Christian art in the department of painting is chiefly represented by the new German school of Overbeck. The master himself, a worthy follower of the religious painters of the XIVth and XVth centuries, was quite a study. His enthusiastic explanations of his cartoons of the Seven Sacraments, which were in his atelier at the time we visited him, were very impressive. His own appearance was singularly in harmony with the tone of his works, and, by its dignified asceticism, could not fail to remind one that to paint as he did is to pray. One of his most beautiful productions is now at Munich—a half-length Madonna—in whose draperies he has managed to combine the most richly varied tints, all subdued to that velvety depth and mellowness which is so peculiar to some of the old Pre-Raphaelite masters, and which always suggests to our mind the tints seen in mediæval stained glass. The Christian revival linked with his name has spread far and wide, and all over England, Germany, and France are found memorials of its inspiration. The nudities of the Renaissance, the anatomies of the school of Michael Angelo, and the handsome, robust materialities of even the later manner of Raphael were banished to the realm of secular art, and the revived ideal of religious chivalry was no longer the muscular athlete, the handsome peasant, or the graceful odalisque. Many disciples followed the new artistic school, and one of these, Seitz, of whom we have had personal knowledge, may well find a place here. Seitz had his studio near the Piazza Barberini, and, when we went in a party to see him, he was at work on a beautiful group of saints arrayed round the throne of the Virgin and Child. It was a thoroughly characteristic picture, designed according to the mediæval custom of representing the family of the owner by their respective patron saints. It was destined for a Gothic chapel in England, and has since been transferred there, having been ordered by a connoisseur in religious art and ecclesiastical archæology. The minuteness and accuracy of detail, such as are required by the costumes of S. Charles Borromeo (cardinal), of S. Francis of Sales, (bishop), and S. Ida (a Benedictine nun), are perfect, yet without a trace of that pagan naturalism which, since the days of the Medici, has uncrowned every ideal, and lowered even historical dignity to the level of vulgar domesticity. The researches necessary to a correct representation of such royal garments as are distinctive of S. Constance, the daughter of the Emperor Constantine; S. Edith, the royal Saxon abbess; S. Edward the Confessor, who holds in his hand a model of his foundation, Westminster Abbey; and of S. Elizabeth of Hungary, the queenly almsgiver, whose loaves of bread were turned to wreaths of red roses as her husband was about to upbraid her for her too lavish generosity, are also shown, by the success of these figures, to have been deep and painstaking. S. Thomas of Canterbury, patron of the chapel for which the altar-piece was intended, is also very beautifully represented, the pallium and crozier faithfully copied, while a knife, placed transversely in the interstices of the pastoral staff, points out symbolically the manner of his heroic death. The main figures, the Virgin and Child, are radiant with heavenly grace as well as dignity, the tints of the former’s robe being exquisitely delicate, almost transparent in their ethereal suggestiveness, while the disposition of the folds is both grave and modest. The picture is on a gold ground, and divided into three panels by XIIth century colonnettes of twisted gold, while the names of the saints are inscribed in Lombardic characters on the breadth of the frame. Before we take our leave of modern art, of which, of course, we do not pretend to have given more than a very superficial summary, we must not forget the restored mosaics in the Basilica of S. Paul. This is outside the walls of Rome, and has been in continual process of rebuilding and embellishment for over forty years. The great fire of 1822, which destroyed the old Basilica, and swept away the carved cedar roof which was one of its chief glories, only spared the apse containing some valuable mosaics of the Theodosian period—an enthroned Christ, around which was an inscription recounting how the Empress Galla Placidia and Pope Leo the Great had finished the decorations of the church, and several medallions purporting to represent the first twenty or thirty popes. Among the renovating tasks to be undertaken, that of continuing the series of Papal mosaics became one of the foremost. Those pontiffs of whom some authentic likeness remained, whether in casts, busts, medals, or on canvas, were represented according to these data; while, for the earlier popes of whom no reliable memorial was left, tradition and symbolism were appealed to. The artists took great pains in collecting and arranging their models, the ecclesiastical authorities gave them every help and encouragement in their power, and the result was a series of new mosaic medallions running all round the nave above the granite columns, hardly distinguishable from the IVth century work, and in every respect true to the almost forgotten traditions of this ancient branch of art.
Among other praiseworthy restorations of antique industry is the establishment of Signor Castellani, a true artist and enthusiast, who stands unrivalled in his application to the study of Etruscan and Roman jewellery. Here may be seen wonderful and exact reproductions of Roman bullæ, or golden ornaments, hung round the necks of youths before they attained the age at which they assumed the toga virilis, indicative of manhood and citizenship; figulæ, or brooches of gold, wrought with the heads of lions or leopards, or chased with vine-leaf patterns; plain, massive rings, armlets and golden waistbelts, delicate crowns of golden myrtle leaves, hair-pins and ornaments (those with which Roman ladies are said to have often struck their female slaves in capricious anger), and various nondescript jewellery. Engrafting upon these ornaments such later conceits as were appropriate, Castellani produced rings and brooches bearing the Greek word Αει (for ever) in plain Etruscan letters, or the reversible words, Amor, Roma, etc. Perhaps the most perfect objects of art were the necklaces, with their little amphora-shaped pendants copied from those found in ancient tombs, and which are now so well known. The granulated gold-work used in many of the more solid pieces of jewellery is peculiar to Castellani’s new antique style, and cost much time, research, and patience to bring to the old standard, of which the results were also for a long time the only recipes.
To return to Christian art and its early origin, we cannot do better than go straight to the catacombs. Apart from their historical interest, they have the additional merit of being the birthplace of Christian symbolism. It should always be borne in mind that art is a means, not an end. If it aims only at mere physical beauty, it degrades itself to the level of a common trade. Its inspiration should come from on high, and its object be to lift the soul from vulgar to sublime thoughts. Thus began the art of the catacombs. It was eminently symbolical, like the language of Christ himself in the parables, and like the venerable traditions of the Old Testament. We should detain our readers too long were we to propose anything like an adequate examination of the various types found in the catacombs. The good shepherd surrounded by his flock, symbolizing the church; Moses striking the rock, symbolizing the grace of the sacraments, particularly baptism; and Jonas saved from the whale, and reposing under the miraculous gourd, typifying the resurrection and life everlasting, are some of the most oft-repeated subjects. The multiplication of the loaves and fishes also constantly recurs, meaning the eucharistic sacrifice and sacrament, the sacrifice of the Mass, and the sacrament of the body of the Lord under the appearance of bread. The Deluge and Noe’s ark are frequently depicted, for the sake of the symbol they contain—that of the church alone saving the human race amid the general corruption of sin. The fish is a double symbol, the five letters of the Greek word Ιχθύς being the initials of the following words: Jesus, Christ, Son (of) God, Saviour, which form a complete confession of faith; and the animal itself, capable of existing only in the water, typifying that by baptism alone does the Christian soul live. Sometimes the fish is put for Christ himself; as in two very ancient catacomb frescos, where it is seen in the one swimming in the water, bearing a ship (the church) upon its back, and in the other bearing a basket of bread, the type of the Holy Eucharist. This symbol of the fish was so universally accepted, and became so fixed in men’s minds, that it originated the shape of the episcopal seal, which was and is still fashioned like a pointed oval or ogive. In many frescos, a female figure is depicted with outstretched hands, signifying, as some think, the church in prayer, or, as others say, the Mother of God interceding for the church. Among the Christian hieroglyphics, palms and crowns were frequent; a dove often represented the spirit at peace in Christ (this was frequently the only epitaph on a Christian’s tomb), and a peacock or a phœnix, immortality. Here the recollections of paganism were suited to Christian doctrines, and, like the converted temples, did duty in the service of truth. A curious instance of this is seen in the frequent recurrence of the myth of Orpheus depicted in the frescos of the catacombs, the Greek shepherd with his lyre standing for Christ, who by the magic of his doctrine and his grace tames the evil passions of man, as Orpheus tamed the wild beasts of the forest. In the earlier frescos, we see traces of the pure Greek models of ancient painting; the graceful draperies, the delicate borders remind us of Pompeian art, but there is nothing immodest, and the figures themselves are already of a graver and nobler type. In the later paintings, the beauty of detail and ornamentation grows less, but the grand ideal is yet more prominent. There is a transition in art, but the indelible stamp of Christianity is already impressed on the struggling types of a more perfect future. It was fitting that Christianity should only use pagan civilization with all its products as a pedestal—a noble basis, it is true, but still only a pedestal—and should rear above it a structure wholly her own. Thus from her inspiration rose a new architecture purely Christian; new arts, such as stained glass-making; in literature, new languages capable of more spiritual expressions. It is interesting to find in Rome the tradition of Christian art so unbroken, and especially to be able to compare the earliest efforts at a reverent and lucid illustration of the truths of faith with the latest development of the same sentiment in the new German pictures. From the catacombs and San Clemente to the school of Overbeck the transition is natural, and we find the same master-spirit guiding both pictorial expositions. The seed that produced such painters as Gian Bellini, Fra Angelico, Masaccio, Orcagna, Giotto, and Perugino was destined indeed to be crushed for full four centuries, but what a glorious harvest has the bruised grain yielded in this age! Of all the productions of the XIXth century, none to our mind ever deserved its reputation one-quarter so well as the Christian and Gothic revival, which is leading the human mind back to the spirit of the early church.[204]
We do not speak of the much-frequented galleries of the Borghese, Doria, or Corsini palaces, because every visitor to Rome knows them as well as we do; nor of the Stanza of Raphael in the Vatican—which we studied perhaps less than we ought—because we should probably offend many established predilections by so doing. The pictures most often under our eyes were those in the Sistine chapel and in S. Peter’s, and of the former a most painful impression remains upon our mind. The Christian ideal of art is there utterly violated by a painter who, as a man, was a most fervent and austere Christian. The taint of the Renaissance was upon Michael Angelo when he gave us an athlete enthroned, in the place of Christ the Judge; and we are happy to reflect that his spiritual conception of divine majesty was far different from his artistic conception. The pictures in S. Peter’s, except one, are all mosaics, and a most marvellous triumph of artistic illusion. Domenichino’s Communion of S. Jerome especially is so accurately copied in this perplexing material that any one not forewarned will never dream that he is looking on anything but canvas. The single exception is the picture opposite the Porta Santa Marta, and represents the judgment that befell Ananias and Sapphira.
Of all monuments of early Christianity, whose interest is joined with that of art, none stands more conspicuous than the church of San Clemente, served by the Irish Dominicans, and under English protection. The discovery of the subterranean church and frescos, dating from the days of S. Clement, the third successor of S. Peter, was an era in the history of ecclesiastical archæology. Believed to have been the site of S. Clement’s own dwelling, and to have originated in an oratory established there by himself, the Basilica of S. Clement is of a high antiquity. There are proofs of its existence in 417, when Pope Zosimus chose it as the scene of his condemnation of the Pelagian heresy. To this date or thereabouts may be referred a certain Byzantine Madonna in fresco; and the learned and enthusiastic F. Mullooly has built upon this apparent coincidence a very beautiful and possibly correct theory. “The very difference,” he says, “between the heads of S. Catherine and S. Euphemia, with hair flowing down from their jewelled crowns—i.e. human nature decked with the jewels of virginity and martyrdom—and the countenance of Our Lady, enshrined in a mass of ornaments, without a single lock appearing—i.e. human nature totally transformed by grace—indicates the limner’s scope.” And again: “All the gifts of grace are signified by the necklace, breastplate, and the immense jewelled head-dress, with its triple crown, borne by Our Lady.” We hear of S. Clement’s Basilica again in 600, of its being restored in 795, and, a century later (855), of its being in “good order.” It is not accurately known whether it was destroyed by the earthquake of 896 or in the wars of Robert Guiscard and Pope Gregory VII. in 1084. At any rate, it disappears from history after this last convulsion, and not until 1857 was its existence proved by F. Mullooly’s successful excavations. He has published a book upon the subject, conspicuous for enthusiasm and archæological accuracy. Many portions of the Basilica were found in almost perfect preservation, the columns especially being of great beauty, variety, and costliness, both as to material and workmanship. But the frescos are the most important part of the silent testimony to Christian truth borne by this unearthed antiquity dating almost from the apostolic age. One in particular we commend to the notice of such advanced Anglicans as proclaim the “Roman” church of to-day to be other than the apostolic church of the first four centuries. It represents S. Clement celebrating Mass at a small, square altar. We quote F. Mullooly’s literal description: “The central compartment represents the interior of a church, from the arches of which are suspended seven lamps, symbolizing the seven gifts of the Holy Ghost. That over the altar is circular in form,[205] much larger than the other six, and contains seven lights, probably typical of the seven gifts of the same Holy Spirit. Anastasius the librarian, who lived in the IXth century, makes mention of this form of lamp, and calls it a pharum cum corona—a lighthouse with a crown—a crown from its form, a lighthouse from the brilliancy of the light it emitted.” He also says that it was in common use in all the Christian churches. S. Clement, in his pontifical robes (i.e. a chasuble, an alb, etc., and more particularly a pallium), is officiating at the altar, over which his name, S. Clemens, Papa—Pope S. Clement—is written in the form of a cross. He has the maniple between the thumb and forefinger of the left hand. The altar is covered with a plain white cloth, and on it are the missal, the chalice, and paten. The missal is open, and on one page of it are the words, Dominus vobiscum (“The Lord be with you”), which the saint is pronouncing, his arms extended, as Catholic priests do even to this day when celebrating Mass. On the other page are the words, Pax Domini sit semper vobiscum (“The peace of the Lord be ever with you”). These two phrases were introduced into the liturgy of the church by S. Clement himself, and are still retained. On the right of the saint are his ministers—namely, two bishops with croziers in their left hands, a deacon, and a subdeacon. They all have the circular tonsure (the distinguishing mark of the Latin rite), and the pope, in addition to the tonsure, has the nimbus, or glory, the symbol of sanctity.[206] In the neighboring fresco of the life and death of S. Alexius, the Pope, S. Boniface, is depicted again in similar pontifical garments, and is attended by two cross-bearers. Here, too, are the hanging lamps, four in number; the clerics, to the number of twenty, all wear the circular tonsure, and the pope has on his head a conical white mitre. It is noticeable in these early frescos that the shape of the lamps, chalice, crosses, and the fashion of the vestments, chasuble, alb, altar-cloth, and mitre, are exactly such as are now reproduced in the English establishments of Hardman & Co., and the Browns, of Manchester and Birmingham—the style now called Gothic. F. Mullooly notices the lavishness of these mural decorations in these significant words: “They appear to have been part of a series painted about the same time; and, when the colors were fresh, the Basilica must have presented a brilliant appearance very different from that Puritanical baldness which some suppose, but very falsely, to have been the undefiled condition of church walls in the early ages.” A fuller investigation would reveal many interesting facts going far to prove, by human means alone, the identity of the church of Clement and that of Pius IX.; and, indeed, it is chiefly this that strikes all candid English-speaking visitors to the subterranean church. In the late Basilica built over the ruins of this early one are many objects of artistic interest, notably the chapel of S. Catherine of Alexandria, with her life painted in a series of frescos on the walls, and the curious marble enclosure, four feet in height, round the choir, with the two ambones, or marble desks, for the reading of the Gospel and the Epistle. These, together with the enclosure, which is raised a step or two above the level of the nave, are beautifully sculptured; and already, in these unusual types of birds, beasts, and flowers, we trace that departure from the tradition of the monotonous acanthus-leaf which was to blossom forth into such wonders at the Cathedrals of Cologne, Chartres, York, and Burgos. The frescos in S. Catherine’s chapel it would take too long to describe; a medallion head of the saint is especially noticeable for its great purity of outline and expression, and the heavenly suggestiveness which hallows and rarefies its human beauty. In a cursory sketch such as this, it is impossible to do justice to a subject so vast as Roman art, and we have therefore embodied in it but a few of our personal recollections. The deepest impressions, however, can never be told in words. No one who has visited Rome can ever succeed in fully expressing all his sentiments; there are undefinable sensations that will assert themselves, though the visitor should strive to the utmost to resist and stifle them; there are vivid influences which are felt by the infidel, the Puritan, and the Catholic alike, though the first will not acknowledge them, and the second has too much human respect to put them into tangible shape; still, they exist none the less strongly and may bear fruit when least expected.
Rome is too much of a landmark in the tale of any traveller’s life to be passed over in silence, and one might say of its charm and influence what Rousseau caused to be graven on the pedestal of a statue of Eros set up in his grounds near Geneva:
“Passant, adore; voici ton maître;
Il l’est, le fut, ou le doit être.”
(“Passing, adore; behold thy master.
He is, he was, or he ought to be.”)