Kitabı oku: «The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 01, No. 06, April, 1858», sayfa 5

VII.—CLAUDE TO EUSTACE

 
  Juxtaposition is great,—but, you tell me, affinity greater.
  Ah, my friend, there are many affinities, greater and lesser,
  Stronger and weaker; and each, by the favor of juxtaposition,
  Potent, efficient, in force,—for a time; but none, let me tell you,
  Save by the law of the land and the ruinous force of the will, ah,
  None, I fear me, at last quite sure to be final and perfect.
    Lo, as I pace in the street, from the peasant-girl to the princess,
  Homo sum, nihil humani a me alienum puto,—
  Vir sum, nihil faeminei,—and e'en to the uttermost circle,
  All that is Nature's is I, and I all things that are Nature's.
  Yes, as I walk, I behold, in a luminous, large intuition,
  That I can be and become anything that I meet with or look at:
  I am the ox in the dray, the ass with the garden-stuff panniers;
  I am the dog in the doorway, the kitten that plays in the window,
  Here on the stones of the ruin the furtive and fugitive lizard,
  Swallow above me that twitters, and fly that is buzzing about me;
  Yea, and detect, as I go, by a faint, but a faithful assurance,
  E'en from the stones of the street, as from rocks or trees of the
       forest,
  Something of kindred, a common, though latent vitality, greet me,
  And, to escape from our strivings, mistakings, misgrowths, and
       perversions,
  Fain could demand to return to that perfect and primitive silence,
  Fain be enfolded and fixed, as of old, in their rigid embraces.
 

VIII.—CLAUDE TO EUSTACE

 
  And as I walk on my way, I behold them consorting and coupling;
  Faithful it seemeth, and fond, very fond, very probably faithful;
  And I proceed on my way with a pleasure sincere and unmingled.
    Life is beautiful, Eustace, entrancing, enchanting to look at;
  As are the streets of a city we pace while the carriage is changing,
  As is a chamber filled-in with harmonious, exquisite pictures,
  Even so beautiful Earth; and could we eliminate only
  This vile hungering impulse, this demon within us of craving,
  Life were beatitude, living a perfect divine satisfaction.
 

IX.—CLAUDE TO EUSTACE

 
  Mild monastic faces in quiet collegiate cloisters:
  So let me offer a single and celibatarian phrase a
  Tribute to those whom perhaps you do not believe I can honor.
  But, from the tumult escaping, 'tis pleasant, of drumming and
       shouting,
  Hither, oblivious awhile, to withdraw, of the fact or the falsehood,
  And amid placid regards and mildly courteous greetings
  Yield to the calm and composure and gentle abstraction that reign o'er
  Mild monastic faces in quiet collegiate cloisters.
    Terrible word, Obligation! You should not, Eustace, you should not,
  No, you should not have used it. But, O great Heavens, I repel it!
  Oh, I cancel, reject, disavow, and repudiate wholly
  Every debt in this kind, disclaim every claim, and dishonor,
  Yea, my own heart's own writing, my soul's own signature! Ah, no!
  I will be free in this; you shall not, none shall, bind me.
  No, my friend, if you wish to be told, it was this above all things,
  This that charmed me, ah, yes, even this, that she held me to nothing.
  No, I could talk as I pleased; come close; fasten ties, as I fancied;
  Bind and engage myself deep;—and lo, on the following morning
  It was all e'en as before, like losings in games played for nothing.
  Yes, when I came, with mean fears in my soul, with a semi-performance
  At the first step breaking down in its pitiful rôle of evasion,
  When to shuffle I came, to compromise, not meet, engagements,
  Lo, with her calm eyes there she met me and knew nothing of it,—
  Stood unexpecting, unconscious. She spoke not of obligations,
  Knew not of debt,—ah, no, I believe you, for excellent reasons.
 

X.—CLAUDE TO EUSTACE

 
  Hang this thinking, at last! what good is it? oh, and what evil!
  Oh, what mischief and pain! like a clock in a sick man's chamber,
  Ticking and ticking, and still through each covert of slumber
       pursuing.
    What shall I do to thee, O thou Preserver of Men? Have compassion!
  Be favorable, and hear! Take from me this regal knowledge!
  Let me, contented and mute, with the beasts of the field, my brothers,
  Tranquilly, happily lie,—and eat grass, like Nebuchadnezzar!
 

XI.—CLAUDE TO EUSTACE

 
  Tibur is beautiful, too, and the orchard slopes, and the Anio
  Falling, falling yet, to the ancient lyrical cadence;
  Tibur and Anio's tide; and cool from Lucretilis ever,
  With the Digentian stream, and with the Bandusian fountain,
  Folded in Sabine recesses, the valley and villa of Horace:—
  So not seeing I sung; so seeing and listening say I,
  Here as I sit by the stream, as I gaze at the cell of the Sibyl,
  Here with Albunea's home and the grove of Tiburnus beside me.²
  Tivoli beautiful is, and musical, O Teverone,
  Dashing from mountain to plain, thy parted impetuous waters!
  Tivoli's waters and rocks; and fair under Monte Gennaro,
  (Haunt even yet, I must think, as I wonder and gaze, of the shadows,
  Faded and pale, yet immortal, of Faunus, the Nymphs, and the Graces,)
  Fair in itself, and yet fairer with human completing creations,
  Folded in Sabine recesses the valley and villa of Horace:—
  So not seeing I sung; so now,—nor seeing, nor hearing,
  Neither by waterfall lulled, nor folded in sylvan embraces,
  Neither by cell of the Sibyl, nor stepping the Monte Gennaro,
  Seated on Anio's bank, nor sipping Bandusian waters,
  But on Montorio's height, looking down on the tile-clad streets, the
  Cupolas, crosses, and domes, the bushes and kitchen-gardens,
  Which, by the grace of the Tiber, proclaim themselves Rome of the
       Romans,—
  But on Montorio's height, looking forth to the vapory mountains,
  Cheating the prisoner Hope with illusions of vision and fancy,—
  But on Montorio's height, with these weary soldiers by me,
  Waiting till Oudinot enter, to reinstate Pope and Tourist.
 

XII.—MARY TREVELLYN TO MISS ROPER

 
  Dear Miss Roper,—It seems, George Vernon, before we left Rome, said
  Something to Mr. Claude about what they call his attentions.
  Susan, two nights ago, for the first time, heard this from Georgina.
  It is so disagreeable, and so annoying, to think of!
  If it could only be known, though we never may meet him again, that
  It was all George's doing and we were entirely unconscious,
  It would extremely relieve—Your ever affectionate Mary.
 
 
  P.S. (1).
    Here is your letter arrived this moment, just as I wanted.
  So you have seen him,—indeed,—and guessed,—how dreadfully clever!
  What did he really say? and what was your answer exactly?
  Charming!—but wait for a moment, I have not read through the letter.
 
 
  P.S. (2).
    Ah, my dearest Miss Roper, do just as you fancy about it.
  If you think it sincerer to tell him I know of it, do so.
  Though I should most extremely dislike it, I know I could manage.
  It is the simplest thing, but surely wholly uncalled for.
  Do as you please; you know I trust implicitly to you.
  Say whatever is right and needful for ending the matter.
  Only don't tell Mr. Claude, what I will tell you as a secret,
  That I should like very well to show him myself I forget it.
 
 
  P.S. (3).
    I am to say that the wedding is finally settled for Tuesday.
  Ah, my dear Miss Roper, you surely, surely can manage
  Not to let it appear that I know of that odious matter.
  It would be pleasanter far for myself to treat it exactly
  As if it had not occurred; and I do not think he would like it.
  I must remember to add, that as soon as the wedding is over
  We shall be off, I believe, in a hurry, and travel to Milan,
  There to meet friends of Papa's, I am told, at the Croce di Malta;
  Then I cannot say whither, but not at present to England.
 

XIII.—CLAUDE TO EUSTACE

 
  Yes, on Montorio's height for a last farewell of the city,—
  So it appears; though then I was quite uncertain about it.
  So, however, it was. And now to explain the proceeding.
    I was to go, as I told you, I think, with the people to Florence.
  Only the day before, the foolish family Vernon
  Made some uneasy remarks, as we walked to our lodging together,
  As to intentions, forsooth, and so forth. I was astounded,
  Horrified quite; and obtaining just then, as it chanced, an offer
  (No common favor) of seeing the great Ludovisi collection,
  Why, I made this a pretence, and wrote that they must excuse me.
  How could I go? Great Heaven! to conduct a permitted flirtation
  Under those vulgar eyes, the observed of such observers!
  Well, but I now, by a series of fine diplomatic inquiries,
  Find from a sort of relation, a good and sensible woman,
  Who is remaining at Rome with a brother too ill for removal,
  That it was wholly unsanctioned, unknown,—not, I think, by Georgina:
  She, however, ere this,—and that is the best of the story,—
  She and the Vernon, thank Heaven, are wedded and gone—honey-mooning.
  So—on Montorio's height for a last farewell of the city.
  Tibur I have not seen, nor the lakes that of old I had dreamt of;
  Tibur I shall not see, nor Anio's waters, nor deep en-
  Folded in Sabine recesses the valley and villa of Horace;
  Tibur I shall not see;—but something better I shall see.
    Twice I have tried before, and failed in getting the horses;
  Twice I have tried and failed: this time it shall not be a failure.
 

* * * * *

 
  Therefore farewell, ye hills, and ye, ye envineyarded ruins!
    Therefore farewell, ye walls, palaces, pillars, and domes!
  Therefore farewell, far seen, ye peaks of the mythic Albano,
    Seen from Montorio's height, Tibur and Aesula's hills!
  Ah, could we once, ere we go, could we stand, while, to ocean
       descending,
    Sinks o'er the yellow dark plain slowly the yellow broad sun,
  Stand, from the forest emerging at sunset, at once in the champaign,
    Open, but studded with trees, chestnuts umbrageous and old,
  E'en in those fair open fields that incurve to thy beautiful hollow,
    Nemi, imbedded in wood, Nemi, inurned in the hill!—
  Therefore farewell, ye plains, and ye hills, and the City Eternal!
    Therefore farewell! We depart, but to behold you again!
 

[To be continued.]

THE CATACOMBS OF ROME.
[Continued.]

 
  Vix fama nota est, abditis
  Quam plena sancti Roma sit;
  Quam dives urbanum solum
  Sacris sepulchris floreat.
 

                           PRUDENTIUS.

 
  Mille victoriose chiare palme.
 

                           PETRARCH.

II

The results of the investigations in the catacombs during the last three or four years have well rewarded the zeal of their explorers. Since the great work of the French government was published, in 1851-55, very curious and important discoveries have been made, and many new minor facts brought to light. The interest in the investigations has become more general, and no visit to Rome is now complete without a visit to one at least of the catacombs. Strangely enough, however, the Romans themselves, for the most part, feel less concern in these new revelations of their underground city than the strangers who come from year to year to make their pilgrimages to Rome. It is an old complaint, that the Romans care little for their city. "Who are there to-day," says Petrarch, in one of his letters, "more ignorant of Roman things than the Roman citizens? And nowhere is Rome less known than in Rome itself." It is, however, to the Cavaliere de Rossi, himself a Roman, that the most important of these discoveries are due,—the result of his marvellous learning and sagacity, and of his hard-working and unwearied energy. The discovery of the ancient entrance to the Catacombs of St. Callixtus, and of the chapel within, where St. Cecilia was originally buried, is a piece of the very romance of Archaeology. The whole history of St. Cecilia, the glorious Virgin Martyr and the Saint of Music, as connected with the catacombs, is, indeed, one of the most curious to be found in the annals of the Church. Legend and fact are strangely mingled in it, and over it hangs a perplexing mist of doubt, but not so dense as wholly to conceal all certainty. It is a story of suffering, of piety, of enthusiasm, of superstition, and of science;—it connects itself in many points with the progress of corruption in the Church, and it has been a favorite subject for Art in all ages. The story is at last finished. Begun sixteen hundred years ago, it has just reached its last chapter. In order to understand it, we must go back almost to its introduction.

According to the legend of the Roman Church, as preserved in the "Acts of St. Cecilia," this young and beautiful saint was martyred in the year of our Lord 230.³ She had devoted herself to perpetual virginity, but her parents had insisted upon marrying her to a youthful and noble Roman, named Valerian. On the night of her marriage, she succeeded in so far prevailing upon her husband as to induce him to visit the pope, Urban, who was lying concealed from his persecutors in the catacombs which were called after and still bear the name of his predecessor, Callixtus,⁴ on the Appian Way, about two miles from the present walls of the city. The young man was converted to the Christian faith. The next day witnessed the conversion of his brother, Tiburtius. Their lives soon gave evidence of the change in their religion; they were brought before the prefect, and, refusing to sacrifice to the heathen gods, were condemned to death. Maximus, an officer of the prefect, was converted by the young men on the way to execution. They suffered death with constancy, and Maximus soon underwent the same fate. Nor was Cecilia long spared. The prefect ordered that she should be put to death in her own house, by being stifled in the caldarium, or hot-air chamber of her baths. The order was obeyed, and Cecilia entered the place of death; but a heavenly air and cooling dews filled the chamber, and the fire built up around it produced no effect. For a whole day and night the flames were kept up, but the Saint was unharmed. Then Almachius sent an order that she should be beheaded. The executioner struck her neck three times with his sword, and left her bleeding, but not dead, upon the pavement of the bathroom. For three days she lived, attended by faithful friends, whose hearts were cheered by her courageous constancy; "for she did not cease to comfort those whom she had nurtured in the faith of the Lord, and divided among them everything which she had." To Pope Urban, who visited her as she lay dying, she left in charge the poor whom she had cared for, and her house, that it might be consecrated as a church. With this her life ended.⁵ Her wasted body was reverently lifted, its position undisturbed, and laid in the attitude and clothing of life within a coffin of cypress-wood. The linen cloths with which the blood of the Martyr had been soaked up were placed at her feet, with that care that no precious drop should be lost,—a care, of which many evidences are afforded in the catacombs. In the night, the coffin was carried out of the city secretly to the Cemetery of Callixtus, and there deposited by Urban in a grave near to a chamber destined for the graves of the popes themselves. Here the "Acts of St. Cecilia" close, and, leaving her pure body to repose for centuries in its tomb hollowed out of the rock, we trace the history of the catacombs during those centuries in other sources and by other ways.

The consequences of the conversion of Constantine exhibited themselves not more in the internal character and spirit of the Church than in its outward forms and arrangements. The period of worldly prosperity succeeded speedily to a period of severest suffering, and many who had been exposed to the persecution of Diocletian now rejoiced in the imperial favor shown to their religion. Such contrasts in life are not favorable to the growth of the finer spiritual qualities; and the sunshine of state and court is not that which is needed for quickening faith or developing simplicity and purity of heart. Churches above ground could now be frequented without risk, and were the means by which the wealth and the piety of Christians were to be displayed. The newly imperialized religion must have its imperial temples, and the little dark chapels of the catacombs were exchanged for the vast and ornamental spaces of the new basilicas. It was no longer needful that the dead should be laid in the secret paths of the rock, and the luxury of magnificent Christian tombs began to rival that of the sepulchres of the earlier Romans. The body of St. Peter, which had long, according to popular tradition, rested in the catacombs of the Vatican, was now transferred to the great basilica which Constantine, despoiling for the purpose the tomb of Hadrian of its marbles, erected over the entrance to the underground cemetery. So, too, the Basilica of St. Paul, on the way to Ostia, was built over his old grave; and the Catacombs of St. Agnes were marked by a beautiful church in honor of the Saint, built in part beneath the soil, that its pavement might be on a level with the upper story of the catacombs and the faithful might enter them from the church.

The older catacombs, whose narrow graves had been filled during the last quarter of the third century with the bodies of many new martyrs, were now less used for the purposes of burial, and more for those of worship. New chapels were hollowed out in their walls; new paintings adorned the brown rock; the bodies of martyrs were often removed from their original graves to new and more elaborate tombs; the entrances to the cemeteries were no longer concealed, but new and ampler ones were made; new stairways, lined with marble, led down to the streets beneath; luminaria, or passages for light and air, were opened from the surface of the ground to the most frequented places; and at almost every entrance a church or an oratory of more or less size was built, for the shelter of those who might assemble to go down into the catacombs, and for the performance of the sacred services upon ground hallowed by so many sacred memories. The worship of the saints began to take form, at first, in simple, natural, and pious ways, in the fourth century; and as it grew stronger and stronger with the continually increasing predominance of the material element in the Roman Church, so the catacombs, the burial-places of the saints, were more and more visited by those who desired the protection or the intercession of their occupants. St. Jerome, who was born about this time in Rome, [A.D. 331,] has a curious passage concerning his own experiences in the catacombs. He says: "When I was a boy at Rome, being instructed in liberal studies, I was accustomed, with others of the same age and disposition, to go on Sundays to the tombs of the apostles and martyrs, and often to go into the crypts, which, being dug out in the depths of the earth, have for walls, on either side of those who enter, the bodies of the buried; and they are so dark, that the saying of the prophet seems almost fulfilled, The living descend into hell." But as the chapels and sacred tombs in the catacombs became thus more and more resorted to as places for worship, the number of burials within them was continually growing less,—and the change in the spirit of the religion was marked by the change of character in the paintings and inscriptions on their walls. By the middle of the fifth century the extension of the catacombs had ceased, and nearly about the same time the assemblies in them fell off. The desolation of the Campagna had already begun; Rome had sunk rapidly; and the churches and burial-places within the walls afforded all the space that was needed for the assemblies of the living or the dead.

When the Goths descended upon Italy, ravaging the country as they passed over it, and sat down before Rome, not content with stripping the land, they forced their way into the catacombs, searching for treasure, and seeking also, it seems likely, for the bodies of the martyrs, whom their imperfect creed did not prevent them from honoring. After they retired, in the short breathing-space that was given to the unhappy city, various popes undertook to do something to restore the catacombs,⁶—and one of them, John III., [A.D. 560-574,] ordered that service should be performed at certain underground shrines, and that candles and all else needful for this purpose should be furnished from the Basilica of St. John Lateran. Just at the close of the sixth century, Gregory the Great [590-604] again appointed stations in the catacombs at which service should be held on special days in the course of the year, and a curious illustration of the veneration in which the relics of the saints were then held is afforded by a gift which he sent to Theodelinda, queen of the Lombards. At this time the Lombards were laying all Italy waste. Their Arian zeal ranged them in religious hate against the Roman Church,—but Theodelinda was an orthodox believer, and through her Gregory hoped to secure the conversion of her husband and his subjects. It was to her that he addressed his famous Dialogues, filled with the most marvellous stories of holy men and the strangest notions of religion. Wishing to satisfy her pious desires, and to make her a very precious gift, he sent to her many phials of oil taken from the lamps that were kept burning at the shrines of the martyrs in the catacombs. It was the custom of those who visited these shrines to dip handkerchiefs, or other bits of cloth, in the reservoirs of oil, to which a sacred virtue was supposed to be imparted by the neighborhood of the saints; and even now may often be seen the places where the lamps were kept lighted.⁷

But although the memory of those who had been buried within them was thus preserved, the catacombs themselves and the churches at their entrances were falling more and more into decay. Shortly after Gregory's death, Pope Boniface IV. illustrated his otherwise obscure pontificate by seeking from the mean and dissolute Emperor Phocas the gift of the Pantheon for the purpose of consecrating it for a Christian church. The glorious temple of all the gods was now dedicated [A.D. 608, Sept. 15] to those who had displaced them, the Virgin and all the Martyrs. Its new name was S. Maria ad Martyres,—and in order to sanctify its precincts, the Pope brought into the city and placed under the altars of his new church twenty-eight wagon-loads of bones, collected from the different catacombs, and said to be those of martyrs. This is the first notice that has been preserved of the practice that became very general in later times of transferring bodies and bones from their graves in the rock to new ones under the city churches.

Little more is known of the history of the catacombs during the next two centuries, but that for them it was a period of desolation and desertion. The Lombard hordes often ravaged and devastated the Campagna up to the very gates of the city, and descended into the underground passages of the cemeteries in search of treasure, of relics, and of shelter. Paul III., about the middle of the eighth century, took many bones and much ashes from graves yet unrifled, and distributed them to the churches. He has left a record of the motives that led him to disturb dust that had rested so long in quiet. "In the lapse of centuries," he says, "many cemeteries of the holy martyrs and confessors of Christ have been neglected and fallen to decay. The impious Lombards utterly ruined them,—and now among the faithful themselves the old piety has been replaced by negligence, which has gone so far that even animals have been allowed to enter them, and cattle have been stalled within them." Still, although thus desecrated, the graves of the martyrs continued to be an object of interest to the pilgrims, who, even in these dangerous times, from year to year came to visit the holy places of Rome; and itineraries, describing the localities of the catacombs and of the noted tombs within them, prepared for the guidance of such pilgrims, not later than the beginning of the ninth century, have been preserved to us, and have afforded essential and most important assistance in the recent investigations.⁸

About the same time, Pope Paschal I. [A.D. 817-824] greatly interested himself in searching in the catacombs for such bodies of the saints as might yet remain in them, and in transferring these relics to churches and monasteries within the city. A contemporary inscription, still preserved in the crypt of the ancient church of St. Prassede, (a church which all lovers of Roman legend and art take delight in,) tells of the two thousand three hundred martyrs whose remains Paschal had placed beneath its altars. Nor was this the only church so richly endowed. One day, in the year 821, Paschal was praying in the church that stood on the site of the house in which St. Cecilia had suffered martyrdom, and which was dedicated to her honor. It was now one of the oldest churches in Rome. Two centuries before, Gregory the Great, St. Gregory, had restored it,—for it even then stood in need of repairs, and now it was in greater need than ever. Paschal determined, while praying, that he would rebuild it from its foundations; but with this determination came the desire to find the body of the Saint, that her new church might not want its most precious possession. It was reported that the Lombards had sought for it and carried it away, and the knowledge of the exact place of the grave, even, was lost. But Paschal entered vigorously on the search. He knew that she had been buried in the Cemetery of St. Callixtus, and tradition declared that her sepulchre had been made near the Chamber of the Popes. There he sought, but his seeking was vain.

On a certain day, however,—and here he begins his own story,—in the Church of St. Peter, as he sat listening to the harmony of the morning service, drowsiness overcame him, and he fell asleep.⁹ As he was sleeping, a very beautiful maiden of virginal aspect, and in a rich dress, stood before him, and, looking at him, said,—"We return thee many thanks; but why without cause, trusting to false reports, hast thou given up the search for me? Thou hast been so near me that we might have spoken together."

The Pope, as if hurt by her rebuke, and doubtful of his vision, then asked the name of her who thus addressed him.

"If thou seekest my name," she said, "I am called Cecilia, the handmaiden of Christ."

"How can I believe this," replied the sleeping Pope, "since it was long ago reported that the body of this most holy martyr was carried away by the Lombards?"

The Saint then told him that till this time her body had remained concealed; but that now he must continue his search, for it pleased God to reveal it to him; and near her body he would also find other bodies of saints to be placed with hers in her new-built church. And saying this, she departed.

Hereupon a new search was begun, and shortly after, "by the favor of God, we found her in golden garments, and the cloths with which her sacred blood had been wiped from her wounds we found rolled up and full of blood at the feet of the blessed virgin."

At the same time, the bodies of Valerian, Tiburtius, and Maximus were found in a neighboring cemetery, and, together with the relics of Pope Urban,—as well as the body of St. Cecilia,—were placed under the high altar of her church.¹⁰ The cypress coffin in which she had been reverently laid at the time of her death was preserved and set within a marble sarcophagus. No expense was spared by the devout Paschal to adorn the church that had been so signally favored. All the Art of the time (and at that time the arts flourished only in the service of the Church) was called upon to assist in making the new basilica magnificent. The mosaics which were set up to adorn the apse and the arch of triumph were among the best works of the century, and, with colors still brilliant and design still unimpaired, they hold their place at the present day, and carry back the thought and the imagination of the beholder a thousand years into the very heart of this old story. Under the great mosaic of the apse one may still read the inscription, in the rude Latin of the century, which tells of Paschal's zeal and Rome's joy, closing with the line,

"Roma resultat ovans semper ornata per aevum."

And thus once more the body of the virgin was left to repose in peace, once more the devout could offer their prayers to the Saint at the altar consecrated by her presence, and once more the superstitious could increase the number of the miracles wrought by her favor. Through the long period of the fall and depression of Rome, her church continued to be a favorite one with the people of the city, and with the pilgrims to it. From time to time it was repaired and adorned, and in the thirteenth century the walls of its portico were covered with a series of frescoes, representing the events of St. Cecilia's life, and the finding of her body by Paschal. These frescoes—precious as specimens of reawakening Art, and especially precious at Rome, because of the little that was done there at that period—were all, save one, long since destroyed in some "restoration" of the church. The one that was preserved is now within the church, and represents in its two divisions the burial of the Saint by Pope Urban, and her appearance in St. Peter's Church to the sleeping Paschal, whose figure is rendered with amusing naïveté and literalness.

Meanwhile, after the translation of St. Cecilia's body, the catacombs remained much in the same neglected state as before, falling more and more into ruin, but still visited from year to year by the pilgrims, whom even pillage and danger could not keep from Rome. For two centuries,—from the thirteenth to the fifteenth,—scarcely any mention of them is to be found. Petrarch, in his many letters about Rome, dwells often on the sacredness of the soil within the city, in whose crypts and churches so many saints and martyrs lie buried, but hardly refers to the catacombs themselves, and never in such a way as to show that they were an object of interest to him, though a lover of all Roman relics and a faithful worshipper of the saints. It was near the end of the sixteenth century that a happy accident—the falling in of the road outside the Porta Salara—brought to light the streets of the Cemetery of St. Priscilla, and awakened in Antonio Bosio a zeal for the exploration of the catacombs which led him to devote the remainder of his long life to the pursuit, and by study, investigation, and observation, to lay the solid basis of the thorough and comprehensive acquaintance with subterranean Rome which has been extended by the researches of a long line of able scholars down to the present day. But to Bosio the chief honor is due, as the earliest, the most exact, and the most indefatigable of the explorers.