ashore from the steamer; several porters (facchini) seizė your baggage, and, unless you can squabble in Italian, you must bestow some more pauls on each for carrying it to the custom-house-more pauls to the officials there, for weighing it, to see whether or not it is beyond the allowable weight for the carriage—more for plumbing it, (that is, cording it up and fastening it with a lead seal, which is not to be taken off till you reach Rome,)-more for the printed permit to pass it through the gates when you leave-more for hoisting it up on the top of the carriage; and so you go on, paying away on the right and on the left, until your small change and patience are both exhausted. In this little catalogue is not included the fee to the custom-house officer, whose inspection was a mere pro formâ business. He lifted the covers of our trunks, made a great flourish about the examination, in the course of which he opened a book, (happening to be a controversial one on the Romish Church,) and looked into it as curiously as if there was any probability of his understanding what it was, and then closed the trunks again. He next whispered to us, that "he should be happy to receive something, as we had been well served," turned his back, put his open hand behind him with a great affectation of secrecy, closed it as the expected pauls dropped in, and the farce was over. Add to this about a dollar for the visè of each passport, and you have the history of the black-mail levied on us at Civita Vecchia in about two hours. At noon we set out in a carriage drawn by three horses. "And so we went towards Rome." The road for one half of the distance skirts the Mediterranean through a region dreary and often uncultivated, though the last part, where it turns eastward into the country, becomes more hilly. One who looked only to the present, would pronounce it a ride without interest, except where his curiosity was, at times, excited by some massive ruins near the road, or a lonely tower hanging over the sea, reminding him of days of feudal strife. But, as Walpole says, "our memory sees more than our eyes in this country." The classical scholar, therefore, looks upon it as a land seamed and furrowed by the footsteps of past ages. He is in the midst of places of which Strabo and Pliny wrote. He crosses the Vaccina, the Amnis Coretanus of his old school days. He passes through Cervetere, once one of the most important cities of ancient Etruria, where Virgil tells us Mezentius reigned when Eneas entered Italy; and the paintings in whose tombs, Pliny says, existed long before the foundation of Rome. It is supposed, indeed, that the Romans were first initiated in the mysteries of the Etruscan worship by the priests of Cære; and, when Rome was invaded by the Gauls, it was here that the vestal virgins found an asylum, and were sent for safety with the sacred fire. Every scene, indeed, has its separate story; and old memories of the past are crowding back on the traveller's mind, as he hears names which are associated with all he knows of classical interest. It is something too to be riding along the shores of the Mediterranean. Its waves are haunted by the spirit of the past. We see them sparkling at our feet, or stretching out to the horizon, blue and beautiful in the sunlight, and we remember what countries they lave. Opposite to us is Africa, where St. Augustine once ruled, and hundreds of temples reared' the Cross on high-then comes Egypt with its hoary antiquity, by the side of which Italy is young and childlike— then that holy land which our Lord "environed with his blessed feet," and where Paradise was Lost and was Regained. On we pass to old Tyre, where, as prophecy foretold, the nets are drying on the rocks, and onward again, till we behold the waters breaking in the many bays of Greece. There was the last foothold of the "faded hierarchy” of Olympus; and now, though songs are hushed and dances stilled in that land, yet beauty has every where left the wonderful tokens of her presence. And to the shores, too, where we are, the waves of this sea have borne one race after another from the far East, and seen the feeble colonies expand into greatness, until their children went forth to inherit the earth. What wonderful memories then linger around this mighty "valley of waters!"* The last few miles were over the silent and desolate Campagna-low stunted trees only at times were seen, and not a habitation gave notice that we were drawing nigh to a mighty city. Far as the eye can reach is an unbroken waste, and the Mistress of the world stands encircled by a melancholy solitude. Yet is it not appropriate that it should be so? About fair Naples are lovely vineyards, lining the road with the rich festoons they have hung from tree to tree; and from whichever side you approach beautiful Florence, whether from the smiling fields of Tuseany, or "leafy Valembrosa," or the woody heights of Fiesole, where Milton mused and wrote, there is still the same rich and lively scenery. All things are in unison with the gay and poetical character of these cities. Should not Rome, then, the fallen Metropolis of the earth, majestic even in ruins, be surrounded only by barrenness and decay? Every object should inspire thoughts of awe and melancholy, as we approach this "Niobe of nations," standing thus "Childless and crownless in her voiceless woe." It was late at night when we reached the neighborhood of "the eternal city;" but the moon was up, shedding its light over the whole landscape, and we waited with eager impatience for our first view of the Mistress of the World. At length it came. "ROMA!" shouted the postillion, and at once all heads were thrust through the carriage windows. Towers and turrets, columns and cupolas rose before us, and "The valley of waters, widest next to that Dante. Il Paradiso, c. ix. 1. 80. high above all, the majestic dome of St. Peter's mounting in the air. We were approaching the Porta Cavalliggeri, immediately in the rear of that miracle of architecture. A few moments more and we reached it-our passports were inspected by the guard-we entered, and were within the walls of Rome. Our carriage drove round close to the mighty colonnades of St. Peter's, stretched out far on both sides as if embracing the vast arena they enclose-then rose before us with its massive towers, the Castle of St. Angelo, once the mighty tomb "Which Hadrian rear'd on high, Imperial mimic of old Egypt's piles." We crossed the Tiber, as it sluggishly wound along in the calm moonlight, by the ancient Pons Ælius, and around us on every side was the magnificence of which we had heard from our earliest years,- -a magnificence which still survives the wreck of wars and violence, and rapine and earthquake, and conflagrations and floods. All was the more grand and solemn because not seen in the glare of day. The delusive visionary light and deep broad shadows enlarged every portico, increased the height of every dome and tower, and left the imagination to fill up the gigantic outline they revealed. And thus, we felt, should Rome be seen for the first time! |