Rome, February 8th, 1831.
The Pope is elected: the Pope is crowned. He performed mass in St.
Peter's on Sunday, and conferred his benediction; in the evening
the dome was illuminated, succeeded by the Girandola; the Carnival
began on Saturday, and pursues its headlong course in the most
motley forms. The city has been illuminated each evening. Last
night there was a ball at the French Embassy; to-day the Spanish
Ambassador gives a grand entertainment. Next door to me they sell
_confetti_, and how they do shout! And now I might as well stop,
for why attempt to describe what is, in fact, indescribable? You
ought to make Hensel tell you of these splendid _fetes_, which in
pomp, brilliancy, and animation, surpass all the imagination can
conceive, for my sober pen is not equal to the task. What a
different aspect everything has assumed during the last eight days,
for now the mildest and most genial sun is shining, and we remain
in the balcony enjoying the air till after sunset. Oh, that I could
enclose for you, in this letter, only one quarter of an hour of all
this pleasure, or tell you how life actually flies in Rome, every
minute bringing its own memorable delights! It is not difficult to
give _fetes_ here; if the simple architectural outlines are lighted
up, the dome of St. Peter's blazes forth in the dark purple
atmosphere, calmly shining. If there are fireworks, they brighten
the gloomy solid walls of the Castle of St. Angelo, and fall into
the Tiber; when they commence their fantastic _fetes_ in February,
the most lustrous sun shines down on them and beautifies them. It
is a wondrous land.
But I must not forget to tell you that I spent my birthday very
differently from what I expected. I must however be brief, for an
hour hence I go to join the Carnival in the Corso. My birthday had
three celebrations--the eve, the birthday itself, and the day
after. On the 2nd of February, Santini was sitting in my room in
the morning, and in answer to my impatient questions about the
Conclave, he replied with a diplomatic air, that there was little
chance of a Pope being elected before Easter. Herr Brisbane also
called, and told me that after leaving Berlin, he had been in
Constantinople, and Smyrna, etc., and inquired after all his
acquaintances in Berlin, when suddenly the report of a cannon was
heard, and then another, and the people rushed across the Piazza di
Spagna, shouting with all their might. We three started off, Heaven
knows how, and ran breathlessly to the Quirinal, where the man was
just retreating, who had shouted through a broken window--"Annuncio
vobis gaudium magnum; habemus Papam R. E. dominum Capellari, qui
nomen assumsit Gregorius XVI." All the Cardinals now crowded into
the balcony, to breathe fresh air, and laughed, and talked together
It was the first time they had been in the open air for fifty
days, and yet they looked so gay, their red caps shining brightly
in the sun; the whole Piazza was filled with people, who clambered
on the obelisk, and on the horses of Phidias, and the statues
projected far above in the air. Carriage after carriage drove up,
amid jostling and shouting. Then the new Pope appeared, and before
him was borne the golden cross, and he blessed the crowd for the
first time, while the people at the same moment prayed, and cried
"Hurrah!" All the bells in Rome were ringing, and there was firing
of cannons, and flourishes of trumpets, and military music. This
was the _eve_ of my birthday.
Next morning I followed the crowd down the long street to the
Piazza of St. Peter's, which looked finer than I had ever seen it,
lit up brightly by the sun, and swarming with carriages; the
Cardinals in their red coaches, driving in state to the sacristy,
with servants in embroidered liveries, and people innumerable, of
every nation, rank, and condition; and high above them the dome and
the church seeming to float in blue vapour, for there was
considerable mist in the morning air. And I thought that Capellari
would probably appropriate all this to himself when he saw it; but
I knew better. It was all to celebrate my birthday; and the
election of the Pope, and the homage, a mere spectacle in honour of
me; but it was well and naturally performed; and so long as I live.
I shall never forget it.
The Church of St. Peter's was crowded to the door. The Pope was
borne in on his throne, and fans of peacocks' feathers carried
before him, and then set down on the High Altar, when the Papal
singers intoned, "_Tu es sacerdos magnus_." I only heard two or
three chords, but it required no more; the sound was enough. Then
one Cardinal succeeded another, kissing the Pope's foot and his
hands, when he in turn embraced them. After surveying all this for
a time, standing closely pressed by a crowd, and unable to move, to
look suddenly aloft to the dome, as far as the lantern, inspires a
singular sensation. I was with Diodati, among a throng of
Capuchins; these saintly men are far from being devotional on an
occasion of this kind, and by no means cleanly. But I must hasten
on; the Carnival is beginning, and I must not lose any portion of
it.
At night, (in honour of my birthday,) barrels of pitch were burned
in all the streets, and the Propaganda illuminated. The people
thought this was owing to its being the former residence of the
Pope, but _I_ knew it was because I lived exactly opposite, and I
had only to lean out of my window to enjoy it all. Then came
Torlonia's ball, and in every corner were seen glimpses of red caps
above, and red stockings below. The following day they worked very
hard at scaffoldings, platforms, and stages for the Carnival;
edicts were posted up about horse-racing, and specimens of masks
were displayed at the windows, and (in celebration of the day
following my birthday) the illumination of the dome, and the
Girandola were fixed for Sunday. On Saturday all the world went to
the Capitol, to witness the form of the Jews' supplications to be
suffered to remain in the Sacred City for another year; a request
which is refused at the foot of the hill, but after repeated
entreaties, granted on the summit, and the Ghetto is assigned to
them. It was a tiresome affair; we waited two hours, and after all,
understood the oration of the Jews as little as the answer of the
Christians. I came down again in very bad humour, and thought that
the Carnival had commenced rather unpropitiously. So I arrived in
the Corso and was driving along, thinking no evil, when I was
suddenly assailed by a shower of sugar comfits. I looked up; they
had been flung by some young ladies whom I had seen occasionally at
balls, but scarcely knew, and when in my embarrassment I took off
my hat to bow to them, the pelting began in right earnest. Their
carriage drove on, and in the next was Miss T----, a delicate young
Englishwoman. I tried to bow to her, but she pelted me too, so I
became quite desperate, and clutching the _confetti_, I flung them
back bravely; there were swarms of my acquaintances, and my blue
coat was soon as white as that of a miller. The B----s were
standing on a balcony, flinging _confetti_ like hail at my head;
and thus pelting and pelted, amid a thousand jests and jeers, and
the most extravagant masks, the day ended with races.
The following day there was no carnival, but as a compensation, the
Pope conferred his benediction from the Loggia, in the Piazza of
St. Peter's; he was consecrated as Bishop in the Church, and at
night the dome was lighted up. The sudden, nay _instantaneous_
change the illumination of the building effects, you must ask
Hensel to paint or to describe, whichever he prefers. Nothing can
be more startling than the sudden and surprising vision, of so
many hundred human beings, previously invisible, now revealed as
it were in the air, working and moving about--and the glorious
Girandola,--but who can conceive it! Now the gaieties recommence.
Farewell! in my next letter I mean to continue my description.
Yesterday, at the Carnival, flowers and _bonbons_ were indiscriminately
thrown, and a mask gave me a bouquet, which I have dried, and mean
to bring home for you. All idea of occupation is out of the question
at present; I have only composed one little song; but when Lent comes,
I intend to be more industrious. Who can at such a moment think either
of writing or music? I must go out, so farewell, dear ones.