Rome.
There are no theatrical entertainments permitted in this city, except
during the Carnival; but they are then attended with a degree of ardour
unknown in capitals whose inhabitants are under no such restraint. Every
kind of amusement, indeed, in this gay season, is followed with the
greatest eagerness. The natural gravity of the Roman citizens is changed
into a mirthful vivacity; and the serious, sombre city of Rome exceeds
Paris itself in sprightliness and gaiety. This spirit seems gradually
to augment, from its commencement; and is at its height in the last
week of the six which comprehend the Carnival. The citizens then appear
in the streets, masked, in the characters of Harlequins, Pantaloons,
Punchinellos, and all the fantastic variety of a masquerade. This humour
spreads to men, women, and children; descends to the lowest ranks, and
becomes universal. Even those who put on no mask, and have no desire to
remain unknown, reject their usual clothes, and assume some whimsical
dress. The coachmen, who are placed in a more conspicuous point of view
than others of the same rank in life, and who are perfectly known by the
carriages they drive, generally affect some ridiculous disguise: Many of
them chuse a woman’s dress, and have their faces painted, and adorned
with patches. However dull these fellows may be, when in breeches, they
are, in petticoats, considered as the pleasantest men in the world; and
excite much laughter in every street in which they appear. I observed to
an Italian of my acquaintance, that, considering the staleness of the
joke, I was surprised at the mirth it seemed to raise. “When a whole
city,” answered he, “are resolved to be merry for a week together, it
is exceedingly convenient to have a few established jokes ready made;
the young laugh at the novelty, and the old from prescription. This
metamorphosis of the coachmen is certainly not the most refined kind of
wit; however, it is more harmless than the burning of heretics, which
formerly was a great source of amusement to our populace.”
The street, called the Corso, is the great scene of these masquerades. It
is crowded every night with people of all conditions: Those of rank come
in coaches, or in open carriages, made on purpose. A kind of civil war
is carried on by the company, as they pass each other. The greatest mark
of attention you can shew your friends and acquaintance, is, to throw a
handful of little white balls, resembling sugar-plums, full in their
faces; and, if they are not deficient in politeness, they will instantly
return you the compliment. All who wish to make a figure in the Corso,
come well supplied in this kind of ammunition.
Sometimes two or three open carriages, on a side, with five or six
persons of both sexes in each, draw up opposite to each other, and fight
a pitched battle. On these occasions, the combatants are provided with
whole bags full of the small shot above mentioned, which they throw at
each other, with much apparent fury, till their ammunition is exhausted,
and the field of battle is as white as snow.
The peculiar dresses of every nation of the globe, and of every
profession, besides all the fantastic characters usual at masquerades,
are to be seen on the Corso. Those of Harlequin and Pantaloon are in
great vogue among the men. The citizens wives and daughters generally
affect the pomp of women of quality; while their brothers, or other
relations, appear as train-bearers and attendants. In general, they seem
to delight in characters the most remote from their own. Young people
assume the long beard, tottering step, and other concomitants of old age;
the aged chuse the bib and rattle of childhood; and the women of quality,
and women of the town, appear in the characters of country maidens, nuns,
and vestal virgins. All endeavour to support the assumed characters, to
the best of their ability; but none, in my opinion, succeed so well as
those who represent children.
Towards the dusk of the evening, the horse-race takes place. As soon as
this is announced, the coaches, cabriolets, triumphal cars, and carriages
of every kind, are drawn up, and line the street; leaving a space in the
middle for the racers to pass. These are five or six horses, trained on
purpose for this diversion; they are drawn up a-breast in the Piazza del
Popolo, exactly where the Corso begins. Certain balls, with little sharp
spikes, are hung along their sides, which serve to spur them on. As soon
as they begin to run, those animals, by their impatience to be gone, shew
that they understand what is required of them, and that they take as much
pleasure as the spectators in the sport. A broad piece of canvas, spread
across the entrance of the street, prevents them from starting too soon:
the dropping that canvas is the signal for the race to begin. The horses
fly off together, and, without riders, exert themselves to the utmost;
impelled by emulation, the shouts of the populace, and the spurs above
mentioned. They run the whole length of the Corso; and the proprietor of
the victor is rewarded by a certain quantity of fine scarlet or purple
cloth, which is always furnished by the Jews.
This diversion, such as it is, seems highly entertaining to the Roman
populace; though it appears a mighty foolish business in the eyes of
Englishmen. An acquaintance of mine, who had entirely ruined a fine
fortune at Newmarket, told me, that Italian horse-races were the most
absurd things in the world; that there were not a hundred guineas lost
or won during a whole Carnival; and nothing could be a greater proof of
the folly of the people, than their spending their time in such a silly
manner.
Masking and horse-races are confined to the last eight days; but there
are theatrical entertainments, of various kinds, during the whole six
weeks of the Carnival. The Serious Opera is most frequented by people
of fashion, who generally take boxes for the whole season. The opera,
with which this theatre opened, was received with the highest applause,
though the music only was new. The Italians do not think it always
necessary to compose new words for what is called a new opera; they
often satisfy themselves with new music to the affecting dramas of
Metastasio. The audience here seem to lend a more profound and continued
attention to the music, than at Venice. This is probably owing to the
entertainment being a greater rarity in the one city than in the other;
for I could perceive that the people of fashion, who came every night,
began, after the opera had been repeated several nights, to abate in
their attention, to receive visitors in their boxes, and to listen only
when some favourite airs were singing: whereas the audience in the pit
uniformly preserve the most perfect silence, which is only interrupted
by gentle murmurs of pleasure from a few individuals, or an universal
burst of applause from the whole assembly. I never saw such genuine marks
of satisfaction displayed by any assembly, on any occasion whatever.
The sensibility of some of the audience gave me an idea of the power of
sounds, which the dulness of my own auditory nerves could never have
conveyed to my mind. At certain airs, silent enjoyment was expressed in
every countenance; at others, the hands were clasped together, the eyes
half shut, and the breath drawn in, with a prolonged sigh, as if the soul
was expiring in a torrent of delight. One young woman, in the pit, called
out, “O Dio, dove sono! che piacer via caccia l’alma?”
On the first night of the opera, after one of these favourite airs,
an universal shout of applause took place, intermingled with demands
that the composer of the music should appear. Il Maestro! il Maestro!
resounded from every corner of the house. He was present, and led
the band of music; he was obliged to stand upon the bench, where he
continued, bowing to the spectators, till they were tired of applauding
him. One person, in the middle of the pit, whom I had remarked displaying
great signs of satisfaction from the beginning of the performance, cried
out, “He deserves to be made chief musician to the Virgin, and to lead
a choir of angels!” This expression would be thought strong, in any
country; but it has peculiar energy here, where it is a popular opinion,
that the Virgin Mary is very fond, and an excellent judge, of music. I
received this information on Christmas morning, when I was looking at two
poor Calabrian pipers doing their utmost to please her, and the Infant in
her arms. They played for a full hour to one of her images which stands
at the corner of a street. All the other statues of the Virgin, which are
placed in the streets, are serenaded in the same manner every Christmas
morning. On my enquiring into the meaning of that ceremony, I was told
the above-mentioned circumstance of her character, which, though you
may have always thought highly probable, perhaps you never before knew
for certain. My informer was a pilgrim, who stood listening with great
devotion to the pipers. He told me, at the same time, that the Virgin’s
taste was too refined to have much satisfaction in the performance of
those poor Calabrians, which was chiefly intended for the Infant; and
he desired me to remark, that the tunes were plain, simple, and such as
might naturally be supposed agreeable to the ear of a child of his time
of life.
Though the serious opera is in highest estimation, and more regularly
attended by people of the first fashion; yet the opera buffas, or
burlettas, are not entirely neglected, even by them, and are crowded,
every night, by the middle and lower classes. Some admired singers have
performed there during the Carnival, and the musical composers have
rendered them highly pleasing to the general taste.
The serious and burlesque operas prevail infinitely over the other
theatrical entertainments at Rome, in spite of the united efforts of
Harlequin, Pantaloon, and Punchinello.
The prohibition of female performers renders the amusement of the Roman
theatre very insipid, in the opinion of some unrefined Englishmen of your
acquaintance who are here. In my own poor opinion, the natural sweetness
of the female voice is ill supplied by the artificial trills of wretched
castratos; and the aukward agility of robust sinewy fellows dressed in
women’s clothes, is a most deplorable substitution for the graceful
movements of elegant female dancers. Is not the horrid practice which
is encouraged by this manner of supplying the place of female singers,
a greater outrage on religion and morality, than can be produced by the
evils which their prohibition is intended to prevent? Is it possible to
believe, that purity of sentiment will be preserved by producing eunuchs
on the stage? I should fear it would have a different effect. At the
funeral of Junia, the wife of Cassius, and sister of Brutus, the statues
of all the great persons connected with her family by blood or alliance,
were carried in procession, except those of her brother and husband. This
_deficiency_ struck the people more than any part of the procession, and
brought the two illustrious Romans into their minds with more force than
if their statues had been carried with the others.—Præfulgebant Cassius
atque Brutus, says Tacitus, eo ipso, quod effigies eorum non visebantur.