view of a considerable part of the city, including St. Peter’s and the castle of St. Angelo. Off in the distance was seen the Janiculum, while spread out nearer us was the farm of Cincinnatus. This was intensely interesting to me. Not at all so to Jim and the girls. The hill was formerly occupied by the gardens of Marcellus. We next crossed over the Tiber, by the bridge of Hadrian, some 1700 years old, I believe.
Passing by the castle of St. Angelo, formerly Hadrian’s tomb, we came to St. Peter’s. Lofty as the dome is, it is entirely hidden from view before the steps are reached, and no one would dream that there was any there. St. Peter’s is the largest church in the world, having an area, I believe, of some 76,000 square yards. It is built in the form of a Latin cross, and experienced some strange vicissitudes. Passing from architect to architect, it was more than a hundred years in building, and in the hands of most the plan was changed. Michael Angelo built most of the dome. The interior is very richly adorned, and Baedeker says meretriciously. The effect, nevertheless, is very imposing. Service was being performed and, as usual, was very interesting to me. I am commencing to like the smell of incense. I like to watch the priests, too, go through their parts, and look for the devotion, but sad to say, all only strengthens my previously beforehand conclusions on the subject of Catholicism and the Catholic Church, I am convinced that they are “frauds,” and the lesson has been read to me in twenty churches. It may have been wrongly read, I cannot tell about that, but certainly I have so read it.
From St. Peter’s we proceeded to the Vatican, the palace of the popes. Very respectable size, only 11,000 rooms. Saw pictures upon pictures, many famous ones, all bores. Raphael’s “Transfiguration” among them. We visited the Sixtine Chapel, also a bore. Ugly old place. Bore like the rest of them. The fact is, I should prefer not to see any more pictures. When I come to Rome to stay, why, on top of a good dinner, I should like to go to the Vatican with opera glasses and a good catalogue, and study some of the pictures for a few hours every day, studying upon art and its history meanwhile. That is the only way to see pictures in these big galleries. Not that heretofore it has been all of it useless. Not at all. But it is becoming so.
Leaving the Vatican, we went to a gallery of statues, and then made for the hotel. In the afternoon, Jim and the girls were too used up to go out, and so I went alone. We saw the column of Marcus Aurelius, the theatre of Marcellus, the lower part of which is occupied by bad-smelling shops; the temple of Hercules in the cattle dealers forum, dating from the time of Vespasian; the pyramid of Caius Cestius, 116 feet high, 90 feet base, 1900 years old, built, on the outside at least, with white marble, now black; the hill where Remus stood to watch the flight of birds, the church of St. Paul, one of the finest modern churches in existence, etc., etc. We got upon a bridge over the “yellow Tiber,” and looked down upon the remains of the bridge, which Horatius defended against Lars Porsena. It did not seem that his swimming the river could be any very great feat, but it was probably higher then than now, as the poem says:
Swollen high with months of rain,
And far his blood was flowing,
And he was sore in pain,
And heavy with his armor,
And spent with changing blows.
which explains the performance satisfactorily. We saw also the drain built by Tarquin the Great 500 years before Christ, still used by the city. Quite wonderful, I thought. And the Pons Æmilius, 2000 years old. And the Fabrician bridge and Pons Cestius, dating back, I believe, to 100 B. C. There too, near the river, was the house of Rienzi, the last of the Roman tribunes.
A drive through the Jews quarter was very interesting. Some of the party tossed pennies to the crowd, and then what a scramble there was! And many a fall! It is a wonder they were not all run over. They followed us for some distance, old women and young children, boys and girls, begging, shouting, running. One little girl, not very little either, carried along a baby in her arms and held out its little paw to receive money. Nor was she unsuccessful either, but twice got something given her, and each time her own hand was quickly substituted for the youngster’s. Some of the old women, if I read them aright, looked a trifle ashamed of themselves, for a more disgraceful scramble for a few coppers by people who did not appear to be in want, I never saw. In this quarter we had pointed out to us the house of St. Paul, his “own hired house,” in which he lived two years while in Rome. Of course, it cannot be proved that this was his house, yet it seems quite probable, from various circumstances. It is a house of the first century, and the only one thereabouts, I believe. Then I think that it is that quarter of the city in which he lived. And there is a tradition among the Jews, handed down from father to son, that it was in that house that St. Paul lived. Out near St. Paul’s church, we had pointed out to us a spot, where, it was said, Paul bade Peter good-bye, when the latter was led out to execution on a neighboring hill. It is the first yarn of the Catholic Church that I wish were true. What a parting that would have been! But as I am told that there is not the slightest evidence that Peter ever came to Rome, why, I will have to give that up as one of the delicate little fictions with which Mother Church is wont to regale herself.
Then we visited the Pantheon. Celebrated structure! Perfectly round it is, with a large hole in the middle, as quite possibly you may know. This hole has twenty-seven feet in diameter, and is the only opening by which the building is lighted. However, a window twenty-seven feet in diameter does very well. The dome is one hundred and forty feet in diameter and one hundred and forty feet high. Within are buried Raphael and Victor Emanuel. It is to be the future burial place for the Kings of Italy. Then we returned home.
After dinner we took a carriage and drove out to see the Colosseum by moonlight, which, of course, we could not afford to lose, as the event proved. I never enjoyed anything so. It was quite a drive there. Suddenly, just before arriving at the Colosseum, the Roman forum, with all its ruins, came into view. It startled me, as I did not expect to see it, not knowing that it was in that part of the city. The moonlight was ghostly, and the forum, with the ruined temples and triumphal arches, broken columns and fallen pillars clustered around it, looked like a city of the dead. Then passing under the arch of Titus and by the arch of Constantine, the Colosseum appeared in full view. We went in and walked around. Carrie and I climbed up some half-ruined steps and, looking out of a window, had a fine view of the whole forum with all its majestic ruins.
We returned home via an ice-cream saloon and indulged, solaced by the music which was kept up by a gentleman, lady and piano. There does not appear to be any special danger from malaria here. It is perfectly safe to go out in the evening, and we keep our windows open nights, contrary to the advice of some cautious people. The seven hills of Rome are a fraud. They are practically invisible. This hotel is situated on the Esquiline hill, where used to be the gardens of Sallust. Interesting to me, as I read Sallust last term. We leave for Naples Monday night or Tuesday morning, and already I see in my mind’s eye Pompeii and Vesuvius. If you see French, bless him for me. Tell him to write. Love to Uncle and Aunt. Tell Auntie not to work too hard. Love to all the home folks. Also to Lucius. Keep a good slice of love for yourself and be happy.
Lovingly,
HENRY.
ROME, Sunday, August IO, ’79.
MY DEAR MOTHER,
Here I am, the very first thing after writing the “dear mother,” inquiring what to say. This you know, mother, is chronic with me. And yet I ought to have enough to say, after travelling all over Europe. But an empty-headed boy always will be an empty-headed boy, I suppose, in Europe, America, or the Islands. And that quite evidently is my fix. To us disconsolate and forlorn, after long waiting, the mail came from the Islands, with a letter of yours enclosed. It was welcome, indeed. Nothing has made me so homesick for a perfect age as those letters. For once they made me feel as if I were in Rome, in very truth, at a most awful distance from home. You will notice from the heading of this letter that I am back again in Rome, after an absence of four days (from Monday night till
