Pictures From Italy

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by Dickens, Chales


  direction, is rich in associations, and in natural beauties. There

  is Albano, with its lovely lake and wooded shore, and with its

  wine, that certainly has not improved since the days of Horace, and

  in these times hardly justifies his panegyric. There is squalid

  Tivoli, with the river Anio, diverted from its course, and plunging

  down, headlong, some eighty feet in search of it. With its

  picturesque Temple of the Sibyl, perched high on a crag; its minor

  waterfalls glancing and sparkling in the sun; and one good cavern

  yawning darkly, where the river takes a fearful plunge and shoots

  on, low down under beetling rocks. There, too, is the Villa

  d'Este, deserted and decaying among groves of melancholy pine and

  cypress trees, where it seems to lie in state. Then, there is

  Frascati, and, on the steep above it, the ruins of Tusculum, where

  Cicero lived, and wrote, and adorned his favourite house (some

  fragments of it may yet be seen there), and where Cato was born.

  We saw its ruined amphitheatre on a grey, dull day, when a shrill

  March wind was blowing, and when the scattered stones of the old

  city lay strewn about the lonely eminence, as desolate and dead as

  the ashes of a long extinguished fire.

  One day we walked out, a little party of three, to Albano, fourteen

  miles distant; possessed by a great desire to go there by the

  ancient Appian way, long since ruined and overgrown. We started at

  half-past seven in the morning, and within an hour or so were out

  upon the open Campagna. For twelve miles we went climbing on, over

  an unbroken succession of mounds, and heaps, and hills, of ruin.

  Tombs and temples, overthrown and prostrate; small fragments of

  columns, friezes, pediments; great blocks of granite and marble;

  mouldering arches, grass-grown and decayed; ruin enough to build a

  spacious city from; lay strewn about us. Sometimes, loose walls,

  built up from these fragments by the shepherds, came across our

  path; sometimes, a ditch between two mounds of broken stones,

  obstructed our progress; sometimes, the fragments themselves,

  rolling from beneath our feet, made it a toilsome matter to

  advance; but it was always ruin. Now, we tracked a piece of the

  old road, above the ground; now traced it, underneath a grassy

  covering, as if that were its grave; but all the way was ruin. In

  the distance, ruined aqueducts went stalking on their giant course

  along the plain; and every breath of wind that swept towards us,

  stirred early flowers and grasses, springing up, spontaneously, on

  miles of ruin. The unseen larks above us, who alone disturbed the

  awful silence, had their nests in ruin; and the fierce herdsmen,

  clad in sheepskins, who now and then scowled out upon us from their

  sleeping nooks, were housed in ruin. The aspect of the desolate

  Campagna in one direction, where it was most level, reminded me of

  an American prairie; but what is the solitude of a region where men

  have never dwelt, to that of a Desert, where a mighty race have

  left their footprints in the earth from which they have vanished;

  where the resting-places of their Dead, have fallen like their

  Dead; and the broken hour-glass of Time is but a heap of idle dust!

  Returning, by the road, at sunset! and looking, from the distance,

  on the course we had taken in the morning, I almost feel (as I had

  felt when I first saw it, at that hour) as if the sun would never

  rise again, but looked its last, that night, upon a ruined world.

  To come again on Rome, by moonlight, after such an expedition, is a

  fitting close to such a day. The narrow streets, devoid of footways,

  and choked, in every obscure corner, by heaps of dunghillrubbish,

  contrast so strongly, in their cramped dimensions, and

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  their filth, and darkness, with the broad square before some

  haughty church: in the centre of which, a hieroglyphic-covered

  obelisk, brought from Egypt in the days of the Emperors, looks

  strangely on the foreign scene about it; or perhaps an ancient

  pillar, with its honoured statue overthrown, supports a Christian

  saint: Marcus Aurelius giving place to Paul, and Trajan to St.

  Peter. Then, there are the ponderous buildings reared from the

  spoliation of the Coliseum, shutting out the moon, like mountains:

  while here and there, are broken arches and rent walls, through

  which it gushes freely, as the life comes pouring from a wound.

  The little town of miserable houses, walled, and shut in by barred

  gates, is the quarter where the Jews are locked up nightly, when

  the clock strikes eight - a miserable place, densely populated, and

  reeking with bad odours, but where the people are industrious and

  money-getting. In the day-time, as you make your way along the

  narrow streets, you see them all at work: upon the pavement,

  oftener than in their dark and frouzy shops: furbishing old

  clothes, and driving bargains.

  Crossing from these patches of thick darkness, out into the moon

  once more, the fountain of Trevi, welling from a hundred jets, and

  rolling over mimic rocks, is silvery to the eye and ear. In the

  narrow little throat of street, beyond, a booth, dressed out with

  flaring lamps, and boughs of trees, attracts a group of sulky

  Romans round its smoky coppers of hot broth, and cauliflower stew;

  its trays of fried fish, and its flasks of wine. As you rattle

  round the sharply-twisting corner, a lumbering sound is heard. The

  coachman stops abruptly, and uncovers, as a van comes slowly by,

  preceded by a man who bears a large cross; by a torch-bearer; and a

  priest: the latter chaunting as he goes. It is the Dead Cart,

  with the bodies of the poor, on their way to burial in the Sacred

  Field outside the walls, where they will be thrown into the pit

  that will be covered with a stone to-night, and sealed up for a

  year.

  But whether, in this ride, you pass by obelisks, or columns ancient

  temples, theatres, houses, porticoes, or forums: it is strange to

  see, how every fragment, whenever it is possible, has been blended

  into some modern structure, and made to serve some modern purpose -

  a wall, a dwelling-place, a granary, a stable - some use for which

  it never was designed, and associated with which it cannot

  otherwise than lamely assort. It is stranger still, to see how

  many ruins of the old mythology: how many fragments of obsolete

  legend and observance: have been incorporated into the worship of

  Christian altars here; and how, in numberless respects, the false

  faith and the true are fused into a monstrous union.

  From one part of the city, looking out beyond the walls, a squat

  and stunted pyramid (the burial-place of Caius Cestius) makes an

  opaque triangle in the moonlight. But, to an English traveller, it

  serves to mark the grave of Shelley too, whose ashes lie beneath a

  little garden near it. Nearer still, almost within its shadow, lie

  the bones of Keats, 'whose name is writ in water,' that shines

  brightly in the landscape of a calm Ital
ian night.

  The Holy Week in Rome is supposed to offer great attractions to all

  visitors; but, saving for the sights of Easter Sunday, I would

  counsel those who go to Rome for its own interest, to avoid it at

  that time. The ceremonies, in general, are of the most tedious and

  wearisome kind; the heat and crowd at every one of them, painfully

  oppressive; the noise, hubbub, and confusion, quite distracting.

  We abandoned the pursuit of these shows, very early in the

  proceedings, and betook ourselves to the Ruins again. But, we

  plunged into the crowd for a share of the best of the sights; and

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  what we saw, I will describe to you.

  At the Sistine chapel, on the Wednesday, we saw very little, for by

  the time we reached it (though we were early) the besieging crowd

  had filled it to the door, and overflowed into the adjoining hall,

  where they were struggling, and squeezing, and mutually

  expostulating, and making great rushes every time a lady was

  brought out faint, as if at least fifty people could be

  accommodated in her vacant standing-room. Hanging in the doorway

  of the chapel, was a heavy curtain, and this curtain, some twenty

  people nearest to it, in their anxiety to hear the chaunting of the

  Miserere, were continually plucking at, in opposition to each

  other, that it might not fall down and stifle the sound of the

  voices. The consequence was, that it occasioned the most

  extraordinary confusion, and seemed to wind itself about the

  unwary, like a Serpent. Now, a lady was wrapped up in it, and

  couldn't be unwound. Now, the voice of a stifling gentleman was

  heard inside it, beseeching to be let out. Now, two muffled arms,

  no man could say of which sex, struggled in it as in a sack. Now,

  it was carried by a rush, bodily overhead into the chapel, like an

  awning. Now, it came out the other way, and blinded one of the

  Pope's Swiss Guard, who had arrived, that moment, to set things to

  rights.

  Being seated at a little distance, among two or three of the Pope's

  gentlemen, who were very weary and counting the minutes - as

  perhaps his Holiness was too - we had better opportunities of

  observing this eccentric entertainment, than of hearing the

  Miserere. Sometimes, there was a swell of mournful voices that

  sounded very pathetic and sad, and died away, into a low strain

  again; but that was all we heard.

  At another time, there was the Exhibition of Relics in St. Peter's,

  which took place at between six and seven o'clock in the evening,

  and was striking from the cathedral being dark and gloomy, and

  having a great many people in it. The place into which the relics

  were brought, one by one, by a party of three priests, was a high

  balcony near the chief altar. This was the only lighted part of

  the church. There are always a hundred and twelve lamps burning

  near the altar, and there were two tall tapers, besides, near the

  black statue of St. Peter; but these were nothing in such an

  immense edifice. The gloom, and the general upturning of faces to

  the balcony, and the prostration of true believers on the pavement,

  as shining objects, like pictures or looking-glasses, were brought

  out and shown, had something effective in it, despite the very

  preposterous manner in which they were held up for the general

  edification, and the great elevation at which they were displayed;

  which one would think rather calculated to diminish the comfort

  derivable from a full conviction of their being genuine.

  On the Thursday, we went to see the Pope convey the Sacrament from

  the Sistine chapel, to deposit it in the Capella Paolina, another

  chapel in the Vatican; - a ceremony emblematical of the entombment

  of the Saviour before His Resurrection. We waited in a great

  gallery with a great crowd of people (three-fourths of them

  English) for an hour or so, while they were chaunting the Miserere,

  in the Sistine chapel again. Both chapels opened out of the

  gallery; and the general attention was concentrated on the

  occasional opening and shutting of the door of the one for which

  the Pope was ultimately bound. None of these openings disclosed

  anything more tremendous than a man on a ladder, lighting a great

  quantity of candles; but at each and every opening, there was a

  terrific rush made at this ladder and this man, something like (I

  should think) a charge of the heavy British cavalry at Waterloo.

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  The man was never brought down, however, nor the ladder; for it

  performed the strangest antics in the world among the crowd - where

  it was carried by the man, when the candles were all lighted; and

  finally it was stuck up against the gallery wall, in a very

  disorderly manner, just before the opening of the other chapel, and

  the commencement of a new chaunt, announced the approach of his

  Holiness. At this crisis, the soldiers of the guard, who had been

  poking the crowd into all sorts of shapes, formed down the gallery:

  and the procession came up, between the two lines they made.

  There were a few choristers, and then a great many priests, walking

  two and two, and carrying - the good-looking priests at least -

  their lighted tapers, so as to throw the light with a good effect

  upon their faces: for the room was darkened. Those who were not

  handsome, or who had not long beards, carried THEIR tapers anyhow,

  and abandoned themselves to spiritual contemplation. Meanwhile,

  the chaunting was very monotonous and dreary. The procession

  passed on, slowly, into the chapel, and the drone of voices went

  on, and came on, with it, until the Pope himself appeared, walking

  under a white satin canopy, and bearing the covered Sacrament in

  both hands; cardinals and canons clustered round him, making a

  brilliant show. The soldiers of the guard knelt down as he passed;

  all the bystanders bowed; and so he passed on into the chapel: the

  white satin canopy being removed from over him at the door, and a

  white satin parasol hoisted over his poor old head, in place of it.

  A few more couples brought up the rear, and passed into the chapel

  also. Then, the chapel door was shut; and it was all over; and

  everybody hurried off headlong, as for life or death, to see

  something else, and say it wasn't worth the trouble.

  I think the most popular and most crowded sight (excepting those of

  Easter Sunday and Monday, which are open to all classes of people)

  was the Pope washing the feet of Thirteen men, representing the

  twelve apostles, and Judas Iscariot. The place in which this pious

  office is performed, is one of the chapels of St. Peter's, which is

  gaily decorated for the occasion; the thirteen sitting, 'all of a

  row,' on a very high bench, and looking particularly uncomfortable,

  with the eyes of Heaven knows how many English, French, Americans,

  Swiss, Germans, Russians, Swedes, Norwegians, and other foreigners,

  nailed to their faces all the time. They are robed in white; and


  on their heads they wear a stiff white cap, like a large English

  porter-pot, without a handle. Each carries in his hand, a nosegay,

  of the size of a fine cauliflower; and two of them, on this

  occasion, wore spectacles; which, remembering the characters they

  sustained, I thought a droll appendage to the costume. There was a

  great eye to character. St. John was represented by a good-looking

  young man. St. Peter, by a grave-looking old gentleman, with a

  flowing brown beard; and Judas Iscariot by such an enormous

  hypocrite (I could not make out, though, whether the expression of

  his face was real or assumed) that if he had acted the part to the

  death and had gone away and hanged himself, he would have left

  nothing to be desired.

  As the two large boxes, appropriated to ladies at this sight, were

  full to the throat, and getting near was hopeless, we posted off,

  along with a great crowd, to be in time at the Table, where the

  Pope, in person, waits on these Thirteen; and after a prodigious

  struggle at the Vatican staircase, and several personal conflicts

  with the Swiss guard, the whole crowd swept into the room. It was

  a long gallery hung with drapery of white and red, with another

  great box for ladies (who are obliged to dress in black at these

  ceremonies, and to wear black veils), a royal box for the King of

  Naples and his party; and the table itself, which, set out like a

  ball supper, and ornamented with golden figures of the real

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  apostles, was arranged on an elevated platform on one side of the

  gallery. The counterfeit apostles' knives and forks were laid out

  on that side of the table which was nearest to the wall, so that

  they might be stared at again, without let or hindrance.

  The body of the room was full of male strangers; the crowd immense;

  the heat very great; and the pressure sometimes frightful. It was

  at its height, when the stream came pouring in, from the feetwashing;

  and then there were such shrieks and outcries, that a

  party of Piedmontese dragoons went to the rescue of the Swiss

  guard, and helped them to calm the tumult.

  The ladies were particularly ferocious, in their struggles for

  places. One lady of my acquaintance was seized round the waist, in

  the ladies' box, by a strong matron, and hoisted out of her place;

 

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