RESIDENCE AT ROME—CEREMONY AT ST. PETER’S—MIDSUMMER MADNESS—ANECDOTE OF
M. CLERMONT—THE AMBASSADOR AND THE ACTRESS—POPE GANGANELLI.
ON the 28th of June, 1780, being St. Peter’s-eve, we went to a house
near the bridge of St. Angelo to see the Constable Colonna conveying the
tribute-horse, which was annually presented to the Pope by the King of
Naples. The procession commenced with the Pope’s light horse, sent to
escort the constable. Then came the servants of several cardinals and
princes in their liveries, in attendance upon some of their gentlemen on
horseback with black mantles. The constable’s were the last, with their
mantles turned back with gold stuff. Next followed the horse, richly
caparisoned, the present—a silver flower—being carried on his back.
Behind the animal came the constable, preceded by his pages in lilac and
silver, and by his first gentlemen. He was dressed in light brown, with
a mantle, and was mounted on a beautiful horse: he himself was a pretty
figure. His state carriages followed him. The first was a chariot, which
belonged to his uncle, Cardinal Pamfili, when he was nuncio in France,
and the second one was a coach, richly ornamented, belonging to the King
of Naples, whom he represented as ambassador; the rest were of various
colours, but all drawn by fine horses. When they arrived at St. Peter’s,
the guns of St. Angelo were fired, and after them a volley of musketry.
We entered St. Peter’s a few minutes before the Pope came in to receive
the constable. He was carried on men’s shoulders down the body of the
church, attended by the cardinals. The horse was then brought in and led
up to the altar, when he received a slight tap with a wand, and
immediately knelt down, and the Pope gave him his benediction. The
statue of St. Peter was dressed in gold stuff, with a ring on its
finger, rare jewels on its breast, and a tiara on its head. Large
candle-sticks with lighted tapers were placed in front, and a guard of
soldiers stationed to check the indiscreet devotion of the saint’s
votaries; but the black face and hands of the statue had a comical
effect. The church was hung with crimson velvet and gold, the great
altar finely arranged, and festoons of artificial flowers hung round the
silver lamps that surrounded it. The throne of the Pope was set out for
next day’s mass, and the whole building in perfect “fiocchi.”[26] The
constable returned in his state coach, drawn by six horses.
During the great heats of July, 1781, many people went mad. Amongst
others, a bricklayer, in his madness, killed a priest near St. Pietro in
Vincoli, and then went to his work. His master, observing that his hands
were bloody, told him he looked as if he had been killing somebody. He
said, so he had; that he had just killed a priest. On this his master,
being frightened, gave him some money, and advised him to run away. He
went towards the Coliseo, where he killed, at one stroke, a very
beautiful woman, then broke in two places the arm of another woman who
was walking with her, and wounded a priest who came to her assistance.
In short, they say he killed, or wounded, seven persons. He was at last
secured, and thrown into prison. Many other madmen have tried to fight,
but people were put on their guard, and precautions taken to prevent any
violence. One of the madmen, meeting the Pope in St. Peter’s, said he
would confess to him, and tell him all the evils the poor experienced
from bad bread and dear oil. Another beat the statue of St. Peter; it
was reported he had beaten that of Pasquin. Four barbers, also,
counterfeited madness, but were taken up, and two of them sent to the
galleys for ten years, and the others sentenced to be hanged.
A story is told of M. Clermont, ambassador of France at the Court of
Naples, that he became very attentive to an actress known as “La
Balduzzi.” M. de Bièvre, calling upon him one morning, found him in his
garden gathering flowers. So he asked him what he was doing; when the
ambassador replied that he was gathering “garofolis” for the Balduzzi.
“Ah, monsieur,” exclaimed the other, “gare aux folies!” This M. de
Bièvre complained one day that Colonel Chrysti was very tiresome. “He is
a very honest man,” remarked a gentleman who was present, “he is _a
Swiss_.” “Eh bien, donc,” cries M. de Bièvre, “il faut le mettre à la
porte.”
Mr. Jenkins, our banker, having remarked that he didn’t know what Mr.
Pigot would think of the race on the Corso, he who had been so
celebrated on the turf: “Well,” said Mr. Hodges, “he can now be
celebrated on the _pavé_.”
When Pope Ganganelli died, who had made a great favourite of Padre
Buontempi, a monk of his own order, some one put an umbrella up over
Pasquin’s statue, with a writing, “E finito il buon tempo.” At another
time, a wag wrote on this statue, in answer to the question, “Che fa
Roma?” “Opera di misericordia. Veste i Gnudi ed arrichisce gli
Onesti.”[27] Gnudi was the name of a person who came from Cesena with
Don Luigi Onesti, the Pope’s nephew, and was previously in the greatest
poverty. In the chapel, too, of the new sacristy, where an inscription
testified that it was built in consequence of the _vota publica_, a
paper was affixed with these lines:
Publica! mentiris, non publica vota fuêre,
Sed tumidi capitis vota fuêre tui.
His Holiness was so much offended, that it was said he would have put
the author to death for his impertinence, if he could have found him.
The Italians used to say of the Pope’s arms, in which were stars, an
eagle, and the wind blowing on fleurs-de-lys: “L’Aquila è andata in
Germania, i Gigli in Francia, le Stelle sono tornate nel cielo, e non
gli è rimasto altro che il Vento.”[28]
The Cavalier Guglielmi, about this time, asked the Cardinal
Secretary-of-State to promote his brother to a better post. The
cardinal, taking snuff, replied, negligently, with the common proverb,
“Chi sta bene, non si muova.” The cavalier took no immediate notice of
this answer, but after a little while, imitating the cardinal’s action,
he said: “Vostra eminenza, mi ricordo, era nunzio a Bruxelles, e stava
bene, ma voleva qualche cosa di più, e fu fatto nunzio a Napoli; stava
benone, ma voleva qualche cosa di più, e fu fatto cardinale; stava
ottimamente, ma voleva qualche cosa di più, e fu fatto segretario di
stato; vedo chi sta a maraviglia, ma chi sa se ancora non vuole qualche
cosa di più.”[29] The cardinal felt the rebuke, and gave the desired
post to Cavalier Guglielmi’s brother.
It was also some time in the year 1781 that I became acquainted with the
following instance of gratitude on the part of a Turk, and which was
then of quite recent occurrence. The commander of a merchantman of
Leghorn was taken by an Algerine corsair, after making a gallant
defence. He was carried to Algiers, and exposed for sale in the
market-place, where he was soon observed by a Turkish merchant, who
bought him immediately, without further inquiry. While he remained
between hope and fear of his future situation, the Turk asked him
whether he knew him. He replied that he could not recollect ever having
seen him. The Turk then said: “I have not bought you for your harm, but
for your good. I am the man you took prisoner some years since, and whom
you treated with such humanity, and afterwards set at liberty. I mean,
therefore, to make you free, and will give you a ship larger than that
you have lost, and will freight it with corn, which is here at a very
low price. And when you return to Leghorn you will make what profit you
can upon it, only restoring to me the original price of the corn; all
the rest, together with the ship, is at your service.” The grateful and
generous Turk fulfilled his promise; and the man returned to Leghorn,
and disposed of his cargo to great advantage.
Mr. Jenkins told us of a curious affair that happened at Urbino. The
governor of that town, Monsignor Lucchesini, whose power was almost
absolute, being offended with the nobility of the place because they had
beaten one of his servants, searched through the records for some
obsolete law with which he could plague them. He found an obsolete
ordinance, which forbade the nobility of Urbino to stir out at night
without carrying torches, which all Italians have a great aversion to
doing. So he insisted upon this law being put in force, and, when they
refused to obey, he ordered the barigel[30] to compel them to do so.
That officer, however, told him that he dared not act against all the
principal families of the town; but the prelate still remained
obstinate. Whereupon all the families of the nobility assembled, and
agreed to go with their torches to the door of a lady’s house, whom
monsignor visited every evening by stealth. Accordingly, they posted
themselves at the door just at the time he usually went away, and he had
the pleasure of being escorted home in the full light of all their
torches.
One day in September, as the Pope was talking to his nephew, he observed
that he made no answer, and asked him the reason. The latter made signs
that there was somebody listening at the door. The Pope instantly got
up, went to the door, and, flinging aside the curtain, found there
Monsignor di Spagna, whom, it is said, he beat pretty handsomely for his
impertinent curiosity—others, however, deny the latter part of the
story.
On the 23rd of December, 1783, we met the Emperor Joseph II. at the
Princess Santa Croce’s conversazione. His Majesty was travelling
incognito as Count Falkenstein. As we entered the grand apartment we saw
him standing near the door with Cardinal de Bernis by his side, and
surrounded by all the men in the room, which was very full. He was in a
plain uniform, blue with red lappels, and had much the look of a
military man. His figure was good, and his eyes very fine. We had not,
however, a good opportunity of observing him, as the apartment was so
crowded in the part where he stood. The cardinal told him who we were,
and he made us very polite bows, after which we went off in search of
seats. The emperor talked a good deal to those near him, and stayed
about half an hour, but he had been there some time before we entered,
and had made a previous visit to the Princess Doria.
His Majesty had arrived that morning from Florence a little before noon,
without having given any notice to the Pope. About one, his Holiness was
sitting with Don Luigi, his nephew, and the Bailli Antinori, his
familiar friend, and finding that he had still some time to spare before
his usual hour for going out, he went into his closet to write a letter.
Just then a favourite valet-de-chambre ran into the room, and told Don
Luigi that Cardinal Hertzan, the emperor’s representative, was ascending
the staircase, and demanded an immediate audience. Greatly agitated by
this announcement, Don Luigi knocked at the door, and informed Pius VI.,
who was not less disconcerted. Presently, the valet again hurried in,
and said that the emperor also was there. Don Luigi thereupon told his
uncle, who threw open his closet door just as the emperor and the
cardinal entered the apartment through the opposite door. When his
imperial visitor rose to take leave, Pius VI. conducted him through the
apartments of the Countess Matilda into St. Peter’s. The Pope then
proposed that they should offer up a prayer together, and invited the
emperor to kneel by his side on a prie-Dieu, with two cushions, but the
latter flung aside the one intended for himself, and knelt down on the
bare floor. “Then,” said Pius, “I, too, must kneel on the floor: I
cannot take this place.” “You may do as you please,” replied the
emperor, “but I always kneel so.” He made a very short prayer, and,
wishing the Pope good morning, went to see the Museum, and at four
o’clock dined with Cardinal Hertzan, at whose house he had alighted.[31]
On the following day he dined with one of the generals who accompanied
him, at a lodging-house in the Piazza di Spagna, and, according to his
usual custom, sent down a large fish from the table to the mistress of
the house. As he was going away, an immense number of the populace, who
had collected round the door, began to cry aloud, “Viva l’imperadore!”
“Viva Cesare!” His Majesty stopped a moment, and made them a sign to be
quiet, and then jumped into his carriage and drove off. In the evening
the emperor was present at the Duchess Bracciano’s, and afterwards at
Princess Altieri’s, who had lighted up her house, of which he
complained, as he does not permit the slightest ceremony, not even
torches on the staircase.
On Christmas-day, Joseph II. and Gustavus III., King of Sweden, who had
arrived at a late hour of the previous evening, attended high mass at
St. Peter’s. The behaviour of the emperor was particularly decorous,
without any affectation or hypocrisy. The king at first hesitated about
kneeling, and asked the emperor what he should do. “Do as I do,” replied
Joseph. “But I am not of your communion,” rejoined the other. “Well,”
resumed the emperor, “believe what you will, but as you came here of
your own choice, you should act so as not to scandalise others.”
Gustavus took the hint, and knelt down.
The next evening we went to Cardinal de Bernis’, who had illuminated his
house, and was to give a concert in honour of the King of Sweden. The
day before he invited the emperor, who said that, if the concert were
given as a compliment to the king, he would certainly come, as he had no
objection to partake of fêtes, provided they were not offered to
himself. But, he added, if his eminence sent a single torch to him on
the stairs, he should instantly retire. There was a vast deal of company
assembled on the occasion, and it was remarked that it was like the East
Indies—all heat and diamonds.
About seven o’clock the King of Sweden, who was travelling under the
title of the Comte de Haga, came in, followed by two gentlemen. The
Princess Santa Croce[32] took him by the hand, and introduced him to
everybody in the room. His Majesty was dressed in a satin coat, wearing
his order, &c.; but there was nothing remarkable in his figure or
address, except an air of levity and affectation. Very different in this
from the emperor, of the perfect ease and propriety of whose conduct too
much cannot be said in praise. The latter talks to all around him with
the utmost politeness, but carefully avoids giving any trouble to
others, and never suffers any one to take liberties with himself. A
Roman gentleman went up to him at Cardinal de Bernis’, and said that he
had the honour of being acquainted with his Majesty. “What majesty?”
asked the emperor, looking around. “There is no majesty here.” “Oh!”
insisted the gentleman, “my family is too much attached to the House of
Austria for me not to know that I must address you as your Majesty.” “If
you speak to the Comte de Falkenstein,” said Joseph, “he will answer
you. But if you speak to the emperor, it is taking a great liberty to
address him first.” At this concert his Majesty stayed rather less than
an hour, and heard Marchesi[33] sing one song, after which he ran off in
great haste.
The King of Sweden, however, remained to supper, and did not leave till
two in the morning. He had also dined at the cardinal’s, and professed
himself wholly attached to the Court of France. At supper his Majesty
was seen to scratch his head with his fork, and also with his knife, and
afterwards to go on eating with them. Before his departure from Rome for
Naples, the emperor had a very satisfactory interview with the Pope, who
appeared more cheerful afterwards. It is said that his Holiness reminded
his Majesty that his ancestors had more than once been indebted for
their crown to the See of Rome. The emperor’s munificence was much
spoken of. He gave five hundred sequins to the mistress of the
lodging-house in the Piazza di Spagna where he used to sleep, and
bestowed upon her husband an employment in the Milan post-office. At the
Museum he left fifty sequins, and a similar sum at the library, &c., and
scattered a great deal of money among the populace. On one occasion the
emperor asked several questions of a footman, who answered him readily,
in ignorance of his rank, and so much pleased his Majesty that, on
leaving the man, he gave him three sequins for his company. At another
time he sent for a dish of coffee from the coffee-house, and laid a
baiócco[34] and a half on the saucer to pay for it, but gave a sequin to
the boy who brought it. In this respect he was very different to the
King of Sweden, of whom it was said:
Il Conte de Haga tutto vede, e niente paga.[35]
As he was returning from Naples, the postilions contrived to upset his
imperial Majesty’s carriage; whereupon he gave each of them three
sequins to comfort them under their mishap. Everybody agreed that Joseph
II. had conducted himself so as to win the hearts of all Rome, and this
without the slightest derogation to his own dignity. Several anecdotes
were told of his Majesty, illustrating his kindly disposition and dry
humour. When he was attending mass at St. Peter’s, some one remarked
that Cardinal Orsini had so bad a voice that he could not intone the
Gospel. “Se non intona,”[36] replied the emperor, “non stuona.” Seeing
the Pope’s niece seated near the door, he asked her, “Lei sta quà per
mangiar il prossimo?”[37] As she did not appear to understand him, he
added, “Perchè prende il fiato di tutti quelli che entrano.”[38]
At the Duchess Bracciano’s the emperor was standing in the middle of the
room, engaged in general conversation, when some ladies who had followed
him and the King of Sweden about everywhere, again came up to him. He
took a snuff-box out of the Venetian ambassador’s hand, and showed them
the lid; on it was painted the portrait of the Grand Signor. At Vienna
his Majesty used to dismiss all the soldiers from the palace at ten
o’clock. Not a single sentinel was stationed in the imperial apartments.
Even at the camp he had never more than two guards, and those he chiefly
employed as messengers. In driving about the streets of his capital he
was attended by only one servant, and not unfrequently he accompanied
ladies in their private carriages. If he happened to be unwell, he would
invite every evening four or five ladies of the first distinction to
keep him company. A horse was always kept ready saddled, so that if he
heard of a fire he was almost immediately upon the spot. While at Rome,
his Majesty went to see the caves of the Capucins, where human bones and
skulls were arranged in a very fanciful manner. Looking round him, he
asked: “What will these good people do at the day of judgment, now that
you have mixed their bones so?” An old Capucin, who was kneeling close
by, and who, though at prayer, overheard the emperor, made this reply:
“Ci pensa chi l’ha fatti.” One day the emperor, while walking about the
Villa Medici, inquired of the guarda-roba what he meant to do with his
children. The man answered, that he intended to bring two of them up as
priests, if they would study. The emperor then said that their studying
was of no great consequence, for, if they could barely read and write,
they might hope to become prelates, cardinals, the Pope himself.
His majesty entertained a very poor opinion of the Roman clergy. On his
return to Vienna, after his first journey into Italy, his mother, the
Empress Maria Theresa, asked him to give her some account of Rome. “I
can do it in a few words,” he replied: “great luxury, little religion,
and much ignorance.” While visiting the hospital of Santo Spirito, the
emperor remarked that it was a great expense. “Yes,” said a bystander;
“but your Majesty is at a still greater expense for the maintenance of
three hundred thousand soldiers.” “You may add sixty thousand to that
number,” replied Joseph; “but the money is all spent in the State, and,
by keeping up so large an army, I save the lives of many of my subjects,
who would otherwise perish in the wars my powerful neighbours would
raise up against me if I were not so well prepared.” He was out hunting
one day with the King of Naples, when the latter expressed a wish to see
Count Falkenstein at the head of a hundred thousand men. “Well,”
answered the other, “if you like, I will send a hundred thousand of my
troops here, and come and command them.” Upon this the king exclaimed,
in the lazzaroni dialect, which he generally used: “Malora, ci vuoi
assassinar.”
When the Emperor Joseph was at Florence, he thought to give the fourth
son of the Grand-Duke of Tuscany the colonelcy of a regiment that was
just then vacant, and called to him to approach, in the presence of his
father and mother. Taking a paper out of his pocket, he said that he had
just returned from Rome, and brought him a brief from the Pope for a
cardinal’s hat. The boy, who was not eleven years of age, reddened with
indignation, and presently burst into tears. The emperor then embraced
him, and told him it was a colonel’s commission, whereupon the little
prince danced about the room with the greatest delight, much to the
satisfaction of his uncle.[39]
At Milan, a poor woman petitioned the emperor on behalf of her husband,
who had been kept in prison seventeen months by order of Count
Belgiojoso, for having killed a hare on his estate. The same evening his
Majesty happened to meet the count in company, and telling him he was
sorry to hear that he preferred his game to the good of his
fellow-creatures, ordered him to set the man at liberty immediately, and
make his family amends for the sufferings they had sustained through his
absence, by giving them a florin a day for the time the poor fellow was
in prison. “And,” continued the emperor, “to avoid all temptation to
play the tyrant, do away with your game preserves.”
There was much ill-natured gossiping this year on the subject of the
Countess of Albany[40] and Count Alfieri. The moment the countess heard
that the Pretender was lying at the point of death, she forwarded the
news to Cardinal York,[41] at Frascati, who instantly hastened to
Florence to see his brother. On his return to Rome, he spoke only a few
cold words to the countess, but informed the Pope that it was his
brother’s wish that his wife should either dismiss Count Alfieri and
return to him, or go into a convent. The countess thereupon wrote a
letter to the Pope, in which she cleared her own character, and declared
that if Count Alfieri’s visiting her gave his Holiness any displeasure,
she was quite sure she could prevail upon that gentleman to leave Rome.
The Pope replied that he approved of her conduct, and had no doubt of
its correctness, but as the cardinal disapproved of the count’s visit to
her house, it might be as well to request his absence, taking care,
however, to do it in such a manner as not to offend him, or any other
gentleman who visited her. The cardinal, it is said, told every
postilion on the road from Florence to Rome the bad opinion he had of
his sister-in-law and Count Alfieri, and he held the same discourse with
all the shabby people about Frascati. It was generally believed that the
Grand-Duchess of Tuscany was the originator of all this disturbance,
from jealousy of her husband, who was partial to the cause of the
unfortunate lady. The count informed the Countess de Château-Dauphin
that he had good reason to believe that the Pretender meant to have him
assassinated. He afterwards consented to quit Rome for a time, and
travelled through France to England.
The countess’s mother, the Princess de Stolberg, arrived in Rome soon
after this with her youngest daughter, a chanoinesse. The cardinal
offered them apartments in his house at Frascati, which they declined,
but they consented to dine with him one day when he came into the town.
In April, 1784, through the mediation of the King of Sweden and Baron
Sparr, articles of separation were agreed upon and signed by the count
and countess, the former fully vindicating his wife’s reputation. She
entered very fully with us into the details of the sufferings she had
undergone during the twelve years of her married life. The count, she
said, was constantly and madly drunk, and seldom had a moment of reason.
He was ever talking about his restoration, or abusing the French and the
Pope. He was equally covetous and extravagant. His own table was always
sumptuously provided, but he would grudge the countess a little mutton
broth in the morning. She acknowledged he had one good quality—he never
betrayed a secret, and never disclosed who had belonged to his party
until after their death; nor would he ever listen to any ill-natured
things said of people. He once crossed over into England after the
rebellion, and was in London, but he never would mention in what
year;[42] the countess, however, was pretty sure that it was in the year
after the rebellion. She spoke of him with great calmness and
compassion, and thought, drinking apart, that he was a less despicable
character than Cardinal York.
About this time I gathered some anecdotes about preachers. The Marquis
de Montreuil told me of a preacher who, in the year of the Jubilee
(1775), exhorted the people to repentance in such forcible terms, that a
woman stood up on a chair and confessed publicly all her sins. A moment
afterwards, a man got up and declared that she was his wife, and a very
good woman, but she was a little mad, so they must not believe what she
had said. Several other women at the same time made public confession,
and were sent by the cardinal-vicar to religious houses, where they were
clothed and fed for some months.
The Cardinal de Bernis gave me two anecdotes of missionary preachers in
Languedoc. One of them said to his hearers that they were not ashamed to
live in the mud of their sins, but were ashamed to confess them
publicly. If it were not so, why did they not hide their heads in the
mud in token of repentance? It so happened that they were just then
standing in a very muddy place, and in obedience to the preacher they
all plunged their heads into the mire, standing with begrimed faces to
hear the remainder of his discourse. The other missionary used to carry
a death’s head about with him, which he dressed up in the cap and
ornaments then in fashion among ladies of rank. This skull he would
throw down on the floor of the pulpit, and talk to it, answering himself
in a low voice, to imitate that of a woman. “Qui êtes-vous?” “Je suis
une marquise.” “Êtes-vous dame de la cour?” “Oui, monsieur, je suis dame
de la reine.” “Où êtes-vous?” “Dans l’enfer, monsieur.” “Et pourquoi
cela?” To this last question he used to give answers that embodied
satirical allusions to the doings of the most celebrated women of
fashion.
One of the missionaries, at that time preaching at Santa Maria, in
Trastevere, also took a death’s head about with him, which he tossed up
and down like a ball. When the Duke de Bracciano opened the box which he
had held for the missions, in the garb of a penitent, he found scarcely
any money in it, but plenty of bits of wood, buttons, &c. &c. At first
he flew into a violent passion, thinking it to be an impertinence
levelled at himself personally, but he was soon pacified on discovering
that all the other gentlemen employed in the same business had been
treated in a similar manner.
The Duke of Parma used frequently to clothe himself in a friar’s robe
and live ascetically. One day he remarked to the duchess that her
head-dress was not becoming. “Oh!” said she, “è bello e buono per un
frate.” For her part she spent much of her time in hunting, and loved to
wear man’s attire. The Emperor of Austria told the duchess, his sister,
if she would come to Rome while he and the King of Sweden were there,
they might have great luck at a game much played at Vienna, in which the
best hand consists of two kings and a card called “la matta” (the fool).
The King of Sweden remained in Rome till the middle of April, 1784. The
night before he set out for Naples he presented the Cardinal de Bernis
with a snuff-box, on which was his portrait, set in brilliants, valued
at sixty thousand livres.[43] He also gave one to the Chevalier de
Bernis, estimated at fifteen thousand livres, and a similar one to the
major-domo, besides leaving five hundred sequins for the cardinal’s
servants. A few days before his majesty’s departure, he was received at
the Arcadia by the name of Anaxander, and verses were composed in his
honour, after the fashion known as a Corona, the last line of each piece
being the first of the following one. Most of these effusions referred
chiefly to Queen Christina, the great patroness of the Arcadia, but some
of them also eulogised the king, and alluded to his assumed name as King
of Men. I don’t think his Majesty understood these allusions, for he
told me in the evening that his name was “Anaxamandre.” He seemed,
however, much gratified by the compliments paid to him, but remarked
that he did not deserve them. What he had done, he added, might make
some figure in _history_, but not in _poetry_.
The King of Sweden also presented to the Pope three caskets, containing
Swedish medals, ninety of which were of gold and one hundred and fifty
of silver. His Holiness made a handsome return by a present of two large
mosaics and two pieces of tapestry, besides some prints by Piranesi. One
of the mosaics alone was worth more than the whole of the Swedish
medals, but the king set down on a piece of paper the cost of his own
and the Pope’s presents, and made out that the latter was not worth half
as much as the former.
One night, at Monsignor de Bayane’s, an air balloon[44] was sent up to
gratify his Swedish Majesty, whose arms were painted upon it, with the
motto: “Ce n’est pas un conte.” The king amused himself with making all
kinds of ridiculous experiments with Naples biscuits, in concert with
the Princess Santa Croce.
Being at supper once with the King and Queen of Naples, the latter asked
Gustavus a number of questions about his revolution (in 1772), which he
answered in monosyllables, with evident reluctance. At last she inquired
what the Queen of Sweden was doing all that time. “Why,” said he, “she
remained shut up in her own room, awaiting the event. What have women to
do with political affairs?” However, he kissed the queen one evening as
he was taking leave of her, in the presence of the king, her husband,
who exclaimed: “Malora! in faccia mia!”
About this time I made the acquaintance of Lieutenant Koehler, General
Elliott’s aide-de-camp during the siege of Gibraltar. He said that the
general used to rise every morning at four, but scarcely ever went to
bed before twelve or one, and even then was continually awakened to hear
the reports from the different batteries of every circumstance that
happened in the enemy’s camp. While the floating batteries were burning,
he exclaimed: “They will make us pay for them; for they have a hundred
thousand witnesses to prove that it was we who set them on fire.” As he
walked up and down, watching the conflagration, he caught himself
humming one of his favourite airs: “Le matelot brûle au milieu des
flots.”
While General Elliott was planning the great sortie that destroyed the
Spanish works, he did not speak of it to any one. But when he had
arranged and decided upon every part of the manœuvre, he sent for the
commanding officers, and explained his intentions to them, appointing
each to a particular duty. He then ordered all the suttling-houses to be
closed, in order that the men might be quite sober, and even when they
were under arms he kept them waiting for four hours, so that if any of
them should happen to have been drinking they might have time to recover
from the effects. He then said he should accompany them to the gate, but
no one knew that he meant to go any further, though his aide-de-camp had
observed that his great-coat—which he wore with a belt, and called his
“kitchen fire”—stuck out more than was usual over his ordinary small
sword. But when he arrived at the gate he threw off his coat, and
ordered some one to carry it home, and it was then seen that he had his
fighting sword on, slung by a belt over his shoulder. As the path was
exceedingly difficult, many of the soldiers offered their arm to steady
him, but he told them that they would have enough to do to take care of
themselves, and so contented himself with leaning on his aide-de-camp’s
shoulder. When they reached the Spanish lines he exclaimed: “We have had
a run for it, but it has been the right way.”
After having completely destroyed the enemy’s works, he walked with the
slowest pace and most majestic demeanour. If any man happened to be
wounded, the general always inquired closely into the circumstances of
the case, and severely rebuked any officer who did not take good care of
the lives of his men. If any man was killed, he always asked if he had
left a wife or family, and made it his business that they should be
provided for. Every morning he visited the hospital, to see that it was
kept perfectly clean, and the patients properly attended to. The first
lemons in his garden were always sent there, and whatever else was
likely to contribute to the comfort of the sick and wounded.
Whenever he wanted to propose some new scheme which he had designed in
his own mind, General Elliott used to go to the persons to whose
department it belonged, and mention the matter to them as if asking
their opinion. By degrees he would insinuate his own idea into their
heads, and then applaud them for it, as if it were their own, and invite
them to carry it out immediately. They would thus set about the
performance with greater alacrity, and the general never claimed any
merit for his original idea, but generously relinquished the credit to
others. He likewise banished all libertinism and dissipation from the
garrison, setting himself a good moral example, as he did of activity
and industry. At the same time, he was particularly attentive to procure
for his officers every comfort in his power, and his own table[45] was
remarkably elegant and agreeable. At dessert he always had vast
quantities of natural flowers, and in the spring, when he gave the grand
dinners after reviewing the regiments, he used to raise columns of hoops
covered with canvas, all wreathed round with natural flowers. He had a
good library, and passed a portion of every evening in reading the works
of ancient authors, particularly Cæsar’s Commentaries.
In the early part of the siege there was a great dearth of firewood,
until a violent storm drove towards them almost an entire forest, which
the Spaniards had cut down. The garrison was occupied for three days in
getting it in, and when this supply was nearly exhausted, some old
fire-ships sent against them by the enemy were secured, which lasted
them for the rest of the time.
An officer was walking one day in his garden, which was a very beautiful
one, and had been of great service to the men, and he thought with
sorrow how soon everything in it must perish from want of water. He was
a remarkably devout man, and began praying for rain. Suddenly a shell
from the enemy flew over his head, and struck the rock at a few yards’
distance. Instantly a plentiful stream of water gushed forth, which
sufficed for the entire garrison, and never failed them.
At another time, General Elliott was walking in his own garden with two
of his aides-de-camp. It was a few nights before the affair of the
floating batteries, and a little after midnight. He was conversing with
his companions about these expected ships, wondering where they would be
moored, and calculating the means of destroying them, when a ball of
fire sprang from behind a certain part of the rock and fell into the
sea. Raising his hand with characteristic vivacity, he exclaimed, like a
Roman of the ancient times, “I accept the omen.” It was afterwards
ascertained that the spot where the meteor first appeared was the site
of the batteries that destroyed the ships, and that the spot where it
fell was the exact part of the bay in which those ships were moored.
The general encouraged the country people to bring in provisions, by
telling them to sell their things as dear as they could. In consequence
of which, they would run any risk to supply the garrison. He used to say
that it made his heart ache to see the great dinners that were carried
to the batteries for the officers, while the children were dying of
hunger in the streets. To set an example of abstinence, he himself lived
for several days on six ounces of rice per diem.
The following parody on the old song of The Vicar of Bray was a great
favourite with the general:
And this is law I will maintain,
My tune it ne’er shall alter,
That whosoe’er is King of Spain,
_We_ will keep Gibraltar.[46]
In the course of this year I picked up also the following anecdotes.
Captain Bonapace said that there was an old gentleman, seventy-five
years of age, living at Venice, whose father still allowed him only a
very small weekly sum for pocket money. One day a beggar asked him for
alms. “Come volete,” he exclaimed, “che il figlio del padre eterno vi
dia qualche cosa?”[47]
A Turk, who had been converted to the Roman Catholic religion, being
rebuked for eating fowl on a Friday, sprinkled a little water upon it,
saying: “As a drop of water turned me into a Christian, why should not a
drop of water turn that fowl into a fish?”
Sir James Hall told us, that when Sir Robert Keith introduced Mr.
Trevelyan and Mr. Lemon to Count Kaunitz, the latter asked: “Ces
messieurs parlent-ils Français?” “Fort bien, fort bien, monsieur,”
replied Mr. Lemon. “Pour moi,” said the count, “j’aimais mieux ces
Anglais qui venaient autrefois, et qui parlaient mal le Français.” “Dans
ce cas-là,” answered Sir Robert, “vous serez très content de ces
messieurs-ci.”
The Pope sent to the Grand-Duke of Tuscany, and asked him, as a favour,
to change one hundred thousand crowns’ worth of “cedules.” The
grand-duke expressed his readiness to do so if his Holiness would allow
him to buy as many oxen as he pleased in the Papal territories without
paying the usual tax. To this the Pope agreed, and the grand-duke bought
up an immense quantity of cattle, for which he paid in the “cedules” he
had just been changing.
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