This is only one of the many wonderful relics that are shown, and absurd legends that are told, and one hardly knows whether to treat with pity or contempt the ignorant credulity shown by the lower orders of Roman Catholics and their priesthood.
Between the Capitol and the Forum is the Mamertine prison, where among other illustrious captives were confined Jugurtha, Sejanus, and the Catiline conspirators; St. Paul, too, noblest of men, was here held in durance vile, and Popish tradition says St. Peter also. Passing through a little church, we were lighted down into a dark dungeon, and below this found another, communicating by narrow stone steps; but it is said the poor prisoners were dropped from the one to the other through a hole or trap-door. They were confined below until sentenced to death, when they were brought up the steps to the dungeon above, where they were executed, and their bodies thrown out for the satisfaction of the people thronging the Forum. There is a dint in the stone wall where it is said St. Paul's head was battered by his inhuman gaoler; this, though it sounds improbable enough, is gravely related as a fact. A subterranean passage extends to a considerable distance, which I penetrated as far as I was able, till a cold blast of air, evidently from the river Tiber, almost extinguished my candle, and the guide shouted to me to return.
It is remarkable how much lower that part of ancient Rome surrounding the Forum lies compared to the rest of the city—certainly from ten to fifteen feet. Modern or mediæval Rome seems in some instances to be partially built over the older portion. Why this should have been, it is difficult to say. New and interesting excavations are made continuously, and I could have remained here the live-long day, watching the gradual disentombment of the beautiful columns, statuary, and other long-buried mementoes of Rome's past greatness—and, as her foundations were laid bare, rebuilding and repeopling, according to my own ideal fancies, this great temple of eloquence. "What men have crossed the shadows of these very columns! What thoughts that have moved the world were born beneath them!" Scene after scene rose to my mind which had been enacted in this very spot, one fair vision standing out like a star from the rest—Virginia, "the sweetest maid in Rome," in her white garments, as though prepared for the sacrifice, satchel in hand, tripping with "her small glancing feet along the Forum," and up the sacred street from the schools, the remains of which may still be seen cavernlike.
After all, what is left of Rome's greatness? A few broken columns only? Surely not. We are still as deeply moved as ever by the history of her mighty rise and fall; the world still acknowledges the governing wisdom of her imperishable laws, and is still benefited by the inspiring example of her noble men and virtuous women. But the true "Eternal City" must be looked for elsewhere than in the most powerful of pagan nations. This indeed must have solaced the little fraternity of Christians at ancient Rome, when so cruelly persecuted: and what a glorious triumph is theirs now!
We did not omit to pay a visit to the palaces of the Cæsars, which lie clustered above and about the Forum. It is rather difficult to understand how the Romans obtained sufficient light for their dwellings, the rooms being generally small, and without external windows. What there was, however, usually came from above, as the courts were open; and also by radiation, the large marble tanks in these courts being filled with water, on which the descending light smote, and was dispersed around. There is a subterranean passage leading from the palaces to the Coliseum, which was made use of by the emperor and his suite for their transit thither; and a terribly anxious little journey that must often have been to the great Cæsars.
The grand old Coliseum still rears its crumpling walls proudly towards the skies, though almost two-thirds lie in ruins. The centre has been filled in with earth, so that we scarcely see the original bottom, but there is sufficient left to show clearly to what use this great amphitheatre was put. One intelligent guide points out the evidences of formerly existing hydrants, which had led to the Tiber, and thus flooded the lower part with water for the exhibition of mock naval engagements. Then, when the water was let out again, great scaffolding poles were inserted into stone sockets, and a platform suspended on a level with the dens, from which the wild beasts were let into the arena. And here the gladiators fought, and the Christians and criminals were torn to pieces, to make sport for the countless multitude sitting, crowded tier upon tier around, while the blue heavens looked down on the inhuman and bloody sight, and the poor martyr Christians, fearlessly awaiting their doom, sighed upwards, "How long? how long?" We could also see the trap-doors from whence buffoons were hoisted on to the stage. To trace all this was interesting, though it saddened one to reflect on all the horrors that had been enacted here. Much of the brickwork had evidently been veneered with slabs of marble, most of which has now disappeared; but it rather puzzled me to see so many great chips made in certain parts of the marble columns. Our guide, however, informed me that they had bars of iron in the centre, and it was to obtain this iron for making into spear-heads for the defence of Rome that the marble was so broken and chipped at the joints—an inglorious ending truly for these witnesses of past splendour!
It has been said that Byron's celebrated description of the Coliseum is better than the reality; that "he beheld the scene in his mind's eye, through the witchery of many intervening years, and faintly illumined it with starlight instead of the broad glow of moonshine." Be this as it may, the noble stanzas are all too well known to bear further quotation. The reader may possibly be less acquainted with the fine lines on the subject, which Longfellow has put in the mouth of Michael Angelo, in the fragmentary tragedy of that name lately published in America:
"Tradition says that fifteen thousand men
Were toiling for ten years incessantly
Upon this amphitheatre.
Behold,
How wonderful it is! The queen of flowers,
[105] The marble rose of Rome! Its petals torn
By wind and rain of twice five hundred years;
Its mossy sheath half rent away, and sold
To ornament our palaces and churches,
Or to be trodden under feet of man
Upon the Tiber's bank; yet what remains
Still opening its fair bosom to the sun,
And to the constellations that at night
Hang poised above it like a swarm of bees.
"The rose of Rome, but not of Paradise;
Not the white rose our Tuscan poet saw,
With saints for petals. When this rose was perfect
Its hundred thousand petals were not saints,
But senators in their Thessalian caps,
And all the roaring populace of Rome;
And even an Empress and the Vestal Virgins,
Who came to see the gladiators die,
Could not give sweetness to a rose like this.
The sand beneath our feet is saturate
With blood of martyrs; and these rifted stones
Are awful witnesses against a people
Whose pleasure was the pain of dying men.