Ave Roma Immortalis, Vol. 1 - Studies from the Chronicles of Rome

By Author	[ A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z \| Other Symbols ]
By Title	[ A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z \| Other Symbols ]
By Language

Download this book: [ ASCII | HTML | PDF ]

Look for this book on Amazon

We have new books nearly every day.
If you would like a news letter once a week or once a month fill out this form and we will give you a summary of the books for that week or month by email.

Title: Ave Roma Immortalis, Vol. 1 - Studies from the Chronicles of Rome
Author: Crawford, F. Marion (Francis Marion), 1854-1909
Language: English
As this book started as an ASCII text book there are no pictures available.

*** Start of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "Ave Roma Immortalis, Vol. 1 - Studies from the Chronicles of Rome" ***

AVE ROMA IMMORTALIS

STUDIES FROM THE CHRONICLES OF ROME

FRANCIS MARION CRAWFORD

IN TWO VOLUMES

VOL. I

New York
THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
LONDON: MACMILLAN & CO., LTD.

1899

_All rights reserved_

Set up and electrotyped October, 1898. Reprinted November,
December, 1898.

_Norwood Press_
_J. S. Cushing & Co.--Berwick & Smith_
_Norwood, Mass., U.S.A._

TABLE OF CONTENTS

VOLUME I

PAGE

THE MAKING OF THE CITY 1

THE EMPIRE 22

THE CITY OF AUGUSTUS 57

THE MIDDLE AGE 78

THE FOURTEEN REGIONS 100

REGION I MONTI 106

REGION II TREVI 155

REGION III COLONNA 190

REGION IV CAMPO MARZO 243

REGION V PONTE 274

REGION VI PARIONE 297

LIST OF PHOTOGRAVURE PLATES

VOLUME I

Map of Rome _Frontispiece_

FACING PAGE

The Wall of Romulus 4

Palace of the Cæsars 30

The Campagna and Ruins of the Claudian Aqueduct 50

Temple of Castor and Pollux 70

Basilica Constantine 90

Basilica of Saint John Lateran 114

Baths of Diocletian 140

Fountain of Trevi 158

Piazza Barberini 188

Porta San Lorenzo 214

Villa Borghese 230

Piazza del Popolo 256

Island in the Tiber 280

Palazzo Massimo alle Colonna 306

ILLUSTRATIONS IN THE TEXT

VOLUME I
PAGE
Palatine Hill and Mouth of the Cloaca Maxima 1

Ruins of the Servian Wall 8

Etruscan Bridge at Veii 16

Tombs on the Appian Way 22

Brass of Tiberius, showing the Temple of Concord 24

The Tarpeian Rock 28

Caius Julius Cæsar 36

Octavius Augustus Cæsar 45

Brass of Trajan, showing the Circus Maximus 56

Brass of Antoninus Pius, in Honour of Faustina, with
Reverse showing Vesta bearing the Palladium 57

Ponte Rotto, now destroyed 67

Atrium of Vesta 72

Brass of Gordian, showing the Colosseum 78

The Colosseum 87

Ruins of the Temple of Saturn 92

Brass of Gordian, showing Roman Games 99

Ruins of the Julian Basilica 100

Brass of Titus, showing the Colosseum 105

Region I Monti, Device of 106

Santa Francesca Romana 111

San Giovanni in Laterano 116

Piazza Colonna 119

Piazza di San Giovanni in Laterano 126

Santa Maria Maggiore 134

Porta Maggiore, supporting the Channels of the Aqueduct
of Claudius and the Anio Novus 145

Interior of the Colosseum 152

Region II Trevi, Device of 155

Grand Hall of the Colonna Palace 162

Interior of the Mausoleum of Augustus 169

Forum of Trajan 171

Ruins of Hadrian's Villa at Tivoli 180

Palazzo del Quirinale 185

Region III Colonna, Device of 190

Arch of Titus 191

Twin Churches at the Entrance of the Corso 197

San Lorenzo in Lucina 204

Palazzo Doria-Pamfili 208

Palazzo di Monte Citorio 223

Palazzo di Venezia 234

Region IV Campo Marzo, Device of 248

Piazza di Spagna 251

Trinità de Monti 257

Villa Medici 265

Region V Ponte 274

Bridge of Sant' Angelo 285

Villa Negroni 292

Region VI Parione, Device of 297

Piazza Navona 303

Ponte Sisto 307

The Cancelleria 316

WORKS CONSULTED

NOT INCLUDING CLASSIC WRITERS NOR ENCYCLOPÆDIAS

1. AMPÈRE--Histoire Romaine à Rome.
AMPÈRE--L'Empire Remain à Rome.

2. BARACCONI--I Rioni di Roma.

3. BOISSIER--Promenades Archéologiques.

4. BRYCE--The Holy Roman Empire.

5. CELLINI--Memoirs.

6. COPPI--Memoire Colonnesi.

7. FORTUNATO--Storia delle vite delle Imperatrici Romane.

8. GIBBON--Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire.

9. GNOLI--Vittoria Accoramboni.

10. GREGOROVIUS--Geschichte der Stadt Rom.

11. HARE--Walks in Rome.

12. JOSEPHUS--Life of.

13. LANCIANI--Ancient Rome.

14. LETI--Vita di Sisto V.

15. MURATORI--Scriptores Rerum Italicarum.
MURATORI--Annali d'Italia.
MURATORI--Antichità Italiane.

16. RAMSAY AND LANCIANI--A Manual of Roman Antiquities.

17. SCHNEIDER--Das Alte Rom.

18. SILVAGNI--La Corte e la Società Romana.

[Illustration: PALATINE HILL AND MOUTH OF THE CLOACA MAXIMA]

Ave Roma Immortalis

The story of Rome is the most splendid romance in all history. A few
shepherds tend their flocks among volcanic hills, listening by day and
night to the awful warnings of the subterranean voice,--born in danger,
reared in peril, living their lives under perpetual menace of
destruction, from generation to generation. Then, at last, the deep
voice swells to thunder, roaring up from the earth's heart, the
lightning shoots madly round the mountain top, the ground rocks, and the
air is darkened with ashes. The moment has come. One man is a leader,
but not all will follow him. He leads his small band swiftly down from
the heights, and they drive a flock and a little herd before them,
while each man carries his few belongings as best he can, and there are
few women in the company. The rest would not be saved, and they perish
among their huts before another day is over.

Down, always downwards, march the wanderers, rough, rugged, young with
the terrible youth of those days, and wise only with the wisdom of
nature. Down the steep mountain they go, down over the rich, rolling
land, down through the deep forests, unhewn of man, down at last to the
river, where seven low hills rise out of the wide plain. One of those
hills the leader chooses, rounded and grassy; there they encamp, and
they dig a trench and build huts. Pales, protectress of flocks, gives
her name to the Palatine Hill. Rumon, the flowing river, names the
village Rome, and Rome names the leader Romulus, the Man of the River,
the Man of the Village by the River; and to our own time the
twenty-first of April is kept and remembered, and even now honoured, for
the very day on which the shepherds began to dig their trench on the
Palatine, the date of the Foundation of Rome, from which seven hundred
and fifty-four years were reckoned to the birth of Christ.

And the shepherds called their leader King, though his kingship was over
but few men. Yet they were such men as begin history, and in the scant
company there were all the seeds of empire. First the profound faith of
natural mankind, unquestioning, immovable, inseparable from every daily
thought and action; then fierce strength, and courage, and love of life
and of possession; last, obedience to the chosen leader, in clear
liberty, when one should fail, to choose another. So the Romans began to
win the world, and won it in about six hundred years.

By their camp-fires, by their firesides in their little huts, they told
old tales of their race, and round the truth grew up romantic legend,
ever dear to the fighting man and to the husbandman alike, with strange
tales of their first leader's birth, fit for poets, and woven to stir
young hearts to daring, and young hands to smiting. Truth there was
under their stories, but how much of it no man can tell: how Amulius of
Alba Longa slew his sons, and slew also his daughter, loved of Mars,
mother of twin sons left to die in the forest, like Oedipus,
father-slayers, as Oedipus was, wolf-suckled, of whom one was born to
kill the other and be the first King, and be taken up to Jupiter in
storm and lightning at the last. The legend of wise Numa, next, taught
by Egeria; her stony image still weeps trickling tears for her royal
adept, and his earthen cup, jealously guarded, was worshipped for more
than a thousand years; legends of the first Arval brotherhood, dim as
the story of Melchisedec, King and priest, but lasting as Rome itself.
Tales of King Tullus, when the three Horatii fought for Rome against
the three Curiatii, who smote for Alba and lost the day--Tullus
Hostilius, grandson of that first Hostus who had fought against the
Sabines; and always more legend, and more, and more, sometimes misty,
sometimes clear and direct in action as a Greek tragedy. They hover upon
the threshold of history, with faces of beauty or of terror, sublime,
ridiculous, insignificant, some born of desperate, real deeds, many
another, perhaps, first told by some black-haired shepherd mother to her
wondering boys at evening, when the brazen pot simmered on the
smouldering fire, and the father had not yet come home.

But down beneath the legend lies the fact, in hewn stones already far in
the third thousand of their years. Digging for truth, searchers have
come here and there upon the first walls and gates of the Palatine
village, straight, strong and deeply founded. The men who made them
meant to hold their own, and their own was whatsoever they were able to
take from others by force. They built their walls round a four-sided
space, wide enough for them, scarcely big enough a thousand years later
for the houses of their children's rulers, the palaces of the Cæsars of
which so much still stands today.

Then came the man who built the first bridge across the river, of wooden
piles and beams, bolted with bronze, because the Romans had no iron yet,
and ever afterwards repaired with wood and bronze, for its sanctity, in
perpetual veneration of Ancus Martius, fourth King of Rome. That was the
bridge Horatius kept against Porsena of Clusium, while the fathers hewed
it down behind him.

[Illustration: WALL OF ROMULUS]

Tarquin the first came next, a stranger of Greek blood, chosen, perhaps,
because the factions in Rome could not agree. Then Servius, great and
good, built his tremendous fortification, and the King of Italy today,
driving through the streets in his carriage, may look upon the wall of
the King who reigned in Rome more than two thousand and four hundred
years ago.

Under those six rulers, from Romulus to Servius, from the man of the
River Village to the man of walls, Rome had grown from a sheepfold to a
town, from a town to a walled city, from a city to a little nation,
matched against all mankind, to win or die, inch by inch, sword in hand.
She was a kingdom now, and her men were subjects; and still the third
law of great races was strong and waking. Romans obeyed their leader so
long as he could lead them well--no longer. The twilight of the Kings
gathered suddenly, and their names were darkened, and their sun went
down in shame and hate. In the confusion, tragic legend rises to tell
the story. For the first time in Rome, a woman, famous in all history,
turned the scale. The King's son, passionate, terrible, false, steals
upon her in the dark. 'I am Sextus Tarquin, and there is a sword in my
hand.' Yet she yielded to no fear of steel, but to the horror of
unearned shame beyond death. On the next day, when she lay before her
husband and her father and the strong Brutus, her story told, her deed
done, splendidly dead by her own hand, they swore the oath in which the
Republic was born. While father, husband and friend were stunned with
grief, Brutus held up the dripping knife before their eyes. 'By this
most chaste blood, I swear--Gods be my witnesses--that I will hunt down
Tarquin the Proud, himself, his infamous wife and every child of his,
with fire and sword, and with all my might, and neither he nor any other
man shall ever again be King in Rome.' So they all swore, and bore the
dead woman out into the market-place, and called on all men to stand by
them.

They kept their word, and the tale tells how the Tarquins were driven
out to a perpetual exile, and by and by allied themselves with Porsena,
and marched on Rome, and were stopped only at the Sublician bridge by
brave Horatius.

Chaos next. Then all at once the Republic stands out, born full grown
and ready armed, stern, organized and grasping, but having already
within itself the quickened opposites that were to fight for power so
long and so fiercely,--the rich and the poor, the patrician and the
plebeian, the might and the right.

There is a wonder in that quick change from Kingdom to Commonwealth,
which nothing can make clear, except, perhaps, modern history. Say that
two thousand or more years hereafter men shall read of what our
grandfathers, our fathers and ourselves have seen done in France within
a hundred years, out of two or three old books founded mostly on
tradition; they may be confused by the sudden disappearance of kings, by
the chaos, the wild wars and the unforeseen birth of a lasting republic,
just as we are puzzled when we read of the same sequence in ancient
Rome. Men who come after us will have more documents, too. It is not
possible that all books and traces of written history should be
destroyed throughout the world, as the Gauls burned everything in Rome,
except the Capitol itself, held by the handful of men who had taken
refuge there.

So the Kingdom fell with a woman's death, and the Commonwealth was made
by her avengers. Take the story as you will, for truth or truth's
legend, it is for ever humanly true, and such deeds would rouse a nation
today as they did then and as they set Rome on fire once more nearly
sixty years later.

But all the time Rome was growing as if the very stones had life to put
out shoots and blossoms and bear fruit. Round about the city the great
Servian wall had wound like a vast finger, in and out, grasping the
seven hills, and taking in what would be a fair-sized city even in our
day. They were the last defences Rome built for herself, for nearly nine
hundred years.

Nothing can give a larger idea of Rome's greatness than that; not all
the temples, monuments, palaces, public buildings of later years can
tell half the certainty of her power expressed by that one fact--Rome
needed no walls when once she had won the world.

But it is very hard to guess at what the city was, in those grim times
of the early fight for life. We know the walls, and there were nineteen
gates in all, and there were paved roads; the wooden bridge, the Capitol
with its first temple and first fortress, the first Forum with the
Sacred Way, were all there, and the public fountain, called the
Tullianum, and a few other sites are certain. The rest must be imagined.

[Illustration: RUINS OF THE SERVIAN WALL]

Rome was a brown city in those days, when there was no marble and little
stucco: a brown city teeming with men and women clothed mostly in grey
and brown and black woollen cloaks, like those the hill shepherds wear
today, caught up under one arm and thrown far over the shoulder in dark
folds. The low houses without any outer windows, entered by one rough
door, were built close together, and those near the Forum had shops
outside them, low-browed places, dark but not deep, where the cloaked
keeper sat behind a stone counter among his wares, waiting for custom,
watching all that happened in the market-place, gathering in gossip from
one buyer to exchange it for more with the next, altogether not unlike
the small Eastern merchant of today.

Yet during more than half the time, there were few young men, or men in
prime, in the streets of Rome. They were fighting more than half the
year, while their fathers and their children stayed behind with the
women. The women sat spinning and weaving wool in their little brown
houses; the boys played, fought, ran races naked in the streets; the
small girls had their quiet games and, surely, their dolls, made of
rags, stuffed with the soft wool waste from their mothers' spindles and
looms. The old men, scarred and seamed in the battles of an age when
fighting was all hand to hand, kept the shops, or sunned themselves in
the market-place, shelling and chewing lupins to pass the time, as the
Romans have always done, and telling old tales, or boasting to each
other of their half-grown grandchildren, and of their full-grown sons,
fighting far away in the hills and the plains that Rome might have more
possession. Meanwhile the maidens went in pairs to the springs to fetch
water, or down to the river in small companies to wash the woollen
clothes and dry them in the shade of the old wild trees, lest in the sun
they should shrink and thicken; black-haired, black-eyed, dark-skinned
maids, all of them, strong and light of foot, fit to be mothers of more
soldiers, to slay more enemies, and bring back more spoil. Then, as in
our own times, the flocks of goats were driven in from the pastures at
early morning and milked from door to door, for each household, and
driven out again to the grass before the sun was high. In the old wall
there was the Cattle Gate, the Porta Mugonia, named, as the learned say,
from the lowing of the herds. Then, as in the hill towns not long ago,
the serving women, who were slaves, sat cross-legged on the ground in
the narrow court within the house, with the hand-mill of two stones
between them, and ground the wheat to flour for the day's meal. There
have been wonderful survivals of the first age even to our own time.

But that which has not come down to us is the huge vitality of those men
and women. The world's holders have never risen suddenly in hordes; they
have always grown by degrees out of little nations, that could live
through more than their neighbours. Calling up the vision of the first
Rome, one must see, too, such human faces and figures of men as are
hardly to be found among us nowadays,--the big features, the great,
square, devouring jaws, the steadily bright eyes, the strongly built
brows, coarse, shagged hair, big bones, iron muscles and starting
sinews. There are savage countries that still breed such men. They may
have their turn next, when we are worn out. Browning has made John the
Smith a memorable type.

Rome was a clean city in those days. One of the Tarquins had built the
great arched drain which still stands unshaken and in use, and smaller
ones led to it, draining the Forum and all the low part of the town. The
people were clean, far beyond our ordinary idea of them, as is plain
enough from the contemptuous way in which the Latin authors use their
strong words for uncleanliness. A dirty man was an object of pity, and
men sometimes went about in soiled clothes to excite the public
sympathy, as beggars do today in all countries. Dirt meant abject
poverty, and in a grasping, getting race, poverty was the exception,
even while simplicity was the rule. For all was simple with them, their
dress, their homes, their lives, their motives, and if one could see the
Rome of Tarquin the Proud, this simplicity would be of all
characteristics the most striking, compared with what we know of later
Rome, and with what we see about us in our own times. Simplicity is not
strength, but the condition in which strength is least hampered in its
full action.

It was easy to live simply in such a place and in such a climate, under
a wise King. The check in the first straight run of Rome's history
brought the Romans suddenly face to face with the first great
complication of their career, which was the struggle between the rich
and the poor; and again the half truth rises up to explain the fact.
Men whose first instinct was to take and hold took from one another in
peace when they could not take from their enemies in war, since they
must needs be always taking from some one. So the few strong took all
from the many weak, till the weak banded themselves together to resist
the strong, and the struggle for life took a new direction.

The grim figure of Lucius Junius Brutus rises as the incarnation of that
character which, at great times, made history, but in peace made
trouble. The man who avenged Lucretia, who drove out the Tarquins, and
founded the Republic, is most often remembered as the father who sat
unmoved in judgment on his two traitor sons, and looked on with stony
eyes while they paid the price of their treason in torment and death.
That one deed stands out, and we forget how he himself fell fighting for
Rome's freedom.

But still the evil grew at home, and the hideous law of creditor and
debtor, which only fiercest avarice could have devised, ground the poor,
who were obliged to borrow to pay the tax-gatherer, and made slaves of
them almost to the ruin of the state.

Just then Etruria wakes, shadowy, half Greek, the central power of
Italy, between Rome and Gaul. Porsena, the Lar of Clusium, comes against
the city with a great host in gilded arms. Terror descends like a dark
mist over the young nation. The rich fear for their riches, the poor for
their lives. In haste the fathers gather great supplies of corn against
a siege; credit and debt are forgotten; patrician and plebeian join
hands as Porsena reaches Janiculum, and three heroic figures of romance
stand forth from a host of heroes. Horatius keeps the bridge, first with
two comrades, then, at the last, alone in the glory of single-handed
fight against an army, sure of immortality whether he live or die.
Scævola, sworn with the three hundred to slay the Lar, stabs the wrong
man, and burns his hand to the wrist to show what tortures he can bear
unmoved. Cloelia, the maiden hostage, rides her young steed at the
yellow torrent, and swims the raging flood back to the Palatine.
Cloelia and Horatius get statues in the Forum; Scævola is endowed with
great lands, which his race holds for centuries, and leaves a name so
great that two thousand years later, Sforza, greatest leader of the
Middle Age, coveting long ancestry, makes himself descend from the man
who burned off his own hand.

They are great figures, the two men and the noble girl, and real to us,
in a way, because we can stand on the very ground they trod, where
Horatius fought, where Scævola suffered and where Cloelia took the
river. They are nearer to us than Romulus, nearer even than Lucretia, as
each figure, following the city's quick life, has more of reality about
it, and not less of heroism.

For two hundred years the Romans strove with each other in law making;
the fathers for exclusive power and wealth, the plebeians for freedom,
first, and then for office in the state; a time of fighting abroad for
land, and of contention at home about its division. In fifty years the
poor had their Tribunes, but it took them nearly three times as long,
after that, to make themselves almost the fathers' equals in power.

Once they tried a new kind of government by a board of ten, and it held
for a while, till again a woman's life turned the tide of Roman history,
and fair young Virginia, stabbed by her father in the Forum, left a name
as lasting as any of that day.

Romance again, but the true romance, above doubt, at last; not at all
mythical, but full of fate's unanswerable logic, which makes dim stories
clear to living eyes. You may see the actors in the Forum, where it all
happened,--the lovely girl with frightened, wondering eyes; the father,
desperate, white-lipped, shaking with the thing not yet done; Appius
Claudius smiling among his friends and clients; the sullen crowd of
strong plebeians, and the something in the chill autumn air that was a
warning of fate and fateful change. Then the deed. A shriek at the edge
of the throng; a long, thin knife, high in air, trembling before a
thousand eyes; a harsh, heartbroken, vengeful voice; a confusion and a
swaying of the multitude, and then the rising yell of men overlaid,
ringing high in the air from the Capitol right across the Forum to the
Palatine, and echoing back the doom of the Ten.

The deed is vivid still, and then there is sudden darkness. One thinks
of how that man lived afterwards. Had Virginius a home, a wife, other
children to mourn the dead one? Or was he a lonely man, ten times alone
after that day, with the memory of one flashing moment always undimmed
in a bright horror? Who knows? Did anyone care? Rome's story changed its
course, turning aside at the river of Virginia's blood, and going on
swiftly in another way.

To defeat this time, straight to Rome's first and greatest humiliation;
to the coming of the Gauls, sweeping everything before them, Etruscans,
Italians, Romans, up to the gates of the city and over the great moat
and wall of Servius, burning, destroying, killing everything, to the
foot of the central rock; baffled at the last stronghold on a dark night
by a flock of cackling geese, but not caring for so small a thing when
they had swallowed up the rest, or not liking the Latin land, perhaps,
and so, taking ransom for peace and marching away northwards again
through the starved and harried hills and valleys of Etruria to their
own country. And six centuries passed away before an enemy entered Rome
again.

But the Gauls left wreck and ruin and scarcely one stone upon another in
the great desolation; they swept away all records of history, then and
there, and the general destruction was absolute, so that the Rome of the
Republic and of the Empire, the centre and capital of the world, began
to exist from that day. Unwillingly the people bore back Juno's image
from Veii, where they had taken refuge and would have stayed, and built
houses, and would have called that place Rome. But the nobles had their
own way, and the great construction began, of which there was to be no
end for many hundreds of years, in peace and war, mostly while hard
fighting was going on abroad.

[Illustration: ETRUSCAN BRIDGE AT VEII]

They built hurriedly at first, for shelter, and as best they could,
crowding their little houses in narrow streets with small care for
symmetry or adornment. The second Rome must have seemed but a poor
village compared with the solidly built city which the Gauls had burnt,
and it was long before the present could compare with the past. In haste
men seized on fragments of all sorts, blocks of stone, cracked and
defaced in the flames, charred beams that could still serve, a door
here, a window there, and such bits of metal as they could pick up. An
irregular, crowded town sprang up, and a few rough temples, no doubt as
pied and meanly pieced as many of those early churches built of odds and
ends of ruin, which stand to this day.

It is not impossible that the motley character of Rome, of which all
writers speak in one way or another, had its first cause in that second
building of the city. Rome without ruins would hardly seem Rome at all,
and all was ruined in that first inroad of the savage Gauls,--houses,
temples, public places. When the Romans came back from Veii they must
have found the Forum not altogether unlike what it is today, but
blackened with smoke, half choked with mouldering humanity, strewn with
charred timbers, broken roof tiles and the wreck of much household
furniture; a sorrowful confusion reeking with vapours of death, and
pestilential with decay. It was no wonder that the poor plebeians lost
heart and would have chosen to go back to the clear streets and cleaner
air of Veii. Their little houses were lost and untraceable in the
universal chaos. But the rich man's ruins stood out in bolder relief; he
had his lands still; he still had slaves; he could rebuild his home; and
he had his way.

But ever afterwards, though the Republic and the Empire spent the wealth
of nations in beautifying the city, the trace of that first defeat
remained. Dark and narrow lanes wound in and out, round the great
public squares, and within earshot of the broad white streets, and the
time-blackened houses of the poor stood huddled out of sight behind the
palaces of the rich, making perpetual contrast of wealth and poverty,
splendour and squalor, just as one may see today in Rome, in London, in
Paris, in Constantinople, in all the mistress cities of the world that
have long histories of triumph and defeat behind them.

The first Rome sprang from the ashes of the Alban volcano, the second
Rome rose from the ashes of herself, as she has risen again and again
since then. But the Gauls had done Rome a service, too. In crushing her
to the earth, they had crushed many of her enemies out of existence; and
when she stood up to face the world once more, she fought not to beat
the Æquians or the Etruscans at her gates, but to conquer Italy. And by
steady fighting she won it all, and brought home the spoils and divided
the lands; here and there a battle lost, as in the bloody Caudine pass,
but always more battles won, and more, and more, sternly relentless to
revolt. Brutus had seen his own sons' heads fall at his own word; should
Caius Pontius, the Samnite, be spared, because he was the bravest of the
brave? To her faithful friends Rome was just, and now and then
half-contemptuously generous.

The idle Greek fine gentlemen of Tarentum sat in their theatre one day,
overlooking the sea, shaded by dyed awnings from the afternoon sun,
listening entranced to some grand play,--the Oedipus King, perhaps, or
Alcestis, or Medea. Ten Roman trading ships came sailing round the
point; and the wind failed, and they lay there with drooping sails,
waiting for the land breeze that springs up at night. Perhaps some rough
Latin sailor, as is the way today in calm weather when there is no work
to be done, began to howl out one of those strange, endless songs which
have been sung down to us, from ear to ear, out of the primeval Aryan
darkness,--loud, long drawn out, exasperating in its unfinished cadence,
jarring on the refined Greek ear, discordant with the actor's finely
measured tones. In sudden rage at the noise--so it must have been--those
delicate idlers sprang up and ran down to the harbour, and took the
boats that lay there, and overwhelmed the unarmed Roman traders, slaying
many of them. Foolish, cruel, almost comic. So a sensitive musician,
driven half mad by a street organ, longs to rush out and break the thing
to pieces, and kill the poor grinder for his barbarous noise.

But when there was blood in the harbour of Tarentum, and some of the
ships had escaped on their oars, the Greeks were afraid; and when the
message of war came swiftly down to them from inexorable Rome, their
terror grew, and they sent to Pyrrhus of Epirus, who had set up to be a
conqueror, to come and conquer Rome for the sake of certain æsthetic
fine gentlemen who could not bear to be disturbed at a good play on a
spring afternoon. He came with all the pomp and splendour of Eastern
warfare; he won a battle, and a battle, and half a battle, and then the
Romans beat him at Beneventum, famous again and again, and utterly
destroyed his army, and took back with them his gold and his jewels, and
the tusks of his elephants, and the mastery of all Italy to boot, but
not yet beyond dispute.

Creeping down into Sicily, Rome met Carthage, both giants in those days,
and the greatest and last struggle began, with half the known world and
all the known sea for a battle-ground. Round and round the
Mediterranean, by water and land, they fought for a hundred and eighteen
years, through four generations of men, as we should reckon it, both
grasping and strong, both relentless, both sworn to win or perish for
ever, both doing great deeds that are remembered still. The mere name of
Regulus is a legion of legends in itself; the name of Hannibal is in
itself a history, that of Fabius Maximus a lesson; and while history
lasts, Cornelius Scipio and Scipio the African will not be forgotten. It
is the story of many and terrible defeats, from each of which Rome rose,
fiercely young, to win a dozen terrible little victories. It is strange
that we remember the lost days best; misty Thrasymene and Cannæ's
fearful slaughter rise first in the memory. Then all at once, within ten
years, the scale turns, and Caius Claudius Nero hurls Hasdrubal's
disfigured head high over ditch and palisade into his brother's camp,
right to his brother's feet. And five years later, the battle of Zama,
won almost at the gates of Carthage; and then, almost the end, as great
heartbroken Hannibal, defeated, ruined and exiled, drinks up the poison
and rests at last, some forty years after he led his first army to
victory. But he had been dead nearly forty years, when another Scipio at
last tore down the walls of Carthage, and utterly destroyed the city to
the foundations, for ever. And a dozen years later than that, Rome had
conquered all the civilized world round about the Mediterranean sea,
from Spain to Asia.

[Illustration: TOMBS ON THE APPIAN WAY]

There was a mother in Rome, not rich, but of great race, for she was
daughter to Scipio of Africa; and she called her sons her jewels when
other women showed their golden ornaments and their precious stones and
boasted of their husbands' wealth. Cornelia's two sons, Tiberius and
Caius, lost their lives successively in a struggle against the avarice
of the rich men who ruled Rome, Italy and the world; against that
grasping avarice which far surpassed the greed of any other race before
the Romans, or after them, and which had suddenly taken new growth as
the spoils of the East and South and West poured into the city. Yet the
vast booty men could see was but an earnest of the wide lands which had
fallen to Rome, called 'Public Lands' almost as if in derision, while
they fell into the power of the few and strong, by the hundred thousand
acres at a time.

Three hundred and fifty years before the Gracchi, when little conquests
still seemed great, Spurius Cassius had died in defence of his Agrarian
Law, at the hands of the savage rich who accused him of conspiring for a
crown. Tiberius Gracchus set up the rights of the people to the public
land, and perished.

He fell within a stone's throw of the spot on which the great tribune,
Nicholas Rienzi, died. The strong, small band of nobles, armed with
staves and clubs, and with that supremacy of contemptuous bearing that
cows the simple, plough their way through the rioting throng,
murderously clubbing to right and left. Tiberius, retreating, stumbles
against a corpse and his enemies are upon him; a stave swung high in
air, a dull blow, and all is finished for that day, save to throw the
body into the Tiber lest the people should make a revolution of its
funeral.

Next came Caius, a boy of six and twenty, fighting the same fight for a
few years. On his head the nobles set a price--its weight in gold. He
hides on the Aventine, and the Aventine is stormed. He escapes by the
Sublician bridge and the bridge is held behind him by one friend, almost
as Horatius held it against an army. Yet the nobles and their hired
Cretan bowmen force the way and pursue him into Furina's grove. There a
Greek slave ends him, and to get more gold fills the poor head with
metal--and is paid in full. Three hundred died with Tiberius, three
thousand were put to death for his brother's sake. With the goods of the
slain and the dowries of their wives, Opimius built the Temple of
Concord on the spot where the later one still stands in part, between
the Comitium and the Capitol. The poor of Rome, and Cornelia, and the
widows and children of the murdered men, knew what that 'Concord' meant.

[Illustration: BRASS OF TIBERIUS, SHOWING THE TEMPLE OF CONCORD]

Then followed revolution, war with runaway slaves, war with the
immediate allies, then civil war, while wealth and love of wealth grew
side by side, the one, insatiate, devouring the other.

First the slaves made for Sicily, wild, mountainous, half-governed then
as it is today, and they held much of it against their masters for five
years. Within short memory, almost yesterday, a handful of outlaws has
defied a powerful nation's best soldiers in the same mountains. It is
small wonder that many thousand men, fighting for liberty and life,
should have held out so long.

And meanwhile Jugurtha of Numidia had for long years bought every Roman
general sent against him, had come to Rome himself and bought the laws,
and had gone back to his country with contemptuous leave-taking--'Thou
city where all is sold!' And still he bought, till Caius Marius,
high-hearted plebeian and great soldier, brought him back to die in the
Mamertine prison.

Then against wealth arose the last and greatest power of Rome, her
terrible armies that set up whom they would, to have their will of
Senate and fathers and people. First Marius, then Sylla whom he had
taught to fight, and taught to beat him in the end, after Cinna had been
murdered for his sake at Ancona.

Marius and Sylla, the plebeian and the patrician, were matched at first
as leader and lieutenant, then both as conquerors, then as alternate
despots of Rome and mortal foes, till their long duel wrecked what had
been and opened ways for what was to be.

First, Sylla claims that he, and not Marius, took Jugurtha, when the
Numidian ally betrayed him, though the King and his two sons marched in
the train of the plebeian's triumph. Marius answers by a stupendous
victory over the Cimbrians and Teutons, slays a hundred thousand in one
battle, comes home, triumphs again, sets up his trophies in the city and
builds a temple to Honour and Courage. Next, in greed of popular power,
he perjures himself to support a pair of murderous demagogues, betrays
them in turn to the patricians, and Saturninus is pounded to death with
roof tiles in the Capitol. Then, being made leader in the war with the
allies, already old for fighting, he fails at the outset, and his rival
Sylla is General in his stead.

Then riot on riot in the Forum, violence after violence in the struggle
for the consulship, murder after murder, blood upon blood not yet dry.
Sylla gets the expedition against Mithridates; Marius, at home,
undermines his enemy's influence and forces the tribes to give him the
command, and sends out his lieutenants to the East. Sylla's soldiers
murder them, and Sylla marches back against Rome with six legions.
Marius is unprepared; Sylla breaks into the city, torch in hand, at the
head of his troops, burning and slaying; the rivals meet face to face in
the Esquiline market-place, Roman fights Roman, and the plebeian loses
the day and escapes to the sea.

The reign of terror begins, and a great slaying. Sylla declares his
rival an enemy of Rome, and Marius is found hiding in the marshes of
Minturnæ, is dragged out naked, covered with mud, a rope about his neck,
and led into a little house of the town to be slain by a slave. 'Darest
thou kill Caius Marius?' asks the old man with flashing eyes, and the
slave executioner trembles before the unarmed prisoner. They let him go.
He wanders to Africa and sits alone among the ruins of Carthage, while
Sylla fights victoriously in the East. Rome, momentarily free of both,
is torn by dissensions about the voting of the newly enfranchised.
Instead of the greater rivals, Cinna and Octavius are matched for plebs
and nobles. Knife-armed the parties fight it out in the Forum, the
bodies of citizens lie in heaps, and the gutters are gorged with free
blood, and again the patricians win the day. Cinna, fleeing from wrath,
is deposed from office. Marius sees his chance again. Unshaven and
unshorn since he left Rome last, he joins Cinna, leading six thousand
fugitives, seizes and plunders the towns about Rome, while Cinna encamps
beneath the walls. Together they enter Rome and nail Octavius' head to
the Rostra. Then the vengeance of wholesale slaying, in another reign of
terror, and Marius is despot of the city for a while, as Sylla had been
before, till spent with age, his life goes out amid drunkenness and
blood. The people tear down Sylla's house, burn his villa and drive out
his wife and his children. Back he comes after four years, victorious,
fighting his way right and left, against Lucanians and Samnites, back to
Rome still fighting them, almost loses the battle, is saved by Crassus
to take vengeance again, and again the long lists of the proscribed are
written out and hung up in the Forum, and the city runs blood in a third
Terror. Amid heaps of severed heads, Sylla sits before the temple of
Castor and sells the lands of his dead enemies; and Catiline is first
known to history as the executioner of Caius Gratidianus, whom he slices
to death, piecemeal, beyond the Tiber.

[Illustration: THE TARPEIAN ROCK]

Sylla, cold, aristocratic, sublimely ironical monster, was Rome's first
absolute and undisputed military lord. Tired of blood, he tried reform,
invented an aristocratic constitution, saw that it must fail, and then,
to the amazement of his friends and enemies, abdicated and withdrew to
private life, protected by a hundred thousand veterans of his army, and
many thousands of freedmen, to die at the last without violence.

Of the chaos he left behind him, Cæsar made the Roman Empire.

The Gracchi, champions of the people, were foully done to death. Marius
and Sylla, tearing the proud Republic to pieces for their own greatness,
both died in their beds, the one of old age, the other of disease. There
is no irony like that which often ended the lives of great Romans.
Marcus Manlius, who saved the Capitol from the Gauls, was hurled to his
death from the same rock, by the tribunes of the people, and Rome's
citadel and sanctuary was desecrated by the blood of its preserver.
Scipio of Africa breathed his last in exile, but Appius Claudius, the
Decemvir, died rich and honoured.

One asks, naturally enough, how Rome could hold the civilized nations in
subjection while she was fighting out a civil war that lasted fifty
years. We have but little idea of her great military organization, after
arms became a profession and a career. We can but call up scattered
pictures to show us rags and fragments of the immense host that
patrolled the world with measured tread and matchless precision of
serried rank, in tens and scores and hundreds of thousands, for
centuries, shoulder to shoulder and flank to flank, learning its own
strength by degrees, till it suddenly grasped all power, gave it to one
man, and made Caius Julius Cæsar Dictator of the earth.

The greatest figure in all history suddenly springs out of the dim
chaos and shines in undying glory, the figure of a man so great that the
office he held means Empire, and the mere name he bore means Emperor
today in four empires,--Cæsar, Kaiser, Czar, Kaisár,--a man of so vast
power that the history of humanity for centuries after him was the
history of those who were chosen to fill his place--the history of
nearly half the twelve centuries foretold by the augur Attus, from
Romulus, first King, to Romulus Augustulus, last Emperor. He was a man
whose deeds and laws have marked out the life of the world even to this
far day. Before him and with him comes Pompey, with him and after him
Mark Antony, next to him in line and greatness, Augustus--all dwarfs
compared with him, while two of them were failures outright, and the
third could never have reached power but in his steps.

[Illustration: PALACE OF THE CÆSARS]

In that long tempest of parties wherein the Republic went down for ever,
it is hard to trace the truth, or number the slain, or reckon up account
of gain and loss. But when Cæsar rises in the centre of the storm the
end is sure and there can be no other, for he drives it before him like
a captive whirlwind, to do his bidding and clear the earth for his
coming. Other men, and great men, too, are overwhelmed by it, dashed
down and stunned out of all sense and judgment, to be lost and forgotten
like leaves in autumn, whirled away before the gale. Pompey, great
general and great statesman, conqueror in Spain, subduer of Spartacus
and the Gladiators, destroyer of pirates and final victor over
Mithridates, comes back and lives as a simple citizen. Noble of birth,
but not trusted by his peers, he joins with Cæsar, leader of all the
people, and with Crassus, for more power, and loses the world by giving
Cæsar an army, and Gaul to conquer. Crassus, brave general, too, is
slain in battle in far Parthia, and Pompey steals a march by getting a
long term in Spain. Cæsar demands as much and is refused by Pompey's
friends. Then the storm breaks and Cæsar comes back from Gaul to cross
the Rubicon, and take all Italy in sixty days. Pompey, ambitious,
ill-starred, fights losing battles everywhere. Murdered at last in
Egypt, he, too, is dead, and Cæsar stands alone, master of Rome and of
the world. One year he ruled, and then they slew him; but no one of them
that struck him died a natural death.

Creation presupposes chaos, and it is the divine prerogative of genius
to evolve order from confusion. Julius Cæsar found the world of his day
consisting of disordered elements of strength, all at strife with each
other in a central turmoil, skirted and surrounded by the relative peace
of an ancient and long undisturbed barbarism.

It was out of these elements that he created what has become modern
Europe, and the direction which he gave to the evolution of mankind has
never wholly changed since his day. Of all great conquerors he was the
least cruel, for he never sacrificed human life without the direct
intention of benefiting mankind by an increased social stability. Of all
great lawgivers, he was the most wise and just, and the truths he set
down in the Julian Code are the foundation of modern justice. Of all
great men who have leaped upon the world as upon an unbroken horse, who
have guided it with relentless hands, and ridden it breathless to the
goal of glory, Cæsar is the only one who turned the race into the track
of civilization and, dying, left mankind a future in the memory of his
past. He is the one great man of all, without whom it is impossible to
imagine history. We cannot take him away and yet leave anything of what
we have. The world could have been as it is without Alexander, without
Charlemagne, without Napoleon; it could not have been the world we know
without Caius Julius Cæsar.

That fact alone places him at the head of mankind.

In Cæsar's life there is the same matter for astonishment as in
Napoleon's; there is the vast disproportion between beginnings and
climax, between the relative modesty of early aims and the stupendous
magnitude of the climacteric result. One asks how in a few years the
impecunious son of the Corsican notary became the world's despot, and
how the fashionable young spendthrift lawyer of Rome, dabbling in
politics and almost ignorant of warfare, rose in a quarter of a century
to be the world's conqueror, lawgiver and civilizer. The daily miracle
of genius is the incalculable speed at which it simultaneously thinks
and acts. Nothing is so logical as creation, and creation is the first
sign as well as the only proof that genius is present.

Hitherto the life of Cæsar has not been logically presented. His youth
appears almost always to be totally disconnected from his maturity. The
first success, the conquest of Gaul, comes as a surprise, because its
preparation is not described. After it everything seems natural, and
conquest follows victory as daylight follows dawn; but when we try to
think backwards from that first expedition, we either see nothing
clearly, or we find Cæsar an insignificant unit in a general disorder,
as hard to identify as an individual ant in a swarming ant-hill. In the
lives of all 'great men,' which are almost always totally unlike the
lives of the so-called 'great,'--those born, not to power, but in
power,--there is a point which must inevitably be enigmatical. It may be
called the Hour of Fate--the time when in the suddenly loosed play of
many circumstances, strained like springs and held back upon themselves,
a man who has been known to a few thousands finds himself the chief of
millions and the despot of a nation.

Things which are only steps to great men are magnified to attainments in
ordinary lives, and remembered with pride. The man of genius is sure of
the great result, if he can but get a fulcrum for his lever. What
strikes one most in the careers of such men as Cæsar and Napoleon is the
tremendous advance realized at the first step--the difference between
Napoleon's half-subordinate position before the first campaign in Italy
and his dominion of France immediately after it, or the distance which
separated Cæsar, the impeached Consul, from Cæsar, the conqueror of
Gaul.

It must not be forgotten that Cæsar came of a family that had held great
positions, and which, though impoverished, still had credit,
subsequently stretched by Cæsar to the extreme limit of its borrowing
power. At sixteen, an age when Bonaparte was still an unknown student,
Cæsar was Flamen Dialis, or high priest of Jupiter, and at one and
twenty, the 'ill-girt boy,' as Sylla called him from his way of wearing
his toga, was important enough to be driven from Rome, a fugitive. His
first attempt at a larger notoriety had failed, and Dolabella, whom he
had impeached, had been acquitted through the influence of friends. Yet
the young lawyer had found the opportunity of showing what he could do,
and it was not without reason that Sylla said of him, 'You will find
many a Marius in this one Cæsar.'

Twenty years passed before the prophecy began to be realized with the
commencement of Cæsar's career in Gaul, and more than once during that
time his life seemed a failure in his own eyes, and he said scornfully
and sadly of himself that he had done nothing to be remembered at an age
when Alexander had already conquered the world.

Those twenty years which, to the thoughtful man, are by far the most
interesting of all, appear in history as a confused and shapeless medley
of political, military and forensic activity, strongly coloured by
social scandals, which rested upon a foundation of truth, and darkened
by accusations of worse kind, for which there is no sort of evidence,
and which may be safely attributed to the jealousy of unscrupulous
adversaries.

The first account of him, which we have in the seventeenth year of his
age, evokes a picture of youthful beauty. The boy who is to win the
world is appointed high priest of Jove in Rome,--by what strong
influence we know not,--and we fancy the splendid youth with his tall
figure, full of elastic endurance, the brilliant face, the piercing,
bold, black eyes; we see him with the small mitre set back upon the dark
and curling locks that grow low on the forehead, as hair often does that
is to fall early, clad in the purple robe of his high office, summoning
all his young dignity to lend importance to his youthful grace as he
moves up to Jove's high altar to perform his first solemn sacrifice with
his young consort; for the high priesthood of Jove was held jointly by
man and wife, and if the wife died the husband lost his office.

He was about twenty when he cast his lot with the people, and within the
year he fled from Sylla's persecution. The life of sudden changes and
contrasts had begun. Straight from the sacred office, with all its
pomp, and splendour, and solemnity, Cæsar is a fugitive in the Sabine
hills, homeless, wifeless, fever-stricken, a price on his head. Such
quick chances of evil fell to many in the days of the great struggle
between Marius and Sylla, between the people and the nobles.

Then as Sylla yielded to the insistence of the young 'populist'
nobleman's many friends, the quick reverse is turned to us. Cæsar has a
military command, sees some fighting and much idleness by the shores of
the Bosphorus, in Bithynia--then in a fit of sudden energy, the
soldier's spirit rises; he dashes to the attack on Mytilene, and shows
himself a man.

[Illustration: CAIUS JULIUS CÆSAR

After a statue in the Palazzo dei Conservatori]

One or two unimportant campaigns, as a subordinate officer, a civic
crown won for personal bravery, an unsuccessful action brought against a
citizen of high rank in the hope of forcing himself into notice, a trip
to Rhodes made to escape the disgrace of failure, and an adventure with
pirates--there, in a few words, is the story of Julius Cæsar's youth, as
history tells it. But then suddenly, when his projected studies in quiet
Rhodes were hardly begun, he crosses to the mainland, raises troops,
seizes cities, drives Mithridates' governor out of the province, returns
to Rome and is elected military tribune. The change is too quick, and
one does not understand it. Truth should tell that those early years had
been spent in the profound study of philosophy, history, biography,
languages and mankind, of the genesis of events from the germ to the
branching tree, of that chemistry of fate which brews effect out of
cause, and distils the imperishable essence of glory from the rougher
liquor of vulgar success.

What strikes one most in the lives of the very great is that every
action has a cumulative force beyond what it ever has in the existence
of ordinary men. Success moves onward, passing through events on the
same plane, as it were, and often losing brilliancy till it fades away,
leaving those who have had it to outlive it in sorrow and weakness.
Genius moves upward, treading events under its feet, scaling Olympus,
making a ladder of mankind, outlasting its own activity for ever in a
final and fixed glory more splendid than its own bright path. The really
great man gathers power in action, the average successful man expends
it.

And so it must be understood that Cæsar, in his early youth, was not
wasting his gifts in what seemed to be a half-voluptuous,
half-adventurous, wholly careless life, but was accumulating strength by
absorbing into himself the forces with which he came in contact,
exhausting the intelligence of his companions in order to stock his own,
learning everything simultaneously, forgetting nothing he learned till
he could use all he knew to the extreme limit of its value.

There is something mysterious in the almost unlimited credit which Cæsar
seems to have enjoyed when still a very young man; and if the control of
enormous sums of money by which he made himself beloved among the people
explains, in a measure, his rapid rise from office to office, it is, on
the other hand, hard to account for the trust which his creditors placed
in his promises, and to explain why, when he was taken by pirates, the
cities of Asia Minor should have voluntarily contributed money to make
up the ransom demanded, seeing that he had never served in Asia, except
as a subordinate. The only possible explanation is that while there, his
real energies were devoted to the attainment of the greatest possible
popularity in the shortest possible time, and that he was making himself
beloved by the Asiatic cities, while his enemies said of him that he was
wasting his time in idleness and dissipation.

In any case, it was the control of money that most helped him in
obtaining high offices in Rome, and from the very first he seems to have
acted on the principle that in great enterprises economy spells ruin,
and that to check expenditure is to trip up success. And this is
explained, if not justified, by his close association with the people,
from his very childhood. Until he was made Pontifex Maximus he seems to
have lived in a small house in the Suburra, in one of the most crowded
and least fashionable quarters of Rome; and as a mere boy, it was his
influence with the common people that roused Sylla's anxiety. To live
with the people, to take their part against the nobles, to give them of
all he had and of all he could borrow, were the chief rules of his
conduct, and the fact that he obtained such enormous loans proves that
there were rich lenders who were ready to risk fortunes upon his
success. And it was in dealing with the Roman plebeian that he learned
to command the Roman soldier, with the tact of a demagogue and the
firmness of an autocrat. He knew that a man must give largely, even
recklessly, to be beloved, and that in order to be respected he must be
able to refuse coldly and without condition, and that in all ages the
people are but as little children before genius, though they may rise
against talent like wild beasts and tear it to death.

He knew also that in youth ten failures are nothing compared with one
success, while in the full meridian of power one failure undoes a score
of victories; hence his recklessness at first, his magnificent caution
in his latter days; his daring resistance of Sylla's power before he was
twenty, and his mildness towards the ringleaders of popular
conspiracies against him when he was near his end; his violence upon the
son of King Juba, whom he seized by the beard in open court when he
himself was but a young lawyer, and his moderation in bearing the most
atrocious libels, to punish which might have only increased their force.

Cæsar's career divides itself not unnaturally into three periods,
corresponding with his youth, his manhood and his maturity; with the
absorption of force in gaining experience, the lavish expenditure of
force in conquest, the calm employment of force in final supremacy. The
man who never lost a battle in which he commanded in person, began life
by failing in everything he attempted, and ended it as the foremost man
of all humanity, past and to come, the greatest general, the greatest
speaker, the greatest lawgiver, the greatest writer of Latin prose whom
the great Roman people ever produced, and also the bravest man of his
day, as he was the kindest. In an age when torture was a legitimate part
of justice, he caused the pirates who had taken him, and whom he took in
turn, to be mercifully put to death before he crucified their dead
bodies for his oath's sake, and when his long-trusted servant tried to
poison him he would not allow the wretch to be hurt save by the sudden
stroke of instant death; nor ever in a long career of conquest did he
inflict unnecessary pain. Never was man loved of women as he was, and
his sins were many even for those days, yet in them we find no
unkindness, and when his own wife should have been condemned for her
love of Clodius, Cæsar would not testify against her. He divorced her,
he said, not because he knew anything, but because his family should be
above suspicion. He plundered the world, but he gave it back its gold in
splendid gifts and public works, keeping its glory alone for himself. He
was hated by the few because he was beloved by the many, and it was not
revenge, but envy, that slew the benefactor of mankind. The weaknesses
of the supreme conqueror were love of woman and trust of man, and as the
first Brutus made his name glorious by setting his people free, the
second disgraced it and blackened the name of friendship with a stain
that will outlast time, and by a deed second only in infamy to that of
Judas Iscariot. The last cry of the murdered master was the cry of a
broken heart--'And thou, too, Brutus, my son!' Alexander left chaos
behind him; Cæsar left Europe, and it may be truly said that the
crowning manifestation of his sublime wisdom was his choice of
Octavius--of the young Augustus--to complete the carving of a world
which he himself had sketched and blocked out in the rough.

The first period of his life ended with his election to the military
tribuneship on his return to Rome after his Asian adventures, and his
first acts were directed towards the reconstruction of what Sylla had
destroyed, by reëstablishing the authority of tribunes and recalling
some of Sylla's victims from their political exile. From that time
onward, in his second period, he was more or less continually in office.
Successively a tribune, a quæstor, governor of Farther Spain, ædile,
pontifex maximus, prætor, governor of Spain again, and consul with the
insignificant Bibulus, a man of so small importance that people used to
date documents, by way of a jest, 'in the Consulship of Julius and
Cæsar.' Then he obtained Gaul for his province, and lived the life of a
soldier for nine years, during which he created the army that gave him
at last the mastery of Rome. And in the tenth year Rome was afraid, and
his enemies tried to deprive him of his power and passed bills against
him, and drove out the tribunes of the people who took his part; and if
he had returned to Rome then, yielding up his province and his legions,
as he was called upon to do, he would have been judged and destroyed by
his enemies. But he knew that the people loved him, and he crossed the
Rubicon in arms.

This second period of his life closed with the last triumph decreed to
him for his victories in Spain. The third and final period had covered
but one year when his assassins cut it short.

Nothing demonstrates Cæsar's greatness so satisfactorily as this, that
at his death Rome relapsed at once into civil war and strife as violent
as that to which Cæsar had put an end, and that the man who brought
lasting peace and unity into the distracted state, was the man of
Cæsar's choice. But in endeavouring to realize his supreme wisdom,
nothing helps us more than the pettiness of the accusations brought
against him by such historians as Suetonius--that he once remained
seated to receive the whole body of Conscript fathers, that he had a
gilded chair in the Senate house, and appointed magistrates at his own
pleasure to hold office for terms of years, that he laughed at an
unfavourable omen and made himself dictator for life; and such things,
says the historian, 'are of so much more importance than all his good
qualities that he is considered to have abused his power and to have
been justly assassinated.' But it is the people, not the historian, who
make history, and when Caius Julius Cæsar was dead, the people called
him God.

Beardless Octavius, his sister's daughter's son, barely eighteen years
old, brings in by force the golden age of Rome. As Triumvir, with Antony
and Lepidus, he hunts down the murderers first, then his rebellious
colleagues, and wins the Empire back in thirteen years. He rules long
and well, and very simply, as commanding general of the army and by no
other power, taking all into his hands besides, the Senate, the chief
priesthood, and the Majesty of Rome over the whole earth, for which he
was called Augustus, the 'Majestic.' And his strength lay in this, that
by the army, he was master of Senate and people alike, so that they
could no longer strive with each other in perpetual bloodshed, and the
everlasting wars of Rome were fought against barbarians far away, while
Rome at home was prosperous and calm and peaceful. Then Virgil sang, and
Horace gave Latin life to Grecian verse, and smiled and laughed, and
wept and dallied with love, while Livy wrote the story of greatness for
us all to this day, and Ovid touched another note still unforgotten.
Then temple rose by temple, and grand basilicas reared their height by
the Sacred Way; the gold of the earth poured in and Art was queen and
mistress of the age. Julius Cæsar was master in Rome for one year.
Augustus ruled nearly half a century. Four and forty years he was sole
monarch after Antony's fall at Actium. About the thirtieth year of his
reign, Christ was born.

All men have an original claim to be judged by the standard of their own
time. Counting one by one the victims of the proscription proclaimed by
the triumvirate in which Augustus was the chief power, some historians
have brought down his greatness in quick declination to the level of a
cold-blooded and cruel selfishness; and they account for his subsequent
just and merciful conduct on the ground that he foresaw political
advantage in clemency, and extension of power in the exercise of
justice. The death of Cicero, sacrificed to Antony's not unreasonable
vengeance, is magnified into a crime that belittles the Augustan age.

Yet compared with the wholesale murders done by Marius and Sylla, and by
the patricians themselves in their struggles with the people, the few
political executions ordered by Augustus sink into comparative
insignificance, and it will generally be seen that those who most find
fault with him are ready to extol the murderers of Julius Cæsar as
devoted patriots, if not as glorious martyrs to the divine cause of
liberty.

[Illustration: OCTAVIUS AUGUSTUS CÆSAR

After a bust in the British Museum]

It is easier, perhaps, to describe the growth of Rome from the early
Kings to Augustus, than to account for the change from the Rome of the
Empire at the beginning of our era to the Rome of the Popes in the year
eight hundred. Probably the easiest and truest way of looking at the
transition is to regard it according to the periods of supremacy,
decadence and ultimate disappearance from Rome of the Roman Army. For
the Army made the Emperors, and the Emperors made the times. The great
military organization had in it the elements of long life, together with
all sudden and terrible possibilities. The Army made Tiberius, Caligula,
Claudius and Nero, the Julian Emperors; then destroyed Nero and set up
Vespasian after one or two experiments. The Army chose such men as
Trajan and Marcus Aurelius, and such monsters as Domitian and Commodus;
the Army conquered the world, held the world and gave the world to
whomsoever it pleased. The Army and the Emperor, each the other's tool,
governed Rome for good and ill, for ill and good, by fear and bounty and
largely by amusement, but ultimately to their own and Rome's
destruction.

For all the time the two great adversaries of the Empire, the spiritual
and material, the Christian and the men of the North, were gaining
strength and unity. Under Augustus, Christ was born. Under Augustus,
Hermann the German chieftain destroyed Varus and his legions. By sheer
strength and endurance, the Army widened and broadened the Empire,
forcing back the Northmen upon themselves like a spring that gathers
force by tension. Unnoticed, at first, Christianity quietly grew to
power. Between Christians and Northmen, the Empire of Rome went down at
last, leaving the Empire of Constantinople behind it.

The great change was wrought in about five hundred years, by the Empire,
from the City of the Republic to what had become the City of the Middle
Age; between the reign of Augustus, first Emperor, and the deposition of
the last Emperor, Romulus Augustulus, by Odoacer, Rome's hired
Pomeranian general.

In that time Rome was transubstantiated in all its elements, in
population, in language, in religion and in customs. To all intents and
purposes, the original Latin race utterly disappeared, and the Latin
tongue became the broken dialect of a mixed people, out of which the
modern Italian speech was to grow, decadent in form, degenerate in
strength but renascent in a grace and beauty which the Latin never
possessed. First the vast population of slaves brought in their
civilized and their barbarous words--Greek, Hebrew and Arabic, or
Celtic, German and Slav; then came the Goth, and filled all Italy with
himself and his rough language for a hundred years. The Latin of the
Roman Mass is the Latin of slaves in Rome between the first and fifth
centuries, from the time of the Apostles to that of Pope Gelasius, whose
prayer for peace and rest is the last known addition to the Canon,
according to most authorities. Compare it with the Latin of Livy and
Tacitus; it is not the same language, for to read the one by no means
implies an understanding of the other.

Or take the dress. It is told of Augustus, as a strange and almost
unknown thing, that he wore breeches and stockings, or leg swathings,
because he suffered continually with cold. Men went barelegged and
wrapped themselves in the huge toga which came down to their feet. In
the days of Augustulus the toga was almost forgotten; men wore leggings,
tunics and the short Greek cloak.

In the change of religion, too, all customs were transformed, private
and public, in a way impossible to realize today. The Roman household,
with the father as absolute head, lord and despot, gradually gave way to
a sort of half-patriarchal, half-religious family life, resembling the
first in principle but absolutely different from it in details and
result, and which, in a measure, has survived in Italy to the present
time.

In the lives of men, the terror of one man, as each despot lost power,
began to give way to the fear of half-defined institutions, of the
distant government in Constantinople and of the Church as a secular
power, till the time came when the title of Emperor raised a smile,
whereas the name of the Pope--of the 'Father-Bishop'--was spoken with
reverence by Christians and with respect even by unbelievers. The time
came when the army that had made Emperors and unmade them at its
pleasure became a mere band of foreign mercenaries, who fought for wages
and plunder when they could be induced to fight for Rome at all.

So the change came. But in the long five hundred years of the Western
Empire Rome had filled the world with the results of her own life and
had founded modern Europe, from the Danube to England and from the Rhine
to Gibraltar; so that when the tide set towards the south again, the
Northmen brought back to Italy some of the spirit and some of the
institutions which Rome had carried northwards to them in the days of
conquest; and they came not altogether as strangers and barbarians, as
the Huns had come, to ravage and destroy, and be themselves destroyed
and scattered and forgotten, but, in a measure, as Europeans against
Europeans, hoping to grasp the remnants of a civilized power. Theodoric
tried to make a real kingdom, Totila and Teias fell fighting for one;
the Franks established one in Gaul, and at last it was a Frank who gave
the Empire life again, and conquests and laws, and was crowned by the
Christian Pontifex Maximus in Rome when Julius Cæsar had been dead more
than eight hundred years.

One of the greatest of the world's historians has told the story of the
change, calling it the 'Decline and Fall of the Empire,' and describing
it in some three thousand pages, of which scarcely one can be spared for
the understanding of the whole. Thereby its magnitude may be gauged, but
neither fairly judged nor accurately measured. The man who would grasp
the whole meaning of Rome's name, must spend a lifetime in study and
look forward to disappointment in the end. It was Ampère, I believe, who
told a young student that he might get a superficial impression of the
city in ten years, but that twenty would be necessary in order to know
anything about it worthy to be written. And perhaps the largest part of
the knowledge worth having lies in the change from the ancient capital
of the Empire to the mediæval seat of ecclesiastic domination.

And, indeed, nothing in all history is more extraordinary than the rise
of Rome's second power under the Popes. In the ordinary course of human
events, great nations appear to have had but one life. When that was
lived out, and when they had passed through the artistic period so often
coincident with early decadence, they were either swept away, or they
sank to the insignificance of mere commercial prosperity, thereafter
deriving their fashions, arts, tastes, and in fact almost everything
except their wealth, from nations far gone in decay.

[Illustration: THE CAMPAGNA

And Ruins of the Claudian Aqueduct]

But in Rome it was otherwise. The growth of the faith which subjected
the civilized world was a matter of first importance to civilization,
and Rome was the centre of that growing. Moreover, that development and
that faith had one head, chosen by election, and the headship itself
became an object of the highest ambition, whereby the strength and
genius of individuals and families were constantly called into activity,
and both families and isolated individuals of foreign race were
attracted to Rome. It was no small thing to hold the kings of the earth
in spiritual subjection, to be the arbiter of the new Empire founded by
Charlemagne, the director of the kingdoms built up in France and
England, and, almost literally, the feudal lord over all other temporal
powers. The force of a predominant idea gave Rome new life, vivifying
new elements with the vitality of new ambitions. The theatre was the
same. The actors and the play had changed. The world was no longer
governed by one man as monarch; it was directed by one man, who was the
chief personage in the vast and intricate feudal system by which strong
men agreed to live, and to which they forced the weak to submit.

The Barons came into existence, and Rome was a city of fortresses and
towers, as well as churches. Orsini and Colonna, Caetani and
Vitelleschi, Savelli and Frangipani, fought with each other for
centuries among ruins, built strongholds of the stones of temples, and
burned the marble treasures of the world to make lime. And fiercely they
held their own. Nicholas Rienzi wanders amid the deserted places,
deciphers the broken inscriptions, gathers a little crowd of plebeians
about him and tells them of ancient Rome, and of the rights of the
people in old times. All at once he rises, a grand shadow of a Roman, a
true tribune, brave, impulsive, eloquent. A little while longer and he
is half mad with vanity and ambition, a public fool in a high place,
decking himself in silks and satins, and ornaments of gold, and the
angry nobles slay him on the steps of the Aracoeli, as other nobles
long ago slew Tiberius Gracchus, a greater and a better man, almost on
the same spot.

Meanwhile the great schism of the Church rages, before and after Rienzi.
The Empire and its Kingdoms join issue with each other and with the
Barons for the lordship of Christendom; there are two Popes, waging war
with nations on both sides, and Rome is reduced to a town of barely
twenty thousand souls. Then comes Hildebrand, Pope Gregory the Seventh,
friend of the Great Countess, humbler of the Emperor, a restorer of
things, the Julius Cæsar of the Church, and from his day there is
stability again, as Urban the Second follows, like an Augustus; Nicholas
the Fifth, the next great Pontiff, comes in with the Renascence. Last of
destroyers Charles, the wild Constable of Bourbon, marches in open
rebellion against King, State and Church, friend to the Emperor,
straight to his death at the walls, his work of destruction carried out
to the terrible end by revengeful Spaniards who spare only the churches
and the convents. Out of those ashes Rome rose again, for the last time,
the Rome of Sixtus the Fifth, which is, substantially, the Rome we see
today; less powerful in the world after that time, but more beautiful as
she grew more peaceful by degrees; flourishing in a strange, motley
way, like no other city in the world, as the Empire of the Hapsburgs and
the Kingdoms of Europe learned to live apart from her, and she was
concentrated again upon herself, still and always a factor among
nations, and ever to be. But even in latter days, Napoleon could not do
without her, and Francis the Second of Austria had to resign the Empire,
in order that Pius the Seventh might call the self-crowned Corsican
soldier, girt with Charlemagne's huge sword, the anointed Emperor of
Christendom.

Once more a new idea gives life to fragments hewn in pieces and
scattered in confusion. A dream of unity disturbs Italy's sleep. Never,
in truth, in all history, has Italy been united save by violence. By the
sword the Republic brought Latins, Samnites and Etruscans into
subjection; by sheer strength she crushed the rebellion of the slaves
and then forced the Italian allies to a second submission; by terror
Marius and Sylla ruled Rome and Italy; and it was the overwhelming power
of a paid army that held the Italians in check under the Empire, till
they broke away from each other as soon as the pressure was removed, to
live in separate kingdoms and principalities for thirteen or fourteen
hundred years, from Romulus Augustulus--or at least from Justinian--to
Victor Emmanuel, King of Italy, in whose veins ran not one drop of
Italian blood.

One asks whence came the idea of unity which has had such power to move
these Italians, in modern times. The answer is plain and simple. Unity
is the word; the interpretation of it is the name of Rome. The desire is
for all the romance and the legends and the visions of supreme greatness
which no other name can ever call up. What will be called hereafter the
madness of the Italian people took possession of them on the day when
Rome was theirs to do with as they pleased. Their financial ruin had its
origin at that moment, when they became masters of the legendary
Mistress of the world. What the end will be, no one can foretell, but
the Rome of old was not made great by dreams. Her walls were founded in
blood, and her temples were built with the wealth of conquered nations,
by captives and slaves of subject races.

The Rome we see today owes its mystery, its sadness and its charm to six
and twenty centuries of history, mostly filled with battle, murder and
sudden death, deeds horrible in that long-past present which we try to
call up, but alternately grand, fascinating and touching now, as we
shape our scant knowledge into visions and fill out our broken dreams
with the stuff of fancy. In most men's minds, perhaps, the charm lies in
that very confusion of suggestions, for few indeed know Rome so well as
to divide clearly the truth from the legend in her composition. Such
knowledge is perhaps altogether unattainable in any history; it is most
surely so here, where city is built on city, monument upon monument,
road upon road, from the heart of the soil upwards--the hardened lava
left by many eruptions of life; where the tablets of Clio have been
shattered again and again, where fire has eaten, and sword has hacked,
and hammer has bruised ages of records out of existence, where even the
race and type of humanity have changed and have been forgotten twice and
three times over.

Therefore, unless one have half a lifetime to spend in patient study and
deep research, it is better, if one come to Rome, to feel much than to
try and know a little, for in much feeling there is more human truth
than in that dangerous little knowledge which dulls the heart and
hampers the clear instincts of natural thought. Let him who comes hither
be satisfied with a little history and much legend, with rough warp of
fact and rich woof of old-time fancy, and not look too closely for the
perfect sum of all, where more than half the parts have perished for
ever.

It matters not much whether we know the exact site of Virgil's
Laurentum; it is more interesting to remember how Commodus, cruel,
cowardly and selfish, fled thither from the great plague, caring not at
all that his people perished by tens of thousands in the city, since he
himself was safe, with the famous Galen to take care of him. We can
leave the task of tracing the enclosures of Nero's golden house to
learned archælogists, and let our imagination find wonder and delight in
their accounts of its porticos three thousand feet long, its game park,
its baths, its thousands of columns with their gilded capitals, and its
walls encrusted with mother-of-pearl. And we may realize the depth of
Rome's abhorrence for the dead tyrant, as we think of how Vespasian and
his son Titus pulled down the enchanted palace for the people's sake,
and built the Colosseum where the artificial lake had been, and their
great baths on the very foundations of Nero's gorgeous dwelling.

[Illustration: BRASS OF TRAJAN, SHOWING THE CIRCUS MAXIMUS]

[Illustration: BRASS OF ANTONINUS PIUS, IN HONOUR OF FAUSTINA, WITH
REVERSE SHOWING VESTA BEARING THE PALLADIUM]

III

It is impossible to conceive of the Augustan age without Horace, nor to
imagine a possible Horace without Greece and Greek influence. At the
same time Horace is in many ways the prototype of the old-fashioned,
cultivated, gifted, idle, sarcastic, middle-class Roman official, making
the most of life on a small salary and the friendship of a great
personage; praising poverty, but making the most of the good things that
fell in his way; extolling pristine austerity of life and yielding with
a smile to every agreeable temptation; painting the idyllic life of a
small gentleman farmer as the highest state of happiness, but secretly
preferring the town; prudently avoiding marriage, but far too human to
care for an existence in which woman had no share; more sensible in
theory than in practice, and more religious in manner than in heart;
full of quaint superstitions, queer odds and ends of knowledge, amusing
anecdotes and pictures of personal experience; the whole compound
permeated with a sort of indolent sadness at the unfulfilled promises of
younger years, in which there had been more of impulse than of ambition,
and more of ambition than real strength. The early struggles for Italian
unity left many such half-disappointed patriots, and many less fortunate
in their subsequent lives than Horace.

Born in the far South, and the son of a freed slave, brought to Rome as
a boy and carefully taught, then sent to Athens to study Greek, he was
barely twenty years of age when he joined Brutus after Cæsar's death,
was with him in Asia, and, in the lack of educated officers perhaps,
found himself one day, still a mere boy, tribune of a Legion--or, as we
should say, in command of a brigade of six thousand men, fighting for
what he believed to be the liberty of Rome, in the disastrous battle of
Philippi. Brutus being dead, the dream of glory ended, after the
amnesty, in a scribe's office under one of the quæstors, and the
would-be liberator of his country became a humble clerk in the Treasury,
eking out his meagre salary with the sale of a few verses. Many an old
soldier of Garibaldi's early republican dreams has ended in much the
same way in our own times under the monarchy.

But Horace was born to other things. Chaucer was a clerk in the Custom
House, and found time to be the father of English poetry. Horace's daily
work did not hinder him from becoming a poet. His love of Greek,
acquired in Athens and Asia Minor, and the natural bent of his mind made
him the greatest imitator and adapter of foreign verses that ever lived;
and his character, by its eminently Italian combination of prim
respectability and elastic morality, gave him a two-sided view of men
and things that has left us representations of life in three dimensions
instead of the flat, though often violent, pictures which prejudice
loves best to paint.

In his admiration of Greek poetry, Horace was not a discoverer; he was
rather the highest expression of Rome's artistic want. If Scipio of
Africa had never conquered the Carthaginians at Zama, he would be
notable still as one of the first and most sincere lovers of Hellenic
literature, and as one of the earliest imitators of Athenian manners.
The great conqueror is remembered also as the first man in Rome who
shaved every day, more than a hundred and fifty years before Horace's
time. He was laughed at by some, despised by others and disliked by the
majority for his cultivated tastes and his refined manners.

The Romans had most gifts excepting those we call creative. Instead of
creating, therefore, Rome took her art whole, and by force, from the
most artistic nation the world ever produced. Sculptors, architects,
painters and even poets, such as there were, came captive to Rome in
gangs, were sold at auction as slaves, and became the property of the
rich, to work all their lives at their several arts for their master's
pleasure; and the State rifled Greece and Asia, and even the Greek Italy
of the south, and brought back the masterpieces of an age to adorn
Rome's public places. The Roman was the engineer, the maker of roads, of
aqueducts, of fortifications, the layer out of cities, and the planner
of harbours. In a word, the Roman made the solid and practical
foundation, and then set the Greek slave to beautify it. When he had
watched the slave at work for a century or two, he occasionally
attempted to imitate him. That was as far as Rome ever went in original
art.

But her love of the beautiful, though often indiscriminating and lacking
in taste, was profound and sincere. It does not appear that in all her
conquests her armies ever wantonly destroyed beautiful things. On the
contrary, her generals brought home all they could with uncommon care,
and the consequence was that in Horace's day the public places of the
city were vast open-air museums, and the great temples picture galleries
of which we have not the like now in the whole world. And with those
things came all the rest; the manners, the household life, the
necessaries and the fancies of a conquering and already decadent nation,
the thousands of slaves whose only duty was to amuse their owners and
the public; the countless men and women and girls and boys, whose souls
and bodies went to feed the corruption of the gorgeous capital, or to
minister to its enormous luxuries; the companies of flute-players and
dancing-girls, the sharp-tongued jesters, the coarse buffoons, the
play-actors and the singers. And then, the endless small commerce of an
idle and pleasure-seeking people, easily attracted by bright colours,
new fashions and new toys; the drug-sellers and distillers of perfumes,
the venders of Eastern silks and linens and lace, the barbers and
hairdressers, the jewellers and tailors, the pastry cooks and makers of
honey-sweetmeats; and everywhere the poor rabble of failures, like scum
in the wake of a great ship; the beggars everywhere, and the pickpockets
and the petty thieves. It is no wonder that Horace was fond of strolling
in Rome.

In contrast, the great and wonderful things of the Augustan city stand
out in high relief, above the varied crowd that fills the streets, with
all the dignity that centuries of power can lend. To the tawdry is
opposed the splendid, the Roman general in his chiselled corselet and
dyed mantle faces the Greek actor in his tinsel; the band of painted,
half-clad, bedizened dancing-girls falls back cowering in awestruck
silence as the noble Vestal passes by, high-browed, white-robed,
untainted, the incarnation of purity in an age of vice. And the old
Senator in his white cloak with its broad purple hem, his smooth-faced
clients at his elbows, his silent slaves before him and behind, meets
the low-chattering knot of Hebrew money-lenders, making the price of
short loans for the day, and discussing the assets of a famous
spendthrift, as their yellow-turbaned, bearded fathers had talked over
the chances of Julius Cæsar when he was as yet but a fashionable young
lawyer of doubtful fortune, with an unlimited gift of persuasion and an
equally unbounded talent for amusement.

Between the contrasts lived men of such position as Horace occupied, but
not many. For the great middle element of society is a growth of later
centuries, and even Horace himself, as time went on, became attached to
Mæcenas and then, more or less, to the person of the Emperor, by a
process of natural attraction, just as his butt, Tigellius, gravitated
to the common herd that mourned his death. The 'golden mean' of which
Horace wrote was a mere expression, taught him, perhaps, by his father,
a part of his stock of maxims. Where there were only great people on the
one side, and a rabble on the other, the man of genius necessarily rose
to the level of the high, by his own instinct and their liking. What was
best of Greek was for them, what was worst was for the populace.

But the Greek was everywhere, with his keen weak face, his sly look and
his skilful fingers. Scipio and Paulus Emilius had brought him, and he
stayed in Rome till the Goth came, and afterwards. Greek poetry, Greek
philosophy, Greek sculpture, Greek painting, Greek music everywhere--to
succeed at all in such society, Virgil and Horace and Ovid must needs
make Greek of Latin, and bend the stiff syllables to Alcaics and
Sapphics and Hexameters. The task looked easy enough, though it was
within the powers of so very few. Thousands tried it, no doubt, when the
three or four had set the fashion, and failed, as the second-rate fail,
with some little brief success in their own day, turned into the total
failure of complete disappearance when they had been dead awhile.

Supreme of them all, for his humanity, Horace remains. Epic Virgil,
appealing to the traditions of a living race of nobles and to the
carefully hidden, sober vanity of the world's absolute monarch, does not
appeal to modern man. The twilight of the gods has long deepened into
night, and Ovid's tales of them and their goddesses move us by their own
beauty rather than by our sympathy for them, though we feel the tender
touch of the exiled man whose life was more than half love, in the
marvellous Letters of Heroes' Sweethearts--in the complaint of Briseïs
to Achilles, in the passionately sad appeal of Hermione to Orestes.
Whoever has not read these things does not know the extreme limit of
man's understanding of woman. Yet Horace, with little or nothing of such
tenderness, has outdone Ovid and Virgil in this later age.

He strolled through life, and all life was a play of which he became
the easy-going but unforgetful critic. There was something good-natured
even in his occasional outbursts of contempt and hatred for the things
and the people he did not like. There was something at once caressing
and good-humouredly sceptical in his way of addressing the gods,
something charitable in his attacks on all that was ridiculous,--men,
manners and fashions.

He strolled wherever he would, alone; in the market, looking at
everything and asking the price of what he saw, of vegetables and grain
and the like; in the Forum, or the Circus, at evening, when 'society'
was dining, and the poor people and slaves thronged the open places for
rest and air, and there he used to listen to the fortune-tellers, and
among them, no doubt, was that old hag, Canidia, immortalized in the
huge joke of his comic resentment. He goes home to sup on lupins and
fritters and leeks,--or says so,--though his stomach abhorred garlic;
and his three slaves--the fewest a man could have--wait on him as he
lies before the clean white marble table, leaning on his elbow. He does
not forget the household gods, and pours a few drops upon the cement
floor in libation to them, out of the little earthen saucer filled from
the slim-necked bottle of Campanian earthenware. Then to sleep, careless
of getting up early or late, just as he might feel, to stay at home and
read or write, or to wander about the city, or to play the favourite
left-handed game of ball in the Campus Marius before his bath and his
light midday meal.

With a little change here and there, it is the life of the idle
middle-class Italian today, which will always be much the same, let the
world wag and change as it will, with all its extravagances, its
fashions and its madnesses. Now and then he exclaims that there is no
average common sense left in the world, no half-way stopping-place
between extremes. One man wears his tunic to his heels, another is girt
up as if for a race; Rufillus smells of perfumery, Gargonius of anything
but scent; and so on--and he cries out that when a fool tries to avoid a
mistake he will run to any length in the opposite direction. And Horace
had a most particular dislike for fools and bores, and has left us the
most famous description of the latter ever set down by an accomplished
observer.

By chance, he says, he was walking one morning along the Sacred Street
with one slave behind him, thinking of some trifle and altogether
absorbed in it, when a man whom he barely knew by name came up with him
in a great hurry and grasped his hand. 'How do you do, sweet friend?'
asks the Bore. 'Pretty well, as times go,' answers Horace, stopping
politely for a moment; and then beginning to move on, he sees to his
horror that the Bore walks by his side. 'Can I do anything for you?'
asks the poet, still civil, but hinting that he prefers his own
company. The Bore plunges into the important business of praising
himself, with a frankness not yet forgotten in his species, and Horace
tries to get rid of him, walking very fast, then very slowly, then
turning to whisper a word to his slave, and in his anxiety he feels the
perspiration breaking out all over him, while his Tormentor chatters on,
as they skirt the splendid Julian Basilica, gleaming in the morning sun.
Horace looks nervously and eagerly to right and left, hoping to catch
sight of a friend and deliverer. Not a friendly face was in sight, and
the Bore knew it, and was pitilessly frank. 'Oh, I know you would like
to get away from me!' he exclaimed. 'I shall not let you go so easily!
Where are you going?' 'Across the Tiber,' answered Horace, inventing a
distant visit. 'I am going to see someone who lives far off, in Cæsar's
gardens--a man you do not know. He is ill.' 'Very well,' said the other;
'I have nothing to do, and am far from lazy. I will go all the way with
you.' Horace hung his head, as a poor little Italian donkey does when a
heavy load is piled upon his back, for he was fairly caught, and he
thought of the long road before him, and he had moreover the unpleasant
consciousness that the Bore was laughing at his imaginary errand, since
they were walking in a direction exactly opposite from the Tiber, and
would have to go all the way round the Palatine by the Triumphal Road
and the Circus Maximus and then cross by the Sublician bridge, instead
of turning back towards the Velabrum, the Provision Market and the
Bridge of Æmilius, which we have known and crossed as the Ponte Rotto,
but of which only one arch is left now, in midstream.

[Illustration: PONTE ROTTO, NOW DESTROYED

After an engraving made about 1850]

Then, pressing his advantage, the Bore began again. 'If I am any judge
of myself,' he observed, 'you will make me one of your most intimate
friends. I am sure nobody can write such good verses as fast as I can.
As for my singing, I know it for a fact that Hermogenes is decidedly
jealous of me!' 'Have you a mother, Sir?' asked Horace, gravely. 'Have
you any relations to whom your safety is a matter of importance?' 'No,'
answered the other, 'no one. I have buried them all!' 'Lucky people!'
said the poet to himself, and he wished he were dead, too, at that
moment, and he thought of all the deaths he might have died. It was
evidently not written that he should die of poison nor in battle, nor of
a cough, nor of the liver, nor even of gout. He was to be slowly talked
to death by a bore. By this time they were before the temple of Castor
and Pollux, where the great Twin Brethren bathed their horses at
Juturna's spring. The temple of Vesta was before them, and the Sacred
Street turned at right angles to the left, crossing over between a row
of shops on one side and the Julian Rostra on the other, to the Courts
of Law. The Bore suddenly remembered that he was to appear in answer to
an action on that very morning, and as it was already nine o'clock, he
could not possibly walk all the way to Cæsar's gardens and be back
before noon, and if he was late, he must forfeit his bail, and the suit
would go against him by default. On the other hand, he had succeeded in
catching the great poet alone, after a hundred fruitless attempts, and
the action was not a very important one, after all. He stopped short.
'If you have the slightest regard for me,' he said, 'you will just go
across with me to the Courts for a moment.' Horace looked at him
curiously, seeing a chance of escape. 'You know where I am going,' he
answered with a smile; 'and as for law, I do not know the first thing
about it.' The Bore hesitated, considered what the loss of the suit must
cost him, and what he might gain by pushing his acquaintance with the
friend of Mæcenas and Augustus. 'I am not sure,' he said doubtfully,
'whether I had better give up your company, or my case,' 'My company, by
all means!' cried Horace, with alacrity. 'No!' answered the other,
looking at his victim thoughtfully, 'I think not!' And he began to move
on again by the Nova Via towards the House of the Vestals. Having made
up his mind to sacrifice his money, however, he lost no time before
trying to get an equivalent for it. 'How do you stand with Mæcenas?' he
asked suddenly, fixing his small eyes on Horace's weary profile, and
without waiting for an answer he ran on to praise the great man. 'He is
keen and sensible,' he continued, 'and has not many intimate friends. No
one knows how to take advantage of luck as he does. You would find me a
valuable ally, if you would introduce me. I believe you might drive
everybody else out of the field--with my help, of course.' 'You are
quite mistaken there!' answered Horace, rather indignantly. 'He is not
at all that kind of man! There is not a house in Rome where any sort of
intrigue would be more utterly useless!' 'Really, I can hardly believe
it!' 'It is a fact, nevertheless,' retorted Horace, stoutly. 'Well,'
said the Bore, 'if it is, I am of course all the more anxious to know
such a man!' Horace smiled quietly. 'You have only to wish it, my dear
Sir,' he answered, with the faintest modulation of polite irony in his
tone. 'With such gifts at your command, you will certainly charm him.
Why, the very reason of his keeping most people at arm's length is that
he knows how easily he yields!' 'In that case, I will show you what I
can do,' replied the Bore, delighted. 'I shall bribe the slaves; I will
not give it up, if I am not received at first! I will bide my time and
catch him in the street, and follow him about. One gets nothing in life
without taking trouble!' As the man was chattering on, Horace's quick
eyes caught sight of an old friend at last, coming towards him from the
corner of the Triumphal Road, for they had already almost passed the
Palatine. Aristius, sauntering along and enjoying the morning air, with
a couple of slaves at his heels, saw Horace's trouble in a moment, for
he knew the Bore well enough, and realized at once that if he delivered
his friend, he himself would be the next victim. He was far too clever
for that, and with a cold-blooded smile pretended not to understand
Horace's signals of distress. 'I forget what it was you wished to speak
about with me so particularly, my dear Aristius,' said the poet, in
despair. 'It was something very important, was it not?' 'Yes,' answered
the other, with another grin, 'I remember very well; but this is an
unlucky day, and I shall choose another time. Today is the thirtieth
Sabbath,' he continued, inventing a purely imaginary Hebrew feast, 'and
you surely would not risk a Jew's curse for a few moments of
conversation, would you?' 'I have no religion!' exclaimed Horace,
eagerly. 'No superstition! Nothing!' 'But I have,' retorted Aristius,
still smiling. 'My health is not good--perhaps you did not know? I will
tell you about it some other time.' And he turned on his heel, with a
laugh, leaving Horace to his awful fate. Even the sunshine looked black.
But salvation came suddenly in the shape of the man who had brought the
action against the Bore, and who, on his way to the Court, saw his
adversary going off in the opposite direction. 'Coward! Villain!' yelled
the man, springing forward and catching the poet's tormentor by his
cloak. 'Where are you going now? You are witness, Sir, that I am in my
right,' he added, turning to look for Horace. But Horace had disappeared
in the crowd that had collected to see the quarrel, and his gods had
saved him after all.

[Illustration: TEMPLE OF CASTOR AND POLLUX]

A part of the life of the times is in the little story, and anyone may
stroll today along the Sacred Street, past the Basilica and the sharp
turn that leads to the block of old houses where the Court House stood,
between St. Adrian's and San Lorenzo in Miranda. Anyone may see just how
it happened, and many know exactly how Horace felt from the moment when
the Bore buttonholed him at the corner of the Julian Basilica till his
final deliverance near the corner of the Triumphal Road, which is now
the Via di San Gregorio.

[Illustration: ATRIUM OF VESTA]

There was much more resemblance to our modern life than one might think
at first sight. Perhaps, after his timely escape, Horace turned back
along the Sacred Street, followed by his single slave, and retraced his
steps, past the temple of Vesta, the temple of Julius Cæsar, skirting
the Roman Forum to the Golden Milestone at the foot of the ascent to the
Capitol, from which landmark all the distances in the Roman Empire were
reckoned, the very centre of the known world. Thence, perhaps, he turned
up towards the Argiletum, with something of that instinct which takes a
modern man of letters to his publisher's when he is in the
neighbourhood. There the 'Brothers Sosii' had their publishing
establishment, among many others of the same nature, and employed a
great staff of copyists in preparing volumes for sale. All the year
round the skilled scribes sat within in rows, with pen and ink, working
at the manufacture of books. The Sosii Brothers were rich, and probably
owned their workmen as slaves, both the writers and those who prepared
the delicate materials, the wonderful ink, of which we have not the like
today, the fine sheets of papyrus,--Pliny tells how they were sometimes
too rough, and how they sometimes soaked up the ink like a cloth, as
happens with our own paper,--and the carefully cut pens of Egyptian reed
on which so much of the neatness in writing depended, though Cicero says
somewhere that he could write with any pen he chanced to take up.

It was natural enough that Horace should look in to ask how his latest
book was selling, or more probably his first, for he had written but a
few Epodes and not many Satires at the time when he met the immortal
Bore. Later in his life, his books were published in editions of a
thousand, as is the modern custom in Paris, and were sold all over the
Empire, like those of other famous authors. The Satires did him little
credit, and probably brought him but little money at their first
publication. It seems certain that they have come down to us through a
single copy. The Greek form of the Odes pleased people better. Moreover,
some of the early Satires made distinguished people shy of his
acquaintance, and when he told the Bore that Mæcenas was difficult of
access he remembered that nine months had elapsed from the time of his
own introduction to the great man until he had received the latter's
first invitation to dinner. More than once he went almost too far in his
attacks on men and things and then tried to remove the disagreeable
impression he had produced, and wrote again of the same subject in a
different spirit--notably when he attacked the works of the dead poet
Lucilius and was afterwards obliged to explain himself.

No doubt he often idled away a whole morning at his publisher's, looking
over new books of other authors, and very probably borrowing them to
take home with him, because he was poor, and he assuredly must have
talked over with the Sosii the impression produced on the public by his
latest poems. He was undoubtedly a quæstor's scribe, but it is more than
doubtful whether he ever went near the Treasury or did any kind of
clerk's work. If he ever did, it is odd that he should never speak of
it, nor take anecdotes from such an occupation and from the clerks with
whom he must have been thrown, for he certainly used every other sort of
social material in the Satires. Among the few allusions to anything of
the kind in his works are his ridicule of the over-dressed prætor of the
town of Fundi, who had been a government clerk in Rome, and in the same
story, his jest at one of Mæcenas' parasites, a freedman, and nominally
a Treasury clerk, as Horace had been. In another Satire, the clerks in
a body wish him to be present at one of their meetings.

Perhaps what strikes one most in the study of Horace, which means the
study of the Augustan age, is the vivid contrast between the man who
composed the Carmen Sæculare, the sacred hymn sung on the Tenth
anniversary of Augustus' accession to the imperial power, besides many
odes that breathe a pristine reverence for the gods, and, on the other
hand, the writer of satirical, playfully sceptical verses, who comments
on the story of the incense melting without fire at the temple of
Egnatia, with the famous and often-quoted 'Credat Judæus'! The original
Romans had been a believing people, most careful in all ceremonies and
observances, visiting anything like sacrilege with a cool ferocity
worthy of the Christian religious wars in later days. Horace, at one
time or another, laughs at almost every god and goddess in the heathen
calendar, and publishes his jests, in editions of a thousand copies,
with perfect indifference and complete immunity from censorship, while
apparently bestowing a certain amount of care on household sacrifices
and the like.

The fact is that the Romans were a religious people, whereas the
Italians were not. It is a singular fact that Rome, when left long to
herself, has always shown a tendency to become systematically devout,
whereas most of the other Italian states have exhibited an equally
strong inclination to a scepticism not unfrequently mixed with the
grossest superstition. It must be left to more profound students of
humanity to decide whether certain places have a permanent influence in
one determined direction upon the successive races that inhabit them;
but it is quite undeniably true that the Romans of all ages have tended
to religion of some sort in the most marked manner. In Roman history
there is a succession of religious epochs not to be found in the annals
of any other city. First, the early faith of the Kings, interrupted by
the irruption of Greek influences which began approximately with Scipio
Africanus; next, the wild Bacchic worship that produced the secret
orgies on the Aventine, the discovery of which led to a religious
persecution and the execution of thousands of persons on religious
grounds; then the worship of the Egyptian deities, brought over to Rome
in a new fit of belief, and at the same time, or soon afterwards, the
mysterious adoration of the Persian Mithras, a gross and ignorant form
of mysticism which, nevertheless, took hold of the people, at a time
when other religions were almost reduced to a matter of form.

Then, as all these many faiths lost vitality, Christianity arose, the
terribly simple and earnest Christianity of the early centuries, sown
first under the Cæsars, in Rome's secure days, developing to a power
when Rome was left to herself by the transference of the Empire to the
East, culminating for the first time in the crowning of Charlemagne,
again in the Crusades, sinking under the revival of mythology and
Hellenism during the Renascence, rising again, by slow degrees, to the
extreme level of devotion under Pius the Ninth and the French
protectorate, sinking suddenly with the movement of Italian unity, and
the coming of the Italians in 1870, then rising again, as we see it now,
with undying energy, under Leo the Thirteenth, and showing itself in the
building of new churches, in the magnificent restoration of old ones,
and in the vast second growth of ecclesiastical institutions, which are
once more turning Rome into a clerical city, now that she is again at
peace with herself, under a constitutional monarchy, but threatened only
too plainly by an impending anarchic revolution. It would be hard to
find in the history of any other city a parallel to such periodical
recurrences of religious domination. Nor, in times when belief has been
at its lowest ebb, have outward religious practices anywhere continued
to hold so important a place in men's lives as they have always held in
Rome. Of all Rome's mad tyrants, Elagabalus alone dared to break into
the temple of Vesta and carry out the sacred Palladium. During more than
eleven hundred years, six Vestal Virgins guarded the sacred fire and the
Holy Things of Rome, in peace and war, through kingdom, republic,
revolution and empire. For fifteen hundred years since then, the bones
of Saint Peter have been respected by the Emperors, by Goths, by Kings,
revolutions and short-lived republics.

[Illustration: BRASS OF GORDIAN, SHOWING THE COLOSSEUM]

There was a surprising strength in those early institutions of which the
fragmentary survival has made Rome what it is. Strongest of all,
perhaps, was the patriarchal mode of life which the shepherds of Alba
Longa brought with them when they fled from the volcano, and of which
the most distinct traces remain to the present day, while its origin
goes back to the original Aryan home. Upon that principle all the
household life ultimately turned in Rome's greatest times. The Senators
were Patres, conscript fathers, heads of strong houses; the Patricians
were those who had known 'fathers,' that is, a known and noble descent.
Horace called Senators simply 'Conscripts,' and the Roman nobles of
today call themselves the 'Conscript' families. The chain of tradition
is unbroken from Romulus to our own time, while everything else has
changed in greater or less degree.

It is hard for Anglo-Saxons to believe that, for more than a thousand
years, a Roman father possessed the absolute legal right to try, condemn
and execute any of his children, without witnesses, in his own house and
without consulting anyone. Yet nothing is more certain. 'From the most
remote ages,' says Professor Lanciani, the highest existing authority,
'the power of a Roman father over his children, including those by
adoption as well as by blood, was unlimited. A father might, without
violating any law, scourge or imprison his son, or sell him for a slave,
or put him to death, even after that son had risen to the highest
honours in the state.' During the life of the father, a child, no matter
of what age, could own no property independently, nor keep any private
accounts, nor dispose of any little belongings, no matter how
insignificant, without the father's consent, which was never anything
more than an act of favour, and was revocable at any moment, without
notice. If a son became a public magistrate, the power was suspended,
but was again in force as soon as the period of office terminated. A man
who had been Dictator of Rome became his father's slave and property
again, as soon as his dictatorship ended.

But if the son married with his father's consent, he was partly free,
and became a 'father' in his turn, and absolute despot of his own
household. So, if a daughter married, she passed from her father's
dominion to that of her husband. A Priest of Jupiter for life was free.
So was a Vestal Virgin. There was a complicated legal trick by which the
father could liberate his son if he wished to do so for any reason, but
he had no power to set any of his children free by a mere act of will,
without legal formality. The bare fact that the men of a people should
be not only trusted with such power, but that it should be forcibly
thrust upon them, gives an idea of the Roman character, and it is
natural enough that the condition of family life imposed by such laws
should have had pronounced effects that may still be felt. As the Romans
were a hardy race and long-lived, when they were not killed in battle,
the majority of men were under the absolute control of their fathers
till the age of forty or fifty years, unless they married with their
parents' consent, in which case they advanced one step towards liberty,
and at all events, could not be sold as slaves by their fathers, though
they still had no right to buy or sell property nor to make a will.

There are few instances of the law being abused, even in the most
ferocious times. Brutus had the right to execute his sons, who conspired
for the Tarquins, without any public trial. He preferred the latter.
Titus Manlius caused his son to be publicly beheaded for disobeying a
military order in challenging an enemy to single combat, slaying him,
and bringing back the spoils. He might have cut off his head in private,
so far as the law was concerned, for any reason whatsoever, great or
small.

As for the condition of real slaves, it was not so bad in early times as
it became later, but the master's power was absolute to inflict torture
and death in any shape. In slave-owning communities, barbarity has
always been, to some extent, restrained by the actual value of the
humanity in question, and slaves were not as cheap in Rome as might be
supposed. A perfectly ignorant labourer of sound body was worth from
eighty to a hundred dollars of our money, which meant much more in those
days, though in later times twice that sum was sometimes paid for a
single fine fish. The money value of the slave was, nevertheless, always
a sort of guarantee of safety to himself; but men who had right of life
and death over their own children, and who occasionally exercised it,
were probably not, as a rule, very considerate to creatures who were
bought and sold like cattle. Nevertheless, the number of slaves who were
freed and enriched by their masters is really surprising.

The point of all this, however, is that the head of a Roman family was,
under protection of all laws and traditions, an absolute tyrant over his
wife, his children, and his servants; and the Roman Senate was a chosen
association of such tyrants. It is astonishing that they should have
held so long to the forms of a republican government, and should never
have completely lost their republican traditions.

In this household tyranny, existing side by side with certain general
ideas of liberty and constitutional government, under the ultimate
domination of the Emperors' despotism as introduced by Augustus, is to
be found the keynote of Rome's subsequent social life. Without those
things, the condition of society in the Middle Age would be
inexplicable, and the feudal system could never have developed. The old
Roman principle that 'order should have precedence over order, not man
over man,' rules most of Europe at the present day, though in Rome and
Italy it is now completely eclipsed by a form of government which can
only be defined as a monarchic democracy.

The mere fact that under Augustus no man was eligible to the Senate who
possessed less than a sum equal to a quarter of a million dollars, shows
plainly enough what one of the most skilful despots who ever ruled
mankind wisely, thought of the institution. It was intended to balance,
by its solidity, the ever-unsettled instincts of the people, to prevent
as far as possible the unwise passage of laws by popular acclamation,
and, so to say, to regulate the pulse of the nation. It has been
imitated, in one way or another, by all the nations we call civilized.

But the father of the family was in his own person the despot, the
senate, the magistrate and the executive of the law; his wife, his
children and his slaves represented the people, constantly and eternally
in real or theoretical opposition, while he was protected by all the
force of the most ferocious laws. A father could behead his son with
impunity; but the son who killed his father was condemned to be all but
beaten to death, and then to be sewn up in a leathern sack and drowned.
The father could take everything from the son; but if the son took the
smallest thing from his father he was a common thief and malefactor, and
liable to be treated as one, at his father's pleasure. The conception of
justice in Rome never rested upon any equality, but always upon the
precedence of one order over another, from the highest to the lowest.
There were orders even among the slaves, and one who had been allowed to
save money out of his allowances could himself buy a slave to wait on
him, if he chose.

Hence the immediate origin of European caste, of different degrees of
nobility, of the relative standing of the liberal professions, of the
mediæval guilds of artisans and tradesmen, and of the numerous
subdivisions of the agricultural classes, of which traces survive all
over Europe. The tendency to caste is essentially and originally Aryan,
and will never be wholly eliminated from any branch of the Aryan race.

One may fairly compare the internal life of a great nation to a building
which rises from its foundations story by story until the lower part can
no longer carry the weight of the superstructure, and the first signs of
weakness begin to show themselves in the oldest and lowest portion of
the whole. Carefully repaired, when the weakness is noticed at all, it
can bear a little more, and again a little, but at last the breaking
strain is reached, the tall building totters, the highest pinnacles
topple over, then the upper story collapses, and the end comes either in
the crash of a great falling or, by degrees, in the irreparable ruin of
ages. But when all is over, and wind and weather and time have swept
away what they can, parts of the original foundation still stand up
rough and heavy, on which a younger and smaller people must build their
new dwelling, if they build at all.

The aptness of the simile is still more apparent when we confront the
material constructions of a nation with the degree of the nation's
development or decadence at the time when the work was done.

It is only by doing something of that sort that we can at all realize
the connection between the settlement of the shepherds, the Rome of the
Cæsars, and the desolate and scantily populated fighting ground of the
Barons, upon which, with the Renascence, the city of the later Popes
began to rise under Nicholas the Fifth. And lastly, without a little of
such general knowledge it would be utterly impossible to call up, even
faintly, the lives of Romans in successive ages. Read the earlier parts
of Livy's histories and try to picture the pristine simplicity of those
primeval times. Read Cæsar's Gallic War, the marvellously concise
reports of the greatest man that ever lived, during ten years of his
conquests. Read Horace, and attempt to see a little of what he describes
in his good-natured, easy way. Read the correspondence of the younger
Pliny when proconsul in Bithynia under Trajan, and follow the
extraordinary details of administration which, with ten thousand others,
the Spanish Emperor of Rome carried in his memory, and directed and
decided. Take Petronius Arbiter's 'novel' next, the Satyricon, if you be
not over-delicate in taste, and glance at the daily journal of a
dissolute wretch wandering from one scene of incredible vice to another.
And so on, through the later writers; and from among the vast annals of
the industrious Muratori pick out bits of Roman life at different
periods, and try to piece them together. At first sight it seems utterly
impossible that one and the same people should have passed through such
social changes and vicissitudes. Every educated man knows the main
points through which the chain ran. Scholars have spent their lives in
the attempt to restore even a few of the links and, for the most part,
have lost their way in the dry quicksands that have swallowed up so
much.

'I have raised a monument more enduring than bronze!' exclaimed Horace,
in one of his rare moments of pardonable vanity. The expression meant
much more then than it does now. The golden age of Rome was an age of
brazen statues apparently destined to last as long as history. Yet the
marble outlasted the gilded metal, and Horace's verse outlived both, and
the names of the artists of that day are mostly forgotten, while his is
a household word. In conquering races, literature has generally attained
higher excellence than painting or sculpture, or architecture, for the
arts are the expression of a people's tastes, often incomprehensible to
men who live a thousand years later; but literature, if it expresses
anything, either by poetry, history, or fiction, shows the feeling of
humanity; and the human being, as such, changes very little in twenty or
thirty centuries. Achilles, in his wrath at being robbed of the lovely
Briseïs, brings the age of Troy nearer to most men in its living
vitality than the matchless Hermes of Olympia can ever bring the century
of Greece's supremacy. One line of Catullus makes his time more alive
today than the huge mass of the Colosseum can ever make Titus seem. We
see the great stones piled up to heaven, but we do not see the men who
hewed them, and lifted them, and set them in place. The true poet gives
us the real man, and after all, men are more important than stones. Yet
the work of men's hands explains the working of men's hearts, telling us
not what they felt, but how the feelings which ever belong to all men
more particularly affected the actors at one time or another during the
action of the world's long play. Little things sometimes tell the
longest stories.

[Illustration: THE COLOSSEUM]

Pliny, suffering from sore eyes, going about in a closed carriage, or
lying in the darkened basement portico of his house, obliged to dictate
his letters, and unable to read, sends his thanks--by dictation--to his
friend and colleague, Cornutus, for a fowl sent him, and says that
although he is half blind, his eyes are sharp enough to see that it is a
very fat one. The touch of human nature makes the whole picture live.
Horace, journeying to Brindisi, and trying to sleep a little on a canal
boat, is kept awake by mosquitoes and croaking frogs, and by the
long-drawn-out, tipsy singing of a drunken sailor, who at last turns off
the towing mule to graze, and goes to sleep till daylight. It is easier
to see all this than to call up one instant of a chariot race in the
great circus, or one of the ten thousand fights in the Colosseum,
wherein gladiators fought and died, and left no word of themselves.

Yet, without the setting, the play is imperfect, and we must have some
of the one to understand the other. For human art is, in the first
place, a progressive commentary on human nature, and again, in quick
reaction, stimulates it with a suggestive force. Little as we really
know of the imperial times, we cannot conceive of Rome without the
Romans, nor of the Romans without Rome. They belonged together; when the
seat of Empire became cosmopolitan, the great dominion began to be
weakened; and when a homogeneous power dwelt in the city again, a new
domination had its beginning, and was built up on the ruins of the old.

Napoleon is believed to have said that the object of art is to create
and foster agreeable illusions. Admitting the general truth of the
definition, it appears perfectly natural that since the Romans had
little or no art of their own, they should have begun to import Greek
art just when they did, after the successful issue of the Second Punic
War. Up to that time the great struggle had lasted. When it was over,
the rest was almost a foregone conclusion. Rome and Carthage had made a
great part of the known world their fighting ground in the duel that
lasted a hundred and eighteen years; and the known world was the portion
of the victor. Spoil first, for spoil's sake, he brought home; then
spoil for the sake of art; then art for what itself could give him. In
the fight for Empire, as in each man's struggle for life, success means
leisure, and therefore civilization, which is the growth of people who
have time at their disposal--time to 'create and foster agreeable
illusions.' When the Romans conquered the Samnites they were the least
artistic people in the world; when Augustus Cæsar died, they possessed
and valued the greater part of the world's artistic treasures, many of
these already centuries old, and they owned literally, and as slaves, a
majority of the best living artists. Augustus had been educated in
Athens; he determined that Rome should be as Athens, magnified a hundred
times. Athens had her thousand statues, Rome should have her ten
thousand; Rome should have state libraries holding a score of volumes
for every one that Greece could boast; Rome's temples should be
galleries of rare paintings, ten for each that Athens had. Rome should
be so great, so rich, so gorgeous, that Greece should be as nothing
beside her; Egypt should dwindle to littleness, and the memory of
Babylon should be forgotten. Greece had her Homer, her Sophocles, her
Anacreon; Rome should have her immortals also.

Greatly Augustus laboured for his thought, and grandly he carried out
his plan. He became the greatest 'art-collector' in all history, and the
men of his time imitated him. Domitius Tullus, a Roman gentleman, had
collected so much, that he was able to adorn certain extensive gardens,
on the very day of the purchase, with an immense number of genuine
ancient statues, which had been lying, half neglected, in a barn--or, as
some read the passage, in other gardens of his.

[Illustration: BASILICA CONSTANTINE]

Augustus succeeded in one way. Possibly he was successful in his own
estimation. 'Have I not acted the play well?' they say he asked, just
before he died. The keynote is there, whether he spoke the words or not.
He did all from calculation, nothing from conviction. The artist, active
and creative or passive and appreciative, calculates nothing except the
means of expressing his conviction. And in the over-calculating of
effects by Augustus and his successors, one of the most singular
weaknesses of the Latin race was thrust forward; namely, that giantism
or megalomania, which has so often stamped the principal works of the
Latins in all ages--that effort to express greatness by size, which is
so conspicuously absent from all that the Greeks have left us. Agrippa
builds a threefold temple and Hadrian rears the Pantheon upon its
charred ruins; Constantine builds his Basilica; Michelangelo says, 'I
will set the Pantheon upon the Basilica of Constantine.' He does it, and
the result is Saint Peter's, which covers more ground than that other
piece of giantism, the Colosseum; in Rome's last and modern revival, the
Palazzo delle Finanze is built, the Treasury of the poorest of the
Powers, which, incredible as it may seem, fills a far greater area than
either the Colosseum or the Church of Saint Peter's. What else is such
constructive enormity but 'giantism'? For the great Cathedral of
Christendom, it may be said, at least, that it has more than once in
history been nearly filled by devout multitudes, numbering fifty or
sixty thousand people; in the days of public baths, nearly sixty-three
thousand Romans could bathe daily with every luxury of service; when
bread and games were free, a hundred thousand men and women often sat
down in the Flavian Amphitheatre to see men tear each other to pieces;
of the modern Ministry of Finance there is nothing to be said. The Roman
curses it for the millions it cost; but the stranger looks, smiles and
passes by a blank and hideous building three hundred yards long. There
is no reason why a nation should not wish to be great, but there is
every reason why a small nation should not try to look big; and the
enormous follies of modern Italy must be charitably attributed to a
defect of judgment which has existed in the Latin peoples from the
beginning, and has by no means disappeared today. The younger Gordian
began a portico which was to cover forty-four thousand square yards, and
intended to raise a statue of himself two hundred and nineteen feet
high. The modern Treasury building covers about thirty thousand square
yards, and goes far to rival the foolish Emperor's insane scheme.

[Illustration: RUINS OF THE TEMPLE OF SATURN]

Great contrasts lie in the past, between his age and ours. One must
guess at them at least, if one have but little knowledge, in order to
understand at all the city of the Middle Age and the Rome we see today.
Imagine it at its greatest, a capital inhabited by more than two
millions of souls, filling all that is left to be seen within and
without the walls, and half the Campagna besides, spreading out in a
vast disc of seething life from the central Golden Milestone at the
corner of the temple of Saturn--the god of remote ages, and of earth's
dim beginning; see, if you can, the splendid roads, where to right and
left the ashes of the great rested in tombs gorgeous with marble and
gold and bronze; see the endless villas and gardens and terraces lining
both banks of the Tiber, with trees and flowers and marble palaces, from
Rome to Ostia and the sea, and both banks of the Anio, from Rome to
Tivoli in the hills; conceive of the vast commerce, even of the mere
business of supply to feed two millions of mouths; picture the great
harbour with its thousand vessels--and some of those that brought grain
from Egypt were four hundred feet long; remember its vast granaries and
store-barns and offices; think of the desolate Isola Sacra as a lovely
garden, of the ruins of Laurentum as an imperial palace and park; reckon
up roughly what all that meant of life, of power, of incalculable
wealth. Mark Antony squandered, in his short lifetime, eight hundred
millions of pounds sterling, four thousand millions of dollars. Guess,
if possible, at the myriad million details of the vast city.

Then let twelve hundred years pass in a dream, and look at the Rome of
Rienzi. Some twenty thousand souls, the remnant and the one hundredth
part of the two millions, dwell pitifully in the ruins of which the
strongest men have fortified bits here and there. The walls of Aurelian,
broken and war-worn and full of half-repaired breaches, enclose a
desert, a world too wide for its inhabitants, a vast straggling
heterogeneous mass of buildings in every stage of preservation and
decay, splendid temples, mossy and ivy-grown, but scarcely injured by
time, then wastes of broken brick and mortar; stern dark towers of
Savelli, and Frangipani, and Orsini, and Colonna, dominating and
threatening whole quarters of ruins; strange small churches built of
odds and ends and remnants not too heavy for a few workmen to move;
broken-down aqueducts sticking up here and there in a city that had to
drink the muddy water of the Tiber because not a single channel remained
whole to feed a single fountain, from the distant springs that had once
filled baths for sixty thousand people every day. And round about all,
the waste Campagna, scratched here and there by fever-stricken peasants
to yield the little grain that so few men could need. The villas gone,
the trees burned or cut down, the terraces slipped away into the rivers,
the tombs of the Appian Way broken and falling to pieces, or transformed
into rude fortresses held by wild-looking men in rusty armour, who
sallied out to fight each other or, at rare intervals, to rob some train
of wretched merchants, riding horses as rough and wild as themselves.
Law gone, and order gone with it; wealth departed, and self-respect
forgotten in abject poverty; each man defending his little with his own
hand against the many who coveted it; Rome a den of robbers and thieves;
the Pope, when there was one,--there was none in the year of Rienzi's
birth,--either defended by one baron against another, or forced to fly
for his life. Men brawling in the streets, ill clad, savage, ready with
sword and knife and club for any imaginable violence. Women safe from
none but their own husbands and sons, and not always from them. Children
wild and untaught, growing up to be fierce and unlettered like their
fathers. And in the midst of such a city, Cola di Rienzi, with great
heart and scanty learning, labouring to decipher the inscriptions that
told of dead and ruined greatness, dreaming of a republic, of a
tribune's power, of the humiliation of the Barons, of a resurrection for
Italy and of her sudden return to the dominion of the world.

Rome, then, was like a field long fallow, of rich soil, but long
unploughed. Scarcely below the surface lay the treasures of ages,
undreamt of by the few descendants of those who had brought them
thither. Above ground, overgrown with wild creepers and flowers, there
still stood some such monuments of magnificence as we find it hard to
recall by mere words, not yet voluntarily destroyed, but already falling
to pieces under the slow destruction of grinding time, when violence had
spared them. Robert Guiscard had burned the city in 1084, but he had not
destroyed everything. The Emperors of the East had plundered Rome long
before that, carrying off works of art without end to adorn their city
of Constantinople. Builders had burned a thousand marble statues to lime
for their cement, for the statues were ready to hand and easily broken
up to be thrown into the kiln, so that it seemed a waste of time and
tools to quarry out the blocks from the temples. The Barbarians of
Genseric and the Jews of Trastevere had seized upon such of the four
thousand bronze statues as the Emperors had left, and had melted many of
them down for metal, often hiding them in strange places while waiting
for an opportunity of heating the furnace. And some have been found,
here and there, piled up in little vaults, most generally near the
Tiber, by which it was always easy to ship the metal away. Already
temples had been turned into churches, in a travesty only saved from the
ridiculous by the high solemnity of the Christian faith. Other temples
and buildings, here and there, had been partly stripped of columns and
marble facings to make other churches even more nondescript than the
first. Much of the old was still standing, but nothing of the old was
whole. The Colosseum had not yet been turned into a quarry. The
Septizonium of Septimius Severus, with its seven stories of columns and
its lofty terrace, nearly half as high as the dome of Saint Peter's,
though beginning to crumble, still crowned the south end of the
Palatine; Minerva's temple was almost entire, and its huge architrave
had not been taken to make the high altar of Saint Peter's; and the
triumphal arch of Marcus Aurelius was standing in what was perhaps not
yet called the Corso in those days, but the Via Lata--'Broad Street.'

The things that had not yet fallen, nor been torn down, were the more
sadly grand by contrast with the chaos around them. There was also the
difference between ruins then, and ruins now, which there is between a
king just dead in his greatness, in whose features lingers the smile of
a life so near that it seems ready to come back, and a dried mummy set
up in a museum and carefully dusted for critics to study.

In even stronger and rougher contrast, in the wreck of all that had
been, there was the fierce reality of the daily fight for life amid the
seething elements of the new things that were yet to be; the preparation
for another time of domination and splendour; the deadly wrestling of
men who meant to outlive one another by sheer strength and grim power of
killing; the dark ignorance, darkest just before the waking of new
thought, and art, and learning; the universal cruelty of all living
things to each other, that had grown out of the black past; and, with
all this, the undying belief in Rome's greatness, in Rome's future, in
Rome's latent power to rule the world again.

That was the beginning of the new story, for the old one was ended, the
race of men who had lived it was gone, and their works were following
them, to the universal dust. Out of the memories they left and the
departed glory of the places wherein they had dwelt, the magic of the
Middle Age was to weave another long romance, less grand but more
stirring, less glorious but infinitely more human.

Perhaps it is not altogether beyond the bounds of reason to say that
Rome was masculine from Romulus to the dark age, and that with the first
dawn of the Renascence she began to be feminine. As in old days the
Republic and the Empire fought for power and conquest and got both by
force, endurance and hardness of character, so, in her second life,
others fought for Rome, and courted her, and coveted her, and sometimes
oppressed her and treated her cruelly, and sometimes cherished her and
adorned her, and gave her all they had. In a way, too, the elder
patriots reverenced their city as a father, and those of after-times
loved her as a woman, with a tender and romantic love.

Be that as it may, for it matters little how we explain what we feel.
And assuredly we all feel that what we call the 'charm,' the feminine
charm, of Rome, proceeds first from that misty time between two
greatnesses, when her humanity was driven back upon itself, and simple
passions, good and evil, suddenly felt and violently expressed, made up
the whole life of a people that had ceased to rule by force, and had not
yet reached power by diplomacy.

It is fair, moreover, to dwell a little on that time, that we may not
judge too hardly the men who came afterwards. If we have any virtues
ourselves of which to boast, we owe them to a long growth of
civilization, as a child owes its manners to its mother; the men of the
Renascence had behind them chaos, the ruin of a slave-ridden,
Hun-harried, worm-eaten Empire, in which law and order had gone down
together, and the whole world seemed to the few good men who lived in it
to be but one degree better than hell itself. Much may be forgiven them,
and for what just things they did they should be honoured, for the
hardship of having done right at all against such odds.

[Illustration: BRASS OF GORDIAN, SHOWING ROMAN GAMES]

[Illustration: RUINS OF THE JULIAN BASILICA]

Here and there, in out-of-the-way places, overlooked in the modern rage
for improvement, little marble tablets are set into the walls of old
houses, bearing semi-heraldic devices such as a Crescent, a Column, a
Griffin, a Stag, a Wheel and the like. Italian heraldry has always been
eccentric, and has shown a tendency to display all sorts of strange
things, such as comets, trees, landscapes and buildings in the
escutcheon, and it would naturally occur to the stranger that the small
marble shields, still visible here and there at the corners of old
streets, must be the coats of arms of Roman families that held property
in that particular neighbourhood. But this is not the case. They are the
distinctive devices of the Fourteen Rioni, or wards, into which the
city was divided, with occasional modifications, from the time of
Augustus to the coming of Victor Emmanuel, and which with some further
changes survive to the present day. The tablets themselves were put up
by Pope Benedict the Fourteenth, who reigned from 1740 to 1758, and who
finally brought them up to the ancient number of fourteen; but from the
dark ages the devices themselves were borne upon flags on all public
occasions by the people of the different Regions. For 'Rione' is only a
corruption of the Latin 'Regio,' the same with our 'Region,' by which
English word it will be convenient to speak of these divisions that
played so large a part in the history of the city during many successive
centuries.

For the sake of clearness, it is as well to enumerate them in their
order and with the numbers that have always belonged to each. They are:

I. Monti,
II. Trevi,
III. Colonna,
IV. Campo Marzo,
V. Ponte
VI. Parione,
VII. Regola,
VIII. Sant' Eustachio,
IX. Pigna,
X. Campitelli,
XI. Sant' Angelo,
XII. Ripa,
XIII. Trastevere,
XIV. Borgo.

Five of these names, that is to say, Ponte, Parione, Regola, Pigna and
Sant' Angelo, indicate in a general way the part of the city designated
by each. Ponte, the Bridge, is the Region about the Bridge of Sant'
Angelo, on the left bank at the sharp bend of the river seen from that
point; but the original bridge which gave the name was the Pons
Triumphalis, of which the foundations are still sometimes visible a
little below the Ælian bridge leading to the Mausoleum of Hadrian.
Parione, the Sixth ward, is the next division to the preceding one,
towards the interior of the city, on both sides of the modern Corso
Vittorio Emmanuele, taking in the ancient palace of the Massimo family,
the Cancelleria, famous as the most consistent piece of architecture in
Rome, and the Piazza Navona. Regola is next, towards the river,
comprising the Theatre of Pompey and the Palazzo Farnese. Pigna takes in
the Pantheon, the Collegio Romano and the Palazzo di Venezia. Sant'
Angelo has nothing to do with the castle or the bridge, but takes its
name from the little church of Sant' Angelo in the Fishmarket, and
includes the old Ghetto with some neighbouring streets. The rest explain
themselves well enough to anyone who has even a very slight acquaintance
with the city.

At first sight these more or less arbitrary divisions may seem of little
importance. It was, of course, necessary, even in early times, to divide
the population and classify it for political and municipal purposes.
There is no modern city in the world that is not thus managed by wards
and districts, and the consideration of such management and of its means
might appear to be a very flat and unprofitable study, tiresome alike
to the reader and to the writer. And so it would be, if it were not true
that the Fourteen Regions of Rome were fourteen elements of romance,
each playing its part in due season, while all were frequently the stage
at once, under the collective name of the people, in their ever-latent
opposition and in their occasional violent outbreaks against the nobles
and the popes, who alternately oppressed and spoiled them for private
and public ends. In other words, the Regions with their elected captains
under one chief captain were the survival of the Roman People, for ever
at odds with the Roman Senate. In times when there was no government, in
any reasonable sense of the word, the people tried to govern themselves,
or at least to protect themselves as best they could by a rough system
which was all that remained of the elaborate municipality of the Empire.
Without the Regions the struggles of the Barons would probably have
destroyed Rome altogether; nine out of the twenty-four Popes who reigned
in the tenth century would not have been murdered and otherwise done to
death; Peter the Prefect could not have dragged Pope John the Thirteenth
a prisoner through the streets; Stefaneschi could never have terrorized
the Barons, and half destroyed their castles in a week; Rienzi could not
have made himself dictator; Ludovico Migliorati could not have murdered
the eleven captains of Regions in his house and thrown their bodies to
the people from the windows, for which Giovanni Colonna drove out the
Pope and the cardinals, and sacked the Vatican; in a word, the
strangest, wildest, bloodiest scenes of mediæval Rome could not have
found a place in history. It is no wonder that to men born and bred in
the city the Regions seem even now to be an integral factor in its
existence.

There were two other elements of power, namely, the Pope and the Barons.
The three are almost perpetually at war, two on a side, against the
third. Philippe de Commines, ambassador of Lewis the Eleventh in Rome,
said that without the Orsini and the Colonna, the States of the Church
would be the happiest country in the world. He forgot the People, and
was doubtless too politic to speak of the Popes to his extremely devout
sovereign. Take away the three elements of discord, and there would
certainly have been peace in Rome, for there would have been no one to
disturb the bats and the owls, when everybody was gone.

The excellent advice of Ampère, already quoted, is by no means easy to
follow, since there are not many who have the time and the inclination
to acquire a 'superficial knowledge' of Rome by a ten years' visit. If,
therefore, we merely presuppose an average knowledge of history and a
guide-book acquaintance with the chief points in the city, the simplest
and most direct way of learning more about it is to take the Regions in
their ancient order, as the learned Baracconi has done in his
invaluable little work, and to try as far as possible to make past deeds
live again where they were done, with such description of the places
themselves as may serve the main purpose best. To follow any other plan
would be either to attempt a new history of the city of Rome, or to
piece together a new archæological manual. In either case, even
supposing that one could be successful where so much has already been
done by the most learned, the end aimed at would be defeated, for
romance would be stiffened to a record, and beauty would be dissected to
an anatomical preparation.

[Illustration: BRASS OF TITUS, SHOWING THE COLOSSEUM]

[Illustration]

REGION I MONTI

'Monti' means 'The Hills,' and the device of the Region represents
three, figuring those enclosed within the boundaries of this district;
namely, the Quirinal, the Esquiline and the Coelian. The line encircling
them includes the most hilly part of the mediæval city; beginning at the
Porta Salaria, it runs through the new quarter, formerly Villa Ludovisi,
to the Piazza Barberini, thence by the Tritone to the Corso, by the Via
Marforio, skirting the eastern side of the Capitoline Hill and the
eastern side of the Roman Forum to the Colosseum, which it does not
include; on almost to the Lateran, back again, so as to include the
Basilica, by San Stefano Rotondo, and out by the Navicella to the now
closed Porta Metronia. The remainder of the circuit is completed by the
Aurelian wall, which is the present wall of the city, though the modern
Electoral Wards extend in some places beyond it. The modern gates
included in this portion are the Porta Salaria, the Porta Pia, the new
gate at the end of the Via Montebello, the next, an unnamed opening
through which passes the Viale Castro Pretorio, then the Porta
Tiburtina, the Porta San Lorenzo, the exit of the railway, Porta
Maggiore, and lastly the Porta San Giovanni.

The Region of the Hills takes in by far the largest area of the fourteen
districts, but also that portion which in later times has been the least
thickly populated, the wildest districts of mediæval and recent Rome,
great open spaces now partially covered by new though hardly inhabited
buildings, but which were very lately either fallow land or ploughed
fields, or cultivated vineyards, out of which huge masses of ruins rose
here and there in brown outline against the distant mountains, in the
midst of which towered the enormous basilicas of Santa Maria Maggiore
and Saint John Lateran, the half-utilized, half-consecrated remains of
the Baths of Diocletian, the Baths of Titus, and over against the
latter, just beyond the southwestern boundary, the gloomy Colosseum, and
on the west the tall square tower of the Capitol with its deep-toned
bell, the 'Patarina,' which at last was sounded only when the Pope was
dead, and when Carnival was over on Shrove Tuesday night.

It must first be remembered that each Region had a small independent
existence, with night watchmen of its own, who dared not step beyond the
limits of their beat; defined by parishes, there were separate charities
for each Region, separate funds for giving dowries to poor girls,
separate 'Confraternite' or pious societies to which laymen belonged,
and, in a small way, a sort of distinct nationality. There was rivalry
between each Region and its neighbours, and when the one encroached upon
the other there was strife and bloodshed in the streets. In the public
races, of which the last survived in the running of riderless horses
through the Corso in Carnival, each Region had its colours, its right of
place, and its separate triumph if it won in the contest. There was all
that intricate opposition of small parties which arose in every mediæval
city, when children followed their fathers' trades from generation to
generation, and lived in their fathers' houses from one century to
another; and there was all the individuality and the local tradition
which never really hindered civilization, but were always an
insurmountable barrier against progress.

Some one has called democracy Rome's 'Original Sin.' It would be more
just and true to say that most of Rome's misfortunes, and Italy's too,
have been the result of the instinct to oppose all that is, whether good
or bad, as soon as it has existed for a while; in short, the original
sin of Italians is an original detestation of that unity of which the
empty name has been a fetish for ages. Rome, thrown back upon herself
in the dark times, when she was shorn of her possessions, was a true
picture of what Italy was before Rome's iron hand had bound the Italian
peoples together by force, of what she became again as soon as that
force was relaxed, of what she has grown to be once more, now that the
delight of revolution has disappeared in the dismal swamp of financial
disappointment, of what she will be to all time, because, from all time,
she has been populated by races of different descent, who hated each
other as only neighbours can.

The redeeming feature of a factional life has sometimes been found in a
readiness to unite against foreign oppression; it has often shown itself
in an equal willingness to submit to one foreign ruler in order to get
rid of another. Circumstances have made the result good or bad. In the
year 799, the Romans attacked and wounded Pope Leo the Third in a solemn
procession, almost killed him and drove him to flight, because he had
sent the keys of the city to Charles the Great, in self-protection
against the splendid, beautiful, gifted, black-hearted Irene, Empress of
the East, who had put out her own son's eyes and taken the throne by
force. Two years later the people of Rome shouted "Life and Victory to
Charles the Emperor," when the same Pope Leo, his scars still fresh,
crowned Charlemagne in Saint Peter's. One remembers, for that matter,
that Napoleon Bonaparte, crowned in French Paris by another Pope, girt
on the very sword of that same Frankish Charles, whose bones the French
had scattered to the elements at Aix. Savonarola, of more than doubtful
patriotism, to whom Saint Philip Neri prayed, but whom the English
historian, Roscoe, flatly calls a traitor, would have taken Florence
from the Italian Medici and given it to the French king. Dante was for
German Emperors against Italian Popes. Modern Italy has driven out
Bourbons and Austrians and given the crown of her Unity to a house of
Kings, brave and honourable, but in whose veins there is no drop of
Italian blood, any more than their old Dukedom of Savoy was ever Italian
in any sense. The glory of history is rarely the glory of any ideal; it
is more often the glory of success.

The Roman Republic was the result of internal opposition, and the
instinct to oppose power, often rightly, sometimes wrongly, will be the
last to survive in the Latin race. In the Middle Age, when Rome had
shrunk from the boundaries of civilization to the narrow limits of the
Aurelian walls, it produced the hatred between the Barons and the
people, and within the people themselves, the less harmful rivalry of
the Regions and their Captains.

[Illustration: SANTA FRANCESCA ROMANA]

These Captains held office for three months only. At the expiration of
the term, they and the people of their Region proceeded in procession,
all bearing olive branches, to the temple of Venus and Rome, of which a
part was early converted into the Church of Santa Maria Nuova, now known
as Santa Francesca Romana, between the Forum and the Colosseum, and just
within the limits of 'Monti.' Down from the hills on the one side the
crowd came; up from the regions of the Tiber, round the Capitol from
Colonna, and Trevi, and Campo Marzo, as ages before them the people had
thronged to the Comitium, only a few hundred yards away. There, before
the church in the ruins, each Region dropped the names of its own two
candidates into the ballot box, and chance decided which of the two
should be Captain next. In procession, then, all round the Capitol, they
went to Aracoeli, and the single Senator, the lone shadow of the
Conscript Fathers, ratified each choice. Lastly, among themselves, they
used to choose the Prior, or Chief Captain, until it became the custom
that the captain of the First Region, Monti, should of right be head of
all the rest, and in reality one of the principal powers in the city.

And the principal church of Monti also held preëminence over others. The
Basilica of Saint John Lateran was entitled 'Mother and Head of all
Churches of the City and of the World'; and it took its distinctive name
from a rich Roman family, whose splendid house stood on the same spot as
far back as the early days of the Empire. Even Juvenal speaks of it.

Overthrown by earthquake, erected again at once, twice burned and
immediately rebuilt, five times the seat of Councils of the Church,
enlarged even in our day at enormous cost, it seems destined to stand on
the same spot for ages, and to perpetuate the memory of the Laterans to
all time, playing monument to an obscure family of rich citizens, whose
name should have been almost lost, but can never be forgotten now.

Constantine, sentimental before he was great, and great before he was a
Christian, gave the house of the Roman gentleman to Pope Sylvester. He
bought it, or it fell to the crown at the extinction of the family, for
he was not the man to confiscate property for a whim; and within the
palace he made a church, which was called by more than one name, till
after nearly six hundred years it was finally dedicated to Saint John
the Baptist; until then it had been generally called the church 'in the
Lateran house,' and to this day it is San Giovanni in Laterano. Close by
it, in the palace of the Annii, Marcus Aurelius, last of the so-called
Antonines, and last of the great emperors, was born and educated; and in
his honour was made the famous statue of him on horseback, which now
stands in the square of the Capitol. The learned say that it was set up
before the house where he was born, and so found itself also before the
Lateran in later times, with the older Wolf, at the place of public
justice and execution.

In the wild days of the tenth century, when the world was boiling with
faction, and trembling at the prospect of the Last Judgment, clearly
predicted to overtake mankind in the thousandth year of the Christian
era, the whole Roman people, without sanction of the Emperor and without
precedent, chose John the Thirteenth to be their Pope. The Regions with
their Captains had their way, and the new Pontiff was enthroned by
their acclamation. Then came their disappointment, then their anger.
Pope John, strong, high-handed, a man of order in days of chaos, ruled
from the Lateran for one short year, with such wisdom as he possessed,
such law as he chanced to have learnt, and all the strength he had.
Neither Barons nor people wanted justice, much less learning. The Latin
chronicle is brief: 'At that time, Count Roffredo and Peter the
Prefect,'--he was the Prior of the Regions' Captains,--'with certain
other Romans, seized Pope John, and first threw him into the Castle of
Sant' Angelo, but at last drove him into exile in Campania for more than
ten months. But when the Count had been murdered by one of the
Crescenzi,'--in whose house Rienzi afterwards lived,--'the Pope was
released and returned to his See.'

Back came Otto the Great, Saxon Emperor, at Christmas time, as he came
more than once, to put down revolution with a strong hand and avenge the
wrongs of Pope John by executing all but one of the Captains of the
Regions. Twelve of them he hanged. Peter the Prefect, or Prior, was
bound naked upon an ass with an earthen jar over his head, flogged
through the city, and cruelly put to death; and at last his torn body
was hung by the hair to the head of the bronze horse whereon the stately
figure of Marcus Aurelius sat in triumph before the door of the Pope's
house, as it sits today on the Capitol before the Palace of the Senator.
And Otto caused the body of murdered Roffredo to be dragged from its
grave and quartered by the hangman and scattered abroad, a warning to
the Regions and their leaders. They left Pope John in peace after that,
and he lived five years and held a council in the Lateran, and died in
his bed. Possibly after his rough experience, his rule was more gentle,
and when he was dead he was spoken of as 'that most worthy Pontiff.' Who
Count Roffredo was no one can tell surely, but his name belongs to the
great house of Caetani.

[Illustration: BASILICA OF ST JOHN LATERAN]

It is hard to see past terror in present peace; it is not easy to fancy
the rough rabble of Rome in those days, strangely clad, more strangely
armed, far out in the waste fields about the Lateran, surging up like
demons in the lurid torchlight before the house of the Pope, pressing
upon the mailed Count's stout horse, and thronging upon the heels of the
Captains and the Prefect, pounding down the heavy doors with stones, and
with deep shouts for every heavy blow, while white-robed John and his
frightened priests cower together within, expecting death. Down goes the
oak with a crash like artillery, that booms along the empty corridors; a
moment's pause, and silence, and then the rush, headed by the Knight and
the leaders who mean no murder, but mean to have their way, once and for
ever, and buffet back their furious followers when they have reached the
Pope's room, lest he should be torn in pieces. Then, the subsidence of
the din, and the old man and his priests bound and dragged out and
forced to go on foot by all the long dark way through the city to the
black dungeons of Sant' Angelo beyond the rushing river.

[Illustration: SAN GIOVANNI IN LATERANO]

It seems far away. Yet we who have seen the Roman people rise, overlaid
with burdens and maddened by the news of a horrible defeat, can guess at
what it must have been. Those who saw the sea of murderous pale faces,
and heard the deep cry, 'Death to Crispi,' go howling and echoing
through the city can guess what that must have been a thousand years
ago, and many another night since then, when the Romans were roused and
there was a smell of blood in the air.

But today there is peace in the great Mother of Churches, with an
atmosphere of solemn rest that one may not breathe in Saint Peter's nor
perhaps anywhere else in Rome within consecrated walls. There is mystery
in the enormous pillars that answer back the softest whispered word from
niche to niche across the silent aisle; there is simplicity and dignity
of peace in the lofty nave, far down and out of jarring distance from
the over-gorgeous splendour of the modern transept. In Holy Week,
towards evening at the Tenebræ, the divine tenor voice of Padre
Giovanni, monk and singer, soft as a summer night, clear as a silver
bell, touching as sadness itself, used to float through the dim air with
a ring of Heaven in it, full of that strange fatefulness that followed
his short life, till he died, nearly twenty years ago, foully poisoned
by a layman singer in envy of a gift not matched in the memory of man.

Sometimes, if one wanders upward towards the Monti when the moon is
high, a far-off voice rings through the quiet air--one of those voices
which hardly ever find their way to the theatre nowadays, and which,
perhaps, would not satisfy the nervous taste of our Wagnerian times.
Perhaps it sounds better in the moonlight, in those lonely, echoing
streets, than it would on the stage. At all events, it is beautiful as
one hears it, clear, strong, natural, ringing. It belongs to the place
and hour, as the humming of honey bees to a field of flowers at noon, or
the desolate moaning of the tide to a lonely ocean coast at night. It is
not an exaggeration, nor a mere bit of ill nature, to say that there are
thousands of fastidiously cultivated people today who would think it all
theatrical in the extreme, and would be inclined to despise their own
taste if they felt a secret pleasure in the scene and the song. But in
Rome even such as they might condescend to the romantic for an hour,
because in Rome such deeds have been dared, such loves have been loved,
such deaths have been died, that any romance, no matter how wild, has
larger probability in the light of what has actually been the lot of
real men and women. So going alone through the winding moonlit ways
about Tor de' Conti, Santa Maria dei Monti and San Pietro in Vincoli, a
man need take no account of modern fashions in sensation; and if he will
but let himself be charmed, the enchantment will take hold of him and
lead him on through a city of dreams and visions, and memories strange
and great, without end. Ever since Rome began there must have been just
such silvery nights; just such a voice rang through the same air ages
ago; just as now the velvet shadows fell pall-like and unrolled
themselves along the grey pavement under the lofty columns of Mars the
Avenger and beneath the wall of the Forum of Augustus.

[Illustration: PIAZZA COLONNA]

Perhaps it is true that the impressions which Rome makes upon a
thoughtful man vary more according to the wind and the time of day than
those he feels in other cities. Perhaps, too, there is no capital in all
the world which has such contrasts to show within a mile of each
other--one might almost say within a dozen steps. One of the most
crowded thoroughfares of Rome, for instance, is the Via del Tritone,
which is the only passage through the valley between the Pincian and the
Quirinal hills, from the region of Piazza Colonna towards the railway
station and the new quarter. During the busy hours of the day a carriage
can rarely move through its narrower portions any faster than at a foot
pace, and the insufficient pavements are thronged with pedestrians. In a
measure, the Tritone in Rome corresponds to Galata bridge in
Constantinople. In the course of the week most of the population of the
city must have passed at least once through the crowded little street,
which somehow in the rain of millions that lasted for two years, did not
manage to attract to itself even the small sum which would have sufficed
to widen it by a few yards. It is as though the contents of Rome were
daily drawn through a keyhole. In the Tritone are to be seen magnificent
equipages, jammed in the line between milk carts, omnibuses and
dustmen's barrows, preceded by butcher's vans and followed by miserable
cabs, smart dogcarts and high-wheeled country vehicles driven by rough,
booted men wearing green-lined cloaks and looking like stage bandits;
even saddle horses are led sometimes that way to save time; and on each
side flow two streams of human beings of every type to be found between
Porta Angelica and Porta San Giovanni. A prince of the Holy Roman Empire
pushes past a troop of dirty school children, and is almost driven into
an open barrel of salt codfish, in the door of a poor shop, by a
black-faced charcoal man carrying a sack on his head more than half as
high as himself. A party of jolly young German tourists in loose
clothes, with red books in their hands, and their field-glasses hanging
by straps across their shoulders, try to rid themselves of the
flower-girls dressed in sham Sabine costumes, and utter exclamations of
astonishment and admiration when they themselves are almost run down by
a couple of the giant Royal Grenadiers, each six feet five or
thereabouts, besides nine inches, or so, of crested helmet aloft,
gorgeous, gigantic and spotless. Clerks by the dozen and liveried
messengers of the ministries struggle in the press; ladies gather their
skirts closely, and try to pick a dainty way where, indeed, there is
nothing 'dain' (a word which Doctor Johnson confesses that he could not
find in any dictionary, but which he thinks might be very useful);
servant girls, smart children with nurses and hoops going up to the
Pincio, black-browed washerwomen with big baskets of clothes on their
heads, stumpy little infantry soldiers in grey uniforms, priests,
friars, venders of boot-laces and thread, vegetable sellers pushing
hand-carts of green things in and out among the horses and vehicles with
amazing dexterity, and yelling their cries in super-humanly high
voices--there is no end to the multitude. If the day is showery, it is a
sight to see the confusion in the Tritone when umbrellas of every age,
material and colour are all opened at once, while the people who have
none crowd into the codfish shop and the liquor seller's and the
tobacconist's, with traditional 'con permesso' of excuse for entering
when they do not mean to buy anything; for the Romans are mostly civil
people and fairly good-natured. But rain or shine, at the busy hours,
the place is always crowded to overflowing with every description of
vehicle and every type of humanity.

Out of Babel--a horizontal Babel--you may turn into the little church,
dedicated to the 'Holy Guardian Angel.' It stands on the south side of
the Tritone, in that part which is broader, and which a little while ago
was still called the Via dell' Angelo Custode--Guardian Angel Street. It
is an altogether insignificant little church, and strangers scarcely
ever visit it. But going down the Tritone, when your ears are splitting,
and your eyes are confused with the kaleidoscopic figures of the
scurrying crowd, you may lift the heavy leathern curtain, and leave the
hurly-burly outside, and find yourself all alone in the quiet presence
of death, the end of all hurly-burly and confusion. It is quite possible
that under the high, still light in the round church, with its four
niche-like chapels, you may see, draped in black, that thing which no
one ever mistakes for anything else; and round about the coffin a dozen
tall wax candles may be burning with a steady yellow flame. Possibly, at
the sound of the leathern curtain slapping the stone door-posts, as it
falls behind you, a sad-looking sacristan may shuffle out of a dark
corner to see who has come in; possibly not. He may be asleep, or he may
be busy folding vestments in the sacristy. The dead need little
protection from the living, nor does a sacristan readily put himself out
for nothing. You may stand there undisturbed as long as you please, and
see what all the world's noise comes to in the end. Or it may be, if the
departed person belonged to a pious confraternity, that you chance upon
the brothers of the society--clad in dark hoods with only holes for
their eyes, and no man recognized by his neighbour--chanting penitential
psalms and hymns for the one whom they all know because he is dead, and
they are living.

Such contrasts are not lacking in Rome. There are plenty of them
everywhere in the world, perhaps, but they are more striking here, in
proportion as the outward forms of religious practice are more ancient,
unchanging and impressive. For there is nothing very impressive or
unchanging about the daily outside world, especially in Rome.

Rome, the worldly, is the capital of one of the smaller kingdoms of the
world, which those who rule it are anxious to force into the position of
a great power. One need not criticise their action too hardly; their
motives can hardly be anything but patriotic, considering the fearful
sacrifices they impose upon their country. But they are not the men who
brought about Italian unity. They are the successors of those men; they
are not satisfied with that unification, and they have dreamed a dream
of ambition, beside which, considering the means at their disposal, the
projects of Alexander, Cæsar and Napoleon sink into comparative
insignificance. At all events, the worldly, modern, outward Italian
Rome is very far behind the great European capitals in development, not
to say wealth and magnificence. 'Lay' Rome, if one may use the
expression, is not in the least a remarkable city. 'Ecclesiastic' Rome
is the stronghold of a most tremendous fact, from whatever point of view
Christianity may be considered. If one could, in imagination, detach the
head of the Catholic Church from the Church, one would be obliged to
admit that no single living man possesses the far-reaching and lasting
power which in each succeeding papal reign belongs to the Pope. Behind
the Pope stands the fact which confers, maintains and extends that power
from century to century; a power which is one of the hugest elements of
the world's moral activity, both in its own direct action and in the
counteraction and antagonism which it calls forth continually.

It is the all-pervading presence of this greatest fact in Christendom
which has carried on Rome's importance from the days of the Cæsars,
across the chasm of the dark ages, to the days of the modern popes; and
its really enormous importance continually throws forward into cruel
relief the puerilities and inanities of the daily outward world. It is
the consciousness of that importance which makes old Roman society what
it is, with its virtues, its vices, its prejudices and its strange,
old-fashioned, close-fisted kindliness; which makes the contrast between
the Saturnalia of Shrove Tuesday night and the cross signed with ashes
upon the forehead on Ash Wednesday morning, between the careless
laughter of the Roman beauty in Carnival, and the tragic earnestness of
the same lovely face when the great lady kneels in Lent, before the
confessional, to receive upon her bent head the light touch of the
penitentiary's wand, taking her turn, perhaps, with a score of women of
the people. It is the knowledge of an always present power, active
throughout the whole world, which throws deep, straight shadows, as it
were, through the Roman character, just as in certain ancient families
there is a secret that makes grave the lives of those who know it.

The Roman Forum and the land between it and the Colosseum, though
strictly within the limits of Monti, were in reality a neutral ground,
the chosen place for all struggles of rivalry between the Regions. The
final destruction of its monuments dates from the sacking of Rome by
Robert Guiscard with his Normans and Saracens in the year one thousand
and eighty-four, when the great Duke of Apulia came in arms to succour
Hildebrand, Pope Gregory the Seventh, against the Emperor Henry the
Fourth, smarting under the bitter humiliation of Canossa; and against
his Antipope Clement, more than a hundred years after Otto had come back
in anger to avenge Pope John. There is no more striking picture of the
fearful contest between the Church and the Empire.

[Illustration: PIAZZA DI SAN GIOVANNI IN LATERANO]

Alexis, Emperor of the East, had sent Henry, Emperor of the Holy Roman
Empire, one hundred and forty-four thousand pieces of gold, and one
hundred pieces of woven scarlet, as an inducement to make war upon the
Norman Duke, the Pope's friend. But the Romans feared Henry and sent
ambassadors to him, and on the twenty-first of March, being the Thursday
before Palm Sunday, the Lateran gate was opened for him to enter in
triumph. The city was divided against itself, the nobles were for
Hildebrand, the people were against him. The Emperor seized the Lateran
palace and all the bridges. The Pope fled to the Castle of Sant' Angelo,
an impregnable fortress in those times, ever ready and ever provisioned
for a siege. Of the nobles Henry required fifty hostages as earnest of
their neutrality. On the next day he threw his gold to the rabble and
they elected his Antipope Gilbert, who called himself Clement the Third,
and certain bishops from North Italy consecrated him in the Lateran on
Palm Sunday.

Meanwhile Hildebrand secretly sent swift riders to Apulia, calling on
Robert Guiscard for help, and still the nobles were faithful to him, and
though Henry held the bridges, they were strong in Trastevere and the
Borgo, which is the region between the Castle of Sant' Angelo and Saint
Peter's. So it turned out that when Henry tried to bring his Antipope in
solemn procession to enthrone him in the Pontifical chair, on Easter
day, he found mailed knights and footmen waiting for him, and had to
fight his way to the Vatican, and forty of his men were killed and
wounded in the fray, while the armed nobles lost not one. Yet he reached
the Vatican at last, and there he was crowned by the false Pope he had
made, with the crown of the Holy Roman Empire. The chronicler apologizes
for calling him an emperor at all. Then he set to work to destroy the
dwellings of the faithful nobles, and laid siege to the wonderful
Septizonium of Severus, in which the true Pope's nephew had fortified
himself, and began to batter it down with catapults and battering-rams.
Presently came the message of vengeance, brought by one man outriding a
host, while the rabble were still building a great wall to encircle
Sant' Angelo and starve Hildebrand to death or submission, working day
and night like madmen, tearing down everything at hand to pile the great
stones one upon another. Swiftly came the terrible Norman from the
south, with his six thousand horse, Normans and Saracens, and thirty
thousand foot, forcing his march and hungry for the Emperor. But Henry
fled, making pretext of great affairs in Lombardy, promising great and
wonderful gifts to the Roman rabble, and entrusting to their care his
imperial city.

Like a destroying whirlwind of fire and steel Robert swept on to the
gates and into Rome, burning and slaying as he rode, and sparing neither
man, nor woman, nor child, till the red blood ran in rivers between
walls of yellow flame. And he took Hildebrand from Sant' Angelo, and
brought him back to the Lateran through the reeking ruins of the city in
grim and fearful triumph of carnage and destruction.

That was the end of the Roman Forum, and afterwards, when the
blood-soaked ashes and heaps of red-hot rubbish had sunk down and
hardened to a level surface, the place where the shepherd fathers of
Alba Longa had pastured their flocks was called the Campo Vaccino, the
Cattle Field, because it was turned into the market for beeves, and rows
of trees were planted, and on one side there was a walk where ropes were
made, even to our own time.

It became also the fighting ground of the Regions. Among the strangest
scenes in the story of the city are those regular encounters between the
Regions of Monti and Trastevere which for centuries took place on feast
days, by appointment, on the site of the Forum, or occasionally on the
wide ground before the Baths of Diocletian. They were battles fought
with stones, and far from bloodless. Monti was traditionally of the
Imperial or Ghibelline party; Trastevere was Guelph and for the Popes.
The enmity was natural and lasting, on a small scale, as it was
throughout Italy. The challenge to the fray was regularly sent out by
young boys as messengers, and the place and hour were named and the word
passed in secret from mouth to mouth. It was even determined by
agreement whether the stones were to be thrown by hand or whether the
more deadly sling was to be used.

At the appointed time, the combatants appear in the arena, sometimes as
many as a hundred on a side, and the tournament begins, as in Homeric
times, with taunts and abuse, which presently end in skirmishes between
the boys who have come to look on. Scouts are placed at distant points
to cry 'Fire' at the approach of the dreaded Bargello and his men, who
are the only representatives of order in the city and not, indeed,
anxious to face two hundred infuriated slingers for the sake of making
peace.

One boy throws a stone and runs away, followed by the rest, all
prudently retiring to a safe distance. The real combatants wrap their
long cloaks about their left arms, as the old Romans used their togas on
the same ground, to shield their heads from the blows; a sling whirls
half a dozen times like lightning, and a smooth round stone flies like a
bullet straight at an enemy's face, followed by a hundred more in a
deadly hail, thick and fast. Men fall, blood flows, short deep curses
ring through the sunny air, the fighters creep up to one another,
dodging behind trees and broken ruins, till they are at cruelly short
range; faster and faster fly the stones, and scores are lying prostrate,
bleeding, groaning and cursing. Strength, courage, fierce endurance and
luck have it at last, as in every battle. Down goes the leader of
Trastevere, half dead, with an eye gone, down goes the next man to him,
his teeth broken under his torn lips, down half a dozen more, dead or
wounded, and the day is lost. Trastevere flies towards the bridge,
pursued by Monti with hoots and yells and catcalls, and the thousands
who have seen the fight go howling after them, women and children
screaming, dogs racing and barking and biting at their heels. And far
behind on the deserted Campo Vaccino, as the sun goes down, women weep
and frightened children sob beside the young dead. But the next feast
day would come, and a counter-victory and vengeance.

That has always been the temper of the Romans; but few know how
fiercely it used to show itself in those days. It would have been
natural enough that men should meet in sudden anger and kill each other
with such weapons as they chanced to have or could pick up, clubs,
knives, stones, anything, when fighting was half the life of every grown
man. It is harder to understand the murderous stone throwing by
agreement and appointment. In principle, indeed, it approached the
tournament, and the combat of champions representing two parties is an
expression of the ancient instinct of the Latin peoples; so the Horatii
and Curiatii fought for Rome and Alba--so Francis the First of France
offered to fight the Emperor Charles the Fifth for settlement of all
quarrels between the Kingdom and the Empire--and so the modern Frenchman
and Italian are accustomed to settle their differences by an appeal to
what they still call 'arms,' for the sake of what modern society is
pleased to dignify by the name of 'honour.'

But in the stone-throwing combats of Campo Vaccino there was something
else. The games of the circus and the bloody shows of the amphitheatre
were not forgotten. As will be seen hereafter, bull-fighting was a
favourite sport in Rome as it is in Spain today, and the hand-to-hand
fights between champions of the Regions were as much more exciting and
delightful to the crowd as the blood of men is of more price than the
blood of beasts.

The habit of fighting for its own sake, with dangerous weapons, made the
Roman rabble terrible when the fray turned quite to earnest; the deadly
hail of stones, well aimed by sling and hand, was familiar to every
Roman from his childhood, and the sight of naked steel at arm's length
inspired no sudden, keen and unaccustomed terror, when men had little
but life to lose and set small value on that, throwing it into the
balance for a word, rising in arms for a name, doing deeds of blood and
flame for a handful of gold or a day of power.

Monti was both the battlefield of the Regions and also, in times early
and late, the scene of the most splendid pageants of Church and State.
There is a strange passage in the writings of Ammianus Marcellinus, a
pagan Roman of Greek birth, contemporary with Pope Damasus in the latter
part of the fourth century. Muratori quotes it, as showing what the
Bishopric of Rome meant even in those days. It is worth reading, for a
heathen's view of things under Valens and Valentinian, before the coming
of the Huns and the breaking up of the Roman Empire, and, indeed, before
the official disestablishment, as we should say, of the heathen
religion; while the High Priest of Jupiter still offered sacrifices on
the Capitol, and the six Vestal Virgins still guarded the Seven Holy
Things of Rome, and held their vast lands and dwelt in their splendid
palace in all freedom of high privilege, as of old.

'For my part,' says Ammianus, 'when I see the magnificence in which the
Bishops live in Rome, I am not surprised that those who covet the
dignity should use force and cunning to obtain it. For if they succeed,
they are sure of becoming enormously rich by the gifts of the devout
Roman matrons; they will drive about Rome in their carriages, as they
please, gorgeously dressed, and they will not only keep an abundant
table, but will give banquets so sumptuous as to outdo those of kings
and emperors. They do not see that they could be truly happy if instead
of making the greatness of Rome an excuse for their excesses, they would
live as some of the Bishops of the Provinces do, who are sparing and
frugal, poorly clad and modest, but who make the humility of their
manners and the purity of their lives at once acceptable to their God
and to their fellow worshippers.'

So much Ammianus says. And Saint Jerome tells how Prætextatus, Prefect
of the City, when Pope Damasus tried to convert him, answered with a
laugh, 'I will become a Christian if you will make me Bishop of Rome.'

Yet Damasus, famous for the good Latin and beautiful carving of the many
inscriptions he composed and set up, was undeniably also a good man in
the evil days which foreshadowed the great schism.

[Illustration: SANTA MARIA MAGGIORE]

And here, in the year 366, in the Region of Monti, in the church where
now stands Santa Maria Maggiore, a great and terrible name stands out
for the first time in history. Orsino, Deacon of the Holy Roman Catholic
and Apostolic Church, rouses a party of the people, declares the
election of Damasus invalid, proclaims himself Pope in his stead, and
officiates as Pontiff in the Basilica of Sicininus. Up from the deep
city comes the roaring crowd, furious and hungry for fight; the great
doors are closed and Orsino's followers gather round him as he stands on
the steps of the altar; but they are few, and those for Damasus are
many; down go the doors, burst inward with battering-rams, up shoot the
flames to the roof, and the short, wild fray lasts while one may count
five score, and is over. Orsino and a hundred and thirty-six of his men
lie dead on the pavement, the fire licks the rafters, the crowd press
outward, and the great roof falls crashing down into wide pools of
blood. And after that Damasus reigns eighteen years in peace and
splendour. No one knows whether the daring Deacon was of the race that
made and unmade popes afterwards, and held half Italy with its
fortresses, giving its daughters to kings and taking kings' daughters
for its sons, till Vittoria Accoramboni of bad memory began to bring
down a name that is yet great. But Orsino he was called, and he had in
him much of the lawless strength of those namesakes of his who outfought
all other barons but the Colonna, for centuries; and romance may well
make him one of them.

Three hundred years later, and a little nearer to us in the dim
perspective of the dark ages, another scene is enacted in the same
cathedral. Martin the First was afterwards canonized as Saint Martin for
the persecutions he suffered at the hands of Constans, who feared and
hated him and set up an antipope in his stead, and at last sent him
prisoner to die a miserable death in the Crimea. Olympius, Exarch of
Italy, was the chosen tool of the Emperor, sent again and again to Rome
to destroy the brave Bishop and make way for the impostor. At last, says
the greatest of Italian chroniclers, fearing the Roman people and their
soldiers, he attempted to murder the Pope foully, in hideous sacrilege.
To that end he pretended penitence, and begged to be allowed to receive
the Eucharist from the Pope himself at solemn high Mass, secretly
instructing one of his body-guards to stab the Bishop at the very moment
when he should present Olympius with the consecrated bread.

Up to the basilica they went, in grave and splendid procession. One may
guess the picture, with its deep colour, with the strong faces of those
men, the Eastern guards, the gorgeous robes, the gilded arms, the high
sunlight crossing the low nave and falling through the yellow clouds of
incense upon the venerable bearded head of the holy man whose death was
purposed in the sacred office. First, the measured tread of the Exarch's
band moving in order; then, the silence over all the kneeling throng,
and upon it the bursting unison of the 'Gloria in Excelsis' from the
choir. Chant upon chant as the Pontiff and his Ministers intone the
Epistle and the Gospel and are taken up by the singers in chorus at the
first words of the Creed. By and by, the Pope's voice alone, still clear
and brave in the Preface. 'Therefore with Angels and Archangels, and all
the company of Heaven,' he chants, and again the harmony of many voices
singing 'Holy, Holy, Holy, Lord God of Sabaoth.' Silence then, at the
Consecration, and the dark-browed Exarch bowing to the pavement, beside
the paid murderer whose hand is already on his dagger's hilt. 'O Lamb of
God, that takest away the sins of the world,' sings the choir in its
sad, high chant, and Saint Martin bows, standing, over the altar,
himself communicating, while the Exarch holds his breath, and the slayer
fixes his small, keen eyes on the embroidered vestments and guesses how
they will look with a red splash upon them.

As the soldier looks, the sunlight falls more brightly on the gold, the
incense curls in mystic spiral wreaths, its strong perfume penetrates
and dims his senses; little by little, his thoughts wander till they are
strangely fixed on something far away, and he no longer sees Pope nor
altar nor altar-piece beyond, and is wrapped in a sort of waking sleep
that is blindness. Olympius kneels at the steps within the rail, and his
heart beats loud as the grand figure of the Bishop bends over him, and
the thin old hand with its strong blue veins offers the sacred bread to
his open lips. He trembles, and tries to glance sideways to his left
with downcast eyes, for the moment has come, and the blow must be struck
then or never. Not a breath, not a movement in the church, not the
faintest clink of all those gilded arms, as the Saint pronounces the few
solemn words, then gravely and slowly turns, with his deacons to right
and left of him, and ascends the altar steps once more, unhurt. A
miracle, says the chronicler. A miracle, says the amazed soldier, and
repeats it upon solemn oath. A miracle, says Olympius himself, penitent
and converted from error, and ready to save the Pope by all means he
has, as he was ready to slay him before. But he only, and the hired
assassin beside him, had known what was to be, and the people say that
the Exarch and the Pope were already reconciled and agreed against the
Emperor.

The vast church has had many names. It seems at one time to have been
known as the Basilica of Sicininus, for so Ammianus Marcellinus still
speaks of it. But just before that, there is the lovely legend of Pope
Liberius' dream. To him and to the Roman patrician, John, came the
Blessed Virgin in a dream, one night in high summer, commanding them to
build her a church wheresoever they should find snow on the morrow. And
together they found it, glistening in the morning sun, and they traced,
on the white, the plan of the foundation, and together built the first
church, calling it 'Our Lady of Snows,' for Damasus to burn when Orsino
seized it,--but the people spoke of it as the Basilica of Liberius. It
was called also 'Our Lady of the Manger,' from the relic held holy
there; and Sixtus the Third named it 'Our Lady, Mother of God'; and
under many popes it was rebuilt and grew, until at last, for its size,
it was called, as it is today, 'The Greater Saint Mary's.' At one time,
the popes lived near it, and in our own century, when the palace had
long been transferred to the Quirinal, a mile to northward of the
basilica, Papal Bulls were dated 'From Santa Maria Maggiore.'

It is too gorgeous now, too overladen, too rich; and yet it is imposing.
The first gold brought from South America gilds the profusely decorated
roof, the dark red polished porphyry pillars of the high altar gleam in
the warm haze of light, the endless marble columns rise in shining
ranks, all is gold, marble and colour.

Many dead lie there, great men and good; and one over whom a sort of
mystery hangs, for he was Bartolommeo Sacchi, Cardinal Platina,
historian of the Church, a chief member of the famous Roman Academy of
the fifteenth century, and a mediæval pagan, accused with Pomponius
Letus and others of worshipping false gods; tried, acquitted for lack of
evidence; dead in the odour of sanctity; proved at last ten times a
heathen, and a bad one, today, by inscriptions found in the remotest
part of the Catacombs, where he and his companions met in darkest secret
to perform their extravagant rites. He lies beneath the chapel of Sixtus
the Fifth, but the stone that marked the spot is gone.

Strange survivals of ideas and customs cling to some places like ghosts,
and will not be driven away. The Esquiline was long ago the haunt of
witches, who chanted their nightly incantations over the shallow graves
where slaves were buried, and under the hideous crosses whereon dead
malefactors had groaned away their last hours of life. Mæcenas cleared
the land and beautified it with gardens, but still the witches came by
stealth to their old haunts. The popes built churches and palaces on it,
but the dark memories never vanished in the light; and even in our own
days, on Saint John's Eve, which is the witches' night of the Latin
race, as the Eve of May-day is the Walpurgis of the Northmen, the people
went out in thousands, with torches and lights, and laughing tricks of
exorcism, to scare away the powers of evil for the year.

On that night the vast open spaces around the Lateran were thronged with
men and women and children; against the witches' dreaded influence they
carried each an onion, torn up by the roots with stalk and flower; all
about, on the outskirts of the place, were kitchen booths, set up with
boughs and bits of awnings, yellow with the glare of earthen and iron
oil lamps, where snails--great counter-charms against spells--were fried
and baked in oil, and sold with bread and wine, and eaten with more or
less appetite, according to the strength of men's stomachs. All night,
till the early summer dawn, the people came and went, and wandered round
and round, and in and out, in parties and by families, to go laughing
homeward at last, scarce knowing why they had gone there at all, unless
it were because their fathers and mothers had done as they did for
generations unnumbered.

[Illustration: BATHS OF DIOCLETIAN]

And the Lateran once had another half-heathen festival, on the Saturday
after Easter, in memory of the ancient Floralia of the Romans, which had
formerly been celebrated on the 28th of April. It was a most strange
festival, now long forgotten, in which Christianity and paganism were
blended together. Baracconi, from whom the following account is taken,
quotes three sober writers as authority for his description. Yet there
is a doubt about the very name of the feast, which is variously called
the 'Coromania' and the 'Cornomania.'

On the afternoon of the Saturday in Easter week, say these writers, the
priests of the eighteen principal 'deaconries'--an ecclesiastical
division of the city long ago abolished and now somewhat obscure--caused
the bells to be rung, and the people assembled at their parish churches,
where they were received by a 'mansionarius,'--probably meaning here 'a
visitor of houses,'--and a layman, who was arrayed in a tunic, and
crowned with the flowers of the cornel cherry. In his hand he carried a
concave musical instrument of copper, by which hung many little bells.
One of these mysterious personages, who evidently represented the pagan
element in the ceremony, preceded each parish procession, being followed
immediately by the parish priest, wearing the cope. From all parts of
the city they went up to the Lateran, and waited before the palace of
the Pope till all were assembled.

The Pope descended the steps to receive the homage of the people.
Immediately, those of each parish formed themselves into wide circles
round their respective 'visitors' and priests, and the strange rite
began. In the midst the priest stood still. Round and round him the lay
'visitor' moved in a solemn dance, striking his copper bells
rhythmically to his steps, while all the circle followed his gyrations,
chanting a barbarous invocation, half Latin and half Greek: 'Hail,
divinity of this spot! Receive our prayers in fortunate hour!' and many
verses more to the same purpose, and quite beyond being construed
grammatically.

The dance is over with the song. One of the parish priests mounts upon
an ass, backwards, facing the beast's tail, and a papal chamberlain
leads the animal, holding over its head a basin containing twenty pieces
of copper money. When they have passed three rows of benches--which
benches, by the bye?--the priest leans back, puts his hand behind him
into the basin, and pockets the coins.

Then all the priests lay garlands at the feet of the Pope. But the
priest of Santa Maria in Via Lata also lets a live fox out of a bag, and
the little creature suddenly let loose flies for its life, through the
parting crowd, out to the open country, seeking cover. It is like the
Hebrew scapegoat. In return each priest receives a golden coin from the
Pontiff's hand. The rite being finished, all return to their respective
parishes, the dancing 'visitor' still leading the procession. Each
priest is accompanied then by acolytes who bear holy water, branches of
laurel, and baskets of little rolls, or of those big, sweet wafers,
rolled into a cylinder and baked, which are called 'cialdoni,' and are
eaten to this day by Romans with ice cream. From house to house they go;
the priest blesses each dwelling, sprinkling water about with the
laurel, and then burning the branch on the hearth and giving some of the
rolls to the children. And all the time the dancer slowly dances and
chants the strange words made up of some Hebrew, a little Chaldean and a
leavening of nonsense.

Jaritan, jaritan, iarariasti
Raphaym, akrhoin, azariasti!

One may leave the interpretation of the jargon to curious scholars. As
for the rite itself, were it not attested by trustworthy writers, one
would be inclined to treat it as a mere invention, no more to be
believed than the legend of Pope Joan, who was supposed to have been
stoned to death near San Clemente, on the way to the Lateran.

An extraordinary number of traditions cling to the Region of Monti, and
considering that in later times a great part of this quarter was a
wilderness, the fact would seem strange. As for the 'Coromania' it seems
to have disappeared after the devastation of Monti by Robert Guiscard in
1084, and the general destruction of the city from the Lateran to the
Capitol is attributed to the Saracens who were with him. But a more
logical cause of depopulation is found in the disappearance of water
from the upper Region by the breaking of the aqueducts, from which alone
it was derived. The consequence of this, in the Middle Age, was that the
only obtainable water came from the river, and was naturally taken from
it up-stream, towards the Piazza del Popolo, in the neighbourhood of
which it was collected in tanks and kept until the mud sank to the
bottom and it was approximately fit to drink.

In Imperial times the greater number of the public baths were situated
in the Monti. The great Piazza di Termini, now re-named Piazza delle
Terme, before the railway station, took its name from the Baths of
Diocletian--'Thermæ,' 'Terme,' 'Termini.' The Baths of Titus, the Baths
of Constantine, of Philippus, Novatus and others were all in Monti,
supplied by the aqueduct of Claudius, the Anio Novus, the Aqua Marcia,
Tepula, Julia, Marcia Nova and Anio Vetus. No people in the world were
such bathers as the old Romans; yet few cities have ever suffered so
much or so long from lack of good water as Rome in the Middle Age. The
supply cut off, the whole use of the vast institutions was instantly
gone, and the huge halls and porticos and playgrounds fell to ruin and
base uses. Owing to their peculiar construction and being purposely made
easy of access on all sides, like the temples, the buildings could not
even be turned to account by the Barons for purposes of fortification,
except as quarries for material with which to build their towers and
bastions. The inner chambers became hiding-places for thieves, herdsmen
in winter penned their flocks in the shelter of the great halls, grooms
used the old playground as a track for breaking horses, and round and
about the ruins, on feast days, the men of Monti and Trastevere chased
one another in their murderous tournaments of stone throwing. A fanatic
Sicilian priest saved the great hall of Diocletian's Baths from
destruction in Michelangelo's time.

[Illustration: PORTA MAGGIORE, SUPPORTING THE CHANNELS OF THE AQUEDUCT
OF CLAUDIUS AND THE ANIO NOVUS]

The story is worth telling, for it is little known. In a little church
in Palermo, in which the humble priest Antonio Del Duca officiated, he
discovered under the wall-plaster a beautiful fresco or mosaic of the
Seven Archangels, with their names and attributes. Day after day he
looked at the fair figures till they took possession of his mind and
heart and soul, and inspired him with the apparently hopeless desire to
erect a church in Rome in their honour. To Rome he came, persuaded of
his righteous mission, to fail of course, after seven years of
indefatigable effort. Back to Palermo then, to the contemplation of his
beloved angels. And again they seemed to drive him to Rome. Scarcely had
he returned when in a dream he seemed to see his ideal church among the
ruins of the Baths of Diocletian, which had been built, as tradition
said, by thousands of condemned Christians. To dream was to wake with
new enthusiasm, to wake was to act. In an hour, in the early dawn, he
was in the great hall which is now the Church of Santa Maria degli
Angeli, 'Saint Mary of the Angels.'

But it was long before his purpose was finally accomplished. Thirty
years of his life he spent in unremitting labour for his purpose, and an
accident at last determined his success. He had brought a nephew with
him from Sicily, a certain Giacomo Del Duca, a sculptor, who was
employed by Michelangelo to carve the great mask over the Porta Pia.
Pope Pius the Fourth, for whom the gate was named, praised the stone
face to Michelangelo, who told him who had made it. The name recalled
the sculptor's uncle and his mad project, which appealed to
Michelangelo's love of the gigantic. Even the coincidence of appellation
pleased the Pope, for he himself had been christened Angelo, and his
great architect and sculptor bore an archangel's name. So the work was
done in short time, the great church was consecrated, and one of the
noblest of Roman buildings was saved from ruin by the poor
Sicilian,--and there, in 1896, the heir to the throne of Italy was
married with great magnificence, that particular church being chosen
because, as a historical monument, it is regarded as the property of the
Italian State, and is therefore not under the immediate management of
the Vatican. Probably not one in a thousand of the splendid throng that
filled the church had heard the name of Antonio Del Duca, who lies
buried before the high altar without a line to tell of all he did. So
lies Bernini, somewhere in Santa Maria Maggiore, so lies Platina,--he,
at least, the better for no epitaph,--and Beatrice Cenci and many
others, rest unforgotten in nameless graves.

From the church to the railway station stretch the ruins, continuous,
massive, almost useless, yet dear to all who love old Rome. On the south
side, there used to be a long row of buildings, ending in a tall old
mansion of good architecture, which was the 'Casino' of the great old
Villa Negroni. In that house, but recently gone, Thomas Crawford,
sculptor, lived for many years, and in the long, low studio that stood
before what is now the station, but was then a field, he modelled the
great statue of Liberty that crowns the Capitol in Washington, and
Washington's own monument which stands in Richmond, and many of his
other works. My own early childhood was spent there, among the old-time
gardens, and avenues of lordly cypresses and of bitter orange trees, and
the moss-grown fountains, and long walks fragrant with half-wild roses
and sweet flowers that no one thinks of planting now. Beyond, a wild
waste of field and broken land led up to Santa Maria Maggiore; and the
grand old bells sent their far voices ringing in deep harmony to our
windows; and on the Eve of Saint Peter's day, when Saint Peter's was a
dream of stars in the distance and the gorgeous fireworks gleamed in the
dark sky above the Pincio, we used to climb the high tower above the
house and watch the still illumination and the soaring rockets through a
grated window, till the last one had burst and spent itself, and we
crept down the steep stone steps, half frightened at the sound of our
own voices in the ghostly place.

And in that same villa once lived Vittoria Accoramboni, married to
Francesco Peretti, nephew of Cardinal Montalto, who built the house, and
was afterwards Sixtus the Fifth, and filled Rome with his works in the
five years of his stirring reign. Hers also is a story worth telling,
for few know it, even among Romans, and it is a tale of bloodshed, and
of murder, and of all crimes against God and man, and of the fall of the
great house of Orsini. But it may better be told in another place, when
we reach the Region where they lived and fought and ruled, by terror and
the sword.

Near the Baths of Diocletian, and most probably on the site of that same
Villa Negroni, too, was that vineyard, or 'villa' as we should say,
where Cæsar Borgia and his elder brother, the Duke of Gandia, supped
together for the last time with their mother Vanozza, on the night of
the 14th of June, in the year 1497. There has always been a dark mystery
about what followed. Many say that Cæsar feared his brother's power and
influence with the Pope. Not a few others suggest that the cause of the
mutual hatred was a jealousy so horrible to think of that one may hardly
find words for it, for its object was their own sister Lucrezia. However
that may be, they supped together with their mother in her villa, after
the manner of Romans in those times, and long before then, and long
since. In the first days of summer heat, when the freshness of spring is
gone and June grows sultry, the people of the city have ever loved to
breathe a cooler air. In the Region of Monti there were a score of
villas, and there were wide vineyards and little groves of trees, such
as could grow where there was not much water, or none at all perhaps,
saving what was collected in cisterns from the roofs of the few
scattered houses, when it rained.

In the long June twilight the three met together, the mother and her two
sons, and sat down under an arbour in the garden, for the air was dry
with the south wind and there was no fear of fever. Screened lamps and
wax torches shed changing tints of gold and yellow on the fine linen,
and the deep-chiselled dishes and vessels of silver, and the tall
glasses and beakers of many hues. Fruit was piled up in the midst, such
as the season afforded, cherries and strawberries, and bright oranges
from the south. One may fancy the dark-browed woman of forty years, in
the beauty of maturity almost too ripe, with her black eyes and hair of
auburn, her jewelled cap, her gold laces just open at her marble throat,
her gleaming earrings, her sleeves slashed to show gauze-fine linen, her
white, ring-laden fingers that delicately took the finely carved meats
in her plate--before forks were used in Rome--and dabbled themselves
clean from each touch in the scented water the little page poured over
them. On her right, her eldest, Gandia, fair, weak-mouthed, sensually
beautiful, splendid in velvet, and chain of gold, and deep-red silk, his
blue eyes glancing now and then, half scornfully, half anxiously at his
strong brother. And he, Cæsar, the man of infamous memory, sitting there
the very incarnation of bodily strength and mental daring; square as a
gladiator, dark as a Moor, with deep and fiery eyes, now black, now red
in the lamplight, the marvellous smile wreathing his thin lips now and
then, and showing white, wolfish teeth, his sinewy brown hands direct
in every little action, his soft voice the very music of a lie to those
who knew the terrible brief tones it had in wrath.

Long they sat, sipping the strong iced wine, toying with fruits and
nuts, talking of State affairs, of the Pope, of Maximilian, the jousting
Emperor,--discussing, perhaps, with a smile, his love of dress and the
beautiful fluted armour which he first invented;--of Lewis the Eleventh
of France, tottering to his grave, strangest compound of devotion,
avarice and fear that ever filled a throne; of Frederick of Naples, to
whom Cæsar was to bear the crown within a few days; of Lucrezia's
quarrel with her husband, which had brought her to Rome; and at her name
Cæsar's eyes blazed once and looked down at the strawberries on the
silver dish, and Gandia turned pale, and felt the chill of the night
air, and stately Vanozza rose slowly in the silence, and bade her evil
sons good-night, for it was late.

Two hours later, Gandia's thrice-stabbed corpse lay rolling and bobbing
at the Tiber's edge, as dead things do in the water, caught by its silks
and velvets in wild branches that dipped in the muddy stream; and the
waning moon rose as the dawn forelightened.

[Illustration: INTERIOR OF THE COLOSSEUM]

If the secrets of old Rome could be known and told, they would fill the
world with books. Every stone has tasted blood, every house has had its
tragedy, every shrub and tree and blade of grass and wild flower has
sucked life from death, and blossoms on a grave. There is no end of
memories, in this one Region, as in all the rest. Far up by Porta Pia,
over against the new Treasury, under a modern street, lie the bones of
guilty Vestals, buried living, each in a little vault two fathoms deep,
with the small dish and crust and the earthen lamp that soon flickered
out in the close damp air; and there lies that innocent one, Domitian's
victim, who shrank from the foul help of the headsman's hand, as her
foot slipped on the fatal ladder, and fixed her pure eyes once upon the
rabble, and turned and went down alone into the deadly darkness. Down by
the Colosseum, where the ruins of Titus' Baths still stand in part,
stood Nero's dwelling palace, above the artificial lake in which the
Colosseum itself was built, and whose waters reflected the flames of the
great fire. To northward, in a contrast that leaps ages, rise the huge
walls of the Tor de' Conti, greatest of mediæval fortresses built within
the city, the stronghold of a dim, great house, long passed away,
kinsmen of Innocent the Third. What is left of it helps to enclose a
peaceful nunnery.

There were other towers, too, and fortresses, though none so strong as
that, when it faced the Colosseum, filled then by the armed thousands of
the great Frangipani. The desolate wastes of land in the Monti were ever
good battlefields for the nobles and the people. But the stronger and
wiser and greater Orsini fortified themselves in the town, in Pompey's
theatre, while the Colonna held the midst, and the popes dwelt far aloof
on the boundary, with the open country behind them for ready escape, and
the changing, factious, fighting city before.

The everlasting struggle, the furious jealousy, the always ready knife,
kept the Regions distinct and individual and often at enmity with each
other, most of all Monti and Trastevere, hereditary adversaries,
Ghibelline and Guelph. Trastevere has something of that proud and
violent character still. Monti lost it in the short eruption of
'progress' and 'development.' In the wild rage of speculation which
culminated in 1889, its desolate open lands, its ancient villas and its
strange old houses were the natural prey of a foolish greediness the
like of which has never been seen before. Progress ate up romance, and
hundreds of acres of wretched, cheaply built, hideous, unsafe buildings
sprang up like the unhealthy growth of a foul disease, between the
Lateran gate and the old inhabited districts. They are destined to a
graceless and ignoble ruin. Ugly cracks in the miserable stucco show
where the masonry is already parting, as the hollow foundations subside,
and walls on which the paint is still almost fresh are shored up with
dusty beams lest they should fall and crush the few paupers who dwell
within. Filthy, half-washed clothes of beggars hang down from the
windows, drying in the sun as they flap and flutter against pretentious
moulded masks of empty plaster. Miserable children loiter in the
high-arched gates, under which smart carriages were meant to drive, and
gnaw their dirty fingers, or fight for a cold boiled chestnut one of
them has saved. Squalor, misery, ruin and vile stucco, with a sprinkling
of half-desperate humanity,--those are the elements of the modern
picture,--that is what the 'great development' of modern Rome brought
forth and left behind it. Peace to the past, and to its ashes of romance
and beauty.

[Illustration]

REGION II TREVI

In Imperial times, the street now called the Tritone, from the Triton on
the fountain in Piazza Barberini, led up from the Portico of Vipsanius
Agrippa's sister in the modern Corso to the temple of Flora at the
beginning of the Quattro Fontane. It was met at right angles by a long
street leading straight from the Forum of Trajan, and which struck it
close to the Arch of Claudius. Then, as now, this point was the meeting
of two principal thoroughfares, and it was called Trivium, or the
'crossroads.' Trivium turned itself into the Italian 'Trevi,' called in
some chronicles 'the Cross of Trevi.' The Arch of Claudius carried the
Aqua Virgo, still officially called the Acqua Vergine, across the
highway; the water, itself, came to be called the water 'of the
crossroads' or 'of Trevi,' and 'Trevi' gave its name at last to the
Region, long before the splendid fountain was built in the early part of
the last century. The device of the Region seems to have nothing to do
with the water, except, perhaps, that the idea of a triplicity is
preserved in the three horizontally disposed rapiers.

The legend that tells how the water was discovered gave it the first
name it bore. A detachment of Roman soldiers, marching down from
Præneste, or Palestrina, in the summer heat, were overcome by thirst,
and could find neither stream nor well. A little girl, passing that way,
led them aside from the high-road and brought them to a welling spring,
clear and icy cold, known only to shepherds and peasants. They drank
their fill and called it Aqua Virgo, the Maiden Water. And so it has
remained for all ages. But it is commonly called 'Trevi' in Rome, by the
people and by strangers, and the name has a ring of poetry, by its
associations. For they say that whoever will go to the great fountain,
when the high moon rays dance upon the rippling water, and drink, and
toss a coin far out into the middle, in offering to the genius of the
place, shall surely come back to Rome again, old or young, sooner or
later. Many have performed the rite, some secretly, sadly, heartbroken,
for love of Rome and what it holds, and others gayly, many together,
laughing, while they half believe, and sometimes believing altogether
while they laugh. And some who loved, and could meet only in Rome, have
gone there together, and women's tears have sometimes dropped upon the
silvered water that reflected the sad faces of grave men.

The foremost memories of the past in Trevi centre about the ancient
family of the Colonna, still numerous, distinguished and flourishing
after a career of nearly a thousand years--longer than that, it may be,
if one take into account the traditions of them that go back beyond the
earliest authentic mention of their greatness; a race of singular
independence and energy, which has given popes to Rome, and great
patriots, and great generals as well, and neither least nor last,
Vittoria, princess and poetess, whose name calls up the gentlest
memories of Michelangelo's elder years.

The Colonna were originally hill men. The earliest record of them tells
that their great lands towards Palestrina were confiscated by the
Church, in the eleventh century. The oldest of their titles is that of
Duke of Paliano, a town still belonging to them, rising on an eminence
out of the plain beyond the Alban hills. The greatest of their early
fortresses was Palestrina, still the seat and title estate of the
Barberini branch of the family. Their original stronghold in Rome was
almost on the site of their present palace, being then situated on the
opposite side of the Basilica of the Santi Apostoli, where the
headquarters of the Dominicans now are, and running upwards and
backwards, thence, to the Piazza della Pilotta; but they held Rome by a
chain of towers and fortifications, from the Quirinal to the Mausoleum
of Augustus, now hidden among the later buildings, between the Corso,
the Tiber, the Via de' Pontefici and the Via de' Schiavoni. The present
palace and the basilica stood partly upon the site of the ancient
quarters occupied by the first Cohort of the Vigiles, or city police, of
whom about seven thousand preserved order when the population of ancient
Rome exceeded two millions.

The 'column,' from which the Colonna take their name, is generally
supposed to have stood in the market-place of the village of that name
in the higher part of the Campagna, between the Alban and the Samnite
hills, on the way to Palestrina. It is a peaceful and vine-clad country,
now. South of it rise the low heights of Tusculum, and it is more than
probable that the Colonna were originally descended from the great
counts who tyrannized over Rome from that strong point of vantage and,
through them, from Theodora Senatrix. Be that as it may, their arms
consist of a simple column, used on a shield, or as a crest, or as the
badge of the family, and it is found in many a threadbare tapestry, in
many a painting, in the frescos and carved ornaments of many a dim old
church in Rome.

[Illustration: FOUNTAIN OF TREVI]

In their history, the first fact that stands out is their adherence to
the Emperors, as Ghibellines, whereas their rivals, the Orsini, were
Guelphs and supporters of the Church in most of the great contests of
the Middle Age. The exceptions to the rule are found when the Colonna
had a Pope of their own, or one who, like Nicholas the Fourth, was of
their own making. 'That Pope,' says Muratori, 'had so boundlessly
favoured the aggrandizement of the Colonna that his actions depended
entirely upon their dictates, and a libel was published upon him,
entitled the Source of Evil, illustrated by a caricature, in which the
mitred head of the Pontiff was seen issuing from a tall column between
two smaller ones, the latter intended to represent the two living
cardinals of the house, Jacopo and Pietro.' Yet in the next reign, when
they impeached the election of Boniface the Eighth, they found
themselves in opposition to the Holy See, and they and theirs were
almost utterly destroyed by the Pope's partisans and kinsmen, the
powerful Caetani.

Just before him, after the Holy See had been vacant for two years and
nearly four months, because the Conclave of Perugia could not agree upon
a Pope, a humble southern hermit of the Abruzzi, Pietro da Morrone, had
been suddenly elevated to the Pontificate, to his own inexpressible
surprise and confusion, and after a few months of honest, but utterly
fruitless, effort to understand and do what was required of him, he had
taken the wholly unprecedented step of abdicating the papacy. He was
succeeded by Benedict Caetani, Boniface the Eighth, keen, learned,
brave, unforgiving and the mortal foe of the Colonna; 'the magnanimous
sinner,' as Gibbon quotes from a chronicle, 'who entered like a fox,
reigned like a lion and died like a dog.' Yet the judgment is harsh, for
though his sins were great, the expiation was fearful, and he was brave
as few men have been.

Samson slew a lion with his hands, and the Philistines with the jaw-bone
of an ass. Men have always accepted the Bible's account of the
slaughter. But when an ass, without the aid of any Samson, killed a lion
in the courtyard of the Palazzo dei Priori, in Florence, the event was
looked upon as of evil portent, exceeding the laws of nature. For Pope
Boniface had presented the Commonwealth of Florence with a young and
handsome lion, which was chained up and kept in the court of the palace
aforesaid. A donkey laden with firewood was driven in, and 'either from
fear, or by a miracle,' as the chronicle says, at once assailed the lion
with the utmost ferocity, and kicked him to death, in spite of the
efforts of a number of men to drag the beast of burden off. Of the two
hypotheses, the wise men of the day preferred the supernatural
explanation, and one of them found an ancient Sibylline prophecy to the
effect that 'when the tame beast should kill the king of beasts, the
dissolution of the Church should begin.' Which saying, adds Villani, was
presently fulfilled in Pope Boniface.

For the Pope had a mortal quarrel with Philip the Fair of France whom he
had promised to make Emperor, and had then passed over in favour of
Albert, son of Rudolph of Hapsburg; and Philip made a friend and ally of
Stephen Colonna, the head of the great house, who was then in France,
and drove Boniface's legate out of his kingdom, and allowed the Count of
Artois to burn the papal letters. The Pope retorted by a Major
Excommunication, and the quarrel became furious. The Colonna being under
his hand, Boniface vented his anger upon them, drove them from Rome,
destroyed their houses, levelled Palestrina to the ground, and ploughed
up the land where it had stood. The six brothers of the house were
exiles and wanderers. Old Stephen, the idol of Petrarch, alone and
wretched, was surrounded by highwaymen, who asked who he was. 'Stephen
Colonna,' he answered, 'a Roman citizen.' And the thieves fell back at
the sound of the great name. Again, someone asked him with a sneer where
all his strongholds were, since Palestrina was gone. 'Here,' he
answered, unmoved, and laying his hand upon his heart. Of such stuff
were the Pope's enemies.

Nor could he crush them. Boniface was of Anagni, a city of prehistoric
walls and ancient memories which belonged to the Caetani; and there, in
the late summer, he was sojourning for rest and country air, with his
cardinals and his court and his kinsmen about him. Among the cardinals
was Napoleon Orsini.

[Illustration: GRAND HALL OF THE COLONNA PALACE]

Then came William of Nogaret, sent by the King of France, and Sciarra
Colonna, the boldest man of his day, and many other nobles, with three
hundred knights and many footmen. For a long time they had secretly
plotted a master-stroke of violence, spending money freely among the
people, and using all persuasion to bring the country to their side, yet
with such skill and caution that not the slightest warning reached the
Pope's ears. In calm security he rose early on the morning of the
seventh of September. He believed his position assured, his friends
loyal and the Colonna ruined for ever; and Colonna was at the gate.

Suddenly, from below the walls, a cry of words came up to the palace
windows; long drawn out, distinct in the still mountain air. 'Long live
the King of France! Death to Pope Boniface!' It was taken up by hundreds
of voices, and repeated, loud, long and terrible, by the people of the
town, by men going out to their work in the hills, by women loitering on
their doorsteps, by children peering out, half frightened, from behind
their mothers' scarlet woollen skirts, to see the armed men ride up the
stony way. Cardinals, chamberlains, secretaries, men-at-arms, fled like
sheep; and when Colonna reached the palace wall, only the Pope's own
kinsmen remained within to help him as they could, barring the great
doors and posting themselves with crossbows at the grated window. For
the Caetani were always brave men.

But Boniface knew that he was lost, and calmly, courageously, even
grandly, he prepared to face death. 'Since I am betrayed,' he said, 'and
am to die, I will at least die as a Pope should!' So he put on the great
pontifical chasuble, and set the tiara of Constantine upon his head,
and, taking the keys and the crosier in his hands, sat down on the papal
throne to await death.

The palace gates were broken down, and then there was no more
resistance, for the defenders were few. In a moment Colonna in his
armour stood before the Pontiff in his robes; but he saw only the enemy
of his race, who had driven out his great kinsmen, beggars and wanderers
on the earth, and he lifted his visor and looked long at his victim, and
then at last found words for his wrath, and bitter reproaches and taunts
without end and savage curses in the broad-spoken Roman tongue. And
William of Nogaret began to speak, too, and threatened to take Boniface
to Lyons where a council of the Church should depose him and condemn him
to ignominy. Boniface answered that he should expect nothing better than
to be deposed and condemned by a man whose father and mother had been
publicly burned for their crimes. And this was true of Nogaret, who was
no gentleman. A legend says that Colonna struck the Pope in the face,
and that he afterwards made him ride on an ass, sitting backwards, after
the manner of the times. But no trustworthy chronicle tells of this. On
the contrary, no one laid hands upon him while he was kept a prisoner
under strict watch for three days, refusing to touch food; for even if
he could have eaten he feared poison. And Colonna tried to force him to
abdicate, as Pope Celestin had done before him, but he refused stoutly;
and when the three days were over, Colonna went away, driven out, some
say, by the people of Anagni who turned against him. But that is
absurd, for Anagni is a little place and Colonna had a strong force of
good soldiers with him. Possibly, seeing that the old man refused to
eat, Sciarra feared lest he should be said to have starved the Pope to
death. They went away and left him, carrying off his treasures with
them, and he returned to Rome, half mad with anger, and fell into the
hands of the Orsini cardinals, who judged him not sane and kept him a
prisoner at the Vatican, where he died soon afterwards, consumed by his
wrath. And before long the Colonna had their own again and rebuilt
Palestrina and their palace in Rome.

Twenty-five years later they were divided against each other, in the
wild days when Lewis the Bavarian, excommunicated and at war with the
Pope, was crowned and consecrated Emperor, by the efforts of an
extraordinary man of genius, Castruccio degli Interminelli, known better
as Castruccio Castracane, the Ghibelline lord of Lucca who made Italy
ring with his deeds for twenty years, and died of a fever, in the height
of his success and glory, at the age of forty-seven years. Sciarra
Colonna was for him and for Lewis. Stephen, head of the house, was
against them, and in those days when Rome was frantic for an Emperor,
Stephen's son Jacopo had the quiet courage to bring out the Bull of
Excommunication against the chosen Emperor and nail it to the door of
San Marcello, in the Corso, in the heart of Rome and in the sight of a
thousand angry men, in protest against what they meant to do--against
what was doing even at that moment. And he reached Palestrina in safety,
shaking the dust of Rome from his feet.

But on that bright winter's day, Lewis of Bavaria and his queen rode
down from Santa Maria Maggiore by the long and winding ways towards
Saint Peter's. The streets were all swept and strewn with yellow sand
and box leaves and myrtle that made the air fragrant, and from every
window and balcony gorgeous silks and tapestries were hung, and even
ornaments of gold and silver and jewels. Before the procession rode
standard-bearers, four for each Region, on horses most richly
caparisoned. There rode Sciarra Colonna, and beside him, for once in
history, Orsino Orsini, and others, all dressed in cloth of gold, and
Castruccio Castracane, wearing that famous sword which in our own times
was offered by Italy to King Victor Emmanuel; and many other Barons rode
there in splendid array, and there was great concourse of the people. So
they came to Saint Peter's; and because the Count of the Lateran should
by right have been the Emperor's sponsor at the anointing, and had left
Rome in anger and disdain, Lewis made Castruccio a knight of the Empire
and Count of the Lateran in his stead, and sponsor; and two
excommunicated Bishops consecrated the Emperor, and anointed him, and
Sciarra Colonna crowned him and his queen. After which they feasted in
the evening at the Aracoeli, and slept in the Capitol, because they
were all weary with the long ceremony, and it was too late to go home.
The chronicler's comment is curious. 'Note,' he says, 'what presumption
was this, of the aforesaid damned Bavarian, such as thou shalt not find
in any ancient or recent history; for never did any Christian Emperor
cause himself to be crowned save by the Pope or his legate, even though
opposed to the Church, neither before then nor since, except this
Bavarian.' But Sciarra and Castruccio had their way, and Lewis did what
even Napoleon, master of the world by violent chance, would not do. And
twenty years later, in the same chronicle, it is told how 'Lewis of
Bavaria, who called himself Emperor, fell with his horse, and was killed
suddenly, without penitence, excommunicated and damned by Holy Church.'
It is a curious coincidence that Boniface the Eighth, Sciarra's
prisoner, and Lewis the Bavarian, whom he crowned Emperor, both died on
the eleventh of October, according to most authorities.

The Senate of Rome had dwindled to a pitiable office, held by one man.
At or about this time, the Colonna and the Orsini agreed by a compromise
that there should be two, chosen from their two houses. The Popes were
in Avignon, and men who could make Emperors were more than able to do as
they pleased with a town of twenty or thirty thousand inhabitants, so
long as the latter had no leader. One may judge of what Rome was, when
even pilgrims did not dare to go thither and visit the tomb of Saint
Peter. The discord of the great houses made Rienzi's life a career; the
defection of the Orsini from the Pope's party led to his flight; their
battles suggested to the exiled Pope the idea of sending him back to
Rome to break their power and restore a republic by which the Pope might
restore himself; and the rage of their retainers expended itself in his
violent death. For it was their retainers who fought for their masters,
till the younger Stephen Colonna killed Bertoldo Orsini, the bravest man
of his day, in an ambush, and the Orsini basely murdered a boy of the
Colonna on the steps of a church. But Rienzi was of another Region, of
the Regola by the Tiber, and it is not yet time to tell his story. And
by and by, as the power of the Popes rose and they became again as the
Cæsars had been, Colonna and Orsini forgot their feuds, and were glad to
stand on the Pope's right and left as hereditary 'Assistants of the Holy
See.' In the petty ending of all old greatnesses in modern times, the
result of the greatest feud that ever made two races mortal foes is
merely that no prudent host dare ask the heads of the two houses to
dinner together, lest a question of precedence should arise, such as no
master of ceremonies would presume to settle. That is what it has come
to. Once upon a time an Orsini quarrelled with a Colonna in the Corso,
just where Aragno's café is now situated, and ran him through with his
rapier, wounding him almost to death. He was carried into the palace of
the Theodoli, close by, and the records of that family tell that within
the hour eight hundred of the Colonna's retainers were in the house to
guard him. In as short space, the Orsini called out three thousand men
in arms, when Cæsar Borgia's henchman claimed the payment of a tax.

[Illustration: INTERIOR OF THE MAUSOLEUM OF AUGUSTUS

From a print of the last century]

Times have changed since then. The Mausoleum of Augustus, once a
fortress, has been an open air theatre in our time, and there the great
Salvini and Ristori often acted in their early youth; it is a circus
now. And in less violent contrast, but with change as great from what it
was, the palace of the Colonna suggests no thought of defence nowadays,
and the wide gates and courtyard recall rather the splendours of the
Constable and of his wife, Maria Mancini, niece of Cardinal Mazarin,
than the fiercer days when Castracane was Sciarra's guest on the other
side of the church.

The Basilica of the Apostles is said to have been built by Pelagius the
First, who was made Pope in the year 555, and who dedicated it to Saint
Philip and Saint James. Recent advances in the study of archæology make
it seem more than probable that he adapted for the purpose a part of the
ancient barracks of the Vigiles, of which the central portion appears
almost to coincide with the present church, at a somewhat different
angle; and in the same way it is likely that the remains of the north
wing were rebuilt at a later period by the Colonna as a fortified
palace. In those times men would not have neglected to utilize the
massive substructures and walls. However that may be, the Colonna dwelt
there at a very early date, and in eight hundred years or more have only
removed their headquarters from one side of the church to the other. The
latter has been changed and rebuilt, and altered again, like most of the
great Roman sanctuaries, till it bears no resemblance to the original
building. The present church is distinctly ugly, with the worst defects
of the early eighteenth century; and that age was as deficient in
cultivated taste as it was abhorrent of natural beauty. Some fragments
of the original frescos that adorned the apse are now preserved in a
hall behind the main Sacristy of Saint Peter's. Against the flat walls,
under the inquisition of the crudest daylight, the fragments of Melozzo
da Forli's masterpiece are masterpieces still; the angelic faces,
imprisoned in a place not theirs, reflect the sadness of art's
captivity; and the irretrievable destruction of an inimitable past
excites the pity and resentment of thoughtful men. The attempt to outdo
the works of the great has exhibited the contemptible imbecility of the
little, and the coarse-grained vanity of Clement the Eleventh has
parodied the poetry of art in the bombastic prose of a vulgar tongue.
Pope Pelagius took for his church the pillars and marbles of Trajan's
Forum, in the belief that his acts were acceptable to God; but Clement
had no such excuse, and the edifice which was a monument of faith has
given place to the temple of a monumental vanity.

[Illustration: FORUM OF TRAJAN]

It is remarkable that the Colonna rarely laid their dead in the Church
of the Apostles, for it was virtually theirs by right of immediate
neighbourhood, and during their domination they could easily have
assumed actual possession of it as a private property. A very curious
custom, which survived in the sixteenth century, and perhaps much later,
bears witness to the close connection between their family and the
church. At that time a gallery existed, accessible from the palace and
looking down into the basilica, so that the family could assist at Mass
without leaving their dwelling.

On the afternoon of the first of May, which is the traditional feast of
this church, the poor of the neighbourhood assembled within. The windows
of the palace gallery were then thrown open and a great number of fat
fowls were thrown alive to the crowd, turkeys, geese and the like, to
flutter down to the pavement and be caught by the luckiest of the people
in a tumultuous scramble. When this was over, a young pig was swung out
and lowered in slings by a purchase of which the block was seized to a
roof beam. When just out of reach the rope was made fast, and the most
active of the men jumped for the animal from below, till one was
fortunate enough to catch it with his hands, when the rope was let go,
and he carried off the prize. The custom was evidently similar to that
of climbing the May-pole, which was set up on the same day in the Campo
Vaccino. May-day was one of the oldest festivals of the Romans, for it
was sacred to the tutelary Lares, or spirits of ancestors, and was kept
holy, both publicly by the whole city as the habitation of the Roman
people, and by each family in its private dwelling. It is of Aryan
origin and is remembered in one way or another by all Aryan races in our
own time, and it is not surprising that in the general conversion of
Paganism to Christianity a new feast should have been intentionally made
to coincide with an old one; but it is hard to understand the lack of
all reverence for sacred places which could admit such a scene as the
scrambling for live fowls and pigs in honour of the twelve Apostles, a
pious exercise which is perhaps paralleled, though assuredly not
equalled, in crudeness, by the old Highland custom of smoking tobacco in
kirk throughout the sermon.

At the very time when we have historical record of a Pope's presence as
an amused spectator of the proceedings, Michelangelo had lately painted
the ceiling of the Sixtine chapel, and had not yet begun his Last
Judgment; and 'Diva' Vittoria Colonna, not yet the friend of his later
years, was perhaps even then composing those strangely passionate
spiritual sonnets which appeal to the soul through the heart, by the
womanly pride that strove to make the heart subject to the soul.

The commonplace romance which has represented Vittoria Colonna and
Michelangelo as in love with each other is as unworthy of both as it is
wholly without foundation. They first met nine years before her death,
when she was almost fifty and he was already sixty-four. She had then
been widowed twelve years, and it was long since she had refused in
Naples the princely suitors who made overtures for her hand. The true
romance of her life was simpler, nobler and more enduring, for it began
when she was a child, and it ended when she breathed her last in the
house of Giuliano Cesarini, the kinsman of her people, whose descendant
married her namesake in our own time.

At the age of four, Vittoria was formally betrothed to Francesco
d'Avalos, heir of Pescara, one of that fated race whose family history
has furnished matter for more than one stirring tale. Vittoria was born
in Marino, the Roman town and duchy which still gives its title to
Prince Colonna's eldest son, and she was brought up in Rome and Naples,
of which latter city her father was Grand Constable. Long before she was
married, she saw her future husband and loved him at first sight, as
she loved him to her dying day, so that although even greater offers
were made for her, she steadfastly refused to marry any other man. They
were united when she was seventeen years old, he loved her devotedly,
and they spent many months together almost without other society in the
island of Ischia. The Emperor Charles the Fifth was fighting his
lifelong fight with Francis the First of France. Colonna and Pescara
were for the Empire, and Francesco d'Avalos joined the imperial army; he
was taken prisoner at Ravenna and carried captive to France; released,
he again fought for Charles, who offered him the crown of the kingdom of
Naples; but he refused it, and still he fought on, to fall at last at
Pavia, in the strength of his mature manhood, and to die of his wounds
in Milan when Vittoria was barely five and thirty years of age, still
young, surpassingly beautiful, and gifted as few women have ever been.
What their love was, their long correspondence tells,--a love passionate
as youth and enduring as age, mutual, whole and faithful. For many years
the heartbroken woman lived in Naples, where she had been most happy,
feeding her soul with fire and tears. At last she returned to Rome, to
her own people, in her forty-ninth year. There she was visited by the
old Emperor for whom her husband had given his life, and there she met
Michelangelo.

It was natural enough that they should be friends. It is monstrous to
suppose them lovers. The melancholy of their natures drew them together,
and the sympathy of their tastes cemented the bond. To the woman-hating
man of genius, this woman was a revelation and a wonder; to the great
princess in her perpetual sorrow the greatest of creative minds was a
solace and a constant intellectual delight. Their friendship was mutual,
fitting and beautiful, which last is more than can be said for the
absurd stories about their intercourse which are extant in print and
have been made the subject of imaginary pictures by more than one
painter. The tradition that they used to meet often in the little Church
of Saint Sylvester, behind the Colonna gardens, rests upon the fact that
they once held a consultation there in the presence of Francesco
d'Olanda, a Portuguese artist, when Vittoria was planning the Convent of
Saint Catherine, which she afterwards built not very far away. The truth
is that she did not live in the palace of her kinsfolk after her return
to Rome, but most probably in the convent attached to the other and
greater Church of Saint Sylvester which stands in the square of that
name not far from the Corso. The convent itself is said to have been
originally built for the ladies of the Colonna who took the veil, and
was only recently destroyed to make room for the modern Post-office, the
church itself having passed into the hands of the English. The
coincidence of the two churches being dedicated to the same saint
doubtless helped the growth of the unjust fable. But in an age of great
women, in the times of Lucrezia Borgia, great and bad, of Catherine
Sforza, great and warlike, Vittoria Colonna was great and good; and the
ascetic Michelangelo, discovering in her the realization of an ideal,
laid at her feet the homage of a sexagenarian's friendship.

In the battle of the archæologists the opposing forces traverse and
break ground, and rush upon each other again, 'hurtling together like
wild boars,'--as Mallory describes the duels of his knights,--and when
learned doctors disagree it is not the province of a searcher after
romance to attempt a definition of exact truths. 'Some romances
entertain the genius,' quotes Johnson, 'and strengthen it by the noble
ideas which they give of things; but they corrupt the truth of history.'

Professor Lanciani, who is probably the greatest authority, living or
dead, on Roman antiquities, places the site of the temple of the Sun in
the Colonna gardens, and another writer compares the latter to the
hanging gardens of Babylon, supported entirely on ancient arches and
substructures rising high above the natural soil below. But before
Aurelian erected the splendid building to record his conquest of
Palmyra, the same spot was the site of the 'Little Senate,' instituted
by Elagabalus in mirthful humour, between an attack of sacrilegious
folly and a fit of cruelty.

The 'Little Senate' was a woman's senate; in other words, it was a
regular assembly of the fashionable Roman matrons of the day, who met
there in hours of idleness under the presidency of the Emperor's mother,
Semiamira. Ælius Lampridius, quoted by Baracconi, has a passage about
it. 'From this Senate,' he says, 'issued the absurd laws for the
matrons, entitled Semiamiran Senatorial Decrees, which determined for
each matron how she might dress, to whom she must yield precedence, by
whom she might be kissed, deciding which ladies might drive in chariots,
and which in carts, and whether the latter should be drawn by
caparisoned horses, or by asses, or by mules, or oxen; who should be
allowed to be carried in a litter or a chair, which might be of leather
or of bone with fittings of ivory or of silver, as the case might be;
and it was even determined which ladies might wear shoes adorned only
with gold, and which might have gems set in their boots.' Considering
how little human nature has changed in eighteen hundred years it is easy
enough to imagine what the debates in the 'Little Senate' must have been
with Semiamira in the chair ruling everything 'out of order' which did
not please her capricious fancy: the shrill discussions about a
fashionable head-dress, the whispered intrigues for a jewel-studded
slipper, the stormy divisions on the question of gold hairpins, and the
atmosphere of beauty, perfumes, gossip, vanity and all feminine
dissension. But the 'Little Senate' was short-lived.

Some fifty years after Elagabalus, Aurelian triumphed over Zenobia of
Palmyra, and built his temple of the Sun. That triumph was the finest
sight, perhaps, ever seen in imperial Rome. Twenty richly caparisoned
elephants and two hundred captive wild beasts led the immense
procession; eight hundred pairs of gladiators came next, the glory and
strength of fighting manhood, with all their gleaming arms and
accoutrements, marching by the huge Flavian Amphitheatre, where sooner
or later they must fight each other to the death; then countless
captives of the East and South and West and North, Syrian nobles, Gothic
warriors, Persian dignitaries beside Frankish chieftains, and Tetricus,
the great Gallic usurper, in the attire of his nation, with his young
son whom he had dared to make a Senator in defiance of the Empire. Three
royal equipages followed, rich with silver, gold and precious stones,
one of them Zenobia's own, and she herself seated therein, young,
beautiful, proud and vanquished, loaded from head to foot with gems,
most bitterly against her will, her hands and feet bound with a golden
chain, and about her neck another, long and heavy, of which the end was
held by a Persian captive who walked beside the chariot and seemed to
lead her. Then Aurelian, the untiring conqueror, in the car of the
Gothic king, drawn by four great stags, which he himself was to
sacrifice to Jove that day according to his vow, and a long line of
wagons loaded down and groaning under the weight of the vast spoil; the
Roman army, horse and foot, the Senate and the people, a million,
perhaps, all following the indescribable magnificence of the great
triumph, along the Sacred Way, that was yellow with fresh strewn sand
and sweet with box and myrtle.

[Illustration: RUINS OF HADRIAN'S VILLA AT TIVOLI]

But when it was over, Aurelian, who was generous when he was not
violent, honoured Zenobia and endowed her with great fortune, and she
lived for many years as a Roman Matron in Hadrian's villa at Tivoli. And
the Emperor made light of the 'Little Senate' and built his Sun temple
on the spot, with singular magnificence, enriching its decoration with
pearls and precious stones and with fifteen thousand pounds in weight of
pure gold. Much of that temple was still standing in the seventeenth
century and was destroyed by Urban the Eighth, the Pope who built the
heavy round tower on the south side of the Quirinal palace, facing Monte
Cavallo.

Monte Cavallo itself was a part of the Colonna villa, and its name, only
recently changed to Piazza del Quirinale, was given to it by the great
horses that stand on each side of the fountain, and which were found
long ago, according to tradition, between the Palazzo Rospigliosi and
the Palazzo della Consulta. In the times of Sixtus the Fifth, they were
in a pitiable state, their forelegs and tails gone, their necks broken,
their heads propped up by bits of masonry. When he finished the Quirinal
palace he restored them and set them up, side by side, before the
entrance, and when Pius the Sixth changed their position and turned them
round, the ever conservative and ever discontented Roman people were
disgusted by the change. On the pedestal of one of them are the words,
'Opus Phidiae,' 'the work of Phidias,' A punning placard was at once
stuck upon the inscription with the legend, 'Opus Perfidiae Pii
Sexti'--'the work of perfidy of Pius the Sixth.'

The Quirinal palace cannot be said to have played a part in the history
of Rome. Its existence is largely due to the common sense of Sixtus the
Fifth, and to his love of good air. He was a shepherd by birth, and it
is recorded that the first of his bitter disappointments was that the
farmer whom he served set him to feed the pigs because he could not
learn how to drive sheep to pasture; a disgrace which ultimately made
him run away, when he fell in with a monk whose face he liked. He
informed the astonished father that he meant to follow him everywhere,
'to Hell, if he chose,'--which was a forcible if not a pious
resolution,--and explained that the pigs would find their way home
alone. Later, when he had quarrelled with all the monks in Naples,
including his superiors, he came to Rome, and, being by that time very
learned, he was employed to expound the 'Formalities' of Scotus to the
'Signor' Marcantonio Colonna, abbot of the Monastery of the Apostles;
and there he resided as a guest for a long time till his brilliant pupil
was himself master of the subject, as well as a firm friend of the
quarrelsome monk; and in their intercourse the seeds were no doubt sown
of that implacable hatred against the Orsini which, under the great and
just provocation of a kinsman's murder, ended in the exile and temporary
ruin of the Colonna's rivals. No doubt, also, the abbot and the monk
often strolled together in the Colonna gardens, and the future Pope
breathed the high air of the Quirinal hill with a sense of relief, and
dreamed of living up there, far above the city, literally in an
atmosphere of his own. Therefore, when he was Pope, he made the great
palace that crowns the eminence, completing and extending a much smaller
building planned by the wise Gregory the Thirteenth, and ever since
then, until 1870, the Popes lived there during some part of the year. It
is modern, as age is reckoned in Rome, and it has modern associations in
the memory of living men.

It was from the great balcony of the Quirinal that Pius the Ninth
pronounced his famous benediction to an enthusiastic and patriotic
multitude in 1846. It will be remembered that a month after his
election, Pius proclaimed a general amnesty in favour of all persons
imprisoned for political crimes, and a decree by which all criminal
prosecutions for political offences should be immediately discontinued,
unless the persons accused were ecclesiastics, soldiers, or servants of
the government, or criminals in the universal sense of the word.

The announcement was received with a frenzy of enthusiasm, and Rome went
mad with delight. Instinctively, the people began to move towards the
Quirinal from all parts of the city, as soon as the proclamation was
published; the stragglers became a band, and swelled to a crowd; music
was heard, flags appeared and the crowd swelled to a multitude that
thronged the streets, singing, cheering and shouting for joy as they
pushed their way up to the palace, filling the square, the streets that
led to it and the Via della Dateria below it, to overflowing. In answer
to this popular demonstration the Pope appeared upon the great balcony
above the main entrance; a shout louder than all the rest burst from
below, the long drawn 'Viva!' of the southern races; he lifted his
hand, and there was silence; and in the calm summer air his quiet eyes
were raised towards the sky as he imparted his benediction to the people
of Rome.

Twenty-four years later, when the Italians had taken Rome, a detachment
of soldiers accompanied by a smith and his assistants marched up to the
same gate. Not a soul was within, and they had instructions to enter and
take possession of the palace. In the presence of a small and silent
crowd of sullen-looking men of the people, the doors were forced.

The difference between Unity under Augustus and Unity under Victor
Emmanuel is that under the Empire the Romans took Italy, whereas under
the Kingdom the Italians have taken Rome. Without pretending that there
can be any moral distinction between the two, one may safely admit that
there is a great and vital one between the two conditions of Rome, at
the two periods of history, a distinction no less than that which
separates the conqueror from the conquered, and the fruits of conquest
from the consequences of subjection. But thinking men do not forget that
they look at the past in one way and at the present in another; and that
while the actions of a nation are dictated by the impulses of contagious
sentiment, the judgments of history are too often based upon an all but
commercial reckoning and balancing of profit and loss.

When Sixtus the Fifth was building the Quirinal palace, he was not
working in a wilderness resembling the deserted fields of the outlying
Monti. The hill was covered with gardens and villas. Ippolito d'Este,
the son of Alfonso, Duke of Ferrara, and of Lucrezia Borgia, had built
himself a residence on the west side of the hill, surrounded by gardens.
It was in the manner of his magnificent palace at Tivoli, that Villa
d'Este of which the melancholy charm had such a mysterious attraction
for Liszt, where the dark cypresses reflect their solemn beauty in the
stagnant water, and a weed-grown terrace mourns the dead artist in the
silence of decay.

[Illustration: PALAZZO DEL QUIRINALE]

Further on, along the Via Venti Settembre, stretched the pleasure
grounds of Oliviero, Cardinal Carafa, who is remembered as the man who
first recognized the merits of the beautiful mutilated group
subsequently known as 'Pasquino,' and set it upon the pedestal which
made it famous, and gave its name a place in all languages, by the witty
lampoons and stinging satires almost daily affixed to the block of
stone. Many other villas followed in the same direction, and in those
insecure days not a few Romans, when the summer days grew hot, were
content to move up from their palaces in the lower parts of the city to
breathe the somewhat better air of the Quirinal and the Esquiline,
instead of risking a journey to the country.

Sixtus the Fifth died in the Quirinal palace, and twenty-one other Popes
have died there since, all following the curious custom of bequeathing
their hearts and viscera to the parish Church of the Saints Vincent and
Anastasius, which is known as the Church of Cardinal Mazarin, because
the tasteless front was built by him, though the rest existed much
earlier. It stands opposite the fountain of Trevi, at one corner of the
little square; the vault in which the urns were placed is just behind
and below the high altar; but Benedict the Fourteenth built a special
monument for them on the left of the apse, and a tablet on the right
records the names of the Popes who left these strange legacies to the
church.

In passing, one may remember that Mazarin himself was born in the Region
of Trevi, the son of a Sicilian,--like Crispi and Rudinì. His father was
employed at first as a butler and then as a steward by the Colonna,
married an illegitimate daughter of the family, and lived to see his
granddaughter, Maria Mancini, married to the head of the house, and his
son a cardinal and despot of France, and himself, after the death of his
first wife, the honoured husband of Porzia Orsini, so that he was the
only man in history who was married both to an Orsini and to a Colonna.
In the light of his father's extraordinary good fortune, the success of
the son, though not less great, is at least less astonishing. The
magnificent Rospigliosi palace, often ascribed by a mistake to Cardinal
Scipio Borghese, was the Palazzo Mazarini and Mazarin's father died
there; it was inherited by the Dukes of Nevers, through another niece of
the Cardinal's, and was bought from them between 1667 and 1670, by
Prince Rospigliosi, brother of Pope Clement the Ninth, then reigning.

Urban the Eighth, the Barberini Pope, had already left his mark on the
Quirinal hill. The great Barberini palace was built by him, it is said,
of stones taken from the Colosseum, whereupon a Pasquinade announced
that 'the Barberini had done what the Barbarians had not.' The
Barbarians did not pull down the Colosseum, it is true, but they could
assuredly not have built as Urban did, and in that particular instance,
without wishing to justify the vandalisms of the centuries succeeding
the Renascence, it may well be asked whether the Amphitheatre is not
more picturesque in its half-ruined state, as it stands, and whether the
city is not richer by a great work of art in the princely dwelling which
faces the street of the Four Fountains.

Among the many memories of the Quirinal there is one more mysterious
than the rest. The great Baths of Constantine extended over the site of
the Palazzo Rospigliosi, and the ruins were in part standing at the end
of the sixteenth century. It is related by a writer of those days and an
eye-witness of the fact, that a vault was discovered beneath the old
baths, about eighty feet long by twenty wide, closed at one end by a
wall thrown up with evident haste and lack of skill, and completely
filled with human bodies that fell to dust at the first touch, evidently
laid there all at the same time, just after death, and probably
numbering at least a thousand. In vain one conjectures the reason of
such wholesale burial--one of Nero's massacres, perhaps, or a plague. No
one can tell.

The invaluable Baracconi, often quoted, recalls the fact that Tasso,
when a child, lived with his father in some house on the Monte Cavallo,
when the execrable Carafa cardinal and his brother had temporarily
succeeded in seizing all the Colonna property; and he gives a letter of
Bernardo, the poet's father, written in July to his wife, who was away
just then.

[Illustration: PIAZZA BARBERINI]

'I do not wish the children to go to the vineyard because they get too
hot, and the air is bad there this summer, but in order that they may
have a change, I took steps to have the use of the Boccaccio Vineyard
[Villa Colonna], and the Duke of Paliano [then a Carafa, for the latter
had stolen the title as well as the lands] has let me have it, and we
have been here a week and shall stay all summer in this good air.'

The words call up a picture of Tasso, a small boy, pale with the heat of
a Roman summer, but restless and for ever running about, overheated and
catching cold like all delicate children, which brings the unhappy poet
a little nearer to us.

Of those great villas and gardens there remain the Colonna, the
Rospigliosi and the Quirinal, by far the largest of the three, and
enclosing between four walls an area almost, if not quite, equal to the
Pincio. The great palace where twenty-two popes died is inhabited by the
royal family of Italy and crowns the height, as the Vatican, far away
across the Tiber, is also on an eminence of its own. They face each
other, like two principles in natural and eternal opposition,--Rome the
conqueror of the world, and Italy the conqueror of Rome. And he who
loves the land for its own sake can only pray that if they must oppose
each other for ever in heart, they may abide in that state of civilized
though unreconciled peace, which is the nation's last and only hope of
prosperity.

[Illustration]

REGION III COLONNA

When the present Queen of Italy first came to Rome as Princess Margaret,
and drove through the city to obtain a general impression of it, she
reached the Piazza Colonna and asked what the column might be which is
the most conspicuous landmark in that part of Rome and gives a name to
the square, and to the whole Region. The answer of the elderly officer
who accompanied the Princess and her ladies is historical. 'That
column,' he answered, 'is the Column of Piazza Colonna'--'the Column of
Column Square,' as we might say--and that was all he could tell
concerning it, for his business was not archæology, but soldiering. The
column was erected by the Emperor Marcus Aurelius, whose equestrian
statue stands on the Capitol, to commemorate his victory over the
Marcomanni.

[Illustration: ARCH OF TITUS]

It is remarkable that so many of the monuments still preserved
comparatively intact should have been set up by the adoptive line of the
so-called Antonines, from Trajan to Marcus Aurelius, and that the two
monster columns, the one in Piazza Colonna and the one in Trajan's
Forum, should be the work of the last and the first of those emperors,
respectively. Among other memorials of them are the Colosseum, the Arch
of Titus and the statue mentioned above. The lofty Septizonium is
levelled to the ground, the Palaces of the Cæsars are a mountain of
ruins, the triumphal arches of Marcus Aurelius and of Domitian have
disappeared with those of Gratian, of Valens, of Arcadius and of many
others; but the two gigantic columns still stand erect with their
sculptured tales of victory and triumph almost unbroken, surmounted by
the statues of Saint Peter and Saint Paul, whose memory was sacred to
all Christians long before the monuments were erected, and to whom,
respectively, they have been dedicated by a later age.

There may have been a connection, too, in the minds of the people,
between the 'Column of Piazza Colonna' and the Column of the Colonna
family, since a great part of this Region had fallen under the
domination of the noble house, and was held by them with a chain of
towers and fortifications; but the pillar which is the device of the
Region terminates in the statue of the Apostle Peter, whereas the one
which figures in the shield of Colonna is crowned with a royal crown, in
memory of the coronation of Lewis the Bavarian by Sciarra, who himself
generally lived in a palace facing the small square which bears his
name, and which is only a widening of the Corso just north of San
Marcello, the scene of Jacopo Colonna's brave protest against his
kinsman's mistaken imperialism.

The straight Corso itself, or what is the most important part of it to
Romans, runs through the Region from San Lorenzo in Lucina to Piazza di
Sciarra, and beyond that, southwards, it forms the western boundary of
Trevi as far as the Palazzo di Venezia, and the Ripresa de' Barberi--the
'Catching of the Racers.' West of the Corso, the Region takes in the
Monte Citorio and the Piazza of the Pantheon, but not the Pantheon
itself, and eastwards it embraces the new quarter which was formerly the
Villa Ludovisi, and follows the Aurelian wall, from Porta Salaria to
Porta Pinciana. Corso means a 'course,' and the Venetian Paul the
Second, who found Rome dull compared with Venice, gave it the name when
he made it a race-course for the Carnival, towards the close of the
fifteenth century. Before that it was Via Lata,--'Broad Street,'--and
was a straight continuation of the Via Flaminia, the main northern
highway from the city. For centuries it has been the chief playground of
the Roman Carnival, a festival of which, perhaps, nothing but the memory
will remain in a few years, when the world will wonder how it could be
possible that the population of the grave old city should have gone mad
each year for ten days and behaved itself by day and night like a crowd
of schoolboys let loose.

'Carnival' is supposed to be derived from 'Carnelevamen,' a 'solace for
the flesh.' Byron alone is responsible for the barbarous derivation
'Carne Vale,' farewell meat--a philological impossibility. In the minds
of the people it is probably most often translated as 'Meat Time,' a
name which had full meaning in times when occasional strict fasting and
frequent abstinence were imposed on Romans almost by law. Its beginnings
are lost in the dawnless night of time--of Time, who was Kronos, of
Kronos who was Saturn, of Saturn who gave his mysterious name to the
Saturnalia in which Carnival had its origin. His temple stood at the
foot of the Capitol hill, facing the corner of the Forum, and there are
remains of it today, tall columns in a row, with architrave and frieze
and cornice; from the golden milestone close at hand, as from the
beginning of time, were measured the ways of the world to the ends of
the earth; and the rites performed within it were older than any others,
and different, for here the pious Roman worshipped with uncovered head,
whereas in all other temples he drew up his robes as a veil lest any
sight of evil omen should meet his eyes, and here waxen tapers were
first burned in Rome in honour of a god. And those same tapers played a
part, to the end, on the last night of Carnival. But in the coincidence
of old feasts with new ones, the festival of Lupercus falls nearer to
the time of Ash Wednesday, for the Lupercalia were celebrated on the
fifteenth of February, whereas the Carnival of Saturn began on the
seventeenth of December.

Lupercus was but a little god, yet he was great among the shepherds in
Rome's pastoral beginnings, for he was the driver away of wolves, and on
his day the early settlers ran round and round their sheepfold on the
Palatine, all dressed in skins of fresh-slain goats, praising the Faun
god, and calling upon him to protect their flocks. And in truth, as the
winter, when wolves are hungry and daring, was over, his protection was
a foregone conclusion till the cold days came again. The grotto
dedicated to him was on the northwest slope of the Palatine, nearly
opposite the Church of Saint George in Velabro, across the Via di San
Teodoro; and all that remains of the great festival in which Mark Antony
and the rest ran like wild men through the streets of Rome, smiting men
and women with the purifying leathern thong, and offering at last that
crown which Cæsar thrice refused, is merged and forgotten, with the
Saturnalia, in the ten days' feasting and rioting that change to the
ashes and sadness of Lent, as the darkest night follows the brightest
day. For the Romans always loved strong contrasts.

Carnival, in the wider sense, begins at Christmas and ends when Lent
begins; but to most people it means but the last ten days of the season,
when festivities crowd upon each other till pleasure fights for minutes
as for jewels; when tables are spread all night and lights are put out
at dawn; when society dances itself into distraction and poor men make
such feasting as they can; when no one works who can help it, and no
work done is worth having, because it is done for double price and half
its value; when affairs of love are hastened to solution or catastrophe,
and affairs of state are treated with the scorn they merit in the eyes
of youth, because the only sense is laughter, and the only wisdom,
folly. That is Carnival, personified by the people as a riotous old
red-cheeked, bottle-nosed hunchback, animated by the spirit of fun.

In a still closer sense, Carnival is the Carnival in the Corso, or was;
for it is dead beyond resuscitation, and such efforts as are made to
give it life again are but foolish incantations that call up sad ghosts
of joy, spiritless and witless. But within living memory, it was very
different. In those days which can never come back, the Corso was a
sight to see and not to be forgotten. The small citizens who had small
houses in the street let every window to the topmost story for the whole
ten days; the rich whose palaces faced the favoured line threw open
their doors to their friends; every window was decorated, from every
balcony gorgeous hangings, or rich carpets, or even richer tapestries
hung down; the street was strewn thick with yellow sand, and wheresoever
there was an open space wooden seats were built up, row above row, where
one might hire a place to see the show and join in throwing flowers, and
the lime-covered 'confetti' that stung like small shot and whitened
everything like meal, and forced everyone in the street or within reach
of it to wear a shield of thin wire netting to guard the face, and thick
gloves to shield the hands; or, in older times, a mask, black, white, or
red, or modelled and painted with extravagant features, like evil beings
in a dream.

[Illustration: TWIN CHURCHES AT THE ENTRANCE TO THE CORSO

From a print of the last century]

In the early afternoon of each day except Sunday it all began, day after
day the same, save that the fun grew wilder and often rougher as the
doom of Ash Wednesday drew near. First when the people had gathered in
their places, high and low, and already thronged the street from side to
side, there was a distant rattle of scabbards and a thunder of hoofs,
and all fell back, crowding and climbing upon one another, to let a
score of cavalrymen trot through, clearing the way for the carriages of
the 'Senator' and Municipality, which drove from end to end of the Corso
with their scarlet and yellow liveries, before any other vehicles were
allowed to pass, or any pelting with 'confetti' began. But on the
instant when they had gone by, the showers began, right, left, upwards,
downwards, like little storms of flowers and snow in the afternoon
sunshine, and the whole air was filled with the laughter and laughing
chatter of twenty thousand men and women and children--such a sound as
could be heard nowhere else in the world. Many have heard a great host
cheer, many have heard the battle-cries of armies, many have heard the
terrible deep yell that goes up from an angry multitude in times of
revolution; but only those who remember the Carnival as it used to be
have heard a whole city laugh, and the memory is worth having, for it is
like no other. The sound used to flow along in great waves, following
the sights that passed, and swelling with them to a peal that was like a
cheer, and ebbing then to a steady, even ripple of enjoyment that never
ceased till it rose again in sheer joy of something new to see. Nothing
can give an idea of the picture in times when Rome was still Roman; no
power of description can call up the crowd that thronged and jammed the
long, narrow street, till the slowly moving carriages and cars seemed to
force their way through the stiffly packed mass of humanity as a strong
vessel ploughs her course up-stream through packed ice in winter. Yet no
one was hurt, and an order reigned which could never have been produced
by any means except the most thorough good temper and the determination
of each individual to do no harm to his neighbour, though all respect of
individuals was as completely gone as in any anarchy of revolution. The
more respectable a man looked who ventured into the press in ordinary
clothes, the more certainly he became at once the general mark for
hail-storms of 'confetti.' No uniform nor distinguishing badge was
respected, excepting those of the squad of cavalrymen who cleared the
way, and the liveries of the Municipality's coaches. Men and women were
travestied and disguised in every conceivable way, as Punch and Judy, as
judges and lawyers with enormous square black caps, black robes and
bands, or in dresses of the eighteenth century, or as Harlequins, or
even as bears and monkeys, singly, or in twos and threes, or in little
companies of fifteen or twenty, all dressed precisely alike and
performing comic evolutions with military exactness. Everyone carried a
capacious pouch, or a fishing-basket, or some receptacle of the kind for
the white 'confetti,' and arms and hands were ceaselessly swung in air,
flinging vast quantities of the snowy stuff at long range and short. At
every corner and in every side street, men sold it out of huge baskets,
by the five, and ten, and twenty pounds, weighing it out with the
ancient steelyard balance. Every balcony was lined with long troughs of
it, constantly replenished by the house servants; every carriage and car
had a full supply. And through all the air the odd, clean odour of the
fresh plaster mingled with the fragrance of the box-leaves and the
perfume of countless flowers. For flowers were thrown, too, in every
way, loose and scattered, or in hard little bunches, the 'mazzetti,'
that almost hurt when they struck the mark, and in beautiful nosegays,
rarely flung at random when a pretty face was within sight at a window.
The cars, often charmingly decorated, were filled with men and women
representing some period of fashion, or some incident in history, or
some allegorical subject, and were sometimes two or three stories high,
and covered all over with garlands of flowers and box and myrtle. In the
intervals between them endless open carriages moved along, lined with
white, filled with white dominos, drawn by horses all protected and
covered with white cotton robes, against the whiter 'confetti'--everyone
fighting mock battles with everyone else, till it seemed impossible that
anything could be left to throw, and the long perspective of the narrow
street grew dim between the high palaces, and misty and purple in the
evening light.

A gun fired somewhere far away as a signal warned the carriages to turn
out, and make way for the race that was to follow. The last moments were
the hottest and the wildest, as flowers, 'confetti,' sugar plums with
comet-like tails, wreaths, garlands, everything, went flying through the
air in a final and reckless profusion, and as the last car rolled away
the laughter and shouting ceased, and all was hushed in the expectation
of the day's last sight. Again, the clatter of hoofs and scabbards, as
the dragoons cleared the way; twenty thousand heads and necks craning to
look northward, as the people pushed back to the side pavements;
silence, and the inevitable yellow dog that haunts all race-courses,
scampering over the white street, scared by the shouts, and catcalls,
and bursts of spasmodic laughter; then a far sound of flying hoofs, a
dead silence, and the quick breathing of suppressed excitement; louder
and louder the hoofs, deader the hush; and then, in the dash of a
second, in the scud of a storm, in a whirlwind of light and colour and
sparkling gold leaf, with straining necks, and flashing eyes, and wide
red nostrils flecked with foam, the racing colts flew by as fleet as
darting lightning, riderless and swift as rock-swallows by the sea.

Then, if it were the last night of Carnival, as the purple air grew
brown in the dusk, myriads of those wax tapers first used in Saturn's
temple of old lit up the street like magic and the last game of all
began, for every man and woman and child strove to put out another's
candle, and the long, laughing cry, 'No taper! No taper! Senza moccolo!'
went ringing up to the darkling sky. Long canes with cloths or damp
sponges or extinguishers fixed to them started up from nowhere, down
from everywhere, from window and balcony to the street below, and from
the street to the low balconies above. Put out at every instant, the
little candles were instantly relighted, till they were consumed down to
the hand; and as they burned low, another cry went up, 'Carnival is
dead! Carnival is dead!' But he was not really dead till midnight, when
the last play of the season had been acted in the playhouses, the last
dance danced, the last feast eaten amid song and laughter, and the
solemn Patarina of the Capitol tolled out the midnight warning like a
funeral knell. That was the end.

The riderless race was at least four hundred years old when it was given
up. The horses were always called Bárberi, with the accent on the first
syllable, and there has been much discussion about the origin of the
name. Some say that it meant horses from Barbary, but then it should be
pronounced Barbéri, accented on the penultimate. Others think it stood
for Bárbari--barbarian, that is, unridden. The Romans never misplace an
accent, and rarely mistake the proper quantity of a syllable long or
short. For my own part, though no scholar has as yet suggested it, I
believe that the common people, always fond of easy witticisms and
catchwords, coined the appellation, with an eye to the meaning of both
the other derivations, out of Barbo, the family name of Pope Paul the
Second, who first instituted the Carnival races, and set the winning
post under the balcony of the huge Palazzo di Venezia, which he had
built beside the Church of Saint Mark, to the honour and glory of his
native city.

He made men run foot-races, too: men, youths and boys, of all ages; and
the poor Jews, in heavy cloth garments, were first fed and stuffed with
cakes and then made to run, too. The jests of the Middle Age were savage
compared with the roughest play of later times.

The pictures of old Rome are fading fast. I can remember, when a little
boy, seeing the great Carnival of 1859, when the Prince of Wales was in
Rome, and the masks which had been forbidden since the revolution were
allowed again in his honour; and before the flower throwing began, I saw
Liszt, the pianist, not yet in orders, but dressed in a close-fitting
and very fashionable grey frock-coat, with a grey high hat, young then,
tall, athletic and erect; he came out suddenly from a doorway, looked to
the right and left in evident fear of being made a mark for 'confetti,'
crossed the street hurriedly and disappeared--not at all the
silver-haired, priestly figure the world knew so well in later days. And
by and by the Prince of Wales came by in a simple open carriage, a thin
young man in a black coat, with a pale, face and a quiet smile, looking
all about him with an almost boyish interest, and bowing to the right
and left.

Then in deep contrast of sadness, out of the past years comes a great
funeral by night, down the Corso; hundreds of brown, white-bearded
friars, two and two with huge wax candles, singing the ancient chant of
the penitential psalms; hundreds of hooded lay brethren of the
Confraternities, some in black, some in white, with round holes for
their eyes that flashed through, now and then, in the yellow glare of
the flaming tapers; hundreds of little street boys beside them in the
shadow, holding up big horns of grocers' paper to catch the dripping
wax; and then, among priests in cotta and stole, the open bier carried
on men's shoulders, and on it the peaceful figure of a dead girl,
white-robed, blossom crowned, delicate as a frozen flower in the cold
winter air. She had died of an innocent love, they said, and she was
borne in through the gates of the Santi Apostoli to her rest in the
solemn darkness. Nor has anyone been buried in that way since then.

[Illustration: SAN LORENZO IN LUCINA]

In the days of Paul the Second, what might be called living Rome, taken
in the direction of the Corso, began at the Arch of Marcus Aurelius,
long attributed to Domitian, which stood at the corner of the small
square called after San Lorenzo in Lucina. Beyond that point, northwards
and eastwards, the city was a mere desert, and on the west side the
dwelling-houses fell away towards the Mausoleum of Augustus, the
fortress of the Colonna. The arch itself used to be called the Arch of
Portugal, because a Portuguese Cardinal, Giovanni da Costa, lived in the
Fiano palace at the corner of the Corso. No one would suppose that very
modern-looking building, with its smooth front and conventional
balconies, to be six hundred years old, the ancient habitation of all
the successive Cardinals of Saint Lawrence. Its only other interest,
perhaps, lies in the fact that it formed part of the great estates
bestowed by Sixtus the Fifth on his nephews, and was nevertheless sold
over their children's heads for debt, fifty-five years after his death.
The swineherd's race was prodigal, excepting the 'Great Friar' himself,
and, like the Prodigal Son, it was not long before the Peretti were
reduced to eating the husks.

It was natural that the palaces of the Renascence should rise along the
only straight street of any length in what was then the inhabited part
of the city, and that the great old Roman Barons, the Colonna, the
Orsini, the Caetani, should continue to live in their strongholds, where
they had always dwelt. The Caetani, indeed, once bought from a
Florentine banker what is now the Ruspoli palace, and Sciarra Colonna
had lived far down the Corso; but with these two exceptions, the
princely habitations between the Piazza del Popolo and the Piazza di
Venezia are almost all the property of families once thought foreigners
in Rome. The greatest, the most magnificent private dwelling in the
world is the Doria Pamfili palace, as the Doria themselves were the most
famous, and became the most powerful of those many nobles who, in the
course of centuries, settled in the capital and became Romans, not only
in name but in fact--Doria, Borghese, Rospigliosi, Pallavicini and
others of less enduring fame or reputation, who came in the train or
alliance of a Pope, and remained in virtue of accumulated riches and
acquired honour.

Two hundred and fifty years have passed since a council of learned
doctors and casuists decided for Pope Innocent the Tenth the precise
limit of his just power to enrich his nephews and relations, the
Pamfili, by an alliance with whom the original Doria of Genoa added
another name to their own, and inherited the vast estates. But nearly
four hundred years before Innocent, the Doria had been high admirals and
almost despots of Genoa. For they were a race of seamen from the first,
in a republic where seamanship was the first essential to distinction.
Albert Doria overcame the Pisans off Meloria in 1284, slaying five
thousand, and taking eleven thousand prisoners. Conrad, his son, was
'Captain of the Genoese Freedom,' and 'Captain of the People.' Lamba
Doria vanquished the Venetians under the brave Andrea Dandolo, and
Paganino Doria conquered them again under another Andrea Dandolo; and
then an Andrea Doria took service with the Pope, and became the greatest
sailor in Europe, the hero of a hundred sea-fights, at one time the ally
of Francis the First of France, and the most dangerous opponent of
Gonzalvo da Cordova, then high admiral of the Empire under Charles the
Fifth, a destroyer of pirates, by turns the idol, the enemy and the
despot of his own city, Genoa, and altogether such a type of a
soldier-sailor of fortune as the world has not seen before or since. And
there were others after him, notably Gian Andrea Doria, remembered by
the great victory over the Turks at Lepanto, whence he brought home
those gorgeous Eastern spoils of tapestry and embroideries which hang in
the Doria palace today.

[Illustration: PALAZZO DORIA PAMFILI]

The history of the palace itself is not without interest, for it shows
how property, which was not in the possession of the original Barons,
sometimes passed from hand to hand, changing names with each new owner,
in the rise and fall of fortunes in those times. The first building
seems to have belonged to the Chapter of Santa Maria Maggiore, which
somehow ceded it to Cardinal Santorio, who spent an immense sum in
rebuilding, extending and beautifying it. When it was almost finished,
Julius the Second came to see it, and after expressing the highest
admiration for the work, observed that such a habitation was less
fitting for a prince of the church than for a secular duke--meaning, by
the latter, his own nephew, Francesco della Rovere, then Duke of Urbino;
and the unfortunate Santorio, who had succeeded in preserving his
possessions under the domination of the Borgia, was forced to offer the
most splendid palace in Rome as a gift to the person designated by his
master. He died of a broken heart within the year. A hundred years
later, the Florentine Aldobrandini, nephew of Clement the Eighth, bought
it from the Dukes of Urbino for twelve thousand measures of grain,
furnished them for the purpose by their uncle, and finally, when it had
fallen in inheritance to Donna Olimpia Aldobrandini, Innocent the Tenth
married her to his nephew, Camillo Pamfili, from whom, by the fusion of
the two families, it at last came into the hands of the Doria-Pamfili.

The Doria palace is almost two-thirds of the size of Saint Peter's, and
within the ground plan of Saint Peter's the Colosseum could stand. It
used to be said that a thousand persons lived under the roof outside of
the gallery and the private apartments, which alone surpass in extent
the majority of royal residences. Without some such comparison mere
words can convey nothing to a mind unaccustomed to such size and space,
and when the idea is grasped, one asks, naturally enough, how the people
lived who built such houses--the people whose heirs, far reduced in
splendour, if not in fortune, are driven to let four-fifths of their
family mansion, because they find it impossible to occupy more rooms
than suffice the Emperor of Germany or the Queen of England. One often
hears foreign visitors, ignorant of the real size of palaces in Rome,
observe, with contempt, that the Roman princes 'let their palaces.' It
would be more reasonable to inquire what use could be made of such
buildings, if they were not let, or how any family could be expected to
inhabit a thousand rooms, and, ultimately, for what purpose such
monstrous residences were ever built at all.

The first thing that suggests itself in answer to the latter question as
the cause of such boundless extravagance is the inherited giantism of
the Latins, to which reference has been more than once made in these
pages, and to which the existence of many of the principal buildings in
Rome must be ascribed. Next, we may consider that at one time or
another, each of the greater Roman palaces has been, in all essentials,
the court of a pope or of a reigning feudal prince. Lastly, it must be
remembered that each palace was the seat of management of all its
owner's estates, and that such administration in those times required a
number of scribes and an amount of labour altogether out of proportion
with the income derived from the land.

At first sight the study of Italian life in the Middle Age does not seem
very difficult, because it is so interesting. But when one has read the
old chronicles that have survived, and the histories of those times, one
is amazed to see how much we are told about people and their actions,
and how very little about the way in which people lived. It is easier to
learn the habits of the Egyptians, or the Greeks, or the ancient Romans,
or the Assyrians, than to get at the daily life of an Italian family
between the eleventh and the thirteenth centuries, from such books as we
have. There are two reasons for this. One is the scarcity of literature,
excepting historical chronicles, until the time of Boccaccio and the
Italian storytellers. The other is the fact that what we call the Middle
Age was an age of transition from barbarism to the civilization of the
Renascence, and the Renascence was reached by sweeping away all the
barbarous things that had gone before it.

One must have lived a lifetime in Italy to be able to call up a fairly
vivid picture of the eleventh, twelfth, or thirteenth centuries. One
must have actually seen the grand old castles and gloomy monasteries,
and feudal villages of Calabria and Sicily, where all things are least
changed from what they were, and one should understand something of the
nature of the Italian people, where the original people have survived;
one must try also to realize the violence of those passions which are
ugly excrescences on Italian character even now, and which were once the
main movers of that character.

There are extant many inventories of lordly residences of earlier times
in Italy, for the inventory was taken every time the property changed
hands by inheritance or sale. Everyone of these inventories begins at
the main gate of the stronghold, and the first item is 'Rope for giving
the cord.' Now 'to give the cord' was a torture, and all feudal lords
had the right to inflict it. The victim's hands were tied behind his
back, the rope was made fast to his bound wrists, and he was hoisted
some twenty feet or so to the heavy iron ring which is fixed in the
middle of the arch of every old Italian castle gateway; he was then
allowed to drop suddenly till his feet, to which heavy weights were
sometimes attached, were a few inches from the ground, so that the
strain of his whole weight fell upon his arms, twisted them backwards,
and generally dislocated them at the shoulders. And this was usually
done three times, and sometimes twenty times, in succession, to the same
prisoner, either as a punishment or by way of examination, to extract a
confession of the truth. As the rope of torture was permanently rove
through the pulley over the front door, it must have been impossible not
to see it and remember what it meant every time one went in or out. And
such quick reminders of danger and torture, and sudden, painful death,
give the pitch and key of daily existence in the Middle Age. Every man's
life was in his hand until it was in his enemy's. Every man might be
forced, at a moment's notice, to defend not only his honour, and his
belongings, and his life, but his women and children, too,--not against
public enemies only, but far more often against private spite and
personal hatred. Nowadays, when most men only stake their money on their
convictions, it is hard to realize how men reasoned who staked their
lives at every turn; or to guess, for instance, at what women felt whose
husbands and sons, going out for a stroll of an afternoon, in the
streets of Rome, might as likely as not be brought home dead of a dozen
sword-wounds before evening. A husband, a father, was stabbed in the
dark by treachery; try and imagine the daily and year-long sensations of
the widowed mother, bringing up her only son deliberately to kill her
husband's murderer; teaching him to look upon vengeance as the first,
most real and most honourable aim of life, from the time he was old
enough to speak, to the time when he should be strong enough to kill.
Everything was earnest then. One should remember that most of the
stories told by Boccaccio, Sacchetti and Bandello--the stories from
which Shakespeare got his Italian plays, his Romeo and Juliet, his
Merchant of Venice--were not inventions, but were founded on the truth.
Everyone has read about Cæsar Borgia, his murders, his treacheries and
his end, and he is held up to us as a type of monstrous wickedness. But
a learned Frenchman, Émile Gebhart, has recently written a rather
convincing treatise, to show that Cæsar Borgia was not a monster at all,
nor even much of an exception to the general rule among the Italian
despots of his day, and his day was civilized compared with that of
Rienzi, of Boniface the Eighth, of Sciarra Colonna.

In order to understand anything about the real life of the Middle Age,
one should begin at the beginning; one should see the dwellings, the
castles, and the palaces with their furniture and arrangements, one
should realize the stern necessities as well as the few luxuries of that
time. And one should make acquaintance with the people themselves, from
the grey-haired old baron, the head of the house, down to the scullery
man and the cellarer's boy and the stable lads. And then, knowing
something of the people and their homes, one might begin to learn
something about their household occupations, their tremendously tragic
interests and their few and simple amusements.

[Illustration: PORTA SAN LORENZO]

The first thing that strikes one about the dwellings is the enormous
strength of those that remain. The main idea, in those days, when a man
built a house, was to fortify himself and his belongings against attacks
from the outside, and every other consideration was secondary to that.
That is true not only of the Barons' castles in the country and of their
fortified palaces in town,--which were castles, too, for that
matter,--but of the dwellings of all classes of people who could afford
to live independently, that is, who were not serfs and retainers of the
rich. We talk of fire-proof buildings nowadays, which are mere shells of
iron and brick and stone that shrivel up like writing-paper in a great
fire. The only really fire-proof buildings were those of the Middle Age,
which consisted of nothing but stone and mortar throughout, stone walls,
stone vaults, stone floors, and often stone tables and stone seats. I
once visited the ancient castle of Muro, in the Basilicata, one of the
southern provinces in Italy, where Queen Joanna the First paid her life
for her sins at last, and died under the feather pillow that was forced
down upon her face by two Hungarian soldiers. It is as wild and lonely a
place as you will meet with in Europe, and yet the great castle has
never been a ruin, nor at any time uninhabited, since it was built in
the eleventh century, over eight hundred years ago. Nor has the lower
part of it ever needed repair. The walls are in places twenty-five feet
thick, of solid stone and mortar, so that the embrasure by which each
narrow window is reached is like a tunnel cut through rock, while the
deep prisons below are hewn out of the rock itself. Up to what we should
call the third story, every room is vaulted. Above that the floors are
laid on beams, and the walls are not more than eight feet
thick--comparatively flimsy for such a place! Nine-tenths of it was
built for strength--the small remainder for comfort; there is not a
single large hall in all the great fortress, and the courtyard within
the main gate is a gloomy, ill-shaped little paved space, barely big
enough to give fifty men standing room. Nothing can give any idea of the
crookedness of it all, of the small dark corridors, the narrow winding
steps, the dusky inclined ascents, paved with broad flagstones that
echo the lightest tread, and that must have rung and roared like sea
caves to the tramp of armed men. And so it was in the cities, too. In
Rome, bits of the old strongholds survive still. There were more of them
thirty years ago. Even the more modern palaces of the late Renascence
are built in such a way that they must have afforded a safe refuge
against everything except artillery. The strong iron-studded doors and
the heavily grated windows of the ground floor would stand a siege from
the street. The Palazzo Gabrielli, for two or three centuries the chief
dwelling of the Orsini, is built in the midst of the city like a great
fortification, with escarpments and buttresses and loop-holes; and at
the main gate there is still a portcullis which sinks into the ground by
a system of chains and balance weights and is kept in working order even
now.

In the Middle Age, each town palace had one or more towers, tall, square
and solid, which were used as lookouts and as a refuge in case the rest
of the palace should be taken by an enemy. The general principle of all
mediæval towers was that they were entered through a small window at a
great height above the ground, by means of a jointed wooden ladder. Once
inside, the people drew the ladder up after them and took it in with
them, in separate pieces. When that was done, they were comparatively
safe, before the age of gunpowder. There were no windows to break, it
was impossible to get in, and the besieged party could easily keep
anyone from scaling the tower, by pouring boiling oil or melted lead
from above, or with stones and missiles, so that as long as provisions
and water held out, the besiegers could do nothing. As for water, the
great rainwater cistern was always in the foundations of the tower
itself, immediately under the prison, which got neither light nor air
excepting from a hole in the floor above. Walls from fifteen to twenty
feet thick could not be battered down with any engines then in
existence. Altogether, the tower was a safe place in times of danger. It
is said that at one time there were over four hundred of these in Rome,
belonging to the nobles, great and small.

The small class of well-to-do commoners, the merchants and goldsmiths,
such as they were, who stood between the nobles and the poor people,
imitated the nobles as much as they could, and strengthened their houses
by every means. For their dwellings were their warehouses, and in times
of disturbance the first instinct of the people was to rob the
merchants, unless they chanced to be strong enough to rob the nobles, as
sometimes happened. But in Rome the merchants were few, and were very
generally retainers or dependants of the great houses. It is frequent in
the chronicles to find a man mentioned as the 'merchant' of the Colonna
family, or of the Orsini, or of one of the independent Italian princes,
like the Duke of Urbino. Such a man acted as agent to sell the produce
of a great estate; part of his business was to lend money to the owner,
and he also imported from abroad the scanty merchandise which could be
imported at all. About half of it usually fell into the hands of
highwaymen before it reached the city, and the price of luxuries was
proportionately high. Such men, of course, lived well, though there was
a wide difference between their mode of life and that of the nobles, not
so much in matters of abundance and luxury, as in principle. The chief
rule was that the wives and daughters of the middle class did a certain
amount of housekeeping work, whereas the wives and daughters of the
nobles did not. The burgher's wife kept house herself, overlooked the
cooking, and sometimes cooked a choice dish with her own hands, and
taught her daughters to do so. A merchant might have a considerable
retinue of men, for his service and protection, and they carried staves
when they accompanied their master abroad, and lanterns at night. But
the baron's men were men-at-arms,--practically soldiers,--who wore his
colours, and carried swords and pikes, and lit the way for their lord at
night with torches, always the privilege of the nobles. As a matter of
fact, they were generally the most dangerous cutthroats whom the
nobleman was able to engage, highwaymen, brigands and outlaws, whom he
protected against the semblance of the law; whereas the merchant's
train consisted of honest men who worked for him in his warehouse, or
they were countrymen from his farms, if he had any.

It is not easy to give any adequate idea of those great mediæval
establishments, except by their analogy with the later ones that came
after them. They were enormous in extent, and singularly uncomfortable
in their internal arrangement.

A curious book, published in 1543, and therefore at the first
culmination of the Renascence, has lately been reprinted. It is entitled
'Concerning the management of a Roman Nobleman's Court,' and was
dedicated to 'The magnificent and Honourable Messer Cola da Benevento,'
forty years after the death of the Borgia Pope and during the reign of
Paul the Third, Farnese, who granted the writer a copyright for ten
years. The little volume is full of interesting details, and the
attendant gentlemen and servants enumerated give some idea of what
according to the author was not considered extravagant for a nobleman of
the sixteenth century. There were to be two chief chamberlains, a
general controller of the estates, a chief steward, four chaplains, a
master of the horse, a private secretary and an assistant secretary, an
auditor, a lawyer and four literary personages, 'Letterati,' who, among
them, must know 'the four principal languages of the world, namely,
Hebrew, Greek, Latin and Italian.' The omission of every other living
language but the latter, when Francis the First, Charles the Fifth and
Henry the Eighth were reigning, is pristinely Roman in its contempt of
'barbarians.' There were also to be six gentlemen of the chambers, a
private master of the table, a chief carver and ten waiting men, a
butler of the pantry with an assistant, a butler of the wines, six head
grooms, a marketer with an assistant, a storekeeper, a cellarer, a
carver for the serving gentlemen, a chief cook, an under cook and
assistant, a chief scullery man, a water carrier, a sweeper,--and last
in the list, a physician, whom the author puts at the end of the list,
'not because a doctor is not worthy of honour, but in order not to seem
to expect any infirmity for his lordship or his household.'

This was considered a 'sufficient household' for a nobleman, but by no
means an extravagant one, and many of the officials enumerated were
provided with one or more servants, while no mention is made of any
ladies in the establishment nor of the numerous retinue they required.
But one remembers the six thousand servants of Augustus, all honourably
buried in one place, and the six hundred who waited on Livia alone; and
the modest one hundred and seven which were reckoned 'sufficient' for
the Lord Cola of Benevento sink into comparative insignificance. For
Livia, besides endless keepers of her robes and folders of her
clothes--a special office--and hairdressers, perfumers, jewellers and
shoe keepers, had a special adorner of her ears, a keeper of her chair
and a governess for her favourite lap-dog.

The little book contains the most complete details concerning daily
expenditure for food and drink for the head of the house and his
numerous gentlemen, which amounted in a year to the really not
extravagant sum of four thousand scudi, or dollars, over fourteen
hundred being spent on wine alone. The allowance was a jug--rather more
than a quart--of pure wine daily to each of the 'gentlemen,' and the
same measure diluted with one-third of water to all the rest. Sixteen
ounces of beef, mutton, or veal were reckoned for every person, and each
received twenty ounces of bread of more or less fine quality, according
to his station; and an average of twenty scudi was allowed daily as
given away in charity,--which was not ungenerous, either, for such a
household. The olive oil used for the table and for lamps was the same,
and was measured together, and the household received each a pound of
cheese, monthly, besides a multitude of other eatables, all of which are
carefully enumerated and valued. Among other items of a different nature
are 'four or five large wax candles daily, for his lordship,' and wax
for torches 'to accompany the dishes brought to his table, and to
accompany his lordship and the gentlemen out of doors at night,' and
'candles for the altar,' and tallow candles for use about the house. As
for salaries and wages, the controller and chief steward received ten
scudi, each month, whereas the chaplain only got two, and the 'literary
men,' who were expected to know Hebrew, Greek and Latin, were each paid
one hundred scudi yearly. The physician was required to be not only
'learned, faithful, diligent and affectionate,' but also 'fortunate' in
his profession. Considering the medical practices of those days, a
doctor could certainly not hope to heal his patients without the element
of luck.

The old-fashioned Roman character is careful, if not avaricious, with
occasional flashes of astonishing extravagance, and its idea of riches
is so closely associated with that of power as to make the display of a
numerous retinue its first and most congenial means of exhibiting great
wealth; so that to this day a Roman in reduced fortune will live very
poorly before he will consent to exist without the two or three
superfluous footmen who loiter all day in his hall, or the handsome
equipage in which his wife and daughters are accustomed to take the
daily drive, called from ancient times the 'trottata,' or 'trot,' in the
Villa Borghese, or the Corso, or on the Pincio, and gravely provided for
in the terms of the marriage contract. At a period when servants were
necessary, not only for show but also for personal protection, it is not
surprising that the nobles should have kept an extravagant number of
them.

[Illustration: PALAZZO DI MONTE CITORIO

From a print of the last century]

Then also, to account for the size of Roman palaces, there was the
patriarchal system of life, now rapidly falling into disuse. The
so-called 'noble floor' of every mansion is supposed to be reserved
exclusively for the father and mother of the family, and the order of
arranging the rooms is as much a matter of rigid rule as in the houses
of the ancient Romans, where the vestibule preceded the atrium, the
atrium the peristyle, and the latter the last rooms which looked upon
the garden. So in the later palace, the door from the first landing of
the grand staircase opens upon an outer hall, uncarpeted, but crossed by
a strip of matting, and furnished only with a huge table and
old-fashioned chests, made with high backs, on which are painted or
carved the arms of the family. Here, at least two or three footmen are
supposed to be in perpetual readiness to answer the door, the lineally
descended representatives of the armed footmen who lounged there four
hundred years ago. Next to the hall comes the antechamber, sometimes
followed by a second, and here is erected the 'baldacchino,' the
coloured canopy which marks the privilege of the sixty 'conscript
families' of Rome, who rank as princes. It recalls the times when,
having powers of justice, and of life and death, the lords sat in state
under the overhanging silks, embroidered with their coats of arms, to
administer the law. Beyond the antechamber comes the long succession of
state apartments, lofty, ponderously decorated, heavily furnished with
old-fashioned gilt or carved chairs that stand symmetrically against the
walls, and on the latter are hung pictures, priceless works of old
masters beside crude portraits of the last century, often arranged much
more with regard to the frames than to the paintings. Stiff-legged
pier-tables of marble and alabaster face the windows or are placed
between them; thick curtains that can be drawn quite back cover the
doors; strips of hemp carpet lead straight from one door to another; the
light is dim and cold, half shut out by the window curtains, and gets a
peculiar quality of sadness and chilliness, which is essentially
characteristic of every old Roman house, where the reception rooms are
only intended to be used at night, and the sunny side is exclusively
appropriated to the more intimate life of the owners. There may be
three, four, six, ten of those big drawing-rooms in succession, each
covering about as much space as a small house in New York or London,
before one comes to the closed door that gives access to the princess'
boudoir, beyond which, generally returning in a direction parallel with
the reception rooms, is her bedroom, and the prince's, and the latter's
study, and then the private dining-room, the state dining-room, the
great ballroom, with clear-story windows, and as many more rooms as the
size of the apartment will admit. In the great palaces, the picture
gallery takes a whole wing and sometimes two, the library being
generally situated on a higher story.

The patriarchal system required that all the married sons, with their
wives and children and servants, should be lodged in the same building
with their parents. The eldest invariably lived on the second floor, the
second son on the third, which is the highest, though there is generally
a low rambling attic, occupied by servants, and sometimes by the
chaplain, the librarian and the steward, in better rooms. When there
were more than two married sons, which hardly ever happened under the
old system of primogeniture, they divided the apartments between them as
best they could. The unmarried younger children had to put up with what
was left. Moreover, in the greatest houses, where there was usually a
cardinal of the name, one wing of the first floor was entirely given up
to him; and instead of the canopy in the antechamber, flanked by the
hereditary coloured umbrellas carried on state occasions by two lackeys
behind the family coach, the prince of the Church was entitled to a
throne room, as all cardinals are. The eldest son's apartment was
generally more or less a repetition of the state one below, but the
rooms were lower, the decorations less elaborate, though seldom less
stiff in character, and a large part of the available space was given up
to the children.

It is clear from all this that even in modern times a large family might
take up a great deal of room. Looking back across two or three
centuries, therefore, to the days when every princely household was a
court, and was called a court, it is easier to understand the existence
of such phenomenally vast mansions as the Doria palace, or those of the
Borghese, the Altieri, the Barberini and others, who lived in almost
royal state, and lodged hundreds upon hundreds of retainers in their
homes.

And not only did all the members of the family live under one roof, as a
few of them still live, but the custom of dining together at one huge
table was universal. A daily dinner of twenty persons--grandparents,
parents and children, down to the youngest that is old enough to sit up
to its plate in a high chair, would be a serious matter to most European
households. But in Rome it was looked upon as a matter of course, and
was managed through the steward by a contract with the cook, who was
bound to provide a certain number of dishes daily for the fixed meals,
but nothing else--not so much as an egg or a slice of toast beyond
that. This system still prevails in many households, and as it is to be
expected that meals at unusual hours may sometimes be required, an
elaborate system of accounts is kept by the steward and his clerks, and
the smallest things ordered by any of the sons or daughters are charged
against an allowance usually made them, while separate reckonings are
kept for the daughters-in-law, for whom certain regular pin-money is
provided out of their own dowries at the marriage settlement, all of
which goes through the steward's hands. The same settlement, even in
recent years, stipulated for a fixed number of dishes of meat daily,
generally only two, I believe, for a certain number of new gowns and
other clothes, and for a great variety of details, besides the use of a
carriage every day, to be harnessed not more than twice, that is, either
in the morning and afternoon, or once in the daytime and once at night.
Everything,--a cup of tea, a glass of lemonade,--if not mentioned in the
marriage settlement, had to be paid for separately. The justice of such
an arrangement--for it is just--is only equalled by its inconvenience,
for it requires the machinery of a hotel, combined with an honesty not
usual in hotels. Undoubtedly, the whole system is directly descended
from the practice of the ancients, which made every father of a family
the absolute despot of his household, and made it impossible for a son
to hold property or have any individual independence during his
father's life, and it has not been perceptibly much modified since the
Middle Age, until the last few years. Its existence shows in the
strongest light the main difference between the Latin and the
Anglo-Saxon races, in the marked tendency of the one to submit to
despotic government, and of the other to govern itself; of the one to
stay at home under paternal authority, and of the other to leave the
father's house and plunder the world for itself; of the sons of the one
to accept wives given them, and of the other's children to marry as they
please.

Roman family life, from Romulus to the year 1870, was centred in the
head of the house, whose position was altogether unassailable, whose
requirements were necessities, and whose word was law. Next to him in
place came the heir, who was brought up with a view to his exercising
the same powers in his turn. After him, but far behind him in
importance, if he promised to be strong, came the other sons, who, if
they took wives at all, were expected to marry heiresses, and one of
whom, almost as a matter of course, was brought up to be a churchman.
The rest, if there were any, generally followed the career of arms, and
remained unmarried; for heiresses of noble birth were few, and their
guardians married them to eldest sons of great houses whenever possible,
while the strength of caste prejudice made alliances of nobles with the
daughters of rich plebeians extremely unusual.

It is possible to trace the daily life of a Roman family in the Middle
Age from its regular routine of today, as out of what anyone may see in
Italy the habits of the ancients can be reconstructed with more than
approximate exactness. And yet it is out of the question to fix the
period of the general transformation which ultimately turned the Rome of
the Barons into the Rome of Napoleon's time, and converted the
high-handed men of Sciarra Colonna's age into the effeminate fops of
1800, when a gentleman of noble lineage, having received a box on the
ear from another at high noon in the Corso, willingly followed the
advice of his confessor, who counselled him to bear the affront with
Christian meekness and present his other cheek to the smiter. Customs
have remained, fashions have altogether changed; the outward forms of
early living have survived, the spirit of life is quite another; and
though some families still follow the patriarchal mode of existence, the
patriarchs are gone, the law no longer lends itself to support household
tyranny, and the subdivision of estates under the Napoleonic code is
guiding an already existing democracy to the untried issue of a
problematic socialism. Without attempting to establish a comparison upon
the basis of a single cause, where so many are at work, it is
permissible to note that while in England and Germany a more or less
voluntary system of primogeniture is admitted and largely followed from
choice, and while in the United States men are almost everywhere
entirely free to dispose of their property as they please, and while the
population and wealth of those countries are rapidly increasing, France,
enforcing the division of estates among children, though she is
accumulating riches, is faced by the terrible fact of a steadily
diminishing census; and Italy, under the same laws, is not only rapidly
approaching national bankruptcy, but is in parts already depopulated by
an emigration so extensive that it can only be compared with the
westward migration of the Aryan tribes. The forced subdivision of
property from generation to generation is undeniably a socialistic
measure, since it must, in the end, destroy both aristocracy and
plutocracy; and it is surely a notable point that the two great European
nations which have adopted it as a fundamental principle of good
government should both be on the road to certain destruction, while
those powers that have wholly and entirely rejected any such measure are
filling the world with themselves and absorbing its wealth at an
enormous and alarming rate.

[Illustration: VILLA BORGHESE]

The art of the Renascence has left us splendid pictures of mediæval
public life, which are naturally accepted as equally faithful
representations of the life of every day. Princes and knights, in
gorgeous robes and highly polished armour, ride on faultlessly
caparisoned milk-white steeds; wondrous ladies wear not less wonderful
gowns, fitted with a perfection which women seek in vain today, and
embroidered with pearls and precious stones that might ransom a rajah;
young pages, with glorious golden hair, stand ready at the elbows of
their lords and ladies, or kneel in graceful attitude to deliver a
letter, or stoop to bear a silken train, clad in garments which the
modern costumer strives in vain to copy. After three or four centuries,
the colours of those painted silks and satins are still richer than
anything the loom can weave. In the great fresco, each individual of the
multitude that fills a public place, or defiles in open procession under
the noonday light, is not only a masterpiece of fashion, but a model of
neatness; linen, delicate as woven gossamer, falls into folds as finely
exact as an engraver's point could draw; velvet shoes tread without
speck or spot upon the well-scoured pavement of a public street;
men-at-arms grasp weapons and hold bridles with hands as carefully
tended as any idle fine gentleman's, and there is neither fleck nor
breath of dimness on the mirror-like steel of their armour; the very
flowers, the roses and lilies that strew the way, are the perfection of
fresh-cut hothouse blossoms; and when birds and beasts chance to be
necessary to the composition of the picture, they are represented with
no less care for a more than possible neatness, their coats are combed
and curled, their attitudes are studied and graceful, they wear
carefully made collars, ornamented with chased silver and gold.

Centuries have dimmed the wall-painting, sunshine has faded it, mould
has mottled the broad surfaces of red and blue and green, and a later
age has done away with the dresses represented; yet, when the frescos in
the library of the Cathedral at Siena, for instance, were newly
finished, they were the fashion-plates of the year and month, executed
by a great artist, it is true, grouped with matchless skill and drawn
with supreme mastery of art, but as far from representing the ordinary
scenes of daily life as those terrible coloured prints published
nowadays for tailors, in which a number of beautiful young gentlemen, in
perfectly new clothes, lounge in stage attitudes on the one side, and an
equal number of equally beautiful young butlers, coachmen, grooms and
pages, in equally perfect liveries, appear to be discussing the
æsthetics of an ideal and highly salaried service, at the other end of
the same room. In the comparison there is all the brutal profanity of
truth that shocks the reverence of romance; but in the respective
relations of the great artist's masterpiece and of the poor modern
lithograph to the realities of each period, there is the clue to the
daily life of the Middle Age.

Living was outwardly rough as compared with the representations of it,
though it was far more refined than in any other part of Europe, and
Italy long set the fashion to the world in habits and manners. People
kept their fine clothes for great occasions, there was a keeper of robes
in every large household, and there were rooms set apart for the
purpose. In every-day life, the Barons wore patched hose and leathern
jerkins, stained and rusted by the joints of the armour that was so
often buckled over them, or they went about their dwellings in long
dressing-gowns which hid many shortcomings. When gowns, and hose, and
jerkins were well worn, they were cut down for the boys of the family,
and the fine dresses, only put on for great days, were preserved as
heirlooms from generation to generation, whether they fitted the
successive wearers or not. The beautiful tight-fitting hose which, in
the paintings of the time, seem to fit like theatrical tights, were
neither woven nor knitted, but were made of stout cloth, and must often
have been baggy at the knees in spite of the most skilful cutting; and
the party-coloured hose, having one leg of one piece of stuff and one of
another, and sometimes each leg of two or more colours, were very likely
first invented from motives of economy, to use up cuttings and leavings.
Clothes were looked upon as permanent and very desirable property, and
kings did not despise a gift of fine scarlet cloth, in the piece, to
make them a gown or a cloak. As for linen, as late as the sixteenth
century, the English thought the French nobles very extravagant because
they put on a clean shirt once a fortnight and changed their ruffles
once a week.

[Illustration: PALAZZO DI VENEZIA]

The mediæval Roman nobles were most of them great farmers as well as
fighters. Then, as now, land was the ultimate form of property, and its
produce the usual form of wealth; and then, as now, many families were
'land-poor,' in the sense of owning tracts of country which yielded
little or no income but represented considerable power, and furnished
the owners with most of the necessaries of life, such rents as were
collected being usually paid in kind, in oil and wine, in grain, fruit
and vegetables, and even in salt meat, and horses, cattle for
slaughtering and beasts of burden, not to speak of wool, hemp and flax,
as well as firewood. But money was scarce and, consequently, all the
things which only money could buy, so that a gown was a possession, and
a corselet or a good sword a treasure. The small farmer of our times
knows what it means to have plenty to eat and little to wear. His
position is not essentially different from that of the average landed
gentry in the Middle Age, not only in Italy, but all over Europe. In
times when superiority lay in physical strength, courage, horsemanship
and skill in the use of arms, the so-called gentleman was not
distinguished from the plebeian by the newness or neatness of his
clothes so much as by the nature and quality of the weapons he wore when
he went abroad in peace or war, and very generally by being mounted on a
good horse.

In his home he was simple, even primitive. He desired space more than
comfort, and comfort more than luxury. His furniture consisted almost
entirely of beds, chests and benches, with few tables except such as
were needed for eating. Beds were supported by boards laid on trestles,
raised very high above the floor to be beyond the reach of rats, mice
and other creatures. The lower mattress was filled with the dried leaves
of the maize, and the upper one contained wool, with which the pillows
also were stuffed. The floors of dwelling rooms were generally either
paved with bricks or made of a sort of cement, composed of lime, sand
and crushed brick, the whole being beaten down with iron pounders, while
in the moist state, during three days. There were no carpets, and fresh
rushes were strewn everywhere on the floors, which in summer were first
watered, like a garden path, to lay the dust. There was no glass in the
windows of ordinary rooms, and the consequence was that during the
daytime people lived almost in the open air, in winter as well as
summer; sunshine was a necessity of existence, and sheltered courts and
cloistered walks were built like reservoirs for the light and heat.

In the rooms, ark-shaped chests stood against the walls, to contain the
ordinary clothes not kept in the general 'guardaroba.' In the deep
embrasures of the windows there were stone seats, but there were few
chairs, or none at all, in the bedrooms. At the head of each bed hung a
rough little cross of dark wood--later, as carving became more general,
a crucifix--and a bit of an olive branch preserved from Palm Sunday
throughout the year. The walls themselves were scrupulously whitewashed;
the ceilings were of heavy beams, supporting lighter cross-beams, on
which in turn thick boards were laid to carry the cement floor of the
room overhead.

Many hundred men-at-arms could be drawn up in the courtyards, and their
horses stalled in the spacious stables. The kitchens, usually situated
on the ground floor, were large enough to provide meals for half a
thousand retainers, if necessary; and the cellars and underground
prisons were a vast labyrinth of vaulted chambers, which not
unfrequently communicated with the Tiber by secret passages. In
restoring the palace of the Santacroce, a few years ago, a number of
skeletons were discovered, some still wearing armour, and all most
evidently the remains of men who had died violent deaths. One of them
was found with a dagger driven through the skull and helmet. The hand
that drove it must have been strong beyond the hands of common men.

The grand staircase led up from the sunny court to the state apartments,
such as they were in those days. There, at least, there were sometimes
carpets, luxuries of enormous value, and even before the Renascence the
white walls were hung with tapestries, at least in part. In those times,
too, there were large fireplaces in almost every room, for fuel was
still plentiful in the Campagna and in the near mountains; and where the
houses were practically open to the air all day, fires were an absolute
necessity. Even in ancient times it is recorded that the Roman Senate,
amidst the derisive jests of the plebeians, once had to adjourn on
account of the extreme cold. People rose early in the Middle Age, dined
at noon, slept in the afternoon when the weather was warm, and supped,
as a rule, at 'one hour of the night,' that is to say an hour after 'Ave
Maria,' which was rung half an hour after sunset, and was the end of the
day of twenty-four hours. Noon was taken from the sun, but did not fall
at a regular hour of the clock, and never fell at twelve. In winter, for
instance, if the Ave Maria bell rang at half-past five of our modern
time, the noon of the following day fell at 'half-past eighteen o'clock'
by the mediæval clocks. In summer, it might fall as early as three
quarters past fifteen; and this manner of reckoning time was common in
Rome thirty-five years ago, and is not wholly unpractised in some parts
of Italy still.

It was always an Italian habit, and a very healthy one, to get out of
doors immediately on rising, and to put off making anything like a
careful toilet till a much later hour. Breakfast, as we understand it,
is an unknown meal in Italy, even now. Most people drink a cup of black
coffee, standing; many eat a morsel of bread or biscuit with it and get
out of doors as soon as they can; but the greediness of an Anglo-Saxon
breakfast disgusts all Latins alike, and two set meals daily are thought
to be enough for anyone, as indeed they are. The hard-working Italian
hill peasant will sometimes toast himself a piece of corn bread before
going to work, and eat it with a few drops of olive oil; and in the
absence of tea or coffee, the people of the Middle Age often drank a
mouthful of wine on rising to 'move the blood,' as they said. But that
was all.

Every mediæval palace had its chapel, which was sometimes an adjacent
church communicating with the house, and in many families it is even now
the custom to hear the short low Mass at a very early hour. But
probably nothing can give an adequate idea of the idleness of the Middle
Age, when the day was once begun. Before the Renascence, there was no
such thing as study, and there were hardly any pastimes except gambling
and chess, both of which the girls and youths of the Decameron seem to
have included in one contemptuous condemnation when they elected to
spend their time in telling stories. The younger men of the household,
of course, when not actually fighting, passed a certain number of hours
in the practice of horsemanship and arms; but the only real excitement
they knew was in love and war, the latter including everything between
the battles of the Popes and Emperors, and the street brawls of private
enemies, which generally drew blood and often ended in a death.

It does not appear that the idea of 'housekeeping' as the chief
occupation of the Baron's wife ever entered into the Roman mind. In
northern countries there has always been more equality between men and
women, more respect for woman as an intelligent being, and less care for
her as a valuable possession to be guarded against possible attacks from
without. In Rome and the south of Italy the women in a great household
were carefully separated from the men, and beyond the outer halls in
which visitors were received, business transacted and politics
discussed, there were closed doors, securely locked, leading to the
women's apartments beyond. In every Roman palace and fortress there was
a revolving 'dumb-waiter' between the women's quarters and the men's,
called the 'wheel,' and used as a means of communication. Through this
the household supplies were daily handed in, for the cooking was very
generally done by women, and through the same machine the prepared food
was passed out to the men, the wheel being so arranged that men and
women could not see each other, though they might hear each other speak.
To all intents and purposes the system was oriental and the women were
shut up in a harem. The use of the dumb-waiter survived the revolution
in manners under the Renascence, and the wheel itself remains as a
curiosity of past times in more than one Roman dwelling today. It had
its uses and was not a piece of senseless tyranny. In order to keep up
an armed force for all emergencies the Baron took under his protection
as men-at-arms the most desperate ruffians, outlaws and outcasts whom he
could collect, mostly men under sentence of banishment or death for
highway robbery and murder, whose only chance of escaping torture and
death lay in risking life and limb for a master strong enough to defy
the law, the 'bargello' and the executioner, in his own house or castle,
where such henchmen were lodged and fed, and were controlled by nothing
but fear of the Baron himself, of his sons, when they were grown up,
and of his poorer kinsmen who lived with him. There were no crimes which
such malefactors had not committed, or were not ready to commit for a
word, or even for a jest. The women, on the other hand, were in the
first place the ladies and daughters of the house, and of kinsmen,
brought up in almost conventual solitude, when they were not actually
educated in convents; and, secondly, young girls from the Baron's
estates who served for a certain length of time, and were then generally
married to respectable retainers. The position of twenty or thirty women
and girls under the same roof with several hundreds of the most
atrocious cutthroats of any age was undeniably such as to justify the
most tyrannical measures for their protection.

There are traces, even now, of the enforced privacy in which they lived.
For instance, no Roman lady of today will ever show herself at a window
that looks on the street, except during Carnival, and in most houses
something of the old arrangement of rooms is still preserved, whereby
the men and women occupy different parts of the house.

One must try to call up the pictures of one day, to get any idea of
those times; one must try and see the grey dawn stealing down the dark,
unwindowed lower walls of the fortress that flanks the Church of the
Holy Apostles,--the narrow and murky street below, the broad, dim space
beyond, the mystery of the winding distances whence comes the first
sound of the day, the far, high cry of the waterman driving his little
donkey with its heavy load of water-casks. The beast stumbles along in
the foul gloom, through the muddy ruts, over heaps of garbage at the
corners, picking its way as best it can, till it starts with a snort and
almost falls with its knees upon a dead man, whose thrice-stabbed body
lies right across the way. The waterman, ragged, sandal-shod, stops,
crosses himself, and drags his beast back hurriedly with a muttered
exclamation of mingled horror, disgust and fear for himself, and makes
for the nearest corner, stumbling along in his haste lest he should be
found with the corpse and taken for the murderer. As the dawn
forelightens, and the cries go up from the city, the black-hooded
Brothers of Prayer and Death come in a little troop, their lantern still
burning as they carry their empty stretcher, seeking for dead men; and
they take up the poor nameless body and bear it away quickly from the
sight of the coming day.

Then, as they disappear, the great bell of the Apostles' Church begins
to toll the morning Angelus, half an hour before sunrise,--three
strokes, then four, then five, then one, according to ancient custom,
and then after a moment's silence, the swinging peal rings out, taken up
and answered from end to end of the half-wasted city. A troop of
men-at-arms ride up to the great closed gate 'in rusty armour marvellous
ill-favoured,' as Shakespeare's stage direction has it, mud-splashed,
their brown cloaks half concealing their dark and war-worn mail, their
long swords hanging down and clanking against their huge stirrups, their
beasts jaded and worn and filthy from the night raid in the Campagna, or
the long gallop from Palestrina. The leader pounds three times at the
iron-studded door with the hilt of his dagger, a sleepy porter,
grey-bearded and cloaked, slowly swings back one half of the gate and
the ruffians troop in, followed by the waterman who has gone round the
fortress to avoid the dead body. The gate shuts again, with a long
thundering rumble. High up, wooden shutters, behind which there is no
glass, are thrown open upon the courtyard, and one window after another
is opened to the morning air; on one side, girls and women look out,
muffled in dark shawls; from the other grim, unwashed, bearded men call
down to their companions, who have dismounted and are unsaddling their
weary horses, and measuring out a little water to them, where water is a
thing of price.

The leader goes up into the house to his master, to tell him of the
night's doings, and while he speaks the Baron sits in a great wooden
chair, in his long gown of heavy cloth, edged with coarse fox's fur, his
feet in fur slippers, and a shabby cap upon his head, but a manly and
stern figure, all the same, slowly munching a piece of toasted bread and
sipping a few drops of old white wine from a battered silver cup.

Then Mass in the church, the Baron, his kinsmen, the ladies and the
women kneeling in the high gallery above the altar, the men-at-arms and
men-servants and retainers crouching below on the stone pavement; a
dusky multitude, with a gleam of steel here and there, and red flashing
eyes turned up with greedy longing towards the half-veiled faces of the
women, met perhaps, now and then, by a furtive answering glance from
under a veil or hoodlike shawl, for every woman's head is covered, but
of the men only the old lord wears his cap, which he devoutly lifts at
'Gloria Patri' and 'Verbum Caro,' and at 'Sanctus' and at the
consecration. It is soon over, and the day is begun, for the sun is
fully risen and streams through the open unglazed windows as the maids
sprinkle water on the brick floors, and sweep and strew fresh rushes,
and roll back the mattresses on the trestle beds, which are not made
again till evening. In the great courtyard, the men lead out the horses
and mount them bareback and ride out in a troop, each with his sword by
his side, to water them at the river, half a mile away, for not a single
public fountain is left in Rome; and the grooms clean out the stables,
while the peasants come in from the country, driving mules laden with
provisions for the great household, and far away, behind barred doors,
the women light the fires in the big kitchen.

Later again, the children of the noble house are taught to ride and
fence in the open court; splendid boys with flowing hair, bright as gold
or dark as night, dressed in rough hose and leathern jerkin,
bright-eyed, fearless, masterful already in their play as a lion's
whelps, watched from an upper window by their lady mother and their
little sisters, and not soon tired of saddle or sword--familiar with the
grooms and men by the great common instinct of fighting, but as far from
vulgar as Polonius bade Laertes learn to be.

So morning warms to broad noon, and hunger makes it dinner-time, and the
young kinsmen who have strolled abroad come home, one of them with his
hand bound up in a white rag that has drops of blood on it, for he has
picked a quarrel in the street and steel has been out, as usual, though
no one has been killed, because the 'bargello' and his men were in
sight, down there near the Orsini's theatre-fortress. And at dinner when
the priest has blessed the table, the young men laugh about the
scrimmage, while the Baron himself, who has killed a dozen men in
battle, with his own hand, rebukes his sons and nephews with all the
useless austerity which worn-out age wears in the face of unbroken
youth. The meal is long, and they eat much, for there will be nothing
more till night; they eat meat broth, thick with many vegetables and
broken bread and lumps of boiled meat, and there are roasted meats and
huge earthen bowls of salad, and there is cheese in great blocks, and
vast quantities of bread, with wine in abundance, poured for each man by
the butler into little earthen jugs from big earthenware flagons. They
eat from trenchers of wood, well scoured with ashes; forks they have
none, and most of the men use their own knives or daggers when they are
not satisfied with the carving done for them by the carver. Each man,
when he has picked a bone, throws it under the table to the house-dogs
lying in wait on the floor, and from time to time a basin is passed and
a little water poured upon the fingers. The Baron has a napkin of his
own; there is one napkin for all the other men; the women generally eat
by themselves in their own apartments, the so-called 'gentlemen' in the
'tinello,' and the men-at-arms and grooms, and all the rest, in the big
lower halls near the kitchens, whence their food is passed out to them
through the wheel.

After dinner, if it be summer and the weather hot, the gates are barred,
the windows shut, and the whole household sleeps. Early or late, as the
case may be, the lords and ladies and children take the air, guarded by
scores of mounted men, riding towards that part of the city where they
may neither meet their enemies nor catch a fever in the warm months. In
rainy weather they pass the time as they can, with telling of many
tales, short, dramatic and strong as the framework of a good play, with
music, sometimes, and with songs, and with discussing of such news as
there may be in such times. And at dusk the great bells ring to
even-song, the oil lamp is swung up in the great staircase, the windows
and gates are shut again, the torches and candles and little lamps are
lit for supper, and at last, with rushlights, each finds the way along
the ghostly corridors to bed and sleep. That was the day's round, and
there was little to vary it in more peaceful times.

Over all life there was the hopeless, resentful dulness that oppressed
men and women till it drove them half mad, to the doing of desperate
things in love and war; there was the everlasting restraint of danger
without and of forced idleness within--danger so constant that it ceased
to be exciting and grew tiresome, idleness so oppressive that battle,
murder and sudden death were a relief from the inactivity of sluggish
peace; a state in which the mind was no longer a moving power in man,
but only by turns the smelting pot and the anvil of half-smothered
passions that now and then broke out with fire and flame and sword to
slash and burn the world with a history of unimaginable horror.

That was the Middle Age in Italy. A poorer race would have gone down
therein to a bloody destruction; but it was out of the Middle Age that
the Italians were born again in the Renascence. It deserved the name.

[Illustration]

REGION IV CAMPO MARZO

It was harvest time when the Romans at last freed themselves from the
very name of Tarquin. In all the great field, between the Tiber and the
City, the corn stood high and ripe, waiting for the sickle, while Brutus
did justice upon his two sons, and upon the sons of his sister, and upon
those 'very noble youths,' still the Tarquins' friends, who laid down
their lives for their mistaken loyalty and friendship, and for whose
devotion no historian has ever been brave enough, or generous enough, to
say a word. It has been said that revolution is patriotism when it
succeeds, treason when it fails, and in the converse, more than one
brave man has died a traitor's death for keeping faith with a fallen
king. Successful revolution denied those young royalists the charitable
handful of earth and the four words of peace--'sit eis terra
levis'--that should have laid their unquiet ghosts, and the brutal
cynicism of history has handed down their names to the perpetual
execration of mankind.

The corn stood high in the broad field which the Tarquins had taken from
Mars and had ploughed and tilled for generations. The people went out
and reaped the crop, and bound it in sheaves to be threshed for the
public bread, but their new masters told them that it would be impious
to eat what had been meant for kings, and they did as was commanded to
them, meekly, and threw all into the river. Sheaf upon sheaf, load upon
load, the yellow stream swept away the yellow ears and stalks, down to
the shallows, where the whole mass stuck fast, and the seeds took root
in the watery mud, and the stalks rotted in great heaps, and the island
of the Tiber was first raised above the level of the water. Then the
people burned the stubble and gave back the land to Mars, calling it the
Campus Martius, after him.

There the young Romans learned the use of arms, and were taught to ride;
and under sheds there stood those rows of wooden horses, upon which
youths learned to vault, without step or stirrup, in their armour and
sword in hand. There they ran foot-races in the clouds of dust whirled
up from the dry ground, and threw the discus by the twisted thong as the
young men of the hills do today, and the one who could reach the goal
with the smallest number of throws was the winner,--there, under the
summer sun and in the biting wind of winter, half naked, and tough as
wolves, the boys of Rome laboured to grow up and be Roman men.

There, also, the great assemblies were held, the public meetings and the
elections, when the people voted by passing into the wooden lists that
were called 'Sheepfolds,' till Julius Cæsar planned the great marble
portico for voting, and Agrippa finished it, making it nearly a mile
round; and behind it, on the west side, a huge space was kept open for
centuries, called the Villa Publica, where the censors numbered the
people. The ancient Campus took in a wide extent of land, for it
included everything outside the Servian wall, from the Colline Gate to
the river. All that visibly bears its name today is a narrow street that
runs southward from the western end of San Lorenzo in Lucina. The Region
of Campo Marzo, however, is still one of the largest in the city,
including all that lies within the walls from Porta Pinciana, by Capo le
Case, Via Frattina, Via di Campo Marzo and Via della Stelletta, past the
Church of the Portuguese and the Palazzo Moroni,--known by Hawthorne's
novel as 'Hilda's Tower,'--and thence to the banks of the Tiber.

[Illustration: PIAZZA DI SPAGNA]

From the Renascence until the recent extension of the city on the south
and southeast, this Region was the more modern part of Rome. In the
Middle Age it was held by the Colonna, who had fortified the tomb of
Augustus and one or two other ruins. Later it became the strangers'
quarter. The Lombards established themselves near the Church of Saint
Charles, in the Corso; the English, near Saint Ives, the little church
with the strange spiral tower, built against the University of the
Sapienza; the Greeks lived in the Via de' Greci; the Burgundians in the
Via Borgognona, and thence to San Claudio, where they had their Hospice;
and so on, almost every nationality being established in a colony of its
own; and the English visitors of today are still inclined to think the
Piazza di Spagna the most central point of Rome, whereas to Romans it
seems to be very much out of the way.

The tomb of Augustus, which served as the model for the greater
Mausoleum of Hadrian, dominated the Campus Martius, and its main walls
are still standing, though hidden by many modern houses. The tomb of the
Julian Cæsars rose on white marble foundations, a series of concentric
terraces, planted with cypress trees, to the great bronze statue of
Augustus that crowned the summit. Here rested the ashes of Augustus, of
the young Marcellus, of Livia, of Tiberius, of Caligula, and of many
others whose bodies were burned in the family Ustrinum near the tomb
itself. Plundered by Alaric, and finally ruined by Robert Guiscard, when
he burnt the city, it became a fortress under the Colonna, and is
included, with the fortress of Monte Citorio, in a transfer of property
made by one member of the family to another in the year 1252. Ruined at
last, it became a bull ring in the last century and in the beginning of
this one, when Leo the Twelfth forbade bull-fighting. Then it was a
theatre, the scene of Salvini's early triumphs. Today it is a circus,
dignified by the name of the reigning sovereign.

Few people know that bull-fights were common in Rome eighty years ago.
The indefatigable Baracconi once talked with the son of the last
bull-fighter. So far as one may judge, it appears that during the
Middle Age, and much later, it was the practice of butchers to bait
animals in their own yards, before slaughtering them, in the belief that
the cruel treatment made the meat more tender, and they admitted the
people to see the sport. From this to a regular arena was but a step,
and no more suitable place than the tomb of the Cæsars could be found
for the purpose. A regular manager took possession of it, provided the
victims, both bulls and Roman buffaloes, and hired the fighters. It does
not appear that the beasts were killed during the entertainment, and one
of the principal attractions was the riding of the maddened bull three
times round the circus; savage dogs were also introduced, but in all
other respects the affair was much like a Spanish bull-fight, and quite
as popular; when the chosen bulls were led in from the Campagna, the
Roman princes used to ride far out to meet them with long files of
mounted servants in gala liveries, coming back at night in torchlight
procession. And again, after the fight was over, the circus was
illuminated, and there was a small display of Bengal lights, while the
fashionable world of Rome met and gossiped away the evening in the
arena, happily thoughtless and forgetful of all the spot had been and
had meant in history.

The new Rome sinks out of sight below the level of the old, as one
climbs the heights of the Janiculum on the west of the city, or the
gardens of the Pincio on the east. The old monuments and the old
churches still rise above the dreary wastes of modern streets, and from
the spot whence Messalina looked down upon the cypresses of the first
Emperor's mausoleum, the traveller of today descries the cheap metallic
roof which makes a circus of the ancient tomb.

For it was in the gardens of Lucullus that Mark Antony's
great-grandchild felt the tribune's sword in her throat, and in the neat
drives and walks of the Pincio, where pretty women in smart carriages
laugh over today's gossip and tomorrow's fashion, and the immaculate
dandy idles away an hour and a cigarette, the memory of Messalina calls
up a tragedy of shades. Less than thirty years after Augustus had
breathed out his old age in peace, Rome was ruled again by terror and
blood, and the triumph of a woman's sins was the beginning of the end of
the Julian race. The great historian who writes of her guesses that
posterity may call the truth a fable, and tells the tale so tersely and
soberly from first to last, that the strength of his words suggests a
whole mystery of evil. Without Tiberius, there could have been no
Messalina, nor, without her, could Nero have been possible; and the
worst of the three is the woman--the archpriestess of all conceivable
crime. Tacitus gives Tiberius one redeeming touch. Often the old Emperor
came almost to Rome, even to the gardens by the Tiber, and then turned
back to the rocks of Capri and the solitude of the sea, in mortal shame
of his monstrous deeds, as if not daring to show himself in the city.
With Nero, the measure was full, and the world rose and destroyed him.
Messalina knew no shame, and the Romans submitted to her, and but for a
court intrigue and a frightened favourite she might have lived out her
life unhurt. In the eyes of the historian and of the people of her time
her greatest misdeed was that while her husband Claudius, the Emperor,
was alive she publicly celebrated her marriage with the handsome Silius,
using all outward legal forms. Our modern laws of divorce have so far
accustomed our minds to such deeds that, although we miss the legal
formalities which would necessarily precede such an act in our time, we
secretly wonder at the effect it produced upon the men of that day, and
are inclined to smile at the epithets of 'impious' and 'sacrilegious'
which it called down upon Messalina, whose many other frightful crimes
had elicited much more moderate condemnation. Claudius, himself no
novice or beginner in horrors, hesitated long after he knew the truth,
and it was the favourite Narcissus who took upon himself to order the
Empress' death. Euodus, his freedman, and a tribune of the guard were
sent to make an end of her. Swiftly they went up to the gardens--the
gardens of the Pincian--and there they found her, beautiful, dark,
dishevelled, stretched upon the marble floor, her mother Lepida
crouching beside her, her mother, who in the bloom of her daughter's
evil life had turned from her, but in her extreme need was overcome
with pity. There knelt Domitia Lepida, urging the terror-mad woman not
to wait the executioner, since life was over and nothing remained but to
lend death the dignity of suicide. But the dishonoured self was empty of
courage, and long-drawn weeping choked her useless lamentations. Then
suddenly the doors were flung open with a crash, and the stern tribune
stood silent in the hall, while the freedman Euodus screamed out curses,
after the way of triumphant slaves. From her mother's hand the lost
Empress took the knife at last and trembling laid it to her breast and
throat, with weakly frantic fingers that could not hurt herself; the
silent tribune killed her with one straight thrust, and when they
brought the news to Claudius sitting at supper, and told him that
Messalina had perished, his face did not change, and he said nothing as
he held out his cup to be filled.

[Illustration: PIAZZA DEL POPOLO]

She died somewhere on the Pincian hill. Romance would choose the spot
exactly where the nunnery of the Sacred Heart stands, at the Trinità de'
Monti, looking down De Sanctis' imposing 'Spanish' steps; and the house
in which the noble girls of modern Rome are sent to school may have
risen upon the foundations of Messalina's last abode. Or it may be that
the place was further west, in the high grounds of the French Academy,
or on the site of the academy itself, at the gates of the public garden,
just where the old stone fountain bubbles and murmurs under the shade of
the thick ilex trees. Most of that land once belonged to Lucullus, the
conqueror of Mithridates, the Academic philosopher, the arch feaster,
and the man who first brought cherries to Italy.

[Illustration: TRINITÀ DE' MONTI]

The last descendant of Julia, the last sterile monster of the Julian
race, Nero, was buried at the foot of the same hill. Alive, he was
condemned by the Senate to be beaten to death in the Comitium; dead by
his own hand, he received imperial honours, and his ashes rested for a
thousand years where they had been laid by his two old nurses and a
woman who had loved him. And during ten centuries the people believed
that his terrible ghost haunted the hill, attended and served by
thousands of demon crows that rested in the branches of the trees about
his tomb, and flew forth to do evil at his bidding, till at last Pope
Paschal the Second cut down with his own hands the walnut trees which
crowned the summit, and commanded that the mausoleum should be
destroyed, and the ashes of Nero scattered to the winds, that he might
build a parish church on the spot and dedicate it to Saint Mary. It is
said, too, that the Romans took the marble urn in which the ashes had
been, and used it as a public measure for salt in the old market-place
of the Capitol. A number of the rich Romans of the Renascence afterwards
contributed money to the restoration of the church and built themselves
chapels within it, as tombs for their descendants, so that it is the
burial-place of many of those wealthy families that settled in Rome and
took possession of the Corso when the Barons still held the less central
parts of the city with their mediæval fortresses. Sixtus the Fourth and
Julius the Second are buried in Saint Peter's, but their chapel was
here, and here lie others of the della Rovere race, and many of the
Chigi and Pallavicini and Theodoli; and here, in strange coincidence,
Alexander the Sixth, the worst of the Popes, erected a high altar on the
very spot where the worst of the Emperors had been buried. It is gone
now, but the strange fact is not forgotten.

Far across the beautiful square, at the entrance to the Corso, twin
churches seem to guard the way like sentinels, built, it is said, to
replace two chapels which once stood at the head of the bridge of Sant'
Angelo; demolished because, when Rome was sacked by the Constable of
Bourbon, they had been held as important points by the Spanish soldiers
in besieging the Castle, and it was not thought wise to leave such
useful outworks for any possible enemy in the future. Alexander the
Seventh, the Chigi Pope, died, and left the work unfinished; and a folk
story tells how a poor old woman who lived near by saved what she could
for many years, and, dying, left one hundred and fifty scudi to help the
completion of the buildings; and Cardinal Gastaldi, who had been refused
the privilege of placing his arms upon a church which he had desired to
build in Bologna, and was looking about for an opportunity of
perpetuating his name, finished the two churches, his attention having
been first called to them by the old woman's humble bequest.

As for the Pincio itself, and the ascent to it from the Piazza del
Popolo, all that land was but a grass-grown hillside, crowned by a few
small and scattered villas and scantily furnished with trees, until the
beginning of the present century; and the public gardens of the earlier
time were those of the famous and beautiful Villa Medici, which Napoleon
the First bestowed upon the French Academy. It was there that the
fashionable Romans of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries used to
meet, and walk, and be carried about in gilded sedan-chairs, and flirt,
and gossip, and exchange views on politics and opinions about the latest
scandal. That was indeed a very strange society, further from us in many
ways than the world of the Renascence, or even of the Crusades; for the
Middle Age was strong in the sincerity of its beliefs, as we are
powerful in the cynicism of our single-hearted faith in riches; but the
fabric of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries was founded upon the
abuse of an already declining power; it was built up in the most
extraordinary and elaborate affectation, and it was guarded by a system
of dissimulation which outdid that of our own day by many degrees, and
possibly surpassed the hypocrisy of any preceding age.

No one, indeed, can successfully uphold the idea that the high
development of art in any shape is of necessity coincident with a strong
growth of religion or moral conviction. Perugino made no secret of being
an atheist; Lionardo da Vinci was a scientific sceptic; Raphael was an
amiable rake, no better and no worse than the majority of those gifted
pupils to whom he was at once a model of perfection and an example of
free living; and those who maintain that art is always the expression of
a people's religion have but an imperfect acquaintance with the age of
Praxiteles, Apelles and Zeuxis. Yet the idea itself has a foundation,
lying in something which is as hard to define as it is impossible to
ignore; for if art be not a growth out of faith, it is always the result
of a faith that has been, since although it is possible to conceive of
religion without art, it is out of the question to think of art as a
whole, without a religious origin; and as the majority of writers find
it easier to describe scenes and emotions, when a certain lapse of time
has given them what painters call atmospheric perspective, so the
Renascence began when memory already clothed the ferocious realism of
mediæval Christianity in the softer tones of gentle chivalry and tender
romance. It is often said, half in jest, that, in order to have
intellectual culture, a man must at least have forgotten Latin, if he
cannot remember it, because the fact of having learned it leaves
something behind that cannot be acquired in any other way. Similarly, I
think that art of all sorts has reached its highest level in successive
ages when it has aimed at recalling, by an illusion, a once vivid
reality from a not too distant past. And so when it gives itself up to
the realism of the present, it impresses the senses rather than the
thoughts, and misses its object, which is to bring within our mental
reach what is beyond our physical grasp; and when, on the other hand, it
goes back too far, it fails in execution, because its models are not
only out of sight, but out of mind, and it cannot touch us because we
can no longer feel even a romantic interest in the real or imaginary
events which it attempts to describe.

The subject is too high to be lightly touched, and too wide to be
touched more than lightly here; but in this view of it may perhaps be
found some explanation of the miserable poverty of Italian art in the
eighteenth century, foreshadowed by the decadence of the seventeenth,
which again is traceable to the dissipation of force and the
disappearance of individuality that followed the Renascence, as
inevitably as old age follows youth. Besides all necessary gifts of
genius, the development of art seems to require that a race should not
only have leisure for remembering, but should also have something to
remember which may be worthy of being recalled and perhaps of being
imitated. Progress may be the road to wealth and health, and to such
happiness as may be derived from both; but the advance of civilization
is the path of thought, and its landmarks are not inventions nor
discoveries, but those very great creations of the mind which ennoble
the heart in all ages; and as the idea of progress is inseparable from
that of growing riches, so is the true conception of civilization
indivisible from thoughts of beauty and nobility. In the seventeenth and
eighteenth centuries, Italy had almost altogether lost sight of these;
art was execrable, fashion was hideous, morality meant hypocrisy; the
surest way to power lay in the most despicable sort of intrigue, and
inward and spiritual faith was as rare as outward and visible devoutness
was general.

That was the society which frequented the Villa Medici on fine
afternoons, and it is hard to see wherein its charm lay, if, indeed, it
had any. Instead of originality, its conversation teemed with artificial
conventionalisms; instead of nature, it exhibited itself in the disguise
of fashions more inconvenient, uncomfortable and ridiculous than those
of any previous or later times; it delighted in the impossibly
nonsensical 'pastoral' verses which we find too silly to read; and in
place of wit, it clothed gross and cruel sayings in a thin remnant of
worn-out classicism. It had not the frankly wicked recklessness of the
French aristocracy between Lewis the Fourteenth and the Revolution, nor
the changing contrasts of brutality, genius, affectation and Puritanical
austerity which marked England's ascent, from the death of Edward the
Sixth to the victories of Nelson and Wellington; still less had it any
of those real motives for existence which carried Germany through her
long struggle for life. It had little which we are accustomed to respect
in men and women, and yet it had something which we lack today, and
which we unconsciously envy--it had a colour of its own. Wandering under
the ancient ilexes of those sad and beautiful gardens, meeting here and
there a few silent and soberly clad strangers, one cannot but long for
the brilliancy of two centuries ago, when the walks were gay with
brilliant dresses, and gilded chairs, and servants in liveries of
scarlet and green and gold, and noble ladies, tottering a few steps on
their ridiculous high heels, and men bewigged and becurled, their
useless little hats under their arms, and their embroidered coat tails
flapping against their padded, silk-stockinged calves; and red-legged,
unpriestly Cardinals who were not priests even in name, but only the lay
life-peers of the Church; and grave Bishops with their secretaries; and
laughing abbés, whose clerical dress was the accustomed uniform of
government office, which they still wore when they were married, and
were fathers of families. There is little besides colour to recommend
the picture, but at least there is that.

The Pincian hill has always been the favourite home of artists of all
kinds, and many lived at one time or another in the little villas that
once stood there, and in the houses in the Via Sistina and southward,
and up towards the Porta Pinciana. Guido Reni, the Caracci, Salvator
Rosa, Poussin, Claude Lorrain, have all left the place the association
of their presence, and the Zuccheri brothers built themselves the house
which still bears their name, just below the one at the corner of the
Trinità de' Monti, known to all foreigners as the 'Tempietto' or little
temple. But the Villa Medici stands as it did long ago, its walls
uninjured, its trees grander than ever, its walks unchanged.
Soft-hearted Baracconi, in love with those times more than with the
Middle Age, speaks half tenderly of the people who used to meet there,
calling them collectively a gay and light-hearted society, gentle, idle,
full of graceful thoughts and delicate perceptions, brilliant
reflections and light charms; he regrets the gilded chairs, the huge
built-up wigs, the small sword of the 'cavalier servente,' and the
abbé's silk mantle, the semi-platonic friendships, the jests borrowed
from Goldoni, the 'pastoral' scandal, and exchange of compliments and
madrigals and epigrams, and all the brilliant powdered train of that
extinct world.

[Illustration: VILLA MEDICI]

Whatever life may have been in those times, that world died in a pretty
tableau, after the manner of Watteau's paintings; it meant little and
accomplished little, and though its bright colouring brings it for a
moment to the foreground, it has really not much to do with the Rome we
know nor with the Rome one thinks of in the past, always great, always
sad, always tragic, as no other city in the world can ever be.

Ignorance, tradition, imagination, romance,--call it what you will,--has
chosen the long-closed Pincian Gate for the last station of blind
Belisarius. There, says the tale, the ancient conqueror, the banisher
and maker of Popes, the favourite and the instrument of imperial
Theodora, stood begging his bread at the gate of the city he had won and
lost, leaning upon the arm of the fair girl child who would not leave
him, and stretching forth his hand to those that passed by, with a
feeble prayer for alms, pathetic as Oedipus in the utter ruin of his
life and fortune. A truer story tells how Pope Silverius, humble and
gentle, and hated by Theodora, went up to the Pincian villa to answer
the accusation of conspiring with the Goths, when he himself had opened
the gates of Rome to Belisarius; and how he was led into the great hall
where the warrior's wife, Theodora's friend, the beautiful and evil
Antonina, lay with half-closed eyes upon her splendid couch, while
Belisarius sat beside her feet, toying with her jewels. There the
husband and wife accused the Pope, and judged him without hearing, and
condemned him without right; and they caused him to be stripped of his
robes, and clad as a poor monk and driven out to far exile, that they
might set up the Empress Theodora's Pope in his place; and with him they
drove out many Roman nobles.

And it is said that when Silverius was dead of a broken heart in the
little island of Palmaria, Belisarius repented of his deeds and built
the small Church of Santa Maria de' Crociferi, behind the fountain of
Trevi, in partial expiation of his fault, and there, to prove the truth
of the story, the tablet that tells of his repentance has stood nearly
fourteen hundred years and may be read today, on the east wall, towards
the Via de' Poli. The man who conquered Africa for Justinian, seized
Sicily, took Rome, defended it successfully against the Goths, reduced
Ravenna, took Rome from the Goths again, and finally rescued
Constantinople, was disgraced more than once; but he was not blinded,
nor did he die in exile or in prison, for at the end he breathed his
last in the enjoyment of his freedom and his honours; and the story of
his blindness is the fabrication of an ignorant Greek monk who lived six
hundred years later and confounded Justinian's great general with the
romantic and unhappy John of Cappadocia, who lived at the same time, was
a general at the same time, and incurred the displeasure of that same
pious, proud, avaricious Theodora, actress, penitent and Empress, whose
paramount beauty held the Emperor in thrall for life, and whose
surpassing cruelty imprinted an indelible seal of horror upon his
glorious reign--of her who, when she delivered a man to death,
admonished the executioner with an oath, saying, 'By Him who liveth for
ever, if thou failest, I will cause thee to be flayed alive.'

Another figure rises at the window of the Tuscan Ambassador's great
villa, with the face of a man concerning whom legend has also found much
to invent and little to say that is true, a man of whom modern science
has rightly made a hero, but whom prejudice and ignorance have wrongly
crowned as a martyr--Galileo Galilei. Tradition represents him as
languishing, laden with chains, in the more or less mythical prisons of
the Inquisition; history tells very plainly that his first confinement
consisted in being the honoured guest of the Tuscan Ambassador in the
latter's splendid residence in Rome, and that his last imprisonment was
a relegation to the beautiful castle of the Piccolomini near Siena, than
which the heart of man could hardly desire a more lovely home. History
affirms beyond doubt, moreover, that Galileo was the personal friend of
that learned and not illiberal Barberini, Pope Urban the Eighth, under
whose long reign the Copernican system was put on trial, who believed in
that system as Galileo did, who read his books and talked with him; and
who, when the stupid technicalities of the ecclesiastic courts declared
the laws of the universe to be nonsense, gave his voice against the
decision, though he could not officially annul it without scandal. 'It
was not my intention,' said the Pope in the presence of witnesses, 'to
condemn Galileo. If the matter had depended upon me, the decree of the
Index which condemned his doctrines should never have been pronounced.'

That Galileo's life was saddened by the result of the absurd trial, and
that he was nominally a prisoner for a long time, is not to be denied.
But that he suffered the indignities and torments recorded in legend is
no more true than that Belisarius begged his bread at the Porta
Pinciana. He lived in comfort and in honour with the Ambassador in the
Villa Medici, and many a time from those lofty windows, unchanged since
before his day, he must have watched the earth turning with him from the
sun at evening, and meditated upon the emptiness of the ancient phrase
that makes the sun 'set' when the day is done--thinking of the world,
perhaps, as turning upon its other side, with tired eyes, and ready for
rest and darkness and refreshment, after long toil and heat.

* * * * *

One may stand under those old trees before the Villa Medici, beside the
ancient fountain facing Saint Peter's distant dome, and dream the great
review of history, and call up a vast, changing picture at one's feet
between the heights and the yellow river. First, the broad corn-field of
the Tarquin Kings, rich and ripe under the evening breeze of summer that
runs along swiftly, bending the golden surface in soft moving waves from
the Tiber's edge to the foot of the wooded slope. Then, the hurried
harvesting, the sheaves cast into the river, the dry, stiff stubble
baking in the sun, and presently the men of Rome coming forth in
procession from the dark Servian wall on the left to dedicate the field
to the War God with prayer and chant and smoking sacrifice. By and by
the stubble trodden down under horses' hoofs, the dusty plain the
exercising ground of young conquerors, the voting place, later, of a
strong Republic, whither the centuries went out to choose their consuls,
to decide upon peace or war, to declare the voice of the people in grave
matters, while the great signal flag waved on the Janiculum, well in
sight though far away, to fall suddenly at the approach of any foe and
suspend the 'comitia' on the instant. And in the flat and dusty plain,
buildings begin to rise; first, the Altar of Mars and the holy place of
the infernal gods, Dis and Proserpine; later, the great 'Sheepfold,' the
lists and hustings for the voting, and, encroaching a little upon the
training ground, the temple of Venus Victorious and the huge theatre of
Pompey, wherein the Orsini held their own so long; but in the times of
Lucullus, when his gardens and his marvellous villa covered the Pincian
hill, the plain was still a wide field, and still the field of Mars,
without the walls, broken by few landmarks, and trodden to deep white
dust by the scampering hoofs of half-drilled cavalry. Under the
Emperors, then, first beautified in part, as Cæsar traces the great
Septa for the voting, and Augustus erects the Altar of Peace and builds
up his cypress-clad tomb, crowned by his own image, and Agrippa raises
his triple temple, and Hadrian builds the Pantheon upon its ruins, while
the obelisk that now stands on Monte Citorio before the House of
Parliament points out the brass-figured hours on the broad marble floor
of the first Emperor's sun-clock and marks the high noon of Rome's
glory--and the Portico of Neptune and many other splendid works spring
up. Isis and Serapis have a temple next, and Domitian's race-course
appears behind Agrippa's Baths, straight and white. By and by the
Antonines raise columns and triumphal arches, but always to southward,
leaving the field of Mars a field still, for its old uses, and the tired
recruits, sweating from exercise, gather under the high shade of
Augustus' tomb at midday for an hour's rest.

Last of all, the great temple of the Sun, with its vast portico, and the
Mithræum at the other end, and when the walls of Aurelian are built, and
when ruin comes upon Rome from the north, the Campus Martius is still
almost an open stretch of dusty earth on which soldiers have learned
their trade through a thousand years of hard training.

Not till the poor days when the waterless, ruined city sends its people
down from the heights to drink of the muddy stream does Campo Marzo
become a town, and then, around the castle-tomb of the Colonna and the
castle-theatre of the Orsini the wretched houses begin to rise here and
there, thickening to a low, dark forest of miserable dwellings threaded
through and through, up and down and crosswise, by narrow and crooked
streets, out of which by degrees the lofty churches and palaces of the
later age are to spring up. From a training ground it has become a
fighting ground, a labyrinth of often barricaded ways and lanes, deeper
and darker towards the water-gates cut in the wall that runs along the
Tiber, from Porta del Popolo nearly to the island of Saint Bartholomew,
and almost all that is left of Rome is crowded and huddled into the
narrow pen overshadowed and dominated here and there by black fortresses
and brown brick towers. The man who then might have looked down from the
Pincian hill would have seen that sight; houses little better than those
of the poorest mountain village in the Southern Italy of today, black
with smoke, black with dirt, blacker with patches made by shadowy
windows that had no glass. A silent town, too, surly and defensive; now
and then the call of the water-carrier disturbs the stillness, more
rarely, the cry of a wandering peddler; and sometimes a distant sound of
hoofs, a far clash of iron and steel, and the echoing yell of furious
fighting men--'Orsini!' 'Colonna!'--the long-drawn syllables coming up
distinct through the evening air to the garden where Messalina died,
while the sun sets red behind the spire of old Saint Peter's across the
river, and gilds the huge girth of dark Sant' Angelo to a rusty red,
like battered iron bathed in blood.

Back come the Popes from Avignon, and streets grow wider and houses
cleaner and men richer--all for the Bourbon's Spaniards to sack, and
burn, and destroy before the last city grows up, and the rounded domes
raise their helmet-like heads out of the chaos, and the broad Piazza del
Popolo is cleared, and old Saint Peter's goes down in dust to make way
for the Cathedral of all Christendom as it stands. Then far away, on
Saint Peter's evening, when it is dusk, the great dome, and the small
domes, and the colonnades, and the broad façade are traced in silver
lights that shine out quietly as the air darkens. The solemn bells toll
the first hour of the June night; the city is hushed, and all at once
the silver lines are turned to gold, as the red flame runs in magic
change from the topmost cross down the dome, in rivers, to the roof, and
the pillars and the columns of the square below--the grandest
illumination of the grandest church the world has ever seen.

[Illustration]

REGION V PONTE

The Region of Ponte, 'the Bridge,' takes its name from the ancient
Triumphal Bridge which led from the city to the Vatican Fields, and at
low water some fragments of the original piers may be seen in the river
at the bend just below Ponte Sant' Angelo, between the Church of Saint
John of the Florentines on the one bank, and the Hospital of Santo
Spirito on the other. In the Middle Age, according to Baracconi and
others, the broken arches still extended into the stream, and upon them
was built a small fortress, the outpost of the Orsini on that side. The
device, however, appears to represent a portion of the later Bridge of
Sant' Angelo, built upon the foundations of the Ælian Bridge of
Hadrian, which connected his tomb with the Campus Martius. The Region
consists of the northwest point of the city, bounded by the Tiber, from
Monte Brianzo round the bend, and down stream to the new Lungara bridge,
and on the land side by a very irregular line running across the Corso
Vittorio Emanuele, close to the Chiesa Nuova, and then eastward and
northward in a zigzag, so as to take in most of the fortresses of the
Orsini family, Monte Giordano, Tor Millina, Tor Sanguigna, and the now
demolished Torre di Nona. The Sixth and Seventh Regions adjacent to the
Fifth and to each other would have to be included in order to take in
all that part of Rome once held by the only family that rivalled, and
sometimes surpassed, the Colonna in power.

As has been said before, the original difference between the two was
that the Colonna were Ghibellines and for the Emperors, while the Orsini
were Guelphs and generally adhered to the Popes. In the violent changes
of the Middle Age, it happened indeed that the Colonna had at least one
Pope of their own, and that more than one, such as Nicholas the Fourth,
favoured their race to the point of exciting popular indignation. But,
on the whole, they kept to their parties. When Lewis the Bavarian was to
be crowned by force, Sciarra Colonna crowned him; when Henry the Seventh
of Luxemburg had come to Rome for the same purpose, a few years earlier,
the Orsini had been obliged to be satisfied with a sort of second-rate
coronation at Saint John Lateran's; and when the struggle between the
two families was at its height, nearly two centuries later, and Sixtus
the Fourth 'assumed the part of mediator,' as the chronicle expresses
it, one of his first acts of mediation was to cut off the head of a
Colonna, and his next was to lay regular siege to the strongholds of the
family in the Roman hills; but before he had brought this singular
process of mediation to an issue he suddenly died, the Colonna returned
to their dwellings in Rome 'with great clamour and triumph,' got the
better of the Orsini, and proceeded to elect a Pope after their own
hearts, in the person of Cardinal Cibo, of Genoa, known as Innocent the
Eighth. He it is who lies under the beautiful bronze monument in the
inner left aisle of Saint Peter's, which shows him holding in his hand a
model of the spear-head that pierced Christ's side, a relic believed to
have been sent to the Pope as a gift by Sultan Bajazet the Second.

The origin of the hatred between Colonna and Orsini is unknown, for the
archives of the former have as yet thrown no light upon the subject, and
those of the latter were almost entirely destroyed by fire in the last
century. In the year 1305, Pope Clement the Fifth was elected Pope at
Perugia. He was a Frenchman, and was Archbishop of Bordeaux, the
candidate of Philip the Fair, whose tutor had been a Colonna, and he
was chosen by the opposing factions of two Orsini cardinals because the
people of Perugia were tired of a quarrel that had lasted eleven months,
and had adopted the practical and always infallible expedient of
deliberately starving the conclave to a vote. Muratori calls it a
scandalous and illicit election, which brought about the ruin of Italy
and struck a memorable blow at the power of the Holy See. Though not a
great man, Philip the Fair was one of the cleverest that ever lived.
Before the election he had made his bishop swear upon the Sacred Host to
accept his conditions, without expressing them all; and the most
important proved to be the transference of the Papal See to France. The
new Pope obeyed his master, established himself in Avignon, and the King
to all intents and purposes had taken the Pontificate captive and lost
no time in using it for his own ends against the Empire, his hereditary
foe. Such, in a few words, is the history of that memorable transaction;
and but for the previous quarrels of Colonna, Caetani and Orsini, it
could never have taken place. The Orsini repented bitterly of what they
had done, for one of Clement the Fifth's first acts was to 'annul
altogether all sentences whatsoever pronounced against the Colonna.'

But the Pope being gone, the Barons had Rome in their power and used it
for a battlefield. Four years later, we find in Villani the first record
of a skirmish fought between Orsini and Colonna. In the month of
October, 1309, says the chronicler, certain of the Orsini and of the
Colonna met outside the walls of Rome with their followers, to the
number of four hundred horse, and fought together, and the Colonna won;
and there died the Count of Anguillara, and six of the Orsini were
taken, and Messer Riccardo degli Annibaleschi who was in their company.

Three years afterwards, Henry of Luxemburg alternately feasted and
fought his way to Rome to be crowned Emperor in spite of Philip the
Fair, the Tuscan league and Robert, King of Naples, who sent a thousand
horsemen out of the south to hinder the coronation. In a day Rome was
divided into two great camps. Colonna held for the Emperor the Lateran,
Santa Maria Maggiore, the Colosseum, the Torre delle Milizie,--the brick
tower on the lower part of the modern Via Nazionale,--the Pantheon, as
an advanced post in one direction, and Santa Sabina, a church that was
almost a fortress, on the south, by the Tiber,--a chain of fortresses
which would be formidable in any modern revolution. Against Henry,
however, the Orsini held the Vatican and Saint Peter's, the Castle of
Sant' Angelo and all Trastevere, their fortresses in the Region of
Ponte, and, moreover, the Capitol itself. The parties were well matched,
for, though Henry entered Rome on the seventh of May, the struggle
lasted till the twenty-ninth of June.

Those who have seen revolutions can guess at the desperate fighting in
the barricaded streets, and at the well-guarded bridges from one end of
the city to the other. Backwards and forwards the battle raged for days
and weeks, by day and night, with small time for rest and refreshment.
Forward rode the Colonna, the stolid Germans, Henry himself, the eagle
of the Empire waving in the dim streets beside the flag that displayed
the simple column in a plain field. It is not hard to hear and see it
all again--the clanging gallop of armoured knights, princes, nobles and
bishops, with visors down, and long swords and maces in their hands, the
high, fierce cries of the light-armed footmen, the bowmen and the
slingers, the roar of the rabble rout behind, the shrill voices of women
at upper windows, peering down for the face of brother, husband, or
lover in the dashing press below,--the dust, the heat, the fierce June
sunshine blazing on broad steel, and the deep, black shadows putting out
all light as the bands rush past. Then, on a sudden, the answering shout
of the Orsini, the standard of the Bear, the Bourbon lilies of Anjou,
the scarlet and white colours of the Guelph house, the great black
horses, and the dark mail--the enemies surging together in the street
like swift rivers of loose iron meeting in a stone channel, with a
rending crash and the quick hammering of steel raining desperate blows
on steel--horses rearing their height, footmen crushed, knights reeling
in the saddle, sparks flying, steel-clad arms and long swords whirling
in great circles through the air. Foremost of all in fight the Bishop of
Liège, his purple mantle flying back from his corselet, trampling down
everything, sworn to win the barricade or die, riding at it like a
madman, forcing his horse up to it over the heaps of quivering bodies
that made a causeway, leaping it alone at last, like a demon in air, and
standing in the thick of the Orsini, slaying to right and left.

In an instant they had him down and bound and prisoner, one man against
a thousand; and they fastened him behind a man-at-arms, on the crupper,
to take him into Sant' Angelo alive. But a soldier, whose brother he had
slain a moment earlier, followed stealthily on foot and sought the joint
in the back of the armour, and ran in his pike quickly, and killed
him--'whereof,' says the chronicle, 'was great pity, for the Bishop was
a man of high courage and authority.' But on the other side of the
barricade, those who had followed him so far, and lost him, felt their
hearts sink, for not one of them could do what he had done; and after
that, though they fought a whole month longer, they had but little hope
of ever getting to the Vatican. So the Colonna took Henry up to the
Lateran, where they were masters, and he was crowned there by three
cardinals in the Pope's stead, while the Orsini remained grimly
intrenched in their own quarter, and each party held its own, even after
Henry had prudently retired to Tivoli, in the hills.

[Illustration: ISLAND IN THE TIBER]

At last the great houses made a truce and a compromise, by which they
attempted to govern Rome jointly, and chose Sciarra--the same who had
taken Pope Boniface prisoner in Anagni--and Matteo Orsini of Monte
Giordano, to be Senators together; and there was peace between them for
a time, in the year in which Rienzi was born. But in that very year, as
though foreshadowing his destiny, the rabble of Rome rose up, and chose
a dictator; and somehow, by surprise or treachery, he got possession of
the Barons' chief fortresses, and of Sant' Angelo, and set up the
standard of terror against the nobles. In a few days he sacked and
burned their strongholds, and the high and mighty lords who had made the
reigning Pope, and had fought to an issue for the Crown of the Holy
Roman Empire, were conquered, humiliated and imprisoned by an upstart
plebeian of Trastevere. The portcullis of Monte Giordano was lifted, and
the mysterious gates were thrown wide to the curiosity of a populace
drunk with victory; Giovanni degli Stefaneschi issued edicts of
sovereign power from the sacred precincts of the Capitol; and the
vagabond thieves of Rome feasted in the lordly halls of the Colonna
palace. But though the tribune and the people could seize Rome,
outnumbering the nobles as ten to one, they had neither the means nor
the organization to besiege the fortified towns of the great houses,
which hemmed in the city and the Campagna on every side. Thither the
nobles retired to recruit fresh armies among their retainers, to forge
new swords in their own smithies, and to concert new plans for
recovering their ancient domination; and thence they returned in their
strength, from their towers and their towns and fortresses, from
Palestrina and Subiaco, Genazzano, San Vito and Paliano on the south,
and from Bracciano and Galera and Anguillara, and all the Orsini castles
on the north, to teach the people of Rome the great truth of those days,
that 'aristocracy' meant not the careless supremacy of the nobly born,
but the power of the strongest hands and the coolest heads to take and
hold. Back came Colonna and Orsini, and the people, who a few months
earlier had acclaimed their dictator in a fit of justifiable ill-temper
against their masters, opened the gates for the nobles again, and no man
lifted a hand to help Giovanni degli Stefaneschi, when the men-at-arms
bound him and dragged him off to prison. Strange to say, no further
vengeance was taken upon him, and for once in their history, the nobles
shed no blood in revenge for a mortal injury.

No man could count the tragedies that swept over the Region of Ponte
from the first outbreak of war between the Orsini and the Colonna, till
Paolo Giordano Orsini, the last of the elder branch, breathed out his
life in exile under the ban of Sixtus the Fifth, three hundred years
later. There was no end of them till then, and there was little
interruption of them while they lasted; there is no stone left standing
from those days in that great quarter that may not have been splashed
with their fierce blood, nor is there, perhaps, a church or chapel
within their old holding into which an Orsini has not been borne dead or
dying from some deadly fight. Even today it is gloomy, and the broad
modern street, which swept down a straight harvest of memories through
the quarter to the very Bridge of Sant' Angelo, has left the mediæval
shadows on each side as dark as ever. Of the three parts of the city,
which still recall the Middle Age most vividly, namely, the
neighbourhood of San Pietro in Vincoli, in the first Region, the by-ways
of Trastevere and the Region of Ponte, the latter is by far the most
interesting. It was the abode of the Orsini; it was also the chief place
of business for the bankers and money-changers who congregated there
under the comparatively secure protection of the Guelph lords; and it
was the quarter of prisons, of tortures, and of executions both secret
and public. The names of the streets had terrible meaning: there was the
Vicolo della Corda, and the Corda was the rope by which criminals were
hoisted twenty feet in the air, and allowed to drop till their toes were
just above the ground; there was the Piazza della Berlina Vecchia, the
place of the Old Pillory; there was a little church known as the 'Church
of the Gallows'; and there was a lane ominously called Vicolo dello
Mastro; the Mastro was the Master of judicial executions, in other
words, the Executioner himself. Before the Castle of Sant' Angelo stood
the permanent gallows, rarely long unoccupied, and from an upper window
of the dark Torre di Nona, on the hither side of the bridge, a rope hung
swinging slowly in the wind, sometimes with a human body at the end of
it, sometimes without. It was the place, and that was the manner, of
executions that took place in the night. In Via di Monserrato stood the
old fortress of the Savelli, long ago converted into a prison, and
called the Corte Savella, the most terrible of all Roman dungeons for
the horror of damp darkness, for ever associated with Beatrice Cenci's
trial and death. Through those very streets she was taken in the cart to
the little open space before the bridge, where she laid down her life
upon the scaffold three hundred years ago, and left her story of
offended innocence, of revenge and of expiation, which will not be
forgotten while Rome is remembered.

Beatrice Cenci's story has been often told, but nowhere more clearly and
justly than in Shelley's famous letter, written to explain his play.
There are several manuscript accounts of the last scene at the Ponte
Sant' Angelo, and I myself have lately read one, written by a
contemporary and not elsewhere mentioned, but differing only from the
rest in the horrible realism with which the picture is presented. The
truth is plain enough; the unspeakable crimes of Francesco Cenci, his
more than inhuman cruelty to his children and his wives, his monstrous
lust and devilish nature, outdo anything to be found in any history of
the world, not excepting the private lives of Tiberius, Nero, or
Commodus. His daughter and his second wife killed him in his sleep. His
death was merciful and swift, in an age when far less crimes were
visited with tortures at the very name of which we shudder. They were
driven to absolute desperation, and the world has forgiven them their
one quick blow, struck for freedom, for woman's honour and for life
itself in the dim castle of Petrella. Tormented with rack and cord they
all confessed the deed, save Beatrice, whom no bodily pain could move;
and if Paolo Santacroce had not murdered his mother for her money before
their death was determined, Clement the Eighth would have pardoned them.
But the times were evil, an example was called for, Santacroce had
escaped to Brescia, and the Pope's heart was hardened against the Cenci.

[Illustration: BRIDGE OF SANT' ANGELO]

They died bravely, there at the head of the bridge, in the calm May
morning, in the midst of a vast and restless crowd, among whom more than
one person was killed by accident, as by the falling of a pot of flowers
from a high window, and by the breaking down of a balcony over a shop,
where too many had crowded in to see. The old house opposite looked down
upon the scene, and the people watched Beatrice Cenci die from those
same arched windows. Above the sea of faces, high on the wooden
scaffold, rises the tall figure of a lovely girl, her hair gleaming in
the sunshine like threads of dazzling gold, her marvellous blue eyes
turned up to Heaven, her fresh young dimpled face not pale with fear,
her exquisite lips moving softly as she repeats the De Profundis of her
last appeal to God. Let the axe not fall. Let her stand there for ever
in the spotless purity that cost her life on earth and set her name for
ever among the high constellated stars of maidenly romance.

Close by the bridge, just opposite the Torre di Nona, stood the 'Lion
Inn,' once kept by the beautiful Vanozza de Catanei, the mother of
Rodrigo Borgia's children, of Cæsar, and Gandia, and Lucrezia, and the
place was her property still when she was nominally married to her
second husband, Carlo Canale, the keeper of the prison across the way.
In the changing vicissitudes of the city, the Torre di Nona made way for
the once famous Apollo Theatre, built upon the lower dungeons and
foundations, and Faust's demon companion rose to the stage out of the
depths that had heard the groans of tortured criminals; the theatre
itself disappeared a few years ago in the works for improving the
Tiber's banks, and a name is all that remains of a fact that made men
tremble. In the late destruction, the old houses opposite were not
altogether pulled down, but were sliced, as it were, through their roofs
and rooms, at a safe angle; and there, no doubt, are still standing
portions of Vanozza's inn, while far below, the cellars where she kept
her wine free of excise, by papal privilege, are still as cool and
silent as ever.

Not far beyond her hostelry stands another Inn, famous from early days
and still open to such travellers as deign to accept its poor
hospitality. It is an inn for the people now, for wine carters, and the
better sort of hill peasants; it was once the best and most fashionable
in Rome, and there the great Montaigne once dwelt, and is believed to
have written at least a part of his famous Essay on Vanity. It is the
Albergo dell' Orso, the 'Bear Inn,' and perhaps it is not a coincidence
that Vanozza's sign of the Lion should have faced the approach to the
Leonine City beyond the Tiber, and that the sign of the Bear, 'The
Orsini Arms,' as an English innkeeper would christen it, should have
been the principal resort of the kind in a quarter which was
three-fourths the property and altogether the possession of the great
house that overshadowed it, from Monte Giordano on the one side, and
from Pompey's Theatre on the other.

The temporary fall of the Orsini at the end of the sixteenth century
came about by one of the most extraordinary concatenations of events to
be found in the chronicles. The story has filled more than one volume
and is nevertheless very far from complete; nor is it possible, since
the destruction of the Orsini archives, to reconstruct it with absolute
accuracy. Briefly told, it is this.

Felice Peretti, monk and Cardinal of Montalto, and still nominally one
of the so-called 'poor cardinals' who received from the Pope a daily
allowance known as 'the Dish,' had nevertheless accumulated a good deal
of property before he became Pope under the name of Sixtus the Fifth,
and had brought some of his relatives to Rome. Among these was his well
beloved nephew, Francesco Peretti, for whom he naturally sought an
advantageous marriage. There was at that time in Rome a notary, named
Accoramboni, a native of the Marches of Ancona and a man of some wealth
and of good repute. He had one daughter, Vittoria, a girl of excessive
vanity, as ambitious as she was vain and as singularly beautiful as she
was ambitious. But she was also clever in a remarkable degree, and seems
to have had no difficulty in hiding her bad qualities. Francesco Peretti
fell in love with her, the Cardinal approved the match, though he was a
man not easily deceived, and the two were married and settled in the
Villa Negroni, which the Cardinal had built near the Baths of
Diocletian. Having attained her first object, Vittoria took less pains
to play the saint, and began to dress with unbecoming magnificence and
to live on a very extravagant scale. Her name became a byword in Rome
and her lovely face was one of the city's sights. The Cardinal,
devotedly attached to his nephew, disapproved of the latter's young wife
and regretted the many gifts he had bestowed upon her. Like most clever
men, too, he was more than reasonably angry at having been deceived in
his judgment of a girl's character. So far, there is nothing not
commonplace about the tale.

At that time Paolo Giordano Orsini, the head of the house, Duke of
Bracciano and lord of a hundred domains, was one of the greatest
personages in Italy. No longer young and already enormously fat, he was
married to Isabella de' Medici, the daughter of Cosimo, reigning in
Florence. She was a beautiful and evil woman, and those who have
endeavoured to make a martyr of her forget the nameless doings of her
youth. Giordano was weak and extravagant, and paid little attention to
his wife. She consoled herself with his kinsman, the young and handsome
Troilo Orsini, who was as constantly at her side as an official
'cavalier servente' of later days. But the fat Giordano, indolent and
pleasure seeking, saw nothing. Nor is there anything much more than
vulgar and commonplace in all this.

Paolo Giordano meets Vittoria Peretti in Rome, and the two commonplaces
begin the tragedy. On his part, love at first sight; ridiculous, at
first, when one thinks of his vast bulk and advancing years, terrible,
by and by, as the hereditary passions of his fierce race could be,
backed by the almost boundless power which a great Italian lord
possessed in his surroundings. Vittoria, tired of her dull and virtuous
husband and of the lectures and parsimony of his uncle, and not dreaming
that the latter was soon to be Pope, saw herself in a dream of glory
controlling every mood and action of the greatest noble in the land. And
she met Giordano again and again, and he pleaded and implored, and was
alternately ridiculous and almost pathetic in his hopeless passion for
the notary's daughter. But she had no thought of yielding to his
entreaties. She would have marriage, or nothing. Neither words nor gifts
could move her.

She had a husband, he had a wife; and she demanded that he should marry
her, and was grimly silent as to the means. Until she was married to him
he should not so much as touch the tips of her jewelled fingers, nor
have a lock of her hair to wear in his bosom. He was blindly in love,
and he was Paolo Giordano Orsini. It was not likely that he should
hesitate. He who had seen nothing of his wife's doings, suddenly saw his
kinsman, Troilo, and Isabella was doomed. Troilo fled to Paris, and
Orsini took Isabella from Bracciano to the lonely castle of Galera.
There he told her his mind and strangled her, as was his right, being
feudal lord and master with powers of life and death. Then from
Bracciano he sent messengers to kill Francesco Peretti. One of them had
a slight acquaintance with the Cardinal's nephew.

They came to the Villa Negroni by night, and called him out, saying that
his best friend was in need of him, and was waiting for him at Monte
Cavallo. He hesitated, for it was very late. They had torches and
weapons, and would protect him, they said. Still he wavered. Then
Vittoria, his wife, scoffed at him, and called him coward, and thrust
him out to die; for she knew. The men walked beside him with their
torches, talking as they went. They passed the deserted land in the
Baths of Diocletian, and turned at Saint Bernard's Church to go towards
the Quirinal. Then they put out the lights and killed him quickly in the
dark.

His body lay there all night, and when it was told the next day that
Montalto's nephew had been murdered, the two men said that they had left
him at Monte Cavallo and that he must have been killed as he came home
alone. The Cardinal buried him without a word, and though he guessed the
truth he asked neither vengeance nor justice of the Pope.

[Illustration: VILLA NEGRONI

From a print of the last century]

Gregory the Thirteenth guessed it, too, and when Orsini would have
married Vittoria, the Pope forbade the banns and interdicted their union
for ever. That much he dared to do against the greatest peer in the
country.

To this, Orsini replied by plighting his faith to Vittoria with a ring,
in the presence of a serving woman, an irregular ceremony which he
afterwards described as a marriage, and he thereupon took his bride and
her mother under his protection. The Pope retorted by a determined
effort to arrest the murderers of Francesco; the Bargello and his men
went in the evening to the Orsini palace at Pompey's Theatre and
demanded that Giordano should give up the criminals; the porter replied
that the Duke was asleep; the Orsini men-at-arms lunged out with their
weapons, looked on during the interview, and considering the presence of
the Bargello derogatory to their master, drove him away, killing one of
his men and wounding several others. Thereupon Pope Gregory forbade the
Duke from seeing Vittoria or communicating with her by messengers, on
pain of a fine of ten thousand gold ducats, an order to which Orsini
would have paid no attention but which Vittoria was too prudent to
disregard, and she retired to her brother's house, leaving the Duke in a
state of frenzied rage that threatened insanity. Then the Pope seemed to
waver again, and then again learning that the lovers saw each other
constantly in spite of his commands, he suddenly had Vittoria seized and
imprisoned in Sant' Angelo. It is impossible to follow the long struggle
that ensued. It lasted four years, at the end of which time the Duke and
Vittoria were living at Bracciano, where the Orsini was absolute lord
and master and beyond the jurisdiction of the Church--two hours' ride
from the gates of Rome. But no further formality of marriage had taken
place and Vittoria was not satisfied. Then Gregory the Thirteenth died.

During the vacancy of the Holy See, all interdictions of the late Pope
were suspended. Instantly Giordano determined to be married, and came to
Rome with Vittoria. They believed that the Conclave would last some time
and were making their arrangements without haste, living in Pompey's
Theatre, when a messenger brought word that Cardinal Montalto would
surely be elected Pope within a few hours. In the fortress is the small
family church of Santa Maria di Grotta Pinta. The Duke sent down word to
his chaplain that the latter must marry him at once. That night a
retainer of the house had been found murdered at the gate; his body lay
on a trestle bier before the altar of the chapel when the Duke's message
came; the Duke himself and Vittoria were already in the little winding
stair that leads down from the apartments; there was not a moment to be
lost; the frightened chaplain and the messenger hurriedly raised a
marble slab which closed an unused vault, dropped the murdered man's
body into the chasm, and had scarcely replaced the stone when the ducal
pair entered the church. The priest married them before the altar in
fear and trembling, and when they were gone entered the whole story in
the little register in the sacristy. The leaf is extant.

Within a few hours, Montalto was Pope, the humble cardinal was changed
in a moment to the despotic pontiff, whose nephew's murder was
unavenged; instead of the vacillating Gregory, Orsini had to face the
terrible Sixtus, and his defeat and exile were foregone conclusions. He
could no longer hold his own and he took refuge in the States of Venice,
where his kinsman, Ludovico, was a fortunate general. He made a will
which divided his personal estate between Vittoria and his son,
Virginio, greatly to the woman's advantage; and overcome by the
infirmity of his monstrous size, spent by the terrible passions of his
later years, and broken in heart by an edict of exile which he could no
longer defy, he died at Salò within seven months of his great enemy's
coronation, in the forty-ninth year of his age.

Vittoria retired to Padua, and the authorities declared the inheritance
valid, but Ludovico Orsini's long standing hatred of her was inflamed to
madness by the conditions of the will. Six weeks after the Duke's death,
at evening, Vittoria was in her chamber; her boy brother, Flaminio, was
singing a Miserere to his lute by the fire in the great hall. A sound of
quick feet, the glare of torches, and Ludovico's masked men filled the
house. Vittoria died bravely with one deep stab in her heart. The boy,
Flaminio, was torn to pieces with seventy-four wounds.

But Venice would permit no such outrageous deeds. Ludovico was besieged
in his house, by horse and foot and artillery, and was taken alive with
many of his men and swiftly conveyed to Venice; and a week had not
passed from the day of the murder before he was strangled by the
Bargello in the latter's own room, with the red silk cord by which it
was a noble's privilege to die. The first one broke, and they had to
take another, but Ludovico Orsini did not wince. An hour later his body
was borne out with forty torches, in solemn procession, to lie in state
in Saint Mark's Church. His men were done to death with hideous tortures
in the public square. So ended the story of Vittoria Accoramboni.

[Illustration]

REGION VI PARIONE

The principal point of this Region is Piazza Navona, which exactly
coincides with Domitian's race-course, and the Region consists of an
irregular triangle of which the huge square is at the northern angle,
the western one being the Piazza della Chiesa Nuova and the southern
extremity the theatre of Pompey, so often referred to in these pages as
one of the Orsini's strongholds and containing the little church in
which Paolo Giordano married Vittoria Accoramboni, close to the Campo
dei Fiori which was the place of public executions by fire. The name
Parione is said to be derived from the Latin 'Paries,' a wall, applied
to a massive remnant of ancient masonry which once stood somewhere in
the Via di Parione. It matters little; nor can we find any satisfactory
explanation of the gryphon which serves as a device for the whole
quarter, included during the Middle Age, with Ponte and Regola, in the
large portion of the city dominated by the Orsini.

The Befana, which is a corruption of Epifania, the Feast of the
Epiphany, is and always has been the season of giving presents in Rome,
corresponding with our Christmas; and the Befana is personated as a
gruff old woman who brings gifts to little children after the manner of
our Saint Nicholas. But in the minds of Romans, from earliest childhood,
the name is associated with the night fair, opened on the eve of the
Epiphany in Piazza Navona, and which was certainly one of the most
extraordinary popular festivals ever invented to amuse children and make
children of grown people, a sort of foreshadowing of Carnival, but
having at the same time a flavour and a colour of its own, unlike
anything else in the world.

During the days after Christmas a regular line of booths is erected,
encircling the whole circus-shaped space. It is a peculiarity of Roman
festivals that all the material for adornment is kept together from year
to year, ready for use at a moment's notice, and when one sees the
enormous amount of lumber required for the Carnival, for the fireworks
on the Pincio, or for the Befana, one cannot help wondering where it is
all kept. From year to year it lies somewhere, in those vast
subterranean places and great empty houses used for that especial
purpose, of which only Romans guess the extent. When needed, it is
suddenly produced without confusion, marked and numbered, ready to be
put together and regilt or repainted, or hung with the acres of
draperies which Latins know so well how to display in everything
approaching to public pageantry.

At dark, on the Eve of the Epiphany, the Befana begins. The hundreds of
booths are choked with toys and gleam with thousands of little lights,
the open spaces are thronged by a moving crowd, the air splits with the
infernal din of ten thousand whistles and tin trumpets. Noise is the
first consideration for a successful befana, noise of any kind, shrill,
gruff, high, low--any sort of noise; and the first purchase of everyone
who comes must be a tin horn, a pipe, or one of those grotesque little
figures of painted earthenware, representing some characteristic type of
Roman life and having a whistle attached to it, so cleverly modelled in
the clay as to produce the most hideous noises without even the addition
of a wooden plug. But anything will do. On a memorable night nearly
thirty years ago, the whole cornopean stop of an organ was sold in the
fair, amounting to seventy or eighty pipes with their reeds. The
instrument in the old English Protestant Church outside of Porta del
Popolo had been improved, and the organist, who was a practical
Anglo-Saxon, conceived the original and economical idea of selling the
useless pipes at the night fair for the benefit of the church. The
braying of the high, cracked reeds was frightful and never to be
forgotten.

Round and round the square, three generations of families, children,
parents and even grandparents, move in a regular stream, closer and
closer towards midnight and supper-time; nor is the place deserted till
three o'clock in the morning. Toys everywhere, original with an
attractive ugliness, nine-tenths of them made of earthenware dashed with
a kind of bright and harmless paint of which every Roman child remembers
the taste for life; and old and young and middle-aged all blow their
whistles and horns with solemnly ridiculous pertinacity, pausing only to
make some little purchase at the booths, or to exchange a greeting with
passing friends, followed by an especially vigorous burst of noise as
the whistles are brought close to each other's ears, and the party that
can make the more atrocious din drives the other half deafened from the
field. And the old women who help to keep the booths sit warming their
skinny hands over earthen pots of coals and looking on without a smile
on their Sibylline faces, while their sons and daughters sell clay
hunchbacks and little old women of clay, the counterparts of their
mothers, to the passing customers. Thousands upon thousands of people
throng the place, and it is warm with the presence of so much humanity,
even under the clear winter sky. And there is no confusion, no
accident, no trouble, there are no drunken men and no pickpockets. But
Romans are not like other people.

In a few days all is cleared away again, and Bernini's great fountain
faces Borromini's big Church of Saint Agnes, in the silence; and the
officious guide tells the credulous foreigner how the figure of the Nile
in the group is veiling his head to hide the sight of the hideous
architecture, and how the face of the Danube expresses the River God's
terror lest the tower should fall upon him; and how the architect
retorted upon the sculptor by placing Saint Agnes on the summit of the
church, in the act of reassuring the Romans as to the safety of her
shrine; and again, how Bernini's enemies said that the obelisk of the
fountain was tottering, till he came alone on foot and tied four lengths
of twine to the four corners of the pedestal, and fastened the strings
to the nearest houses, in derision, and went away laughing. It was at
that time that he modelled four grinning masks for the corners of his
sedan-chair, so that they seemed to be making scornful grimaces at his
detractors as he was carried along. He could afford to laugh. He had
been the favourite of Urban the Eighth who, when Cardinal Barberini, had
actually held the looking-glass by the aid of which the handsome young
sculptor modelled his own portrait in the figure of David with the
sling, now in the Museum of Villa Borghese. After a brief period of
disgrace under the next reign, brought about by the sharpness of his
Neapolitan tongue, Bernini was restored to the favour of Innocent the
Tenth, the Pamfili Pope, to please whose economical tastes he executed
the fountain in Piazza Navona, after a design greatly reduced in extent
as well as in beauty, compared with the first he had sketched. But an
account of Bernini would lead far and profit little; the catalogue of
his works would fill a small volume; and after all, he was successful
only in an age when art had fallen low. In place of Michelangelo's
universal genius, Bernini possessed a born Neapolitan's universal
facility. He could do something of everything, circumstances gave him
enormous opportunities, and there were few things which he did not
attempt, from classic sculpture to the final architecture of Saint
Peter's and the fortifications of Sant' Angelo. He was afflicted by the
hereditary giantism of the Latins, and was often moved by motives of
petty spite against his inferior rival, Borromini. His best work is the
statue of Saint Teresa in Santa Maria della Vittoria, a figure which has
recently excited the ecstatic admiration of a French critic, expressed
in language that betrays at once the fault of the conception, the taste
of the age in which Bernini lived, and the unhealthy nature of the
sculptor's prolific talent. Only the seventeenth century could have
represented such a disquieting fusion of the sensuous and the
spiritual, and it was reserved for the decadence of our own days to find
words that could describe it. Bernini has been praised as the
Michelangelo of his day, but no one has yet been bold enough, or foolish
enough, to call Michelangelo the Bernini of the sixteenth century.
Barely sixty years elapsed between the death of the one and birth of the
other, and the space of a single lifetime separates the zenith of the
Renascence from the nadir of Barocco art.

[Illustration: PIAZZA NAVONA]

The names of Bernini and of Piazza Navona recall Innocent the Tenth, who
built the palace beside the Church of Saint Agnes, his meannesses, his
nepotism, his weakness, and his miserable end; how his relatives
stripped him of all they could lay hands on, and how at the last, when
he died in the only shirt he possessed, covered by a single ragged
blanket, his sister-in-law, Olimpia Maldachini, dragged from beneath his
pallet bed the two small chests of money which he had succeeded in
concealing to the end. A brass candlestick with a single burning taper
stood beside him in his last moments, and before he was quite dead, a
servant stole it and put a wooden one in its place. When he was dead at
the Quirinal, his body was carried to Saint Peter's in a bier so short
that the poor Pope's feet stuck out over the end, and three days later,
no one could be found to pay for the burial. Olimpia declared that she
was a starving widow and could do nothing; the corpse was thrust into a
place where the masons of the Vatican kept their tools, and one of the
workmen, out of charity or superstition, lit a tallow candle beside it.
In the end, the maggiordomo paid for a deal coffin, and Monsignor Segni
gave five scudi--an English pound--to have the body taken away and
buried. It was slung between two mules and taken by night to the Church
of Saint Agnes, where in the changing course of human and domestic
events, it ultimately got an expensive monument in the worst possible
taste. The learned and sometimes witty Baracconi, who has set down the
story, notes the fact that Leo the Tenth, Pius the Fourth and Gregory
the Sixteenth fared little better in their obsequies, and he comments
upon the democratic spirit of a city in which such things can happen.

Close to the Piazza Navona stands the famous mutilated group, known as
Pasquino, of which the mere name conveys a better idea of the Roman
character than volumes of description, for it was here that the
pasquinades were published, by affixing them to a pedestal at the corner
of the Palazzo Braschi. And one of Pasquino's bitterest jests was
directed against Olimpia Maldachini. Her name was cut in two, to make a
good Latin pun: 'Olim pia, nunc impia,' 'once pious, now impious,' or
'Olimpia, now impious,' as one chose to join or separate the syllables.
Whole books have been filled with the short and pithy imaginary
conversations between Marforio, the statue of a river god which used to
stand in the Monti, and Pasquino, beneath whom the Roman children used
to be told that the book of all wisdom was buried for ever.

In the Region of Parione stands the famous Cancelleria, a masterpiece of
Bramante's architecture, celebrated for many events in the later history
of Rome, and successively the princely residence of several cardinals,
chief of whom was that strong Pompeo Colonna, the ally of the Emperor
Charles the Fifth, who was responsible for the sacking of Rome by the
Constable of Bourbon, who ultimately ruined the Holy League, and imposed
his terrible terms of peace upon Clement the Seventh, a prisoner in
Sant' Angelo. Considering the devastation and the horrors which were the
result of that contest, and its importance in Rome's history, it is
worth while to tell the story again. Connected with it was the last
great struggle between Orsini and Colonna, Orsini, as usual, siding for
the Pope, and therefore for the Holy League, and Colonna for the
Emperor.

Charles the Fifth had vanquished Francis the First at Pavia, in the year
1525, and had taken the French King prisoner. A year later the Holy
League was formed, between Pope Clement the Seventh, the King of France,
the Republics of Venice and Florence, and Francesco Sforza, Duke of
Milan. Its object was to fight the Emperor, to sustain Sforza, and to
seize the Kingdom of Naples by force. Immediately upon the proclamation
of the League, the Emperor's ambassadors left Rome, the Colonna retired
to their strongholds, and the Emperor made preparations to send Charles,
Duke of Bourbon, the disgraced relative of King Francis, to storm Rome
and reduce the imprisoned Pope to submission. The latter's first and
nearest source of fear lay in the Colonna, who held the fortresses and
passes between Rome and the Neapolitan frontier, and his first instinct
was to attack them with the help of the Orsini. But neither side was
ready for the fight, and the timid Pontiff eagerly accepted the promise
of peace made by the Colonna in order to gain time, and he dismissed the
forces he had hastily raised against them.

[Illustration: PALAZZO MASSIMO ALLE COLONNA]

[Illustration: PONTE SISTO

From a print of the last century]

They, in the mean time, treated with Moncada, Regent of Naples for the
Emperor, and at once seized Anagni, put several thousand men in the
field, marched upon Rome with incredible speed, seized three gates in
the night, and entered the city in triumph on the following morning. The
Pope and the Orsini, completely taken by surprise, offered little or no
resistance. According to some writers, it was Pompeo Colonna's daring
plan to murder the Pope, force his own election to the Pontificate by
arms, destroy the Orsini, and open Rome to Charles the Fifth; and when
the Colonna advanced on the same day, by Ponte Sisto, to Trastevere, and
threatened to attack Saint Peter's and the Vatican, Clement the Seventh,
remembering Sciarra and Pope Boniface, was on the point of imitating
the latter and arraying himself in his Pontifical robes to await his
enemy with such dignity as he could command. But the remonstrances of
the more prudent cardinals prevailed, and about noon they conveyed him
safely to Sant' Angelo by the secret covered passage, leaving the
Colonna to sack Trastevere and even Saint Peter's itself, though they
dared not come too near to Sant' Angelo for fear of its cannons. The
tumult over at last, Don Ugo de Moncada, in the Emperor's name, took
possession of the Pope's two nephews as hostages for his own safety,
entered Sant' Angelo under a truce, and stated the Emperor's conditions
of peace. These were, to all intents and purposes, that the Pope should
withdraw his troops, wherever he had any, and that the Emperor should be
free to advance wherever he pleased, except through the Papal States,
that the Pope should give hostages for his good faith, and that he
should grant a free pardon to all the Colonna, who vaguely agreed to
withdraw their forces into the Kingdom of Naples. To this humiliating
peace, or armistice, for it was nothing more, the Pope was forced by the
prospect of starvation, and he would even have agreed to sail to
Barcelona in order to confer with the Emperor; but from this he was
ultimately dissuaded by Henry the Eighth of England and the King of
France, 'who sent him certain sums of money and promised him their
support.' The consequence was that he broke the truce as soon as he
dared, deprived the Cardinal of his hat, and, with the help of the
Orsini, attacked the Colonna by surprise on their estates, giving orders
to burn their castles and raze their fortresses to the ground. Four
villages were burned before the surprised party could recover itself;
but with some assistance from the imperial troops they were soon able to
face their enemies on equal terms, and the little war raged fiercely
during several months, with varying success and all possible cruelty on
both sides.

Meanwhile Charles, Duke of Bourbon, known as the Constable, and more or
less in the pay of the Emperor, had gathered an army in Lombardy. His
force consisted of the most atrocious ruffians of the time,--Lutheran
Germans, superstitious Spaniards, revolutionary Italians, and such other
nondescripts as would join his standard,--all fellows who had in reality
neither country nor conscience, and were ready to serve any soldier of
fortune who promised them plunder and license. The predominating element
was Spanish, but there was not much to choose among them all so far as
their instincts were concerned. Charles was penniless, as usual; he
offered his horde of cutthroats the rich spoils of Tuscany and Rome,
they swore to follow him to death and perdition, and he began his
southward march. The Emperor looked on with an approving eye, and the
Pope was overcome by abject terror. In the vain hope of saving himself
and the city he concluded a truce with the Viceroy of Naples, agreeing
to pay sixty thousand ducats, to give back everything taken from the
Colonna, and to restore Pompeo to the honours of the cardinalate. The
conditions of the armistice were forthwith carried out, by the
disbanding of the Pope's hired soldiers and the payment of the
indemnity, and Clement the Seventh enjoyed during a few weeks the
pleasant illusion of fancied safety.

He awoke from the dream, in horror and fear, to find that the Constable
considered himself in no way bound by a peace concluded with the
Emperor's Viceroy, and was advancing rapidly upon Rome, ravaging and
burning everything in his way. Hasty preparations for defence were made;
a certain Renzo da Ceri armed such men as he could enlist with such
weapons as he could find, and sent out a little force of grooms and
artificers to face the Constable's ruthless Spaniards and the fierce
Germans of his companion freebooter, George of Fransperg, or Franzberg,
who carried about a silken cord by which he swore to strangle the Pope
with his own hands. The enemy reached the walls of Rome on the night of
the fifth of May; devastation and famine lay behind them in their track,
the plunder of the Church was behind the walls, and far from northward
came rumours of the army of the League on its way to cut off their
retreat. They resolved to win the spoil or die, and at dawn the
Constable, clad in a white cloak, led the assault and set up the first
scaling ladder, close to the Porta San Spirito. In the very act a bullet
struck him in a vital part and he fell headlong to the earth. Benvenuto
Cellini claimed the credit of the shot, but it is more than probable
that it sped from another hand, that of Bernardino Passeri; it matters
little now, it mattered less then, as the infuriated Spaniards stormed
the walls in the face of Camillo Orsini's desperate and hopeless
resistance, yelling 'Blood and the Bourbon,' for a war-cry.

Once more the wretched Pope fled along the secret corridor with his
cardinals, his prelates and his servants; for although he might yet have
escaped from the doomed city, messengers had brought word that Cardinal
Pompeo Colonna had ten thousand men-at-arms in the Campagna, ready to
cut off his flight, and he was condemned to be a terrified spectator of
Rome's destruction from the summit of a fortress which he dared not
surrender and could hardly hope to defend. Seven thousand Romans were
slaughtered in the storming of the walls; the enemy gained all
Trastevere at a blow and the sack began; the torrent of fury poured
across Ponte Sisto into Rome itself, thousands upon thousands of
steel-clad madmen, drunk with blood and mad with the glitter of gold, a
storm of unimaginable terror. Cardinals, Princes and Ambassadors were
dragged from their palaces, and when greedy hands had gathered up all
that could be taken away, fire consumed the rest, and the miserable
captives were tortured into promising fabulous ransoms for life and
limb. Abbots, priors and heads of religious orders were treated with
like barbarity, and the few who escaped the clutches of the bloodthirsty
Spanish soldiers fell into the reeking hands of the brutal German
adventurers. The enormous sum of six million ducats was gathered
together in value of gold and silver bullion and of precious things, and
as much more was extorted as promised ransom from the gentlemen and
churchmen and merchants of Rome by the savage tortures of the lash, the
iron boot and the rack. The churches were stripped of all consecrated
vessels, the Sacred Wafers were scattered abroad by the Catholic
Spaniards and trampled in the bloody ooze that filled the ways, the
convents were stormed by a rabble in arms and the nuns were distributed
as booty among their fiendish captors, mothers and children were
slaughtered in the streets and drunken Spaniards played dice for the
daughters of honourable citizens.

From the surrounding Campagna the Colonna entered the city in arms,
orderly, silent and sober, and from their well-guarded fortresses they
contemplated the ruin they had brought upon Rome. Cardinal Pompeo
installed himself in his palace of the Cancelleria in the Region of
Parione, and gave shelter to such of his friends as might be useful to
him thereafter. In revenge upon John de' Medici, the Captain of the
Black Bands, whose assistance the Pope had invoked, the Cardinal caused
the Villa Medici on Monte Mario to be burned to the ground, and Clement
the Seventh watched the flames from the ramparts of Sant' Angelo. One
good action is recorded of the savage churchman. He ransomed and
protected in his house the wife and the daughter of that Giorgio
Santacroce who had murdered the Cardinal's father by night, when the
Cardinal himself was an infant in arms, more than forty years earlier;
and he helped some of his friends to escape by a chimney from the room
in which they had been confined and tortured into promising a ransom
they could not pay. But beyond those few acts he did little to mitigate
the horrors of the month-long sack, and nothing to relieve the city from
the yoke of its terrible captors. The Holy League sent a small force to
the Pope's assistance and it reached the gates of Rome; but the
Spaniards were in possession of immense stores of ammunition and
provisions, they had more horses than they needed and more arms than
they could bear; the forces of the League had traversed a country in
which not a blade of grass had been left undevoured nor a measure of
corn uneaten; and the avengers of the dead Constable, securely fortified
within the walls, looked down with contempt upon an army already
decimated by sickness and starvation.

At this juncture, Clement the Seventh resolved to abandon further
resistance and sue for peace. The guns of Sant' Angelo had all but fired
their last shot, and the supply of food was nearly exhausted, when the
Pope sent for Cardinal Colonna; the churchman consented to a parley, and
the man who had suffered confiscation and disgrace entered the castle as
the arbiter of destiny. He was received as the mediator of peace and a
benefactor of humanity, and when he stated his terms they were not
refused. The Pope and the thirteen Cardinals who were with him were to
remain prisoners until the payment of four hundred thousand ducats of
gold, after which they were to be conducted to Naples to await the
further pleasure of the Emperor; the Colonna were to be absolutely and
freely pardoned for all they had done; in the hope of some subsequent
assistance the Pope promised to make Cardinal Colonna the Legate of the
Marches. As a hostage for the performance of these and other conditions,
Cardinal Orsini was delivered over to his enemy, who conducted him as
his prisoner to the Castle of Grottaferrata, and the Colonna secretly
agreed to allow the Pope to go free from Sant' Angelo. On the night of
December the ninth, seven months after the storming of the city, the
head of the Holy Roman Catholic and Apostolic Church fled from the
castle in the humble garb of a market gardener, and made good his escape
to Orvieto and to the protection of the Holy League.

Meanwhile a pestilence had broken out in Rome, and the spectre of a
mysterious and mortal sickness distracted those who had survived the
terrors of sword and flame. The Spanish and German soldiery either fell
victims to the plague or deserted in haste and fear; and though Cardinal
Pompeo's peace contained no promise that the city should be evacuated,
it was afterwards stated upon credible authority that, within two years
from their coming, not one of the barbarous horde was left alive within
the walls. When all was over the city was little more than a heap of
ruins, but the Colonna had been victorious, and were sated with revenge.
This, in brief, is the history of the storming and sacking of Rome which
took place in the year 1527, at the highest development of the
Renascence, in the youth of Benvenuto Cellini, when Michelangelo had not
yet painted the Last Judgment, when Titian was just fifty years old, and
when Raphael and Lionardo da Vinci were but lately dead; and the
contrast between the sublimity of art and the barbarity of human nature
in that day is only paralleled in the annals of our own century, at once
the bloodiest and the most civilized in the history of the world.

The Cancelleria, wherein Pompeo Colonna sheltered the wife and daughter
of his father's murderer, is remembered for some modern political
events: for the opening of the first representative parliament under
Pius the Ninth, in 1848, for the assassination of the Pope's minister,
Pellegrino Rossi, on the steps of the entrance in the same year, and as
the place where the so-called Roman Republic was proclaimed in 1849. But
it is most of all interesting for the nobility of its proportions and
the simplicity of its architecture. It is undeniably, and almost
undeniedly, the best building in Rome today, though that may not be
saying much in a city which has been more exclusively the prey of the
Barocco than any other.

[Illustration: THE CANCELLERIA

From a print of the last century]

The Palace of the Massimo, once built to follow the curve of a narrow
winding street, but now facing the same great thoroughfare as the
Cancelleria, has something of the same quality, with a wholly different
character. It is smaller and more gloomy, and its columns are almost
black with age; it was here, in 1455, that Pannartz and Schweinheim, two
of those nomadic German scholars who have not yet forgotten the road to
Italy, established their printing-press in the house of Pietro de'
Massimi, and here took place one of those many romantic tragedies which
darkened the end of the sixteenth century. For a certain Signore
Massimo, in the year 1585, had been married and had eight sons, mostly
grown men, when he fell in love with a light-hearted lady of more wit
than virtue, and announced that he would make her his wife, though his
sons warned him that they would not bear the slight upon their mother's
memory. The old man, infatuated and beside himself with love, would not
listen to them, but published the banns, married the woman, and brought
her home for his wife.

One of the sons, the youngest, was too timid to join the rest; but on
the next morning the seven others went to the bridal apartment, and
killed their step-mother when their father was away. But he came back
before she was quite dead, and he took the Crucifix from the wall by the
bed and cursed his children. And the curse was fulfilled upon them.

Parione is the heart of Mediæval Rome, the very centre of that black
cloud of mystery which hangs over the city of the Middle Age. A history
might be composed out of Pasquin's sayings, volumes have been written
about Cardinal Pompeo Colonna and the ruin he wrought, whole books have
been filled with the life and teachings and miracles of Saint Philip
Neri, who belonged to this quarter, erected here his great oratory, and
is believed to have recalled from the dead a youth of the house of
Massimo in that same gloomy palace.

The story of Rome is a tale of murder and sudden death, varied,
changing, never repeated in the same way; there is blood on every
threshold; a tragedy lies buried in every church and chapel; and again
we ask in vain wherein lies the magic of the city that has fed on terror
and grown old in carnage, the charm that draws men to her, the power
that holds, the magic that enthralls men soul and body, as Lady Venus
cast her spells upon Tannhäuser in her mountain of old. Yet none deny
it, and as centuries roll on, the poets, the men of letters, the
musicians, the artists of all ages, have come to her from far countries
and have dwelt here while they might, some for long years, some for the
few months they could spare; and all of them have left something, a
verse, a line, a sketch, a song that breathes the threefold mystery of
love, eternity and death.

Index

Abruzzi, i. 159; ii. 230

Accoramboni, Flaminio, i. 296
Vittoria, i. 135, 148, 289-296, 297

Agrarian Law, i. 23

Agrippa, i. 90, 271; ii. 102
the Younger, ii. 103

Alaric, i. 252; ii. 297

Alba Longa, i. 3, 78, 130

Albergo dell' Orso, i. 288

Alberic, ii. 29

Albornoz, ii. 19, 20, 74

Aldobrandini, i. 209; ii. 149
Olimpia, i. 209

Alfonso, i. 185

Aliturius, ii. 103

Altieri, i. 226; ii. 45

Ammianus Marcellinus, i. 132, 133, 138

Amphitheatre, Flavian, i. 91, 179

Amulius, i. 3

Anacletus, ii. 295, 296, 304

Anagni, i. 161, 165, 307; ii. 4, 5

Ancus Martius, i. 4

Angelico, Beato, ii. 158, 169, 190-192, 195, 285

Anguillara, i. 278; ii. 138
Titta della, ii. 138, 139

Anio, the, i. 93
Novus, i. 144
Vetus, i. 144

Annibaleschi, Riccardo degli, i. 278

Antiochus, ii. 120

Antipope--
Anacletus, ii. 84
Boniface, ii. 28
Clement, i. 126
Gilbert, i. 127
John of Calabria, ii. 33-37

Antonelli, Cardinal, ii. 217, 223, 224

Antonina, i. 266

Antonines, the, i. 113, 191, 271

Antoninus, Marcus Aurelius, i. 46, 96, 113, 114, 190, 191

Appian Way, i. 22, 94

Appius Claudius, i. 14, 29

Apulia, Duke of, i. 126, 127; ii. 77

Aqua Virgo, i. 155

Aqueduct of Claudius, i. 144

Arbiter, Petronius, i. 85

Arch of--
Arcadius, i. 192
Claudius, i. 155
Domitian, i. 191, 205
Gratian, i. 191
Marcus Aurelius, i. 96, 191, 205
Portugal, i. 205
Septimius Severus, ii. 93
Valens, i. 191

Archive House, ii. 75

Argiletum, the, i. 72

Ariosto, ii. 149, 174

Aristius, i. 70, 71

Arnold of Brescia, ii. 73, 76-89

Arnulf, ii. 41

Art, i. 87; ii 152
and morality, i. 260, 261; ii. 178, 179
religion, i. 260, 261
Barocco, i. 303, 316
Byzantine in Italy, ii. 155, 184, 185
development of taste in, ii. 198
factors in the progress of art, ii. 181
engraving, ii. 186
improved tools, ii. 181
individuality, i. 262; ii. 175-177
Greek influence on, i. 57-63
modes of expression of, ii. 181
fresco, ii. 181-183
oil painting, ii. 184-186
of the Renascence, i. 231, 262; ii. 154
phases of, in Italy, ii. 188
progress of, during the Middle Age, ii. 166, 180
transition from handicraft to, ii. 153

Artois, Count of, i. 161

Augustan Age, i. 57-77

Augustulus, i. 30, 47, 53; ii. 64

Augustus, i. 30, 43-48, 69, 82, 89, 90, 184, 219, 251, 252, 254, 270;
ii. 64, 75, 95,102, 291

Aurelian, i. 177, 179, 180; ii. 150

Avalos, Francesco, d', i. 174, 175

Aventine, the, i. 23, 76; ii. 10, 40, 85, 119-121, 124, 125, 126, 127, 129,
132, 302

Avignon, i. 167, 273, 277; ii. 6, 9

Bacchanalia, ii. 122

Bacchic worship, i. 76; ii. 120

Bajazet the Second, Sultan, i. 276

Baracconi, i. 104, 141, 178, 188, 252, 264, 274, 304; ii. 41, 45, 128, 130,
138, 323

Barberi, i. 202

Barberini, the, i. 157, 187, 226, 268, 301; ii. 7

Barbo, i. 202; ii. 45

Barcelona, i. 308

Bargello, the, i. 129, 293, 296; ii. 42

Basil and Constantine, ii. 33

Basilica (Pagan)--
Julia, i. 66, 71, 106; ii. 92

Basilicas (Christian) of--
Constantine, i. 90; ii. 292, 297
Liberius, i. 138
Philip and Saint James, i. 170
Saint John Lateran, i. 107, 112, 117, 278, 281
Santa Maria Maggiore, i. 107, 135, 139, 147, 148, 166, 208, 278; ii. 118
Santi Apostoli, i. 157, 170-172, 205, 241, 242; ii. 213
Sicininus, i. 134, 138

Baths, i. 91
of Agrippa, i. 271
of Caracalla, ii. 119
of Constantine, i. 144, 188
of Diocletian, i. 107, 129, 145-147, 149, 289, 292
of Novatus, i. 145
of Philippus, i. 145
of public, i. 144
of Severus Alexander, ii. 28
of Titus, i. 55, 107, 152

Befana, the, i. 298, 299, 300; ii. 25

Belisarius, i. 266, 267, 269

Benediction of 1846, the, i. 183

Benevento, Cola da, i. 219, 220

Bernard, ii. 77-80

Bernardi, Gianbattista, ii. 54

Bernini, i. 147, 301, 302, 303; ii. 24

Bibbiena, Cardinal, ii. 146, 285
Maria, ii. 146

Bismarck, ii. 224, 232, 236, 237

Boccaccio, i. 211, 213
Vineyard, the, i. 189

Bologna, i. 259; ii. 58

Borghese, the, i. 206, 226
Scipio, i. 187

Borgia, the, i. 209
Cæsar, i. 149, 151, 169, 213, 287; ii. 150, 171, 282, 283
Gandia, i. 149, 150, 151, 287
Lucrezia, i. 149, 177, 185, 287; ii. 129, 151, 174
Rodrigo, i. 287; ii. 242, 265, 282
Vanozza, i. 149, 151, 287

Borgo, the Region, i. 101, 127; ii. 132, 147, 202-214, 269

Borroinini, i. 301, 302; ii. 24

Botticelli, ii. 188, 190, 195, 200, 276

Bracci, ii. 318

Bracciano, i. 282, 291, 292, 294
Duke of, i. 289

Bramante, i. 305; ii. 144, 145, 274, 298, 322

Brescia, i. 286

Bridge. See _Ponte_
Ælian, the, i. 274
Cestian, ii. 105
Fabrician, ii. 105
Sublician, i. 6, 23, 67; ii. 127, 294.

Brotherhood of Saint John Beheaded, ii. 129, 131

Brothers of Prayer and Death, i. 123, 204, 242

Brunelli, ii. 244

Brutus, i. 6, 12, 18, 41, 58, 80; ii. 96

Buffalmacco, ii. 196

Bull-fights, i. 252

Burgundians, i. 251

Cæsar, Julius, i. 29-33, 35-41, 250; ii. 102, 224, 297

Cæsars, the, i. 44-46, 125, 249, 252, 253; ii. 224
Julian, i. 252
Palaces of, i. 4, 191; ii. 95

Caetani, i. 51, 115, 159, 161, 163, 206, 277
Benedict, i. 160

Caligula, i. 46, 252, ii. 96

Campagna, the, i. 92, 94, 158, 237, 243, 253, 282, 312; ii. 88, 107, 120

Campitelli, the Region, i. 101; ii. 64

Campo--
dei Fiori, i. 297
Marzo (Campus Martius), i. 65, 112, 271
the Region, i. 101, 248, 250, 275; ii. 6, 44
Vaccino, i. 128-131, 173

Canale, Carle, i. 287

Cancelleria, i. 102, 305, 312, 315, 316; ii. 223

Canidia, i. 64; ii. 293

Canossa, i. 126; ii. 307

Canova, ii. 320

Capet, Hugh, ii. 29

Capitol, the, i. 8, 14, 24, 29, 72, 107, 112, 167, 190, 204, 278, 282;
ii. 12, 13, 21, 22, 52, 64, 65, 67-75, 84, 121, 148, 302

Capitoline hill, i. 106, 194

Captains of the Regions, i. 110, 112, 114
Election of, i. 112

Caracci, the, i. 264

Carafa, the, ii. 46, 49, 50, 56, 111
Cardinal, i. 186, 188; ii. 56, 204

Carnival, i. 107, 193-203, 241, 298; ii. 113
of Saturn, i. 194

Carpineto, ii. 229, 230, 232, 239, 287

Carthage, i. 20, 26, 88

Castagno, Andrea, ii. 89, 185

Castle of--
Grottaferrata, i. 314
Petrella, i. 286
the Piccolomini, i. 268
Sant' Angelo, i. 114, 116, 120, 126, 127, 128, 129, 259, 278, 284, 308,
314; ii. 17, 28, 37, 40, 56, 59, 60, 109, 152, 202-214, 216, 269

Castracane, Castruccio, i. 165, 166, 170

Catacombs, the, i. 139
of Saint Petronilla, ii. 125
Sebastian, ii. 296

Catanei, Vanossa de, i. 287

Catharine, Queen of Cyprus, ii. 305

Cathedral of Siena, i. 232

Catiline, i. 27; ii. 96, 294

Cato, ii. 121

Catullus, i. 86

Cavour, Count, ii. 90, 224, 228, 237

Cellini, Benvenuto, i. 311, 315; ii. 157, 195

Cenci, the, ii. 1
Beatrice, i. 147, 285-287; ii. 2, 129, 151
Francesco, i, 285; ii. 2

Centra Pio, ii. 238, 239

Ceri, Renzo da, i. 310

Cesarini, Giuliano, i. 174; ii. 54, 89

Chapel, Sixtine. See under _Vatican_

Charlemagne, i. 32, 49, 51, 53, 76, 109; ii. 297

Charles of Anjou, i. ii. 160
Albert of Sardinia, ii. 221
the Fifth, i. 131, 174, 206, 220, 305, 306; ii. 138

Chiesa. See _Church_
Nuova, i. 275

Chigi, the, i. 258
Agostino, ii. 144, 146
Fabio, ii. 146

Christianity in Rome, i. 176

Christina, Queen of Sweden, ii. 150, 151, 304, 308

Chrysostom, ii. 104, 105.

Churches of,--
the Apostles, i. 157, 170-172, 205, 241, 242; ii. 213
Aracoeli, i. 52, 112, 167; ii. 57, 70, 75
Cardinal Mazarin, i. 186
the Gallows, i. 284
Holy Guardian Angel, i. 122
the Minerva, ii. 55
the Penitentiaries, ii. 216
the Portuguese, i. 250
Saint Adrian, i. 71
Agnes, i. 301, 304
Augustine, ii. 207
Bernard, i. 291
Callixtus, ii. 125
Charles, i. 251
Eustace, ii. 23, 24, 26, 39
George in Velabro, i. 195; ii. 10
Gregory on the Aventine, ii. 129
Ives, i. 251; ii. 23, 24
John of the Florentines, i. 273
Pine Cone, ii. 56
Peter's on the Janiculum, ii. 129
Sylvester, i. 176
Saints Nereus and Achillæus, ii. 125
Vincent and Anastasius, i. 186
San Clemente, i. 143
Giovanni in Laterano, i. 113
Lorenzo in Lucina, i. 192
Miranda, i. 71
Marcello, i. 165, 192
Pietro in Montorio, ii. 151
Vincoli, i. 118, 283; ii. 322
Salvatore in Cacaberis, i. 112
Stefano Rotondo, i. 106
Sant' Angelo in Pescheria, i. 102; ii. 3, 10, 110
Santa Francesca Romana, i. 111
Maria de Crociferi, i. 267
degli Angeli, i. 146, 258, 259
dei Monti, i. 118
del Pianto, i. 113
di Grotto Pinta, i. 294
in Campo Marzo, ii. 23
in Via Lata, i. 142
Nuova, i. 111, 273
Transpontina, ii. 212
della Vittoria, i. 302
Prisca, ii. 124
Sabina, i. 278; ii. 40
Trinità dei Pellegrini, ii. 110

Cicero, i. 45, 73; ii. 96, 294

Cimabue, ii. 156, 157, 162, 163, 169, 188, 189

Cinna, i. 25, 27

Circolo, ii. 245

Circus, the, i. 64, 253
Maximus, i. 64, 66; ii. 84, 119

City of Augustus, i. 57-77
Making of the, i. 1-21
of Rienzi, i. 93; ii. 6-8
of the Empire, i. 22-56
of the Middle Age, i. 47, 78-99, 92
of the Republic, i. 47
today, i. 55, 92

Civilization, ii. 177
and bloodshed, ii. 218
morality, ii. 178
progress, ii. 177-180

Claudius, i. 46, 255, 256;
ii. 102

Cloelia, i. 13

Coelian hill, i. 106

Collegio Romano, i. 102;
ii. 45, 61

Colonna, the, i. 51, 94, 104, 135, 153, 157-170, 172, 176, 187, 206, 217,
251, 252, 271, 272, 275-283, 306-315;
ii. 2, 6, 8, 10, 16, 20, 37, 51, 54, 60, 106, 107, 126, 204
Giovanni, i. 104
Jacopo, i. 159, 165, 192
Lorenzo, ii. 126, 204-213
Marcantonio, i. 182; ii. 54
Pietro, i. 159
Pompeo, i. 305, 310-317; ii. 205
Prospero, ii. 205
Sciarra, i. 162-166, 192, 206, 213, 229, 279, 275, 281, 307
Stephen, i. 161, 165; ii. 13, 16
the Younger, i. 168
Vittoria, i. 157, 173-177; ii. 174
the Region, i. 101, 190-192; ii. 209
War between Orsini and, i. 51, 104, 159, 168, 182, 275-283, 306-315;
ii. 12, 18, 126, 204-211

Colosseum, i. 56, 86, 90, 96, 106, 107, 111, 125, 152, 153, 187, 191, 209,
278; ii. 25, 64, 66, 84, 97, 202, 203, 301

Column of Piazza Colonna i. 190, 192

Comitium, i. 112, 257, 268

Commodus, i. 46, 55; ii. 97, 285

Confraternities, i. 108, 204

Conscript Fathers, i. 78, 112

Constable of Bourbon, i. 52, 259, 273, 304, 309-311; ii. 308

Constans, i. 135, 136

Constantine, i. 90, 113, 163

Constantinople, i. 95, 119

Contests in the Forum, i. 27, 130

Convent of Saint Catharine, i. 176

Convent of Saint Sylvester, i. 176

Corneto, Cardinal of, ii. 282, 283

Cornomania, i. 141

Cornutis, i. 87

Coromania, i. 141, 144

Corsini, the, ii. 150

Corso, i. 96, 106, 108, 192, 196, 205, 206, 229, 251
Vittorio Emanuele, i. 275

Corte Savella, i. 284; ii. 52

Cosmas, the, ii. 156, 157

Costa, Giovanni da, i. 205

Court House, i. 71

Crassus, i. 27, 31;
ii. 128

Crawford, Thomas, i. 147

Crescentius, ii. 40, 41

Crescenzi, i. 114; ii. 27, 40, 209

Crescenzio, ii. 28-40
Stefana, ii. 39

Crispi, i. 116, 187

Crusade, the Second, ii. 86, 105

Crusades, the, i. 76

Curatii, i. 3, 131

Customs of early Rome, i. 9, 48
in dress, i. 48
religion, i. 48

Dante, i. 110; ii. 164, 175, 244

Decameron, i. 239

Decemvirs, i. 14; ii. 120

Decrees, Semiamiran, i. 178

Democracy, i. 108

Development of Rome, i. 7, 18
some results of, i. 154
under Barons, i. 51
Decemvirs, i. 14
the Empire, i. 29, 30
Gallic invasion, i. 15-18
Kings, i. 2-7, 14-45
Middle Age, i. 47, 92, 210-247
Papal rule, i. 46-50
Republic, i. 7-14
Tribunes, i. 14

Dictator of Rome, i. 29, 79

Dietrich of Bern, ii. 297

Dionysus, ii. 121

Dolabella, i. 34

Domenichino, ii. 147

Domestic life in Rome, i. 9

Dominicans, i. 158; ii. 45, 46, 49, 50, 60, 61

Domitian, i. 45, 152, 205; ii. 104, 114, 124, 295

Doria, the, i. 206; ii. 45
Albert, i. 207
Andrea, i. 207
Conrad, i. 207
Gian Andrea, i. 207
Lamba, i. 207
Paganino, i. 207

Doria-Pamfili, i. 206-209

Dress in early Rome, i. 48

Drusus, ii. 102

Duca, Antonio del, i. 146, 147
Giacomo del, i. 146

Dürer, Albert, ii. 198

Education, ii. 179

Egnatia, i. 75

Elagabalus, i. 77, 177, 179; ii. 296, 297

Election of the Pope, ii. 41, 42, 277

Electoral Wards, i. 107

Elizabeth, Queen of England, ii. 47

Emperors, Roman, i. 46
of the East, i. 95, 126

Empire of Constantinople, i. 46
of Rome, i. 15, 17, 22-28, 31, 45, 47, 53, 60, 72, 99

Encyclicals, ii. 244

Erasmus, ii. 151

Esquiline, the, i. 26, 106, 139, 186; ii. 95, 131, 193

Este, Ippolito d', i. 185

Etruria, i. 12, 15

Euodus, i. 255, 256

Eustace, Saint, ii. 24, 25
square of, ii. 25, 42

Eustachio. See _Sant' Eustachio_

Eutichianus, ii. 296

Eve of Saint John, i. 140
the Epiphany, 299

Fabius, i. 20

Fabatosta, ii. 64, 84

Farnese, the, ii. 151
Julia, ii. 324

Farnesina, the, ii. 144, 149, 151

Fathers, Roman, i. 13, 78, 79-84

Ferdinand, ii. 205

Ferrara, Duke of, i. 185

Festivals, i. 193, 298
Aryan in origin, i. 173
Befana, i. 299-301
Carnival, i. 193-203
Church of the Apostle, i. 172, 173
Coromania, i. 141
Epifania, i. 298-301
Floralia, i. 141
Lupercalia, i. 194
May-day in the Campo Vaccino, i. 173
Saturnalia, i. 194
Saint John's Eve, i. 140

Festus, ii. 128

Feuds, family, i. 168

Field of Mars. See _Campo Marzo_

Finiguerra, Maso, ii. 186-188

Flamen Dialis, i. 34

Floralia. See _Festivals_

Florence, i. 160

Forli, Melozzo da, i. 171

Fornarina, the, ii. 144, 146

Forum, i, 8, 9, 11, 14, 15, 17, 26, 27, 64, 72, 111, 126, 129, 194;
ii. 64, 92-94, 97, 102, 294, 295
of Augustus, i. 119
Trajan, i. 155, 171, 172, 191

Fountains (Fontane) of--
Egeria, ii. 124
Trevi, i. 155, 156, 186, 267
Tullianum, i. 8

Franconia, Duke of, ii. 36, 53

Francis the First, i. 131, 174, 206, 219, 304

Frangipani, i. 50, 94, 153;
ii. 77, 79, 84, 85

Frederick, Barbarossa, ii. 34, 85, 87
of Naples, i. 151
the Second, ii. 34

Fulvius, ii. 121

Gabrini, Lawrence, ii. 4
Nicholas, i. 23, 93, 103, 168, 211, 281; ii. 3-23, 308

Gaeta, ii. 36

Galba, ii. 295

Galen, i. 55

Galera, i. 282, 291

Galileo, i. 268

Gardens, i. 93
Cæsar's, i. 66, 68
of Lucullus, i. 254, 270
of the Pigna, ii. 273
Pincian, i. 255
the Vatican, ii. 243, 271, 287

Gargonius, i. 65

Garibaldi, ii. 90, 219, 220, 228, 237

Gastaldi, Cardinal, i. 259

Gate. See _Porta_
the Colline, i. 250
Lateran, i. 126, 154
Septimian, ii. 144, 147

Gebhardt, Émile, i. 213

Gemonian Steps, ii. 67, 294

Genseric, i. 96; ii. 70

George of Franzburg, i. 310

Gherardesca, Ugolino della, ii. 160

Ghetto, i. 102; ii. 2, 101, 110-118

Ghibellines, the, i. 129, 153, 158; ii. 6

Ghiberti, ii. 157.

Ghirlandajo, ii. 157, 172, 276

Giantism, i. 90-92, 210, 302

Gibbon, i. 160

Giotto, ii. 157, 160-165, 169, 188, 189, 200

Gladstone, ii. 231, 232

Golden Milestone, i. 72, 92, 194

Goldoni, i. 265

Goldsmithing, ii. 156, 157, 186, 187

"Good Estate" of Rienzi, ii. 10-12

Gordian, i. 91

Goths, ii. 297, 307.

Gozzoli, Benozzo, ii. 190, 195

Gracchi, the, i. 22, 28
Caius, i. 23; ii. 84
Cornelia, i. 22, 24
Tiberius, i. 23; ii. 102

Gratidianus, i. 27

Guards, Noble, ii. 241, 243, 247, 248, 309, 310, 312
Palatine, ii. 247, 248
Swiss, ii. 246, 247, 310

Guelphs, i. 159; ii. 42, 126, 138
and Ghibellines, i. 129, 153, 275; ii. 160, 162, 173

Guiscard, Robert, i. 95, 126, 127, 129, 144, 252; ii. 70

Hadrian, i. 90, 180; i. 25, 202, 203

Hannibal, i. 20

Hasdrubal, i. 21

Henry the Second, ii. 47
Fourth, i. 126, 127; ii. 307
Fifth, ii. 307
Seventh of Luxemburg, i. 273, 276-279; ii. 5
Eighth, i. 219; ii. 47, 274

Hermann, i. 46

Hermes of Olympia, i. 86

Hermogenes, i. 67

Hilda's Tower, i. 250

Hildebrand, i. 52, 126-129; ii.

Honorius, ii. 323, 324

Horace, i. 44, 57-75, 85, 87;
ii. 293
and the Bore, i. 65-71
Camen Seculare of, i. 75
the Satires of, i. 73, 74

Horatii, i. 3, 131

Horatius, i. 5, 6, 13, 23;
ii. 127

Horses of Monte Cavallo, i. 181

Hospice of San Claudio, i. 251

Hospital of--
Santo Spirito, i. 274; ii. 214, 215

House of Parliament, i. 271

Hugh of Burgundy, ii. 30
of Tuscany, ii. 30

Huns' invasion, i. 15, 49, 132

Huxley, ii. 225, 226

Imperia, ii. 144

Infessura, Stephen, ii. 59, 60, 204-213

Inn of--
The Bear, i. 288
Falcone, ii. 26
Lion, i. 287
Vanossa, i. 288

Inquisition, i. 286; ii. 46, 49, 52, 53, 54

Interminelli, Castruccio degli, i. 165

Irene, Empress, i. 109

Ischia, i. 175

Island of Saint Bartholomew, i. 272; ii. 1

Isola Sacra, i. 93

Italian life during the Middle Age, i. 210, 247
from 17th to 18th centuries, i. 260, 263, 264

Janiculum, the, i. 15, 253, 270; ii. 268, 293, 294, 295

Jesuit College, ii. 61

Jesuits, ii. 45, 46, 61-63

Jews, i. 96; ii. 101-119

John of Cappadocia, i. 267, 268

Josephus, ii. 103

Juba, i. 40

Jugurtha, i. 25

Jupiter Capitolinus, ii. 324, 325
priest of, i. 80, 133

Justinian, i. 267

Juvenal, i. 112; ii. 105, 107, 124

Kings of Rome, i. 2-7

Lampridius, Ælius, i. 178

Lanciani, i. 79, 177

Lateran, the, i. 106, 112-114, 129, 140-142
Count of, i. 166

Latin language, i. 47

Latini Brunetto, ii. 163

Laurentum, i. 55, 93

Lazaret of Saint Martha, ii. 245

League, Holy, i. 305, 306, 313, 314

Lentulus, ii. 128

Lepida, Domitia, i. 255, 256

Letus, Pomponius, i. 139; ii. 210

Lewis of Bavaria, i. 165, 167, 192, 275
the Seventh, ii. 86, 105
Eleventh, i. 104, 151
Fourteenth, i. 253

Library of--
Collegio Romano, ii. 45
Vatican, ii. 275, 276, 282
Victor Emmanuel, ii. 45, 61

Lieges, Bishop of, i. 280

Lincoln, Abraham, ii. 231, 236

Lippi, Filippo, ii. 190, 191, 192-195, 200

Liszt, i. 185, 203; ii. 176

Livia, i. 220, 252

Livy, i. 44, 47

Lombards, the, i. 251

Lombardy, i. 309

Lorrain, i. 264

Loyola, Ignatius, ii. 46, 62

Lucilius, i. 74

Lucretia, i. 5, 12, 13

Lucullus, i. 257, 270

Lupercalia, i. 194

Lupercus, i. 194

Macchiavelli, ii. 174

Mæcenas, i. 62, 69, 74, 140; ii. 293

Mænads, ii. 122

Maldachini, Olimpia, i. 304, 305

Mamertine Prison, i. 25; ii. 72, 293

Mancini, Maria, i. 170, 187

Mancino, Paul, ii. 210

Manlius, Cnæus, ii. 121
Marcus, i. 29; ii. 71, 84
Titus, i. 80

Mantegna, Andrea, ii. 157, 169, 188, 196-198

Marcomanni, i. 190

Marforio, i. 305

Marino, i. 174

Marius, Caius, i. 25, 29

Marius and Sylla, i. 25, 29, 36, 45, 53; ii. 69

Mark Antony, i. 30, 93, 195, 254

Marozia, ii. 27, 28

Marriage Laws, i. 79, 80

Mary, Queen of Scots, ii. 47

Masaccio, ii. 190

Massimi, Pietro de', i. 317

Massimo, i. 102, 317

Mattei, the, ii. 137, 139, 140, 143
Alessandro, ii. 140-143
Curzio, ii. 140-143
Girolamo, ii. 141-143
Marcantonio, ii. 140, 141
Olimpia, ii. 141, 142
Piero, ii. 140, 141

Matilda, Countess, ii. 307

Mausoleum of--
Augustus, i. 158, 169, 205, 251, 252, 270, 271
Hadrian, i. 102, 252; ii. 28, 202, 270. See _Castle of Sant' Angelo_

Maximilian, i. 151

Mazarin, i. 170, 187

Mazzini, ii. 219, 220

Mediævalism, death of, ii. 225

Medici, the, i. 110; ii. 276
Cosimo de', i. 289; ii. 194
Isabella de', i. 290, 291
John de', i. 313

Messalina, i. 254, 272; ii. 255, 256, 257

Michelangelo, i. 90, 146, 147, 173, 175, 177, 302, 303, 315;
ii. 129, 130, 157, 159, 166, 169, 171, 172, 175, 188, 200, 276-281,
284, 317-319, 322
"Last Judgment" by, i. 173; ii. 171, 276, 280, 315
"Moses" by, ii. 278, 286
"Pietà" by, ii. 286

Middle Age, the, i. 47, 92, 210-247, 274; ii. 163, 166, 172-175, 180, 196

Migliorati, Ludovico, i. 103

Milan, i. 175
Duke of, i. 306

Milestone, golden, i. 72

Mithræum, i. 271

Mithras, i. 76

Mithridates, i. 26, 30, 37, 358

Mocenni, Mario, ii. 249

Monaldeschi, ii. 308

Monastery of--
the Apostles, i. 182
Dominicans, ii. 45, 61
Grottaferrata, ii. 37
Saint Anastasia, ii. 38
Gregory, ii. 85
Sant' Onofrio, ii. 147

Moncada, Ugo de, i. 307, 308

Mons Vaticanus, ii. 268

Montaigne, i. 288

Montalto. See _Felice Peretti_

Monte Briano, i. 274
Cavallo, i. 181, 188, 292, 293; ii. 205, 209
Citorio, i. 193, 252, 271
Giordano, i. 274, 281, 282, 288; ii. 206
Mario, i. 313; ii. 268

Montefeltro, Guido da, ii. 160

Monti--
the Region, i. 101, 106, 107, 111, 112, 125, 133, 134, 144, 150, 185,
305; ii. 133, 209
and Trastevere, i. 129, 145, 153; ii. 133, 209
by moonlight, i. 117

Morrone, Pietro da, i. 159

Muratori, i. 85, 132, 159, 277; ii. 40, 48, 76, 126, 324

Museums of Rome, i. 66
Vatican, ii. 272, 273, 283, 286, 287
Villa Borghese, i. 301

Mustafa, ii. 247

Naples, i. 175, 182, 307, 308

Napoleon, i. 32, 34, 53, 88, 109, 258; ii. 218, 221, 298
Louis, ii. 221, 223, 237

Narcissus, i. 255

Navicella, i. 106

Nelson, i. 253

Neri, Saint Philip, i. 318

Nero, i. 46, 56, 188, 254, 257, 285; ii. 163, 211, 291

Nilus, Saint, ii. 36, 37, 40

Nogaret, i. 162, 164

Northmen, i. 46, 49

Numa, i. 3; ii. 268

Nunnery of the Sacred Heart, i. 256

Octavius, i. 27, 30, 43, 89; ii. 291

Odoacer, i. 47; ii. 297

Olanda, Francesco d', i. 176

Oliviero, Cardinal Carafa, i. 186, 188

Olympius, i. 136, 137, 138

Opimius, i. 24

Orgies of Bacchus, i. 76; ii. 120

Orgies of the Mænads, ii. 121
on the Aventine, i. 76; ii. 121

Orsini, the, i. 94, 149, 153, 159, 167-169, 183, 216, 217, 271, 274,
306-314; ii. 16, 126, 138, 204
Bertoldo, i. 168
Camillo, i. 311
Isabella, i. 291
Ludovico, i. 295
Matteo, i. 281
Napoleon, i. 161
Orsino, i. 166
Paolo Giordano, i. 283, 290-295
Porzia, i. 187
Troilo, i. 290, 291
Virginio, i. 295
war between Colonna and, i. 51, 104, 159, 168, 182, 275-283, 306-315;
ii. 18, 126, 204

Orsino, Deacon, i. 134, 135

Orvieto, i. 314

Otho, ii. 295
the Second, ii. 304

Otto, the Great, i. 114; ii. 28, 30
Second, ii. 28
Third, ii. 29-37

Ovid, i. 44, 63

Painting, ii. 181
in fresco, ii. 181-183
oil, ii. 184-186

Palace (Palazzo)--
Annii, i. 113
Barberini, i. 106, 187
Borromeo, ii. 61
Braschi, i. 305
Cæsars, i. 4, 191; ii. 64
Colonna, i. 169, 189; ii. 205
Consulta, i. 181
Corsini, ii. 149, 308
Doria, i. 207, 226
Pamfili, i. 206, 208
Farnese, i. 102
Fiano, i. 205
della Finanze, i. 91
Gabrielli, i. 216
the Lateran, i. 127; ii. 30
Massimo alle Colonna, i. 316, 317
Mattei, ii. 140
Mazarini, i. 187
of Nero, i. 152
della Pilotta, i. 158
Priori, i. 160
Quirinale, i. 139, 181, 185, 186, 188, 189, 304
of the Renascence, i. 205
Rospigliosi, i. 181, 187, 188, 189
Ruspoli, i. 206
Santacroce, i. 237; ii. 23
of the Senator, i. 114
Serristori, ii. 214, 216
Theodoli, i. 169
di Venezia, i. 102, 192, 202

Palatine, the, i. 2, 13, 67, 69, 194, 195; ii. 64, 119

Palermo, i. 146

Palestrina, i. 156, 157, 158, 161, 165, 166, 243, 282; ii. 13, 315

Paliano, i. 282
Duke of, i. 157, 189

Palladium, i. 77

Pallavicini, i. 206, 258

Palmaria, i. 267

Pamfili, the, i. 206

Pannartz, i. 317

Pantheon, i. 90, 102, 195, 271, 278; ii. 44, 45, 146

Parione, the Region, i. 101, 297, 312, 317; ii. 42
Square of, ii. 42

Pasquino, the, i. 186, 305, 317

Passavant, ii. 285

Passeri, Bernardino, i. 313; ii. 308

Patarina, i. 107, 202

Patriarchal System, i. 223-228

Pavia, i. 175

Pecci, the, ii. 229
Joachim Vincent, ii. 229, 230.

Peretti, the, i. 205
Felice, i. 149, 289-295
Francesco, i. 149, 289, 292
Vittoria. See _Accoramboni_

Perugia, i. 159, 276, 277

Perugino, ii. 157, 260, 276

Pescara, i. 174

Peter the Prefect, i. 114; ii. 230

Petrarch, i. 161

Petrella, i. 286

Philip the Fair, i. 160, 276, 278
Second of Spain, ii. 47

Phocas, column of, ii. 93.

Piazza--
Barberini, i. 155
della Berlina Vecchia, i. 283
Chiesa Nuova, i. 155
del Colonna, i. 119, 190
Gesù, ii. 45
della Minerva, ii. 45
Moroni, i. 250
Navona, i. 102, 297, 298, 302, 303, 305; ii. 25, 46, 57
Pigna, ii. 55
of the Pantheon, i. 193; ii. 26
Pilotta, i. 158
del Popolo, i. 144, 206, 259, 273
Quirinale, i. 181
Romana, ii. 136
Sant' Eustachio, ii. 25
San Lorenzo in Lucina, i. 192, 205, 250
Saint Peter's, ii. 251, 309
di Sciarra, i. 192
Spagna, i. 251; ii. 42
delle Terme, i. 144
di Termini, i. 144
Venezia, i. 206

Pierleoni, the, ii. 77, 79, 82, 101, 105, 106, 109, 114

Pigna, ii. 45
the Region, i, 101, 102; ii. 44

Pilgrimages, ii. 245

Pincian (hill), i. 119, 270, 272

Pincio, the, i. 121, 189, 223, 253, 255, 256, 259, 264, 272

Pintelli, Baccio, ii. 278, 279

Pinturicchio, ii. 147

Pliny, the Younger, i. 85, 87

Pompey, i. 30

Pons Æmilius, i. 67
Cestius, ii. 102, 105
Fabricius, ii. 105
Triumphalis, i. 102, 274

Ponte. See also _Bridge_
Garibaldi, ii. 138
Rotto, i. 67
Sant' Angelo, i. 274, 283, 284, 287; ii. 42, 55, 270
Sisto, i. 307, 311; ii. 136
the Region, i. 274, 275

Pontifex Maximus, i. 39, 48

Pontiff, origin of title, ii. 127

Pope--
Adrian the Fourth, ii. 87
Alexander the Sixth, i. 258; ii. 269, 282
Seventh, i. 259
Anastasius, ii. 88
Benedict the Sixth, ii. 28-30
Fourteenth, i. 186
Boniface the Eighth, i. 159, 160, 167, 213, 280, 306; ii. 304
Celestin the First, i. 164
Second, ii. 83
Clement the Fifth, i. 275, 276
Sixth, ii. 9, 17-19
Seventh, i. 306, 307, 310, 313, 314; ii. 308
Eighth, i. 286
Ninth, i. 187; ii. 110
Eleventh, i. 171
Thirteenth, ii. 320
Damascus, i. 133, 135, 136
Eugenius the Third, ii. 85
Fourth, ii. 7, 56
Ghisleri, ii. 52, 53
Gregory the Fifth, ii. 32-37
Seventh, i. 52, 126; ii. 307
Thirteenth, i. 183, 293
Sixteenth, i. 305; ii. 221, 223
Honorius the Third, ii. 126
Fourth, ii. 126
Innocent the Second, ii. 77, 79, 82, 105
Third, i. 153; ii. 6
Sixth, ii. 19
Eighth, i. 275
Tenth, i. 206, 209,302,303
Joan, i. 143
John the Twelfth, ii. 282
Thirteenth, i. 113
Fifteenth, ii. 29
Twenty-third, ii. 269
Julius the Second, i. 208, 258; ii. 276, 298, 304
Leo the Third, i. 109; ii. 146, 297
Fourth, ii. 242
Tenth, i. 304; ii. 276, 304
Twelfth, i. 202; ii. 111
Thirteenth, i. 77; ii. 218-267, 282, 287, 308, 312, 313
Liberius, i. 138
Lucius the Second, ii. 84, 85
Martin the First, i. 136
Nicholas the Fourth, i. 159, 274
Fifth, i. 52; ii. 58, 268, 269, 298, 304
Paschal the Second, i. 258; ii. 307
Paul the Second, i. 202, 205
Third, i. 219; ii. 41, 130, 304, 323, 324
Fourth, ii. 46, 47, 48-51, 111, 112
Fifth, ii. 289
Pelagius the First, i. 170, 171; ii. 307
Pius the Fourth, i. 147, 305
Sixth, i. 181, 182
Seventh, i. 53; ii. 221
Ninth, i. 76, 183, 315; ii. 66, 110, 111, 216, 221-225, 252, 253, 255,
257, 258, 265, 298, 308, 311
Silverius, i. 266
Sixtus the Fourth, i. 258, 275; ii. 127, 204-213, 274, 278, 321
Fifth, i. 52, 139, 149, 181, 184, 186, 205, 283; ii. 43, 157, 241,
304, 323
Sylvester, i. 113; ii. 297, 298
Symmachus, ii. 44
Urban the Second, i. 52
Sixth, ii. 322, 323
Eighth, i. 181, 187, 268, 301; ii. 132, 203, 298
Vigilius, ii. 307

Popes, the, i. 125, 142, 273
at Avignon, i. 167, 273, 277; ii. 9
among sovereigns, ii. 228
election of, ii. 41, 42
hatred for, ii. 262-264
temporal power of, i. 168; ii. 255-259

Poppæa, i. 103

Porcari, the, ii. 56
Stephen, ii. 56-60, 204

Porsena of Clusium, i. 5, 6, 12

Porta. See also _Gate_--
Angelica, i. 120
Maggiore, i. 107
Metronia, i. 106
Mugonia, i. 10
Pia, i. 107, 147, 152; ii. 224
Pinciana, i. 193, 250, 264, 266, 269
del Popolo, i. 272, 299
Portese, ii. 132
Salaria, i. 106, 107, 193
San Giovanni, i. 107, 120
Lorenzo, i. 107
Sebastiano, ii. 119, 125
Spirito, i. 311; ii. 132, 152
Tiburtina, i. 107

Portico of Neptune, i. 271
Octavia, ii. 3, 105

Poussin, Nicholas, i. 264

Præneste, i. 156

Prætextatus, i. 134

Prefect of Rome, i. 103, 114, 134

Presepi, ii. 139

Prince of Wales, i. 203

Prior of the Regions, i. 112, 114

Processions of--
the Brotherhood of Saint John, ii. 130
Captains of Regions, i. 112
Coromania, i. 141
Coronation of Lewis of Bavaria, i. 166, 167
Ides of May, ii. 127-129
the Triumph of Aurelian, i. 179

Progress and civilization, i. 262; ii. 177-180
romance, i. 154

Prosper of Cicigliano, ii. 213

Quæstor, i. 58

Quirinal, the (hill), i. 106, 119, 158, 182, 184, 186, 187; ii. 205

Rabble, Roman, i. 115, 128, 132, 153, 281; ii. 131

Race course of Domitian, i. 270, 297

Races, Carnival, i. 108, 202, 203

Raimondi, ii. 315

Rampolla, ii. 239, 249, 250

Raphael, i. 260, 315; ii. 159, 169, 175, 188, 200, 281, 285, 322
in Trastevere, ii. 144-147
the "Transfiguration" by, ii. 146, 281

Ravenna, i. 175

Regions (Rioni), i. 100-105, 110-114, 166
Captains of, i. 110
devices of, i. 100
fighting ground of, i. 129
Prior, i. 112, 114
rivalry of, i. 108, 110, 125

Regola, the Region, i. 101, 168; ii. 1-3

Regulus, i. 20

Religion, i. 48, 50, 75

Religious epochs in Roman history, i. 76

Renascence in Italy, i. 52, 77, 84, 98, 99, 188, 237, 240, 250, 258, 261,
262, 303; ii. 152-201, 280
art of, i. 231
frescoes of, i. 232
highest development of, i. 303, 315
leaders of, ii. 152, 157-159
manifestation of, ii. 197
palaces of, i. 205, 216
represented in "The Last Judgment," ii. 280
results of development of, ii. 199

Reni, Guido, i. 264; ii. 317

Republic, the, i. 6, 12, 15, 53, 110; ii. 291
and Arnold of Brescia, ii. 86
Porcari, ii. 56-60
Rienzi, i. 93; ii. 6-8
modern ideas of, ii. 219

Revolts in Rome--
against the nobles, ii. 73
of the army, i. 25
Arnold of Brescia, ii. 73-89
Marius and Sylla, i. 25
Porcari, ii. 56-60
Rienzi, i. 93; ii. 6-8, 73
slaves, i. 24
Stefaneschi, i. 281-283; ii. 219-222

Revolutionary idea, the, ii. 219-222

Riario, the, ii. 149, 150, 151
Jerome, ii. 205

Rienzi, Nicholas, i. 23, 93, 103, 168, 211, 281; ii. 3-23, 308

Rioni. See _Regions_

Ripa, the Region, i. 101; ii. 118

Ripa Grande, ii. 127

Ripetta, ii. 52

Ristori, Mme., i. 169

Robert of Naples, i. 278

Roffredo, Count, i. 114, 115

Rome--
a day in mediæval, i. 241-247
Bishop of, i. 133
charm of, i. 54, 98, 318
ecclesiastic, i. 124
lay, i. 124
a modern Capital, i. 123, 124
foundation of, i. 2
of the Augustan Age, i. 60-62
Barons, i. 50, 84, 104, 229-247; ii. 75
Cæsars, i. 84
Empire, i. 15, 17, 28, 31, 45, 47, 53, 60, 99
Kings, i. 2-7, 10, 11
Middle Age, i. 110, 210-247, 274; ii. 172-175
Napoleonic era, i. 229
Popes, i. 50, 77, 84, 104
Republic, i. 6, 12, 16, 53, 110
Rienzi, i. 93; ii. 6-8
today, i. 55
sack of, by Constable of Bourbon, i. 259, 273, 309-315
sack of, by Gauls, i. 15, 49, 252
Guiscard, i. 95, 126-129, 252
seen from dome of Saint Peter's, ii. 302
under Tribunes, i. 14
Decemvirs, i. 14
Dictator, i. 28

Romulus, i. 2, 5, 30, 78, 228

Rospigliosi, i. 206

Rossi, Pellegrino, i. 316
Count, ii. 223

Rostra, i. 27; ii. 93
Julia, i. 68; ii. 93

Rota, ii. 215

Rovere, the, i. 258; ii. 276, 279, 321

Rudinì, i. 187

Rudolph of Hapsburg, i. 161

Rufillus, i. 65

Sacchi, Bartolommeo, i. 139, 147

Saint Peter's Church, i. 166, 278; ii. 202, 212, 243, 246, 268, 289, 294,
295, 326
altar of, i. 96
architects of, ii. 304
bronze doors of, ii. 299, 300
builders of, ii. 304
Chapel of the Choir, ii. 310, 313, 314
Chapel of the Sacrament, ii. 274, 306, 308, 310, 312, 313
Choir of, ii. 313-316
Colonna Santa, ii. 319
dome of, i. 96; ii. 302
Piazza of, ii. 251
Sacristy of, i. 171

Salvini, i. 169, 252
Giorgio, i. 313

Santacroce Paolo, i. 286

Sant' Angelo the Region, i. 101; ii. 101

Santorio, Cardinal, i. 208

San Vito, i. 282

Saracens, i. 128, 144

Sarto, Andrea del, ii. 157, 169

Saturnalia, i. 125, 194, 195

Saturninus, i. 25

Satyricon, the, i. 85

Savelli, the, i. 284; ii. 1, 16, 126, 206
John Philip, ii. 207-210

Savonarola, i. 110

Savoy, house of, i. 110; ii. 219, 220, 224

Scævola, i. 13

Schweinheim, i. 317

Scipio, Cornelius, i. 20
of Africa, i. 20, 22, 29, 59, 76; ii. 121
Asia, i. 21; ii. 120

Scotus, i. 182

See, Holy, i. 159, 168; ii. 264-267, 277, 294

Segni, Monseignor, i. 304

Sejanuo, ii. 294

Semiamira, i. 178

Senate, Roman, i. 167, 168, 257
the Little, i. 177, 180

Senators, i. 78, 112, 167

Servius, i. 5, 15

Severus--
Arch of, ii. 92
Septizonium of, i. 96, 127

Sforza, i. 13; ii. 89

Sforza, Catharine, i. 177; ii. 150
Francesco, i. 306

Siena, i. 232, 268; ii. 229

Signorelli, ii. 277

Slaves, i. 81, 24

Sosii Brothers, i. 72, 73

Spencer, Herbert, ii. 225, 226

Stefaneschi, Giovanni degli, i. 103, 282

Stilicho, ii. 323

Stradella, Alessandro, ii. 315

Streets, See _Via_

Subiaco, i. 282

Suburra, i. 39; ii. 95

Suetonius, i. 43

Sylla, ii. 25-29, 36-42

Tacitus, i. 46, 254; ii. 103

Tarentum, i. 18, 19

Tarpeia, i. 29; ii. 68, 69

Tarpeian Rock, ii. 67

Tarquins, the, i. 6, 11, 12, 80, 248, 249, 269; ii. 69
Sextus, i. 5, 11

Tasso, i. 188, 189; ii. 147-149
Bernardo, i. 188

Tatius, i. 68, 69

Tempietto, the, i. 264

Temple of--
Castor, i. 27
Castor and Pollux, i. 68; ii. 92, 94
Ceres, ii. 119
Concord, i. 24; ii. 92
Flora, i. 155
Hercules, ii. 40
Isis and Serapis, i. 271
Julius Cæsar, i. 72
Minerva, i. 96
Saturn, i. 194, 201; ii. 94
the Sun, i. 177, 179, 180, 271
Venus and Rome, i. 110
Venus Victorius, i. 270
Vesta, i. 68

Tenebræ, i. 117

Tetricius, i. 179

Theatre of--
Apollo, i. 286
Balbus, ii. 1
Marcellus, ii. 1, 101, 105, 106, 119
Pompey, i. 103, 153

Thedoric of Verona, ii. 297

Theodoli, the, i. 258

Theodora Senatrix, i. 158, 266, 267; ii. 27-29, 203, 282

Tiber, i. 23, 27, 66, 93, 94, 151, 158, 168, 189, 237, 248, 249, 254, 269,
272, 288

Tiberius, i. 254, 287; ii. 102

Titian, i. 315; ii. 165, 166, 175, 188, 278

Titus, i. 56, 86;
ii. 102, 295

Tivoli, i. 180, 185; ii. 76, 85

Torre (Tower)--
Anguillara, ii. 138, 139, 140
Borgia, ii. 269, 285
dei Conti, i. 118, 153
Milizie, i. 277
Millina, i. 274
di Nona, i. 274, 284, 287; ii. 52, 54, 72
Sanguigna, i. 274

Torrione, ii. 241, 242

Trajan, i. 85, 192; ii. 206

Trastevere, the Region, i. 101, 127, 129, 278, 307, 311;
ii. 132, 133, 134, 135, 136, 143, 151

Trevi, the Fountain, i. 155, 186
the Region, i. 155, 187; ii. 209

Tribunes, i. 14

Trinità de' Monti, i. 256, 264
dei Pellegrini, ii. 110

Triumph, the, of Aurelian, i. 179

Triumphal Road, i. 66, 69, 70, 71

Tullianum, i. 8

Tullus, i. 3
Domitius, i. 90

Tuscany, Duke of, ii. 30

Tusculum, i. 158

Unity, of Italy, i. 53, 77, 123, 184; ii. 224
under Augustus, i. 184
Victor Emmanuel, i. 184

University, Gregorian, the, ii. 61
of the Sapienza, i. 251; ii. 24, 25

Urbino, Duke of, i. 208, 217

Valens, i. 133

Valentinian, i. 133

Varus, i. 46

Vatican, the, i. 127, 128, 147, 165, 189, 278, 281, 307;
ii. 44, 202, 207, 228, 243, 245, 249, 250, 252, 253, 269, 271
barracks of the Swiss Guard, ii. 275
chapels in,
Pauline, ii.
Nicholas, ii. 285
Sixtine, ii. 246, 274, 275, 276, 278-281, 285
fields, i. 274
Court of the Belvedere, ii. 269
Saint Damasus, ii. 273
finances of, ii. 253
gardens of, ii. 243, 271, 287
of the Pigna, ii. 273
library, ii. 275, 276, 282
Borgia apartments of, ii. 282
Loggia of the Beatification, ii. 245
Raphael, ii. 273, 274, 276, 285
Maestro di Camera, ii. 239, 248, 250
museums of, ii. 272, 273, 283, 286, 287
picture galleries, ii. 273-284
Pontifical residence, ii. 249
private apartments, ii. 249
Sala Clementina, ii. 248
del Concistoro, ii. 246
Ducale, ii. 245, 247
Regia, ii. 246
throne room, ii. 247
Torre Borgia, ii. 269, 285

Veii, i. 16, 17

Velabrum, i. 67

Veneziano, Domenico, ii. 185

Venice, i. 193, 296, 306; ii. 35, 205

Vercingetorix, ii. 294

Vespasian, i. 46, 56; ii. 295

Vespignani, ii. 241, 242

Vesta, i. 57
temple of, i. 71, 77

Vestals, i. 77, 80, 133, 152; ii. 99
house of, i. 69

Via--
della Angelo Custode, i. 122
Appia, i. 22, 94
Arenula, ii. 45
Borgognona, i. 251
Campo Marzo, i. 150
di Caravita, ii. 45
del Corso, i. 155, 158, 192, 193, 251; ii. 45
della Dateria, i. 183
Dogana Vecchia, ii. 26
Flaminia, i. 193
Florida, ii. 45
Frattina, i. 250
de' Greci, i. 251
Lata, i. 193
Lungara, i. 274; ii. 144, 145, 147
Lungaretta, ii. 140
della Maestro, i. 283
Marforio, i. 106
di Monserrato, i. 283
Montebello, i. 107
Nazionale, i. 277
Nova, i. 69
di Parione, i. 297
de' Poli, i. 267
de Pontefici, i. 158
de Prefetti, ii. 6
Quattro Fontane, i. 155, 187
Sacra, i. 65, 71, 180
San Gregorio, i. 71
San Teodoro, i. 195
de' Schiavoni, i. 158
Sistina, i. 260
della Stelleta, i. 250
della Tritone, i. 106, 119-122, 155
Triumphalis, i. 66, 70, 71
Venti Settembre, i. 186
Vittorio Emanuele, i. 275

Viale Castro Pretorio, i. 107

Vicolo della Corda, i. 283

Victor Emmanuel, i. 53, 166, 184; ii. 90, 221, 224, 225, 238
monument to, ii. 90

Victoria, Queen of England, ii. 263

Vigiles, cohort of the, i. 158, 170

Villa Borghese, i. 223
Colonna, i. 181, 189
d'Este, i. 185
of Hadrian, i. 180
Ludovisi, i. 106, 193
Medici, i. 259, 262, 264, 265, 269, 313
Negroni, i. 148, 149, 289, 292
Publica, i. 250

Villani, i. 160, 277; ii. 164

Villas, in the Region of Monti, i. 149, 150

Vinci, Lionardo da, i. 260, 315; ii. 147, 159, 169, 171, 175, 184, 188,
195, 200
"The Last Supper," by, ii. 171, 184

Virgil, i. 44, 56, 63

Virginia, i. 14

Virginius, i. 15

Volscians, ii. 230

Walls--
Aurelian, i. 93, 106, 110, 193, 271; ii. 119, 144
Servian, i. 5, 7, 15, 250, 270
of Urban the Eighth, ii. 132

Water supply, i. 145

William the Silent, ii. 263

Witches on the Æsquiline, i. 140

Women's life in Rome, i. 9

Zama, i. 21, 59

Zenobia of Palmyra, i. 179; ii. 150.

Zouaves, the, ii. 216

*** End of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "Ave Roma Immortalis, Vol. 1 - Studies from the Chronicles of Rome" ***

Home