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    Chapter 28

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    Chapter 29
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    From the sanguinary sports of the Holy Inquisition; the slaughter of the
    Coliseum; and the dismal tombs of the Catacombs, I naturally pass to the
    picturesque horrors of the Capuchin Convent. We stopped a moment in a
    small chapel in the church to admire a picture of St. Michael vanquishing
    Satan--a picture which is so beautiful that I can not but think it
    belongs to the reviled "Renaissance," notwithstanding I believe they told
    us one of the ancient old masters painted it--and then we descended into
    the vast vault underneath.

    Here was a spectacle for sensitive nerves! Evidently the old masters had
    been at work in this place. There were six divisions in the apartment,
    and each division was ornamented with a style of decoration peculiar to
    itself--and these decorations were in every instance formed of human
    bones! There were shapely arches, built wholly of thigh bones; there
    were startling pyramids, built wholly of grinning skulls; there were
    quaint architectural structures of various kinds, built of shin bones and
    the bones of the arm; on the wall were elaborate frescoes, whose curving
    vines were made of knotted human vertebrae; whose delicate tendrils were
    made of sinews and tendons; whose flowers were formed of knee-caps and
    toe-nails. Every lasting portion of the human frame was represented in
    these intricate designs (they were by Michael Angelo, I think,) and there
    was a careful finish about the work, and an attention to details that
    betrayed the artist's love of his labors as well as his schooled ability.
    I asked the good-natured monk who accompanied us, who did this? And he
    said, "We did it"--meaning himself and his brethren up stairs. I could
    see that the old friar took a high pride in his curious show. We made
    him talkative by exhibiting an interest we never betrayed to guides.

    "Who were these people?"

    "We--up stairs--Monks of the Capuchin order--my brethren."

    "How many departed monks were required to upholster these six parlors?"

    "These are the bones of four thousand."

    "It took a long time to get enough?"

    "Many, many centuries."

    "Their different parts are well separated--skulls in one room, legs in
    another, ribs in another--there would be stirring times here for a while
    if the last trump should blow. Some of the brethren might get hold of
    the wrong leg, in the confusion, and the wrong skull, and find themselves
    limping, and looking through eyes that were wider apart or closer
    together than they were used to. You can not tell any of these parties
    apart, I suppose?"

    "Oh, yes, I know many of them."

    He put his finger on a skull. "This was Brother Anselmo--dead three
    hundred years--a good man."

    He touched another. "This was Brother Alexander--dead two hundred and
    eighty years. This was Brother Carlo--dead about as long."

    Then he took a skull and held it in his hand, and looked reflectively
    upon it, after the manner of the grave-digger when he discourses of
    Yorick.

    "This," he said, "was Brother Thomas. He was a young prince, the scion
    of a proud house that traced its lineage back to the grand old days of
    Rome well nigh two thousand years ago. He loved beneath his estate. His
    family persecuted him; persecuted the girl, as well. They drove her from
    Rome; he followed; he sought her far and wide; he found no trace of her.
    He came back and offered his broken heart at our altar and his weary life
    to the service of God. But look you. Shortly his father died, and
    likewise his mother. The girl returned, rejoicing. She sought every
    where for him whose eyes had used to look tenderly into hers out of this
    poor skull, but she could not find him. At last, in this coarse garb we
    wear, she recognized him in the street. He knew her. It was too late.
    He fell where he stood. They took him up and brought him here. He never
    spoke afterward. Within the week he died. You can see the color of his
    hair--faded, somewhat--by this thin shred that clings still to the
    temple. This, [taking up a thigh bone,] was his. The veins of this
    leaf in the decorations over your head, were his finger-joints, a hundred
    and fifty years ago."

    This business-like way of illustrating a touching story of the heart by
    laying the several fragments of the lover before us and naming them, was
    as grotesque a performance, and as ghastly, as any I ever witnessed. I
    hardly knew whether to smile or shudder. There are nerves and muscles in
    our frames whose functions and whose methods of working it seems a sort
    of sacrilege to describe by cold physiological names and surgical
    technicalities, and the monk's talk suggested to me something of this
    kind. Fancy a surgeon, with his nippers lifting tendons, muscles and
    such things into view, out of the complex machinery of a corpse, and
    observing, "Now this little nerve quivers--the vibration is imparted to
    this muscle--from here it is passed to this fibrous substance; here its
    ingredients are separated by the chemical action of the blood--one part
    goes to the heart and thrills it with what is popularly termed emotion,
    another part follows this nerve to the brain and communicates
    intelligence of a startling character--the third part glides along this
    passage and touches the spring connected with the fluid receptacles that
    lie in the rear of the eye. Thus, by this simple and beautiful process,
    the party is informed that his mother is dead, and he weeps." Horrible!

    I asked the monk if all the brethren up stairs expected to be put in this
    place when they died. He answered quietly:

    "We must all lie here at last."

    See what one can accustom himself to.--The reflection that he must some
    day be taken apart like an engine or a clock, or like a house whose owner
    is gone, and worked up into arches and pyramids and hideous frescoes, did
    not distress this monk in the least. I thought he even looked as if he
    were thinking, with complacent vanity, that his own skull would look well
    on top of the heap and his own ribs add a charm to the frescoes which
    possibly they lacked at present.

    Here and there, in ornamental alcoves, stretched upon beds of bones, lay
    dead and dried-up monks, with lank frames dressed in the black robes one
    sees ordinarily upon priests. We examined one closely. The skinny hands
    were clasped upon the breast; two lustreless tufts of hair stuck to the
    skull; the skin was brown and sunken; it stretched tightly over the cheek
    bones and made them stand out sharply; the crisp dead eyes were deep in
    the sockets; the nostrils were painfully prominent, the end of the nose
    being gone; the lips had shriveled away from the yellow teeth: and
    brought down to us through the circling years, and petrified there, was a
    weird laugh a full century old!

    It was the jolliest laugh, but yet the most dreadful, that one can
    imagine. Surely, I thought, it must have been a most extraordinary joke
    this veteran produced with his latest breath, that he has not got done
    laughing at it yet. At this moment I saw that the old instinct was
    strong upon the boys, and I said we had better hurry to St. Peter's.
    They were trying to keep from asking, "Is--is he dead?"

    It makes me dizzy, to think of the Vatican--of its wilderness of statues,
    paintings, and curiosities of every description and every age. The "old
    masters" (especially in sculpture,) fairly swarm, there. I can not write
    about the Vatican. I think I shall never remember any thing I saw there
    distinctly but the mummies, and the Transfiguration, by Raphael, and some
    other things it is not necessary to mention now. I shall remember the
    Transfiguration partly because it was placed in a room almost by itself;
    partly because it is acknowledged by all to be the first oil painting in
    the world; and partly because it was wonderfully beautiful. The colors
    are fresh and rich, the "expression," I am told, is fine, the "feeling"
    is lively, the "tone" is good, the "depth" is profound, and the width is
    about four and a half feet, I should judge. It is a picture that really
    holds one's attention; its beauty is fascinating. It is fine enough to
    be a Renaissance. A remark I made a while ago suggests a thought--and a
    hope. Is it not possible that the reason I find such charms in this
    picture is because it is out of the crazy chaos of the galleries? If
    some of the others were set apart, might not they be beautiful? If this
    were set in the midst of the tempest of pictures one finds in the vast
    galleries of the Roman palaces, would I think it so handsome? If, up to
    this time, I had seen only one "old master" in each palace, instead of
    acres and acres of walls and ceilings fairly papered with them, might I
    not have a more civilized opinion of the old masters than I have now? I
    think so. When I was a school-boy and was to have a new knife, I could
    not make up my mind as to which was the prettiest in the show-case, and I
    did not think any of them were particularly pretty; and so I chose with a
    heavy heart. But when I looked at my purchase, at home, where no
    glittering blades came into competition with it, I was astonished to see
    how handsome it was. To this day my new hats look better out of the shop
    than they did in it with other new hats. It begins to dawn upon me, now,
    that possibly, what I have been taking for uniform ugliness in the
    galleries may be uniform beauty after all. I honestly hope it is, to
    others, but certainly it is not to me. Perhaps the reason I used to
    enjoy going to the Academy of Fine Arts in New York was because there
    were but a few hundred paintings in it, and it did not surfeit me to go
    through the list. I suppose the Academy was bacon and beans in the
    Forty-Mile Desert, and a European gallery is a state dinner of thirteen
    courses. One leaves no sign after him of the one dish, but the thirteen
    frighten away his appetite and give him no satisfaction.

    There is one thing I am certain of, though. With all the Michael
    Angelos, the Raphaels, the Guidos and the other old masters, the sublime
    history of Rome remains unpainted! They painted Virgins enough, and
    popes enough and saintly scarecrows enough, to people Paradise, almost,
    and these things are all they did paint. "Nero fiddling o'er burning
    Rome," the assassination of Caesar, the stirring spectacle of a hundred
    thousand people bending forward with rapt interest, in the coliseum, to
    see two skillful gladiators hacking away each others' lives, a tiger
    springing upon a kneeling martyr--these and a thousand other matters
    which we read of with a living interest, must be sought for only in
    books--not among the rubbish left by the old masters--who are no more, I
    have the satisfaction of informing the public.

    They did paint, and they did carve in marble, one historical scene, and
    one only, (of any great historical consequence.) And what was it and why
    did they choose it, particularly? It was the Rape of the Sabines, and
    they chose it for the legs and busts.

    I like to look at statues, however, and I like to look at pictures, also
    --even of monks looking up in sacred ecstacy, and monks looking down in
    meditation, and monks skirmishing for something to eat--and therefore I
    drop ill nature to thank the papal government for so jealously guarding
    and so industriously gathering up these things; and for permitting me, a
    stranger and not an entirely friendly one, to roam at will and unmolested
    among them, charging me nothing, and only requiring that I shall behave
    myself simply as well as I ought to behave in any other man's house. I
    thank the Holy Father right heartily, and I wish him long life and plenty
    of happiness.

    The Popes have long been the patrons and preservers of art, just as our
    new, practical Republic is the encourager and upholder of mechanics. In
    their Vatican is stored up all that is curious and beautiful in art; in
    our Patent Office is hoarded all that is curious or useful in mechanics.
    When a man invents a new style of horse-collar or discovers a new and
    superior method of telegraphing, our government issues a patent to him
    that is worth a fortune; when a man digs up an ancient statue in the
    Campagna, the Pope gives him a fortune in gold coin. We can make
    something of a guess at a man's character by the style of nose he carries
    on his face. The Vatican and the Patent Office are governmental noses,
    and they bear a deal of character about them.

    The guide showed us a colossal statue of Jupiter, in the Vatican, which
    he said looked so damaged and rusty--so like the God of the Vagabonds
    --because it had but recently been dug up in the Campagna. He asked how
    much we supposed this Jupiter was worth? I replied, with intelligent
    promptness, that he was probably worth about four dollars--may be four
    and a half. "A hundred thousand dollars!" Ferguson said. Ferguson
    said, further, that the Pope permits no ancient work of this kind to
    leave his dominions. He appoints a commission to examine discoveries
    like this and report upon the value; then the Pope pays the discoverer
    one-half of that assessed value and takes the statue. He said this
    Jupiter was dug from a field which had just been bought for thirty-six
    thousand dollars, so the first crop was a good one for the new farmer.
    I do not know whether Ferguson always tells the truth or not, but I
    suppose he does. I know that an exorbitant export duty is exacted upon
    all pictures painted by the old masters, in order to discourage the sale
    of those in the private collections. I am satisfied, also, that genuine
    old masters hardly exist at all, in America, because the cheapest and
    most insignificant of them are valued at the price of a fine farm. I
    proposed to buy a small trifle of a Raphael, myself, but the price of it
    was eighty thousand dollars, the export duty would have made it
    considerably over a hundred, and so I studied on it awhile and concluded
    not to take it.

    I wish here to mention an inscription I have seen, before I forget it:

    "Glory to God in the highest, peace on earth TO MEN OF GOOD WILL!" It is
    not good scripture, but it is sound Catholic and human nature.

    This is in letters of gold around the apsis of a mosaic group at the side
    of the 'scala santa', church of St. John Lateran, the Mother and Mistress
    of all the Catholic churches of the world. The group represents the
    Saviour, St. Peter, Pope Leo, St. Silvester, Constantine and Charlemagne.
    Peter is giving the pallium to the Pope, and a standard to Charlemagne.
    The Saviour is giving the keys to St. Silvester, and a standard to
    Constantine. No prayer is offered to the Saviour, who seems to be of
    little importance any where in Rome; but an inscription below says,
    "Blessed Peter, give life to Pope Leo and victory to king Charles." It
    does not say, "Intercede for us, through the Saviour, with the Father,
    for this boon," but "Blessed Peter, give it us."

    In all seriousness--without meaning to be frivolous--without meaning to
    be irreverent, and more than all, without meaning to be blasphemous,--I
    state as my simple deduction from the things I have seen and the things I
    have heard, that the Holy Personages rank thus in Rome:

    First--"The Mother of God"--otherwise the Virgin Mary.

    Second--The Deity.

    Third--Peter.

    Fourth--Some twelve or fifteen canonized Popes and martyrs.

    Fifth--Jesus Christ the Saviour--(but always as an infant in arms.)

    I may be wrong in this--my judgment errs often, just as is the case with
    other men's--but it is my judgment, be it good or bad.

    Just here I will mention something that seems curious to me. There are
    no "Christ's Churches" in Rome, and no "Churches of the Holy Ghost," that
    I can discover. There are some four hundred churches, but about a fourth
    of them seem to be named for the Madonna and St. Peter. There are so
    many named for Mary that they have to be distinguished by all sorts of
    affixes, if I understand the matter rightly. Then we have churches of
    St. Louis; St. Augustine; St. Agnes; St. Calixtus; St. Lorenzo in Lucina;
    St. Lorenzo in Damaso; St. Cecilia; St. Athanasius; St. Philip Neri; St.
    Catherine, St. Dominico, and a multitude of lesser saints whose names are
    not familiar in the world--and away down, clear out of the list of the
    churches, comes a couple of hospitals: one of them is named for the
    Saviour and the other for the Holy Ghost!

    Day after day and night after night we have wandered among the crumbling
    wonders of Rome; day after day and night after night we have fed upon the
    dust and decay of five-and-twenty centuries--have brooded over them by
    day and dreampt of them by night till sometimes we seemed moldering away
    ourselves, and growing defaced and cornerless, and liable at any moment
    to fall a prey to some antiquary and be patched in the legs, and
    "restored" with an unseemly nose, and labeled wrong and dated wrong, and
    set up in the Vatican for poets to drivel about and vandals to scribble
    their names on forever and forevermore.

    But the surest way to stop writing about Rome is to stop. I wished to
    write a real "guide-book" chapter on this fascinating city, but I could
    not do it, because I have felt all the time like a boy in a candy-shop
    --there was every thing to choose from, and yet no choice. I have drifted
    along hopelessly for a hundred pages of manuscript without knowing where
    to commence. I will not commence at all. Our passports have been
    examined. We will go to Naples.
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