Part 15

The church best known to foreigners is undoubtedly that which figures in the illustration, S. Trinità de' Monti. There is nothing about the church itself to call for comment; but its fine position, above the beautifully arranged steps, in the middle of what may be called the "foreign quarter," makes it worthy of note. Close by is the Villa Medici, the French Academy of Rome. At the base of the steps is the flower market. Until recently Italians had a great objection to cut flowers in their rooms--they were supposed to be unhealthy. Through foreign influence this is slowly giving way, and the market is as much patronised by the Romans as by the residents of other nationalities. Not many years ago the foot of these steps used to be thronged every morning by artists' models, who, in the picturesque garb of their native districts, sat here waiting for a day's hire. The few who still do this have moved off to the steps of the Greek church in the Via del Babuino, and the flavour of the Campagna and the mountains they gave to the Piazza di Spagna is now a thing of the past. Everything changes, everything passes away. The gaily coloured costumes of the _ciociare_, the peasants from the districts between Rome and Naples--so-called from the _cioce_ or sandal they wear--is now never seen. The exaggerated dress of the flower sellers, who pester the foreigner to buy little faded nosegays, is simply worn for the purpose of extracting _soldi_ and as a subterfuge for begging. Away up in the mountains beyond Tivoli are two villages, Saracenesco and Articoli. Though they are adjacent the dialect of the inhabitants is different. There is a deadly feud between them. They both provide the artist in Rome with models. Those who come from the last named pose for the figure, but those from Sarecenesco will only sit draped. They still provide the wet-nurses for Roman babies; for the physique of these Sabine villagers is very fine, as fine perhaps as in the days when the Sabine women were carried off by Roman youths.

Beyond the Villa Medici lie the beautiful gardens of the Pincio. From the terrace at the end, on the brow of the hill, one gets the famous view of Rome. The shady walks and well-kept drives of these noted gardens, and those of the adjoining Villa Borghese, are the favourite rendezvous in the evening for Roman society. We must leave this beautiful _pleasaunce_ and dive down into the labyrinth of streets below. Nothing probably strikes one so much on a first visit to the Eternal City as the number of fountains and obelisks that are to be found in whichever direction a morning's walk takes one. Rome is the best supplied of any capital in the world with water, and though she has not the thirteen thousand odd fountains recorded by Cardinal Mai in the year 1540, those that remain still flow unceasingly. The Aqua Virgo brought into Rome by Agrippa to supply his _thermæ_ at the back of the Pantheon rushes a never-failing supply into the huge Fontana di Trevi. One may sometimes see a Roman of the poorer class drinking furtively from the basin into which the water runs, drinking because he is leaving his native city and wishes to assure a safe return. The Fontana del Tritone is formed by dolphins, whose tails meet to support the coat-of-arms of the Barberini--the fine Palazzo Barberini is close by--and is surmounted by a Triton holding a conch shell to his mouth. In quite another district, down by the river hidden away amidst the narrow streets of the Ghetto, is the little Piazza Tartaruga. In the middle of this charming little square stands the Fontana delle Tartaruga. The design of this beautiful "Fountain of the Tortoises" has been attributed to Raphael. It is certainly worthy of his great name. The bronze figures of the four youths supporting the basin of the fountain are exceptionally good. With one hand each grasps the tail of a dolphin, the other is raised above their heads to assist the struggles of the little bronze tortoises that are endeavouring to crawl over the slippery wet lip of the bowl. The Fontana La Barcassia, in the Piazza di Spagna, a corner of which is seen in the sketch of S. Trinità de' Monti, is no doubt better known than the last named, but there is no public fountain in Rome that approaches in any way the artistic merit of "The Tortoises."

It is but a step from this to the gloomy looking Palazzo Cenci, which recalls the tragedy of Beatrice of that name. Another pace further on and we find ourselves in a recently cleared space with the new Jewish Synagogue standing close to the river Embankment. Here was situated the old Ghetto of Rome, a quarter which is being fast demolished. One certainly cannot regret the disappearance of some of the abominable slums that not so long ago stood where the housebreaker's pick and shovel have been at work. It was but a few yards from the synagogue that the sketch of the Isle of S. Bartholomew and the old Roman Pons Fabricius was made. S. Bartolommeo is the only island on the Tiber in its course through Rome; and the picturesque buildings of the old monastery are the only buildings left, which the yellow river washes, of all those that less than thirty years ago lined its banks. There is a different air about the Trastevere district across the water. It is another city altogether than the one left behind on the other bank. The foreigner is not so much in evidence, we are once again in Italy. Mount the steep ascent of the Janiculum, and from the wide space in front of the colossal equestrian statue of Garibaldi you will get a grand view of Rome, with the Campagna and Alban mountains beyond. From the top of the hill, as one turns northwards, we seem on a level with S. Peter's great dome. One is puzzled once again, when remembering how it really towers above all, to find that it is not of much significance in the view. Nothing of course is seen of the Vatican, which is situated on the other side of S. Peter's. In the illustration of the Cathedral, however, there is just visible the corner which adjoins it.

The Vatican is the largest Palace in the world and contains the vastest and most heterogeneous collection of all. It is quite impossible to enumerate a tenth of the treasures hidden behind its ochre-coloured walls. Neither can one enter here into any description of the Sistine chapel with Michael Angelo's masterpiece, or Raphael's magnificent frescoes in the Stanze and Loggie. We must pass over the famous picture gallery and the antiquities in the Museo Pio-Clementino and the Museo Chiaramonti, simply remarking that the Vatican Museums hold the finest collections in the world. There is one antique in the square outside which deserves a passing notice, and that is the great monolith of granite standing in the centre of the Piazza di S. Pietro. If Rome is a city of fountains, it is also a city of obelisks. This enormous block of stone was brought by Caligula from Heliopolis and placed in the circus of Nero, which occupied so much of the ground on which the great basilica was afterwards erected. Eight hundred men, besides many horses and over forty cranes, were requisitioned to elevate it in its present position. Turning away from the Vatican and diving into the squalid quarters of the Borgo, one comes on to the covered passage which John XXIII. commenced to build in order to afford a safe mode of retreat from the palace to the Castle of S. Angelo. The fortress of S. Angelo was erected by the Emperor Hadrian as his family tomb; and, as such, its exterior was perhaps decorated with statues. The Emperor died in his villa at Baiæ on the Bay of Naples, but his body was brought here, to be joined, as time went on, by the mortal remains of Marcus Aurelius, Caracalla, and others.

The history of the castle is the history of Rome in the Middle Ages. It has many times withstood a siege, and among other vicissitudes fell before the prowess of Totila and his Goths. The sarcophagus of its founder was used as the tomb for Innocent II., and its inverted lid now forms the font in the baptistery of S. Peter's. The streets in the neighbourhood of the castle have undergone an absolute change. Wide thoroughfares and huge blocks of flats cover the ground that a few years ago was a huge slum. The new Courts of Justice face the river, and the embankment in front is now a fine boulevard. We cross the water once more, by the Ponte Margherita, the bridge which is highest up the Tiber, and find ourselves in that fine square the Piazza del Popolo. Above the beautiful terraces that form the precipitous slope of the Pincio, the trees that adorn the gardens stand out against the blue of the sky. At the foot of the terraces is the church of S. Maria del Popolo, erected on the site of the Domitii tombs, the ghost-haunted burial place of the cruel Nero. Adjoining the church is a grand gateway, the Porta del Popolo. Under its arches on the straight road that runs north, the Via Flaminia, marched out of Rome all those legions that went forth to conquer and to extend the bounds of an Empire that has seen no rival.

NAPLES

The old Greek colony of Parthenope was founded by settlers from Cumæ, and when the islanders of Pithecusæ (Ischia) built their adjoining town of Neapolis, it became known as Palæopolis. Its port was where the harbour of S. Lucia existed up to twenty years ago. Neapolis occupied that part of the present Naples which lies to the east of this. About 400 B.C. the Republic, formed by these two then united towns, allied itself with Rome; and during the height of the Empire's power, her rulers, statesmen, and poets built themselves residences on the shores of the beautiful bay. Augustus did much for Neapolis, and Tiberius sought refuge in that entrancing island, Capri, where to this day his infamies are a byword. Claudius, Nero, Titus, and Hadrian, whose palace can be seen under the waters of the blue Mediterranean near Pozzuoli, have all left traces of some sort or other in and about Naples. Lombards and Normans, Swabians and Spaniards were each in turn drawn hither, allured by the beauty of the situation. Colossal figures in marble of the most famous rulers of Naples occupy niches on the façade of the Royal Palace, and here Roger the Norman, Frederick II., the Swabian, who founded the university, Charles of Anjou, Alfonso of Arragon, Charles III., Joachim Murat, and Victor Emmanuel II. gaze stonily from their retreats at the noisy tram and rushing motor-car.

The Spanish Bourbons were the last to rule in Naples before Italy was united towards the close of the last century. They did much to improve the city but nothing to help its people. Twenty years ago there were still left members of the aristocracy who every year journeyed to Paris to pay their court to Francis II., the last of that race of kings whose reign had ended at the disastrous battle of Gaeta.

Naples, like Rome, changes every year. Modern improvements bring sanitation, but do away with all that is picturesque. All over the world hotels are becoming a great factor in the life of the folk who have spare cash, and Naples, with her splendid water supply and unrivalled position, is not behind in her eagerness to catch the foreigner's gold. Tourists by the thousand reach her by sea, and the enterprising agents who arrange the itinerary pop them into cabs, drive them through the streets, and deposit them at the far-famed Museum, where they are hustled from one gallery to another by the anything but intelligent guide. However, the Museum alone is worth a visit to Naples. The ashes from Mte Somma which smothered Pompeii, preserved for subsequent ages objects in bronze, in earthenware, and in glass, which lie in their cases--an open book of the domestic life of the Roman for every one to read. The great Farnese Hercules, brought by Caracalla from Athens to adorn his baths in Rome, is in one of the lower galleries. It is without exception the finest illustration of mighty strength in repose that exists. In the days when Glycon the Athenian evolved and produced this masterpiece, art was of more account in the lives of the people than it is now, and so much was his Hercules appreciated and admired that it was impressed on the money of Athens and the coins of Caracalla. Among the many small statuettes that the excavator's shovel has been the means of bringing to light is a very beautiful little winged figure of Victory. Nothing can exceed the grace of the composition and the floating-in-air quality this small treasure possesses. One of the best specimens of Greek bronze work is the so-called Narcissus. A row of bronze statues from the theatre at Pompeii place vividly before one the actors of the Greek stage, just as the armour and magnificent helmets of the gladiators bring the arena and its gory triumphs in front of one's eyes.

But, like the tourist, we must hurry on to the cathedral. The façade, approached by steps from the narrow street, is not in any way noticeable. The interior retains some of the original Gothic, but, owing to earthquakes, has been altered and restored, and now presents itself as a great incongruity to the eye. The illustration will make this apparent. Gothic arches form the bays of the nave. The aisles are also Gothic, and so is the arch over the tribune at the east end. Corinthian shafts and dark marble pilasters run up the square piers of the nave. At the base of the shafts, under classic canopies, are the busts of numerous archbishops, and between the piers are the confessionals. These latter give a rich note of brown, which, with the gilded candelabra on either side of the busts, finds an echo in the heavy and richly coloured ceiling. The vista of the north aisle is the best architectural feature in the building. The south aisle is marred by the obtruding classic columns of its side chapels. At the high altar, which the illustration shows, the blood of S. Januarius liquefies every year on the anniversary of the saint's martyrdom in September. The whole cathedral is then crowded, and the intense fervour and excitement of the immense congregation when the blood, in a phial held aloft by the officiating priest, begins to liquefy, is a sight that once seen can never be forgotten.

Immediately under the high altar in the crypt is the Confessio of S. Gennario. Its marble roof is supported by ten Ionic columns. The richly sculptured decoration of the chapel is very fine. The figure of Cardinal Caraffa, who built it, kneels beside the altar under which repose the saint's remains. One other thing of architectural note is the Archbishop's throne in the nave. This good specimen of Gothic work is upheld by most elaborately sculptured pillars, and arches with extremely beautiful tracery.

The most interesting part of Naples lies round the cathedral. Narrow streets, darkened by the clothes that hang from balcony and pole, form a maze which it is easy to wander into, but very difficult to escape from. Some of the finest of the old palaces stand in these dirty thoroughfares. One may pass them a dozen times and still be quite unaware of their existence. The moving crowd that throngs these narrow streets does not show any particular regard for the sightseer, and the careless Jehu who drives whither he will is absolutely unmindful of the pedestrian. So if you would explore old Naples you must look after yourself, and--as a caution too--look after your pockets. It is unwise to display a watch chain, or to carry anything that may be easily snatched from the hand. Remember you are in the midst of expert thieves and among the most heterogeneous race on the face of the globe, a race without the slightest idea of morals of any sort whatever. In the tortuous Via S. Biagio stands a thirteenth-century palace built by one of the Caraffa family, and since known as the Palazzo Santangelo. Some of the best objects in the Museum first found a home in this fine old house. Pope, Paul IV. and the great Neapolitan cardinal, Caraffa, were born in the Palazzo Caraffa in the same street. The central post-office is now housed in the Palazzo Gravina, built in the fifteenth century by one of the Orsini; and the great dwelling of the Monticelli is one of the best specimens of the domestic architecture of the same century.

Not far from the post-office is the church of S. Chiara. Despite the hideous scheme of decoration which has transformed an otherwise fine concert hall--for S. Chiara is more like one than a church--into a curiosity of bad taste, there is a great deal of interest within the fabric. Founded at the commencement of the fourteenth century by Robert the Wise, the church contains his monument and also others of the royal house of Anjou. The frescoes with which Giotto adorned the walls have long ago disappeared, and if it were not for the royal tombs S. Chiara would not be worth a visit. Behind the high altar, at the back of which stairs lead up to a platform enabling one to examine it, is the magnificent tomb of King Robert. The royal sarcophagus rests on Gothic pillars and is adorned by sculptures of the king and his children. His recumbent figure lies extended in the garb of a Franciscan, which Order he entered a few days before his death. Above this, under a canopy, is his figure seated on a throne and clad in royal robes. The beautiful Gothic canopy is supported by slender clustered columns, with five rows of saints in niches carried up to the base of the crocketed pinnacles that surround the canopy. Robert's son Charles, Duke of Calabria, and Mary of Valois, his second wife, lie in sarcophagi that are upheld by figures of angels. These two splendid tombs are to the south of the great king's. To the north are those of Mary, Empress of Constantinople, and of her third husband, Philip of Taranto. Two of her children, Agnese and Clementia, lie also near by; the former, who was married twice, espoused firstly one of the Scaligeri, or della Scala, of Verona. To the right of the high altar is a chapel adorned with fleur-de-lys, the burial place of the royal house of Bourbon. This little chapel and the tombs in it lose greatly in historical sentiment by their hideous and garish surroundings.

S. Domenico Maggiore, the curious exterior of which is illustrated, was originally a noble Gothic edifice. The restorer, unfortunately, has altered and added to this, and although the interior plan is much the same as when first erected, the terrible colours with which it is covered detract in no small measure from its very fine proportions. The sketch shows the exterior of the five-sided apse. The dull yellow tufa with which it is faced and the embattled cornice and buttresses give it a decidedly eastern appearance. S. Domenico may be entered by the door just visible on the left, to reach which one toils up a long flight of moss-grown steps. Push aside the heavy leather flap, and the noisy little piazza, with all Naples beyond, are immediately things of the remote past. You are in a beautiful little twelfth-century chapel. Its walls are lined with most interesting tomb slabs. Note the short figures on each. The Neapolitan is very low of stature, and these short figures, although the tombs are of the twelfth and two succeeding centuries, point to the surmise that the men of the south were never tall. From this chapel one enters the great church at the south transept. Immediately on our left is the sacristy. Here in the gallery which occupies one wall are forty-five burial chests, among which ten hold the remains of ten princes and princesses of the royal line of Aragon. Those which have been identified are Ferdinand I. and II., one of the Dukes of Montalto and his Duchess, and Cardinal Louis d'Aragona. Another contains the husband of the celebrated Vittoria Colonna, the Marquis of Pescara who defeated Francis I. at Pavia. There is something of interest to be found in every chapel in the church. In one of them is the crucifix which conversed with S. Thomas Aquinas while he was composing his _Summa Theologiæ_. The saint's cell may still be seen, and also the room in which he gave his addresses when lecturer in the university that was within the walls of the adjoining monastery. The high altar, raised well above the steps of the choir, is one of the most remarkable specimens of Florentine inlay in the country. It has the curious adjuncts of a recessed seat on either side, and two very fine marble candelabra.

These are but three of the three hundred churches Naples possesses. Climb the hill of the Mte Calvari crowned by the Castel Sant' Elmo and look out from the Belvedere in the suppressed Carthusian monastery of S. Martino. Try to count the towers, domes, and spires standing out from the carpet of roofs below. You will be fatigued before you have reached the second hundred. Perhaps the magnificent prospect over the blue bay, with Isola da Capri and the Punta Campanella in the distance, the Sorrentine peninsula and the wonderful shape of Vesuvius on the left, will distract your arithmetic. At any rate the counting of the churches is not worth the trouble when such a glorious view lies before one. Beyond the garden--the old monastic garden, how the monks must have revelled in it!--and beyond the roofs below, the Castel dell' Ovo juts out into the bay. To the left of it, shipping of all nationalities rides the water along the quays near the Arsenal and royal palace. The funnels of huge liners stand up amidst a forest of masts beyond the Immacolatella in a fine sweep to the Rione Margherita di Savoia. Coasting boats with sails like butterflies skim the water. Down in the harbour all is animation; but so far are we above it that not a sound breaks through the distant hum to enable us to distinguish any one particular note.

The cloisters of S. Martino are very beautiful. Sixteen white marble Doric columns form the arcade on each of the four sides. The cells of the departed monks are shut now and the holes through which their food was passed, bricked up. The walls are white; the classic well-head in the centre of the garden is white and so are its steps. The little burial ground in one corner of the court has a white marble balustrade on which are very realistic white marble skulls. Everything gleams white in this quiet court, and the deep blue of the southern sky intensifies it all. For a painter it is a rare study, but perhaps not so fine an one as I once saw years ago. It was in January, snow had fallen for two or three days--even Capri was covered--when with a friend I walked up to the Carthusian monastery of Camaldoli. We reached it just as the fall which had been going on all day ceased. A thick white carpet of fresh untrodden snow lay round us. The white monastery walls looked dull. We rang at the gate, a white garbed monk opened it. We were in a white courtyard surrounded by white walls, and a line of white monks moved slowly towards the chapel. Everything was white. But what a subtlety in the distinction of the colour! Only the sky was grey, and that such a beautiful pearly tone. I question if pigment even in a master's hand could have faithfully reproduced the scene.