Letters of Felix Mendelssohn Bartholdy from Italy and Switzerland Part 6

Your FELIX.

[13] This picture is in the Borghese Gallery.

Rome, February 1st, 1831.

I intended not to write to you till my birthday, but possibly two days hence I may not be in a writing mood, and must drive all fancies away by hard work. It does not seem probable that the Papal military band will surprise me in the morning,[14] and as I have told all my acquaintances that I was born on the 25th, I think the day will glide quietly by; I prefer this to a trivial half-and-half celebration. I will place your portrait before me in the morning, and feel happy in looking at it and in thinking of you. I shall then play over my military overture, and select my favourite dish for dinner, from the _carte_ at the _Lepre_. It is not unprofitable to be obliged to do all this for one's self, both on birthdays and other days. I feel isolated enough, and am rather partial to the other extreme. At night the Torlonias are so obliging as to give a ball to eight hundred persons; on Wednesday, the day before, and on Friday, the day after my birthday, I am invited to the house of some English friends. During the previous week, I have been busily engaged in sight-seeing, and revisited many well-known objects;--thus I was in the Vatican, the Farnesina, Corsini, the Villa Lante, Borghese, etc. Two days ago I saw the frescoes for the first time in Bartholdy's house;[15] inasmuch as the English ladies who reside there, and who have transformed the painted saloon into a sleeping apartment, with a four-post bed, would never hitherto permit me to enter it. So this was my first visit to my uncle's house, where at last I saw his pictures, and the view of the city.

It was a n.o.ble, regal idea to have these frescoes; and the execution of such a sublime thought, in spite of every kind of impediment and annoyance, simply in order that the design should be carried out, seems to me very charming.

[14] On the 3rd of February, 1830, the bands of some regiments in Berlin gave Mendelssohn a serenade in honour of his birthday.

[15] The Prussian Consul-General Bartholdy, who died in Rome, and was an uncle of Felix Mendelssohn's.

But to turn to an entirely different subject. In many circles here, it is the fashion to consider piety and dulness synonymous, and yet they are very different; our German clergyman here is not behindhand in this respect. There are men in Rome with an amount of fanaticism credible in the sixteenth century, but quite monstrous in the present day; they all wish to make converts, abusing each other in a Christian manner, and each ridiculing the belief of his neighbour, till it is quite too sad to hear them. As if to have simplicity, and to be simple, were the same thing! Unfortunately I must here retract my favourite axiom, that _goodwill_ can effect all things, _ability_ must accompany it; but I am soaring too high, and my father will lecture me. I wish this letter were better, but we have snow on the ground; the roofs in the Piazza di Spagna are quite white, and heavy clouds of snow are gathering; nothing can be more odious to us Southerners, and we are freezing. The Monte Pincio is a ma.s.s of ice. Your Northern Lights have their revenge on us. Who can write or think with any degree of warmth? I was so pleased at the idea of being a whole winter without snow, but now I must give up that notion. The Italians say that spring breezes will come in a few days; then gay life, and gay letters, will be resumed. Farewell! may you enjoy every good, and think of me.

FELIX.

Rome, February 8th, 1831.

The Pope is elected: the Pope is crowned. He performed ma.s.s 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 Sat.u.r.day, 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 Emba.s.sy; to-day the Spanish Amba.s.sador 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, surpa.s.s all the imagination can conceive, for my sober pen is not equal to the task. What a different aspect everything has a.s.sumed 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 l.u.s.trous 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 a.s.sumsit 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 peac.o.c.ks' 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 Sat.u.r.day 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 a.s.signed 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 a.s.sailed by a shower of sugar comfits. I looked up; they had been flung by some young ladies whom I had seen occasionally at b.a.l.l.s, but scarcely knew, and when in my embarra.s.sment 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.

FELIX.

Rome, February 22nd, 1831.

A thousand thanks for your letter of the 8th, which I received yesterday, on my return from Tivoli. I cannot tell you, dear f.a.n.n.y, how much I am delighted with your plan about the Sunday music. This idea of yours is most brilliant, and I do entreat of you, for Heaven's sake, not to let it die away again; on the contrary, pray give your travelling brother a commission to write something new for you. He will gladly do so, for he is quite charmed with you, and with your project. You must let me know what voices you have, and also take counsel with your subjects as to what they like best (for the people, O f.a.n.n.y, have rights). I think it would be a good plan to place before them something easy, interesting and pleasing,--for instance, the Litany of Sebastian Bach. But to speak seriously, I recommend the "Shepherd of Israel," or the "Dixit Dominus," of Haendel.

Do you mean to play something during the intervals to these people?

I think this would not be unprofitable to either party, for they must have time to take breath, and you must study the piano, and thus it would become a vocal and instrumental concert. I wish so much that I could be one of the audience, and compliment you afterwards. Be discreet and indulgent, and avoid fatiguing either yourself or the voices of your singers. Do not be irritable when things go badly; say very little on the subject to any one. Lastly, above all, endeavour to prevent the choir feeling any tedium, for this is the princ.i.p.al point. One of my pieces certainly owes its birth to this Sunday music. When you wrote to me about it lately, I reflected whether there was anything I could send you, thus reviving an old favourite scheme of mine, which has however now a.s.sumed such vast proportions, that I cannot let you have any part of it by E----, but you shall have it at some future time.

Listen and wonder! Since I left Vienna I have partly composed Goethe's first "Walpurgis Night," but have not yet had courage to write it down. The composition has now a.s.sumed a form, and become a grand Cantata, with full orchestra, and may turn out well. At the opening there are songs of spring, etc., and plenty of others of the same kind. Afterwards, when the watchmen with their "Gabeln, und Zacken, und Eulen," make a great noise, the fairy frolics begin, and you know that I have a particular foible for them; the sacrificial Druids then appear, with their trombones in C major, when the watchmen come in again in alarm, and here I mean to introduce a light mysterious tripping chorus; and lastly to conclude with a grand sacrificial hymn. Do you not think that this might develop into a new style of Cantata? I have an instrumental introduction, as a matter of course, and the effect of the whole is very spirited. I hope it will soon be finished. I have once more begun to compose with fresh vigour, and the Italian symphony makes rapid progress; it will be the most sportive piece I have yet composed, especially the last movement. I have not yet decided on the _adagio_, and think I shall reserve it for Naples. "Verleih uns Frieden" is completed, and "Wir glauben all" will also be ready in a few days. The Scotch symphony alone is not yet quite to my liking; if any brilliant idea occurs to me, I will seize it at once, quickly write it down, and finish it at last.

FELIX.

Rome, March 1st, 1831.

While I write this date, I shrink from the thought of how time flies. Before this month is at an end the Holy Week begins, and when it is over, my stay in Rome will be drawing to a close. I now try to reflect whether I have made the best use of my time, and on every side I perceive a deficiency. If I could only compa.s.s one of my two symphonies! I must and will reserve the Italian one till I have seen Naples, which must play a part in it, but the other also seems to elude my grasp; the more I try to seize it and the nearer the end of this delightful quiet Roman period approaches, the more am I perplexed, and the less do I seem to succeed. I feel as if it will be long indeed before I can write again as freely as here, and so I am eager to finish what I have to do, but I make no progress.

The "Walpurgis Night" alone gets on quickly, and I hope it will soon be accomplished. Besides, I cannot resist every day sketching, that I may carry away with me reminiscences of my favourite haunts.

There is still much that I wish to see, so I perfectly well know that this month will suddenly come to an end, and much remain undone; and indeed it is quite too beautiful here.

Rome is considerably changed, and neither so gay nor so cheerful as formerly.[16] Almost all my acquaintances are gone; the promenades and streets are deserted, the galleries closed, and it is impossible to gain admittance into them. All news from without almost entirely fails us, (for we saw the details about Bologna first in the 'Allgemeine Zeitung' yesterday;) people seldom or never congregate together; in fact, everything has subsided into entire rest; but then the weather is lovely, and no one can deprive us of this warm, balmy atmosphere. Those who are most to be pitied in the present state of affairs are the Vernet ladies, who are unpleasantly situated here. The hatred of the entire Roman populace is, strangely enough, directed against the French Pensionaries, believing that their influence alone could easily effect a revolution. Threatening anonymous letters have been repeatedly sent to Vernet; indeed he one day found an armed Transteverin stationed in front of the windows of his studio, who however took to flight when Vernet fetched his gun: and as the ladies are now entirely alone, and isolated in the villa, their family are naturally very uneasy. Still all continues quiet and serene within the city, and I am quite convinced it will remain so.

[16] Some disturbances had in the meantime broken out in the Ecclesiastical States, at Bologna.

The German painters are really more contemptible than I can tell you. Not only have they cut off their whiskers and moustaches, and their long hair and beards, openly declaring that as soon as all danger is at an end they will let them grow again, but these tall stalwart fellows go home as soon as it is dark, lock themselves in, and discuss their fears together. They call Horace Vernet a braggart, and yet he is very different from these miserable creatures, whose conduct makes me cordially despise them. Latterly I occasionally visited some of the modern studios. Thorwaldsen has just finished a statue in clay of Lord Byron. He is seated amidst ancient ruins, his feet resting on the capital of a column, while he is gazing into the distance, evidently about to write something on the tablets he holds in his hand. He is represented not in Roman costume, but in a simple modern dress, and I think it looks well, and does not destroy the general effect. The statue has the natural air and easy pose so remarkable in all this sculptor's works, and yet the poet looks sufficiently gloomy and elegiac, though not affected. I must some day write you a whole letter about the 'Triumph of Alexander,' for never did any piece of sculpture make such an impression on me; I go there every week, and stand gazing at that alone, and enter Babylon along with the Conqueror. I lately called on A----; he has brought with him some admirable pencil sketches from Naples and Sicily, so I should be glad to take some hints from him, but I fear that he is a considerable exaggerator, and does not sketch faithfully. His landscape of the Colosseum, at H. B., is a beautiful romance; for I cannot say that in the original I ever perceived woods of large cypresses and orange-trees, or fountains or thickets in the centre, extending to the ruins. Moreover, _his_ moustaches have also disappeared.

I have something amusing to tell you in conclusion. I wish, O my f.a.n.n.y, that as a contrast to your Sunday harmony you had heard the music we perpetrated last Sunday evening. We wished to sing the Psalms of Marcello, being Lent, and the best dilettanti consequently a.s.sembled. A Papal singer was in the middle, a _maestro_ at the piano, and we sang. When a soprano solo came, all the ladies pressed forward, each insisting on singing it, so it was executed as a _tutti_. The tenor by my side never alighted on the right note, and rambled about in the most insecure regions. When I chimed in as second tenor, he dropped into my part, and when I tried to a.s.sist him, he seemed to think that was my original part, and kept steadily to his own. The Papal singer at one instant sang in the soprano falsetto, and presently took the first ba.s.s; soon after he quaked out the _alt_, and when all that was of no avail, he smiled sorrowfully across at me, and we nodded mysteriously to each other. The _maestro_, in striving to set us all right, repeatedly lost his own place, being a bar behind, or one in advance, and thus we sang with the most complete anarchy, just as we thought fit. Suddenly came a very solemn solo pa.s.sage for the ba.s.s, which _all_ attacked valiantly, but at the second bar broke into a chorus of loud laughter, in which we unanimously joined, so the affair ended in high good-humour. The people who had come as audience talked at the pitch of their voices, and then went out and dispersed. Eynard came in and listened to our music for a time, then made a horrid grimace, and was seen no more. Farewell! Health and happiness attend you all!

FELIX.

Rome, March 15th, 1831.

The letters of introduction that R---- sent me, have been of no use to me here. L---- likewise, to whom I was presented by Bunsen, has not taken the smallest notice of me, and tries to look the other way when we meet. I rather suspect the man is an aristocrat. Albani admitted me, so I had the honour of conversing for half an hour with a Cardinal. After reading the introductory letter, he asked me if I was a pensioner of the King of Hanover. "No," said I. He supposed that I must have seen St. Peter's? "Yes," said I. As I knew Meyerbeer, he a.s.sured me that he could not endure his music; it was too scientific for him; indeed, everything he wrote was so learned, and so devoid of melody, that you at once saw that he was a German, and the Germans, _mon ami_, have not the most remote conception of what melody is! "No," said I. "In _my_ scores,"

continued he, "all sing; not only the voices sing, but also the first violin sings, and the second violin also, and the oboe sings, and so it goes on, even to the horns, and last of all the double-ba.s.s sings too." I was naturally desirous, in all humility, to see some of his music; he was modest, however, and would show me nothing, but he said that wishing to make my stay in Rome a agreeable as possible, he hoped I would pay a visit to his villa, and I might take as many of my friends with me as I chose. It was near such and such a place. I thanked him very much, and subsequently boasted considerably of this gracious permission; but presently discovered that this villa is open to the public, and any one can go there who chooses. Since that time I have heard no more of him, and as this and some other instances have inspired me with respect, mingled with aversion, towards the highest Roman circles, I resolved not to deliver the letter to Gabrielli, and was satisfied by having the whole Bonaparte family pointed out to me on the promenade, where I met them daily.

I think Mizkiewicz very tiresome. He possesses that kind of indifference which bores both himself and others, though the ladies persist in designating it melancholy and la.s.situde; but this makes it no better in my eyes. If he looks at St. Peter's, he deplores the times of the hierarchy; if the sky is blue and beautiful, he wishes it were dull and gloomy; if it is gloomy, he is freezing; if he sees the Colosseum, he wishes he had lived at that period. I wonder what sort of a figure he would have made in the days of t.i.tus!

You inquire about Horace Vernet, and this is, indeed, a pleasant theme. I believe I may say that I have learned something from him, and every one may do the same. He produces with incredible facility and freshness. When a form meets his eye which touches his feelings, he instantly adopts it, and while others are deliberating whether it can be called beautiful, and praising or censuring, he has long completed his work, entirely deranging our aesthetical standard. Though this facility cannot be acquired, still its principle is admirable, and the serenity which springs from it, and the energy it calls forth in working, nothing else can replace.

Among the alleys of evergreen trees, where at this season of blossoms the fragrance is so charming, in the midst of the shrubberies and gardens of the Villa Medicis, stands a small house, in which as you approach you invariably hear a tumult,--shouting and wrangling, or a piece executed on a trumpet, or the barking of dogs; this is Vernet's _atelier_. The most picturesque disorder everywhere prevails; guns, a hunting-horn, a monkey, palettes, a couple of dead hares or rabbits; the walls covered with pictures, finished and unfinished. "The Invest.i.ture of the National c.o.c.kade"

(an eccentric picture which does not please me), portraits recently begun of Thorwaldsen, Eynard, Latour-Maubourg, some horses, a sketch of Judith, and studies for it; the portrait of the Pope, a couple of Moorish heads, bagpipers, Papal soldiers, my unworthy self, Cain and Abel, and last of all a drawing of the interior of the place itself, all hang up in his studio.

Lately his hands were quite full, owing to the number of portraits bespoken from him; but in the street, he saw one of the Campagna peasants, who are armed and mounted by Government, and ride about Rome. The singular costume caught the artist's eye, and next day he began a picture representing a similar peasant, sitting on his horse in bad weather in the Campagna, and seizing his gun in order to take aim at some one with it; in the distance are visible a small troop of soldiers, and the desolate plain. The minute details of the weapon, where the peasant peeps through the soldier's uniform, the wretched horse and its shabby trappings, the discomfort prevalent throughout, and the Italian phlegm in the bearded fellow, make a charming little picture; and no one can help envying him, who sees the real delight with which his brush traverses the stretched canvas, at one moment putting in a little rivulet, and a couple of soldiers, and a b.u.t.ton on the saddle; then lining the soldier's great-coat with green. Numbers of people come to look on: during my first sitting twenty persons, at least, arrived one after the other. Countess E---- asked him to allow her to be present when he was at work; but when he darted on it as a hungry man does on food, her amazement was great. The whole family are, as I told you, good people, and when old Charles talks about his father Joseph, you must feel respect for them, and I maintain that they are n.o.ble. Good-bye, for it is late, and I must send my letter to the Post.

FELIX.

Rome, March 29th, 1831.

In the midst of the Holy Week. To-morrow for the first time I am to hear the Miserere, and while you last Sunday performed "The Pa.s.sion," the Cardinals and all the priesthood here received twisted palms and olive-branches. The Stabat Mater of Palestrina was sung, and there was a grand procession. My work has got on badly during the last few days. Spring is in all her bloom; a genial blue sky without, such as we at most only dream of, and a journey to Naples in my every thought; so even a quiet time to write is not to be found. C----, who is usually a cool fellow, has written me such a glowing letter from Naples! The most prosaic men become poetical when they speak of it. The finest season of the year in Italy, is from the 15th of April to the 15th of May. Who can wonder that I find it impossible to return to my misty Scotch mood? I have therefore laid aside the Scotch symphony for the present, but hope to write out the "Walpurgis Night" here. I shall manage to do so if I work hard to-day and to-morrow, and if we have bad weather, for really a fine day is too great a temptation. As soon as an impediment occurs, I hope to find some resource in the open air, so I go out and think of anything and everything but my composition, and do nothing but lounge about, and when the church bells begin to ring, it is the Ave Maria already. All I want now is a short overture. If I can accomplish this, the thing is complete, and I can write it out in a couple of days. Then I have done with music, and leaving all music-paper here, I shall go off to Naples, where, please G.o.d, I mean to do nothing.

Two French friends of mine have tempted me to _flaner_ with them a good deal of late. When they are together, it is either a perpetual tragedy, or comedy,--as you will. Y---- distorts everything, without a spark of talent, always groping in the dark, but esteeming himself the creator of a new world; writing moreover the most frightful things, and yet dreaming and thinking of nothing but Beethoven, Schiller, and Goethe; a victim at the same time to the most boundless vanity, and looking down condescendingly on Mozart and Haydn, so that all his enthusiasm seems to me very doubtful.

Z---- has been toiling for three months at a little rondo on a Portuguese theme; he arranges neatly and brilliantly, and according to rule, and he now intends to set about composing six waltzes, and is in a state of perfect ecstasy if I will only play him over a number of Vienna waltzes. He has a high esteem for Beethoven, but also for Rossini and for Bellini, and no doubt for Auber,--in short, for everybody. Then my turn comes to be praised, who would be only too glad to murder Y----, till he chances to eulogize Gluck, when I can quite agree with him. I like nevertheless to walk about with these two, for they are the only musicians here, and both very pleasant, amiable persons. All this forms an amusing contrast.

You say, dear mother, that Y---- must have a fixed aim in his art; but this is far from being my opinion. I believe he wishes to be married, and is in fact worse than the other, because he is by far the most affected of the two. I really cannot stand his obtrusive enthusiasm, and the gloomy despondency he a.s.sumes before ladies,--this stereotyped genius in black and white; and if he were not a Frenchman, (and it is always pleasant to a.s.sociate with them, as they have invariably something interesting to say,) it would be beyond endurance. A week hence, I shall probably write you my last letter from Rome, and then you shall hear of me from Naples. It is still quite uncertain whether I go to Sicily or not; I almost think not, as in any event I must have recourse to a steamboat, and it is not yet settled that one is to go.

In haste, yours, FELIX.

Rome, April 4th, 1831.

The Holy Week is over, and my pa.s.sport to Naples prepared. My room begins to look empty, and my winter in Rome is now among my reminiscences of the past. I intend to leave this in a few days, and my next letter (D. V.) shall be from Naples. Interesting and amusing as the winter in Rome has been, it has closed with a truly memorable week; for what I have seen and heard far surpa.s.sed my expectations, and being the conclusion, I will endeavour in this, my last letter from Rome, to give you a full description of it all. People have often both zealously praised and censured the ceremonies of the Holy Week, and have yet omitted, as is often the case, the chief point, namely its perfection as a complete whole.