lived. And there is a tradition among the Jews, handed down from father to son, that it was in that house that St. Paul lived. Out near St. Paul’s church, we had pointed out to us a spot, where, it was said, Paul bade Peter good-bye, when the latter was led out to execution on a neighboring hill. It is the first yarn of the Catholic Church that I wish were true. What a parting that would have been! But as I am told that there is not the slightest evidence that Peter ever came to Rome, why, I will have to give that up as one of the delicate little fictions with which Mother Church is wont to regale herself.
Then we visited the Pantheon. Celebrated structure! Perfectly round it is, with a large hole in the middle, as quite possibly you may know. This hole has twenty-seven feet in diameter, and is the only opening by which the building is lighted. However, a window twenty-seven feet in diameter does very well. The dome is one hundred and forty feet in diameter and one hundred and forty feet high. Within are buried Raphael and Victor Emanuel. It is to be the future burial place for the Kings of Italy. Then we returned home.
After dinner we took a carriage and drove out to see the Colosseum by moonlight, which, of course, we could not afford to lose, as the event proved. I never enjoyed anything so. It was quite a drive there. Suddenly, just before arriving at the Colosseum, the Roman forum, with all its ruins, came into view. It startled me, as I did not expect to see it, not knowing that it was in that part of the city. The moonlight was ghostly, and the forum, with the ruined temples and triumphal arches, broken columns and fallen pillars clustered around it, looked like a city of the dead. Then passing under the arch of Titus and by the arch of Constantine, the Colosseum appeared in full view. We went in and walked around. Carrie and I climbed up some half-ruined steps and, looking out of a window, had a fine view of the whole forum with all its majestic ruins.
We returned home via an ice-cream saloon and indulged, solaced by the music which was kept up by a gentleman, lady and piano. There does not appear to be any special danger from malaria here. It is perfectly safe to go out in the evening, and we keep our windows open nights, contrary to the advice of some cautious people. The seven hills of Rome are a fraud. They are practically invisible. This hotel is situated on the Esquiline hill, where used to be the gardens of Sallust. Interesting to me, as I read Sallust last term. We leave for Naples Monday night or Tuesday morning, and already I see in my mind’s eye Pompeii and Vesuvius. If you see French, bless him for me. Tell him to write. Love to Uncle and Aunt. Tell Auntie not to work too hard. Love to all the home folks. Also to Lucius. Keep a good slice of love for yourself and be happy.
Lovingly,
HENRY.
ROME, Sunday, August IO, ’79.
MY DEAR MOTHER,
Here I am, the very first thing after writing the “dear mother,” inquiring what to say. This you know, mother, is chronic with me. And yet I ought to have enough to say, after travelling all over Europe. But an empty-headed boy always will be an empty-headed boy, I suppose, in Europe, America, or the Islands. And that quite evidently is my fix. To us disconsolate and forlorn, after long waiting, the mail came from the Islands, with a letter of yours enclosed. It was welcome, indeed. Nothing has made me so homesick for a perfect age as those letters. For once they made me feel as if I were in Rome, in very truth, at a most awful distance from home. You will notice from the heading of this letter that I am back again in Rome, after an absence of four days (from Monday night till Saturday morning), to spend Sunday. The time for starting for Naples was Tuesday morning, but some of us preferred to go Monday night, among whom were Carrie and myself. We found Naples a respectable place. That is, I did. The rest did not like it very well by reason of the fleas, mosquitoes and heat, I believe. The first two did not disturb me, and the last was mitigated by a cool sea breeze, and compensated for by the swimming and delightful view of the bay and Vesuvius. We had a very good time at Naples, only we loafed too much, our getting lazy being due in part, I suppose, to the climate. I found many resemblances in Naples to the Islands, and liked it better therefore.
To-morrow at noon we leave for Pisa, and I am glad. Naples, you may notice, is the end or limit of our European tour. We are now homeward bound; but it is quite a journey homeward. I long to get out of hot Italy into cool, beautiful Switzerland; Italy is so dry and dusty. I don’t see how any nation could ever have arisen to the greatness of the Romans in it. But quite likely they were preserved from invasion for a long time by the fear of the heat which it seems to me all reasonable barbarians must have experienced. Last Monday we visited the most interesting sights in Rome. The Roman Forum, with all the interesting buildings in and around it, among which is the Temple of Castor and Pollux. At the battle of Lake Regillus these kind gentlemen assisted the Romans materially. They then trotted into the city, announced the result of the battle, and washed their horses in a spring in the Forum, the site of which was shown us. In commemoration of the event, this temple was erected. We were to have our pictures taken here, but the light was too bright, and our faces all came out black. I think the reason was that they were dirty, but the first-mentioned cause is given by those in authority. In any case the result was disastrous and sad, for I was ensconced in a most romantic situation leaning against a pillar, and of course I felt sad at the result. But such is life. Give Lucius my love, and French also, if you see him; bestow my benediction upon him, please, and tell him to write.
With much love,
HENRY.
My staying is about given up. My certificate stating that I wish to return Sept. 4th is signed, and will be given in I suppose. So, comfort your soul, my Mother. H. N. C.
ON THE WAY FROM GENOA TO MILAN,
August 13, 1879.
MY DEAR MOTHER,
Just now killing time is the chief duty of man; and you can easily judge what an imperative duty it must be when its performance induces one to write on the cars, an act of all in the world the most painful. However, if you can stand it I can. The only way to get any just conception of the size of Italy is to travel over it by rail, then one gets a very definite idea of very disagreeable immensity. I believe myself that Italy is nearer Tartarus (a polite and eminently classical name for hell) than any country I ever was in before or ever want to be in again.
Tourists are the most afflicted, abused, long-suffering people I ever saw. They are put through a course of sprouts (sight-seeing) terrible to think upon, and they stand it with commendable patience. The capacity to endure, I think Miss Muloch says somewhere, is the greatest of the human soul, and travelling affords one the best opportunity for developing it. But it is a trial as by fire. If you can stand it—if there is gold in you, you will come out refined, but otherwise nothing but dross, and you will develop instead a most terrible ability to cus. That’s my case. The literal fire has burned everything away but the dross, and my morals are irretrievably ruined. Since I wrote you last we have made our start north and “done,” perpetrated, waded through, oh, so painfully, Pisa and Genoa, or rather the railroad ride from Rome to Genoa. These rides, as well as their old palaces all over Europe, are chopped off by the thousand like the brown stone fronts in New York and sold by the yard. When you have experienced one you have been through them all. The programme is heat, dust, and a crawling pace, varied occasionally by a tunnel or a villainous old castle on some height. An exception is found here and there to this programme, only to prove the rule. The ride from Rome to Pisa was not one of the exceptions. CHAMONIX, Sunday 17.—1 have just found this letter, and so I think I will finish it. We arrived in the diligence here to-night, after a ride of about nine or ten hours through the Tête Noire Pass. The scenery was very fine, though, on the whole, inferior to the Simplon. The reason we travelled Sunday was this. The diligence from Domo Dossola to Brieg was late, and lost the train by which we were intending to proceed to Vernayaz. We were therefore compelled to remain at Brieg over night. In the morning Mr Gray announced that it would be too long a ride to Chamonix, so we would go to Vernayaz only that day, and to Chamonix the next—Sunday. However, I have spent a good Sunday, notwithstanding. We walked a long way up the Pass and I was completely alone, with not a person in sight, for some time. The scenery, the view, both up and down, was beautiful; and with the noise of flowing water in my ears, and breathing the fresh mountain air, I sat down on a fence and read my Testament —heard the “Written Word interpreted by Nature.” I also indulged in performances not so creditable perhaps.