To a traveller who enters Rome as I did, at the waste end of the city, where he sees nothing but mouldering walls and heaps of grass-grown ruins, it is quite a matter of wonder to find, at the other extremity, such a collection of populous streets and splendid structures. My first steps were directed to St. Peter’s church, that ornament and wonder of modern Rome, the most magnificent edifice that the world ever saw. Vast crowds of people were moving in the same direction, so that I had no difficulty in going straight to the spot. The near approach to it is most imposing. An immense circular piazza is in front, surrounded with rows of columns and adorned with two beautiful fountains, which are constantly in play, throwing the water up to an immense height. This grand area, and all the other avenues to the church, were thronged with a motley population, which seemed to have flowed thither from the four quarters of the earth. Priests, soldiers, pilgrims and beggars, in variegated costume and manner, were mingled up together in picturesque confusion. Cardinals, in red dresses, rolled along in their gilt coaches, drawn by such fat, sleek, black horses as we never see on this side of the Atlantic. Capuchin friars, in dingy brown woollen gowns, tied with bits of bedcord, bare legs and sandaled feet; friars, of other denominations, in black, white and gray—shaven crowns, Quaker broad-brims and three-cornered scrapers; Swiss guardsmen in steel armor; Roman militia in red baize regimentals and coffee-pot hats; little hump-backed gobboes like the black dwarf; ragged Roman peasants in straw and oakum spatter-dashes; country girls in square flat caps and tawdry finery; strapping fellows in red breeches and cocked hats, who look like major-generals, but are only livery servants,—all these, and a hundred other varieties impossible to describe, gave such a diversity and animation to the scene as to constitute it one of the most striking spectacles in the world.
But all description must fall short of the reality when I attempt to offer my impressions of the interior of St. Peter’s. The first view, on entering, overpowers the spectator with magnificence and beauty: but many days are requisite to see the whole building. It is a mountain of architecture, and the eye can take in, at once, nothing but a small fragment. All that human labor and human genius can expend upon a work of art—painting, sculpture and every other species of ornament—are here lavished with a richness and profusion characteristic of an edifice constructed at the expense of the whole Christian world. The walls glitter with mosaics, costly marbles, gems and gold. The great dome rises like heaven above your head. The long nave, or central aisle, stretches out before you an eighth of a mile in length. Immense arches open on every side, and lead the eye off into recesses of unknown extent. Everything adds to the general impression of overpowering grandeur and sublimity. The world will never see another structure like this!
In the midst of an immense crowd the Pope was brought into church on a litter, supported on men’s shoulders. A lofty canopy was held over his head, and on each side of him was carried an enormous fan of ostrich feathers. He was a little decrepit-looking old man, with a benevolent expression of countenance. After going through various ceremonies, he was carried into the balcony in the front of the church, where he pronounced a blessing on the multitude below, who all fell upon their knees. At night the church was illuminated, the great dome being covered with lamps, and looking like a mountain of fire.
On ascending to the roof of the church I almost imagined myself among the streets below. Long rows of domes extended right and left, which cannot be seen from below; such is the enormous extent of the building. Workshops and dwelling-houses were built there for the masons and carpenters, who find constant employment in repairing damages and keeping the roof in order. There is even a fountain of water constantly running here. It is quite a town up in the air. Formerly the dome suffered much by lightning, but since the erection of lightning-rods it has never been struck.
Next to St. Peter’s, in interest, is the great ruin of the Coliseum, that enormous edifice, which could contain 80,000 spectators, besides the area in the centre where wild beasts were hunted, and where gladiators killed each other, for the amusement of the Roman populace. These walls are now overgrown with weeds and flowers, lonely and desolate. During the day they resound only with the notes of the birds who nestle among the stones, and in the night you may hear the owls hooting out of their dark recesses. Travellers visit it by moonlight, when the spectacle is very solemn and striking. For a great distance around this building are scattered the ruins of the palaces of the Roman emperors, triumphal arches, baths, theatres and gigantic structures, that fill us with amazement in the contemplation of the ancient splendors of the city. While I sat on a broken column, among the ruins of Nero’s golden palace, a fox peeped out from a crumbling arch, and, fixing his sharp eyes on me for a minute, gave a whisk with his tail and bounded off across a bed of artichokes which a gardener was cultivating on the Palatine Hill. The poor man complained that he had lost all his chickens by the depredations of these marauders.
Everybody has heard of the Vatican. This is an immense palace adjoining St. Peter’s, formerly the residence of the Pope, and now famous for its pictures and statues. I hardly knew which of the two struck me with the greater astonishment—St. Peter’s, with its stupendous architecture and gorgeous embellishments, or the Vatican, with its endless treasures of art. Gallery, hall and saloon open upon you, one after another, till there seems literally to be no end of statues, vases and columns of precious marble and porphyry. Beautiful fountains of water are playing in the pavilions, and long vistas of sculpture carry the eye a quarter of a mile in length. The apartments amount to many thousands: the wonder is that any man ever undertook to count them. All description of this place seems an utterly vain attempt. It is realizing the dreams of fairy splendor to wander over it.
After the ceremonies of the Holy Week are over, strangers generally leave the city, and Rome becomes a quiet place. There is little traffic or industry here, although the population is nearly double that of Boston. No rattling of carts over the pavements, no throng of busy passengers in the streets, give tokens of active business. The shopkeepers sit idly at their counters, and look as if a customer would astonish them. Two or three little feluccas lie at a landing-place in the Tiber, unloading coffee and sugar from Marseilles, and this is all that looks like commerce. Rome has nothing to export but rags and pozzolana, or volcanic sand, which, mixed with lime, forms the composition known as Roman cement. At sunset the genteel classes ride out in their carriages to the gardens in the neighborhood of the city, and this gives some appearance of life to the place at that time. But far the greater part of the day the streets are lonely and still. The shopkeepers close their doors after dinner and go to sleep.
Rome is full of splendid palaces and churches, profusely and magnificently adorned with pictures, sculptures, precious stones, gilding, and every other sort of embellishment. The shrines of the saints are very curious. They are covered all over with votive offerings from persons who have been sick or have escaped from accidents. If a man is in danger of drowning, or is run over by a horse, or gets a bang on the shin, or has a sore finger, he makes a vow to his favorite saint, and, after his escape or recovery, gives him a present of a little silver ship, or leg, or finger, which is stuck up in the church as a memento of the saint’s intercession and the man’s gratitude. In this manner you may see the walls of a church covered, for many yards square with silver legs, toes, arms, hands, fingers, hearts, ears, noses, and nobody knows what else. A traveller unacquainted with the fact might take them for hieroglyphics. All sorts of rich offerings are made to these shrines. I have seen the figure of a saint in a glass case completely covered with gold watches, rings, bracelets, necklaces, &c. When the saint finds himself so overloaded with ornaments as to leave no room for any more, he allows himself to be stripped. The watches and jewels are sold, and the shrine is open for new presents. It is easy to see how, in a long course of years, this practice, and others similar, have brought into the treasury of the church that abundance of wealth which has been lavished upon the magnificent edifices of this country. The votive offerings above described are so numerous and constant that the silversmiths have always for sale, heads, legs, hearts, arms, &c., of all sizes, to suit the customer as to wealth or devotion. Sometimes the offering is accompanied with a painting descriptive of the event commemorated; and you see a portion of the church walls covered with the oddest pictures in the world. A man is tumbling down a ladder; another is run over by a carriage; another is knocked on the head with a club; another is kicked by a horse; another is running for life, with a mad bull at his heels; another is sick abed, with a most alarming array of doctors and apothecaries around him, &c.
Fountains are abundant throughout the city: and it is most agreeable, in the hot weather which prevails here for the greater part of the year, to hear the murmur and bubbling of the rills and jets of water which adorn every street. When we consider the enormous sums of money which the ancient Romans expended upon their aqueducts, and behold the immense lines of arches that stretch across the country, we cannot be surprised that the modern city is better supplied with water than any other place in the world. It is brought from a great distance, as the water in the neighborhood is very bad. In one of my rambles, a few miles from the city, I passed a stream running into the Tiber, which appeared almost as white as milk, and had a strong smell of sulphur. All the country round here is of volcanic origin; yet there has been no eruption or appearance of subterranean fire within the memory of man.
Rome is a fine residence for a person with a small income, no business to do, and the wish to get as much as possible for his money. House-rent is as low as one can reasonably desire. You may lodge in a palace with galleries paved with marble and the walls covered with the finest paintings; for the Roman nobles are poor and proud; they will not sell their palaces or pictures, even though threatened with starvation; but they let their best rooms to lodgers, and live in the garrets. In all Rome I saw but one new house:—a sure sign of the low value of real estate. The markets are cheap; clothing costs about half what it does in America. The people have some queer ways in buying and selling. Many things sell by the pound, which we never think of putting into scales: apples, cherries, green peas, firewood, charcoal, &c. I inquired as to a pair of woollen stockings at a shop, and the goods were weighed before I could be told the price. I bespoke a pair of boots, and calling one day to see if they were done, I found the shoemaker at work upon them, but the leather had never been colored. “Body of Bacchus!” said I—for that is the current Roman exclamation—“I don’t want yellow boots, Signior Lapstonaccia!” I was surprised, however, to be told that the Roman cobblers always made the shoes first and colored the leather afterwards.