Within the space of a few days, some three weeks in all, it was my
fortune to be present at two demonstrations forming two pictures of
Italian story, or rather two aspects of one picture. In both the subject-
matter was the feelings of Italians towards their rulers; in both that
feeling was expressed legibly, though in diverse fashions; and from both
one and the same lesson--that lesson, which I have sought to express in
these loose sketches of mine--may be learned easily. Let me first, then,
write of these pictures as I saw them at the time, so that my moral may
speak for itself to those who care to learn it.
The 12th of April is the anniversary of Pio Nono's return to Rome from
Gaeta, that refuge of destitute sovereigns. It is also, by a strange
coincidence, the anniversary of the day on which his Holiness and General
Goyon narrowly escaped being killed by the falling of a scaffold, from
which they were inspecting the repairs at the church of St Agnese. On
that day, in honour of the doubly joyful event, the Pope went to
celebrate mass at the convent of St Agnese. The time was one when a
popular demonstration in favour of the Pope was urgently required. It
was in fact the beginning of the end. Victor Emmanuel was about to enter
Bologna as king; the news of the Sicilian insurrection had just reached
Rome; the Imperial Government had sent one of its periodical intimations,
that the French occupation could not be prolonged indefinitely; and
General De La Moriciere had assumed the command of the Papal army, on his
ill-fated and Quixotic crusade. At such a time it was deemed necessary
to show Europe, that the Pope still reigned in the hearts of his people,
and every effort was made to secure a demonstration. Government clerks
and official personages received orders to be present at the ceremony;
and all persons, over whom the Priests had influence, were urged to
attend and swell the crowd. And yet what came of it all? Along the road
between the Convent of Santa Agnese and the Porta Pia, where the great
demonstrations took place some weeks ago, there was little sign of crowd
or excitement. The day was chilly and cheerless; but the chilliness of
the wind itself precluded the idea of rain, so that it was not the
weather which deterred the concourse of the faithful. The Patrizzi
Villa, just outside the gate, had a few festoons hung over the garden
wall, which fronts the road; but one of the Patrizzi family, I should
mention, is a Cardinal. The villas on the road exhibited no decorations
or signs of festivity whatever. Indeed, I only observed three houses in
all which had placed hangings before their windows, or made any
preparations in honour of the event. There were not many persons outside
the gates. Every few steps you met patrols of six French soldiers headed
by a gendarme. These patrols had been sent by General Goyon to keep the
crowd in order; but, unfortunately, there was no crowd to keep in order;
so that the soldiers looked and seemed to feel as if they were sent on a
fool's errand. At St Agnese there were some 150 carriages collected,
almost all hired ones, of the poorer sort. The private vehicles were
very few indeed; not a quarter of the muster at most. The church itself
was gaily filled, but not crowded in any part. Priests, monks, and women
formed nine-tenths of the congregation. The sacrament was administered
by the Pope himself to a number of communicants, amongst whom the English
converts visiting Rome were as usual conspicuous. After mass was over
the Pope had breakfast at the Convent, and returned about noon to the
city. Meanwhile, something approaching to a crowd, that is about 600
people, half of whom were priests and the rest _impiegati_, were
collected at the gates; and as the Pope passed to his coach and four,
each of this crowd, with somewhat suspicious unanimity, drew a
handkerchief from his pocket, and raised a feeble cheer. Inside the
gates, and along the streets through which the Papal procession passed,
there was no appearance of any unusual concourse of people. By the
corner of the Gualtro Fontane street, near the new palace of Queen
Christina, a large body of nuns and school-children, decked out in white,
were drawn up on the pavement, who waved their hats, and threw flowers as
the Pope went by; but this was all; and even the Pope himself could
hardly have supposed what demonstration there was to be spontaneous. It
is true the _Giornale_ made the most of it. Their narrative ran thus:
"About half-past eleven in the morning his Holiness, accompanied by the
applause of all who had joined to escort him, entered his carriage, and
took the road towards his residence at the Vatican. Words are
insufficient to express the enthusiastic affection, the joyous
demonstrations, which, for the length of three miles from St Agnese to
the Quirinal, were manifested towards him by the good people of this
Sovereign City, who had crowded to behold his passage; and who, by any
means in their power, expressed the tender affection which they could not
but entertain for his sacred person. Infinite, too, was the number of
carriages which followed the Royal cortege to the Pontifical palace of St
Peter's."
To this I can only say, that many things are visible to the eye of faith,
and hidden to the common world. To my unenlightened vision, the crowd of
three miles in length was composed of a thousand persons in all; and the
infinite number of carriages looked uncommonly like sixty.
And now for the converse picture.
The "Promised Land."
Out of chill clouds and dull gloom, I passed into summer sunshine. Across
barren moor-land and more barren mountains, by the side of marshy lakes,
deserted and malaria-haunted, through squalid villages and decayed
cities, my journey brought me into a rich garden-country, studded with
thriving towns swarming with life, and watered with endless streams. I
came into a land such as children of Israel never looked upon from over
Jordan, after their weary wanderings in the wilderness; a land rich in
oil and corn, and vineyards and cattle; a very "land of promise." This,
indeed, is the true Italy, the Italy of which all poets of all time have
sung; and whose likeness all artists have sought to draw, and sought in
vain. The sight, however, of this wondrous beauty was not new to me who
write; still less is its record new to you who read. With this much of
tribute let it pass unnoticed. Fortunately, it was my lot to see the
promised land of Italy as for centuries past she has not been seen. I
saw her free, and rejoicing in her freedom. Then let me seek to recall
such of the epochs in that right royal progress--when the chosen King
came to take possession of his promised land--as stand most clearly
forth.
I remember once seeing a collection of Indian portraits. There were
rajahs and dervishes, jugglers and dancing-girls, depicted in every
variety of garb and posture. For the whole set, however, there was but
one face. Each portrait had a hole where the face should have been, and
the picture was completed by placing the one head beneath the blank
opening. In fact, you had one face beneath a hundred different
draperies. So also, in my wanderings, I saw but one picture in a dozen
frames; one sight in many cities. At some, the flags may have waved more
gaily; at some again the lamps may have sparkled more brilliantly, and at
others the crowd may have cheered more lustily; but the substance of the
sight was the same throughout. Everywhere, some half-dozen of dusty open
carriages, filled with officers in uniform, passing through crowded
streets festooned with flowers, dressed out with banners--everywhere, the
one figure of a plain, rough Soldier-king, bowing stiffly and slowly from
time to time--everywhere, a surging, heaving, shouting crowd. Such is
the one subject of my picture-gallery.
I am in the Duomo of Florence. Around and about me there is a great
crowd. Every niche and cornice where foot can stand is occupied. A deep
gloom hangs around the darkened church, and from out the lofty vaulted
roof thousands of lamps hang glimmering like stars upon a moonless sky.
Ever and anon the organ peals forth triumphantly, and the clouds of
incense rise fitfully; and as the bell rings, and the host is raised on
high, you see above the bowed heads of the swaying crowd the figure of
the excommunicated King, kneeling on the altar-steps. Then, when the
service is over, and the royal procession passes down the nave, through
the double line of soldiers, who keep the passage clear, I am carried
onwards to the front of the grand cathedral, which for centuries has
stood bare and unfinished, and which is to date its completion from the
time when the city of Dante and Michael Angelo is to date her freedom,
too long delayed.
The next scene present to my memory is a dark gloomy night. I am at
Pisa, in the city of the Campo Santo, where hang the chains of the
ancient port which the Genoese carried off in triumph centuries ago, in
the days of the old Republic, and have brought back to day, in honour of
the new brotherhood. The great festival of the Luminara is to be held to-
night, in the presence of the King. I have come from Florence through
the pleasant Arno valley, shining in the glory of an Italian sunset, and
the night has come on, and dark, rain-laden clouds are rolling up from
the sea; but neither wind nor rain are heeded now. Through narrow
streets, which a year ago were silent and deserted, I follow a great
multitude pressing towards the river-side. A sudden turn brings me to
the quay, and an illuminated city rises before me across the Arno. The
glare is so strong that at first I can scarcely distinguish anything save
the one grand blaze of light. Then, by degrees, I see that every house
and palace-front along those mile-long quays is lit up by rows on rows of
lamps, scattered everywhere. Arches and parapets and bridges are all
marked out against the dark back-ground of the sky by the long lines of
light, and in the depths of the dull stream that rolls at my feet a
second inverted city sparkles brightly. Along either quay a great,
countless multitude keeps moving to and fro, casting a dark hem of shadow
at the foot of the houses which line the river. Then of a sudden the
low, ceaseless hum of ten thousand voices is exchanged for a loud cheer,
and the bands begin to play, and the royal carriages, escorted by a
running crowd, pass along the quays; and wherever the throng is thickest,
you can tell that Victor Emmanuel is to be found, with Ricasoli by his
side. Then, as the King and his party pass out of sight, the storm comes
on in its fury, and the gusts of wind blow out the lamps, as if after
doing honour to the King their work was ended.
Another scene which I remember well was on a long day's journey through
the Val di Chiana, a day's journey by fertile fields and smiling
villages, and on pleasant country roads. The King was coming in the
course of the day along the same route. At every corner, at every bridge
and roadside house, there were groups of peasants standing waiting to see
_Il padrone nuovo_, the new sovereign and master. The children had flags
in their little hands, and the cottagers had hung out their coloured bed-
quilts, and the roadside crosses were decked out with flowers. The
church-bells were ringing, country bands were playing lustily, and the
national guard of every little town I passed stood under arms, to the
admiration of all beholders. It was a holiday everywhere; the fields
were left untilled, the carts were taken up to carry whole peasant
families to the market-town of Arezzo, where the King was to spend the
night. Man, woman, and child wore the national colours in some part of
their Sunday dress; and about everything and everybody there was a look
of happiness, hard indeed to describe, but one not often seen nor easily
forgotten.
Let us turn northwards. The old streets of Bologna, with their endless
rows of colonnades, are filled with people. The dead Papal city is alive
again. The priests have disappeared; friars, monks, Jesuits, and nuns
have vanished from their old haunts. St Patrick did not clear the land
of Erin more thoroughly and more suddenly of the genus reptile than the
presence of Victor Emmanuel has cleared Bologna of the genus priest. It
is whispered that out of top windows, and from behind blinds and
shutters, priests are peeping out at the strange sight of a glad and a
free people, with glances the reverse of friendly; but neither the black
robe nor the brown serge cowl, nor the three-cornered, low-crowned hat,
are to be seen amongst the crowd. Well, perhaps the scene looks none the
less gay for their absence. The flags and flowers glitter beneath the
blue, cloudless sky, and the burning sun of a hot summer day gives an
unwonted brightness to the grey colours of the grim, gaunt houses. Down
the steep, winding road leading from the old monastery of St Michael,
where the King is lodged, through the dark, narrow, crowded streets, a
brilliant cavalcade comes riding slowly; half a horse's length in front
rides Victor Emmanuel. Amongst the order-covered staff who follow, there
is scarcely one of not more royal presence than their leader; there are
many whose names may stand before his in the world's judgment, but the
crowd has its eye fixed on the King, and the King alone. For three days
this selfsame crowd has followed him, and stared at him, and cheered him,
but their ardour remains undiminished. All the school-children of the
city, down to little mites of things who can scarcely toddle, have been
brought out to see him. Boy-soldiers, with Lilliputian muskets, salute
him as he passes. A mob of men, heedless of the gendarmes or of the
horses' hoofs, run before the cavalcade, in the burning heat, and cheer
hoarsely. Every window is lined with ladies in the gayest of gay
dresses, who cast glances before the King, and try, like true daughters
of Eve, to catch a smile from that plain, good-humoured face. So amidst
flowers and smiles and cheers the procession passes on. There is no
pause, indeed, in the ceaseless cheering, save where the band of exiles
stands with the flags of Rome, and Naples, and Venice, covered with the
black veil; or when the regiments defile past with the tattered colours
which were rent to shreds at San Martino and at Solferino, and then the
cry of "Viva Vittorio Emmanuele" is changed for that of "Viva l'Italia!"
It is a Sunday afternoon, and at three o'clock I have turned out of the
broiling streets into the vast, crowded theatre of Reggio. Every place
is occupied, every box is crammed; rows of lights sparkle around the
darkened house, and the heat is a thing to be remembered afterwards.
There is a gorgeous ballet being acted on the stage, and Caesar is being
tempted by every variety of female art and posture, in a way which never
happens except to ballet heroes, and to Saint Anthony of Padua. The
dancing girls, however, dance in vain, and the orchestra plays to deaf
ears, for all voices are raised at once, and all eyes are turned from the
stage. The King has entered the royal box, and every lady in the long
tiers of boxes unfurls the tricolor-flag she bears in her hands and waves
it bravely. The whole house keeps rising, shouting, cheering. The
musicians lay down their instruments, and the ballet-girls drop their
postures and Caesar forgets his dignity, and one and all crowd forward on
the stage and join in the general cheering; and when the king leaves, the
curtain drops upon the unfinished ballet, and the whole house rush into
the piazza to see Victor Emmanuel again as he drives away.
The last time that my path comes across the kingly progress is at a
railway station. The long street of Parma, leading to the station, is
lined with a dense crowd; and the flowers and flags and triumphal arches
are to be seen in greater profusion here than even I have been accustomed
to before. The royal carriages have to move at a foot's pace, on account
of the multitude which presses round them. Amidst playing of bands and
throwing of flowers, the King, accompanied by his vast escort, has
reached the station, and enters it with his suite, but the eager
enthusiasm of the multitude is not sated yet. Regardless of all railway
rules and penalties, they clamber over palings and run up embankments,
and manage to force their way at last to the platform itself, as the
royal train is moving on. Even the iron nerve of Victor Emmanuel seems
affected by this last greeting of farewell; and while the train remains
in sight I can see the King bowing kindly to the crowd on either side.
Never, I think, in the world's history was the promised land entered with
more of promise.
When, in the old fairy tale, the sleeping princess of the slumber-bound
palace awoke to light and life; when of a sudden the horses began to
neigh, and the clocks to tick, and the spits to turn, the brightness and
suddenness of the change could scarcely have been more complete than that
through which I passed. From chill, cheerless, ceaseless rain into
bright warm sun-light; from a country fever-haunted, barren, and
desolate, into a land swarming with life, rich and fertile as a garden;
from a gloomy priest-ridden people, kept down by force of arms, hating
their rulers and hated by them, into the presence of a free people
rejoicing in their freedom: such has been my change as I passed from the
States of the Church into those of Victor Emmanuel.
Surely the moral of these two pictures speaks for itself. Put aside
abstract political considerations, put aside, too, theological questions,
and look at broad facts patent to all. If anybody can see Rome and the
Papal States, and still believe that the people are happy or prosperous
or faring with good prospects either for this world or the next, I can
say nothing more. His eyes are not my eyes, nor his judgment mine. For
those to whom this ocular testimony is denied, I have written these
papers. I have sought to make present to them the utter dreariness, the
hopeless discontent, the abject demoralization, which strike a resident
in Rome, unless he refuses wilfully to see the truth. In the dead Rome
of real life; in the universal spiritless immorality of Roman society; in
the decay of what once was the Roman people; in the squalid misery of the
country towns, miserable even in their merriment; in the utter isolation
of the Papal States, a moral lazaretto amongst European kingdoms, you see
only too plainly the permanent condition of the country. As to the
present misery, you can read its signs in those pageants which impose on
no one; in the Carnivals, where there are no revellers; in the solemn
ceremonies, where the worshippers are sought in vain; and in the sad,
sullen, hopeless demonstrations, whereby a people protest constantly that
they are weary of their fate. If you look for causes, you may find them
perhaps in those trials without law or justice; in that Press without
liberty or truth; in those Church-sanctioned lotteries; in the presence
of that multitude of priests, and in the policy which dictated the
outrage of St Joseph's day, and the Bull of excommunication. How far
these causes are sufficient to explain the fact, is a matter of opinion.
I can understand a fervent believer in the Catholic Faith saying, that
the people of the Papal States ought to be happy and prosperous under
Papal rule. It may be so, but the fact is they are not; and that they
are both prosperous and happy under the rule of Victor Emmanuel ever
since the great Lombard campaign, when the French armies at Solferino
destroyed the Austrian power, the key-stone of the whole priest-despot
rule in Italy. I have been living, with but short intervals, in
different parts of this Italian land. Wherever the free national
government has spread, I can see the growth of prosperity and happiness.
There have been, there are, and there will be partial reactions, petty
disturbances; but they are but eddies in the great, deep, resistless
current. Go to Bologna, or Ferrara, or Ancona, and you will find them,
as I have, passed from dead desolation into active life. Commerce is
flourishing, order prevails, and the people are free and full of life.
These are facts on which both Protestant and Catholic can judge; and
Catholics, as well as Protestants, will tell you the same thing. Then if
this be so, and that it is so I assert fearlessly, in what right, human
or divine, are a number of God's creatures to be forced to live out that
one short life of ours in dull, abject misery? If you tell me that their
misery is necessary to the maintenance of a religious creed, be that
creed Protestant or Catholic, I reply that the sooner then that creed
disappears, the better for mankind and for faith in God.
And now, a few words in parting about the future. The end I believe is
coming on so rapidly, has indeed advanced so far, since first I began to
write these letters, little more than a year ago, that I hesitate to make
prophecies which to-morrow may render vain. The whole Italian revolution
is eminently a political one, not a religious one. It is possible a
religious change, whether reformation-like or otherwise, may follow in
its steps, but that time is not come. There is no wish in the Italian
people, unless I err much, to alter the national faith, or to dispense
with the Pope, as a spiritual potentate. Before long Pius IX., having
caused as much misery as one man can well cause in one lifetime, must
depart from this world; and then, if not sooner, some arrangement must be
come to between the Pope and the Italian people, if the Papacy is to last
at all. In some form or other I hold that the compromise will be of the
nature of the "Napoleonic Solution," to which I have therefore given a
place amongst these papers. Whether it is possible for a Pope to remain
permanently at Rome as a spiritual prince in a free city, time alone can
show, but ere long the experiment will be made.
If in these letters I have said aught to wound the faith of either
Protestant or Catholic, I have said it unwillingly, and regret that it
should be so. This however I believe, and would have others believe it
too, that the misery of the Roman people is a real misery, be its cause
what it may, and like all real misery in this world, calls to God for
justice, and not in vain.