Part 7

We will now descend, and pursue our way homeward, along the foot of the Aventine Hill. In the portico of the convent church which we pass, you may see the arms and name of the patron cardinal, or the dignitary under whose protection the establishment has placed itself. This is the old system of patron and client continued to the present day; a system which belongs to aristocracy, and must exist, in some shape or other, wherever the strong and the weak are found in contact. I have heard of countries in modern Europe in which the tribute of the clients forms no small portion of the revenue of the patrons. In England itself, we have seen Indian Rajahs returning members to parliament by means of their gold; in France, the king’s mistresses, for a long time, had a monopoly of this species of power; and in several of the other great powers that have dependencies, I hear it whispered that the system still prevails to a great extent. In America, the clients are the nation; and the patrons the demagogues, under the name of patriots. If, however, our discontented, the salt of the earth in their own imagination, had a taste of the abuses of this hemisphere, they would gladly return to their own, bad as they are.

When at Naples, I was told an anecdote of the good old King Ferdinando, which is in point. His generals were deliberating on a new uniform for the army, when the honest old prince, tired of the delay, and anxious to get at his game again, exclaimed—“Ah, Signori, dress them as you please, they will run away.” I do not repeat this because I believe the Neapolitans are cowards, for I think them traduced in this respect, but because it is with politics as in war, “dress men as you will, they are still that godlike-devil man.”

Objects crowd upon us in too great numbers now, and we will ride into the Via Ripetta and dismount, leaving the rest for another excursion.

LETTER XXIII.

The Tiber.—Monte Mario.—Milvian Bridge.—Bridge of Nomentanus.—The Sacred Mount; Apologue of Menenius Agrippa.—City Walls.—Amphitheatre.—Santa Scala.—The Lateran.—Works of the Empire and the Republic contrasted.—The Coliseum.—Via Sacra.—The Capitoline Hill.—The Palatine.—Imperial Palace.—The Forum.—Arch of Septimius Severus.—Column of Phocas.—The Capitol.—Statue of M. Aurelius.—Columns of Trajan and Antoninus.—The Pantheon.

In my last, I took you round the walls, an excursion I make weekly, for the road is excellent, and almost every foot of the way offers something of interest. We will now turn in another direction, which, if not so interesting as regards antiquities, may amuse you, by giving you better and more precise ideas of the region in which Rome stood nearly three thousand years since, and stands to-day.

We will quit the city by the same gate as before; but, instead of inclining to the right, let us take the opposite direction, which brings us, within a hundred yards, to the banks of the Tiber.

If you feel the same sensation that I did, on finding yourself riding along the shores of this classical stream, your seat in the saddle will be elastic, and you will feel a double enjoyment at galloping in a pure air and under a serene sky. You know the size of this river already, and I will merely add that, in the winter and spring, it is turbid, rapid, and apt to overflow its banks, particularly in the town, for at the place where we now are, these banks are perhaps ten feet above the surface of the water. It is thought the bed of the river has been materially raised by _débris_ within the walls, and projects have even been entertained for turning the water, with a view to discoveries.

As boats sometimes ascend, there is a towing-track, which, though little used, is a reasonably good bridle-path, the equestrians keeping this track beaten. As the stream is as meandering as our own Susquehanna, it presents many pretty glimpses; though the nakedness of the Campagna (which, north of Rome, while more waving and broken than farther south, is almost destitute of any other herbage than grass and a few bushes,) prevents the scenery from being absolutely beautiful. Still every turn of the river is pregnant with recollections, and one can hardly look amiss in quest of an historical site.

The eminence on the opposite side of the stream, that shows steep acclivities at its eastern and southern faces, and up which a road winds its way by the south-western ascent, is Monte Mario, a hill that overlooks Rome, very much as Montmartre overlooks Paris. The half-ruined country-house that stands against its eastern side is the Villa Madama, so termed from having been built by Margaret of Austria, a daughter of Charles V. from whom it has descended to the family of Naples. The house on the summit is the property of the Falonieri, the present owners of the mount. What a thing it is to own a Roman site! and what a cockneyism to convert it into a dandy residence,—a “half-horse, half-alligator” ruin!

After riding a little more than a mile, we reach the Milvian Bridge, a portion of which is ancient. We will not cross at this spot, so celebrated for the battle fought by Constantine near it, but pursue our way up the side of the stream, on which we still are. Crossing the highway, then, (the ancient Flaminian Way,) we continue our course up the river, which just here has been the scene of a melancholy event, of no distant occurrence. The horse of a young Englishwoman backed off the steep bank, and falling over her, she was drowned. What has rendered this calamity more striking, was the fate of her father, who is said to have left a post-house in the mountains, on foot, while travelling, and has never since been found.

Near the scene of this accident, or a hundred rods above the Milvian Bridge,[8] the river sweeps away towards the Sabine Hills, and our road leads us along the brow of a bluff, by a very pretty and picturesque path, which soon brings us to some mineral waters, that have a reputation as ancient as Rome itself. At this point, though distant only a mile or two from the city, nothing of it is to be seen, but, were it not for a few dwellings scattered near, one might almost fancy himself on a prairie of the Far West, such is the wasted aspect of the country, as well as the appearance of the rapid, turbid Tiber.

Footnote 8:

This name is a proof of the manner in which words become changed by use. The bridge has been termed Milvius, Mulvius, Molvius, and Molle, the latter being its present Roman name.

Diverging from the stream, which inclines north again, taking the direction to the mountains where it rises, we next enter some fields imperfectly fenced, among which a Tityrus or two are stretched under their _patulæ fagi_, not playing on the oaten reed, it is true, but mending their leathern leggings. Rising some hills, we reach another great road, and crossing this, and the fields that succeed, we come to a spot where the Anio is spanned by another bridge, with a tower in its centre. The part of the environs between the last highway and this bridge, has more of the character of a suburb, than any other portion of the vicinity of Rome; and did the city ever extend far beyond the present course of its walls, it must have been principally in this direction, I think.

The bridge is the _Nomentanus_, and dates from the time of Narses, but was restored about the middle of the fifteenth century, and has much the character of a work of the latter period. Beyond this bridge is a naked hill, with the remains of some works or the ruins of villas on it. This is the Sacred Mount, so celebrated for those decided acts of the plebeians, who twice retired to it, in a body, on account of the oppression of the nobles, in the years of Rome 261 and 305. Here they resisted all persuasion to return until Menenius Agrippa overcame their obstinacy by the famous apologue of the belly and the members of the human body. The tribunes owed their existence to this act of decision, which is probably the first trades’ union that was ever established. These things, on the whole, work evil, because they are abused; but they are not without their uses, as well as tartar emetic. The Romans, however, found them unsuccessful, for they took a solemn oath, never to revolt against their tribunes,—the law, in other words,—and hence the mount, where the oath was taken, was called the Sacred Mount. No apologue ever contained more truth than that of Menenius; and yet the belly may disease all the limbs, as well as the limbs throw the belly into disorder, by sins of commission, as well as by sins of omission. One can write an apologue about any thing, and, after all, a fact is a fact.

Proceeding another mile, some extensive ruins are seen between the road of Nomentanum and that of Salaria, which are the remains of the country-house of Phaon, the freedman of Nero, where the last of the Cæsars committed suicide. Two hundred years intervened between the death of Nero and that of Aurelian, but they were hardly sufficient to bring all this space within the walls, which must have been the case to give the latter a circuit of fifty miles. Besides, where all the remains of this huge town, without the present wall, if it ever existed there? We see the remains of villas and camps and bridges all around us even to-day, but none of a city. The Anio would not be spanned by such rude arches, had Rome ever covered this spot.

Let us now enter the town by the Porta Salaria, and ride through the vineyards and among the gardens of that quarter, towards that of St. John in Laterano. Ruins are scattered about on every side, and among them are aqueducts, from the arches of some of which, water still trickles. The circular wall on our left, as we approach the gate of St. John, is the remains of the amphitheatre of the camp, in which the soldiers fought with beasts. The exterior of this wall is better seen from without, for it has also been incorporated with that of the town.

Of the vast palace and church of the Lateran I have nothing to say at present, except that it strikes the traveller with an imposing grandeur as he enters the city. Some devotees before the little church near it, however, will draw us in that direction, and you will be surprised to see men and women ascending a long plain flight of broad steps in it, on their knees. This is done because tradition hath it that these steps belonged to the palace of Pilate, and that they were transferred from Jerusalem to this spot because Christ descended them when he went from condemnation to the cross.

You probably know that this church of St. John in Laterano is the first of the Christian world, and that the palace was long celebrated for its bulls and councils. The present edifices are about five centuries old, though the church is as fresh and rich as if just finished. The obelisk came from Thebes, and was brought to Rome in the fourth century, and placed in the great circus. Sixtus V. had it disinterred and brought to this spot.

You will now follow the road to the Coliseum and the Forum. All this quarter of the town, with the exception of some broken fragments of suburbs (always within the walls,) is filled with ruins, more or less conspicuous. Here, indeed, the objects and recollections of the past crowd upon the senses oppressively, and it requires time and use to visit the place with a sufficiency of coolness and leisure to analyze the parts, and to separate the works of different ages and reigns.

An intelligent Swiss who is now here, and who frequently accompanies me in these morning rides, exclaimed triumphantly the other day, “You will find, on examining Rome in detail, that all the works of luxury and of a ferocious barbarity belonged to the Empire, and those of use to the Republic. The latter, moreover, are the only works that seem to be imperishablé.” After allowing for the zeal of a republican, there is some truth in this; though the works of the republic, by their nature, being drains and aqueducts, &c., are more durable than those above ground. Still it is a good deal to have left an impression of lasting usefulness, to be contrasted with the memorials and barbarity of vain temples and bloody arenas.

Of the Coliseum it is unnecessary to speak, beyond the effect it will produce on us both. For me, unlike the effect of St. Peter’s, some time was necessary to become fully conscious of its vastness. When one comes deliberately to contemplate this edifice, its beauty of detail and of material, the perfect preservation of its northern half, in the exterior at least, it must be a dull imagination indeed that does not proceed to people its arches and passages, and to form some pictures of the scenes that, for near five hundred years, were enacted within its walls. This noble structure, noble in extent in architecture, if not in its uses, was occupied in the eleventh, twelfth, and thirteenth centuries as a strong place, by the contending factions of Rome. This period, however, longer than that of the existence of our American community, is but a speck in the history of the building, as a short retrospect will show. Vespasian died in 79, Titus in 81, and Domitian in 96. The first commenced, the last is said to have finished, this edifice. For three hundred years it was used for the exhibitions of the gladiators, and, down to the year 523, for battles of wild beasts. For five hundred years more there is little account of it; but it was probably too vast for the purposes of the people who then dwelt among the ruins of Rome. Then came the civil contentions, and near three centuries of military occupation. In 1381, it is said to have been much dilapidated, particularly on the southern side, when it was converted into a hospital. After this, the popes and their favourites began to pull it to pieces, for the stone. Several of the largest palaces of modern Rome have certainly been erected out of its materials; that of the Farnese, in particular. The quay of the Ripetta, or the port, is also enriched from this classical quarry. It is only within a few years—less than thirty, I believe—that any serious attempts have been made to preserve what is left; and, to the credit of the papal government be it said, these attempts are likely to be successful. The walls require little but the “let us alone” policy, for they seem to defy time and the seasons. As there was a possibility of their crumbling, however, at the broken extremities of the outer circle, vast piers of brickwork have been erected, and in a style that, in this species of construction, is only equalled in Italy.

This edifice was 1641 feet in circumference, according to Vasi, who wrote in French; and if French feet are meant, this will exceed 1700 of our feet, which is near a third of a mile. The height is 157 feet, which is quite equal to an ordinary American church spire, even in the towns. From these facts you may obtain some ideas of the general vastness, for the summit was every where of the same elevation. The earth had accumulated to the height of several feet about the base; but it has been removed, a wall has been erected, a short distance from the edifice, and, on that side, one may see the Coliseum very much as it existed under Nero. The arena, according to my former authority, was 285 feet long, by 182 wide. This arena is now encircled by fourteen little chapels, erected in honour of the Christians, who are said to have perished here. The interior, however, is a wild and ruined place.

I know nothing, in its way, that gives one ideas of the magnificence and power of Rome so imposing as the Coliseum. It was erected in an incredibly short time, in a way to resist wars, earthquakes, time, and almost the art of man, and now offers one of the most imposing piles under which the earth groans; in some respects the most imposing. The uncertainty that hangs about the Pyramids impairs their interest; but the Coliseum is almost as well known to us, through the lapse of eighteen centuries, as Drury Lane or the Théâtre Français.

As we are not making antiquarian examinations, let us proceed in the direction of the Forum, and look into its actual condition. The direction of the Via Sacra is well known. It commenced at the Coliseum, and passed near, if not beneath, the Arch of Titus, which is still standing; and, following a line of temples of which we still see many remains, it went beneath the Arch of Septimius Severus, which is also standing, and, it is thought, ascended the Capitol Hill, by what are called the “Sacred Steps.” The vacant space, which vulgarly passes by the name of the Forum, is in the shape of two parallelograms, united by a right angle. One of these open spaces lies between the Capitol and Palatine Hills, and the other stretches from the Arch of Titus to the base of the Capitol, the latter hill not lying directly in a line with the Palatine. Neither of these celebrated hills is large or very high, the Capitol having about two thirds of a mile in circumference at its base, and the latter a little less. As their sides are generally precipitous, the surfaces of the summits do not vary much from their dimensions. I should think the present elevation of the Capitol Hill may be about fifty feet above the level of the surrounding streets; though there is one point which is higher. These streets are, however, much higher than formerly, as is proved by discovering the bases of ancient structures some distance beneath their pavements. The other hill has about the same elevation, or is perhaps a little higher. Their bases are materially changed.

The Palatine, or the cradle of Rome, will first attract our attention. It lies on our left as we advance towards the Forum, and exhibits a confused surface of ruins, gardens, vines, and modern villas. Its prevailing appearance, however, is that of ruin. For several reigns, this mount sufficed not only to contain the residences of the kings of Rome, but all Rome itself. The antiquarians pretend, on what authority I do not know, but that of Livy, I believe, to point out the precise spots where several of the first princes lived. In time it did not suffice for the palace of a single monarch. The palatine was probably much larger then than now, the eastern end having the appearance of being cut. Thus the house of Ancus Martius is said to have been on the summit of the Via Sacra, which would carry the hill near the present site of the Temple of Venus and Rome. On this hill, the Gracchi, Cicero, Cataline, Marc Antony, Catullus, and Octavius, with many others of note, are known to have lived; though, after the fall of the republic, it passed entirely into the hands of the emperors. In the time of Caligula, the imperial palace had a front on the Forum, with a rich colonnade, and a portico. A bridge, sustained by marble columns, crossed the Forum, to communicate with the Capitol Hill. One here sees the rapid progress of luxury in a monarchy. Augustus lived modestly in what might be termed a house; Tiberius, his successor, added to this house until it became a palace; Caligula, not satisfied with the Palatine, projected additions on the Capitol Hill; Claudius, it is true, abandoned this plan, and even destroyed the bridge, but Nero caused an enormous edifice to succeed.

The first palace of Nero must have occupied the whole of the Palatine Hill, with perhaps the exception of a temple or two, the ground around the Coliseum (the site of which was a pond), and all the land as far as the Esquiline, or even to the verge of the Quirinal,—a distance exceeding a mile. This was possessing, moreover, the heart of the town; although a portion of the space was occupied by gardens and other embellishments. When this building was burned, he returned to the Palatine, repaired the residence of Augustus, and rebuilt with so much magnificence, that the new palace was called the “Golden House.” This building also extended to the Esquiline; though it was never finished. Vespasian and Titus, more moderate than the descendent of the Cæsars, demolished all the new parts of the palace, and caused the Coliseum and the baths that bear the name of the latter to be constructed on the spot. These emperors were elected, and they found it necessary to consult the public tastes and public good. Thus we find the remains of two of the largest structures of the world now standing within the ground once occupied by the palace of the Cæsars, on which they appear as little more than points. From this time the emperors confined themselves to the Palatine, the glory of which gradually departed. It is said that the palace, as it was subsequently reduced, remained standing, in a great measure, as recently as the eighth century, and that it was even inhabited in the seventh.

The ruins of the Palatine are now little more than the vaulted rooms of the foundation. One or two halls of the principal floor are thought to be still partially in existence; but as nearly every thing but the bricks has disappeared, they offer little more than recollections to a visitor. Even their uses are conjectured rather than proved. It is possible, by industry and research, to get some ideas of the localities; but few things at Rome, compared with its original importance, offer less of interest directly to the senses than the Palatine Hill. The ruins are confused, and the study of them is greatly perplexing. Certainly, one is also oppressed with sensations on visiting this spot; but, unless a true antiquary, I think the eye is more apt to turn towards the Coliseum, and the other surrounding objects, than to the shapeless and confused masses of brickwork that are found here.

The site of the house of Augustus is now a villa, belonging to an Englishman, which is well kept up, and which may have its uses in a certain sense, but which struck me as being singularly ill-placed as respects sentiment. One could wish every trace of a modern existence to be obliterated from such a spot; and, moreover, a man ought to have great confidence in the texture of his own skin to stand constantly beneath the glare of a powerful sun.