Part 11

A ludicrous occurrence to myself took place at one of the masquerades in the theatre mentioned. The families that occupy the lower tier of boxes are commonly of the middle classes, as the floor is so high as to destroy every thing like retirement in them. The masks pass them, of course, and stop, at will, to converse with those who are not masked. Passing one of these boxes, I was struck with the singular beauty of a girl of about seventeen. Her costume was exceedingly pretty, and her face the very _beau idéal_ of all that was classical and perfect. I was so much charmed with her appearance, that I went in quest of two or three friends, that they might not lose so rare a sight as a perfect beauty. The admiration was general, and the beauty received our homage with a coy consciousness that served to heighten her charms. At length the party to which she belonged left the box, and made its appearance in the sala. Two of us followed it with a view of getting a nearer sight of the beauty, in order to ascertain whether we could detect any blemish or not. As I was quite near her in the crowd, she spoke, and then, like Slender in the Merry Wives of Windsor, I discovered, by as croaking a voice as ever sang discordantly in the throat of fifteen, that “it was a great lubberly boy!” A classical outline, fine eyes, paint, and dress, had deceived us all. The effect of these masks is such, at times, as to render the legends of Romance less improbable than skeptics fancy.

I have been amused at meeting several of our own people in these scenes who would hesitate about being seen in them in America. One may judge of the amount of freedom in private actions, in the land of steady habits, in particular, by watching the course of its children when out of it. A boyish freak came over W——, an evening or two since, on observing a clergyman of New England standing in the midst of the dancers and masks, and he resolved to trot him. He went up and told the parson, in broken English, that there was a person there who was looking for him in every direction, and, if he was willing, he, W——, would conduct him to the place where the other might be found. The parson consented, with a good face, and he was forthwith led up to and introduced to the most conspicuous devil of the evening. The priest took the thing good-naturedly, and W—— left him with his regular enemy, to battle the matter as best he might. I do not mention this circumstance with a view to censure this gentleman for being at a masquerade, but simply to contrast it with what is done at home. Cant never yet aided true religion, or protected morals, but, like the supervision of meddlers, it is certain to make hypocrites—the most odious of all sinners. This parson was a liberal at home; a fact that is infinitely to his credit.

I have been struck with the singular beauty of the women who appeared in the streets of Rome during the last week of the Carnival. Most of them are of the middling classes; but, as they appear in open daylight, there cannot be much deception about them. They have all the delicacy of American women, with better busts and shoulders, and are by no means wanting in colour. Their appearance is also singularly feminine and modest.

Certainly, in no place in which I have yet been are the gaieties of the Carnival conducted with so much spirit as here. The young strangers join in the fun with as much gusto as the natives, and it is impossible not to laugh at the follies that are committed. A usage that is peculiar to the Romans, consists in pelting each other with an imitation of sugar-plums. The gravest men may be seen passing in their carriages, and suddenly jumping up and casting a handful of these small shot into each other’s faces. Not satisfied with this, a sort of artillery has been invented, by which they may be thrown with so much accuracy and force as to render a volley annoying. The young English here have appeared in cars made to resemble ships, with crews of ten or a dozen, dressed as sailors; and when two of these cruisers get yard-arm and yard-arm,—for the two lines of vehicles pass in different directions,—there are commonly exchanges of vigorous broadsides. Every one that can, engages a room that overlooks the Corso; and the windows and balconies are filled with ladies, who when they are not kissing their hands to their friends below, are busied in powdering them with sugar-plums. Altogether, one is singularly inclined to play the fool; and I feel satisfied that these _fêtes_ contribute to the good-fellowship and kind feelings of a population. The police takes good heed that there shall be no serious horse-play; and some of the sugar-plum artillery even has been suppressed, as likely to lead to more serious contests. Any one who should resent a volley of sugar-plums, when fairly in the field himself, would be deemed a silly and ill-natured churl. It is rumoured here, that a challenge has passed in consequence of some shots; and, although the parties were delicately situated previously, the challenger is generally condemned as an ill-natured fellow who had no business in the streets.

The celebrated races, of which we had several in the last week, resembled those of Florence, though conducted with more spirit. The horses run about a mile, in the midst of a dense crowd, who excite them by shouts and gestures. You know, there are no riders, but leathern thongs are attached to a back-strap, that is secured by a crupper and a girth; and these thongs are loaded with balls of lead which contain short iron spikes, very sharp, that act as spurs, by being thrown about with the motion of the animal. This apparatus _seems_ cruel; but after all, it can be no worse than the armed heel of the jockey, or the lash. It is true, these balls are constantly in motion; but I do not think they inflict very grave wounds.

The race itself is a puerile thing; but there is something terrific in the mode of clearing the street previously to the start. Imagine a straight, narrow street, that is literally crammed with people. A platoon of horse gendarmes appear at one end, and commence clearing the way on a trot. Presently, this trot becomes a gallop; and then these ten or twelve men, riding knee to knee, and uncommonly well, dash through the crowd as fast as their horses can carry them. The people retire before them as water recedes from the bows of a ship in a gale; and, at times, it would seem that escape was impossible. Accidents occasionally happen, but they are rare. I have regarded this as much the finest part of the exhibition.

But the most _amusing_ part of the street scenes of the Carnival is the last act. As the sun sets, every one appears with a light or two. These lights are usually tapers made for the occasion, but sometimes they are torches. Every one is privileged to extinguish his neighbour’s light. Common street-masquers will clamber up on the carriage of a prince, and blow out his taper, which is immediately relighted, as if character depended on its burning. Some clamber up even to the balconies to effect their purpose, and others drop shades from them to extinguish a light. There is something extremely ludicrous in seeing a grave person carefully protecting his taper from an assailant in front, who merely amuses him while an extinguisher on a long stick advances from behind and cautiously descends on the flame. Every one laughs, and the defeated man joins the merriment and relights. This scene is called the _mocheletti_, and it is said to be a remnant of some of the Roman Saturnalia.

The calm of Lent succeeded to the fun and clamour of the Carnival. I ought to have said however, that the people of quality terminate the festivities by meeting in _petits comités_, and supping _gras_. The observances of the Lent have not struck me as being much more rigid than elsewhere, though the religious rites have been more general, and were conducted with greater pomp than is usual even among the Catholics. When Passion Week arrived, however, we saw we were in the centre of Christendom. Palm Sunday was a great day, all the cardinals appearing in the Sistine Chapel, bearing palms. On this occasion, an Englishman, a Mr. Weld, appeared as a cardinal; the first of his nation, I believe, since the death of Cardinal York. This gentleman was a layman, has been married, and has descendants now in this place. He is a man of fortune, and of one of the old English Catholic families.

Several popular errors exist in relation to the rules of the Romish Church. The Canonical orders are precisely the same as our own, being merely those of bishop, priest, and deacon. All above and below these are merely additions, which, it is admitted, have been devised by the Church, for its own convenience, in the way of government; just as the Church of England has created archbishops, archdeacons, deans, vicars, rectors, curates, &c. The Archbishop of Canterbury and the Pope, in a religious sense, are merely bishops. It is not necessary, I believe, that a cardinal should be even in holy orders at all. Most of them are, but I understand the rule is not absolute. I do not know that Mr. Weld has ever been ordained. The functions of a cardinal are properly of a civil nature, though they are intimately connected with the government of the church. They are ecclesiastics and cannot marry; but it is said cardinals have retired, and then married. One or two of these have been named to me.

It is usually, almost invariably the case, that the Pope is taken from the Holy College; but it is not constitutionally necessary. You or I might be elected Pope; but, previously to induction or installation, we should be required to enter the Romish Church by Romish baptism, and then pass through the several orders of deacon, priest, and bishop. The Pope is bishop of Rome in a canonical sense, and, in virtue of that office, head of the Roman Catholic Church. The cardinals are classed among themselves as cardinal bishops, cardinal priests, and cardinal deacons; but this is not their clerical rank. Thus, Cardinal Fesch, who is archbishop of Lyons, appears in the list as only a cardinal priest. Cardinal Albani, the secretary of state, is a cardinal deacon, has no bishopric, and was once married. I presume he is not even in holy orders.

The notion that the Pope must be an Italian is false, of course, there being no constitutional restriction on the choice of the Holy College.

The ceremonies that succeeded those of Palm Sunday have been imposing and rich, and the music of the highest character. But these things have been too often told to find a place in these desultory gleanings. One thing, however, has astonished me: I mean the indecent and pertinacious pushing of strangers. There is a corps of halberdiers here, composed of Swiss. One of these men is of great strength and stature, and I saw the poor fellow in a premature purgatory, endeavouring to keep back the English women, who pressed for admittance into a room that was not ready to receive them. The perspiration rolled from him in streams, and finally he gave up the point in despair. It is necessary to have witnessed such a scene to believe it possible.

Towards the last, we had the Benedictions. There were two of these ceremonies, on one of which the Pope blesses Rome, and on the other, the earth. The latter was very imposing. The ambassadors went in state, as well as all the high nobility; and seats were prepared around the great altar in St. Peter’s. Vast as this edifice is, it was well garnished with human faces; but it will scarcely do to say it was crowded. The Pope appeared among us, borne on men’s shoulders, amid waving plumes, in a chair of gold—that is to say, famously gilt.

The benediction is given from a balcony in the front of the church, and the people are in the area between the colonnades. The space is sufficient for ten times the number that collected. The colonnades, too, are occupied, and in one of them I took my station. Observing a respectable looking black man behind me, curious to know who he could be, I took an occasion to address him in French. He answered me imperfectly; and I tried Italian, but with little better success. Of English he knew nothing; but he threw me into the shade by commencing a conversation in Latin. I was too rusty to do much at this, but I understood enough to discover that he was a Romish priest from Africa—probably connected with the Propaganda. When I told him I was an American, he looked at me with interest, and I thought he was as much astonished at my colour as I could possibly be with his. What a missionary for America!

The ceremony of the benediction, though solemn and grand, is confined to mere gestures, so far as the people beneath are concerned. The voice of the Pope cannot be heard, but his gestures were graceful and pleasing. The Catholics kneeled, but the Protestants did not; to my surprise, for the blessing of no good man is to be despised. There is too much of the “D—n my eyes! change my religion? never,” of the sailor, in us Protestants, who seem often to think there is a merit in intolerance, and irreverence, provided the liberality and respect are to be paid to Catholics. He who comes voluntarily into a Catholic ceremony is bound to pay it suitable deference; and then, God is omnipresent. I never saw any thing wrong in kneeling to the Host; for, while we may not believe in the real presence as to the wafer itself, we are certain that a homage to God himself can never be out of place or out of season. All men would be of the same way of thinking, had not politics become so much mixed up with religion.

If you ask for the general impressions left by these ceremonies, I answer, that these people appear to me to be the only people I know who are perfectly drilled in such things. The vastness of the edifices, the richness of the dresses, the works of art, the music, and the consciousness that one is in the heart of Christendom, serve to heighten the effect; and yet, after all, the soul of worship, it struck me, was sadly wanting. I have seen a decent solemnity in the congregation of our own little Christ’s Church at C——n, that left a deeper impression than all the laboured pageantry of St. Peter’s at Rome: and you know I am not of the class that has no sympathies with another parish. Want of reverence in the manner—the hurried and undignified mode in which the Romish offices are usually performed, and the obvious fact that the audience were assembled as curious observers, rather than as those who joined in the worship, were sad drawbacks on the more sublime sentiments that properly belong to such occasions.

The celebrated Illumination greatly surpassed my expectations. The vast dome is ribbed with lights, so disposed as to delineate all the grand outlines of the architecture, as are also the façade of the church itself and the colonnades. Knowing the magnitude of these edifices, you may fancy, in a degree, the effect. The lights are rich and full, suited to the scale of the buildings; and the rapidity with which they are set in a blaze, as it were in an instant, is truly astonishing. It is not literally true that _all_ the lights appear at the same moment, for a great number of small lamps which equally trace the lines of the architecture, are lighted while there is still day, and they appear gradually as the darkness advances, forming a very pretty spectacle of themselves. But a second set of lamps, or torches, of a different kind, blaze out at once at an appointed hour, when these fainter lamps form secondary lines to the tracery of the exhibition. No illumination that I have ever witnessed at all approaches this in magnificence: nor does any other show the same dramatic effect in lighting up. The word _instantly_ is not to be taken literally either, for I dare say two or three minutes pass before the whole structure is illuminated; but this time is really so short, and the effect is so very great, that one does not stop to count moments amid the blaze of magnificence. The effect is like that of furling sails in a man-of-war. Time is taken, certainly; but so much is done in a minute, that it seems to the uninstructed as if all were done in a moment.

The fireworks of St. Angelo were also the richest I have ever seen. There was a volcano that surpassed all my previous notions of the powers of this branch of art. But the climate of Italy greatly favours this species of exhibition.

LETTER XXVII.

Departure from Rome.—A scolding traveller put off by a roguish innkeeper at Cività Castellana.—Pilgrims returning from Rome.—Narni.—Falls of Terni.—Spoleto.—Hermitages.—Temple of Clitumnus.—Foligno.

After five delightful months passed at Rome, the moment for departure arrived. Every one waited to the end of the Holy Week, and then every one seemed impatient to fly. We delayed a few days, in order to visit Tivoli, and a few other places that had been neglected; and then we reluctantly drove through the Porta del Popolo, with the rest of them. Our own carriage, drawn by four active white horses, and a carriage of the vetturino, drawn by four sturdy brown ones, made the cortège. I took the vetturino carriage on account of its conveniences; for it was roomy, and rendered a _fourgon_ unnecessary.

The first stage was altogether on the Campagna, and it brought us to an insignificant village, where we breakfasted. The road was lined with carriages, but some knowledge of horse-flesh had given us cattle that passed every thing but the post-horses. Now, you are to know that the throngs on the highway, just at this moment, are so great as to render it a matter of some importance who reaches the end of a stage first. At the house where we breakfasted was an English post-chariot, drawn by three horses, and containing three people besides servants; the master wearing a particularly expressive countenance, that induced my children to name him the _Grognon_. He scolded a little about his breakfast, which was certainly any thing but excellent, and preceded us on the road. The man appeared to have screwed himself up to a week of grumbling.

The country, for the rest of the day, was volcanic, and, although it was still a plain, it was more cultivated and habitable than the Campagna had been. Soracte appeared on our right, and we were gradually working our way into its rear. The stopping-place for the night was Cività Castellana. This town, like Sorrento, has a natural ditch, formed by the crevices of the volcanic rock. When we entered its principal square, I thought all the vetturini carriages in Italy had got there before us. My man, however, drove boldly up to the best inn, where only a carriage or two were visible, and, winking, he told me to be prompt.

I sought the landlord, whom I found in hot discourse with the _Grognon_, concerning certain rooms, the best he had. These rooms, he swore volubly, were already bespoke by a gentleman who had sent a courier from Rome for that express purpose. This much I overheard as I approached, and thought it argued ill. In the mean time, the rogue looked out of the window, and perceiving that, including postillions and servants, we were a party of eleven, with eight horses, he drew in his head, and exclaimed, “Ah! this is the very gentleman. Here, Signore, this is the apartment that you can have. I am very sorry for this other Signore, but he must be satisfied with those rooms opposite. You know _you_ have bespoken these.”

Though ready to laugh in the fellow’s face, I did not deem it necessary to enter into explanations with the Englishman, but, asking pointedly of the innkeeper, if I could have these rooms, and receiving a satisfactory answer, I took possession of them, with a determination not to be easily ejected. The _Grognon_, who now began to merit his title, was obliged to succumb, though I believe he suspected the truth. I went on the principle of doing as I _should have been_ done by.

Every one was off with the dawn, the carriages streaming out of the gate of Cività Castellana in a line like that of the baggage of a regiment. We took the lead, and soon had the road to ourselves. A bridge carried us over the Tiber, and we began to ascend the Apennines. We breakfasted on their side at a hamlet, and, leaving the horses to bait, I walked ahead. It was a solitary wild mountain road, though perfectly good; and I soon fell in company with a party of pilgrims on their return from Rome. These men carried the staves and scrips, and wore a species of light cloak, with the capes covered with scallops. They were conversable, and any thing but solemn or way-worn. They had been employed in some of the recent ceremonies of the Church.

When the carriages came up, we had a wild picturesque country, especially about Narni, where were also some Roman remains. Here we descended into a beautiful valley; and in the bottom are the remains of a fine bridge of the time of Augustus. Passing through vineyards, olive-trees and fruit-trees, we reached the little city of Terni, a place of six or seven thousand souls, and which is prettily placed on the river Nera, in the centre of a very fertile region. This is the country of Tacitus.

Although still early, we drove to an inn, and secured good lodgings; after which we proceeded to the falls. The latter lie more than a league from the town, as we found to our cost, for we made the mistake of undertaking to walk to them. We luckily got a few asses on the road; though W—— and myself walked the entire distance there and back.

These celebrated falls are artificial, having been made by the Romans some centuries before Christ, by turning the course of a pretty little stream. They are reputed the finest waterfalls in Europe; a quarter of the world that, while it has many cascades, has few fine cataracts. These of Terni are between the two, being insignificant for the last, and large for the first. Those of our party who have seen the Falls of Trenton think them much finer than these of Terni; but I have never seen the first myself. There is a “method in the madness” of these falls that, I think, slightly impairs their beauty, though very beautiful they are. The thing at Tivoli will not compare with them; but I am told the falls of Tivoli have been much injured by some public works. This, you know, is the case with the Cohoos.