The Carnival at Rome.—Masquerade at a Theatre.—Ludicrous
mistake there.—Joke on a New England Clergyman.—Beauty
of Roman Women.—Gaieties of the Carnival.—Sugar-plum
artillery.—The Races.—Extinguishing of Tapers.—Observance of
Lent, and of Palm Sunday.—Canonical orders of the Romish
Church.—Cardinals.—Popes.—Ceremonies of Holy Week.—The Benediction
of the Pope.—Impression left by these ceremonies.—Illumination of
St. Peter’s.—Fireworks.
We have had the Carnival, with its follies and fun, and are now in the
Holy Week. During the former, the Papal Government relaxes much of its
severity, admitting of balls, masquerades, ballets, and operas. Although
Rome has several theatres, it is not allowed to open them unless in
these seasons of licensed gaiety; the clerical character of the
government imposing observances, that are not much attended to
elsewhere.
The public masquerades take place in the theatres. One, in particular,
in our immediate neighbourhood, is much frequented for such purposes,
and the music alone repays one for the trouble of dressing and masking.
The pit and stage are floored, so as to form an immense sala; and the
boxes, which in Europe are almost always separated from each other by
partitions, are privately hired by families and parties to sit in
unmasked. I confess to the folly of preferring a mask, though my
ambition has never yet tempted me to go beyond the domino. These places
contain the usual proportions of warriors, Greeks, peasants, doctors,
which are a favourite character at Rome, devils and buffoons. The
Italians are a people of strong humour, and they act their parts, on the
whole, better than most other nations; though a masquerade, at the best,
is but a dull affair, it is so much easier to find money to cover the
body with a rich dress, than brains to support the character!
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.