Rome.
In my last, I informed you of my having been seduced almost into
idolatry, by the influence of example, and the pomp which surrounded the
idol. I must now confess that I have actually bowed the knee to Baal,
from mere wantonness. We are told that, to draw near to that Being,
who ought to be the only object of worship, with our lips, while our
hearts are far from him, is a mockery. Such daring and absurd hypocrisy
I shall always avoid: but to have drawn near to _him_, who ought not to
be an object of worship, with the lips only, while the heart continued
at a distance, I hope will be considered as no more than a venial
transgression. In short, I trust, that it will not be looked on as a
mortal sin in Protestants to have kissed the Pope’s toe. If it should,
some of your friends are in a deplorable way, as you shall hear.—It is
usual for strangers to be presented to his Holiness, before they leave
Rome. The D—— of H——, Mr. K——, and myself, have all been at the Vatican
together, upon that important business. Your young acquaintance Jack,
who, having now got a commission in the army, considers himself no longer
as a boy, desired to accompany us. We went under the auspices of a
certain ecclesiastic, who usually attends the English on such occasions.
He very naturally concluded, that it would be most agreeable to us to
have the circumstance of kissing the slipper dispensed with. Having had
some conversation, therefore, with his Holiness, in his own apartment,
while we remained in another room, previous to our introduction; he
afterwards returned, and informed us, that the Pontiff, indulgent to the
prejudices of the British nation, did not insist on that part of the
ceremonial; and therefore a very low bow, on our being presented, was all
that would be required of us.
A bow! cried the D—— of H——; I should not have given myself any trouble
about the matter, had I suspected that all was to end in a bow. I look on
kissing the toe as the only amusing circumstance of the whole; if that is
to be omitted, I will not be introduced at all. For if the most ludicrous
part is left out, who would wait for the rest of a farce?
This was a thunderstroke to our negociator, who expected thanks, at
least, for the honourable terms he had obtained; but who, on the
contrary, found himself in the same disagreeable predicament with other
negociators, who have met with abuse and reproach from their countrymen,
on account of treaties for which they expected universal applause.
The D—— of H—— knew nothing of the treaty which our introducer had just
concluded; otherwise he would certainly have prevented the negociation.
As I perceived, however, that our ambassador was mortified with the
thoughts that all his labour should prove abortive, I said, that,
although he had prevailed with his Holiness to wave that part of the
ceremonial, which his Grace thought so entertaining, yet it would
unquestionably be still more agreeable to him that the whole should be
performed to its utmost extent: this new arrangement, therefore, needed
not be an obstruction to our being presented.
The countenance of our Conductor brightened up at this proposal. He
immediately ushered us into the presence of the Supreme Pontiff. We all
bowed to the ground; the supplest of the company had the happiness to
touch the sacred slipper with their lips, and the least agile were within
a few inches of that honour. As this was more than had been bargained
for, his Holiness seemed agreeably surprised; raised the D—— with a
smiling countenance, and conversed with him in an obliging manner, asking
the common questions, How long he had been in Italy? Whether he found
Rome agreeable? When he intended to set out for Naples?—He said something
of the same kind to each of the company; and, after about a quarter of an
hour or twenty minutes, we took our leave.
Next day, his Holiness sent his compliments to the D——, with a present of
two medals, one of gold, and the other of silver; on both of which the
head of the Pontiff is very accurately engraved.
The manner in which the generality of sovereign princes pass their time,
is as far from being amusing or agreeable, as one can possibly imagine.
Slaves to the tiresome routine of etiquette; martyrs to the oppressive
fatigue of pomp; constrained to walk every levee-day around the same dull
circle, to gratify the vanity of fifty or a hundred people, by whispering
a something or a nothing into the ears of each; obliged to wear a smiling
countenance, even when the heart is oppressed with sadness; besieged by
the craving faces of those, who are more displeased at what is withheld,
than grateful for the favours they have received; surrounded, as he
constantly is, by adepts in the art of simulation, all professing the
highest possible regard; how shall the puzzled monarch distinguish real
from assumed attachment? and what a risk does he run, of placing his
confidence where he ought to have directed his indignation! And, to
all these inconveniencies, when we add this, that he is precluded from
those delightful sensations which spring from disinterested friendship,
sweet equality, and the gay, careless enjoyments of social life, we must
acknowledge, that all that is brilliant in the condition of a sovereign,
is not sufficient to compensate for such restraints, such dangers, and
such deprivations.
So far indeed are we from considering that envied condition as enviable,
that great part of mankind are more apt to think it insupportable; and
are surprised to find, that those unhappy men, whom fate has condemned
to suffer the pains of royalty for life, are able to wait with patience
for the natural period of their days. For, strange as it may appear,
history does not furnish us with an instance, not even in Great Britain
itself, of a king, who hanged, or drowned, or put himself to death in any
other violent manner, from mere tædium, as other mortals, disgusted with
life, are apt to do. I was at a loss to account for such an extraordinary
fact, till I recollected that, however void of resources and activity the
minds of monarchs may be, they are seldom allowed to rest in repose. The
storms to which people in their lofty situation are exposed, occasion
such agitations as prevent the stagnating slime of tædium from gathering
on their minds. That kings do not commit suicide, therefore, affords
only a very slender presumption of the happiness of their condition:
although it is a strong proof, that all the hurricanes of life are not
so insupportable to the human mind, as that insipid, fearless, hopeless
calm, which envelopes men who are devoid of mental enjoyments, and whose
senses are palled with satiety. If there is any truth in the above
representation of the regal condition, would not you imagine that of all
others it would be the most shunned? Would not you imagine that every
human being would shrink from it, as from certain misery; and that at
least every wise man would say, with the Poet,
I envy none their pageantry and show,
I envy none the gilding of their woe?
Not only every wise man, but every foolish man, will adopt the sentiment,
and act accordingly; provided his rank in life removes him from the
possibility of ever attaining the objects in question. For what is
situated beyond the sphere of our hopes, very seldom excites our desires;
but bring the powerful magnets a little nearer, and they attract the
human passions with a force which reason and philosophy cannot controul.
Placed within their reach, the wise and the foolish grasp with equal
eagerness at crowns and sceptres, in spite of all the thorns with which
they are surrounded. Their alluring magic seems to have the power of
changing the very characters and natures of men. In pursuit of them, the
indolent have been excited to the most active exertions, the voluptuous
have renounced their darling pleasures; and even those who have long
walked in the direct road of integrity, have deviated into all the
crooked paths of villany and fraud.
There are passions, whose indulgence is so exceedingly flattering to the
natural vanity of men, that they will gratify them, though persuaded that
the gratification will be attended by disappointment and misery. The love
of power and sovereignty is of this class. It has been a general belief,
ever since the kingly office was established among men, that cares
and anxiety were the constant attendants of royalty. Yet this general
conviction never made a single person decline an opportunity of embarking
on this sea of troubles. Every new adventurer flatters himself that he
shall be guided by some happy star undiscovered by former navigators; and
those who, after trial, have relinquished the voyage—Charles, Christina,
Amadeus, and others—when they had quitted the helm, and were safely
arrived in port, are said to have languished, all the rest of their
lives, for that situation which their own experience taught them was
fraught with misery.
Henry the Fourth of England did not arrive at the throne by the natural
and direct road. Shakespear puts the following Address to Sleep, into the
mouth of this monarch:
——O Sleep! O gentle Sleep!
Nature’s soft nurse, how have I frighted thee,
That thou no more wilt weigh my eyelids down,
And steep my senses in forgetfulness?
Why rather, Sleep, liest thou in smoky cribs,
Upon uneasy pallets stretching thee,
And hush’d with busy night-flies to thy slumber;
Than in the perfum’d chambers of the Great,
Under the canopies of costly state
And lull’d with sounds of sweetest melody?
O thou dull God! why ly’st thou with the vile
In loathsome beds; and leav’st the kingly couch?
A watch-case, or a common ’larum bell?
Wilt thou, upon the high and giddy mast,
Seal up the ship-boy’s eyes, and rock his brains
In cradle of the rude imperious surge;
And in the visitation of the winds,——
Who take the ruffian billows by the top,
Curling their monstrous heads, and hanging them
With deaf’ning clamours in the slipp’ry shrouds,——
Canst thou, O partial Sleep! give thy repose
To the wet sea-boy in an hour so rude;
And, in the calmest and most stillest night,
With all appliances and means to boot,
Deny it to a King?——
However eager and impatient this Prince may have formerly been to obtain
the crown, you would conclude that he was quite cloyed by possession at
the time he made this speech; and therefore, at first sight, you would
not expect that he should afterwards display any excessive attachment to
what gives him so much uneasiness. But Shakespear, who knew the secret
wishes, perverse desires, and strange inconsistencies of the human heart,
better than man ever knew them, makes this very Henry so tenaciously fond
of that which he himself considered as the cause of all his inquietude,
that he cannot bear to have the crown one moment out of his sight, but
orders it to be placed on his pillow when he lies on his death-bed.
Of all diadems, the Tiara, in my opinion, has the fewest charms; and
nothing can afford a stronger proof of the strength and perseverance of
man’s passion for sovereign power, than our knowledge, that even this
ecclesiastical crown is sought after with as much eagerness, perhaps
with more, than any other crown in the world, although the candidates
are generally in the decline of life, and all of a profession which
avows the most perfect contempt of worldly grandeur. This appears the
more wonderful when we reflect, that, over and above those sources
of weariness and vexation, which the Pope has in common with other
sovereigns, he has some which are peculiar to himself.—The tiresome
religious functions which he must perform, the ungenial solitude of
his meals, the exclusion of the company and conversation of women,
restriction from the tenderest and most delightful connexions in life,
from the endearments of a parent, and the _open acknowledgment_ of his
own children; his mind oppressed with the gloomy reflection, that the
man for whom he has the least regard, perhaps his greatest enemy, may
be his immediate successor; to which is added, the pain of seeing his
influence, both spiritual and temporal, declining every day; and the
mortification of knowing, that all his ancient lofty pretensions are
laughed at by one half of the Roman Catholics, all the Protestants, and
totally disregarded by the rest of mankind. I know of nothing which can
be put in the other scale to balance all those peculiar disadvantages
which his Holiness labours under, unless it is the singular felicity
which he lawfully may, and no doubt does enjoy, in the contemplation of
his own infallibility.