Life in the Old World/Station 11

by Fredrika Bremer

 

ELEVENTH STATION.

In Rome—First impression—First rambles in old and new Rome—The Pope—The last Judgment—Church Festivals—Drawing-room Life—Popular Life—Faith in Miracles—The Catacombs—A Poetess—Christmas-day in the Vatican—Child preachings—S. Paulo fuori de Mure—Attempt at Conversion—A little of Everything—Close of the year 1857.

Rome, December.—“It is singular!” exclaimed the pleasant voice of Jenny, “but the first feeling which I experience in Rome is hunger.”

“And I confess that I am looking forward with the greatest satisfaction to a cup of coffee,” said our traveling companion in the coupé, a young Englishman, and a gentleman.

I acknowledge, that I wished for nothing more than a cup of tea!

These were our first feelings in the eternal city, where we sat waiting in the diligence on the Piazza del Popolo, after having given up our passports at the city gate. It was late in the evening. Before us, three long streets opened fan-like, glimmering with light; on the square just before us, rose an obelisk like a huge shadow; at a little distance gleamed forth two cupolas; and above the square, and above us, Jupiter shone brightly in the sky. After half an hour's delay, we drove to La Dagano; escaped having our luggage opened, in consideration of a small fee, and at length, towards midnight, had the enjoyment of food and rest in the hotel, Della Minerva.

And now a word regarding our journey hither.

We left Florence by railway, and hoped, in three hours, to reach Sienna. Towards the close of the three hours, we beheld objects which denote a city, but—most extraordinary!—these objects appear to us as familiar, as if we had seen them lately; and there—is there not? Yes, actually a leaning tower. Oh! horror! We are at Pisa! The negligent conductor of the railway train had forgotten to tell us when the line branched off for Sienna. What was to be done?

There was nothing for it but to remain at Pisa, until a train some hours later went thence to Sienna. But the sun shone; the functionaries at the railway were particularly kind and sympathetic in our fate, and leaving our luggage in their charge, we resolved, not only to take the whole thing coolly, but cheerfully and easily. We therefore again went up into the city, which now, in the sunshine, looked quite different to what it did when we last left it. Many well-dressed people were walking in the streets; there were fewer beggars, and those not so importunate, and the Arno reflected the brightness of the sun. I again saw the leaning tower, Campo Santo, and Catharina Ferucci. All looked brighter, even the sorrowing mother. She had resumed her work, and that with a smile upon her agreeable, expressive countenance. We talked and disputed a little about Catholicism and the evangelical doctrines, but in a friendly spirit. Catharina Ferucci, as little understands as most Catholics do, what this latter doctrine really is. I am pleased, however, to see her a little more cheerful. Blessed be work!

At four o'clock in the afternoon we were again seated, Jenny and I, in the railway carriage, now in the firm belief of arriving at Sienna before night. Near to us in the carriage was seated a very elegant, closely-vailed lady, and beside her a handsome young man with a dark, Italian countenance.

Jenny's irresistible, youthful laugh at our traveling qui pro quo, attracted to her the attention of the traveling couple, and the words e bella! bellissima! were exchanged between them. The vailed lady asked questions in French, which we replied to by communicating our little adventure; this led to other questions and other communications, such as, that Jenny was not my daughter, but a young friend, that we were intending to go to Rome, and so on, and all my replies were immediately whispered confidentially in Italian to the young man, who remained silent but observant. We learned from the Italian lady, that she had left her husband—in Genoa, I believe—and was going to her father's, the Marquis of ——, in order that, at his castle among the Apennines, she might have the benefit of a change of air, which her health required, and that she was attended thither by her physician. She threw back her vail, and displayed a pale countenance, with delicate features and intellectual expression, but not indicative of health, either of soul or body. It was evident enough, that we beheld before us in this couple, one of those Cecisbeoesque relationships, which are more renowned than honorable in the love-chronicles of Italy. The delicate lady, who gave herself out as five and twenty, but seemed to be older, had both the manners and mode of expression, which unmistakably betray the culture of the refined world.

At the hotel in Sienna we met with a young Prince Colonna, a handsome and well-bred man. He was an engineer on some railway—which I will endeavor to remember—in Piedmont, and I note down this circumstance, because I accept it as a sign that the young nobles of Italy are beginning to understand the honor of labor.

It was dark when we reached Sienna, but we had the opportunity of looking about us in the city for a good hour, the following morning, before the diligence set off for Rome—for from this point there are no more railways southward—and this morning was a real festival. The sun shone, and lit up the vast and splendid landscape, which the elevated situation of the city affords, especially from its grand promenade under the most beautiful of trees, beneath which stood white marble seats. Every thing here was calm and beautiful; beyond all was grand and open, tempting the mind to sweep round like the eagle, and rest upon its wings. We went into the Cathedral, the most beautiful which I have yet seen in Italy. The choir resembles a sacred grove of lofty columns, under the arch of which it is good to wander, to sit, to think, and to elevate the mind. In whatever direction one looks one sees beautiful or significant objects. The whole church is a poem; the stones speak and blossom forth. I have never felt in any Catholic churches the sublimity of their symbolism so much as in this.

At noon we set off, pushed together in the coupé of the diligence, in a manner more suitable for herrings than for human beings, and which, during the night, became a perfect torment. But the night was beautiful, and as my inconvenient position, and the postillion's knocking on the carriage window at every station to demand his drink-money, took away all possibility of sleep, I busied myself with observing every nocturnal alteration of darkness and light, a spectacle which I had never hitherto seen in perfection. The first rosy tints on the brightening night-heaven were of enchanting beauty. At this moment we were driving along the heights, not far from the romantically-situated lake of Bolsena, celebrated for its ancient mysteries, and for the undiminished beauty of its banks. The country, and the features of the early dawn, were charming. The morning star slid down towards the east, paling by degrees in the young day's increasing light, and the earth lay silent like a slumbering, unpeopled world, as if it were still the morning hour of paradise, before the time of Adam and Eve, and their restless children!

During the whole of the following day, grand expansive views over the country, which extended in long stretching waves of naked mountain and wooded hills, calm, harmonious, softly-waving outlines. Very few villages and fewer towns, none near the road. The region frequently resembled a desert, and became ever more like it the nearer we approached Rome. Not a movement on the roads, not even of robbers, of whom we had been warned. And we should have been an easy prey for them in this desert. All is desolate, silent as if deserted, in this wild region, where at the same time the oak grows to a large size. Thus we went on, mile after mile, hour after hour, through the demesne of the church; but with ever these same expansive views! One was never wearied of contemplating them. At length twilight and silence enveloped them, the desolation continued, and now it felt wearisome and long. All at once we behold high-arched gates; walls and towers rise in majestic altitude around us. We drive through a large archway, and—we are in Rome.

During the first week I thought of little besides finding rooms, and of settling myself and my young friend down in our winter quarters. I made, however, meantime, two rambles of discovery of another kind, of which I must say a few words. Adhering to my love of rambling and looking about me in every place, independently, on my own account, I bought a map of Rome, which I studied. One day, therefore, when I was out, busied with the mundane business of seeking for a dwelling on the Corso, Via Condotti, Piazza di Spagna, and many other parts of modern Rome, which constitute the foreigners' quarter, I was seized with a hungering and thirsting after the sight of something large and grand, and leaving the noisy new Rome, with its numerous shops and crowds of people, I wandered away into old Rome. I knew the way, by my map. Thus I came to the Capitol, ascended Tarpeian Rock by a flight of steps, and went down on the other side. There, before my eyes, opened a deep, immense grave, and out of the grave rose a city of monuments, in ruins, columns, triumphal arches, temples, and palaces,—broken, ruinous, but still beautiful and grand,—with a mournful, solemn beauty. It was the giant apparition of ancient Rome. Here was the Forum, where the Gracchi, those first great tribunes of the people, spoke for the rights of the people; up yonder the Capitol, where Cicero awoke the fervor of the Roman Senate for the true greatness of Rome—plans of which I had read so much in my youth—plans of contests and achievements which early kindled in my heart the fire of patriotism, which has burned ever since, although upon another hearth. Here were temples and triumphal arches, the names of which I did not as yet know, and finally, to the left, a gigantic building or ruin, well known to me from engravings. Thither I directed my steps. On my way, I read on the ruins of a beautiful temple, A Divo Antonio et Divœ Faustina, and a little further, above a massive triumphal arch, through which the road passed, A Divo Vespasiano, and saw there represented, in well-preserved bas-reliefs, the triumphal procession of Titus after the destruction of Jerusalem, with the captive Jews, the seven-branched candlesticks, and many other treasures, from the temple of Solomon. I went forward, along the Via Sacra, where the stones, large, and worn by time, still lie as they lay when the triumphal processions of the Roman Cæsars passed along it, on their way to the Capitol, leaving to the right the triumphal arch of Constantine, and came at length through immense ruins and portions of fallen columns, to the Colosseum. Here a deep stillness prevailed. Two persons only, the one a Romish priest, were wandering there in silent contemplation. The day was like the loveliest summer-day. The soft wind chased light, white clouds, across the heavens, which arched themselves, clear and full of light, above the immense arena, surrounded with dark walls, where so much blood had flowed, of gladiators, slaves, and martyrs! These latter had now conquered.^[1] The Christian sign of a cross is now erected on the spot where the blood had been shed by the teeth and claws of wild beasts; peaceful altars stand around it, indicating stations in the history of our Lord's sufferings. The proud theatre, in which thousands of blood-thirsty spectators had clapped their hands in frantic joy over the combats and agonies of their victims, was now in ruins, and over the broken galleries, shrubs waved in the wind, with their yellow and red flowers, and the grass grew upon the field of blood,

“As the scar grows upon the healed wound.”

The deliciousness of the air, the sunlit sky above the grand monument, with its gloomy memories, the doves which circled around in flocks, the wind which made a murmuring in the young trees and bushes,—this present life which spoke of the ultimate victory of the good and the divine,—I cannot describe what I felt!

I approached the black wooden cross which stands in the middle of the Colosseum, and read upon it that “Whoever kissed this cross would obtain absolution for the sins of two hundred days.”

This was the mark of the Popedom, and the mark of a power which binds and which unbinds—not with the keys of the Spirit. The sign, too, that the triumphing of the light, of the spirit, over the letter, is not yet completed. But blow, thou warm, fresh wind; and shine, thou bright sun, and the day will come!

Another day, one of my first in Rome—weary of seeking the prose of life, I emancipated myself from the labor, and set off to seek for beauty and refreshment. I went to the opposite side of ancient Rome, of the Capitol and Forum; went in the direction of the Porta del Popolo, which was built thus magnificently, says the inscription, in order to celebrate the entrance of the Swedish ex-Queen Christina into Rome. On the right of the square (del Popolo), as one comes from the Corso, is a mound, which is ascended by broad paths, planted with trees, and ornamented with marble statues, both ancient and modern. One of these is that of Hygea, which invites thee here to cast away care, and to seek for rest and refreshment after the burden of the day. And there is scarcely any spot on earth to be found which will better aid thee in doing so than the enchanting garden of Monte Pincio. There, upon the summit, thou wilt find thyself in the most beautiful grounds, amongst all kinds of trees, and bushes, and flowers, of all countries, from the tropics up to the high north. Clear fountains of water spring from marble basins, amongst acacias and pines; thou wanderest in groves of roses and laurels, and from amongst the laurels, beautiful, thoughtful heads glance forth; the living laurels whisper around, caressing Dante, Ariosto, Beccaria, Filangieri, Galileo, Volta,—all those poets, thinkers, and statesmen, who were the glory of Italy, and are so still. They stand now here in peace, beneath the beaming heaven of the fatherland. Italy clasps her mighty sons, with grateful acknowledgment, to her maternal bosom.

Thou wilt also find some heads of ancient, noble Romans: Scipio Africanus, Cicero, Cæsar, Pompey, Tacitus! What a glorious museum is Monte Pincio, the former garden of Sallust, the Villa of Lucullus, then a heap of ruins, lastly transformed by Napoleon the Great, into the most beautiful promenade of Rome! Every capital ought to have its Monte Pincio; even that of Sweden might have hers; great men are not wanting amongst us.^[2] The execution of many of these marble busts is, in the mean time, not satisfactory; real artists have not always been selected for the work; and that is a pity.

But the immortal dead occupy our attention here merely during quiet hours, for the living life around us, both in small and great, is so beautiful and so rich that it captivates soul and sense.

Around us walk, or sit to rest, the Roman nurses in full costume; the dark hair ornamented with garlands, red ribbons, silver flowers, or golden ears of wheat; strings of pearls round their necks, and the neckerchief pinned down low behind showing the vigorous form of the neck and its healthy brown coloring; the children clothed in white, sleep on the nurses' arms, or make their essays at walking between their hands, whilst the older children, poetically beautiful and well dressed,—blooming as the sons and daughters of Albion—run along bowling their hoops, beaming with innocent life-enjoyment; here promenade proud, silk-attired ladies, swinging like ostriches, with the gentlemen who belong to them; their cardinals—princes of the church—in scarlet stockings and violet silk-lined cloaks, accompanied by a black-clad priest, and two or three servants in large hats and long-liveried coats; their bare-footed and bare-headed Capuchin monks, who wander along comfortably two and two, and betray the fact, by their corpulence and rosy complexions, that any one can lead a very jolly life as a Capuchin. Here and there also, you see a quiet thinker, sitting or walking, with his book in his hand, as solitary and undisturbed in the silent laurel groves, as in his own study. Everywhere white marble or wooden benches are to be found.

The peaceful park of the pedestrians is encircled by the grand drive, and here, between three and five o'clock in the afternoon, circulates, in splendid carriages and on horseback, the elegant world of Rome in gala-attire. It is a brilliant spectacle! But beyond this, is something greater and more brilliant still, the spectacle of Rome itself with its hundreds of churches, cupolas, obelisks, from the Vatican to the Capitol, and beyond the city the country; and beyond that, the western horizon, where the sun sets in Italian pomp of coloring, illumining still with its latest beams the pinacles of the eternal city, and the laurel groves of Monte Pincio.

When later, the after-glow of sunset illumines the heavens and ascends over the city—it is a sight to see, a spectacle to enjoy, of which one can never grow weary during evenings as lovely as those we have had hitherto in Rome.

A third flight—during those first days in Rome—I made in a carriage with Jenny and the young Swiss, Professor Bonnet, on the Via Appia, formerly a public high road, now a deserted via sacra, a magnificent promenade amongst ruinous tombs, the massive remains of which extend for many miles over the Roman Campagna. The powerful families of ancient Rome loved to build monuments to their dead by the side of the public road, probably to exhibit at once their affection for their relations, and their own power and affluence. Most of these monuments are now nothing but heaps of ruins upon which have been placed the statues and sculptures which have been found in the earth, or amongst the rubbish. The tomb of Cecilia Metella, is the only one of which the exterior is well preserved; its interior is a heap of ruins. A beautiful marble relief of flowers, and other ornamentation, encircles the round tower like a garland. The inscription also, is perfect in great measure, and tells of a young and lovely woman, dead in the bloom of her age, to whose memory this monument has been erected by her sorrowing husband and father.

Those inscriptions, which have been found on the tombs of the Via Appia, bear witness to the grief of the living for the dead, but never of the hope of a reunion. On a great number of sarcophagi and the friezes of tombs may be seen the dead sitting or lying, as if they were alive; some seem to be praying. Many heads have great individuality of character. Sometimes a white marble figure, beautifully draped, projects from these heaps of ruins, but without head or hands; sometimes a hand is stretched out, or a portion of a figure rises from a tomb. It is a street through monuments to the dead, across an immense churchyard, for the desolate Roman Campagna may be regarded as such. To the left it is scattered with the ruins of colossal aqueducts, which during the time of the Emperors, conveyed rivers and lakes to Rome, and which still, ruinous and destroyed, delight the eye by the beautiful proportions of their arcades.

To the right is an immense prairie, without any other limit than that of the ocean, which, however, is not seen from it. The country is desolate; and only here and there are any huts or trees to be seen. The brook of Egeria here intersects the Campagna, and flows further away into the beautiful grove, which I shall visit at another time. We continued our drive to the place called the Round Tower, the highest point on the road, and where the view is the most striking. A little farm-house has been built here in a ruined tomb; outside was gathered a flock of sheep, as immovable, at the time, as the tomb itself. On the ledges of the hill of Albano we saw, in the blue distance, the cities of Albano and Frescati, and further away to the left, shone out amongst dark green woods the white houses of Tivoli and Villa d'Este. On the west, the view was bounded by the Sabine hills, the summits of which were now covered with snow.

We slowly drove back to Rome, whilst the sun, setting in splendor beyond the immense plain, flushed the aqueducts and tower of the Campagna with ever warmer coloring. Deeper and deeper grew their shadows. The road was equally desolate with the whole region through which it passed. We met only a few contadini,—country laborers—who were returning to their homes. The great high road for people and carriages now runs at a considerable distance from this, and the Via Appia is merely a road for old memories and curious travelers.

After some days of diligent search, I succeeded in meeting with comfortable apartments on the Corso, the great artery of modern Rome. We have there a kind landlady, a little maid, and a clever donna, or female servant, who takes the management of our household, and we can already attest the truth of the saying, that one can live nowhere so well and so cheaply as in Rome. But one ought not, however, to live in hotels, and least of all in a “white-washed” nest of robbers, like La Minerva. We live not far from Monte Pincio and the Piazza del Popolo, where I first saw the evening star, Jupiter, beaming over Rome. Our outward life is now well arranged, and I can with all the freer mind devote myself to Rome, the sibyl with the wonderful books, carved with names of the past and the future.

If the human being have sinned, if he have broken some divine or human law, if he lie awake during the night with the gnawing pang of conscience, if the day be made burdensome to him by the weight of this memory—how good, how blessed to know some means of obliteration and atonement! The necessity of this has sent men and women on pilgrimages to holy places, and does so still; the necessity for this has caused them to undertake the severest penance. It is a holy necessity; it is founded upon the consciousness of eternally sacred laws. One cannot but respect it, at the same time that one must condemn the power which dares to absolve the sin and the sinner, on the performance of some outward miserable penance more like play than punishment. Thus have I felt and thought many a time in Italy, when I read, over its churches, chapels, or other sacred places, the promise of indulgenza plenaria, for those who prayed there, generally five Pater Nosters and three Ave Marias, or kissed a certain cross, and so on. But seldom have I felt this more vividly than yesterday, when I saw some men and women creeping on their knees up La Scala Santa, kissing the places where a copper ring indicated that a drop of the Saviour's blood had fallen.

The Scala Santa is a flight of white marble steps said to have been brought from the Council Hall in Jerusalem, and which Christ, during his last night, ascended on his way to receive sentence from Pilate. The Empress Helena, the mother of Constantine, had them conveyed from Jerusalem to Rome, with other remains of the Council Hall. The steps are twenty-eight in number,—covered with wood—and the penitents who creep up them, find at the top a little closed chapel, in which a lamp burns amidst relics, “so holy,” says an inscription on the wall, “that no holier place is to be found in the entire world.”

People are not allowed to enter, but can merely peep in through the grating. The penitents kneel outside this grating, kiss the holy wall, and then go down by another flight of steps, at the foot of which is a picture upon which may be read in large letters that “all such as, with their souls deeply absorbed in the sufferings of the Saviour, ascend the holy steps upon their knees, receive absolution for nine past years of their lives, and that Pope Pius VII. has declared the absolution to be available for the whole lifetime, and that it is also applicable to the souls in purgatory!”

Did the feet of the Saviour actually tread these steps? Are these relics really portions of his cross, crown of thorns, &c.,—or is all this fictitious? To me it is all one.

“He is not here, he is arisen!” said the angels at the tomb. The worship of the bodily covering which the spirit has cast off, belongs to souls still in the larva-condition; and the ascending of the Scala Santa, on the knees, is too convenient a mode for obtaining the forgiveness of sins, and at the same time a hindrance upon the only true way.

At the foot of the Scala Santa, stand two beautiful groups in marble, of Jesus and Judas Iscariot, and of Jesus and Pontius Pilate, both by a Roman sculptor, Giacometti, by name, who obtained at once, by these statues, rank and fame amongst the first sculptors of Rome.

Sunday, December 6th.—Divine Service in the Sistine Chapel. Mass performed by the Pope himself, with an agreeable, but somewhat weak voice. The voice resembles his figure and his manner, which indicate an amiable friendly character, but deficient in energy. The service seemed to me a species of worship offered to the person of the Pope. He sits upon his throne and the cardinals advance one after another to kiss his hand, their trains borne by servants. The Pope, as well during mass as at the administration of the sacrament, is waited upon just as though he were an automaton which could not do any thing for itself. Most of these cardinals are old men with placid features, large pale countenances, several, at the same time, are very fat. (Cardinal Antonelli, the absolutist principle in the papal cabinet and the most influential person of the Roman state, but the most hated by all nationally-minded Italians, was not present.) The sermon was in Latin, and preached by a monk in black, who seemed to preach merely for the Pope, to whom his gestures and his discourse were exclusively directed. The music was learned and strong, but not musically executed; two beautiful soprano voices sung and warbled with wonderful art, but without feeling for the sentiment of it. It seems to me here, as in Florence, that music is treated as an art, but not as a fine art.

The greater proportion of those present were foreigners; the ladies all in black silk and with black vails. Such is the custom here at the church festivals, when the Pope is present in person.

If the service could have called forth any devotional sentiment in my soul, it would have been completely nullified by a kind of perpetuum mobile, which sat beside me in the shape of a stout lady of about fifty, a French woman of the most extremely silly appearance and manner, who would not let either herself or any one else have a moment's repose. Now she adjusted her neighbor's vail, then she would have the neighbor to adjust hers; now she rattled her bracelets and rings, admiring them as she twisted about a large, fat hand; then she showed them to a lady behind her; then took a lottery-ticket out of the pocket of her dress; then looked into her mass-book; then again brushed down her dress; then stood up, turned herself round, rustled, bustled, incessantly moved her hands, her head, her whole body, and kept continually asking all the time, qu'est-ce que c'est qu' ça? and so on through the whole service, which lasted an hour and a half. I employed the time in making myself acquainted with the purport of the mass, in the mass-book which my landlady had lent me—as well as in exercising my patience at the side of Lady Perpetuum Mobile.

Very splendid, and in its own way, beautiful, was the spectacle produced by the evolutions and marching of the Papal Swiss guards in the magnificent aisles and vestibules of the Vatican. Their brilliant medieval uniform of red and gold—for which Michael Angelo, it is said, gave the design—is maintained in all its details. For the rest, these guards distinguished themselves by an astonishing rudeness, rudeness towards foreigners and even Catholic priests. One priest had his hat snatched away with rude violence; another who was supporting himself very innocently against a bench, was pushed about, this way and that, in a brutal manner. The ladies were driven out of the chapel on the close of the ceremonial, as if they had been prisoners of war, or a flock of sheep. The French Guards were also present, but they conducted themselves in a very different way. The Pope, in his own capital, guarded by foreign soldiery, guarded against his own people—what a humiliation!

I have returned since then to the chapel, that I might make a more close survey of Michael Angelo's celebrated painting of the Last Judgment. This fresco picture, which occupies the further end of the chapel, is greatly injured by time and the fading of the colors. The figure of Christ, as well as that of his mother, in the centre of the picture, is, however, well preserved, or restored. This Christ is not the Christ of the gospel, but an Herculean figure a la Buonarotti, who with a vehemently reprobative gesture exclaims to a crowd of Pharisaic sinners who are pressing towards him, “Depart from me, ye accursed of my Father!” Of one thing, however, I am quite certain, which is, that if the Son of God and man should be compelled on the day of judgment to say these words, He will do it with a sorrowful earnestness, a spiritual dignity, of which the Christ of Michael Angelo has not a trace. The accursed are naturally precipitated backwards, and down in the bottom of the picture one sees them seething and burning. In the mean time, the blessed sing praises, as, on the Saviour's right hand, they ascend up to heaven,—a representation which is false in principle. Because the one portion of mankind, inasmuch as they have the Spirit of Christ, cannot be singing praises whilst the other writhes in the torments of despair. Very beautiful and truly affecting, is, on the contrary, the expression of melancholy and compassion in the countenance of the Virgin Mary, as she glances down upon the unhappy—the heavenly, pure, and gentle countenance reminds one of the bust of Vittoria Colonna. I thought also that the idea which was expressed in some of the groups, of the human beings clinging together, and their sense of mutual relationship, was true and beautiful. There are very few single figures; they ascend or are hurled down in groups of two or more persons; they lift up each other, or they mutually drag each other down. There is one group amongst these especially expressive, that of two negroes, the elder of whom, with a beautiful energetic head, embraces a younger man, who holds firmly by a rosary with both hands, by means of which an angel draws them both aloft, with a compassionate smile. An idea appropriate to the Catholic church, but which has a symbolic truth. The back of the lofty canopy which has been erected above the Papal throne, entirely hides the central and lowest parts of the picture—the lonely island of thunder cloud on which a troop of angels are blowing the trumpets of judgment—one of the most magnificent conceptions of the grand picture. This cloud-island floats above the abyss between heaven and hell. Below, on the right, you see the dead awake and raise themselves from the church-yards of the earth,—a dismal image! The picture in its entirety can now only be seen in photographs and engravings.

I went from the Chapel to Saint Peter's Church. That glorious temple—the largest and most beautiful, it is said, in the world, produces upon me the impression rather of a Christian Pantheon than a Christian Church. The aesthetic intellect is edified more than the God-loving or God-seeking soul. The exterior and interior of the building appear to me more like an apotheosis of the Popedom, than as a glorification of Christianity and its doctrine. Monuments to the Popes occupy too much space. One sees all round the walls angels flying upward with papal portraits; sometimes merely with papal tiaras. About the middle of the church, a garland of gilded lamps is kept continually burning around the grave of the Apostles Peter and Paul—a circle of silent praying worshipers knelt around—and within the marble-covered tomb, kneels a colossal marble bishop—a beautiful figure, which represents, I believe, Pope Pius VI. Not far from the grave is seated, in a stiff, upright position, a black bronze statue, which is said to represent the Apostle Peter, and to be very old, a recasting of the ancient image of Jupiter Capitolinus—as I have been told by learned men, and it appears like it. The expression is hard and unspiritual, the whole figure ugly and unpleasing. One foot is extended forward, and this is kissed by old and young, by all classes of the people who enter the church. The toes are in part worn away.

The side chapels are splendid, and so large that they might serve for independent churches. The monuments and statues are numerous, but all are subordinate, or unite harmoniously with the large and beautiful proportions of the chief temple. Every thing there is harmony, light, beauty—an image of the church triumphant; but a very worldly, earthly image, and whilst the mind enjoys its splendor, the soul cannot, in the higher sense, be edified by its symbolism. The Cathedral of Sienna gave me a higher impression of the Christian temple. But I shall return to St. Peter's.

Rainbows shone in the plenteous jets of water thrown up by the fountains in the square outside. The air was as warm as summer, so that Jenny and I drove home in an open carriage without any inconvenience, with merely tulle vails over our heads.

During the afternoon, whilst Jenny, in company with one of our countrymen, enjoyed the sunshine on Monte Pincio, I went to the Colosseum, where I was told that every Sunday, “simple, true Christianity” was preached by a Capuchin monk; and this I wished to hear.

I had not been long on the square, empty as usual, excepting for some nurses who let the little ones kiss the cross in the middle of the Colosseum, before I heard singing, and through the gate saw advancing a procession of gray-clad men and black-clad women, one of whom, a little, pale woman, carried a large black cross at the head of the procession. The faces of the gray brothers were also concealed by gray cloth, with openings merely for the eyes, producing a very disagreeable effect. I have been told that this costume frequently concealed men of high birth, who, in this manner accomplish a vow or perform penance; and the gait and bearing of some of these figures, evidently betrayed that they were of the higher classes.

The men and women of the procession, together with a little crowd of all sorts of people, who accompanied it, gathered round a low barrier in front of a pulpit erected against the walls of the Colosseum to the left. A young Capuchin monk ascended the pulpit, bearing a little crucifix, with a hideous figure of the crucified Saviour, which he fixed into the pulpit beside him. He then addressed his audience in a loud and impressive manner;—but, good heavens!—what a discourse! It was about the last judgment, and of that which on that occasion would constitute the greatest torment of the damned. It was not the being separated from God, the fountain of all blessedness; it was not the flames and torments of hell. No, it was la confusione of being condemned and put to shame before the face of the Madonna, of the Saints, and all the elect! An eternity of torment was less terrible than the blushes which would burn the cheeks at this moment, and which would make the flames of Hell grow pale. “Imagine to yourselves—dilettissimi—a lady, a noble and elegant lady of the world, who is seized upon by rude fellows and”—but I cannot accompany the monk in his hideous and disgusting description of this unfortunate, who, when she had suffered all kinds of ignominy and offensive insult in the streets of the capital, is then “derided by the Virgin Mary and all the noble and elegant world of Heaven, who clap their hands at her misery, whilst she, finally, povera donna, covered with confusione, is cast down to Hell!”

The young monk painted his picture con amore and with all the Italian wealth of color. It seemed to me as if the spirit of those cruel spectacles which had formerly taken place, on this very spot, had entered into the young priest, and inspired him with its demoniacal appetite. The clear, soft, summer sky which arched itself above the heathen rotunda, the evening breeze which wafted the grass and the flowers; and the white doves, which circled above with their glancing wings, lit up by the setting sun—were the messengers of a different spirit to those of the cruel, low-minded sermon. It closed with these words:

“Pray to Christ, that your lot may be with the elect, and not with them who will suffer la confusione, worse to bear them the flames of Hell!” He lifted up the crucifix; all fell on their knees and repeated a prayer after his dictation. He then invited the brothers and sisters to accompany him on La Via Crucis, adding with severity and indifference, “and if you go there without devotion, so much the worse for you! You are warned!”

He descended from his pulpit and the procession, following him, was again in movement, singing the while a hymn in which the words il peccatore and il salvatore were often repeated to an agreeable and easy melody. In this manner the procession advanced to the twelve altars, which are erected in a circle within the Colosseum, and where each one has some picture from the history of the Saviour's sufferings. At every altar they paused and prayers were repeated, when again the train proceeded, singing as before. It was late and dark when the so-called Via Crucis was concluded. Those of the people who had taken part in it, then hastened to kiss the cross in the centre of the arena, and so doing to obtain indulgensa for the sins of two hundred days. The procession passed through the gates singing, and on to a little church called Il Calvario within the gate of St. Sebastian.

I wandered homeward, but had some difficulty in making my way, for the Corso was one almost incredible mass of carriages and pedestrian spectators, and it was merely by time and skill, that one could pilot one's way through the dense throng of foot passengers—nearly all gentlemen—who often stood, as it were, riveted to the spot, and seemed to have no other thought than of gazing at the gay ladies in the carriages. And thus it is every afternoon on the Corso, between three and five o'clock.

December 8th.—Grand festival of L'Immaculata! The shop closed, many people in the streets, and the weather beautiful. At four in the afternoon, the grand procession went from the Piazza di Venezia to the Capitoline rock. My friends and I watched it from the steps of the Jesuits' church, (Chiesa di Gesa) where we joined it. A great number of spectators in the streets, with but little devotion, excepting for the host as it was carried along, all fell upon their knees. They merely uncovered their heads to the picture of the Virgin. It was carried first, painted on canvas—a very lovely picture, above which stood the words Mater omnium; then a gilded statue—also with a lovely maternal expression—its clasped hands adorned with a number of rings, under a gilded canopy. To these succeeded a cross. The music played a march from Il Trovatore. The procession produced a fine effect when, attended by the many-colored multitude, it ascended the flight of steps to the Capitol. There it paused: the music played for yet a short time a gay, secular air; the standards were lowered, all was at an end, and the people dispersed as hastily and silently as a mass of cloud.

The pictures of the Madonna were carried up the heaven-aspiring steps of Ara Celi, and into the church of the Capuchins, to which they lead. The church was illuminated, and also the image of the Virgin, which stands in the centre of the church. The inscription “Thou art in truth a Virgin and there is no original sin in thee!” was kissed again and again by many men of the lower class, with an earnestness which was affecting to witness, because it was sincere and evinced an ardent and religious feeling. If this were a misguided feeling, it was no fault of theirs, but that of their great guardian, the Pope, who has elevated the earthly, humble woman into a Groddess. It was this day seven years, since Pio Nono, according to an alleged inspiration of the Holy Spirit, declared the Mother of Christ Jesus to be without hereditary or original sin. For the rest, well might the affectionate, fascinating expression in the beautiful pictures of the Madonna awaken sentiments of devotional love in the uneducated, but warm-hearted and sun-kindled children of Italy. It is asserted that the men of Italy almost universally feel a reverence and regard for the Mother, which is elsewhere very rare. It is worthy of observation how quietly ladies may move amongst, and stand here in a popular crowd without being pressed upon, or pushed about, or otherwise annoyed, at least not by the Italian people. They conduct themselves with good-humor, kindness, and even with the utmost delicacy towards well-dressed persons arid children. It is a part of what they call educazione, and of which it is to be wished that our northern people had somewhat more.

December 10th.—Soirée at Count Colloredo's, in company with princes and princesses, French, Spanish, and Italian. Amusing enough for once! I was most pleased with the hostess, a lady who appears good, clever and decided, a lady of the great world, and, as it seemed to me, of character also. It was a great joy to me to see the young Princess G——, the daughter of Queen Maria Christina, by the second marriage. Without being precisely handsome, she has a very pleasant appearance and agreeable manners. The wreath of flowers, with long, depending sea-grass, which she wore, was very becoming to her head, and somewhat long, but very graceful neck. The young prince, her husband, is also handsome, in the southern style. The Princess P——, not handsome, but very amiable, and belonging to the most refined fashionable world, was an actual air-balloon of gold, silk and black lace. A couple of Italian counts or princes, were mentioned to me as men of great erudition, and especially interesting in conversation. The names have escaped me, and of their interesting conversation, which their appearance led me to believe in, I heard nothing. The subjects on which the company in general—which this evening was not large—conversed, were merely trifles and private occurrences; about the Prince ——, who had broken his leg by a fall from his horse, and the Princess ——, who is ill. One person says that she is better, another that she is worse, and so on.

I listened with one ear to these remarks, whilst I lent the other to Count B——'s vindication of certain Catholic usages, which I had censured, perhaps a little too openly. He is a kind and agreeable young man. Count Colloredo, whom I had seen more than thirty years ago in Stockholm, when he was a blonde Apollo-like figure and the favorite of high-born ladies; I now beheld him a gray-haired statesman, no longer handsome, but polite and agreeable as formerly.

After somewhat more than an hour I drove home. On the Piazza di Spagna, a crown of stars was blazing around the image of the immaculate Virgin, at the top of the white marble colonnade which had been erected in her honor, and in memory of the new dignity which Pio Nono conferred upon her. At the end of the colonnade stand colossal statues of Moses and three prophets, all of whom are thought to have written upon or announced the new dogma. On the pedestal are seen Pio Nono and his cardinals—good portraits—who announce the same to the world in the year 1849.

December 11th.—Soirée at the Bavarian minister's, Baron De Verger; very entertaining; various new and agreeable acquaintance, amongst whom are the artist Rudolf Leman, and the young and charming Mrs. Grant, born Baroness Wegener. Lively conversation and good music.

Sunday the 13th.—Cold bright morning! Walked to the Piazza Montanara, in the neighborhood of the Capitoline Forum, to see the Roman country-people, who commonly assemble in this quarter. Men and boys stand sunning themselves, with their cloaks—sometimes merely a tattered rag, or piece of coarse woolen cloth—thrown over their shoulders in the style of the antique Roman toga. Their bearing is proud, but their appearance half savage. There were but few women this morning, but three, in the Albanian costume, were splendid. It is here that the artists of Rome come to seek for their models.

The Roman women are distinguished, after their first youth is past, by solidity of flesh, and figures in perfect opposition to that of the sylph. Beauty, when it is found, is of a substantial character. The costumes seem to me less elegant and decorative than many of our northern ones. Rags and tatters play too great a part, at least amongst the poor. These rags are nearly always gray or dirty-brown, and this—may the artists forgive me—does not seem to me beautiful. We are here very near Bocca della Verita, in the ancient temple, which was converted into a Christian church. The people on Montanara basked in the sun, smoked, ate fruit and maize cakes, and seemed contented with life.

December 16th.—The Augustine church! Above the entrance stands the inscription common to Italian churches:

“Indulgenzia plenaria quotidiana et perpetua pro vivis et defunctis”

Within the church, a peculiar scene may now for some time have been witnessed. It is not long since the report was spread, that one day, when a poor woman called upon the image of the church's Madonna for help, she began to speak, and replied, “If I only had something, then I could help thee; but I myself am poor!”

This was a great miracle! The story spread, was repeated, made a great noise, and very soon, throngs of credulous, believing people, hastened to the church to kiss the foot of the Madonna, and to present her with all kinds of gifts. The crowding thither was now at its height. The image of the Virgin—a beautiful figure in brown marble—with the child Jesus on her knee, sat shining with ornaments of gold and precious stones. It was the hour of the Ave Maria; candles and lamps were burning around the figure; the people poured in, rich and poor, great and small; all came to kiss—some of them two or three times—the Madonna's foot, a gilt foot, to which the forehead was also devotionally pressed. The marble foot has been worn away with kissing; the Madonna is now rich. The church, formerly one of the poorest in Rome, has within a short time become one of the richest in Rome. Most of the devotees, after having given the kiss, let a coin drop into a little pewter vessel, which is placed upon the altar where sits the Madonna-image, after which they dip their fingers into the oil of the lamp, and anoint their eyes, forehead, neck, cross themselves, and give place to others eager to come forward, that they too may kiss the golden foot. The concourse of people continued uninterruptedly for a full hour and a half, during which time I remained in the church. Below the altar, it is inscribed in golden letters, that Pius VII. promised two hundred days absolution, to all such as should kiss the Madonna's foot, and pray with the whole heart, Ave Maria. A priest was seated near the altar, at a writing-table, ready to write out pardons for the dead, for whose souls prayers were desired and payment made. O Luther!

December 17th.—Dined with Herr von Kolb. I had here the great pleasure of making the acquaintance of Cavaliere Visconti, an archaeologist—rather, it is asserted, a clever man of letters, than a reliable antiquarian. But it would be difficult to find a more captivating person in conversation.

It was an actual delight to me, to hear him speak of the Italian language, “which,” said he, “has at once the dagger which kills and the balsam which heals the wound, as it were, with caresses. Alfieri and Metastasio, represent the strong and the sweet in the Italian tongue, in tragedy and canzonet. Everything is expressed in Italian literature, which lives in the human soul, the most independent, the most indomitable thought (see Vico), the richest fancy, the most glowing sentiment, the most free, the most joyous lyric. In all these, the genius of Italy takes the lead. It seems not to set great store by other nations, because it is itself inspired, and speaks from its own impulse. It is a born improvisatore; does not produce a great deal, but comprehends the true, the beautiful, with incredible rapidity, and the expression of this is as easy as a natural growth in its native soil.”

Visconti gave us some recitations, partly from Alfieri, partly from Metastasio, as well as portions of the folk's songs, which have lately been collected, and will shortly be published in a printed form. The whole company listened to him, and I could have sat and listened forever. It was enchanting! Visconti is a handsome, middle-aged gentleman, with fire in his eye, and a tone of high breeding in his appearance.

December 20th.—The Catacombs! I have to thank the kind management of my countrywoman, the lady of the Neapolitan Minister, Madame de Martino, for enabling me to see the Catacombs under the guidance of the celebrated archæologist, Cavaliere De Rossi, and enlightened by his edifying explanations.

Madame de Martino drove Jenny and myself to the entrance of the Catacombs outside the gate San Sebastiano. Here we were met by De Rossi—still a young man of Italian beauty and southern grace—accompanied by several learned men and antiquaries of various nations.

De Rossi is, at the present time, the most distinguished antiquarian of Rome, because he, two years ago, discovered the Christian catacomb of the first century, which was unknown, or had been forgotten ever since the fifth century, and he has arrived at this discovery by having, in the first place, discovered the so-called Calixti, (catacomb of Calixtus,) with the graves of Fabianus, Saint Cecilia, and many others of the ancient martys. This last mentioned catacomb, of which much is said in the writings of the oldest pilgrims of the sixth and seventh centuries, has been considered in latter times to exist in a totally different place to that in which De Rossi found it. New and very careful examinations in the district of the church of Saint Sebastiano led to his discovery that a cow-house, in a vineyard, contained a Christian Basilica of the oldest date. Broken pieces of marble, with burial inscriptions, which were found under the stones and rubbish, led to the supposition in his mind that the actual Calixti catacomb would be found under this church.

He communicated his discovery and his suppositions to the Pope, Pio Nino, who encouraged him, and furnished him with means to purchase the cow-house and vineyard, and to undertake the excavation. The results of all this were rich beyond expectation. The actual Calixti catacomb, with the martyrs' graves, were not only disscovered—the descent being found near the little, most ancient church—but, in connection therewith, the very most ancient catacomb, where the Christians, during the first and second century, congregated, as well as interred their dead. The entrance to this had been again walled up, and—if I am not mistaken—not opened until by De Rossi.

It was with a beaming countenance that the fortunate discoverer led us to those subterranean chambers by the very way which the most ancient pilgrims had descended. This was a handsome, convenient flight of white marble steps. We went down, each one of us bearing a lighted candle in the hand, two guides going in advance with torches. We reached the catacomb of Calixtus. The chapels, the graves, and the passages, are, in many places, ornamented with marble columns, bas-reliefs, and paintings. The number and character of the tombs show that this catacomb belonged, after the fourth century, to a poor and insignificant mass of people no longer, but to one sufficiently powerful to make itself regarded and feared by a politically wise prince and ruler. It had, in fact, taken possession of the realm, in order to retain which, Constantine, called the Great, was obliged to adopt, or, at least, protect its doctrines.

The most interesting of the mausoleums was that in which the most ancient Bishops of Rome, Popes Sixtus, Fabianus, and many other martyrs, were buried. The inscriptions on the marble tablets above the niches in the walls which contain the dead, are perfectly well preserved, but consist merely of the names of the dead, and the short addition—Martyr.

One inscription in this chamber—not upon a tomb—by Archbishop Damas, of the fourth century, excellently restored by De Rossi, praises “the men and women who are here interred, because they died for their faith.” “In this chamber,” adds the pious bishop, “should I, Damas, have wished to sleep, but I would not disturb the repose of the martyrs.”

In the mausoleum of Saint Cecilia, you see the empty space of the sarcophagus, which is now to be found in the church of Santa Cecilia di Transtovere, together with a painting representing her with a glory, and uplifted, supplicating hands. Other paintings, also of Christian martyrs, are here; amongst these, one of the bishops who interred Saint Cecilia, and whose name, Urbanus, may be easily spelled out in letters which surround his head, like a frame. The paintings are all in the stiff Byzantine style, with rich costumes and gilding. The countenances are nothing less than beautiful. This mausoleum, like the one we had just left, is spacious and beautifully proportioned. Smoke on the walls, as of a lamp, shows that people had there watched and prayed. The whole of this catacomb is lighted by circular openings, which admit light and air into the subterranean burial place.

After about an hour's wandering along innumerable passages, through many chapels, resembling the last mentioned, we arrived at the catacomb of the first century. Before we descended into it, De Rossi called our attention to an inscription, which is found often repeated, by the same hand, upon the walls all the way from the mausoleums in the catacomb of Saint Calixtus, to the entrance into this of the earliest Christians. A pilgrim had wandered through these chambers whilst he prayed for a friend, and he has inscribed his prayer on the walls, in these words:

“Sophronia! Live thou in God!”

He appears then to have paused at the door of the oldest catacomb, and the prayer now expresses itself in words which show that he knew his prayer was heard. Here, in red Roman letters, one can plainly decipher:

“Sophronia dulcis, vive in Deo! Tu vivis in Deo!”

(Sopronia, sweet one, live thou in God! Thou dost live in God!) The letters are dark red, as if written in blood. Who can avoid thinking here, Love is stronger than death.

We entered the catacomb of the first century. Here there is no splendor; no marble pillars or pictures; narrow streets and passages, in which are niches—low openings, or stages in the walls, three stories high—and bones, chalk-like dust, lying everywhere. Here, no light, no atmosphere, admitted from without, but still an air as wonderfully good, warm and pure, as if it had been a tranquil sleeping-chamber, where it is good to rest. Here had a poor and persecuted people sought shelter for their dead, as well as for their preaching of the resurrection of the dead. Neither yet were the monuments of the earliest Christians here deficient in culture or art. Many fresco-paintings in the mausoleums, exhibited both these, and they far excelled, in style and artistic value, the Byzantine pictures in the catacombs of the fourth century.

At the end of our little chapel, was a well-preserved, humorous painting, representing a shepherd, who preaches to his flock. Some listen attentively, others wander away from him, others feed on the meadow; one ram bleats towards the preacher, with a horrible grimace. In the mean time, you see that a heavy shower of rain is falling. Another painting, also good and well-preserved, represents Moses, who, with his staff, opens the bosom of the rock, and the water gushes forth. Here you see the place where the altar has stood; you see the smoke on the walls, and the smoke of the lamp on the ceiling.

The symbols of the Holy Communion are represented in more than one of the chambers, as a glass with wine, above which is laid a fish, as also a plate, with the holy wafer. I approached my candle to the wine and the glass ; it shone as red and as fresh as if it had been painted yesterday, and not nearly two thousand years ago. In yet another chapel, were many remarkably beautiful small pictures, representing saints praying with uplifted hands. One of them was a woman, richly dressed, and very beautiful. Was it Mary, the mother of Jesus, who Father Gall Morell, at Einsiedeln, maintained was represented in the catacombs as the praying Queen of Heaven? Certain it is that this portrait does not, in any essential, differ from the rest of the praying figures—Peter, Paul, and other martyrs. And had any such image of the Virgin Mary, as “Queen of Heaven,” been in existence here, the Catholic archæologist, De Rossi, would not have neglected to make us observant of it. But there is none such here, nor could there have been, at a time when the Christian doctrine still retained its purity.

What, however, do these most ancient figures of praying saints say to us, their descendants? Most assuredly, that death does not dissolve the bond of human spirits; that the fixed relationship of one generation to another is an eternal relationship; that the departed live and labor for us who yet wander on the earth, as we here on earth can and ought to labor even for them, as for all Christians, here or there,—ought to labor for the accomplishment of the prayer “Thy kingdom come,” the perfected order of the world in love and happiness.

We observed no names in this catacomb. Upon most of the graves which were covered with a slab of marble, were cut a Greek cross, or an anchor, a dove, with an olive branch, often merely the words in pace.

The number of labyrinthine, branching passages, through which we went, was so great, that they gave the impression of an immeasurable city of the dead; and yet we here stood upon ground which covered many lower stories, still equally extensive. At the depth at which we were, we could sometimes faintly hear the dull rumbling of a carriage rattling above our heads. For the rest, it was profoundly silent. The mystery of death had encompassed all—even the memory of the dead. The paintings alone said, “But they still live, for all that!”

The only living thing that I saw, was a queer spider, with immensely long legs. He took a leap upon my hand—the one in which I held the candle—and then another, down upon the dust and sand. I could not help thinking how frightful it would be to be lost in this subterranean city, and then, perhaps, be buried alive there. It is said that this fate has happened more than once to imprudent travelers, who ventured in without guides, and never afterwards came out. Many parts of these catacombs are not visited, from fear of the falling in of the earth; many others are closed from this cause.

After a ramble of nearly three hours underground, we again beheld the cheerful sunlight, which was a pleasant sight, although we had not been in darkness, even in those dwellings of night.

After I had seen these catacombs, after I knew that they extended to a great distance under the Roman Campagna, formerly occupied with temples and splendid villas,—both the Campagna and the whole of the eternal city acquired a new interest for my gaze. What a concentration of life is here! What history, with the highest questions and the highest answers! I see the Roman city and soil full of temples to gods and goddesses, from all the known lands of the world, that they might reply to the still more urgent questionings of humanity:

“Is there a God?—What and who is He? Is there a life after death for us who suffer, love, and die? Is there reparation for those who testify to the truth, and fall victims to lies? What have we to hope for? What shall we believe?”

And the temples multiply ever more and more, and the gods and their priests increase. People sacrifice to Isis and Fortuna, to the sun and to Jupiter, to Hertha, Cybele, Ceres and Diana, to the unknown gods, to evil and good demons; to Roman Cæsars who made themselves gods, and lastly, to the horrible Mithras, who came out of the East, worshiped in gloomy grottoes, amidst horrible torturings and punishments of the body, which prove that the human soul knows itself to be sinful, and endeavors to appease the divinities by self-chastisements. The unfortunate! It prays and sacrifices in vain upon all these altars; their gods are silent, or give, through their priests, merely obscure or insufficient answers. And the Mithras worshipers,—they were numerous in Italy,—obtained no peace from their savage self-inflicted severities!

Whilst this was taking place on the surface of the earth, people were singing below, in the night of the Catacombs, of “God revealed in Christ as the eternally compassionating Father; of the Saviour who leads to him; of the resurrection of the dead, and of life everlasting.” From all the nations whom Rome subjected by her arms,—Jews, Greeks, Barbarians,—a people is here collected who, together with men and women of the eternal city, are baptized amidst the night of the Catacombs, to a people of brethren, to one faith, one love, one hope, one name!—thou, my R——, hast already named it. And hast thou at any time seen a slender shoot, a seed forgotten in the soil, make its way through the stone-wall of the Colosseum, or any other wall, and by degrees rift it, so that its stones become loosened and fall, whilst the young tree grows and spreads forth its branches to the light? then hast thou seen the image of that which took place in the depths of the Catacombs. There was rooted the slender shoot, which thenceforth would grow to a world's tree, overshadow the eternal city, and bear, for all the people of the earth, fruit to life eternal!

Again, in our quiet home on the Corso, and in the tranquillity of evening, Jenny read aloud the 1st Epistle to the Corinthians, from the twelfth to the sixteenth Chapter. The most beautiful commentary on the Catacombs.

December 23rd.—One of the sights, with which one becomes only slowly familiar, but which belongs to the characteristic features of Rome, is the many studios or work-places of art, certainly many hundreds, from which a number of statues and pictures proceed to beautify the world. Every artist, who deserves the name, has his peculiar genre, as well as his peculiar talent, and this genre, and this talent, take a specific coloring from the nation to which the artist belongs; and here are now artists from all peoples of the world, Scandinavians, Russians, Germans, Frenchmen, Englishmen, Americans, and many others. Amongst all the affluence of ancient and modern art, one should run the risk of having a surfeit—may I be forgiven the expression—of the fine arts, if one did not resolve to enjoy them, as our Swedish maid-servants say, “bit by bit.” This is how I determined to do, and what I shall accomplish, as I have several months before me.

Within these few days we have visited two studios; first that of the German artist, R. Lehman; afterwards those of the Italian sculptors, Giacometti and Teverani.

I had already become acquainted with Rudolf Lehman, as an interesting man in society, and heard him spoken of as one of the first genre-painters in Rome. His pictures evidence great talent, and a thorough conception of the subject which he handles. Two of these especially interested me,—the Light-side and the Night-side of Italian life. In the one, you see a young Italian girl, with a dreamy, summer-warm expression, sitting with a basket brim-full of doves. Her glance testifies to a rich inner life, but which is still undeveloped. In the north, such a soul would have something restless or savage about it. The daughter of the south, nourished by the fruits of the earth, by the warmth of the sun, by the deliciousness of the air and the sky—as her yearnings lulled to a quiet pensiveness. She anticipates and she dreams—till the time comes. The second picture shows us an aged woman with two quite young children. One can see that she has been handsome—quite as handsome as the young girl—but now she is old and poor. She looks at you with a rigid, almost severe glance, whilst the two most charming little ones, with the look of half frozen rose-buds, cling to her, hungry and cold. Beside them stands an empty basin with a spoon in it, in the background you see the gate of a convent. Will it soon be opened, and a brotherly hand extend forth soup to the famished?—or has the soup been already given, but insufficient in quantity, and the door closed?

Lehman is now employed on a larger picture, representing the flood of Sixtus in the Pontine Marshes carrying away buffaloes—an extremely peculiar scene and full of life, with innumerable, beautiful details, and, indeed, one of the most original pictures I have yet seen.

Teverani, a pupil of Thorwaldsen, and at the present time, the most celebrated sculptor of Rome—celebrated especially for his lovely figures of Psyché—has no less than four ateliers for his work. His statue of Christ appears to me very unsatisfactory, stiff, and without spirit; but his Angel of Judgment, a sitting figure, with the trumpet on his knee, and his glance directed upward, watching, waiting, is a glorious figure, which bears the stamp of genius and inspiration. The artist himself, who is now chiseling the beard on the head of Christ, is not one of the least interesting figures in his studio. He has a splendid head, with strong features and energetic character. The hair is gray, and the countenance indicates about sixty years. Many works by Thorwaldsen adorn his studio. Teverani began by imitating his master; but has since then elevated himself to an independent working out of his genius.

At Giacometti's, the author of the two groups at the foot of La Scala Santa, I admired the first models for these great works, which appeared to me to possess a still higher degree of power. Giacometti did not, until his fiftieth year, produce any thing extraordinary, when, all at once, by these groups, he placed himself at the summit of the scala santa of art.

Later, on the same day, at a small, select dinner party, at the polite Bavarian minister's, I heard a young Italian poetess—a Countess Cantalamessa, married to a Captain of the Pope's Swiss guard,—repeat her own verses. As far as I understood them, they were beautiful and pure, and the expression of the refined, sweet figure, when animated by the recitation, was most fascinating. She seemed to have wings. The gift of writing, and also of improvising verse, appears not to be unfrequent amongst Italian ladies, even of the higher class. Some ladies belonging to the higher circles of Rome, are known as distinguished poetesses.

Christmas Day.—Grand opera-performance at St. Peters! Jenny and I were present in the gallery erected for the occasion, where all the ladies sit in black dresses and vails. The centre nave of the church was occupied by the French guards, arranged in long lines. The pope was borne along in the procession, on men's shoulders, or heads, I could not see which, and surrounded on both sides by two immense peacock-fans, seemed to me so like an idol-image, that I could not get the idea out of my mind, as he, with the good-tempered expression which is peculiar to him, dealt out with his fat, white hands, blessings to the right and the left.

Of all the symbolical business which he transacted between the grave of Paul and Peter, and the high-altar, as well that which was transacted about his person, I understood quite as little as the greater number who were present. I know that a church-ceremonial is a kind of symbolical language, and that, in order to understand it, one must be initiated therein; and also, that one has no right to pass judgment on that which one does not understand. But, may not one, with some justice, require that a transaction which ought to have an interest for every soul, should have a symbolical language, worthy of the transaction; and, that its main purport should be comprehensible to every soul not unacquainted with its significance. On Christmas Day, people celebrate the birth of Jesus Christ; but what connection could the endless fuss and fiddle-faddling about the Pope's person have to do with it? He is clothed and re-clothed more than once; his tiara is removed and replaced at least a dozen times. The cardinals, one after another, come and fall upon their knees and kiss his slipper. The Pope offers burning incense before the pictures of the saints, then the cardinals do the same to him; then they embrace and kiss one another; then they fiddle-faddle again with his dress, then the incense is presented, and again bending, and bowing, and kissing takes place, as if it would never come to an end. If this be intended as a symbolical representation of the life of love and concord of the church, the expression is altogether too childish, and the spectacle is altogether too long. One feels a great desire to bid the actors proceed,

“From sounds to things!”

Nevertheless it was actually a beautiful and a solemn moment, when the Pope elevated the host, and the same instant, music, as from heaven, streamed down from the cupola of the church. All fell upon their knees, I also, thankful that at that moment, I felt myself one with all Christians, Catholics or not, who believe in the free-will offering for the forgiveness of sinners. That was the only moment of devotion of which I was conscious during this festival, which is celebrated by us.—oh, with what earnestness, what sincere feeling!

The Pope was carried out as he had been carried in, preceded by a cardinal's hat and a bishop's mitre, surrounded with peacock's feathers, and distributing blessings on the right hand and the left, with a countenance beaming with a kindly, but not a spiritual life. Nor could I discover any thing of the kind in the throng which filled the church. They all, evidently contemplated the day's solemnity merely as some grand spectacle. This spectacle was also continued outside the church by the magnificence of the cardinals' equipages, horses and servants glittering in gold and silver. But the princes of this church, driving in these splendid carriages, drawn by magnificent horses in silver-mounted trappings,—how little they resembled their Great Master, the God who walked through the world.

In the afternoon I went to the Colosseum, and heard a Capuchin monk preaching. His concluding apostrophe to the image of Christ was really beautiful and fervent, penetrated by a feeling for the Crucified. The participators in the Via Crucis were few and indifferent.

In the evening we sat in the Scandinavian Christmas club, with wreaths of ivy round our heads, had a laurel tree instead of the Christmas pine, ate excellent porridge, and heard speeches of no great mark, excepting one from the Danish Archæologist, Professor Ussing, who spoke cleverly, beautifully, and well, on the solemnities of Christmas and our earthly home, of the great Christmas tree of the world, which extends its crown to the stars of heaven. We had, also, Christmas presents, conversation with our friendly, polite countrymen, and good music from the amiable Danish composer, Raonkilde. We went home at eleven o'clock, in the loveliest weather. The streets were thronged with people, who, during the whole night, are in movement, going from church to church admiring the lighted chandeliers, the silken draperies, and other splendors with which the churches here are hung on all festivals, and as much as possible made to resemble worldly drawing rooms.

On the 29th of December, I went to hear the child-preaching which is continued in the Ara Cœli church from Christmas day till the thirtieth of the month, and ranks amongst the smaller notabilities of Rome.

Just opposite to a splendidly-decorated theatre, where the manger in Bethlehem, with Mary, the child Jesus, Joseph, and, above, God the Father, with legions of angel-heads, are represented, a sort of pulpit is erected, in which little children, from five to ten years of age, deliver sermons, or address the by-standers. These by-standers are, for the most part, foreigners, or simple country people, who listen to the infant preachers with evident edification, sometimes with emotion, whilst the foreigners, on the contrary, apparently regard the whole as a child's show. The first that entered the pulpit on this occasion was a handsome little girl, who preached with fervor and exquisite declamation what she herself could but little understand. She quoted the prophets, and exhorted her audience to renounce their bosom sins—to which the rosy, little mouth gave very substantial names—to turn themselves to il beatissimo Bambino, born during this beatissimo notte, and to let themselves be born again in Him. The splendid little speaker closed with a graceful salutation to the public, which could not refrain from a murmur of applause and delight. A little boy, in delicate clothing and with beautiful eyes, stepped up after her, and made a speech in verse, in which the lesson learned by heart was too perceptible; and besides, this, he was prompted by his lady-mamma, who was standing below. A little girl, wearing a shepherd's hat, succeeded to him; but she lost the thread of her discourse very soon, avowed it with great näiveté, turned round and hastened from the pulpit. Another little one was lifted up by her father, who whispered in her ear, but in vain; the little one stood gazing at the spectators with her large, dark eyes, forgetful that she had any thing to say to them. Her father was obliged to lift her down again. A lively boy of ten, in a priest's black cloak, now took her place, preaching with great ease and salvelse, but evidently by rote. Two priests, standing behind him, in broad-brimmed hats, complimented him, smiling when he had finished.

Little ones, more or less perfectly trained, succeeded each other without intermission. It was amusing enough to witness as a spectacle, but it was painful to me to see these infant souls thus early taught to accept Christ's doctrine as a lesson fit for repeating by rote on the theatre of life. It was with quite another meaning that the Saviour desired that children should come to him. These infant-preachings are said to have been practiced ever since the middle ages.

December 30th.—Visited, with Madame de M., San Paolo fuori della Mure, the largest Basilica of Rome, built by Constantine the Great, so called, upon the spot where, according to tradition, the Apostle Paul was beheaded—a small Christian church marked the place from the most ancient times—afterwards it was destroyed by fire, and rebuilt more than once, down to the present time, when, after the last conflagration, in 1821, it is again restored, and that in a manner which will make it what it was originally intended to be, one of the most magnificent temples of the Christian Church, equal, though built in a different style, to St. Peter's. Long, rich rows of pillars lead through the five naves of the church to the chancel. Most of the monarchs of Europe, and even some princes of the East, have, on this last occasion, made valuable gifts for the completion or decoration of the church. The Czar Nicholas of Russia has given altars and pillars of malachite the Pacha of Egypt, pillars of beautiful alabaster, as well as other ornaments. Just lately, also, a Jew has bequeathed by will a large sum of money to this church. They are at the present time busied in setting up the portraits of the popes, which, executed in mosaic, will encircle the church as with a vast papal ring. Not one of the crowned fathers, from Gregory the Great down to Pio Nino, is to be omitted, even though they must improvise now and then a papal head. There are still empty spaces in the circle of medallions for the various portraits which cannot as yet be found.

Not far from the chancel is a beautiful chapel, dedicated to Saint Brigitta, and ornamented by her statue in marble. During her residence in Rome, she frequently came to pray in this church, and here is preserved, as a holy relic, the cross from which, during her ecstatic devotion, she seemed to hear a voice proceed. I was glad to hear that she exercised a reformatory influence as well upon the higher class of the priesthood in Rome as in Naples. For she did not alone satisfy herself with praying at the graves of the martyrs; she earnestly exhorted bishops and cardinals, nay, even the Pope himself, to a life of the true worship of God, and of good works, from which they had almost universally fallen, to devote themselves to worldly ambition. She awoke the consciences of many, as well by her prayers and remonstrances, as by her example. For she herself, of a rich and noble race, that of Brahe, one of the noblest in Sweden, yet lived there in Rome, and labored like a truly humble servant of Christ.

“We must walk barefoot against pride, if we would overcome it,” said she. And Brigitta Brahe did so, and so doing, overcame those proud hearts, and won them to God.

Whilst we were in the chapel of St. Brigitta, the superior of the Benedictine order entered,—a good-tempered, stout man,—and after him, the general of the same order,—Cardinal Andrea,—a Neapolitan, in fiery red costume; and also a very stout gentleman, with a cunning side glance, and polite demeanor. Both gentlemen bowed to Madame de M——, and the cardinal, who graciously allowed her to kiss his hand, conversed for some time, both with her and me. He inquired, amongst other things, what I thought of St. Peter's, and the Christmas-day service there. I said to him, as candidly as I could, without any breach of politeness, that which I have already said to you, my R——, that it appeared to me as if the Pope and the Pontificate occupied too much space in the church.

He replied, “We regard the Pope as the representative of Jesus Christ, and honor him as such.”

“Do you find him like Jesus Christ?” was upon my tongue to say, but I said it not. I knew, indeed, what the reply would be, and I had, besides, already shown myself so much of a heretic, that his eminence, on taking his departure, did not vouchsafe me a glance, bestowing upon Madame de M—— merely a little twinkling of the eyelid, after he had charged her to commit herself to the prayers of St. Benoit. Madame de M—— is still lame, after a severe fall from a carriage. He departed, accompanied by half a dozen bowing and bending priests, who seemed to me to constitute his train. A young Benedictine monk, from Germany, who not long since became a convert from Protestantism to the Catholic faith, and who had the zeal and fervor of a new proselyte, accompanied us through the church, and wished, by all means, to convert me to Catholicism, and also to show me Luther's errors and delusions. Impatience and cold made me cut the conversation short. Besides, one cannot argue with a person who begins his proofs by a pompous announcement that “the Catholic Church considers the human being to consist of both soul and body!”

In the mean time, there was no lack of controversy for me in Rome; even my countrywoman, Madame de M——, is lately converted to the Catholic church, and would gladly make me a proselyte for her own salvation; and I like to talk with her. Hers is a fervent, earnest soul, deeply imbued with a knowledge of the religious life, which I, on my side, wished to lead to a truer view of the essential, both in religion, and in the religious life; but it is delightful to see the doctrine of the Catholic church reflect itself in a pure and upright soul; to understand what it is in this doctrine which is so satisfying to such a soul, so that she has scarcely words for the happiness which she enjoys; so that every flower on earth has a new fragrance, a new splendor, for her eye, and that the thorn of suffering, which she now experiences, physically, has lost its sting to her. This is precious to me, both to see and understand, as well as how she, at the same time, can deny to me,—who, in my own church, enjoy a happiness so kindred to her own,—all participation in the “only saving church.”

“If you enter by the gate of San Sebastiano, and I by the Porte del Popolo, what does it matter? merely that we are both in Rome!” said I on one occasion.

“No, no you are not in Rome, not in the active Rome, the holy, eternal city !” replied she, gravely; “but you will come in, nevertheless! God will enlighten you. I shall pray for you, and you must talk with Monsignor L——.”

“But like you, I believe in one God and Saviour; like you, I see his church, or his kingdom, embrace, elevate the whole world, mankind, nature, and——”

“No, no: you do not believe in the right church; you do not belong to the church which Christ founded on earth, and unless you do, you cannot have relationship with him!”

“But I love Him, He is all my joy and hope—I desire to be his servant!”

“But it is not sufficient to be called Christian.”

“Well, I will ask the Pope!”

Such have hitherto been our conversations on these questions, but my half-jokingly expressed threat of appealing to the Pope, I mean some day to carry into execution.

In the mean time, I study industriously my Möhler, given to me by the good fathers at Einsiedeln, and this honest, profound, and candid work, for Catholicism, aids me more decidedly to understand the strength and weakness of Protestantism in relation to the Catholic church; for I must confess, that, in my examination and proving of the tenets of the two opposing churches, I do not always stand on the side of Protestantism, and the but and the no, which from my earliest youth, rose up in my soul against certain doctrines of the reformers, become ever still more decided. It becomes ever more and more certain to me that they, in their honest zeal, more than once throw away the child with the water he was washed in, and that the Catholic church has kept more than one precious doctrine, which the Evangelical must yet adopt as her own, if she will fully desire the name of Evangelical. But the Protestant reform has dragged the human soul from under the mass of forms and human inventions, which, like an immense crystallization, a forest of parasites, had crept over it, threatening to suffocate its life; it has dragged the Holy Scriptures from the darkness, which—but I will not repeat what I have already said, and what you, my R——, probably know as well as I do, because——

But you are sleepy—good night!

1. It is related that during the reign of one of the latest Roman emperors, Honorius, in the year 404, a Christian monk flung himself, one day, in pious zeal, into the arena, in the endeavor to prevent the murderous conflict of the gladiators. He was killed by the people, but the Emperor issued, from that time, a severe interdict against these spectacles.—Author's Note.
2. The lofty sand-hills, where the Observatory now stands, would be exactly suited for such a purpose. But the busts of our heroes must be of bronze; our laurels must be the evergreen pines.—Author's Note.