, Childless, and crownless, in her voiceless woe; An empty urn within her wither'd hands, Whose holy dust was scatter'd long ago: The Scipios' tomb contains no ashes now; The very sepulchres lie tenantless Of their heroic dwellers; dost thou flow, Old Tiber! through a marble wilderness? Rise, with thy yellow waves, and mantle her distress.

"The Goth, the Christian, time, war, flood, and fire Have dealt upon the seven-hill'd city's pride; She saw her glories star by star expire, And up the steep barbarian monarchs ride, Where the car climb'd the capitol; far and wide Temple and tower went down, nor left a site:— Chaos of ruins! who shall trace the void, O'er her dim fragments cast a lunar light, And say, 'Here was, or is,' where all is doubly night?

"Alas! the lofty city! and alas! The trebly hundred triumphs! and the day When Brutus made the dagger's edge surpass The conqueror's sword in bearing fame away! Alas, for Tully's voice, and Virgil's lay, And Livy's pictured page! but these shall be Her resurrection; all beside—decay. Alas, for earth, for never shall we see That brightness in her eye she bore when Rome was free!"

Around lay the seven hills on which Rome was originally built. The Capitoline, on which I was standing, the Palatine, Quirinal, Coelius, Aventine, Esquiline, Viminal. Some of them appeared merely green mounds, the remains of the wonderfully strong and ancient walls, and here and there the broken outline of some palace of the great Caesars. Immediately beneath us lay the mighty Coliseum, the Forum, and other monuments of Rome's ancient grandeur and departed glory. Away to the north-west, across the muddy, silent Tiber, lay decaying papal Rome, crested by the dome of St. Peter's and the Vatican. Again, to the north-east, right over ancient Rome, and towards the Quirinal and Esquiline hills, young Italy, emancipated and free, her national flag floating in the breeze from the palace of the king. It was a grand and impressive sight, and one never to be forgotten.

On descending from the tower, we passed through storehouses filled with broken remains of figures, capitals, plinths, and other fragments disentombed from the Forum, etc. The three palaces which comprise the principal buildings of the modern Capitol were designed by Michael Angelo, and form three sides of a square. In the centre stands the noble equestrian statue of Marcus Aurelius. The open side faces the modern part of Rome. The palace on the left side, or Capitoline Museum, as it is called, contains one of the finest collections of sculpture in Italy. It is quite a day's work to see it properly, but we had to be content with an hour or two.

Here we saw that most noble and pathetic presentment of Death, grappled with, and almost conquered, in the statue of the Dying Gladiator. The right arm was restored by Michael Angelo, and the guide informed me that by general agreement it should have been brought a little more forward, and that the great sculptor, although aware of it, was unable for some reason to restore it in this way. I think, however, that his conception as resting, must be the right and natural posture, as the wounded man seems to depend on the support of that arm entirely, while struggling in the agonies of death. You may almost see the moisture on his manly brow, while in the intensely expressive face you catch glimpses of that lifetime which is passing across his memory in the space of a moment—thoughts of the wife and little ones in that far-away home to which he will never return. It is a fine subject, exquisitely conceived and executed, and worthily described in Byron's two immortal stanzas. Upstairs, in a small rotunda-shaped temple, enshrined in a niche in the wall, we saw that most beautiful conception of womanhood, known as the Venus of the Capitol. She appears as though suddenly disturbed while taking her bath, and the expression of frightened innocence and maiden shame upon the face, and the graceful shrinking attitude of the limbs, form a picture of perfect purity and loveliness. The guide turned the figure upon its pedestal so that we might catch the beauty of its curves and soft outline, and though the action seemed half profane, rudely disturbing one's semi-entranced admiration, I did not until then catch the full beauty of "the statue that enchants the world." An almost living memorial of the "Age of Beauty," there seems in this one radiant figure to be enfolded the whole wealth of love and loveliness that distinguished so richly those times when—

"Human hands first moulded, and then mocked With moulded limbs, more lovely than its own, The human form, till marble grew divine."

Yet one other masterpiece of ancient art we eagerly looked for was the marble Faun of Praxiteles, around which the graceful genius of Nathaniel Hawthorne has woven such a delicate web of romance, the figure itself being inimitably described in the opening chapter. But this and other immortal works are made familiar to us by so many gifted writers, that I need but to mention their names to conjure them in all their beauty to the eye of the intelligent reader, who instantly recalls to mind some beautiful passage in poetry or prose, to which any words I could pen would be superfluous. "All men are poets by nature," but "adequate expression is rare;" and though a vivid sense of beauty and a passionate appreciation of the grand and sublime is open to all, yet to genius alone it is given to clothe the fleeting thought with words of haunting music, which shall live as long as the idea that gave them birth.

Close by the museum is the Church of Santa Maria di Ara Coeli, ascended by some 124 steps. Here we were reverently ushered by a monk into a little chapel, to see the Santissimo Bambino. After opening the shutter, he approached the altar, and from an iron door in the top drew out a drawer, inside which was a box; from this he carefully lifted out, reverently crossing himself as he touched it, a doll of wax or painted wood, supposed to be an image of the Infant Jesus. The legend runs, that an angel appeared in the porch of the church at midnight, and, ringing the bell, flew back to heaven, leaving the image of the Sacred Babe to the care of the church, just as a poor child is dropped at the door of a foundling hospital. The doll is literally covered with jewellery, and diamond-rings, and other gems and trinkets, sewn into its dress, the offerings of its misguided devotees. It is said that the priests at the church "farm" this Bambino, and make a good income by exhibiting it, letting it out on special occasions for large profits. Leave the priests alone for their ability to work on the ignorance and credulity of the people! It is sometimes carried to the houses of the sick, being supposed to possess miraculous healing properties. After duly displaying this treasure, the monk carefully replaced it, locking it up with a profound sigh.

This is only one of the many wonderful relics that are shown, and absurd legends that are told, and one hardly knows whether to treat with pity or contempt the ignorant credulity shown by the lower orders of Roman Catholics and their priesthood.

Between the Capitol and the Forum is the Mamertine prison, where among other illustrious captives were confined Jugurtha, Sejanus, and the Catiline conspirators; St. Paul, too, noblest of men, was here held in durance vile, and Popish tradition says St. Peter also. Passing through a little church, we were lighted down into a dark dungeon, and below this found another, communicating by narrow stone steps; but it is said the poor prisoners were dropped from the one to the other through a hole or trap-door. They were confined below until sentenced to death, when they were brought up the steps to the dungeon above, where they were executed, and their bodies thrown out for the satisfaction of the people thronging the Forum. There is a dint in the stone wall where it is said St. Paul's head was battered by his inhuman gaoler; this, though it sounds improbable enough, is gravely related as a fact. A subterranean passage extends to a considerable distance, which I penetrated as far as I was able, till a cold blast of air, evidently from the river Tiber, almost extinguished my candle, and the guide shouted to me to return.

It is remarkable how much lower that part of ancient Rome surrounding the Forum lies compared to the rest of the city—certainly from ten to fifteen feet. Modern or mediaeval Rome seems in some instances to be partially built over the older portion. Why this should have been, it is difficult to say. New and interesting excavations are made continuously, and I could have remained here the live-long day, watching the gradual disentombment of the beautiful columns, statuary, and other long-buried mementoes of Rome's past greatness—and, as her foundations were laid bare, rebuilding and repeopling, according to my own ideal fancies, this great temple of eloquence. "What men have crossed the shadows of these very columns! What thoughts that have moved the world were born beneath them!" Scene after scene rose to my mind which had been enacted in this very spot, one fair vision standing out like a star from the rest—Virginia, "the sweetest maid in Rome," in her white garments, as though prepared for the sacrifice, satchel in hand, tripping with "her small glancing feet along the Forum," and up the sacred street from the schools, the remains of which may still be seen cavernlike.

After all, what is left of Rome's greatness? A few broken columns only? Surely not. We are still as deeply moved as ever by the history of her mighty rise and fall; the world still acknowledges the governing wisdom of her imperishable laws, and is still benefited by the inspiring example of her noble men and virtuous women. But the true "Eternal City" must be looked for elsewhere than in the most powerful of pagan nations. This indeed must have solaced the little fraternity of Christians at ancient Rome, when so cruelly persecuted: and what a glorious triumph is theirs now!

We did not omit to pay a visit to the palaces of the Caesars, which lie clustered above and about the Forum. It is rather difficult to understand how the Romans obtained sufficient light for their dwellings, the rooms being generally small, and without external windows. What there was, however, usually came from above, as the courts were open; and also by radiation, the large marble tanks in these courts being filled with water, on which the descending light smote, and was dispersed around. There is a subterranean passage leading from the palaces to the Coliseum, which was made use of by the emperor and his suite for their transit thither; and a terribly anxious little journey that must often have been to the great Caesars.

The grand old Coliseum still rears its crumpling walls proudly towards the skies, though almost two-thirds lie in ruins. The centre has been filled in with earth, so that we scarcely see the original bottom, but there is sufficient left to show clearly to what use this great amphitheatre was put. One intelligent guide points out the evidences of formerly existing hydrants, which had led to the Tiber, and thus flooded the lower part with water for the exhibition of mock naval engagements. Then, when the water was let out again, great scaffolding poles were inserted into stone sockets, and a platform suspended on a level with the dens, from which the wild beasts were let into the arena. And here the gladiators fought, and the Christians and criminals were torn to pieces, to make sport for the countless multitude sitting, crowded tier upon tier around, while the blue heavens looked down on the inhuman and bloody sight, and the poor martyr Christians, fearlessly awaiting their doom, sighed upwards, "How long? how long?" We could also see the trap-doors from whence buffoons were hoisted on to the stage. To trace all this was interesting, though it saddened one to reflect on all the horrors that had been enacted here. Much of the brickwork had evidently been veneered with slabs of marble, most of which has now disappeared; but it rather puzzled me to see so many great chips made in certain parts of the marble columns. Our guide, however, informed me that they had bars of iron in the centre, and it was to obtain this iron for making into spear-heads for the defence of Rome that the marble was so broken and chipped at the joints—an inglorious ending truly for these witnesses of past splendour!

It has been said that Byron's celebrated description of the Coliseum is better than the reality; that "he beheld the scene in his mind's eye, through the witchery of many intervening years, and faintly illumined it with starlight instead of the broad glow of moonshine." Be this as it may, the noble stanzas are all too well known to bear further quotation. The reader may possibly be less acquainted with the fine lines on the subject, which Longfellow has put in the mouth of Michael Angelo, in the fragmentary tragedy of that name lately published in America:

"Tradition says that fifteen thousand men Were toiling for ten years incessantly Upon this amphitheatre. Behold,

How wonderful it is! The queen of flowers, The marble rose of Rome! Its petals torn By wind and rain of twice five hundred years; Its mossy sheath half rent away, and sold To ornament our palaces and churches, Or to be trodden under feet of man Upon the Tiber's bank; yet what remains Still opening its fair bosom to the sun, And to the constellations that at night Hang poised above it like a swarm of bees.

"The rose of Rome, but not of Paradise; Not the white rose our Tuscan poet saw, With saints for petals. When this rose was perfect Its hundred thousand petals were not saints, But senators in their Thessalian caps, And all the roaring populace of Rome; And even an Empress and the Vestal Virgins, Who came to see the gladiators die, Could not give sweetness to a rose like this. The sand beneath our feet is saturate With blood of martyrs; and these rifted stones Are awful witnesses against a people Whose pleasure was the pain of dying men.

"Look at these walls about us and above us! They have been shaken by earthquakes, have been made A fortress, and been battered by long sieges; The iron clamps, that held the stones together, Have been wrenched from them; but they stand erect And firm, as if they had been hewn and hollowed Out of the solid rock, and were a part Of the foundations of the world itself. ... A thousand wild flowers bloom From every chink, and the birds build their nests Among the rained arches, and suggest New thoughts of beauty to the architect."



CHAPTER X.

Trajan's Gate—The Appian Way—The English Cemetery—Catacombs of St. Calixtus—Reflections on the Italian seat of government—Churches—S. Paolo Fuori le Mura—Santa Maria Maggiore—S. Pietro in Vincoli—"Was St. Peter ever in Rome?"—Fountains of Rome—Dell' Aqua Felice—Paulina —Trevi—Rome's famous Aqueducts—Beggars—Priests.

Trajan's Gate, near the Coliseum, is a beautiful piece of architecture. No Jew can ever be prevailed upon to pass beneath it—at which we can hardly wonder, for it is like forcing them again to walk under the "Caudine forks," reminding them all too forcibly of their conquerors, the destruction of their beloved city, and the bitter humiliation they have ever since suffered.

After passing the Arch of Trajan, we soon reach the great high-road, paved with diamond-shaped blocks of lava stone, extending a vast distance, even beyond Naples. This is the celebrated Via Appia. It takes its name from Appius Claudius the Censor. How the mind travels back into centuries long past! How the imagination recalls the glory of ancient times! Like Milton, we seem to see—

"The conflux issuing forth, or entering in: Proctors, proconsuls, to their provinces

Hasting, or on return, in robes of state; Lictors and rods, the ensigns of their power; Legions and cohorts, turms of horse and wings; Or embassies from regions far remote, In various habits, on the Appian road."

The road, apart from itself, has many interests from the numerous relics and monuments of distant ages all along its way. First, we pass the tomb of the Scipios, just inside the Gate of St. Sebastian, and the Arch of Drusus; then the tombs of Augustus and Livia, and many others, mentioned by St. Paul as belonging to Caesar's household; then, crossing the Aqua-taccio, is the old church Domine quo Vadis, or "Whither goest thou?" where, according to tradition, St. Peter, flying from persecution, met the Saviour, who caused him to return by asking this question. Then we come to the tomb of Caecilia Metella:

"Standing with half its battlements alone, And with two thousand years of ivy grown, The garland of eternity."

The "stern round tower" looks little like a woman's grave. Many other tombs, all possessing more or less interest, we passed, and I must not forget the English cemetery, where—

"Like an infant's smile, over the dead A light of laughing flowers along the grass is spread."

Here lie the remains of our two young poets, taken from us in the flower of their manhood, ere genius had fairly ripened, and ere, alas! we had learned to appreciate them at their true value.

At length we arrived at the Catacombs of St. Calixtus, the most extensive in Rome. We first passed through the church of St. Sebastian, and then, following a monk with lighted tapers, were soon underground among dismal tunnels, with here and there an open tomb, or rather great shelves cut in the soft brownish rocks (tufa). In many places the sides of these tunnel passages were almost honeycombed with open graves. There were still in some of these little heaps of decaying bones: occasionally a name was roughly cut below, executed probably by one of the little flock of the faithful, and an inscription in Greek, for the early church was more Greek than Latin. These long corridors extend in every direction, and, in fact, surround the city on this side. It was a frequent custom amongst the Christians in Rome to pay visits on Sunday to the sepulchres of the martyrs, and especially to the Catacombs. When the sacred roll of martyrs had scarcely been closed, Jerome went the round with his schoolfellows, and speaks awesomely of the darkness and dread gloom of these crypts, deep in the earth, dimly lighted by broken gleams through shafts and holes. They were reached by a narrow entrance, down a long flight of steps, and through innumerable winding passages, all carefully concealed from the persecutors. How great a contrast to the glowing sunshine, and the light breezes, which whispered through the vine leaves on the hills outside! God's love and man's hatred! Our thoughts wandered away irresistibly to those times when the Christians lived here like moles underground, until they died, and were laid by the loving and devoted hands of their comrades in these dark shelves of the rock. It is said that there are some seven million bodies buried in these Catacombs. True enough that all around the Eternal City is one vast tomb, especially in the direction of the Via Appia, recalling the prophecy, "He shall fill the places with dead bodies."

I have sometimes thought it a pity that Rome rather than Milan was selected as the seat of the Italian Government. I say Milan, because I think neither Florence nor Turin are suitable from a military point of view, as, if once the heights around were seized by a hostile army, the city would be lost. Now, Milan, as far as the eye can reach, stands in the midst of fine open plains, and an enemy could find but little shelter or commanding position. Rome seems almost polluted by these vast tombs surrounding her, and will require an immense amount of labour to render it healthy as a continual residence. Yet no doubt Nature, the never-resting, ever-working, irresistible evolutionary power, will assist in the coming changes. For "Nature," says Emerson, "is nascent, infant. When we are dizzied with the arithmetic of the savant toiling to compute the length of her line, the return of her curve, we are steadied by the perception that a great deal is doing; that all seems just begun: remote aims are in active accomplishment. We can point nowhere to anything final; but tendency appears on all hands: planet, system, constellation, total Nature, is growing like a field of maize in July; is becoming somewhat else; is in rapid metamorphosis.... Says Nature 'I have not arrived at any end; I grow, I grow.'"

* * * * *

It was a great relief to gain the open air after the long and saddening exploration of the Catacombs. Some three or four miles on the road towards Ostia we passed some very old monuments and tombs, and also the ruins of ancient residences. All around is an uncultivated wilderness, a few fine but rusty iron gates alone remaining to show their past pomp and grandeur as suburban residences.

After passing these, we came suddenly on a splendid, newly built Cathedral. It was indeed surprising to find so large and handsome a structure far away from any town or village—completely isolated among the dead! It was the Basilica S. Paolo Fuori le Mura, which was built in 1847 in this uninhabited spot, on the site of a venerable and interesting church burnt in 1823, which had been founded by Constantine to mark the grave of St. Paul. The present edifice was rebuilt under the eye of Pius IX., who was to have been buried here. It is some four hundred feet long, and is divided into fine aisles and noble pillars of Baveno marble and granite in single blocks, two of which support an arch over the altar, dedicated to the sister of Honorius, who completed the former church, and whose design has been copied in the present one, which also contains copies of the old mosaics by Giotto's pupils. The front is likewise a copy, and when completed is to be adorned by a great mosaic costing 30,000 scudi. The timber roof is richly carved and gilt; and the frescoes in the nave are ornamented with mosaic heads of all the popes, chiefly modern, from the government studios, but there are a few ancient ones among them. It seems as though the whole civilized world had united to do honour to this noble edifice and the great Apostle in memory of whom it was erected. The alabaster pillars of the high altar were presented by the infidel Pacha of Egypt; a detached altar in the transept was a gift from the heretic Emperor of Russia; the granite pillars in the nave came from the Emperor of Austria. Among them is the one celebrated by Wordsworth when it stood on the Simplon, and which Napoleon intended for the triumphal arch of Milan. Some noble-minded and generous Jew has bequeathed a large sum for the support of the church; and the King of Holland gave 50,000 francs for the same purpose—truly a world's acknowledgment of St. Paul's large-hearted, self-sacrificing, and noble life. Among other treasures it possesses a painting of the Conversion of St. Paul by Camuccini, the choir by Carlo Maderno, and a fine St. Benedict by Ramaldi.

An adjoining cloister, belonging to the Benedictine Convent, dates from the thirteenth century. It rests on fluted and twisted columns, and contains in its library a small collection of Christian gravestones from A.D. 355. One bears the figure of an organ, with the words, "Rustreus te vit, and Feci." The atrium of the old church, which is the distinguishing mark of a Basilica, existed down to the seventeenth century, and is now replaced by a modern court. The plan of the former church was a duplicate of that of old St. Peter's. About twenty-four of its columns were taken from the tomb of Hadrian; and yet one other remarkable feature consists in its having been under the patronage of the English kings till the time of Henry VIII., when that fickle monarch broke allegiance with Rome altogether, for reasons of his own. Though this church always seems to have struck travellers with admiration, as combining in itself the last reminiscence of pagan Rome, and the earliest mementoes of the Christian world, it had nevertheless been so far altered by the processes of decay and whitewash, that many of its most striking peculiarities and beauties had been effaced, even before its total destruction by fire.

I admired the now existing church extremely, both for its noble proportions and the beautiful simplicity of its design and ornamentation. The stained glass windows are one of its distinguishing marks of beauty. "It is a woful thing, a sad necessity, that any Christian soul should pass from earth without once seeing an antique painted window, with the bright Italian sunshine glowing through it. There is no other such true symbol of the glories of the better world, where a celestial radiance will be inherent in all things and persons, and render each continually transparent to the sight of all." The atrium, with its marble floor of almost spotless beauty, its lofty columns and noble simplicity of architecture, represented my beau-ideal of a Christian temple. There was not a single seat or chair—which I believe is the case with all Basilicas, the congregation standing and kneeling only—and this fact greatly adds to the apparent vastness of this noble structure, which forms a beautiful and suitable monument to the great and good St. Paul.

While on the subject of churches, I may mention two other fine edifices we visited, both full of interest, though of a diverse nature.

The Church of Santa Maria Maggiore, on the Esquiline Hill, near the railway station, is one of the four chief Basilicas of Rome, and well repays a visit. It gives one more the idea of what a Basilica was really meant to be than any similar edifice in Rome. The richly painted panels, the interior colonnade with its long harmonious rows of pillars, the clerestory decorated en suite with small pilasters and panels, and the beautiful panelled roof, all combine to give the building an air of lofty and noble magnificence. The high altar is very beautiful, with its decorations of marble, gilding, and precious stones: it is also interesting as possessing the crypt in which Pius IX. was interred. The tombs of Sixtus V. and Pius V. are also here; and in contrast to the S. Paolo Basilica, which has no side chapels at all, this church possesses two very fine ones, the Borghese, and the Presigio, which are as rich in ornamental work as the rest of the building. The latter contains the supposititious cradle of our Lord; and the former has in veritas the beautiful tomb of a Borghese princess and high-born Englishwoman (Lady Geraldine Talbot). The altar of the Virgin is supported by four pillars of oriental jaspar, agate, and gilded bronze; the image, which is said to have been the work of St. Luke(!), is richly adorned with precious stones. The church itself abounds in beautiful pictures, statuary, and tombs. The chapel of Santa Lucia is also very interesting, possessing many beautiful tombs, bas-reliefs, etc.

The other church we visited, S. Pietro in Vincoli (St. Peter in Chains), is considered the most ancient in Rome. It is a noble hall, supported by twenty columns of Parian marble, and has many fine and interesting monuments. It is always a debatable point this—St. Peter's presence in Rome. We have no actual proof that he was ever there, and yet the great number of places associated with his name and made sacred to his memory seem to point strongly to such a supposition. Yet it may be only the religious deceit of the priesthood, who thus couple persons and things with places, and insert monstrous legends and traditions for their own mercenary ends, and, considering the immense number of extraordinary relics, it is very evident that Mr. Shapira has had many predecessors in the art of manufacturing antiquities.

One of the most pleasing features of Rome is its numerous beautiful fountains, generally to be found in the piazzas, sometimes surrounded by fine architectural and sculptural groupings. It seems as if the great men of every age in this city "have found no better way of immortalizing their memories than by the shifting, indestructible, ever-new, ever-changing upgush and downfall of water. They have written their names in that unstable element, and proved it a more durable record than brass or marble."

The Fontana dell' Aqua Felice, near the baths of Diocletian, has a fine statue of Moses striking the rock, by Prospero da Brescia, who is said to have died of mortification at the ridicule excited by the figure of the great lawgiver, in which a slight uncouthness is certainly perceptible. The figures of Aaron and Gideon have been added to the group by other artists. This fountain was celebrated by Tasso under the name of the Fontana di Termini. The Fontana Paulina on the summit of the Janiculum, near Porto S. Pancrazio, is like a triple triumphal arch. The Fontana di Trevi, situated near the Palazzo Poli, is the most famous in Rome. Its clear, sparkling water comes through the subterranean aqueducts from far beyond the city walls. The design of the fountain is by some sculptor of the Bernini school, and represents Neptune with his attendant tritons, Health and Abundance. "It is as magnificent a piece of work as ever human skill contrived. At the foot of the palatial facade is strewn, with careful art and ordered irregularity, a broad and broken heap of massive rock, looking as if it might have lain there since the deluge. Over a central precipice falls the water in a semicircular cascade, and from a hundred crevices on all sides silvery jets gush up, and streams spout out of the mouths and nostrils of stone monsters, and fall in glistening drops; while other rivulets, that have run wild, come leaping from one rude step to another, over stones that are mossy, slimy, and green with sedge, because in a century of their wild play, Nature has adopted the Fountain of Trevi, with all its elaborate devices, for her own. Finally the water, tumbling, sparkling, and dashing, with joyous haste and never-ceasing murmur, pours itself into a great marble-brimmed reservoir, and fills it with a quivering tide, on which is seen continually a snowy semicircle of momentary foam from the principal cascade, as well as a multitude of snow points from smaller jets. The basin occupies the whole breadth of the piazza, whence flights of steps ascend to its border. A boat might float and make voyages from one shore to another, in this mimic lake."

The great aqueducts, by which these fountains are supplied, are marvels of ingenuity and engineering skill, sometimes bringing the pure crystal stream from lakes and hills thirty and forty miles away. Dyer, the old eighteenth-century poet, has a graceful mention of them in his "Ruins of Rome":

"From yon blue hills Dim in the clouds, the radiant aqueducts Turn their innumerable arches o'er The spacious desert, brightening in the sun, Proud and more proud in their august approach; High o'er irriguous vales and woods and towns, Glide the soft whispering waters in the wind, And more united pour their silver streams Among the figur'd rocks in murmuring falls, Musical ever."

These noble aqueducts were the chief source of Rome's health and luxury, and were in charge of Curators or Prefects, who formed a kind of "water board." It is a system which might with great advantage be adopted by our own large cities, which are lamentably wanting in a good and liberal supply of fresh water—greedy monopolists charging what they choose, and giving us the precious fluid clean or unclean, when or how they like. The Government might do much to improve this state of things by constructing aqueducts after the ancient Roman style.

Another marked feature in Roman life we are not so anxious to see imitated in our own country, is the abnormal quantity of beggars one meets everywhere. They are of every sort and description, and swarm round you wherever you go. Some of them a most pitiful and distressing sight, only half clothed and seemingly starving. Their number is only equalled by the legion of priests, who come upon you at every turn, in all grades, from cardinals to novices. Of course, this is by no means to be wondered at, Rome being the one great focus and clerical seminary of the Roman Catholic world. But the contrast between the starving squalid poor and the legions of well-fed priests is very painful.