Naples.
As I sauntered along the Strada Nuova lately, I perceived a groupe of
people listening, with much attention, to a person who harangued them
in a raised, solemn voice, and with great gesticulation. I immediately
made one of the auditory, which increased every moment; men, women, and
children bringing seats from the neighbouring houses, on which they
placed themselves around the orator. He repeated stanzas from Ariosto,
in a pompous, recitativo cadence, peculiar to the natives of Italy;
and he had a book in his hand, to assist his memory when it failed. He
made occasional commentaries in prose, by way of bringing the Poet’s
expression nearer to the level of his hearers’ capacities. His cloak
hung loose from one shoulder; his right arm was disengaged, for the
purposes of oratory. Sometimes he waved it with a slow, smooth motion,
which accorded with the cadence of the verses; sometimes he pressed it to
his breast, to give energy to the pathetic sentiments of the Poet. Now
he gathered the hanging folds of the right side of his cloak, and held
them gracefully up, in imitation of a Roman senator; and anon he swung
them across his left shoulder, like a citizen of Naples. He humoured the
stanza by his voice, which he could modulate to the key of any passion,
from the boisterous bursts of rage, to the soft notes of pity or love.
But, when he came to describe the exploits of Orlando, he trusted neither
to the powers of his own voice, nor the Poet’s genius; but, throwing
off his cloak, and grasping his cane, he assumed the warlike attitude
and stern countenance of that hero; representing, by the most animated
action, how he drove his spear through the bodies of six of his enemies
at once; the point at the same time killing a seventh, who would also
have remained transfixed with his companions, if the spear could have
held more than six men of an ordinary size upon it at a time.
Il Cavalier d’ Anglante ove pui spesse
Vide le genti e l’arme, abbasso l’asta,
Ed uno in quella, e poscia un altro messe
E un altro, e un altro, che sembrar di pasta,
E fino a sei ve n’infilzò, e li resse
Tutti una lancia; e perche’ ella non basta
A piu Capir, lasciò il settimo fuore
Ferito si che di quel colpo muore.
This stanza our declaimer had no occasion to comment upon, as Ariosto
has thought fit to illustrate it in a manner which seemed highly to the
taste of this audience. For, in the verse immediately following, Orlando
is compared to a man killing frogs in marshy ground, with a bow and arrow
made for that purpose; an amusement very common in Italy, and still more
so in France.
Non altrimente nell’ estrema arena
Veggiam le rane de’ canali e fosse
Dal cauto arcier ne i fianchi, e nella schiena
L’una vicina all’ altera esser percosse,
Ne dalla freccia, fin che tutta piena
Non sia da un capo all’ altero esser rimosse.
I must however do this audience the justice to acknowledge, that they
seemed to feel the pathetic and sublime, as well as the ludicrous, parts
of the ancient Bard.
This practice of rehearsing the verses of Ariosto, Tasso, and other
poets, in the street, I have not observed in any other town of Italy;
and I am told it is less common here than it was formerly. I remember
indeed, at Venice, to have frequently seen mountebanks, who gained their
livelihood by amusing the populace at St. Mark’s Place, with wonderful
and romantic stories in prose.—“Listen, Gentlemen,” said one of them;
“let me crave your attention, ye beautiful and virtuous ladies; I have
something equally affecting and wonderful to tell you; a strange and
stupendous adventure, which happened to a gallant knight.”—Perceiving
that this did not sufficiently interest the hearers, he exalted his
voice, calling out that his Knight was uno Cavalliero Cristiano. The
audience seemed still a little fluctuating. He raised his voice a note
higher, telling them that this Christian Knight was one of their own
victorious countrymen, “un’ Eroe Veneziano.” This fixed them; and he
proceeded to relate how the Knight, going to join the Christian army,
which was on its march to recover the Sepulchre of Christ from the hands
of the Infidels, lost his way in a vast wood, and wandered at length to
a castle, in which a lady of transcendent beauty was kept prisoner by
a gigantic Saracen, who, having failed in all his endeavours to gain
the heart of this peerless damsel, resolved to gratify his passion by
force; and had actually begun the horrid attempt, when the shrieks of
this chaste maiden reached the ears of the Venetian hero; who, ever ready
to relieve virgins in distress, rushed into the apartment from whence
the cries issued. The brutal ravisher, alarmed at the noise, quits the
struggling lady, at the very instant when her strength began to fail;
draws his flaming sword; and a dreadful combat begins between him and
the Christian Knight, who performs miracles of courage and address in
resisting the blows of this mighty giant; till, his foot unfortunately
slipping in the blood which flowed on the pavement, he fell at the feet
of the Saracen; who, immediately seizing the advantage which chance gave
him, raised his sword with all his might, and—Here the orator’s hat flew
to the ground, open to receive the contributions of the listeners; and
he continued repeating, “raised his sword over the head of the Christian
Knight”—“raised his bloody, murderous brand, to destroy your noble,
valiant countryman.”—But he proceeded no farther in his narrative, till
all who seemed interested in it had thrown something into the hat. He
then pocketed the money with great gravity, and went on to inform
them, that, at this critical moment, the Lady, seeing the danger which
threatened her deliverer, redoubled her prayers to the Blessed Mary, who,
a virgin herself, is peculiarly attentive and propitious to the prayers
of virgins. Just as the Saracen’s sword was descending on the head of
the Venetian, a large bee flew, quick as thought, in at the window,
stung the former very smartly on the left temple, diverted the blow,
and gave the Christian Knight time to recover himself. The fight then
recommenced with fresh fury; but, after the Virgin Mary had taken such
a decided part, you may believe it was no match. The Infidel soon fell
dead at the feet of the Believer. But who do you think this beauteous
maiden was, on whose account the combat had begun? Why no other than the
sister of the Venetian Hero.—This young lady had been stolen from her
father’s house, while she was yet a child, by an Armenian merchant, who
dealt in no other goods than women. He concealed the child till he found
means to carry her to Egypt; where he kept her in bondage, with other
young girls, till the age of fifteen, and then sold her to the Saracen.
I do not exactly remember whether the recognition between the brother
and sister was made out by means of a mole on the young lady’s neck, or
by a bracelet on her arm, which, with some other of her mother’s jewels,
happened to be in her pocket when she was stolen; but, in whatever manner
this came about, there was the greatest joy on the happy occasion; and
the lady joined the army with her brother, and one of the Christian
commanders fell in love with her, and their nuptials were solemnized at
Jerusalem; and they returned to Venice, and had a very numerous family of
the finest children you ever beheld.
At Rome, those street-orators sometimes entertain their audience with
interesting passages of real history. I remember having heard one, in
particular, give a full and true account how the bloody heathen emperor
Nero set fire to the city of Rome, and sat at a window of his golden
palace, playing on a harp, while the town was in flames. After which the
Historian proceeded to relate, how this unnatural emperor murdered his
own mother; and he concluded by giving the audience the satisfaction
of hearing a particular detail of all the ignominious circumstances
attending the murderer’s own death.
This business of street-oratory, while it amuses the populace, and keeps
them from less innocent and more expensive pastimes, gives them at the
same time some general ideas of history. Street-orators, therefore, are
a more useful set of men than another class, of which there are numbers
at Rome, who entertain companies with extemporaneous verses on any given
subject. The last are called Improuvisatoris; and some people admire
these performances greatly. For my own part, I am too poor a judge of the
Italian language either to admire or condemn them; but, from the nature
of the thing, I should imagine they are but indifferent. It is said,
that the Italian is peculiarly calculated for poetry, and that verses
may be made with more facility in this than in any other language. It
may be more easy to find smooth lines, and make them terminate in rhime
in Italian, than in any language; but to compose verses with all the
qualities essential to good poetry, I imagine leisure and long reflection
are requisite. Indeed I understand, from those who are judges, that those
extempore compositions of the Improuvisatori are in general but mean
productions, consisting of a few fulsome compliments to the company, and
some common-place observations, put into rhime, on the subject proposed.
There is, however, a lady of an amiable character, Signora Corilla, whose
extempore productions, which she repeats in the most graceful manner,
are admired by people of real taste. While we were at Rome, this lady
made an appearance one evening, at the assembly of the Arcadi, which
charmed a very numerous company; and of which our friend Mr. R—y has
given me such an account, as makes me regret that I was not present.
After much entreaty, a subject being given, she began, accompanied by
two violins, and sung her unpremeditated strains with great variety of
thought and elegance of language. The whole of her performance lasted
above an hour, with three or four pauses, of about five minutes each,
which seemed necessary, more that she might recover her strength and
voice, than for recollection; for that gentleman said, that nothing could
have more the air of inspiration, or what we are told of the Pythian
Prophetess. At her first setting out, her manner was sedate, or rather
cold; but gradually becoming animated, her voice rose, her eyes sparkled,
and the rapidity and beauty of her expressions and ideas seemed
supernatural. She at last called on another member of the society to
sing alternately with her, which he complied with; but Mr. R——y thought,
though they were _Arcades ambo_, they were by no means _cantare pares_.
Naples is celebrated for the finest opera in Europe. This however happens
not to be the season of performing; but the common people enjoy _their_
operas at all seasons. Little concerts of vocal and instrumental music
are heard every evening in the Strada Nuova, the Chiaca, the Strada di
Toledo, and other streets; and young men and women are seen dancing to
the music of ambulatory performers all along this delightful bay. To a
mere spectator, the amusements of the common people afford more delight,
than those of the great; because they seem to be more enjoyed by the
one class, than by the other. This is the case every where, except in
France; where the high appear as happy as those of middle rank, and the
rich are very near as merry as the poor. But, in most other countries,
the people of great rank and fortune, though they flock to every kind of
entertainment, from not knowing what to do with themselves, yet seem to
enjoy them less than those of inferior rank and fortune.
The English particularly are said to be in this predicament. This may
be true in some degree; though I imagine there is more appearance than
reality in it; owing to an absurd affectation of indifference, or what
the French call _nonchalance_, which has prevailed of late years. A few
insipid characters in high life, whose internal vacancy leads them to
seek amusement in public places, and whose insensibility prevents them
from finding it, have probably brought this appearance of a want of all
enjoyment into fashion. Those who wish to be thought of what is called
the _ton_, imitate the mawkish insipidity of their superiors in rank,
and imagine it distinguishes them from the vulgar, to suppress all the
natural expressions of pity, joy, or admiration, and to seem, upon
all occasions, in a state of complete apathy. Those amiable creatures
frequent public places, that it may be said of them, _They are not as
other men are_. You will see them occasionally at the playhouse, placed
in the boxes, like so many busts, with unchanging features; and, while
the rest of the audience yield to the emotions excited by the poet and
the actors, those men of the _ton_ preserve the most dignified serenity
of countenance; and, except that they from time to time pronounce
the words _Pshaw!_ and _Stuff!_—one would think them the express
representatives of the Pagan gods, who _have eyes but do not see, and
ears but do not hear_.
I know not what may be the case at the opera; but I can assure you there
are none of those busts among the auditories which the street-performers
at Naples gather around them. I saw very lately a large cluster of men,
women, and children, entertained to the highest degree, and to all
appearance made exceedingly happy, by a poor fellow with a mask on his
face, and a guitar in his hands. He assembled his audience by the songs
he sung to the music of his instrument, and by a thousand merry stories
he told them with infinite drollery. This assembly was in an open place,
facing the bay, and near the palace. The old women sat listening, with
their distaffs, spinning a kind of coarse flax, and wetting the thread
with their spittle; their grandchildren sprawled at their feet, amused
with the twirling of the spindle. The men and their wives, the youths
and their mistresses, sat in a circle, with their eyes fixed on the
musician, who kept them laughing for a great part of the evening with his
stories, which he enlivened occasionally with tunes upon the guitar. At
length, when the company was most numerous, and at the highest pitch of
good humour, he suddenly pulled off his mask, laid down his guitar, and
opened a little box which stood before him, and addressed the audience
in the following words, as literally as I can translate them:—“Ladies
and gentlemen, there is a time for all things; we have had enough of
jesting; innocent mirth is excellent for the health of the body, but
other things are requisite for the health of the soul. I will now, with
your permission, my honourable masters and mistresses, entertain you
with something serious, and of infinitely greater importance; something
for which all of you will have reason to bless me as long as you live.”
Here he shook out of a bag a great number of little leaden crucifixes.—“I
am just come from the Holy House of Loretto, my fellow christians,”
continued he, “on purpose to furnish you with those jewels, more
precious than all the gold of Peru, and all the pearls of the ocean. Now,
my beloved brethren and sisters, you are afraid that I shall demand a
price for those sacred crosses, far above your abilities, and something
correspondent with their value, by way of indemnification for the fatigue
and expence of the long journey which I have made on your account, all
the way from the habitation of the Blessed Virgin to this thrice renowned
city of Naples, the riches and liberality of whose inhabitants are
celebrated all over the globe. No, my generous Neapolitans; I do not wish
to take the advantage of your pious and liberal dispositions, I will not
ask for those invaluable crucifixes (all of which, let me inform you,
have touched the soot of the holy image of the Blessed Virgin, which was
formed by the hands of St. Luke; and, moreover, each of them has been
shaken in the Santissima Scodella, the sacred porringer in which the
Virgin made the pap for the infant Jesus); I will not, I say, ask an
ounce of gold, no not even a crown of silver; my regard for you is such,
that I shall let you have them for a penny a piece.”
You must acknowledge, my friend, that this morsel of eloquence was a
very great pennyworth; and when we recollect the sums that some of our
acquaintance receive for their oratory, though they never could produce
so pathetic a specimen, you will naturally conclude that eloquence is a
much rarer commodity in England than in Italy.