A young priest who lately returned from studying for three years at the American College in Rome, was telling me the other day what delightful recollections he had brought away with him, of the cheery home-like atmosphere of the college—of the wisdom and kindness of the Superior and his aides, and of all the merry larks that the American boys indulged in when study hours were over. A frequent visitor there was Cardinal Merry del Val, the most boyish-hearted of ecclesiastics; he took the greatest interest in their baseball contests, which he used to watch closely to learn the rules of the game.
The Cardinal’s father was the Spanish ambassador to the Pope for many years, and the Countess was a friend of my own dear mother, who admired her enthusiastically. She was a highly cultivated and most holy woman, combining all the dignity of the old-time great lady with the gentle urbanity of a Religious; indeed, when she and her young daughters entered a room they seemed to bring with them that ineffable convent fragrance, sweet as the message of hidden violets, which one scarcely looks to meet in the outside world. Their home was in the Spanish palace, from which the Piazza di Spagna takes its name, standing just opposite the splendid sweep of the “Spanish Steps,” which mount in broad gradations to their crown, the towering Church of the Trinità dei Monti.
But I was talking of a warm spring morning, and that ascent should be made in the cooler hours. It is pleasanter just now to linger under some awning near the end of the Corso, and, looking down across the sun-smitten expanse of the Piazza del Popolo to the gate of that name, to muse on the processions which have passed through that northern portal of the city. There is one picture that returns oftener than others to my mind when I look at it, the picture of Theodosius, the great Emperor, entering the city in state, with his little son, Honorius, on his knee, and his co-emperor, the younger Valentinian, by his side. Rome, like some aged and neglected parent, was seldom visited by her Emperors in those days; their headquarters were fixed where great events were stirring—in Constantinople, in Ravenna, in Milan, or Treves. So the 13th of June, 309 A.D., marked an event long remembered by the Romans, the hour when they looked upon their rulers’ faces for the first time. There was but one real ruler just then, however; his younger colleague and his little son were merely being trained to take their places when he should be no more. The cheering crowds were carried away by the sight of the princely child, as crowds always are, but some of the more thoughtful must have gazed—not too confidently—on the face of Theodosius, the strong, dark, capable Spaniard, so just and merciful in his calm moments, so violent in his angry ones that only his beloved adopted daughter, Serena, dared approach him then. And, whether calm or angry, there was one memory that seems never to have left him, the memory of his brave, loyal soldier father, ignominiously put to death by the Roman Emperor whom he had faithfully served—on a charge so futile that it was not even mentioned in the order for his execution.