Rome in 1860 Part 5

MARCH 7.

The system of silent legal opposition which was carried on formerly at Milan, and now at Venice, is being organised here against the Papal rule.

By one of those mystical compacts to which I have before alluded, it has been resolved to suppress smoking and lottery-gambling. Our anti-tobacconists, or our moral reformers, must not suppose that the Romans have suddenly become alive to the iniquity of either of these pursuits. I wish, indeed, with regard to the latter, I could conscientiously a.s.sert that the Liberal faction had decreed its extinction from any conviction of the degradation and corruption inflicted by it upon their country. I fear, however, from the extent to which lotteries are still encouraged by the Tuscan Government, that such is not the case. The reason of the movement is, indeed, a very simple and material one. From the lotteries and the tobacco monopoly the government derives a very large part of its revenues, and a part, too, which does not excite unpopularity in the same way as direct taxation.

Any extinction, therefore, or indeed any serious diminution of these sources of revenue, would place the Holy See in great difficulties. The profits on the lottery go directly into the pockets of the Government, who are also supplied with very extensive and important patronage by the vast number of petty posts which the system employed for collecting tickets places at their disposal. The tobacco monopoly is farmed out to a company, on whom any loss would fall in the first instance; but if the abstention from tobacco were continued long, the Government would soon feel the effects, through the inability of the company to keep up their present rate of payment.

Whether rightly or wrongly, an attempt to cut off the funds of the Papal exchequer in this manner is certainly being made. Strangers, of course, are not interfered with; but Italians are warned at the doors of the cigar-shops and the lottery-offices not to enter and buy. The sudden diminution in the number of people you meet smoking in the streets is quite remarkable, and, I am sure, would strike any observer who had never heard of the movement. There have been already several disturbances between smokers and non-smokers. The story goes, that in a quarrel arising out of this subject, a man was stabbed in the street the night before last; but in Rome it is almost impossible to make out the truth in a matter of this kind. At several lottery-offices gendarmes have been placed to hinder purchasers of tickets from being molested; and a bitter feeling seems growing up on every side. How long the Romans may have strength of mind enough to abstain from their favourite amus.e.m.e.nts of smoking and gambling, it is impossible to say; but since I witnessed their resolute abstention from the delights of the Carnival, I think better of their courage than I did before.

On Sunday evening, when the great promenade takes place along the Corso, where, a week ago, there was hardly a male mouth without a cigar or cheroot or cigarette inserted in it, I only noticed four smokers in the Corso crowd, and they were all foreigners. The practice is suppressed not only in the streets but in the cafes. For the benefit of the weaker brethren, who cannot screw up their patriotism to total abstinence, pipes are allowed, as the Government profit on tobacco is very small compared with that on cigars. The Italians, however, are not much of pipe-smokers, and the tobacconists are in despair at the total absence of customers. Of course, the partisans of the Government prophesy that the movement will end in smoke, but at present the laugh is on the other side.

March 10.

The Society for the Suppression of Smoking, who by the way send their tracts to the reading-rooms here, of all places in the world, will regret to learn that the Roman Anti-Tobacco Crusade is to expire on and after Sunday next. The leaders of the liberal party have, I think, acted wisely in contenting themselves with an exhibition of their union and power and then withdrawing from the contest. The loss to the Government by the discontinuance of smoking was only an indirect and eventual one; on the other hand, the company, who farm the Tobacco monopoly, would have been ruined by the progress of the movement, and had already been obliged to dismiss a large proportion of their work-people. The tobacconists and street-hawkers of cigars were deprived of their livelihood, and the misery and consequent ill-will created amongst the poor of Rome by keeping up the prohibition would have been serious. Then, too, perhaps it was thought advisable not to impose too heavy a trial on patriotic ardour. Smoke is meat and drink to a Roman, his first care in the morning, his occupation by day, and his last thought at night. Yet you may truly say, that during the time of its prohibition the whole city willingly gave up smoking. If, in order to testify political dissatisfaction, the whole of London were to leave off beer-drinking by private agreement, the expression of feeling would be hardly a more remarkable one.

CHAPTER XIII. THE EMEUTE OF ST JOSEPH'S DAY.

The feast of San Giuseppe is the only _festa_ day in Lent, when the Romans eat fried fish in honour of the occasion,--St Joseph alone knows why. Henceforth the day will have other and less pleasing a.s.sociations.

The garland-wreathed stalls, with the open ovens and the frizzling fritters, were reared as usual at every corner; the shops were closed; the _osterias_ were full; the streets were crowded with holiday-people in holiday-attire, and the day was warm and bright like an early summer-day in England, though it was only the 19th of March. The news of the Romagna elections, with their overwhelming majority in favour of annexation to Sardinia, had been just received in Rome with general exultation. No doubt the festive appearance which marked the city throughout the day was not altogether accidental, but was meant for, and regarded as, an expression of public sympathy with the revolted provinces. St Joseph happens to be the patron saint of the two great Italian popular heroes, Garibaldi and Mazzini, and a demonstration on this day was therefore considered to be in honour of the Three Josephs, the Saint and his two proteges. It was known generally that the adherents of the Liberal party would muster, as usual, on the Porta Pia road, and that the more courageous partizans of the popular cause would be distinguished by wearing a violet in their b.u.t.ton-holes.

The Government had, it seems, decided that even these tacit expressions of disaffection must be suppressed at all costs. With a happy irony of cruelty which appears to distinguish a priestly despotism above every other, the holiday of St Joseph was chosen as the opportunity for striking terror into the hearts of the disloyal Romans; and as the policy which sent out the executioner to excite the populace had not been crowned with its coveted success, it was resolved to create a collision between the police and the people. In the morning, five Roman gentlemen of position and fortune, suspected of sympathy with the liberal cause, received notice that they were exiled from the Papal States, and must leave the city within twenty-four hours. Amongst these gentlemen was St Angeli, who, not long ago, was arrested and imprisoned without charge or trial, and who was but lately released on the remonstrance of the French authorities. There was also Count Silverstrelli, a brother of the gentleman of that name so well known to English sportsmen at Rome. The news of these arrests did not check the proposed demonstration. Towards four o'clock a considerable number of carriages and persons on foot a.s.sembled outside the gates on the Via Nomentana; some patrols, however, of French soldiers were found to be stationed along the road; and as it is the great object of the liberal leaders at Rome to avoid any possibility even of collision between the people and the French troops, it was resolved to adjourn the place of a.s.semblage to the Corso. Whether this was a thought suggested on the moment, or whether it was the result of a preconcerted plan, is a mooted question not likely to be decided; the resolution, however come to, was acted on at once. Neither here, nor elsewhere, I may observe, was there anything of a tumultuous crowd, or the slightest apparent approach to agitation on the part of the mult.i.tude. All a spectator could observe was, that the carriages turned homewards somewhat nearer to the gates than usual, and that the stream of people who sauntered idly along the footpath, as on any other _festa_ day, set out earlier than they are wont to do on their return to the city.

About six o'clock the crowd from the Porta Pia had rea.s.sembled in the Corso. Six o'clock is always the fullest time in that street; private carriages are coming back from the Pincio promenade, and strangers are driving back to their hotels from the rounds of sight-seeing. The Corso, without doubt, was unusually and densely crowded; the footpaths swarmed with pa.s.sengers, and, what was peculiarly galling to the Government, after the failure of the Carnival, there was a double line of aristocratic carriages pa.s.sing up and down; still everything was perfectly peaceable and orderly. At the hour of the _Ave Maria_ the crowd was at its fullest, and this was the time selected for the outrage.

In a scene of general terror and confusion it is impossible to ascertain exact details of the order in which events occurred, but I believe the following account is fairly exact.

There were a great number of the Pontifical police, or _sbirri_, as the Romans call them, scattered in knots of two or three about the Corso; there were also several mounted patrols of the Papal gendarmes. The police did everything in their power to excite the people, hustled the crowd in every direction, used the most opprobrious epithets, and pushed their way along with insulting gestures. There are various stories afloat as to the immediate cause of the outbreak; one, that as a patrol pa.s.sed the crowd hissed; another, that a cry was heard of "Viva Vittorio Emmanuele!" and a third, the Papal version, that on a young man of the name of Barberi being asked by a gendarme why he wore a violet flower on his coat, he answered rudely, and, on the officer trying to arrest him, his comrades pulled him away. All stories agree, that the provocation to the police was given in the Piazza Colonna; and the disturbance, if any, was so trivial, that a friend of mine, who was on the spot at the time, perceived nothing of it, and only fancies he heard a murmur as the police rode by. The provocation, whatever it was, was sufficient as a pretext for the premeditated outrage. The _sbirri_ drew their swords, and slashing right and left, charged the dense crowds of men, women and children. The word was given, and a band of some twenty Papal dragoons, who had been drawn up hard by at the Monte Citorio, waiting under arms for the signal, galloped down the Corso, clearing their way with drawn swords. The _sbirri_ along the street pulled out their cutla.s.s-knives; the dragoons rode on the footway, and struck out at the carriages filled with ladies as they pa.s.sed by, while the police ran a-muck (I can use no other word) amongst the terror-stricken crowd. The cries of the crushed and wounded, the terror of the women, and the savage, brutal fury of the police, added to the panic and confusion of the scene. Not the slightest attempt at resistance was made by the unarmed crowd; in a few minutes the Corso was cleared as if by magic, and order reigned in Rome.

Short as the time was, the havoc wrought was very considerable. Nearer two than one hundred persons were injured in all. Of course the greater number of these persons were not actually wounded, but crushed, or stunned, or thrown down. There was no respect of persons in the use made of their swords by the police. Three French officers of the 40th, who were in plain clothes amongst the crowd, were cut down and severely wounded. An Irish gentleman, the brother of the member for Fermanagh, narrowly escaped a sabre-cut by dodging behind a pillar. The son of Prince Piombino was pursued by a gendarme beneath the gateway of his own palace, and only got off with his hat slit right in two. Persons were hunted down by the soldiery even out of the Corso. One gentleman, an Italian, was chased up the Via Condotti by a dragoon with his sword drawn, and saved himself from a sabre-cut by taking refuge in a pa.s.sage.

Some of the dragoons rode down the Via Ripetta, when they had come to the top of the Corso, and cut down a woman who was pa.s.sing by. As soon as the Corso was cleared, the gendarmes went into the different cafes along the street, and ordered all persons, who were found in them, to go home at once. In one case an infirm old man, who could not make off fast enough, had his face cut open by a sabre-blow; while the backs of the gendarmes' swords were used plentifully to expedite the departure of the cafe frequenters. The exact number of wounded it is of course impossible to ascertain. Persons who received injuries were afraid to show themselves, and still more to call attention to their injuries, for fear of being arrested for disaffection and immured in prison. If I believed the stories I heard on good authority and on most positive a.s.surance, I should put down the number of persons who died from wounds or injuries received during the melee at from twelve to fifteen. Still, long experience has led me to place very little reliance on any Roman story I cannot test; and I am bound to say, I could not sift any one of these stories to the bottom. On the other hand, this fact by no means causes me to disbelieve that fatal injuries may have been received. The extreme difficulty, if not impossibility, of obtaining true information on such a point may be realized from the circ.u.mstance, that a government official was, within my knowledge, dismissed from his post for merely visiting one of the victims who had been wounded by the police. By all accounts, even by that of the Papal partizans, the number of severe injuries inflicted was very considerable; indeed it is impossible it should have been otherwise, when one considers that along a street so crowded that the carriages could only move at a foot's pace, the gendarmes on horse and foot charged recklessly, cutting at every one they could reach. In my statement, however, of the casualties, I have sought to a.s.sert, not what I believe, but only what (as far as one can speak with certainty of what one did not actually see) I know to be the truth.

The worst part of the whole story, in my opinion, was the subsequent conduct of the Government. These outrages, which might have been excused as the result of an unforeseen disturbance, obtained in cold blood the deliberate sanction of the Vatican. The Papal gendarmes received the personal acknowledgments of the Pope for their conduct. The six hors.e.m.e.n who distinguished themselves by clearing the Piazza Colonna were promoted for their services, and all the police on duty that day received extra pay. With unusual prompt.i.tude, in fact not more than a week after the event, the _Giornale di Roma_ contained an official statement of the occurrence. After alleging that hitherto they had considered the unpleasant event of too small importance to deserve notice, they proceed to give the following narrative.

"On Monday, the 19th instant, in the course of the afternoon, the revolutionary faction proposed to make a demonstration in the Corso against the Pontifical Government, by an a.s.semblage of persons hired for the express purpose. On the discovery of these designs, fitting arrangements were made in concert with the French police; and the French troops, as well as the Papal gendarmes, were drawn up, so that in case of need they might suppress any disturbance whatever.

"In fact, about five o'clock in the afternoon crowds were formed in the streets, directed by leaders, and amongst these leaders were two hide-tanners, whom the gendarmes arrested with prompt.i.tude. The crowd, thus raked together, then began to hoot at and insult the gendarmes, and at last attempted to rescue the prisoners. Not succeeding in this attempt, the rioters, whose numbers had now been swollen by a lot of idle fellows from the vilest rabble, crowded together into the Piazza Colonna, and continued to outrage the officers of public justice with every kind of insult. Thereupon a handful of police advanced courageously against the rioters, and proved quite sufficient to disperse and rout them.

"The friends of order applauded the gallant gendarmes in the execution of their duty. In less than an hour the most perfect quiet reigned around, and in the affray a very few persons were injured, whose injuries have proved to be of slight consequence."

Throughout the whole of this doc.u.ment the _suppressio veri_ reigns supreme. It is ludicrous describing the _emeute_ as an event unworthy of special mention, when rewards and praises have been heaped by the Government on the heroes who distinguished themselves in the suppression of this contemptible fracas. In a city like Rome a crowd which filled the whole Corso's length cannot be described as a faction, while the occupants of the aristocratic carriages which lined both sides of the street are not likely to have had two hide-tanners for their leaders. The size of the crowd disposes at once of the idea that the persons who composed it were bribed to be present; and the attempt to identify the action of the French troops with that of the Papal gendarmes, is upset by the plain and simple fact, that the French patrols were on the Porta Pia road, and not in the Corso at all. Indeed, if the whole matter was not too serious to laugh at, there would be something actually comical in the notion of the friends of order, or any person in their senses, stopping to applaud the gendarmes as they trampled their way through the helpless, screaming, terror-stricken crowd, striking indiscriminately at friend or foe. The statement has this value, and this value only, that it gives the formal approval of the Government to the brutal outrages of the Papal police.

For a time the Pro-Papal party were in a state of high exultation. A popular demonstration had been suppressed by a score or so of Pontifical troops. The stock stories about the cowardice of the Italians were revived, and the more intemperate partizans of the Government a.s.serted that the support of the French army was no longer needed, and that the Pope would shortly be able to rely for protection on his own troops alone. There was in these exultations a certain sad amount of truth. I am no blind admirer of the Romans, and I freely admit that no high-spirited crowd would have submitted to be cut down by a mere handful of gendarmes. I admit, too, that this blood-letting stopped for the time the fashion of demonstrations. It is however at best a doubtful compliment to a government that it has succeeded in crushing the spirit and energy of a nation; but to this compliment, I fear, the Papal rule is only too well ent.i.tled. "The lesson given on St Joseph's day," so wrote the organ of the Papacy in Paris, "has profited;" how, and to whom, time will show. Hardly, I think; at any rate, to the religion of love and mercy, or to those who preach its doctrines, and enforce its teachings by lessons such as this.

CHAPTER XIV. A COUNTRY FAIR.

Far away among the Sabine hills, right up the valley of the Teverone, as the Romans now-a-days call the stream which once bore the name of Anio, hard by the mountain frontier-land of Naples, lies the little town of Subiaco. I am not aware that of itself this out-of-the-world nook possesses much claim to notice. Antiquarians, indeed, visit it to search after the traces of a palace, where Nero may or may not have dwelt.

Students of ecclesiastical lore make pilgrimages thereto, to behold the famous convent of the Santo Speco, the home of the Benedictine order. In summer-time the artists in Rome wander out here to take shelter from the burning heat of the flat Campagna land, and to sketch the wild Salvator Rosa scenery which hems in the town on every side. I cannot say, however, that it was love of antiquities or divinity, or even scenery, which led my steps Subiaco-wards. The motive of my journey was of a less elevated and more matter-of-fact character. Some few days beforehand a yellow play-bill-looking placard caught my eye as I strolled down the Corso. A perusal of its contents informed me, that on the approaching feast-day of St Benedict there was to be held at Subiaco the great annual _Festa e fiera_. Many and various were the attractions offered. There was to be a horse-race, a _tombola_, or open lottery, an illumination, display of fire-works, high ma.s.s, and, more than all, a public procession, in which the sacred image of San Benedetto was to be carried from the convent to the town. Such a bill of fare was irresistible, even had there not been added to it the desire to escape from the close muggy climate of Rome into the fresh mountain-air,--a desire whose intensity nothing but a long residence here can enable one to appreciate.

Subiaco is some forty odd miles from Rome, and amongst the petty towns of the Papal States is a place of some small importance. The means, however, of communication with the metropolis are of the scantiest. Two or three times a week a sort of Italian _eil-wagen_, a funereal and tumble-down, flea-ridden coach, with windows boarded up so high that, when seated, you cannot see out of them, and closed hermetically, after Italian fashion, shambles along at jog-trot pace between the two towns, and takes a livelong day, from early morning to late at night, to perform the journey. Other public mode of transit there is none; and therefore, not having patience for the diligence, I had to travel in a private conveyance, and if there had been any one else going from the fair to Rome, which there was not, they must perforce have done the same. As to the details of the journey, and the scenery through which you pa.s.s, are they not written in the book of Murray, wherein whoso likes may read them? It is enough for me to note one or two facts which tell their own story. Throughout the forty and odd miles of the road I traversed, I never pa.s.sed through a single village or town, with the exception of Tivoli; and between that town and Rome, a distance of some twenty miles, never even caught sight of one. After Tivoli, when the road enters the mountains, there are a dozen small towns or so, all perched on the summits of high hills, under which the road winds in pa.s.sing. Detached houses or cottages there are, as a rule, none--certainly not half a dozen in all--the whole way along. There was little appearance of traffic anywhere. A few rough carts, loaded with charcoal or wood for the Roman markets; strings of mules, almost buried beneath high piles of brushwood, which were swung pannier-wise across their backs; and a score of peasant- farmers mounted on s.h.a.ggy cart-horses, and jogging towards the fair, const.i.tuted the way-bill of the road. The mountain slopes were apparently altogether barren, or at any rate uncultivated. In the plain of the valley, bearing traces of recent inundation from the brook-torrent which ran alongside the road in strange zig-zag windings, were a number of poorly tilled fields, half covered with stones. The season was backward, and I could see no trace of anything but hard, fruitless labour; and the peasants, who were working listlessly, seemed unequal to the labour of cultivating such unprofitable lands. Personally the men were a vigorous race enough, but the traces of the malaria fever, the sunken features and livid complexion, were painfully common; their dress too was worn ragged and meagre, while the boys working in the fields constantly left their work to beg as I pa.s.sed by, a fact which, considering how little frequented this district is by travellers, struck me unpleasantly. With my English recollections of what going to the fair used to be, I looked but in vain for farmers' carts or holiday-dressed foot-folk going towards Subiaco. I did not meet one carriage of any description, except the diligence without a pa.s.senger, and could not have guessed, from the few knots of peasants I pa.s.sed, that there was anything unusual going on in what I suppose I might call the county town of the district.

By the time I reached Subiaco, the first day of the fair was at its height. The topography of the place is of the simplest description,--a narrow street running up a steep hill, with a small market-place; on the summit stands a church; half a dozen _cul-de-sac_ alleys on the right, terminated by the wall that hems in the river at their feet; a long series of broken steps on the left, leading to a dilapidated castle, where the Legate ought to reside, but does not; such are the main features of the town. In fact, if you fancy Snow Hill, Holborn, shrunk to about a quarter of its width, all its houses reduced to much such a condition as that gaunt corner-building which for years past has excited my ungratified curiosity; Newgate gaol replaced by the facade of a dingy Italian church; the dimensions of the locale considerably diminished; and a small section of the dark alleys between the prison and Farringdon Street, bounded by the Fleet-ditch uncovered; you will have a very fair impression of the town of Subiaco.

The fair, such as it was, was confined to this High Street and to the little square at its head. The street was filled with people, chiefly men, bartering at the doors of the un-windowed shops. A very small crowd would fill so small a place, but I think there could hardly have been less than a thousand persons. Cutlery and hosiery of the rudest kind seemed to be the great articles of commerce. There were, of course, an office of the Pontifical Lottery, which was always crammed, an itinerant vendor of quack medicines and a few scattered stalls (not a single booth by the way), where shoes and caps and pots and pans and the "wonderful adventures of St Balaam" were sold by hucksters of Jewish physiognomy.

Lean, black-bristled pigs ran at every step between your legs, and young kids, slung across their owners' shoulders with their heads downwards, bleated piteously. The only sights of a private description were a series of deformed beggars, drawn in go-carts, and wriggling with the most hideous contortions; but the fat woman, and the infant with two heads, and the learned dog, whom I had seen in all parts of Europe, were nowhere to be found. There was not even an organ boy or a hurdy-gurdy.

Music, alas! like prophecy, has no honour in its own country. The crowd was of a very humble description; the number of bonnets or hats visible might be counted on one's fingers, and the fancy peasant costumes of which Subiaco is said to be the great rendezvous, were scarcely more in number. There was very little animation apparent of any kind, very little of gesticulation, or still less of shouting; indeed the crowd, to do them justice, were perfectly quiet and orderly, for a holiday crowd almost painfully so. The party to which I belonged, and which consisted of four Englishmen, all more or less attired in those outlandish costumes which none but Englishmen ever wear, and no Englishman ever dreams of wearing in his own country, excited no comment whatever, and scarcely attracted a pa.s.sing glance. Fancy what the effect would be of four bloused and bearded Frenchmen strolling arm-in-arm through a village wake in an out-of-the-way English county? By the time I had strolled through the fair, the guns, or rather two most dilapidated old fowling-pieces, were firing as a signal for the race. The horses were the same as those run at the Carnival races in Rome, and as the only difference was, that the course, besides being over hard slippery stones, was also up a steep hill-street, and the race therefore somewhat more cruel, I did not wait to see the end, but wandered up the valley to hear the vespers at the convent of the Santo Speco. I should have been sorry to have missed the service. Through a number of winding pa.s.sages, up flights of narrow steps, and by terrace-ledges cut from the rock, over which I pa.s.sed, and overhanging the river-side, I came to a vault-like chapel with low Saracenic arches and quaint old, dark recesses, and a dim shadowy air of mystery. Round the candle-lighted altar, standing out brightly from amidst the darkness, knelt in every posture some seventy monks; and ever and anon the dreary nasal chanting ceased, and a strain of real music burst from out the hidden choir, rising and dying fitfully. The whole scene was beautiful enough; but,--what a pity there should be a "but" in everything,--when you came to look on the scene in the light of a service, the charm pa.s.sed away. There were plenty of performers but no audience; the congregation consisted of four peasant-women, two men, and a child in arms. The town below was crowded. The service was one of the chief ones in the year, but somehow or other the people stopped away.

When the music was over, I was shown through the convent. There were, as usual, the stock marvels: a hole through which you looked and beheld a--shall I call it sacred?--picture of Satan with horns and hoof complete; a small plot of ground, where used to grow the thorns on which St Benedict was wont to roll himself in order to quench the desires of manhood, and where now grow the roses into which St Francis transformed the said thorns, in honour of his brother saint. The monk who showed me the building talked much about the misery of the surrounding poor. At the convent's foot lies a little wood of dark green ilexes, of almost unknown age, valued on account of some tradition about St Benedict, and perhaps still more as forming a kind of oasis on the barren, bare mountain-side. Armed guards have to be placed at night around this wood, to save it from the depredations of the peasantry; every tree belonging to the convent and not guarded was sure to be cut down. No one, so my informant told me, would believe the sums of money the convent had spent of late on charity, and how for this purpose even their daily supplies of food had been curtailed; but alas! it was only like pouring water into a sieve, for the people were poorer than ever. I own that when the old priest pointed out the number of churches and convents you could see in the valley below, and spoke, with regret, of the time when there were twelve convents round Subiaco alone, I felt that the cause of this hopeless misery was not far to seek, though hard to remedy.

On my way homewards to the town I beheld the half dozen sky-rockets which composed the display of fire-works, and also the two rows of oil-lamps on the cornices over the church-door, which formed the brilliant illuminations. Neither sight seemed to collect much crowd or create much excitement. As the dusk came on the streets emptied fast, and by night- time the town was almost deserted; and, except that the wine-shops were still filled with a few hardened topers, every sign of the fair had vanished. There was not even a trace of drunkenness apparent. The next morning the same scene was repeated with little difference, save that the crowd was rather greater, and a band of military music played in the market-place. About noon the holy procession was seen coming down the winding road which leads from the convent to the town. I had taken up my position on a roadside bank, and enjoyed a perfect view. There were a number of shabby flags and banners preceded by a hundred able-bodied men dressed in dirty-white surplices, rather dirtier than the colour of their faces. A crowd of ragged choristers followed swinging incense-pots, droning an unintelligible chant, and fighting with each other. Then came a troop of monks and scholars with bare heads and downcast eyes. All these walked in twos and twos, and carried a few crucifixes raised aloft.

The monks were succeeded by a pewter-looking bust, which, I suppose, was a likeness of St Benedict, and the bust was followed by a mule, on which, in a snuff-coloured coat, black tights, white neckcloth, and a beef-eater's hat, the whole sheltered beneath a green carriage umbrella, rode His Excellency the Governor of the district. Behind him walked his secretary, the Syndic of Subiaco, four gendarmes, and three broken-down, old livery-clad beadles, who carried the umbrellas of these high dignitaries. In truth, had it not been for the unutterable shabbiness of the whole affair, I could have fancied I saw the market scene in "Martha," and "The Last Rose of Summer" seemed to ring unbidden in my ears. Not a score of un-official spectators accompanied the procession from the convent, and the interest caused by it appeared but small; the devotion absolutely none. The fact which struck me most throughout was the utter apathy of the people. Not a person in the place I spoke to--and I asked several--had any notion who the governor was. The nearest approach that I got to an answer was from one of the old beadles, who replied to my question, "Chi sa?" "E una roba da lontano;" and with this explanation that the governor was "a thing that came from a distance," I was obliged to rest satisfied. When the procession reached the town the band joined in, the governor got off his mule, room was made for our party in the rank behind him, I suppose, as "distinguished foreigners;"

and so with banners flying, crosses nodding, drums beating, priests and choristers chanting, we marched in a body into the church, where the female portion of the crowd and all the beggars followed us. I had now, however, had enough of the "humours of the fair," and left the town without waiting to try my luck at the _tombola_, which was to come off directly High Ma.s.s was over.

CHAPTER XV. THE HOLY WEEK.

The _nil admirari_ school are out of favour. In our earnest working age, it is the fashion to treat everything seriously, to find in every thing a deep hidden meaning, in fact, to admire everything. Since the days of Wordsworth and Peter Bell, every petty poet and romantic writer has had his sneer at the shallow sceptic to whom a cowslip was a cowslip only, and who called a spade a spade. I feel, therefore, painfully that I am not of my own day when I express my deliberate conviction, that the ceremonies of Holy Week at Rome are--the word must come out sooner or later--an imposture. This is not the place to enter into the religious aspect of the Catholic question, nor if it were, should I have any wish to enter the lists of controversy as a champion of either side. I can understand that for some minds the ideas of Church unity, of a mystic communion of the faithful, and of an infallible head of a spiritual body have a strange attraction, nay, even a real existence. I can understand too, that for such persons all the pomps and pageantry of the Papal services present themselves under an aspect to me unintelligible. Whether these ideas be right or wrong, I am not able, nor do I care, to argue.

The Pontifical ceremonies, however, have not only a spiritual aspect, but a material and very matter-of-fact one. They are after all great spectacles got up with the aid of music and upholstery and dramatic mechanism. Now, how far in this latter point of view the ceremonies are successful or not, I think from some small experience I am pretty well qualified to judge; and if I am asked whether, as ceremonies, the services of the Church of Rome are imposing and effective, I answer most unhesitatingly, No. I know that this a.s.sertion upsets a received article of faith in Protestant England as to the seductive character of the Papal ceremonies. I remember well the time when I too believed that the shrines of the old faith were the haunts of sense-enthralling grandeur, of wild enchantment and bewitching beauty; when I too dreamt how amidst crowds of rapt worshippers, while unearthly music pealed around you and the fragrant incense floated heavenwards, your soul became lost to everything, save to a feeling of unreasoning ecstasy. In fact, I believed in the enchantments of Papal pageantry, as firmly as I believed that a Lord Mayor's feast was a repast in which Apicius would have revelled, or that an opera ball was a scene of oriental and voluptuous delight. Alas! I have seen all, and known all, and have found all three to be but vanity.

Now the question as to the real aspect of the Papal pageantry, and the effects produced by it upon the minds, not of controversialists, but of ordinary spectators, is by no means an unimportant one with reference to the future prospects of Italy and the Papacy. Let me try then, not irreverently or depreciatingly, but as speaking of plain matters of fact, to tell you what you really do see and hear at the greatest and grandest of the Roman ceremonies. Of all the Holy Week services none have a more European fame, or have been more written or sung about, than the Misereres in the Sistine Chapel. Now to be present at these services you have to start at about one o'clock, or midday, in full evening costume, dress-coat and black trowsers. Any man who has ever had to walk out in evening attire in the broad daylight, will agree with me that the sensation of the general shabbiness and duskiness of your whole appearance is so strong as to overcome all other considerations, not to mention your devotional feelings. In this attire you have to stand for a couple of hours amongst a perspiring and ill-tempered crowd, composed of tourists and priests, for the Italians are too wise to trouble themselves for such an object. During these two mortal hours you are pushed forward constantly by energetic ladies bent on being placed, and pushed back by the Swedish guards, who defend the entrance. The conversation you hear around you, and perforce engage in, is equally unedifying, both religiously and intellectually, a sort of _rechauffe_ of Murray's handbook, flavoured with discussions on last Sunday's sermon. When you are reduced to such a frame of mind and body as is the natural result of time so employed, the doors of the chapel are opened, and you have literally to fight your way in amidst a crowd of ladies hustling, screaming, and fainting. If you are lucky, you get standing room in a sort of open pen, whence, if you are tall, you can catch a sight of the Pope's tiara in the distance; or, if you belong to the softer s.e.x, you get a place behind the screen, where you cannot see, but, what is much better, can sit. The atmosphere of the candle-lighted, crammed chapel is overpowering, and occupation you have none, except trying in the dim light to decipher the frescoes on the roof, with your head turned backwards. For three long hours you have a succession of dreary monotonous strains, forming portions of a chant, to you unintelligible, broken at intervals by a pa.s.sage of intonation. There is no organ or instrumental music, and the absence of contralto voices is poorly compensated for by the unnatural accents of the Papal subst.i.tutes for female vocalists.

The music itself may be very fine,--competent critics declare it is, and I have no doubt they are right; but I say, unhesitatingly, it is not music that addresses itself to popular tastes, or produces any feeling save that of weariness on nine-tenths of its hearers. You can mark clearly the expression of satisfaction which steals over every face as candle after candle of the stack of wax-lights before the altar is put out successively, at intervals of some twenty minutes. If the ceremony were reduced to one-tenth of its length, it might be impressive, but a dirge which goes on for three hours, and a chandelier which takes the same time to have its lights snuffed out, become an intolerable nuisance.

The dying cadence of the Miserere is undoubtedly grand; but, in the first place, it comes when your patience is exhausted; and, in the second, it lasts so long, that you begin to wonder whether it will ever end. The slavery to conventional rules in England, which causes one to shrink from the charge of not caring about music as zealously as one could, and from pleading guilty to personal cowardice, makes Englishmen, and still more Englishwomen, profess to be delighted with the Miserere; but, in their heart of hearts, their feeling is much such as I have given utterance to.

The ceremonies in St Peter's itself are, as sights, much better; but yet I often think that the very size and grandeur of the giant edifice increases the _mesquin-ness_ (for want of an English word I must manufacture a French one) of the whole ceremony. At the exposition of the relics, for instance, you see in a very lofty gallery two small figures, holding up something--what, you cannot tell--set up in a rich framework of gold and jewels; it may be a piece of the cross, or a martyr's finger-bone, or a horse's tooth--what it is neither you nor any one else can guess at that distance. If the whole congregation knelt down in adoration, the artistic effect would unquestionably be fine, but then not one person in seven does kneel, and therefore the effect is lost. So it is with the washing of the high altar. If one priest alone went up and poured the wine and oil over the sacred stone, and then cleansed the shrine from any spot or stain, the grandeur of the idea would not be marred by the monotony of the performance; but when some four hundred priests and choristers defile past, each armed with a chip besom, like those of the buy-a-broom girls of our childhood, and each gives a dab to the altar as he pa.s.ses, the whole scene becomes tiresome, if not absurd. The same fatal objection applies to the famous washing of the feet at the Trinita dei Pellegrini. As a mere matter of simple fact, there is nothing very interesting in seeing a number of old women's feet washed, or in beholding a number of peasants who would be much better if the washing extended above their feet, engaged in gulping down an unsavoury repast. The whole charm of the thing rests in the idea, and this idea is quite extinguished by the extreme length and tediousness of the whole proceeding. The feet have too evidently been washed before, and the pilgrims are too palpably got up for the occasion.

The finest ceremony I have ever witnessed in Rome is the High Ma.s.s at St Peter's on Easter-day; but as a theatrical spectacle, in which light alone I am now speaking of it, it is marred by many palpable defects.

Whenever I have seen the Pope carried in his chair in state, I can never help thinking of the story of the Irishman, who, when the bottom and seat of his sedan-chair fell out, remarked to his bearers, that "he might as well walk, but for the honour of the thing." One feels so strongly that the Pope might every bit as well walk as ride in that ricketty, top-heavy chair, in which he sits, or rather sways to and fro, with a sea-sick expression. Then the ostrich feathers are so very shabby, and the whole get-up of the procession is so painfully "not" regardless of expense. You see Cardinals with dirty robes, under the most gorgeous stoles, while the surplices are as yellow as the stained gold-worked bands which hang across them. There is, indeed, no sense of congruity or the inherent fitness of things about the Italian ceremonials. A priest performs ma.s.s and elevates the host with muddy boots on, while the Pope himself, in the midst of the grandest service, blows his nose on a common red pocket-handkerchief. The absence of the organ detracts much from the impressiveness of the music in English ears, while the constant bowings and genuflexions, the drawling intonations, and the endless monotonous psalms, all utterly devoid of meaning for a lay-worshipper, added to the utter listlessness of the congregation, and even of the priests engaged in celebration of the service, destroy the impression the gorgeousness of the scene would otherwise produce.

The insuperable objection, however, to the impressiveness of the whole scene is the same as mars all Papal pageants,--I mean the length and monotony of the performance. One chant may be fine, one prostration before the altar may be striking, one burst of the choral litany may act upon your senses; but, when you have chant after chant, prostration after prostration, chorus after chorus, each the twin brother to the other, and going on for hours, without apparent rhyme or reason, you cease to take thought of anything, in order to speculate idly when, if ever, there is likely to be an end. There is no variety, and little change, too, about the ceremonies. When you have seen one you have seen all; and when you have seen them once, you can understand how to the Romans themselves these sights have become stale and dull, till they look upon them much as I fancy the musician in the orchestra of the old Princess's must have looked upon one of Kean's Shaksperian revivals when the season was far spent.

CHAPTER XVI. ISOLATION OF ROME.