The Innocents Abroad

Chapter 27

So far, good. If any man has a right to feel proud of himself, and

satisfied, surely it is I. For I have written about the Coliseum, and

the gladiators, the martyrs, and the lions, and yet have never once used

the phrase "butchered to make a Roman holiday." I am the only free white

man of mature age, who has accomplished this since Byron originated the

expression.

Butchered to make a Roman holiday sounds well for the first seventeen or

eighteen hundred thousand times one sees it in print, but after that it

begins to grow tiresome. I find it in all the books concerning Rome--and

here latterly it reminds me of Judge Oliver. Oliver was a young lawyer,

fresh from the schools, who had gone out to the deserts of Nevada to

begin life. He found that country, and our ways of life, there, in those

early days, different from life in New England or Paris. But he put on a

woollen shirt and strapped a navy revolver to his person, took to the

bacon and beans of the country, and determined to do in Nevada as Nevada

did. Oliver accepted the situation so completely that although he must

have sorrowed over many of his trials, he never complained--that is, he

never complained but once. He, two others, and myself, started to the

new silver mines in the Humboldt mountains--he to be Probate Judge of

Humboldt county, and we to mine. The distance was two hundred miles. It

was dead of winter. We bought a two-horse wagon and put eighteen hundred

pounds of bacon, flour, beans, blasting-powder, picks and shovels in it;

we bought two sorry-looking Mexican "plugs," with the hair turned the

wrong way and more corners on their bodies than there are on the mosque

of Omar; we hitched up and started. It was a dreadful trip. But Oliver

did not complain. The horses dragged the wagon two miles from town and

then gave out. Then we three pushed the wagon seven miles, and Oliver

moved ahead and pulled the horses after him by the bits. We complained,

but Oliver did not. The ground was frozen, and it froze our backs while

we slept; the wind swept across our faces and froze our noses. Oliver

did not complain. Five days of pushing the wagon by day and freezing by

night brought us to the bad part of the journey--the Forty Mile Desert,

or the Great American Desert, if you please. Still, this

mildest-mannered man that ever was, had not complained. We started across

at eight in the morning, pushing through sand that had no bottom; toiling

all day long by the wrecks of a thousand wagons, the skeletons of ten

thousand oxen; by wagon-tires enough to hoop the Washington Monument to

the top, and ox-chains enough to girdle Long Island; by human graves;

with our throats parched always, with thirst; lips bleeding from the

alkali dust; hungry, perspiring, and very, very weary--so weary that when

we dropped in the sand every fifty yards to rest the horses, we could

hardly keep from going to sleep--no complaints from Oliver: none the next

morning at three o'clock, when we got across, tired to death.

Awakened two or three nights afterward at midnight, in a narrow canon, by

the snow falling on our faces, and appalled at the imminent danger of

being "snowed in," we harnessed up and pushed on till eight in the

morning, passed the "Divide" and knew we were saved. No complaints.

Fifteen days of hardship and fatigue brought us to the end of the two

hundred miles, and the Judge had not complained. We wondered if any

thing could exasperate him. We built a Humboldt house. It is done in

this way. You dig a square in the steep base of the mountain, and set up

two uprights and top them with two joists. Then you stretch a great

sheet of "cotton domestic" from the point where the joists join the

hill-side down over the joists to the ground; this makes the roof and the

front of the mansion; the sides and back are the dirt walls your digging

has left. A chimney is easily made by turning up one corner of the roof.

Oliver was sitting alone in this dismal den, one night, by a sage-brush

fire, writing poetry; he was very fond of digging poetry out of himself

--or blasting it out when it came hard. He heard an animal's footsteps

close to the roof; a stone or two and some dirt came through and fell by

him. He grew uneasy and said "Hi!--clear out from there, can't you!"

--from time to time. But by and by he fell asleep where he sat, and pretty

soon a mule fell down the chimney! The fire flew in every direction, and

Oliver went over backwards. About ten nights after that, he recovered

confidence enough to go to writing poetry again. Again he dozed off to

sleep, and again a mule fell down the chimney. This time, about half of

that side of the house came in with the mule. Struggling to get up, the

mule kicked the candle out and smashed most of the kitchen furniture, and

raised considerable dust. These violent awakenings must have been

annoying to Oliver, but he never complained. He moved to a mansion on

the opposite side of the canon, because he had noticed the mules did not

go there. One night about eight o'clock he was endeavoring to finish his

poem, when a stone rolled in--then a hoof appeared below the canvas--then

part of a cow--the after part. He leaned back in dread, and shouted

"Hooy! hooy! get out of this!" and the cow struggled manfully--lost

ground steadily--dirt and dust streamed down, and before Oliver could get

well away, the entire cow crashed through on to the table and made a

shapeless wreck of every thing!

Then, for the first time in his life, I think, Oliver complained. He

said,

"This thing is growing monotonous!"

Then he resigned his judgeship and left Humboldt county. "Butchered to

make a Roman holyday" has grown monotonous to me.

In this connection I wish to say one word about Michael Angelo

Buonarotti. I used to worship the mighty genius of Michael Angelo--that

man who was great in poetry, painting, sculpture, architecture--great in

every thing he undertook. But I do not want Michael Angelo for

breakfast--for luncheon--for dinner--for tea--for supper--for between

meals. I like a change, occasionally. In Genoa, he designed every

thing; in Milan he or his pupils designed every thing; he designed the

Lake of Como; in Padua, Verona, Venice, Bologna, who did we ever hear of,

from guides, but Michael Angelo? In Florence, he painted every thing,

designed every thing, nearly, and what he did not design he used to sit

on a favorite stone and look at, and they showed us the stone. In Pisa

he designed every thing but the old shot-tower, and they would have

attributed that to him if it had not been so awfully out of the

perpendicular. He designed the piers of Leghorn and the custom house

regulations of Civita Vecchia. But, here--here it is frightful. He

designed St. Peter's; he designed the Pope; he designed the Pantheon, the

uniform of the Pope's soldiers, the Tiber, the Vatican, the Coliseum, the

Capitol, the Tarpeian Rock, the Barberini Palace, St. John Lateran, the

Campagna, the Appian Way, the Seven Hills, the Baths of Caracalla, the

Claudian Aqueduct, the Cloaca Maxima--the eternal bore designed the

Eternal City, and unless all men and books do lie, he painted every thing

in it! Dan said the other day to the guide, "Enough, enough, enough!

Say no more! Lump the whole thing! say that the Creator made Italy from

designs by Michael Angelo!"

I never felt so fervently thankful, so soothed, so tranquil, so filled

with a blessed peace, as I did yesterday when I learned that Michael

Angelo was dead.

But we have taken it out of this guide. He has marched us through miles

of pictures and sculpture in the vast corridors of the Vatican; and

through miles of pictures and sculpture in twenty other palaces; he has

shown us the great picture in the Sistine Chapel, and frescoes enough to

frescoe the heavens--pretty much all done by Michael Angelo. So with him

we have played that game which has vanquished so many guides for us

--imbecility and idiotic questions. These creatures never suspect--they

have no idea of a sarcasm.

He shows us a figure and says: "Statoo brunzo." (Bronze statue.)

We look at it indifferently and the doctor asks: "By Michael Angelo?"

"No--not know who."

Then he shows us the ancient Roman Forum. The doctor asks: "Michael

Angelo?"

A stare from the guide. "No--thousan' year before he is born."

Then an Egyptian obelisk. Again: "Michael Angelo?"

"Oh, mon dieu, genteelmen! Zis is two thousan' year before he is born!"

He grows so tired of that unceasing question sometimes, that he dreads to

show us any thing at all. The wretch has tried all the ways he can think

of to make us comprehend that Michael Angelo is only responsible for the

creation of a part of the world, but somehow he has not succeeded yet.

Relief for overtasked eyes and brain from study and sightseeing is

necessary, or we shall become idiotic sure enough. Therefore this guide

must continue to suffer. If he does not enjoy it, so much the worse for

him. We do.

In this place I may as well jot down a chapter concerning those necessary

nuisances, European guides. Many a man has wished in his heart he could

do without his guide; but knowing he could not, has wished he could get

some amusement out of him as a remuneration for the affliction of his

society. We accomplished this latter matter, and if our experience can

be made useful to others they are welcome to it.

Guides know about enough English to tangle every thing up so that a man

can make neither head or tail of it. They know their story by heart--the

history of every statue, painting, cathedral or other wonder they show

you. They know it and tell it as a parrot would--and if you interrupt,

and throw them off the track, they have to go back and begin over again.

All their lives long, they are employed in showing strange things to

foreigners and listening to their bursts of admiration. It is human

nature to take delight in exciting admiration. It is what prompts

children to say "smart" things, and do absurd ones, and in other ways

"show off" when company is present. It is what makes gossips turn out in

rain and storm to go and be the first to tell a startling bit of news.

Think, then, what a passion it becomes with a guide, whose privilege it

is, every day, to show to strangers wonders that throw them into perfect

ecstasies of admiration! He gets so that he could not by any possibility

live in a soberer atmosphere. After we discovered this, we never went

into ecstasies any more--we never admired any thing--we never showed any

but impassible faces and stupid indifference in the presence of the

sublimest wonders a guide had to display. We had found their weak point.

We have made good use of it ever since. We have made some of those

people savage, at times, but we have never lost our own serenity.

The doctor asks the questions, generally, because he can keep his

countenance, and look more like an inspired i***t, and throw more

imbecility into the tone of his voice than any man that lives. It comes

natural to him.

The guides in Genoa are delighted to secure an American party, because

Americans so much wonder, and deal so much in sentiment and emotion

before any relic of Columbus. Our guide there fidgeted about as if he

had swallowed a spring mattress. He was full of animation--full of

impatience. He said:

"Come wis me, genteelmen!--come! I show you ze letter writing by

Christopher Colombo!--write it himself!--write it wis his own hand!

--come!"

He took us to the municipal palace. After much impressive fumbling of

keys and opening of locks, the stained and aged document was spread

before us. The guide's eyes sparkled. He danced about us and tapped the

parchment with his finger:

"What I tell you, genteelmen! Is it not so? See! handwriting

Christopher Colombo!--write it himself!"

We looked indifferent--unconcerned. The doctor examined the document

very deliberately, during a painful pause.--Then he said, without any

show of interest:

"Ah--Ferguson--what--what did you say was the name of the party who wrote

this?"

"Christopher Colombo! ze great Christopher Colombo!"

Another deliberate examination.

"Ah--did he write it himself; or--or how?"

"He write it himself!--Christopher Colombo! He's own hand-writing, write

by himself!"

Then the doctor laid the document down and said:

"Why, I have seen boys in America only fourteen years old that could

write better than that."

"But zis is ze great Christo--"

"I don't care who it is! It's the worst writing I ever saw. Now you

musn't think you can impose on us because we are strangers. We are not

fools, by a good deal. If you have got any specimens of penmanship of

real merit, trot them out!--and if you haven't, drive on!"

We drove on. The guide was considerably shaken up, but he made one more

venture. He had something which he thought would overcome us. He said:

"Ah, genteelmen, you come wis me! I show you beautiful, O, magnificent

bust Christopher Colombo!--splendid, grand, magnificent!"

He brought us before the beautiful bust--for it was beautiful--and sprang

back and struck an attitude:

"Ah, look, genteelmen!--beautiful, grand,--bust Christopher Colombo!

--beautiful bust, beautiful pedestal!"

The doctor put up his eye-glass--procured for such occasions:

"Ah--what did you say this gentleman's name was?"

"Christopher Colombo!--ze great Christopher Colombo!"

"Christopher Colombo--the great Christopher Colombo. Well, what did he

do?"

"Discover America!--discover America, Oh, ze devil!"

"Discover America. No--that statement will hardly wash. We are just

from America ourselves. We heard nothing about it. Christopher Colombo

--pleasant name--is--is he dead?"

"Oh, corpo di Baccho!--three hundred year!"

"What did he die of?"

"I do not know!--I can not tell."

"Small-pox, think?"

"I do not know, genteelmen!--I do not know what he die of!"

"Measles, likely?"

"May be--may be--I do not know--I think he die of somethings."

"Parents living?"

"Im-poseeeble!"

"Ah--which is the bust and which is the pedestal?"

"Santa Maria!--zis ze bust!--zis ze pedestal!"

"Ah, I see, I see--happy combination--very happy combination, indeed.

Is--is this the first time this gentleman was ever on a bust?"

That joke was lost on the foreigner--guides can not master the subtleties

of the American joke.

We have made it interesting for this Roman guide. Yesterday we spent

three or four hours in the Vatican, again, that wonderful world of

curiosities. We came very near expressing interest, sometimes--even

admiration--it was very hard to keep from it. We succeeded though.

Nobody else ever did, in the Vatican museums. The guide was bewildered

--non-plussed. He walked his legs off, nearly, hunting up extraordinary

things, and exhausted all his ingenuity on us, but it was a failure; we

never showed any interest in any thing. He had reserved what he

considered to be his greatest wonder till the last--a royal Egyptian

mummy, the best preserved in the world, perhaps. He took us there. He

felt so sure, this time, that some of his old enthusiasm came back to

him:

"See, genteelmen!--Mummy! Mummy!"

The eye-glass came up as calmly, as deliberately as ever.

"Ah,--Ferguson--what did I understand you to say the gentleman's name

was?"

"Name?--he got no name!--Mummy!--'Gyptian mummy!"

"Yes, yes. Born here?"

"No! 'Gyptian mummy!"

"Ah, just so. Frenchman, I presume?"

"No!--not Frenchman, not Roman!--born in Egypta!"

"Born in Egypta. Never heard of Egypta before. Foreign locality,

likely. Mummy--mummy. How calm he is--how self-possessed. Is, ah--is

he dead?"

"Oh, sacre bleu, been dead three thousan' year!"

The doctor turned on him savagely:

"Here, now, what do you mean by such conduct as this! Playing us for

Chinamen because we are strangers and trying to learn! Trying to impose

your vile second-hand carcasses on us!--thunder and lightning, I've a

notion to--to--if you've got a nice fresh corpse, fetch him out!--or by

George we'll brain you!"

We make it exceedingly interesting for this Frenchman. However, he has

paid us back, partly, without knowing it. He came to the hotel this

morning to ask if we were up, and he endeavored as well as he could to

describe us, so that the landlord would know which persons he meant. He

finished with the casual remark that we were lunatics. The observation

was so innocent and so honest that it amounted to a very good thing for a

guide to say.

There is one remark (already mentioned,) which never yet has failed to

disgust these guides. We use it always, when we can think of nothing

else to say. After they have exhausted their enthusiasm pointing out

to us and praising the beauties of some ancient bronze image or

broken-legged statue, we look at it stupidly and in silence for five,

ten, fifteen minutes--as long as we can hold out, in fact--and then ask:

"Is--is he dead?"

That conquers the serenest of them. It is not what they are looking for

--especially a new guide. Our Roman Ferguson is the most patient,

unsuspecting, long-suffering subject we have had yet. We shall be sorry

to part with him. We have enjoyed his society very much. We trust he

has enjoyed ours, but we are harassed with doubts.

We have been in the catacombs. It was like going down into a very deep

cellar, only it was a cellar which had no end to it. The narrow passages

are roughly hewn in the rock, and on each hand as you pass along, the

hollowed shelves are carved out, from three to fourteen deep; each held a

corpse once. There are names, and Christian symbols, and prayers, or

sentences expressive of Christian hopes, carved upon nearly every

sarcophagus. The dates belong away back in the dawn of the Christian

era, of course. Here, in these holes in the ground, the first Christians

sometimes burrowed to escape persecution. They crawled out at night to

get food, but remained under cover in the day time. The priest told us

that St. Sebastian lived under ground for some time while he was being

hunted; he went out one day, and the soldiery discovered and shot him to

death with arrows. Five or six of the early Popes--those who reigned

about sixteen hundred years ago--held their papal courts and advised with

their clergy in the bowels of the earth. During seventeen years--from

A.D. 235 to A.D. 252--the Popes did not appear above ground. Four were

raised to the great office during that period. Four years apiece, or

thereabouts. It is very suggestive of the unhealthiness of underground

graveyards as places of residence. One Pope afterward spent his entire

pontificate in the catacombs--eight years. Another was discovered in

them and murdered in the episcopal chair. There was no satisfaction in

being a Pope in those days. There were too many annoyances. There are

one hundred and sixty catacombs under Rome, each with its maze of narrow

passages crossing and recrossing each other and each passage walled to

the top with scooped graves its entire length. A careful estimate makes

the length of the passages of all the catacombs combined foot up nine

hundred miles, and their graves number seven millions. We did not go

through all the passages of all the catacombs. We were very anxious to

do it, and made the necessary arrangements, but our too limited time

obliged us to give up the idea. So we only groped through the dismal

labyrinth of St. Callixtus, under the Church of St. Sebastian. In the

various catacombs are small chapels rudely hewn in the stones, and here

the early Christians often held their religious services by dim, ghostly

lights. Think of mass and a sermon away down in those tangled caverns

under ground!

In the catacombs were buried St. Cecilia, St. Agnes, and several other of

the most celebrated of the saints. In the catacomb of St. Callixtus, St.

Bridget used to remain long hours in holy contemplation, and St. Charles

Borromeo was wont to spend whole nights in prayer there. It was also the

scene of a very marvelous thing.