Another was my Sorrento day, which meant one of those ideal drives called “Cornichean,” because of the road’s projecting like a cornice from the headlands and precipitous hill-sides. In some places, the road is cut out of the solid rock; in others, it pierces it, forming beautiful arches, but always keeping the sea in view. This kept also Ischia, Capri and Vesuvius before the charmed gaze. No other point commands such fine and complete outlines of Vesuvius—its perfect gradual upward sweep and swell from the water’s edge to its cone, with the ever-rising column of smoke. Part of this drive takes its way through orange and olive groves and mulberry trees, figs, pomegranates and aloes, mingled in delicious suggestiveness. The town itself is small, and situated amid these delightful groves, rather orchards, on rocks rising abruptly from the sea, with deep ravines on the other side. It was the birthplace of Tasso; and it is said, the house in which he was born and the rock on which it stood have been swallowed up by the sea, and that the ruins are still visible beneath its clear blue waters. Nearly the entire sea-front is occupied by hotels, situated in gardens, with steps descending to the sea; and bathing establishments commanding magnificent views. We visited its shops, celebrated for their inlaid and carved wooden work and silks.
My second trial of Naples was as unsatisfactory as the first. It rained in torrents, and then I “gave up in despair.” The trip from Naples back to Rome almost made me forget my grievance. It was full of historic interest and association. We passed “ancient Capua,” where Spartacus led in the war of the gladiators. Just this side of it is a district so productive it yields two crops of grain and one of hay in the same season. We had a splendid view of the celebrated monastery of Monte Casino, situated on the top of a lofty hill. It is founded on the site of an ancient temple of Apollo, to which Dante alludes in his “Paradiso.” Thomas Aquinas was educated there. Varro’s villa was near, and it is to one of its abbots that the world is indebted for the preservation of his works. Its library is celebrated for its manuscripts, and some of them suggested to Dante his great works. In sight was Aquino, the birthplace of both Thomas Aquinas and Juvenal.
Rome. Here, in the “Eternal City.” Every day is one to be chronicled. The day after I came was Palm Sunday. I went to St. Peter’s to see both it and the ceremonies of the distribution of consecrated palms. I will not describe St. Peter’s. Had I not already seen Westminster Abbey, St. Paul’s and all the other most celebrated English cathedrals, no doubt the impression would have been overwhelming. The ceremonies were very unimposing; the music was not extraordinary; high mass was performed in one of the chapels, which dwarfed it to a very commonplace performance; and the distribution of palms was done by children, poor, forlorn-looking friars and licensed peddlers, the consecration having been previously done by one of the cardinals.
While the services were being performed in the chapel, people were walking and rambling all over the rest of the vast temple, and unless quite close to it, might have been quite unaware that anything was going on within. As no seats were provided, I went out and joined the ramblers. Presently I came upon the bronze statue of St. Peter, the toes of which are being worn away by the kisses of the devout. I found a seat and sat down to look on. Every class and grade was represented, from prince and princess to pauper and villain, the former using their dainty perfumed handkerchiefs to wipe a spot before touching their lips to it; the latter, their ragged and tainted sleeves. One young priest wiped the side of the foot and kissed it, instead of the much-imposed-upon toes.
To the end of “Holy Week,” I devoted myself to seeing its various services. Each church has its special services. In that of St. Apollonari, the washing and kissing the feet of the disciples is done by a cardinal. I waited through a prolonged service of nearly four hours to witness it. There were thirteen youthful priests seated in a row on a bench raised two steps above the floor for the greater convenience of the rather too fat father. Each in succession thrust out a bare foot as he knelt, then washed, wiped, and, so far as I could see, gave an honest kiss. There was a crimson satin cushion for him to kneel on, which, however, the attending priests forgot to move along for him, so he had to use the bare floor. I was suspicious enough to think the omission was intentional. All his gorgeous vestments were removed while he was doing this, and he looked a very plain, humble creature indeed.
In another was high mass and the showing of part of the cross to which Christ was bound to be scourged. This church is opened but the once in the year, and then only to ladies. No man can enter under pain of excommunication. The other part of the cross is in Jerusalem. I urged a very agreeable elderly English lady to go to see it. For reply, she looked at me with a twinkle in her shrewd eyes, and said: “I am not going to spend my time in any such tomfoolery as that.” What a homelike sound her unvarnished English had!
In yet another there was a grand ceremony of showing the heads of St. Peter and St. Paul—a ghastly spectacle at best. But the glory has departed from Catholicism in Rome. “Holy Week” is a very tame period now-a-days. One could be here and not hear of it. Indeed, it was with great difficulty that we could get any accurate information of its program. In only one church was there a jam. The pope never shows himself; his seclusion is said to be absolute. All of the grandest spectacles and ceremonies are omitted, so “Holy Week” is rapidly ceasing to be an attraction.
We had a delightful drive on the Via Appia, that old Roman road, built three hundred and twelve years before Christ, that even to-day, is called the “queen of roads.” This is the finest of the near excursions in the Campagna, the ruins of the aquaducts, mountains and villages, while the remains of ancient tombs on each side of the road are a unique and singularly fascinating feature. We took it in to visit the catacombs of St. Callistus; the tomb of Caecillia Metella; the grotto and grove of Egeria. Stopping at the Catacombs, we were provided with wax tapers and guides and plunged down a precipitous stairway, and in a moment would have been plunged in Plutonian darkness but for these little lights that only served “to make darkness more visible.” Next came threading our way through narrow, tortuous passages,
