CHAPTER XI.

Papal Rome—Narrow streets—St. Angelo—Benvenuto Cellini—St. Peter's —Pieta Chapel—The Dead Christ—Tomb of the Stuarts—Anniversary of St. Peter's—Grand ceremonial—Cardinal Howard—The Vatican—Pictures— Pauline and Sistine Chapels—"The Last Judgment"—Pinacoteca—Raphael's "Transfiguration"—The Madonna—Christian Martyrs—Sculptures—Tapestries —Leo XIII.—Italian Priesthood—St. John Lateran—Marvellous legends and relics—Native irreverence to sacred edifices.

"The Papal City," says Howels, "contrives at the beginning to hide the Imperial City from your thoughts, as it hides it in such a great degree from your eye." I had often asked our guide what had become of this or that column or statue of ancient Rome, and he replied that the popes, jealous of the greatness of Pagan Rome, and the interest excited in the minds of the present generations, Catholic and Protestant, removed them as quietly as possible after their disinterment, lest the world should say that the glory and grandeur of the Pagans of old exceeded that of the Papacy.

We drove through a labyrinth of narrow, dirty, crowded streets, crossing the Tiber by the fine bridge of St. Angelo. The picturesque castle of this name was a very important fortress in the Middle Ages. It was commenced by Hadrian, and afterwards finished as a family mausoleum by Antoninus Pius, and must always possess a romantic interest from the part it played in the life of that most whimsical and audacious of autobiographers, Benvenuto Cellini. The account he gives of his escape from its dungeons is quite Dumasesque in its thrilling details; and this is not the only famous escape in the records of the fortress, Pope Paul III., who was confined there in his youth, having succeeded in making a secret exit.

Turning to the left through one of the narrow streets, we find ourselves suddenly in a very fine piazza, before the largest Christian temple in the world—colossal St Peter's. It stands proudly and grandly on the Vatican Hill, on the site of the earliest Christian church, built by Constantine the Great in the fourth century.

In the centre of the great piazza, which slopes upwards, is an ancient Egyptian obelisk brought from the circus of Nero, and surrounded by points of the compass let into the pavement. This is flanked by two immense fountains, from which the water rises in a sparkling column to the height of seventy feet. They are supplied by an aqueduct from Lake Bramano, some seventeen miles distant.

St. Peter's is approached from the piazza, by a long-graduated series of great steps. It is from the top of these that the Pope gives his blessing at Easter to the multitude in the immense court below. The piazza is environed by more than a thousand shops, which impede the view, considerably foreshorten and hide the great dome of St. Peter's, and detract from its imposing grandeur; causing the facade to appear of an immense and disproportionate height. The whole stupendous structure—the cross of which, lifting itself literally to the blue skies, can be seen over the hills from the sea—occupied 116 years in building, and was continued during the reigns of eighteen popes. Leo X. was one of these, and his scheme of raising money for the work by the sale of indulgences, went far to produce the Reformation. Truly God's ways are wonderful, the almost trifling acts of a single person often bringing about the most mighty results and changes in the world!

"St. Peter's is less like a church than a collection of large churches enclosed under one gigantic roof.... One is lost in it. It is a city of columns, sculptures, and mosaics." So says the clever, versatile Willis, in his "Pencillings by the Way," and it would certainly take months to examine minutely all that is worthy of attention in this vast pile. Our time, unfortunately, was limited, and we were only able to notice some of the more celebrated and striking features. Of the plan of the building, and its architecture, external and internal, I will say nothing, for what can now be said that has not been said before, and far better than I could say it? Almost every one nowadays has formed his own idea of what this great church is like—of its exceeding vastness and extent, the immensity of its over-arching dome, and its gorgeous and profuse decorations. Yet when they at length come to visit this preconceived and idealized vision, perhaps their feeling is almost one of vague disappointment. Like Hilda in the "Marble Faun," we at first prefer our own dream-edifice to the solid reality. It is, in fact, so immense that you utterly fail to take it in all at once; your gaze is arrested by ponderous columns and you must be content to see it in fragments. You yourself seem so lost in its immensity, that you find it impossible to take in its immeasurable vastness from any single standpoint, the mind utterly refusing to grasp it; but on a second and third visit, you gradually obtain a more comprehensive idea of its proportions.

"Thy mind, Expanded by the genius of the spot, Has grown colossal....

"Thou movest, but increasing with the advance, Like climbing some great Alp, which still doth rise, Deceived by its gigantic elegance; Vastness which grows, but grows to harmonize, All musical in its immensities: Rich marbles, richer painting, shrines where flame The lamps of gold, and haughty dome which vies In air with earth's chief structures, though the frame Sits on the firm-set ground—and this the clouds must claim.

"Thou seest not all; but piecemeal thou must break, To separate contemplation, the great whole: And as the ocean many bays will make, That ask the eye—so here condense the soul To more immediate objects, and control

Thy thoughts until thy mind hath got by heart Its eloquent proportions, and unroll In mighty graduations, part by part, The glory, which at once upon thee did not dart.

"Not by its fault, but thine: our outward sense Is but of gradual grasp—and as it is That what we have of feeling most intense Outstrips our faint expression; even so this Outshining and o'erwhelming edifice Fools our fond gaze, and, greatest of the great, Defies at first our nature's littleness, Till, growing with its growth, we thus dilate Our spirits to the size of that they contemplate."

Mendelssohn says, "You strive to distinguish the ceiling as little as the canopy of heaven: you lose your way in St. Peter's; you take a walk in it, and ramble till you are quite tired. When Divine Service is performed and chanted there, you are not aware of it till you are quite close.... When the music commences, the sounds do not reach you for a long time, but echo and float in the vast space so that the most singular and vague harmonies are borne toward you."

The interior space is the more increased by the fact of there being no seats of any kind, and seems so immense that things of colossal size appear of only ordinary proportions. Thus, two apparently small cherubs, holding a vessel of holy water, are in reality six feet high; and other figures, almost insignificant in the distance, are really wonderfully large. The pen in the hand of St. Mark on the dome is five feet long.

There are about 134 popes buried here, and when looking at their grand and beautiful monuments, extending up the left aisle, one cannot but remember that these were the men whose power was at times almost unlimited, who controlled the destinies of the world, and made emperors tremble; and the mind travels back into the dark ages of the past. But in these enlightened times, when the souls of men have shaken off the fetters of mediaeval bondage, it is difficult to understand how our ancestors could have been so enslaved—worshipping the reigning pope, though even a Borgia, as a very God upon earth. Near the last column of the aisle is a colossal bronze statue of St. Peter, seated on a huge chair or throne. We noticed that every one (Roman Catholic) bowed before the image, and afterwards advanced and kissed one of the feet, the big toe of which is quite worn away with the friction of countless myriads of devout lips, and the general wiping of the sacred digit by each individual before venturing to kiss it. It would seem, alas! that the present generation is not so very far removed from the superstitions and absurdities of the past, after all!

In the Pieta Chapel is one of the most beautiful pieces of sculpture I have ever seen; it is Michael Angelo's Dead Christ. The Saviour's head rests on the knee of the Virgin Mother, whose face is full of the deepest pathos of holy love and intense sorrow. Truly a God-inspired work.

"Art is the gift of God, and must be used Unto His glory. That in art is highest Which aims at this."

How appropriate these words are, placed in the mouth of the great Buonaroti, we could hardly imagine till we had seen this sublime work of art.

We felt greatly interested, in common with all our countrymen, in the tomb which contains the ashes of the last of the Stuarts. Canova's winged genii stand with reversed torches on either side of the door, which is now closed for ever.

I must confess that I was neither pleased nor edified by the services conducted in the gorgeous side chapels; they certainly seemed but a mechanical form of prayer, little less than sacrilegious; the bishops, priests, and choir hastening to get through the formula—those who were not yawning taking snuff. Indeed, there was a dreadful absence of real Christian humility and reverence. One day we arrived in time to witness a High Church ceremonial—it was the anniversary of St. Peter. Cardinal Howard officiated instead of the Pope, who had one of his frequent fits of the sulks towards Italy. He was supported by all the great dignitaries and potentates of the Romish Church, "a grotesque company of old womanish old men in gaudy gowns." The cardinal is a robust Englishman of the Friar Tuck style—the very antithesis to the spiritual, thoughtful, Newman type. He is, however, zealous in his duties, and much liked by the people. The principal part of the ceremony seemed to consist in the constant changing of the cardinal's gorgeous robes, accompanied by procession and prayer; and finally, when he left, the people, more especially the women, rushed to kiss his hand. In spite of its incongruity in our eyes, it was rather a touching sight, and the cardinal seemed to realize almost painfully, as we did, the adoration of the poorer of his flock.

The music was instrumental and vocal, the former composed entirely of stringed instruments, and we were not at all inspired by it. It was not to be compared to the fine choirs of St Paul's, the Temple, or, Westminster Abbey; and for sacred music I think there is nothing like the grand, melodious swell of the organ. We found none of the grand Masses or other ceremonies of the Roman Church at St. Peter's, which could compare for a moment in reverential feeling with the solemn impressiveness of our own large churches during our beautiful and eloquent service, which is so full of deep and earnest feeling, and yet withal so simple that all can understand; and what more sublime than to hear a vast congregation singing, as with a single voice, one of our fine old hymns, such as the imperishable and soul-inspiring "Rock of Ages"? Yet even here I think there is sometimes too much of a secular character now introduced into church music.

The more one sees of St. Peter's the less easy it is to realize that so magnificent and wonderful an edifice has been constructed by man. Compare the stupendous structure with the puny attempts of the present day. Architecture seems almost a lost art. I think this is owing to want of patience; the lack of doing all things thoroughly and well; the preference for mere show rather than durability and beauty; and the selfish gratification of our own generation rather than a patriotic pride and thought for future ages. If the nineteenth century has made great advances in the industries, science, and thought, it has also introduced a taste for meretricious imitation in every department of manufacture and art. This is essentially the century for contracts. Everything is done by contract, and not only is the matter of cost, but also that of time, made a strong point in the bargain. When St. Peter's was built, estimates of cost were not thought of, and no one ever dreamed of fixing a date for completion of so vast a work.

To gain admission to the galleries of paintings and sculpture in the Vatican, it is necessary to procure tickets. These may always be obtained of your hotel proprietor, while a pass to the Pantheon and to all exceptional ceremonies can generally be got by an early application to your Banker.

Next to the Vatican, the Villa Borghese, near the Piazza del Popolo, and the gardens of the Pincian Hill, has the most important picture-galleries in Rome. The Palazzo Doria, in the Corso, is also one of the finest in the city. There are three large fronts enclosing a spacious court, and this is surrounded by a piazza. There is a very handsome staircase, leading to the splendid series of galleries full of priceless works by the great masters—Correggio, Raphael, Titian, and others. Unfortunately, we were obliged to hurry through, without seeing half of them properly.

It is necessary to provide yourself with a quantity of small copper coins, for every Usher who shows you anything, expects some payment in return, and they are quite satisfied with a few centissima.

The Vatican contains the richest, rarest, and most varied collection of art treasures in the world. This is not to be wondered at when we remember that it has been the work of more than a hundred popes, many of them princely patrons of art and genius, some very unscrupulous, and each in his day exercising almost uncontrolled power over nations, emperors, and kings, and commanding the moral, physical, and material resources of the civilized world. Here there is gathered, as in an immense casket, the chiefest of the art treasures of all ages, the works of antiquity, and the principal productions of the greatest men who have lived. The dimensions of the Vatican exceed those of Tuileries and Louvre put together. The very list of museums, galleries, and cabinets is bewildering, and I should think a thorough study of the whole would well-nigh occupy a lifetime; it is really daring presumption to rush through in a day or two, and then be content to say you have "done" these things, as so many tourists do.

Through these interesting rooms we wandered and wondered, longing for a fuller comprehension of their contents, yet unable to linger, and almost sated with the numerous beautiful objects demanding our attention on every side. Sight-seeing of this kind is the most fatiguing pastime both to body and brain that any one can indulge in; it is only possible to note the more important objects. We were much struck by the Scala Regia, a fine staircase by Bernini, in the centre of which is a gigantic equestrian statue of Constantine, so placed that a fine ray of light falls on it from above. This probably is typical of his conversion to Christianity.

We visited the Pauline and Sistine Chapels, the latter of which contains Michael Angelo's awful and in some sense revolting picture of the Last Judgment; and many marvellous frescoes from scripture history by the same great master. Wonderful and magnificent as these pictures are in an artistic sense, I never see depicted these imaginary "heavens and hells" without thinking—

"What is the heaven our God bestows? No prophet yet, nor angel knows; Was never yet created eye Could see across eternity."

While doing this great work, Michael Angelo was only too evidently under the bondage of the Papacy; for in this picture the Virgin Saint usurps the place of our all-sufficing, merciful, and loving Saviour. All must be saved (or lost?) only through Popes and Saints; no peace, even for the dead, without money payment! It is in the Sistine Chapel that the cardinals meet in conclave on the decease of a pope, to elect his successor.

Still we wandered on through miles of pictures and sculpture, wondering in amazement how these great men could have performed so much in a single lifetime, remembering how little—how very little, we ourselves accomplish, one day like another repeating, alas! the same sad story of "Nothing done."

Perhaps the culminating centre of these galleries is the Pinacoteca, which contains the choicest works of all. Chiefest among them is Raphael's sublime and wonderful painting of The Transfiguration. "A calm, benignant beauty shines over all this picture, and goes directly to the heart. It seems almost to call you by name. The sweet and sublime face of Jesus is beyond praise, yet how it disappoints all florid expectations! This familiar, simple, home-speaking countenance is as if one should meet a friend. The knowledge of picture-dealers has its value, but listen not to their criticisms when your heart is touched by genius. It was not painted for them; it was painted for you—for such as had eyes capable of being touched by simplicity and lofty emotions." Transcendentalists do not often indulge in remarks on material objects, but when Emerson speaks about a picture it is worth quoting.

Only second to the Transfiguration is Raphael's lovely Madonna, so full of true womanly loveliness and purity of soul—a beauty that expands the heart, and makes one feel purer and happier for having gazed thereon. The inspired aim of these great painters seems to have been to show us the marvellous love of God, and the exceeding beauty of his creation. Many of the pictures represent painful scenes of the sufferings of the early Christian martyrs. While looking at these dreadful conceptions, so truthfully portrayed, and also when visiting the Mamertine Prison, the Tarpeian Rock, and the Catacombs, I could not but feel ashamed at the miserable little sacrifices we present-day Christians are content to make for our religion. We can never be sufficiently thankful that we are no longer required to prove our faith in such a terrible and utterly self-denying way.

The sculpture-gallery came next. "Painting," says Hawthorne, "is sunlight; sculpture is moonlight." Here group after group of beautifully chiselled marble claimed our attention. The Minerva Medica, Niobe, Apollo, the Faun, the Torso Belvedere, the Apollo Belvedere, and a thousand others; above all, that miracle of ancient art—the Laocoon:

"A father's love and mortal's agony, With an immortal's patience blending:—vain The struggle; vain, against the coiling strain And gripe, and deepening of the dragon's grasp, The old man's clench; the long envenom'd chain Rivets the living links,—the enormous asp Enforces pang on pang, and stifles gasp on gasp."

By the way, both here and at St. Peter's much of the natural beauty of the nude figures is artificially covered, which certainly greatly detracts from the effect. This was done by the command of some prudish Pope, who was as surely wanting in right and pure feeling as in a proper comprehension and appreciation of art.

"The heathen Veiled their Diana with some drapery; And when they represented Venus naked They made her, by her modest attitude, Appear half clothed."

The silk tapestries in the Vatican excited our wonder and admiration. They are most beautifully worked pictures, and cover the walls over an immense area. Unfortunately, we had a nonchalant guide on this day, who was only enthusiastic over his cigarettes, and whose purely mechanical utterances exasperated one in the same degree as do the solemn old Beefeaters in our own Tower, or the garrulous, conceited guide at Notre Dame, Paris. A good cicerone can invest the most trifling objects with interest, while a bad one simply irritates one's temper and wastes precious time.

The Vatican palace is a large, ugly, barrack-like building, painted yellow, and surrounded by high walls. Here "His Holiness" lives, a self-immured prisoner, on unlimited patrol. It is an immense place. There are two courts, eight grand, and a hundred smaller staircases, and upward of a thousand rooms. Indeed, the Vatican taken as a whole, with its extensive stables, etc., resembles a small town rather than the palace of a sovereign. So that, though a "prisoner," Leo XIII. is by no means shut up in a cloister. He is, I believe, a man of the highest culture, and leads a most unselfish and simple life: frugal in his own personal expenses—the cost of his table not exceeding that of an ordinary labouring man—he is filled with an earnest desire to exercise the responsibilities of his position. One can well imagine, therefore, that the almost total deprivation from temporal power, and the neutralized allegiance of so many of his Italian subjects, must be most galling and heart-breaking to him. The Pope, indeed, is almost a nonentity at home; yet we cannot but feel that this alienation between Italy and her spiritual father is for the real good of the State. It has ever been the policy of the Papacy to keep the people in poverty and superstitious ignorance. The priesthood has shamefully failed to identify themselves with the aspirations and wants of the people, and consequently have lost all hold on their hearts. Other nations have freed themselves gradually from the yoke of Rome, so baleful in its influences to all vigorous strength and constitutional greatness. And now Italy has certainly a future before her, downtrodden in the dust as she has been for many years. Garibaldi's was the arm to raise her; his the voice to hail Victor Emmanuel with the proud title of "Re d'Italia." It is, therefore, significant of the times and of the future, that a people so susceptible of adoration and superstition as the Italians, should have lost faith in the efficacy of their priesthood, and have fairly had their eyes opened to the fact that the dignitaries of the Church have been well fed and prosperous, dwelling in gorgeous palaces, and wearing fine apparel, at the expense of the starving population, who have paid them for their prayers for the repose of their dead, for their confessions of sin, and maybe for fresh indulgence in the same. Happily, their minds are now awakening from long darkness and ignorance, to view in its true light the degrading bondage in which they have so long been content to remain passive.

Yet this supremacy of the Roman Church, before it was so grossly abused, like all other remnants of the system of the dark ages, has been of use in its day. The priesthood combined with their religious duties those faculties now known as Law, Physic, and Literature, and also supplied the place of all charitable and scholastic institutions. The Church was the nursery of Christendom, and it is only since the world has progressed in education, and arrived at manhood, that it has renounced the leading-strings of its infancy. England, Germany, and all the other Teutonic races of the north, the elder children of Europe, did this long ago; they dated their coming of age at the Reformation, and united in revolt against the grossly abused power of their nurse and foster-mother, who still sought to control their actions and destinies. They laughed at the rod of excommunication, threateningly upheld; and this once defied, the Pope and his Cardinals were fain to turn their attention exclusively to those who were still content to be under their protecting wing. But now the time has arrived once more when these also desire to emancipate themselves from thraldom. Let us hope, then, that the manhood of Italy will be a noble one, and full of earnest faith and high endeavour.

The Church of St. John Lateran, in the Piazza di St. Giovanni (on the site of the house of Plautius Lateranus, one of the conspirators against Nero), is one of the chief Basilicas. (This title of "Basilica" is only given to those churches whose foundation dates from the time of Constantine.) The five general councils known as the "Lateran Councils" were held here. It is called "The Mother and Head of all the Churches of the City and the World," and takes precedence even of St. Peter's in point of sanctity. The portico and doors are very fine, and the interior possesses much of interest; it is divided into five aisles, resting on lateral arches and pilasters. Here, in 1300, Pope Boniface VIII. proclaimed the Jubilee from the balcony, Dante being present on the occasion. The Corsini Chapel is said to be the richest in Rome, some half a million sterling having been squandered on it. There are some very fine mosaics and paintings by Guido, Sacchi, and others. Like most of the churches, it has a great many legends attaching to it to enhance its interest. Among other pretended relics shown here are two pillars from the temple of Jerusalem, the well of Samaria, and the table used at the Last Supper. The Scala Santa, or holy stairs, on the palace side of the church, and detached from it, are composed of twenty-eight black marble steps, said to have belonged to the palace of Pontius Pilate at Jerusalem. Penitents ascend these steps on their knees (no foot being allowed to touch them), praying as they go, in order to visit a sanctorum at the top, which contains a portrait of the Saviour, painted, so the priests tell us, by St. Luke at twelve years of age. They descend by other steps, and thus they acquire so many days' or years' indulgence. An Englishman, a fellow-traveller, told me that he had ascended the steps as described, not being allowed to do otherwise, and he found it very sore work for his poor knees—and "Serve him right," thought I. In one of the adjoining chapels of this church an attendant sells pictures and relics. There is no real reverence here for sanctity of the House of God, as is shown by thus turning it into a house of merchandize, and also by the vile and unpleasant habit indulged in of spitting all over the beautiful mosaic and marble floors.

The Borgo Novice is the finest street in this part of the city.



CHAPTER XII.

Excursion to Tivoli—Sulphur baths—Memories—Temple of the Sybil—River Anio—Lovely scenery—Back to Rome—Post-office—Careless officials—The everlasting "Weed"—Climate of Rome—Discomforts and disappointments— Young Italy—Leo XIII.—Italian Politics—Cessation of Brigandage—The new city—American church—Italian Times—Departure for Naples—Regrets —The Three Taverns—A picturesque route—Naples by night.

"'Midst Tivoli's luxuriant glades, Bright foaming falls, and olive shades, Where dwelt in days departed long The sons of battle and of song, No tree, no shrub, its foliage rears But o'er the wrecks of other years, Temples and domes, which long have been The soil of that enchanted scene. There the wild fig tree and the vine O'er Hadrian's mouldering Villa twine; The cypress in funeral grace Usurps the vanished column's place; O'er fallen shrine and ruined frieze The wall-flower rustles in the breeze; Acanthus leaves the marble hide They once adorned in sculptured pride; And Nature hath resumed her throne O'er the vast works of ages flown."

One morning we took the steam tramcar to Tivoli. I think there was one first and one second-class carriage attached to the locomotive. We travelled at the rate of about nine miles an hour, Tivoli, some twenty miles off, situated right up among the beautiful distant hills, being reached in about an hour and a half. Here the wealthy Romans used to go to enjoy the beauty of Nature, and to rest after the cares of State.

We first came to the great sulphur baths about half-way. The white sulphurous stream was employed to turn a wheel for cutting slate or marble, and thence flowed into large and handsome buildings to supply the baths. A few ladies got out here to enjoy the luxury, and await the return of the train to Rome. Then away we went again till we reached the next station, Villa Adriana, once a splendid palace of the Emperor Hadrian's, now an extensive circle of overgrown ruins. It embraced everything beautiful in art and nature which its founder had seen and collected in the course of his expeditions, and was altogether three miles long and one wide: it comprised a great Lyceum, an Academy, an Egyptian Serapeon, a Vale of Tempe, several theatres, baths, barracks, hippodrome, etc., the sites of which can be pretty easily traced. The statuary and marbles found here are now dispersed among different museums. Two English ladies got out to sketch, sending their servants on to Tivoli to prepare their lodgings. We proceeded upwards, winding through groves of beautiful sombre olives, the light shining on their silvery-tinted leaves; and as we wound round the sharp curves we caught the full beauty of the great plains below, discovering every moment some new and lovely prospect over the Campagna; Rome lying far away in the distance, and the mountains towering above our heads. The Romans were right in seeking this beautiful retreat as their summer abode. Yes, this is Tivoli—the ancient Tibur, the favourite resort of Scipio, AEmilianus, Marius, Maecenas, and other great and eminent men. Augustus and Horace came here to visit Maecenas; and here, too, Queen Zenobia spent a pleasant banishment.

At length we came to the end of our journey, and entered the Tivoli station, where there were plenty of carriages and guides awaiting us. We lingered at one gap in the mountains, through which there was a most magnificent view of the country around. Just below we saw some old ruins which had evidently been turned into a factory of some kind—the property, I believe, of the Napoleon family. Then we went to an hotel, high up on the brow of the cliff, on the ruined site of the ancient Sibyl's Temple. There are still some fine columns standing, under which we sat for a time to admire the lovely and romantic scenery, the beautiful grottoes in the abysses and glens below, in the valley of the Anio. Only ten of the eighteen Corinthian pillars of this temple now remain. Soane has imitated this architectural relic at the Moorgate Street corner of the Bank of England. Lord Bristol would have brought the original to London had he been allowed to remove it.

Around on the heights, one is told, "There was Maecenas' villa, there Sallust's, and there Horace's," but I believe the truth is doubtful, though the positions are such as might have been chosen for their commanding beauty.

Nearly opposite the Temple of the Sibyl, and across this romantic chasm, the river Anio tumbles over the cliffs in a magnificent volume of water, throwing out beautiful rainbows across the glen by its radiated vapour:

"The green steep whence Anio leaps In floods of snow-white foam."

Lower down there is another smaller stream, and the two form tumultuous rapids among the rocks below, ultimately finding their way through a vast cavern-like opening to the plains of the Campagna, and probably at last find the Tiber. There is a zigzag pathway leading down to the deep valley, and we stood so close to the basin into which the water fell that we were covered with the spray and almost deafened by the roar. All around the sides of this glen, inside the numerous caves, and among the jutting rocks were most beautiful maidenhair ferns; and on the mossy terraces and banks, violets and lilies grew in luxuriant profusion. The violets were exceedingly large and full of perfume, and we found, on pulling some of them up, that they had immense bulbs; we took some of the delicate little ferns and violet bulbs away as mementoes of this lovely spot—[F]

"Where little caves were wreathed So thick with leaves and mosses, that they seem'd Large honeycombs of green, and freshly teemed With airs delicious."

We thought perhaps these violets and lilies were planted originally by the hands of some fair Roman maiden or matron centuries ago.

The Anio has most extraordinary petrifying properties. We saw whole trunks of trees petrified like rocks, and our guide gave me a mass of stones and leaves perfectly solid, but with every vein and stem beautifully defined and marked. This enchanting series of glens and grottoes was most probably the work of the distinguished Romans who resided here, and employed their leisure in improving the natural beauties of the place.

We had not time to visit the Cathedral and other buildings of interest. The former was built on the ruins of the Temple of Hercules, which once stood there. The Church of the Madonna di Quintiliolo is near the remains of the villa of Quintilius Varus, on a hill facing that of Maecenas. Near the Roman gate are remains of an octagon temple or tomb, known as Tosse; there is a Roman bridge near Ponte Celio, also a fine old castle built by Pius II. Massive remains of the Claudian aqueduct are to be seen here and there. The tramcar train was ready to start on the return journey at about 3.30, so we were obliged to leave this beautiful and interesting place. We got back to Rome at about 5.30. This was a most enjoyable excursion, and we should have been glad to remain longer, but it was our last day in the Eternal City, which we were now leaving with regret.

The Post and Telegraph Offices at Rome are beautifully situated; the walls are frescoed with Italian art, and overlook a square of tropical gardens. Altogether it seemed more like an Arcadian Temple than a post-office. I found by experience that this was so, for, although I had given the name of our hotel for all letters to be forwarded to me, I was greatly annoyed to find a large budget had been awaiting me for some days, especially as it included a telegram from London. I fancy that the everlasting "weed" has much to do with this dreamy forgetfulness of important duty. Even in the Government department the cigarette seems as necessary as the pen; from morning till night it is rarely laid aside.

Some of the hotels in Rome we thought very expensive; but the Hotel de Ville is moderate, comfortable, and altogether satisfactory.

We found the weather too chilly to be pleasant at that time of the year, and there was a fair quantity of rain, usually lasting about two days; but the atmosphere was generally fresh and healthy, and some days were warm, bright, and sunny. I should think February, March, and early April the most agreeable months to spend there. The mornings are the best part of the day: excursions to various places of interest should be accomplished by 4 p.m.

I fancy many travellers expose themselves to fever, and other ills, by neglecting to take proper nourishment at regular hours—in their forgetfulness of health—when occupied in "sight-seeing." They should make it a rule to commence the day by a good substantial breakfast, instead of the French coffee and rolls in their bedroom, as is mostly the custom; at midday, always taking care to have luncheon at their hotel or the nearest cafe. Again, they cannot be too particular about overcoats and other warm garments; for the marble-paved, unwarmed churches are extremely chilling, and so are even the streets on the shady side, at this time of the year (January). There is little doubt that Papal and Old Rome, where most of the visitors reside, is over-crowded and badly drained, and hence subject to typhoid and other fevers. It is therefore to be hoped that they will prefer the more healthful and modern quarter of the city, New Italy, near the railway station. Under any circumstances, they cannot be too careful as to the water they drink being properly filtered.

The bulk of the inhabitants live closely packed between the Corso and the Tiber, some in fine palaces, splendid indeed, yet with little comfort, the rest in small and miserable dwellings. These latter, at least, will doubtless disappear in time as the population gradually become aware of the expediency of rebuilding this quarter of the city, some parts of which offer striking contrasts of gorgeous splendour and squalid misery. Whiteside, speaking of a traveller's impression on arriving at Rome, says, "Whithersoever he turns his eager steps he is alternately delighted and disgusted: the majestic remains of a great antiquity he wishes to examine with accuracy, but he stands in the midst of inconceivable filth. He turns to the churches, sacred in the eyes of Christians, but not safe from defilement in the City of Churches. He notes on the map numerous piazze, which he imagines to be fine squares, clean, if not splendid; and he observes, with few exceptions, that they resemble waste ground reserved for the rubbish of a great city."

It is pleasant to turn to the long-deserted Eastern quarter of Rome, where an entirely new city is being erected since the Italian occupation. We may yet hope to see Rome worthy of her past greatness.

"His Holiness" Pope Leo XIII. has lately issued, from his small isolated world within the walls of the Vatican, a most extraordinary letter, addressed to Cardinal Antonius di Luca, John Baptiste Petra, and Joseph Herzenroether, in which he shows the world at large that he has no eye for anything but the claims of the Church, and would fain have mankind believe that the temporal government of the Popes has been an unappreciated blessing, and far superior to that of any other, and to the present government of United Free Italy under the constitutional sway of King Humbert, in particular. Since 1859 the Italians of what was once known as the States of the Church, have been deprived of this great blessing of the Pontifical rule, and with what dire results let us examine.

During the period between the expulsion of King Bombina from the throne of the two Sicilies by the Garibaldians, and the evacuation of the Eternal City by the French in 1870, a brigand warfare was carried on, if not under the immediate auspices of the Pope and his Cardinals, at least with their secret support and connivance. Now, after little more than a decade of constitutional rule, brigandage has almost disappeared from the face of the land, and travellers are comparatively safe.

When Victor Emmanuel and the Italian troops entered Rome and took possession of it as the Capital of Italy, free from the Alps to Taranto, they found it a city of ruins, squalor, and hardly habitable in a sanitary point of view. Interesting, of course, to the traveller from its wealth of splendid relics of the past and vast treasures of art, but as undesirable for residence as the Upas Valley. Now what does the traveller see? A prosperous and happy population; a new city rapidly rising on the site of the ancient "Queen of the world," with all the conveniences, appliances, and luxuries of a modern European city. Magnificent new streets and boulevards, lined with buildings equal to any in Paris or London—streets traversed by tramways, and brilliantly lighted by gas; with shops and magazines, as in other great continental capitals. An energetic Government and municipality have planned and are carrying out vast improvements, that bid fair in a few years to render modern Rome not only equal to the Rome of the Caesars in beauty and magnificence, but as desirable a residence from a sanitary point of view as any other city of its size.

It is proposed to embank the famous old Tiber; and already the squalid quarter of the Ghetto has been invaded by the workmen, who are levelling the wretched dwellings that have for so many ages rendered its name a byword throughout the world, preparatory to the erection of new buildings. So greatly has Rome already improved, that instead of travellers paying it a hurried visit merely for the sake of its art treasures, and hastening away as from a plague-stricken city, great numbers of English and Americans make it their head-quarters for many months. Both countries have now their own churches, a fact above all others proving the vast change that has taken place since Italy has been free from foreign and papal yokes. King Humbert observed, that no greater proof of the faith England and America had in the stability of Italian constitution could be given, than the building of these churches. Not only have the Anglo-Saxons their churches in Rome, but their newspaper also; and the Italian Times, a weekly paper printed in English and published in Rome, is another evidence of what Italian freedom now is. This paper, which is a staunch advocate of all improvements, especially to those relating to sanitation, boldly takes for its motto—"Independent in all things, neutral in none."

When all the contemplated improvements are carried out, there will be no more delightful or healthy residence for six or eight months in the year than this poor unfortunate city of Rome, that has been for the last dozen years deprived of the blessings(?) of Pontifical and Cardinalite government.

Happy indeed would be the condition of our own poor unhappy Ireland could she also cast off the bondage and evil influences of the Papacy; for then her gifted people would become industrious, intelligent and loyal subjects, as the Protestant communities of Ireland are.

We found our nine days' visit all too short; it was but a race and scamper at best, and we regretted our inability to visit all the objects of interest in this city of museums and art galleries. The days at Rome are very short, as most places where there is an entrance-fee (and there are few without), are only open between the hours of ten and three. This may be a profitable arrangement for the doorkeepers, but it is difficult to see much in five hours.

The morning of our departure from Rome arrived at last, and we sighed at the thoughts of having missed so much, and seen so little.

"The grandeur of Rome Could I leave it unseen, and nor yield to regret? With a hope (and no more) for a season to come Which ne'er may discharge the magnificent debt? Thou fortunate region! whose greatness inurned, Awoke to new life from its ashes and dust; Twice-glorified fields! if in sadness I turned From your infinite marvels, the sadness was just."

Ancient Roma and the remains of her past greatness will ever be impressed upon our memories. An empire once so mighty, the Mistress of the World; then for so long desolate and entombed, a city of ruins; and now, phoenix-like, rising rapidly from her ashes, and preparing as "Young Italy" to take her place as a power among the other nations of Europe, many of whom have already welcomed her as a sister.

* * * * *

On the morning of the 26th of January we left Rome for Naples, some 163 miles by railway.

For many miles we travelled almost in a direct line, and on a level plain through the Campagna, close to one of the great aqueducts, and with the Via Appia always following in the distance, until we passed the first station, Gaimpino, when we crossed this fine old Roman road, and wound round the base of the hills. We saw an almost endless succession of ruins—the tombs of Pompey, Dominician, and many others of the conquerors and arbiters of the world in bygone times. Then through Albano and Curioli, from which Coriolanus obtained his famous surname. Among the hills we caught glimpses every now and then of the Campagna, bright with heather; and sometimes, also, of the blue sea beyond.

We next passed through Civita Lavinia, near the site of Lanuvium, the birthplace of Antoninus Pius. The Via Appia here strikes across the Pontine marshes. Velletri, the site of an old city of the Volscians, and the birthplace of Augustus, is picturesquely situated half-way up Monte Arriano in the Alban Hills. Its raised walls were built by Coriolanus. Here the railway, leaving the old route towards the Naples frontier and along the Appian Way, strikes inland among the hills. Not far from this spot, on the old Appian coach road, is "Tres Tabernae," or "Three Taverns," where St Paul met the brethren after his landing at Puteoli. This old road is so full of interest, that we hope to be able to travel by it more leisurely on a future occasion—especially as brigandage, once a common occurrence, is now a thing of the past, since Italy is under a strong and honest government.

The whole route is grandly picturesque, circling round mountains and hills, and through romantic passes; churches and towers finely pinnacled on the summits and situated here and there on the slopes. The ancient Romans made these places their summer residences, enclosing the wild and wooded parts as hunting-grounds, and the more beautiful spots near the shore as luxurious health resorts.

Travelling as usual second-class, and therefore by a slow train, the journey was rather long. En route we were allowed ample time for luncheon at one of the stations. In a former chapter, I mentioned how greatly wanting in necessary comfort the French railway stations were, especially for ladies. Here in Italy I think it is, if possible, worse still. It is really a scandal and disgrace that, while reaping so much benefit from the stream of visitors from every part of the world, proper accommodation is not provided for them. This is really a great evil, and should certainly be attended to by the proper authorities without delay.

After eight hours' journey we came through a bold pass suddenly in full view of the sea coast, then wound round towards Naples from the south. In the dusk of the evening, we looked forth to see—

"How night hath hushed the clamour and the stir Of the tumultuous streets. The cloudless moon Roofs the whole city as with tiles of silver; The dim mysterious sea in silence sleeps; And straight into the air Vesuvius lifts His plume of smoke."

[F] Many of these are now flourishing with friends in North Wales.



CHAPTER XIII.

Naples—Bristol Hotel—Via Roma—King Bomba's time—Deterioration of the Neapolitans—Museum—Churches—The Opera-house—English and Italian beauty—Aquarium—Vesuvius—Excursion to Pompeii—Portici—A novel mode of grooming—The entombed city—Its disinterment—Museum, streets, and buildings—Remarks—A cold drive.

The first thing we experienced on reaching Naples was the inveterate habit of begging and cheating among the lower classes. Our carriage-driver began by asking three times the amount of the usual fare for driving us to our hotel, and the whole of the way along never once desisted from trying to persuade us that we must pay what he had asked, and perhaps a little more. There was another fellow seated by him on the box, evidently a "hanger-on" and friend of his, who had come with the hopes that we should believe he had carried our luggage to the carriage, and was therefore entitled to something. These Neapolitan beggars are as importunate and persistent as a swarm of gnats, and it is almost impossible to get rid of them; however, on reaching the hotel, I requested our landlord to pay the driver the right fare, and so got quit of the nuisance for that time at least. It is a good plan, as a rule, for travellers to let the landlord of the hotel arrange for their carriage hire.

We found "the Bristol" a very comfortable hotel, and happily secured a room on the third floor, with a verandah. The situation being on high ground above the town, on the Corso Vittorio Emmanuele, we had a fine view of the whole of the city and harbour below, the glorious bay beyond, and the great smoking Vesuvius on our left. There were several other hotels on the same heights, and also a comfortable pension establishment kept by a Scotch lady. I believe this is considered the healthiest part of Naples.

The weather opened finely the next morning; the sky a pretty pale blue, and the sea calm and beautiful. The bay stretching boldly round on either side; the city clustering on the shores and up the slopes of the hills, the busy harbour lying in the foreground, terraced gardens all around;—

"And yonder, see! as if in throes of death,— Vesuvius wreaths her foul Plutonic breath."

Yet I must confess that on the whole I was disappointed. I thought of the lovely coast scenery around Monaco and Monte Carlo, and felt that they exceeded in beauty the famous bay before me. The fact is, some people rave about certain places without exactly knowing the reason why, simply because it happens to be the correct thing to do so. "See Naples and then die," is a common saying: we felt quite contented to "see Naples" and go on living. I cannot but think the place has been overrated, though I will admit that we did not see it at its best, and that perhaps in the full glow of a summer sun it may equal the rapturous descriptions that have been given of it. Certainly the beauties of Nature are not appreciated by all alike, mind and sentiment influencing us differently.

The English church was a few hundred feet below us, across the road, through the hotel gardens. This road is a new one, and extends some miles along the slope of the hills overlooking the town, and leads from the extreme end of the city right round to the other side of the coast promenade. The principal street is the Via Roma, where there are some fairly good shops. I should say that lambskin gloves, which seem a speciality, cameos, and corals are the only things worth buying here. Some of the cameos cut on the natural shell are very beautiful and unique.

Naples was an exceedingly gay city in the time of King Bomba, and as long as it was the seat of government. It is still said to be the gayest city in Italy, and there certainly seems to be a great pursuit after pleasure. Excepting with those who have business to look after, life scarcely begins till about three o'clock in the afternoon, when the carriages roll about, up the Via Roma, and along the Riviera di Chiaja, by the sea, which is the Rotten Row of Naples. In the time of Bomba's despotism the people really had little else to do than to amuse themselves, for they had then practically no voice or interest in the government of the two Sicilies, and so became careless, luxurious, and indolent—content to live idly on their hereditary means, smoke, gossip, sip their chocolate, eat their macaroni, roll about in their carriages, and wind up their monotonous and useless day at their earthly paradise, the opera, where they gossiped and flirted to their hearts' content. In consequence of this manner of life, the men have become effeminate, and the women have little left of that characteristic grace and beauty that once so distinguished the Neapolitans.

So far as I have seen, in France, Italy, and elsewhere, I am proud of my own countrywomen. In grace, dignity, purity, and beauty, they are pre-eminent, morally, mentally, and physically: an Englishwoman only fulfils my idea of—

"A perfect woman, nobly planned, To warm, to comfort, and command; And yet a spirit still, and bright With something of an angel light."

It was, therefore, with surprise that I gazed upon the canvases and statues of the old masters, and wondered where they obtained their exquisitely lovely models. From history we know that the women of Greece and Rome were noble specimens of their sex, and worthy of imitation; but if in later times, Correggio, Titian, and Fra Angelico, took their models from among their own countrywomen, how lamentably the present race must have deteriorated since their time!

The Museum of Naples is a very interesting one, and well repays a careful examination of its contents. Unfortunately it closes at four, but whenever we had an hour to spare during the day, we felt there could be no mistake in repairing thither. I believe it has not its equal in the world. Perhaps in statuary and painting the Vatican carries off the palm, but scarcely, I think, in other treasures. "Here are united the older and more recent collections belonging to the Crown; the Farnese collection from Rome and Parma; those of Portici and Capodimonte; and the excavated treasures of Herculaneum, Pompeii, Stabiae, and Cumae. These united collections now form one of the finest in the world: the Pompeiian antiquities and objects of art in particular, as well as the bronzes from Herculaneum, are unrivalled."

Here we saw the Farnese Bull group, the largest ancient piece of sculpture in Italy. We saw also the Farnese Hercules, a magnificent figure, and the Gladiatorial Prize-fighters; both groups are wonderful portrayals of animal strength and manly courage. The mosaics and frescoes are very beautiful; and there are some wonderfully preserved Egyptian mummies, which, in their double casings or coffins, after two thousand years, still defy the ravages of time, the teeth and nails in many cases being quite perfect. The Pompeiian collection was especially interesting to us, perhaps because, although so ancient, their discovery has been of such comparatively recent date. Many of the bodies of those who perished have been wonderfully recovered and preserved in the very posture in which death so suddenly overtook and entombed them some eighteen centuries ago. Every little detail of dress and drapery has been preserved in a really wonderful manner by Florelli's process of pouring liquid plaster into the mould formed by the lava in which the body was encased, and which had retained every line and fold of face and drapery; as soon as the plaster hardened, the mould was lifted off with the greatest precaution, and on the lava and ashes being removed, a perfect cast of the living figure it had once contained appeared.

We regarded these painful figures with deep and mournful interest. There was one of a woman, apparently of the poorer classes, who had been overtaken by the deadly shower while endeavouring to save a young girl, probably her daughter; the coarse texture of their raiment is distinctly visible, and the smooth, rounded arms of the little maid may be discerned through the rent sleeves. Another stately figure, evidently a Roman matron, has gathered together her little treasures, with which she hopes to escape; her draperies, disordered and caught up at one side, display limbs of sculptured beauty. An aged man—apparently an invalid from the thin and shrunken extremities—rests with his head leaning on his hand exactly as he was overtaken by the fearful storm of pumice and lava. These and many others were buried while yet alive, their features plainly telling of the agonizing thoughts that flashed across their minds at the moment of death, and every detail about them telling of the hurriedness of their attempted flight.

The collection of old coins in this Museum, is, I believe, the finest in the world, and the cabinets of ancient gems and crystals are exceedingly beautiful. Then there is the library of papyri—rolls found at Herculaneum, and a perfect model of the city of Pompeii. There are also many other rooms full of interesting relics of the two unfortunate cities—wonderful works of art in crystal, stone, and bronze, much of which cannot even be imitated in the present day. Altogether this Museum is a very temple of ancient treasure, and should make us humble in the knowledge that we now possess.

We visited the Aquarium, which is quite unique in its way, and one of the finest in the world. Here, in a series of great glass tanks, we saw collected all the marvellous wonder and beauty of the great deep, every branch and species of sea creature from the coral and the sponge to the highest form of marine life. The most wonderful thing of all, we thought, and certainly the most novel to us, was a kind of animated purple thread, which spun itself out to such an extent that there was only a long cobweb left perceptible; this, floating about, after a time showed extraordinary muscular strength and energy, gathering itself together into a compact purple tassell or worm. The jelly-fish were also remarkably beautiful, with their graceful movements and purple glancing hues. This Aquarium certainly gave us a little comprehension of the marvellous beauty of oceanic life.

Of the 250 churches at Naples, few possess a great amount of interest, though some of them are well worth visiting. The Duomo San Gennaro, in the Strada del Duomo, is a large and handsome Cathedral. It is built on the sites of the temples of Neptune and Apollo, and contains several tombs of great men. It is here that the supposed miracle of the liquefaction of the blood of St. Januarius is "performed" twice or thrice a year.

One evening we went to the grand Teatro Reale di San Carlo, paying sixteen shillings for a couple of Pit tickets. It is an immense house, supposed to be the largest in the world, gorgeously decorated, with six tiers of boxes, and capable of holding several thousand people. There was not a large audience, however, and as I looked round, eager to discover some of the living ideals of Italian loveliness, I was disappointed to find that but few of the Neapolitan ladies possessed any commanding grace or beauty, neither did their dress betoken much refinement of taste. As the theatre is the time and place for the fair sex to shine its brightest, I took this as a convincing proof that my previous strictures on Italian beauty were not unjust or uncharitable. The opera, which chanced to be "Lucia di Lammermoor," was very good, both vocally and instrumentally, and the dancing was clever and graceful, but to our English eye bordering on the immodest; the spectators, however, greatly applauded it, and probably they were the best judges.

Vesuvius smoked continually during the day, and occasionally shot forth lurid flames into the darkness of the night. We had a capital view of his volcanic performances from our hotel windows, and found it interesting to watch his eccentric ebullitions. Most of our fellow-travellers made the ascent, but as we did not intend to make any stay in Naples—my wife being anxious to pay a long-promised visit to her sister in Malta—we decided to defer the expedition to some future occasion, particularly as we wished to make an excursion to Pompeii, the collection at the museum having greatly interested us and aroused our curiosity. Nowadays the ascent of Vesuvius is no great climb; its four thousand feet are quickly traversed by the funicular railway, which takes visitors nearly the entire distance.

Up to this time the weather had been just comfortably warm, but suddenly the wind shifted to the north-east, and blew bitterly cold. Unfortunately, it was the very day of our proposed visit to Pompeii, and as it was our last day in Naples, we were unable to defer it for more favourable weather.

The drive is some eighteen miles, and no amount of rugs and wraps seemed to protect us from the piercing wintry wind, and keep us warm.

Circling round the southern part of the bay, which is very crowded and somewhat dirty, the sloping shores being lined with macaroni manufactories, we soon passed through the ancient town of Portici, which was once a place of considerable importance, and possesses a royal palace built by Charles III., and adorned with pictures and frescoes from Pompeii, and a museum of statues, arms, bronzes, and furniture taken from the buried city. We next passed Herculaneum, and the town of Resina, which is built over it; Vesuvius and the hilly country on our left, and handsome suburban villas built on lava beds sloping down to the sea on our right. The road, being cut through the original stream of lava, was covered by the traffic with a thick white dust, which did not by any means conduce to our comfort, for the nipping wind blew it up into our faces in clouds, and the glare, caused by the occasional bursts of sunshine, was exceedingly trying to the eyes. We were not sorry to come to the end of our cold, two hours' journey, and find a cheerful wood fire blazing in the little Pompeiian restaurant by which to warm our half-frozen feet, and also something welcome in the way of refreshment. Our little wiry horse had certainly done his duty, and deserved our gratitude. We found the town pretty full of visitors who had driven up, and there were continual fresh arrivals. Therefore, we soon moved away to secure a guide to the erst entombed city. We had been much amused, watching the novel mode of refreshment indulged in by the active little animal that had so speedily brought us on our journey. He had been unharnessed and taken to a bare spot thickly covered with dark lava sand. This he seemed greatly to appreciate, for, after pawing the ground gratefully for a few moments, down he went, and commenced rolling himself over and over with great energy; by-and-by he rose like a giant refreshed, and fell to on his provender most voraciously. This scene reminded me of one I had often witnessed at the Cape of Good Hope, where sand is often similarly used as an excellent and economical substitute for grooming—the sand absorbs the perspiration, and is most refreshing to the poor beasts.

Passing up the hillside through a little plantation at the back of the restaurant, we soon came to the military station of specially selected soldiers, who have the care of the ruins and at the same time act as guides to the visitors. Fortunately, we chanced upon a very intelligent and obliging fellow, who spoke English fluently—a sergeant, who, without being loquacious, was sufficiently communicative to make an agreeable companion and cicerone.

Paying an entrance-fee of two lire each, we passed through the turnstile, and were soon quite absorbed in the ruins around us. The Italian Government, bearing all the expense of disentombing Pompeii, probably look to recoup themselves by the entrance-fees of the numerous visitors who flock to see the long-buried city.

We saw gangs of men and boys clearing away great mounds of pumice and dark lava mould from the ancient streets, which had not seen the light for eighteen centuries, and over which the vine had been planted, and the corn had waved through many generations. It has been demonstrated by an examination of the older crater, that in the great eruption of A.D. 79 Vesuvius first threw up its superficial contents—and, in fact, the very crust of the mountain itself, which, being of a light friable nature, blew over to the more distant city of Pompeii, accompanied by showers of hot water—and it was after this first outbreak that a flood of molten lava poured in a torrent over the nearer city, and enfolded Herculaneum in a bed of rock. There is evidence that Pompeii had been warned of the impending disaster by an earthquake; we have no means yet of knowing whether Herculaneum received a similar warning, but the probability is that it was overwhelmed with awful suddenness.

Pompeii now reposes on an elevated grassy plain, partly encircled by fine ranges of hills, which on the eastern side stretch out towards Castellamare, and at the present time have one or two of their loftiest summits topped with snow. It is now some two or three miles from the sea, which is supposed to have receded at the time of the eruption, for Pompeii, when entombed, was a fashionable watering-place. It was here that Senator Livinius Regulus fixed his residence when banished from Rome in 59; and we learn from Suetonius, that the emperor Claudius had a villa here. He mentions it incidentally as the place where the Emperor's little son died in a singular manner: the child threw a pear up in the air, and caught it in his mouth, and, before any one could come to his assistance, died from choking.

Pompeii was rediscovered in 1748, by Don Rocca Alcubura, Spanish Colonel of Engineers. "Nearly seventeen centuries had rolled away when it was disinterred from its silent tomb, all vivid with undimmed hues—its walls fresh as if painted yesterday; scarcely a hue faded on the rich mosaic of its floors. In its forum the half-finished columns as left by the workman's hands, in its gardens the sacrificial tripod, in its halls the chest of treasure, in its baths the strigil, in its theatres the counter of admission, in its saloons the furniture and the lamp, in its triclinia the fragments of the last feast, in its cubicula the perfumes and the rouge of faded beauty—and everywhere the bones and skeletons of those who once moved the springs of that minute yet gorgeous machine of luxury and of life." The process of disentombment was not proceeded with very rapidly at first; it lingered on, in not too skilful hands, till Garibaldi appointed Alexandre Dumas as superintendent of the work in 1860. This, however, did not improve matters; the great novelist lived at Naples in first-rate style on the liberal income allowed him, and after one visit to the scene of operation, left the work to take care of itself. All was changed, however, under the regime of Signor Florelli, who united the most enthusiastic interest in the work to eminent skill and unwearied patience. Since he undertook the management, the excavations have been made on a scale, and with a care, that will soon exhaust whatever objects still remain buried under the ashes.

Our guide first took us into the Museum, where we saw under glass cases some of the Pompeiian corpses, so wonderfully preserved by the plaster of Paris process, described in our visit to the Museum at Naples; also many other most interesting mementoes of the buried city, too numerous to mention. From thence we roamed out into the deserted streets:

"I stood within the city disinterred; And heard the autumnal leaves like light footfalls Of spirits passing through the streets; and heard The Mountain's slumberous voice at intervals Thrill through those roofless walls."

The roofless state of the houses seems to have been caused, partly by the weight of matter which collected on them, and also from the fact of their being principally composed of wood, which was burnt by the red-hot stones that fell in showers from the burning mountain. There was, however, always sufficient of the building remaining to tell whether it had been a shop or a private residence, and, if the former, to distinguish what particular business had been carried on there: for instance, we found the bakers' ovens nearly perfect; while the wine-shops had great stone pitchers of the "Ali Baba" kind sunk into the counter, for cooling purposes, with the necks just showing above. The money-changers' shops were all marked by some such inscription as "Money is the thing worshipped here" (nothing new under the sun, thought I). Then there were the baths, arranged on the Roman principle (that which is erroneously known in the present day as the Turkish system), with rooms for graduated temperature, and all the conveniences for heating-places and niches for ointments and unguents, etc., to be used after the luxury of the bath. The private dwellings were most attractive, with their frescoed chambers, fountains, and open courts. Few of the houses had any windows; the light probably being admitted from the roof above, and reflected from the marble tanks of water in the centre of the court. But even under this hypothesis, I cannot help thinking the ancients had some other means of catching the light and diffusing it in their apartments, in some such manner as the Chappuis' reflectors we now use, though no certain evidence is yet forthcoming that they did so. There were places of amusement, and even places of vice, all distinctly noted: the Chalcidicum or Hall of Justice, the Street of the Tombs, Senate-houses, schools, Forums, and Temples, amphitheatres and coliseums—principally, of course, mere ruins, but still showing great beauty of design and finish. Most of the walls had evidently been veneered with marble about an inch or two thick; and there was, in some of the rooms, space left between the walls for heating purposes. It is said that at the time of the eruption Pompeii was still unfinished, indeed, that the preceding earthquake had interrupted the Romans in beautifying the city: there were pointed out to us several columns and buildings that had evidently been prepared for the veneering process, and never been completed. Many of the mosaic floors are in fine preservation, as are also the paintings and frescoes on the walls. One beautiful little shrine or grotto made of mosaics and shells is singularly interesting and unique.

The streets, which were all made on the slant for draining purposes, are very narrow, just wide enough for one carriage or chariot to pass up at a time. They are paved with lava stone, which is bleached white with the rain, and has been preserved so by its long entombment; here and there in the centre are raised oval stones, not interfering with the traffic, and affording convenient stepping-stones to foot-passengers during wet weather. When a chariot entered one of these streets, the word was quickly passed, to prevent another entering at the other end until it had gone through, and this was supposed to be the duty of the owners of the little shops on each side of the way.

On such a nipping day, it was impossible to help thinking how cold the place must have been with so much marble and cold water about; but the theory is, that the climate has very much changed since the days of Glaucus and Ione. When at Rome, our guide told us that even within his recollection the temperature there had altered considerably, and had become much colder.

It seemed a great pity to spend only a few hours among these most interesting ruins; but as we were obliged to get back to Naples by evening, to be ready for our departure for Sicily on the morrow, we did not stop at Herculaneum on our return, as had been our intention; it was really so cold during the return drive that we were quite thankful when we sighted our hotel once more. We made a mental resolve, however, to pay a longer visit to Naples some day, and take our time over visiting the two buried cities and other places of interest that we were obliged to miss on the present occasion.



CHAPTER XIV.

Unprecedented cold of 1883—Departure from Naples—Virgil's Tomb—Journey to Messina—Italy's future—Scylla and Charybdis—Beautiful Messina—The Electrico—Malta—Knight Crusaders—Maltese society—An uncommon fish— An earthquake at sea—Journey to Palermo—Picturesque scenery—Etna—Among the mountains—The lights of Palermo.

There seems to have been quite an unprecedented winter in the Mediterranean this year (1883). Marseilles, Cannes, Nice, Mentone, Genoa, and other places, were all affected by the extreme and unusual cold—Stromboli, and even Etna, were quite capped with snow, while in the north of Europe the weather was comparatively mild. It was rather unfortunate for us that it should have been so; having travelled to escape the cold in our own island home, we had certainly not bargained for it pursuing us wherever we went. The residents, more particularly the poor of these semi-tropical places, were much to be pitied for the uncommon severity with which these bleak and cutting winds visited them. As a rule, Naples is considered tonic and bracing, not unlike Brighton, and is exceedingly pleasant in late summer and autumn, but in the early part of the year is trying to delicate persons. I do not think it is a healthy place for continual residence, for the sewerage and water supply are both very defective, and the place is over-crowded by a population anything but clean in its habits. This, and the begging, cheating propensities of the lower classes, go very far to counterbalance its natural beauty of situation, and I was obliged to confess myself decidedly disappointed in the Naples of which I had heard and expected so much.

The hotel expenses are much the same as at Rome, and no matter how you try to economize and cut down expenditure, you will find, when you arrive home and tot up the figures, that the average amount per day, travelling included, is no less than L1 for each person. You may of course forego wines, etc., but in so doing you take your chance of being poisoned with the water, which is very bad here, and which no one seems to think of filtering or improving in any way. This is a great pity, and it is to be hoped that the matter will soon receive a due amount of attention, and that means will be taken to secure an adequate supply of pure water, without which no place can really be considered healthy.

We remained at Naples in all five days, and on January 25th left for Messina, from whence my wife was to make her journey to Malta, and remain with her sister, awaiting my return to the south, for I found my presence was required in London for a short time.

We felt genuine regret and compunction at being obliged to leave the "Queen of the summer sea" without paying our devoirs at the tomb of Virgil, father of Latin poets. The last resting-place of the "dead king of melody"—he who, in his own words, "sung of shepherds, fields, and heroes' deeds" (cecini pascua, rura, duces)—lies "shadowed by the wild ivy," in the road leading from Naples to Puteoli:

"Ivy and flowers have half o'ergrown And veiled his low sepulchral stone: Yet still the spot is holy still, Celestial footsteps mount the hill."

We had unfortunately been unable to make any excursions in this direction, owing to our limited time.

The railway journey to Messina is both tedious and expensive, we therefore secured berths in one of the Florio line of steamers. The day of our departure was enjoyably warm and sunny—though perhaps a little too warm to be pleasant in the dirty and crowded harbour of Naples, which is the chief lounging-place of all the idlers and beggars of the city; yet under this burst of summer sunshine Naples was in smiles again, and we saw something of her natural beauty.

By the time the crowds of boatmen had done quarrelling with one another to secure our fare, we were glad to get away from their Babel, and get on board the vessel—the boatman, of course, doing all in his power to charge us treble fare! There were some half-dozen passengers in the saloon, travellers like ourselves. Our departure was somewhat delayed by the steamer having to carry a regiment of soldiers to Sicily, and we got off at six o'clock in the evening—only about an hour after the time of starting, which was very punctual for Italians.

Naples, illuminated, and gradually enfolded in the gathering shadows of night, is in truth a beautiful sight, and the occasional bursts of bright flame from Vesuvius added a touch of imposing grandeur to the scene we viewed from the deck, as we steamed away for the Straits of Messina.

Dinner passed pleasantly; we had a very agreeable captain, and the smoothness of the water enabled the ladies to enjoy it in comfort, and also to spend an hour or two on deck afterwards, in the full beauty of the clear moon and cloudless star-lit skies—

"Then gentle winds arose With many a mingled close Of wild AEolian sound and mountain odours keen: And where the Baian ocean Welters with air-like motion, Within, above, around its bowers of starry green."

Who could be surrounded by such influences without thinking kindly and tender thoughts of the glorious land that owns such a sea and sky? I mused over Italy—her past, her present, and the bright future which I hope awaits her. The Papal star is growing dim; the pageantry of the Dark Ages is fading out, and the minds of men awakening. Slowly, but I trust surely, a more enlightened era is approaching; and perhaps the nineteenth century will see the last of superstition, which has held the minds and hearts of men in such an iron grasp.

God has His own wondrous and omnipotent way of working, and man can but guess at the manner and means by which the problems that perplex him will be solved in the end.

"Great Spirit, deepest Love! Which rulest and dost move All things which live and are, within the Italian shore; Who spreadest heaven around it, Whose woods, rocks, waves surround it; Who sittest in thy star, o'er Ocean's western floor!

* * * * *

"Oh, with thy harmonizing ardours fill And raise thy sons, as o'er the prone horizon Thy lamp feeds every twilight wave with fire— Be man's high hope and unextinct desire, The instrument to work Thy Will divine!"

The next morning we found ourselves close to the Stromboli group of islands. Nearly all were capped with snow, and, with the sea around and the blue sky above, formed a charming picture.

Soon after breakfast we were steaming through the beautiful straits, and passing the famous Scylla and Charybdis, the former a low dark cliff topped by an old castle, and with a little town nestling below. The sea varied its colour constantly—blue, green, brown, and even red, mingling and changing in the bright sunshine. As we neared Messina, we were struck with admiration at its exceeding beauty.

"Messina sits like a queen, her white robes sweeping the sea. Never was city so exquisitely poised between earth and sky! Very beautiful, with fair white face, the poetic lines of your mountain drapery about you; the azure straits gliding past you in homage, and bringing the world's treasures to your feet! Very beautiful, but false and fickle and cowardly in every phase of your history, a ready victim for every invader, a facile prey, ever siding with the strongest!"

Thus a late writer, whose pen has charmingly described her life in this lovely island.

At noon we anchored in the finely sheltered harbour, the finest, indeed, in the Mediterranean. The commerce and shipping of Messina are most extensive, and make her quite cosmopolitan. The city undulates with a gentle rise, so as to present to the highest advantage every fine building, the exceeding purity and whiteness of which is thrown up by the dark green forest behind. In speaking of Genoa, I remarked that its situation was unequalled in its imposing grandeur; and here in Messina we have a beauty equally unsurpassed, though of a different kind; perhaps as a bit of our English landscape would compare with the grander Scotch loch scenery—a soft, bewitching, and enticing loveliness. The style of architecture resembles that of Pisa.

We had only a few hours here, as the steamer for Malta was to leave the same evening. There was sufficient time, however, to take a walk through the town, which has fine and well-paved streets. There is but little of antiquity left in Messina, except the old Cathedral, which contains some good mosaics and bas-reliefs; and perhaps a few mementoes of the gallant Knight Crusaders, who sorrowfully made this their temporary home about the year 1523, after surrendering Rhodes to the hated Moslem. The constant earthquakes, as well as the many vicissitudes of war it has passed through, has destroyed all other relics of the past.

The hotel charges and living generally were exceedingly moderate, more so than we had experienced since leaving England. I believe this is the case with all the hotels in Sicily, the soil being so prolific and productive. At 5 p.m. I saw my wife on board the Florio steamer Electrico, which carried the mails, and was due at Malta the next morning about six. It was a nice little paddle vessel, and her captain a very gentlemanly officer; the stewardess, though a Maltese, spoke English, and so I felt my wife would be comfortable and well cared for during the voyage. Unfortunately, however, the wind increased, and by morning there was quite a gale blowing, which made me a little anxious about her safe arrival.

I was pleased that my wife should visit this small but most memorable island, though I was unable to accompany her, as there are so many historic associations attaching to it. During my Naval career from the Crimean War days, I had myself often been to Malta, but to her it would indeed be a new world.

Malta, or Melita, is probably chiefly interesting to English people as their great Mediterranean stronghold and Naval Arsenal; to Christendom, for the glorious deeds of the brave and self-sacrificing Knights of St. John, and as the place where the great apostle to the Gentiles was cast ashore and bitten by the viper, and where he preached so fervently and effectually. These are probably the best-remembered events touching the history of Malta. That it was originally colonized by the Phoenicians, and taken from them by the Greeks some eight hundred years B.C.; then captured by the Carthaginians, and afterwards by the Romans, Vandals and Goths, Saracens and Normans successively; and, finally, was attached to the Government of Sicily—few would care perhaps to go far enough back to remember, content simply to commence with its glorious and imperishable history in connection with the chivalrous Knight Crusaders.

Owing chiefly to the labours of the brave Knights, under their grand old masters, L'Isle Adam and La Valette, and their skill and heroism in defending it from the repeated assaults of the Moslem,—of the Crescent against the Cross, the fortifications are a marvel of almost impregnable strength and engineering ability, and, owing to its wonderful provision of underground granaries, etc., could stand a siege for years. These great mathematical, dazzling granite walls, bristling with big guns, and rising defiantly and almost abruptly out of the blue sea, form a proud sight to Englishmen when approached from seaward. And, then, glancing at its geographical position, almost in the centre of the Mediterranean, in proximity to three Continents, and taking into consideration that other great stronghold (the door to the Mediterranean, of which Englishmen are even more proud), Gibraltar—and our interest in the East, one gets some idea of its great maritime importance to England. The harbours, the great docks (capable of holding the largest ironclads) and stores for the equipment of our fleets, the frowning ramparts rising tier upon tier above and around, amply confirm this impression.

But how different the Malta of to-day, with its marvellously cultivated soil; its teeming, peaceful, and prosperous population, great docks, fine city, and developed industries,—to the days when the valiant Knights of St. John, under their brave old Grand-Master, L'Isle Adam, almost sorrowfully took possession of it, as the permanent home of the Order, when, alas! all seemed nearly lost to them! Yes, it was then indeed but a barren, arid rock. Though wondrously fertile, considering the small quantity of soil, Malta is still little else than a huge fortress and series of sun-smitten rocks; and therefore, beyond the great docks and fortifications, not very interesting except for its history and mementoes of past glory—for there is little or no beautiful country to see, no undulating plains, hills, lakes, or forests, but endless rocks, stone walls, old palaces, guns, soldiers, churches, and priests.

On arriving, however, from the sea, it is a lively scene inside the harbour; the moles and creeks crowded with shipping, all trimly stowed in serried rows. Hundreds of gaily painted Venetian-like boats dart off from the shore, with their picturesquely dressed boatmen curiously facing one another while pulling and pushing the boat along—for, says the legend, one day the man pulling stroke suddenly missed the bowman, and as he was never found, it was gravely supposed the devil had walked off with him (a little before his time, for the Maltese are great rascals, and are exceedingly superstitious), and ever since they have faced each other, for self-protection against another Diabolical surprise! Shoals of these boats dart off from the shore immediately on the arrival of a ship. The "bumboat," laden with delicious fruits and every kind of fresh provender to tempt the Blue jacket and hungry midshipman—in my own days, utterly sick of the "salt-horse" (salt meat) and weevilly biscuit; but now, alas! the sailor is a spoilt child and quite daintily fed, hence the bumboat is not so great a treat to him when coming from "blue water." Then there are legions of washwomen (much to the relief of the officers' marine servants, who in "olden times" had to do all their masters' washing when at sea), declaring, of course, that they have done your washing "ages ago." Hungry tailors and other tradesmen also besiege the ship, swarming on board to make the most out of the new arrivals. And oh, what a Babel-like jargon of tongues alongside—with a hundred church bells ringing and clanging around—and the fierce though harmless quarrelling of the Maltese boatmen! Then, on landing at one of the quays, after having, of course, been cheated in the fare (for the Maltese will never lose an opportunity of robbing you, though, to give the creature his due, he will not let any one else do so if he can prevent it—you are his own sweet pastures, and his solely), we pass through the motley, swarthy crowd of boatmen and fishermen, and, holding our nose to exclude the rancid smell of fish, boiling oil, and powerful odours of garlic, commence the ascent of the dreaded endless series of stone stairs up to the city of Valetta. And, when under a powerful sun such as one can experience at Malta in, say, July, and before we reach the top, how often do Byron's truthful words occur to us:

"Adieu, ye joys of La Valette! Adieu, scirocco, sun, and sweat! Adieu, ye cursed streets of stairs! How surely he who mounts you swears!"

A friend who had long resided at Malta, suggested a slight alteration in the above to—

"Adieu, ye streets of stinks and stairs!"

The reason for these wearisome steps was, I believe, owing to the following facts:—After the brave old knight, La Valette, had repulsed the Turks with great slaughter, and had consequently obtained a little breathing time, he set about re-fortifying the island and rebuilding the city, with the intention of levelling the rocky parapet for its foundation; but, owing to reports of another expedition of the Moslem being fitted out at Constantinople, for a still more powerful and revengeful attack on their fortress, the city had to be finished quickly, and so was built on the rocky slope in all haste—and hence the steep flight of steps leading up to the highest part of the city from the harbour.

Having taken breath, we move on and find ourselves in the stony narrow streets of the city, almost every other person met with being a priest or a nun, the church bells still clanging with utmost discord around. The houses, with their green painted jalousies, are all built of a kind of white limestone, and so reflect the dazzling heat and glare of the sun as to prove exceedingly painful and injurious to the eyes; hence, ophthalmia is rather prevalent at Malta. Never was there a place so priest-ridden and superstitious; everywhere in the streets, under the lamps at the corners, within niches cut in the walls, you see some painted image of a saint, bedizened with jewels, silver and gold and tinsel, grandly painted and decorated—the objects of abject adoration to the benighted poor people and other passers-by. Indeed, of late years some very serious disturbances have occurred at Malta, because our soldiers and sailors would not bow down before some superstitious priestly procession through the streets; and one feels ashamed to confess (no longer for an Englishman civis Romanus) that some of these men were punished for not doing so. Surely it should be enough that the Maltese are allowed full freedom to enjoy their own religious, or rather grossly superstitious, ceremonies!