If ever anybody had cause to regret the suppression of lotteries, it is the whole tribe of play-writers and authors. Never will there be found again a “Deus ex Machina,” so serviceable or so unfailing as the lottery. If your plot wanted a solution, or your intrigue adénoûment, or your novel a termination, you could always cut through all your difficulties by the medium of a lottery-ticket. The virtuous but impoverished hero became at once a very Crœsus, and the worldly-minded parent bestowed his daughter and his blessing on the successful gambler, who, by the way, never purchased his own ticket, but always had it bequeathed to him as a legacy. Alas, lottery-tickets, like wealthy uncles and places under government, have gone out of date. The fond glance ofmemory turns in vain towards the good old times, when the lottery was in its glory. It is, however, some comfort to reflect, that if, as devout Catholics assert, the Papacy is eternal, then in Rome, at least, lotteries are eternal also. In truth, the lottery is a great, I might almost saythegreat Pontifical institution. It is a trade not only sanctioned, but actively supported, by the Government. Partly, therefore, as a matter of literary interest, and partly as a curious feature in the economics of the Papal States, I have made various personal researches into the working of the lottery-system, and shall endeavour to give the theoretical not the practical result of my investigations; the latter result being, I am afraid, of a negative description.
Murray, who knows everything, states that in Rome alone fifty-five millions of lottery-tickets are taken annually. Now though I would much sooner doubt the infallibility of the Pope than that of the author of the most invaluable of hand-books, I cannot help thinking there is some strange error in this calculation. The whole population of Rome is under 180,000, and therefore, according to this statement, every living soul in the city, man, woman, priest and child,must, on an average, take one ticket a day, to make up the amount stated. If, however, without examining the strict arithmetical correctness of this statement, you take it, just as the old Romans used “sex centi” for an indefinite number, as an expression of the fact, that the number of the lottery-tickets taken annually in Rome is quite incredible, you will not be far wrong. During the year 1858 the receipts of the lottery (by which I suppose are meant the net, not the gross receipts) are officially stated to have been 1,181,000 scudi, or about an eleventh of the whole Pontifical revenue. It is true the expenses of the Lottery are charged amidst the state expenditure for the year at 788,987 scudi, but then a large portion of this expense is directly repaid to the Government, and the remainder is paid to the lottery-holders, who all have to pay heavily for the privilege of keeping a lottery-office, and who form also the most devoted of the Papal adherents, more especially since the liberal party have set their faces against the lottery. Common estimation too assigns a far larger profit to the lotteries than Papal returns give it credit for, and, I own that, from the system on which they are conducted, of which I shall speak presently,I suspect the profit must be very much beyond the sum mentioned; anyhow, this source of income is a very important one, and is guarded jealously as a Government monopoly. Private gambling tables of any kind are rigidly suppressed. If you want to gamble, you must gamble at the tables and on the terms of the Government. The very sale of foreign lottery-tickets is, I believe, forbidden. To this rule there is one exception, and that is in favour of Tuscany. Between the Grand Ducal and the Papal Governments there long existed anentente cordialeon the subject of lotteries. There is no bond, cynics say, so powerful as that of common interest; and this saying seems to be justified in the present instance. Though the Court of Rome is at variance on every point of politics and faith with the present revolutionary Government of Tuscany, yet in matters of money they are not divided; and so the joint lottery-system flourishes, as of old. The lottery is drawn once a fortnight at Rome, and once every alternate fortnight at Florence or Leghorn; and as far as the speculator is concerned, it makes no difference whether his ticket is drawn for in Rome or in Tuscany, though the gains and losses of each branch are, I understand,kept separate. These lotteries are not of the plain, good old English stamp, in which there were, say, ten thousand tickets, and ten prizes of different value allotted to the holders of the ten first numbers drawn, while the remaining nine thousand nine hundred and ninety ticket-holders drew blanks. The system of speculation in vogue here is far more hazardous and complicated. To any one acquainted with the German gambling-places it is enough to say, that the Papal lottery-system is exactly like that of aroulettetable, with the one important exception, that the chances in the bank’s favour, instead of being about thirty-seven to thirty-six, as they are at Baden or Hamburgh, are in the proportion of three to one. For the benefit of those to whom these words convey no definite meaning, I will endeavour to explain the system as simply as I can.
In a Papal or Tuscan lottery there are ninety numbers, from one up to ninety, and of these numbers, five are drawn at each drawing. You may, therefore, stake your money on any one or two or three or four or five of the ninety numbers being drawn, which is termed playing at the “eletto,” “ambo,” “terno,” “quaterno,” and“tombola” respectively, or you may finally play “al estratto,” that is, you may not only speculate on the particular numbers drawn, but on the order in which they may happen to be drawn. Practically, people rarely play upon any except the three first-named chances, and they will be sufficient for my explanation. Now a very simple arithmetical calculation will show you, that the chances against your naming one number out of the five drawn is eighteen to one; against your predicting two, four hundred to one; and against your hitting on three, nearly twelve thousand to one. Supposing, therefore, the game was played with ordinary fairness, and even as much as 25 per cent. were deducted for profit and working expenses off the winnings, you ought, if you staked a scudo, for instance, and won an “eletto,” “ambo” or “terno,” to win in round numbers 14, 300, and 9000 scudi respectively. If in reality you did win (a very great “if” indeed), you would not be paid in these instances more than 4, 25 and 3600 scudi. In fact, if ever there was invented in this world a game, of which the old saying, “Heads I win, and tails you lose” held true, it would be of the Papal Lottery. If the numbers you back do not happen to turnup, you lose the whole of your stake; if they do, you are docked of more than seventy-five per cent. of your winnings. For my part, I would sooner play at thimble-rig on Epsom Downs, or dominoes with Greek merchants, or at “three-cards” with a casual and communicative fellow-passenger of sporting cast: I should infallibly be legged, but I should hardly be plundered so ruthlessly or remorselessly. Still the Vatican, like all gentlemen who play with loaded dice or marked cards, may have a run of luck against it. Spiritual infallibility itself cannot determine whether a halfpenny tossed into the air will come down man or woman, and the law of chances cannot be regulated by amotu proprio. It is possible, though not probable, that on any one occasion the majority of the gamblers might stake their money fortuitously on one series of numbers, and if that series did happen to be drawn, then the loss to the Lottery, even with all deductions, would be a heavy one, and the Roman exchequer is by no means in a position to bear a heavy drain. In consequence, measures are taken to avert this calamity; each office reports daily what sums have been staked on what numbers; and, if any numbers are regarded with undue partiality, orders are issued from the headdepartment to receive no more money on these numbers or series. I have assumed all along that the numbers are drawn fairly, and, without a very high opinion of the integrity of our Papal rulers, I am disposed to think they are. In the first place, any general impression of unfairness would greatly damage the future profits of the speculation; and, secondly, by the usual rule of averages it will be found that, on the whole, people stake pretty equally on one combination as another, and therefore the question, which particular numbers are drawn, is of less practical importance to the lottery management than might at first be supposed. In spite, however, of these abstract considerations, the virtue of the Papal Lotteries, unlike that of Cæsar’s wife, is not above suspicion; and I have often heard Romans remark, that the only possible explanation of there being one blank day between the closing the lottery-offices and the drawing was the obvious one, that time was required to calculate, from the state of the stakes, what combination of winning numbers will be most beneficial, or least hurtful, to the Papal pockets.
Whatever mathematicians may assert, your regular gamblers always believe in luck, andtherefore it is not surprising that a nation, whose great excitement is the lottery, should be devout worshippers of the blind goddess. It may be that some memories of the Pythagorean doctrines still exist in the land of their birth, but be the cause what it may, it is certain that in the southern Peninsula a belief in the symbolism of numbers is a received article of faith. Every thing, name, or event, has its numerical interpretation. Suppose, for instance, a robbery occurs; forthwith the numbers or sequences of numbers corresponding to the name of the robber or the robbed, the day or hour of the crime, the articles stolen, or a dozen other coincident circumstances, are eagerly sought after and staked upon in the ensuing lottery. Then there are thenumeri simpatici, or the numbers in each month or year which are supposed to be fortunate, and lists of which are published in the popular almanacs. The “sympathetic number for instance for the month of March is 88,” why or wherefore I have never been able to discover. Let me assume now, that having dreamt a dream, or heard of a death, or I care not what, you wish to stake your money on the arithmetical signification of the occurrence. You will have no difficulty in discovering a lottery-office;in well nigh every street there are one or more “Prenditoria di Lotti.” In fact, begging and gambling are the only two trades that thrive in Rome, or are pushed with enterprise or energy. When the drawing takes place in Tuscany, the result is communicated at once by the electric telegraph, a fact unparalleled in any other branch of Roman business. Over each office are placed the Papal arms, the cross keys of St Peter and the tiara. Outside their aspects differ, according to the quarter of the city. In the well-to-do streets, if such an appellation applied to any street here be not an absurdity, the exterior of the lottery-offices are neat but not gaudy. A notice, printed in large black letters on a white placard, that this week the lottery will be drawn for in Rome, or where-ever it may be, and a simple glass frame over the door, in which are slid the winning numbers of last week, form the whole outward adornment. In the poor and populous parts the lotteries flaunt out in all kinds of shabby finery: the walls about the door are pasted over with puffing inscriptions; from stands in front of the shop flutter long stripes of parti-coloured paper, inscribed with all sorts of cabalistic figures. If you likeyou may try the “Terno della fortuna,” which is certain, morally, to turn up this week or next. If you are of a philosophical disposition, you may stake your luck on the numbers 19 and 42, which have not been drawn for ever so long a time, and must therefore be drawn sooner—or later; or if you like to cast in your lot with others, you may back that “ambo” which has “sold” marked against it; at any rate, you will not be the only fool who stands to lose or win on that chance, which, after all, is some slight consolation. If none of these inducements are sufficient, you may fix on your choice by spinning round the index on the painted dial-plate, and choosing the numbers opposite to which the spin stops, thus making chance determine chance. Having, at last, selected your combination somehow or other, you enter the office with something of that shamefaced feeling which, I suppose, a man must be conscious of the first time that he ever enters the back-door of a pawnbroker’s establishment.
The interior of these offices is the same throughout. A low, dark room, with a long ink-stained desk at one side, behind which, pen in ear, is seated an official, more grimy even, and more snuffy than the run of his tribe. Oppositethe desk there is sure to be a picture of the Madonna with a small glass lamp before it, wherein a feeble wick floats and flickers in a pool of rancid oil. On the wall you may read a list of the virtuous maidens who are to receive marriage portions of from £5 downwards, on the occasion of the lottery being drawn at some religious festival. Indeed, throughout, the lottery is conducted on a strictly religious footing. Theimpiegati, or officials who keep them, are all men of sound principles and devotional habits, fervent adherents of the Pope, and habitual communicants. Lotteries too can be defended on abstract religious grounds, as encouraging a simple faith in providence, and dispelling any overwhelming confidence in your own unsanctified exertions. When you have made these reflections, you have only got to tell the clerk what sum of money you want to stake, and on what numbers. The smallest contribution (from eleven baiocchi or about sixpence upwards) will be thankfully received. A long whity-brown slip of paper is given you, with the numbers written on it, and the sum you may win marked opposite. No questions whatever, about name or residence or papers, are asked, as they are wheneveryou want to transact any other piece of business in Rome; and all you have to do, is to keep your slip of paper, and come back on the Saturday to learn whether your numbers have been drawn or not.
There is, in truth, a ludicrous side to the Papal Lotteries; but there is also a very sad one. It is sad to see the offices on a Thursday night, when they are kept open till midnight, hours after every other shop is closed, and to watch the crowds of common humble people who hurry in, one after the other; servants and cabmen and clerks and beggars, and, above all, women of the poorer class, to stake their small savings—too often their small pilferings—on the hoped-for numbers. When one speaks of the disgrace and shame that this authorized system of gambling confers on the Papal Government; of the improvidence and dishonesty and misery it creates too certainly among the poor, one is always told, by the advocates of the Papacy, that the people are so passionately attached to the lottery, that no Government could run the risk of abolishing it. If this be true, which I do not believe, I can only say—shame upon the rulers, who have so demoralized their subjects!
There is no University properly speaking in Rome. The constant and minute interference of the priests in the course of study; the rigid censorship extended over all books of learning, and the arbitrary restrictions with which free thought and inquiry are hampered, would of themselves be sufficient to stop the growth of any great school of learning at Rome, even if there existed a demand for such an institution, which there does not. Still in these days, even at Rome, young men must receive some kind of education, and to meet this want the Sapienza College is provided. Both in the age of the scholars and the nature of the studies it bears a much closer resemblance to a Scotch high school than to an University, but still, such as it is, it forms the great lay-place of education in the Papal States. There is a separate theological faculty;the head of the college is a Cardinal, and the whole course of study is under the control and supervision of the priests. Many, however, of the professors are laymen, the majority of the pupils are educated for secular pursuits, and the families from whom the students come, form as a body theélitein point of education and intelligence amongst the mercantile and professional classes in the Papal States.
At the commencement of the year a great attempt was made by the Government to get up addresses of loyalty and devotion to the Pope. Not even Pius the Ninth himself believed one single word in any of these purchased testimonials. Indeed, on one occasion, when an address was presented by the officers of the army, he informed the deputation with more candour than prudence, that he knew perfectly well not one of them would raise his hand to save the Papacy. But abroad, and more especially in France, it was conceived that such addresses would be accepted as genuine testimonials to the contentment of the Roman people with their rulers. In obedience to these tactics, it was resolved to have an address from the students of the Sapienza. Such an address, containingthe stock terms of fulsome adulation and unreasoning reverence, was drawn up by the authorities. Only a dozen students out of the 400 to 500 of whom the college consists volunteered to sign it. The students were then summoned in a body before the rector, and requested to add their signatures. For this purpose the address was left in their hands, but instead of being signed it was torn to pieces, and the fragments scattered about the lecture-room, amidst a chorus of shouts and groans. With the sort of senile folly which characterized all the proceedings of the Vatican at this period, the affair, instead of being passed unnoticed, was taken up seriously, and assumed in consequence an utterly uncalled-for notoriety. The college was closed for the day, several of the pupils were summoned before the police, an official inquiry was instituted into the demonstration, and the matter became the talk of Rome.
Of course at once a dozen contradictory rumours were in circulation, and it was with considerable difficulty that I obtained the above narrative of the occurrence, which I know to be substantially correct. As a curious instance of how facts are perverted at Rome by theologicalbias, I would mention here that when I made some inquiries on the subject from an English gentleman, a recent convert, and I need hardly add a most virulent partizan of the Papal rule, who was in a position to know the truth about the matter, I was told by him, that there had undoubtedly been a demonstration at the Sapienza, but that the truth was, the students were so indignant at the outrages committed against his Holiness, that they drew up an address of their own accord, expressive of their devotion to the Pope, and that upon the rector refusing his consent to the presentation of the address, on the ground that they were too young to take any part in political matters, they vented by tumultuous shouts their dissatisfation at this somewhat ill-timed interference. Now, not only was there such an inherent improbability about this story, to any one at all acquainted with Roman feelings or Papal policy, that it scarcely needed refutation, but subsequent events proved it to be entirely devoid of foundation in fact, and yet it was told me in good faith by a person who had every means of knowing the truth if he had chosen. The anecdote thus forms a curious illustration of the manner inwhich stories are got up and circulated in Rome.
The result of the inquiry was that seven or eight of the students, who whether justly or unjustly were regarded as ringleaders in the demonstration, were either expelled or suspended from prosecuting their studies. Amongst the expelled students was the son of the medical Professor, Dr Maturani, who, considering his son unjustly used, resigned, or rather was obliged to resign his post. The Pope then made a state visit to the college, but was very coldly received, and held out no hopes of the offenders being pardoned. The partizans of the Government talked much about the good effect produced by the Papal visit, but within a day or two the students assembled in a body at the Sapienza, and demanded of the rector that the medical professor should be reinstated in his office, and that the sentences of expulsion should be rescinded, as all were equally guilty or equally guiltless. On receiving these demands the rector requested the students, as a personal favour, to make no further demonstration till he had had time to lay their sentiments before Cardinal Roberti, the president of the Congregation of Studies, which he promised to do atonce. The students thereupon retired, but on their return next morning received no reply whatever. The following day was Sunday, when the college is closed, and on Monday the new medical professor was to deliver his inaugural lecture. It was expected that the students would take this opportunity of venting their dissatisfaction, and the government actually resolved to send the Roman gendarmes into the lecture-room in order to suppress any expression of feeling by force. At the time this act was considered only a piece of almost incredible folly, but the events of St Joseph’s day shewed clearly enough that the Vatican was anxious to bring about a collision between the troops and the malcontents. A little blood-letting, after Lord Sidmouth’s dictum, was considered wholesome for the Pope’s subjects. Fortunately the intention came to the knowledge of the French authorities, who interfered at once, and said if troops were required they must be French and not Papal ones, as otherwise it was impossible to answer for the result. On the Monday therefore a detachment of French troops was sent down to the college. The lecture-room was crowded with students, who greeted the new Professor on his entry with a volley of hisses,and then left the room in a body. The French officer in command was appealed to by the authorities to interfere, but refused doing so, and equally declined receiving an address which the students wished to force upon him. His orders he stated were solely to suppress any actual riot, but nothing further. Some 400 of the students then proceeded to the residences of Cardinal Antonelli, of General Goyon, and the Duc de Gramont, and presented an address, a copy of which they requested might be forwarded to the Emperor. These were the words of the address;
“Your Excellency—Some of our comrades have been removed from us. United to them in our studies, united, too, in our sentiments, we protest against a punishment so unjust and so partial. When adulation and servility suggested to some amongst us the utterance of a falsehood which insulted the Pontiff, while it did no service to the Sovereign, we all rose in union to denounce those who, without our consent, constituted themselves the interpreters of our wishes. This act was not the caprice of a section. It was the vast majority amongst us who thus spoke out the truth. The punishment, if punishment there is to be for speaking the truth, should not fall upon a few alone.“We confess it openly, the act was the act of all; the measure of our conduct was the same for all. We therefore demand from your Excellency that the expelled students should be allowed to return, or else that we should all be united with them in one common punishment, as we are proud of being united with them in a common love of truth and of our country.“The presence of our 400 students supplies the place of signatures.”
“Your Excellency—Some of our comrades have been removed from us. United to them in our studies, united, too, in our sentiments, we protest against a punishment so unjust and so partial. When adulation and servility suggested to some amongst us the utterance of a falsehood which insulted the Pontiff, while it did no service to the Sovereign, we all rose in union to denounce those who, without our consent, constituted themselves the interpreters of our wishes. This act was not the caprice of a section. It was the vast majority amongst us who thus spoke out the truth. The punishment, if punishment there is to be for speaking the truth, should not fall upon a few alone.
“We confess it openly, the act was the act of all; the measure of our conduct was the same for all. We therefore demand from your Excellency that the expelled students should be allowed to return, or else that we should all be united with them in one common punishment, as we are proud of being united with them in a common love of truth and of our country.
“The presence of our 400 students supplies the place of signatures.”
The last clause is open to question. The plain fact is, that the students could not get their courage up to signing point. A government of priests never forgives or forgets, and their vengeance though slow is very sure. Any student who had actually affixed his signature to the address would have been a marked man for life; and instead of wondering that the whole body had not sufficient moral resolution to express their sentiments in writing, I am surprised that they had the courage to protest at all, even anonymously. This hesitation, however, afforded the government a loop-hole, which they were wise enough to take advantage of; Cardinal Antonelli declined at once to give any reply to the address, on the ground that he could take no notice ofan unsigned and unauthentic document; so the matter rested. Logically, the Cardinal had the best of the dispute; but, practically, the remonstrants triumphed. The students kept away from the classes, and after a short time the Sapienza college had to be closed, in order, if possible, to weed out the liberal faction amongst the pupils. Numbers of the students were arrested or exiled. As instances of Papal notions of justice and law, I may mention two instances connected with the government inquiry, which came to my knowledge. One student was sent for to the police-office and asked if he was one of those who presented the address; on his replying in the negative, he was asked further, whether, if he had been on the spot, he would have joined in the presentation. To this question, he replied, that the police had no right to question him as to a matter of hypothesis, but only as to facts. The magistrate’s sole answer to this objection consisted in an order to leave Rome within twenty-four hours. Another student was arrested by a gendarme in the street, and brought to the police-office; it was past five o’clock, and the magistrate informed him it was too late to enter on the charge that day, and therefore he must remain in the custody of thepolice for the night. In vain the student requested to be informed of the charge against him, and protested against the illegality of detaining a person in custody without there being any charge even alleged; but to all this the magistrate remained obdurate, and the student was sent home under the care of the gendarme. Happily for himself, he managed to give his guardian the slip in the streets, and left the Papal States that night without awaiting the result of an inquiry which had commenced under such auspices.
It is true that the political opinions of a parcel of boys may have very little intrinsic value; but straws shew which way the wind blows, and so this exhibition of the students’ sentiments shews how deep-rooted is the disaffection to the Papacy throughout Roman society, and also how strong the conviction is, that the days of priest-rule are numbered.
The Papacy is too old and too feeble even to die with dignity. Of itself the sight of a falling power, of a dynasyin extremis, commands something of respect if not of regret; but the conduct of the Papacy deprives it of the sympathy that is due to its misfortunes. There is a kind of silliness, I know of no better word to use, about the whole Papal policy at the present day, which is really aggravating. It is silly to rave about the martyr’s crown and the cruel stake, when nobody has the slightest intention of hurting a hair of your head; silly to talk of your paternal love when your provinces are in arms against your “cruel mercies;” silly to boast of your independence when you are guarded in your own capital against your own subjects by foreign troops; silly, in fact, to bark when you cannot bite, to lie when you cannot deceive. No poweron earth could make the position of the Pope a dignified one at this present moment, and if anything could make it less dignified than before, it is the system of pompous pretensions and querulous complaints and fulsome adulation which now prevails at the Vatican. I know not how better to give an idea of the extent to which this system is carried, than by describing a Papal pageant which occurred early in the year.
To enter fully into the painful absurdity of the whole scene, one should bear in mind what were the prospects of Papal politics at the commencement of February. The provinces of the Romagna were about to take the first step towards their final separation, by electing members for the Sardinian Parliament. The question, whether the French troops could remain in Rome, or in other words, whether the Pope must retire from Rome, was still undecided; the streets of the city were thronged with Pontifical Sbirri and French patrols, to suppress the excitement caused by a score of lads, who raised a shout ofViva l’Italiaa week before. The misery and discontent of the Roman populace was so great that the coming Carnival time was viewed with the gravest apprehensions, and anxious doubts wereentertained whether it was least dangerous to permit or forbid the celebration of the festival. Bear all this in mind; fancy someMene, mene, tekel, upharsin, is written on all around, telling of disaffection and despair, and revolt and ruin; and then listen to what was said and done to and by the Pope on that Sunday before Septuagesima.
Some months ago a college was founded at Rome for the education of American youths destined to the priesthood; there were already an English, an Irish, and a Scotch college, not to speak of the Propaganda. However, in addition to all these, a college reserved for the United States, was projected and established by the present Pontiff. Indeed, this American college, the raised Boulevard, which now disfigures the Forum, and the column erected in the Piazza di Spagna to the dogma of the Immaculate Conception, appear to be the only material products of the Pontificate of Pius the Ninth. For some reason or other, which I am not learned enough in theological lore to determine, the feast of St Francis de Sales was celebrated as a sort of inauguration festival by the pupils of the new college. The Pope honoured the ceremony with his presence;and, for a wonder, a very full account of the proceedings was published in theGiornale di Roma; the quotations I make are literal translations from the official reports.
“The day,” so writes theGiornale, “was in very truth a blessed and a fortunate one, not only for the pupils themselves, who yearned for an opportunity of bearing solemn witness to their gratitude and devotion towards their best and highest father and most munificent benefactor, but also for all those who have it upon their hearts to share in those great works which form the most striking proof of the perpetual growth and spread of our most sacred religion.”
Apparently the number of the latter class is not extensive, as the visit of the Pope attracted but little crowd, and the lines of French soldiers who were drawn up on his way to salute him as he passed, were certainly not collected in the first instance by a spirit of religious zeal. TheGiornale, however, views everything with the eyes of faith, not of “pure reason.” Mass was performed at the Holy Church of Humility, and “from early dawn, as soon as the news of the holy father’s visit was circulated, an immensecrowd assembled there which filled not only the church, but the adjoining rooms and corridors. The crowd was composed of the flower of Roman rank and beauty, and theéliteof the strangers residing in Rome, both French, English, and American, who desired the blessing of assisting at the bloodless sacrifice celebrated by the Vicar of Christ, and who longed to receive from his hands the angels’ food.” I am sorry truth compels me to state, that the whole of this immense crowd consisted of some two hundred people in all, and that the only illustrious personages of special note amongst the crowd not being priests, were General Goyon, the American Minister and Consul, and the Senator of Rome. The Pope arrived at eight o’clock, and then proceeded to celebrate the communion, assisted by Monsignors Bacon, bishop of Portland, U.S., and Goro, bishop of Liverpool. “The rapt contemplation, the contrition of heart, the spirit of ardent faith which penetrated the whole assembly, more especially while the holy father distributed the sacred bread, were all things so sublime that they are easier to conceive than to describe.”
After mass was over the Pope entered the college. Above the door the following inscriptionwas written in Latin, composed, I can safely say, by an Hiberno-Yankee pen:
“Approach, O mighty Pius, O thou the parent of the old world and the new, approach these sanctuaries, which thou hast founded for thine American children devoted to the science of the church! To thee, the whole company of pupils; to thee, all America, wild with exultation, offer up praise! For thee, they implore all things peaceful and blessed.”
In the hall prepared for his holiness’ reception there was hung up, “beneath a gorgeous canopy, a marvellous full-length likeness of the august person of the holy Pontiff, destined to recall his revered features. Around the picture a number of appropriate Latin mottos were arranged, of which I give one or two as specimens of the style of adulation adopted:
“Come, O youth, raise up the glad voice, behold, the supreme shepherd is present, blessing his children with the light of his countenance. Hail, O day, shining with a glorious light, on which his glad children receive within their arms the best of parents!
“As the earth beams forth covered with the sparkling sun-light, so the youths rejoice withgladness, while thou, O father, kindly gladdenest them with thy most pleasant presence!”
Refreshments were then presented to the guests, which I am glad to say were much better than the mottos. The pupils of the Propaganda, who were all present, sang a hymn; addresses were made to the Pope by the pro-rector of the college in the name of the pupils, by Bishop Bacon on behalf of catholic America, and by Cardinal Barnabo, the superior of the Propaganda, all of them in terms of the most fervent adoration. Each of the American pupils then advanced with a short poem which he had composed, or was supposed to have composed, in expression of the emotions of his heart on this joyful occasion, and requested permission to recite it. At such a time the best feature in the Pope’s character, a sort of feeble kindliness of nature, was sure to show itself. I cannot but think indeed that the sight of the young boyish faces, whose words of reverence might possibly be those of truth and honesty, must have given an unwonted pleasure to the worn out, harassed, disappointed old man. “The holy father,” I read, “receiving with agitated feelings so many tokens of homage, was delighted beyond measure.” When the English poems wererecited to him, he called out, “can’t understand a word, but it seems good, very good.” He spoke to each of the lads in turn, and, when he was shown the statue of Washington, told them to give a cheer for their country, to cryViva la Patria(the very offence, by the way, for which ten days before he had put his own Roman fellow-countrymen into prison), and then when the boys cheered, he raised his hands to his ears, and told them laughingly, they would drive him deaf. Now all this is very pleasant, or in young-lady parlance, very nice, and I wish, truly, I had nothing more to tell. I trust, indeed, that the long abstinence from food (as a priest who is about to celebrate the communion is not allowed to touch food from midnight till the time when Mass is over, and in these matters of observance Pius IX. is reputed to be strictly conscientious) or else the excitement of the scene had been too much for the not very powerful mind of the Pontiff; otherwise I know not how you can excuse an aged man, on the brink of the grave, to say nothing of the Vicegerent of Christ, using such language as he employed.
“After much affectionate demonstration, the Holy Father could no longer restrain his lipsfrom speaking, and, turning his penetrating glance around, spoke as follows,” in the words of theGiornale:
“One of the chief objects of the most high Pontiffs has ever been, the propagation and maintenance of the faith throughout the world. Their efforts therefore have always been directed towards the establishment of colleges in this sovereign city, in order that the youth of all nations, who would have to preach the faith in the different Catholic countries, might receive their education here. In the foundation then of this new college, he had only followed in the steps of his illustrious predecessors. It thus seemed to him that he had rather performed a simple duty, than an act deserving praise. After his Holiness had pointed out, what a great blessing the faith was, how indeed it was a true gift of Heaven, the sole solace and comfort vouchsafed to us throughout the vicissitudes of fortune, he then expressed his extreme distress, that in these days, this very faith should be made an especial object of attack, and added that this fact alone was the cause of his deep and profound dejection. There is no need, he stated, to refer now, to the prisons and torturesand persecutions of old, when we are all witnesses to the onslaught which is now being made against the Catholic faith and against whosoever seeks to maintain its purity and integrity. There was no cause however for wonder: such from the cradle had been the heritage of the faith, which was born and bred amidst persecution and adversity, and which under the same lot still continues its glorious progress. The Gospel of the day recalled this truth only too appropriately; although his Holiness continued in the midst of persecution, it was his duty only to arm himself with greater courage, yet the grief of his heart was nevertheless rendered more bitter still, by beholding that in this very peninsula—so highly privileged by God, not only endowed with the faith, and with possessing the most august throne on earth,—that even here, the minds and hearts of men were hopelessly perverted. No, his fears were not caused by the arms or armies, or the forces of any power, be it what it might. No, it was not the loss of temporal dominion, which created in his heart the bitterest of afflictions. Those who have caused this loss must, alas! bear the censure of the Church, and must henceforth be given over to the wrath of God, as long asthey refuse to repent, and cast themselves on His loving mercy. What afflicted and terrified him far more than all this, was the perversion of all ideas, this fearful evil, the corrupting of all notions; vice, in truth, is taken for virtue, virtue counted for vice. At last, in some cities of this unhappy Italy, men have come to make in truth an apotheosis of the cut-throat and the assassin. Praise and honour are lavished on the most villainous of men and actions, while at the same time endurance in the faith and even episcopal resolution in maintaining the holy rights of that faith, and its provident blessings, are stigmatized with a strange audacity, by the names of hypocrisy, fanaticism, and perversion of religion. He then went on to say, that now, more than ever, it was high time to take vengeance in the name of God, and that the vengeance of the priesthood and the Vicariate of Christ Jesus consisted solely in prayer and supplication, that all might be converted and live. That, moreover, the chief of all these evils was only too truly the corruption of the heart and the perversion of the intellect, and that this evil could only be overcome by the greatest of miracles, which must be wroughtby God and interceded from him by prayer. After this, the Holy Father, in language which seemed inspired, as though he were raised out of himself, exhorted all present, and especially the young men destined to carry the faith to their distant countries.”
Even amongst the audience, who all belonged more or less to the Papal faction, the intemperate and injudicious character of this speech, delivered in the presence of the French commander-in-chief, and the allusions which could not but be intended for the Emperor Napoleon, Cavour, and Victor Emmanuel, created great consternation, and was but coldly received. TheGiornalehowever reports, that “where his Holiness, with agitated voice, bestowed his apostolic benediction, awe and admiration could be read on every countenance; all hearts beat aloud; and no eyelid was left dry. The whole assembly pressing forward, bent in turn before the august personage, touching, some his hands and some his dress, while others again cast themselves at his feet, in order to impress thereon a reverent and affectionate kiss.”
After having examined the building, the Pope went on foot to the neighbouring convent ofthe Augustine nuns, called “The Convent of the Virgins,” the whole of the religious community were “permitted to kiss the sacred foot,” and then “having comforted the virgins with paternal and loving words,” he returned to the Vatican, past the files of French troops, through the beggar-crowded streets, amidst cold, sullen glances and averted obeisances, back to his dreary palace, there to wait wearily for orders from Paris.
There are things in the world which allow of no description, and of such things a true Roman carnival is one. You might as well seek to analyze champagne, or expound the mystery of melody, or tell why a woman pleases you. The strange web of colour, beauty, mirth, wit, and folly, is tangled so together that common hands cannot unravel it. To paint a carnival without blotching, to touch it without destroying, is an art given unto few, I almost might say to none, save to our own wondrous word-wizard, who dreamt the “dream of Venice,” and told it waking. For my own part, the only branch of art to which, even as a child, I ever took kindly, was the humble one of tracing upon gritting glass, with a grating pencil, hard outlines of coarse sketches squeezed tight against the window-pane. After the manner in which I used to draw, Ihave since sought to write; for such a picture-frame then as mine, the airy, baseless fabric of an Italian revel is no fitting subject, and had the Roman Carnival for 1860 been even as other carnivals are, I should have left it unrecorded. It has been my lot, however, to witness such a carnival as has not been seen at Rome before, and is not likely to be seen again. In the decay of creeds and the decline of dynasties there appear from time to time signs which, like the writing on the wall, proclaim the coming change, and amongst these signs our past Carnival is, if I err not, no unimportant one. While then the memory of the scene is fresh upon me, let me seek to tell what I have seen and heard. The question whether we were to have a Carnival at all, remained long doubtful; the usual time for issuing the regulations had long passed, and no edict had appeared; strange reports were spread and odd stories circulated. Our rulers were, it seems, equally afraid of having a carnival and not having it; and with their wonted wisdom decided on the middle course, of having a carnival which was not a carnival at all. One week before the first of the eight fête-days, the long-delayed edict was posted on the walls; the festivalwas to be celebrated as usual, except that no masks were to be allowed; false beards and moustaches, or any attempt to disguise the features, were strictly forbidden. Political allusions, or cries of any kind, were placed under the same ban; crowds were to disperse at a moment’s notice, and prompt obedience was to be rendered to any injunction of the police. Subject to these slight restraints, the wild revel and the joyous licence of the Carnival was to rule unbridled. In the words of a Papal writer in the government gazette of Venice: “The festival is to be celebrated in full vigour, except that no masks are allowed, as the fashion for them has lately gone out. There will be, however, disguises and fancy dresses, confetti, bouquets, races, moccoletti, public and private balls, and, in short, every amusement of the Carnival time.” What more could be required by a happy and contented people? Somehow, the news does not seem to be received with any extraordinary rejoicing; a group of idlers gaze at the decree and pass on, shrugging their shoulders listlessly. Along the Corso notice-boards are hung out of balconies to let, but the notices grow mildewed, and the balconies remain untaken. The carriage-driversdon’t pester you, as in former years, to engage them for the Carnival; and the fancy dresses exposed in the shop-windows are shabby and few in number. There is no appearance of unnecessary excitement; but “still waters run deep;” and in order to restrain any possible exuberance of feeling, on the very night before the Carnival the French general issues a manifesto. “To prevent painful occurrences,” so run General Guyon’s orders, “the officer commanding each detachment of troops which may have to act against a crowd, shall himself, or through a police-officer, make it a summons to disperse. After this warning the crowd must disperse instantly, without noise or cries, if it does not wish to see force employed.” Still no doubts are entertained of the brilliancy of the Carnival; the Romans (so at least their rulers say, and who should know them better?) will enjoy themselves notwithstanding; the Carnival is their great holiday, the one week of pleasure counted on the long, dull year through, and no power on earth, still less no abstract consideration, will keep them from the Corso revels. From old time, all that they have ever cared for are thepanem et circenses; and the Carnival gives them both. It is theRoman harvest-time, when the poor gather in their gleanings. Flower-sellers, vendors of confetti, hawkers of papers, letters-out of chairs and benches, itinerant minstrels, perambulating cigar-merchants, pedlars, beggars, errand-boys, and a hundred other obscure traders, pick up, heaven knows how! enough in Carnival time to tide them over the dead summer-season. So both necessity and pleasure, want and luxury, will combine to swell the crowd; and the pageant will be gay enough for the Vatican to say that its faithful subjects are loyal and satisfied.
The day opens drearily, chilly, and damp and raw, with a feeble sun breaking through the lowering clouds; soon after noon the streets begin to fill with soldiers. Till this year the Corso used to be guarded, and the files of carriages kept in order, by the Italian pontifical dragoons, the most warlike-looking of parade regiments I have ever seen. Last spring, however, when the war broke out, these bold dragoons grew ashamed of their police duties, and began to ride across the frontier without leave or license, to fight in behalf of Italy. The whole regiment, in fact, was found to be so disaffected that it was disbanded without delay, and at presentthere are only some score or so left, who ride close behind the Pope when he goes out “unattended,” as his partisans profess. So the dragoons having disappeared, the duty of keeping order is given to the French soldiers. There are soldiers ranged everywhere: along the street pavements there is one long line of blue overcoats and red trousers and oil-skin flowerpot hats covering the short, squat, small-made soldiers of the 40th Foot regiment, whose fixed bayonets gleam brightly in the rare sun-light intervals. At every piazza there are detachments stationed; their muskets are stacked in rows on the ground, and the men stand ready to march at the word of order. In every side-street sentinels are posted. From time to time orderlies gallop past. Ever and anon you hear the rub-a-dub of the drums, as new detachments pass on towards the Corso. The head-quarters at the Piazza Colonna are crowded with officers coming and going, and the whole French troops off duty seem to have received orders to crowd the Corso, where they stroll along in knots of three or four, alone and unnoticed by the crowd around them. The heavy guns boom forth from the Castle of St Angelo, and the Carnival has begun.
Gradually and slowly the street fills. One day is so like another that to see one is to have seen all. The length of the Corso there saunters listlessly an idle, cloak-wrapt, hands-in-pocket-wearing, cigar-smoking, shivering crowd, composed of French soldiers and the rif-raff of Rome, the proportion being one of the former to every two or three of the latter. The balconies, which grow like mushrooms on the fronts of every house, in all out-of-the-way places and positions, are every now and then adorned with red hangings. These balconies and the windows are scantily filled with shabbily-dressed persons, who look on the scene below as spectators, not as actors. At rare intervals a carriage passes. The chances are that its occupants are English or Americans. On the most crowded day there are, perhaps, at one time, fifty carriages in all, of which more than half belong to theforestieri. Indeed, if it were not for our Anglo-Saxon countrymen, there would be no carnival at all. We don’t contribute much, it is true, to the brilliancy of thecoup d’œil. Our gentlemen are in the shabbiest of coats and seediest of hats, while our ladies wear grey cloaks, and round, soup-plate bonnets. However, if we are not ornamental, we are useful. We pelt each other witha hearty vigour, and discharge volleys ofconfettiat every window where a fair English face appears. The poor luckless nosegay or sugar-plum boys look upon us as their best friends, and follow our carriages with importunate pertinacity. Fancy dresses of any kind are few. There are one or two very young men—English, I suspect,—dressed as Turks, or Greeks, or pirates, after Highbury Barn traditions, looking cold and uncomfortable. Half a dozen tumble-down carriages represent the Roman element. They are filled with men disguised as peasant-women, andvice versâ; but, whether justly or unjustly, they are supposed to be chartered for the show by the Government, and attract small comment or notice. Amongst the foot-crowd, with the exception of a stray foreigner, there is not a well-dressed person to be seen. The fun is of the most dismal character. Boys with bladders whack each other on the back, and jump upon each other’s shoulders. Harlequins and clowns—shabby, spiritless, and unmasked—grin inanely in your face, and seem to be hunting after a joke they can never find. A quack doctor, or a man in crinoline, followed by a nigger holding an umbrella over his head, or a swell with pasteboard collars, and a chimney-pot on his head, passfrom time to time and shout to the bystanders, but receive no answer. Give them a wide berth, for they are spies, and bad company. The one great amusement is pelting a black hat, the glossier the better. After a short time even this pleasure palls, and, moreover, victims grow scarce, for the crowd, contrary to the run of Italian crowds, is an ill-bred, ill-conditioned one, and take to throw nosegays weighted with stones, which hurt and cut. So the long three hours, from two to five, pass drearily. Up and down the Corso, in a broken, straggling line, amidst feeble showers of chalk (not sugar) plums, and a drizzle of penny posies to the sound of one solitary band, the crowd sways to and fro. At last the guns boom again. Then the score of dragoons—of whom one may truly say, in the words of Tennyson’s “Balaclava Charge,” that they are “all that are left of—not the ‘twelve’ hundred”—come trotting down the Corso from the Piazza del Popolo. With a quick shuffling march the French troops pass along the street, and form in file, pushing back the crowd to the pavements. With drawn swords and at full gallop the dragoons ride back through the double line. Then there is a shout, or rather a long murmur. All faces are turned up thestreet, and half a dozen broken-kneed, riderless, terror-struck shaggy ponies with numbers chalked on them, and fluttering trappings of pins and paper stuck into their backs, run past in straggling order. Where they started you see a crowd standing round one of the grooms who held them, and who is lying maimed and stunned upon the ground, and you wonder at the unconcern with which the accident is treated. Another gun sounds. The troops form to clear the street, the crowd disperses, and the Carnival is over for the day. A message is sent to the Vatican, to inform the Pope that the festival has been most brilliant, and along the telegraphic wires the truth is flashed to Paris that the day has passed without an outbreak.
On the last day of the Carnival the Porto Pia road was full as usual, and the Corso filled as usual with soldiers, and spies, and rabble. An order was published, that any person appearing out of the Corso with lighted tapers would be arrested, and therefore the idea of an evening demonstration outside the gates was dropped. Not all the efforts, however, of the police could light the Moccoletti in the Corso. House after house, window after window, wereleft unlighted. The crowd in the streets carried no candles, and there were only sixteen carriages or so, all filled with strangers. Of all the dreary sights I have ever witnessed that Moccoletti illumination was the dreariest. At rare intervals, and in English accents, you heard the cry of “Senza Moccolo,” which used to burst from every mouth as the tiny flames flickered, and glared, and fell. Before the sight was half over the spectators began to leave, and while I pushed my way through the dispersing crowds, I could still hear the faint cry of “Senza Moccolo.” As the sound still died away, the cry still haunted me; and in my recollection, the Carnival of 1860 will ever remain as the dullest and dismalest of Carnivals—the Carnival without mirth, or sun, or gaiety—the Carnival Senza Moccolo.
Straws show which way the wind blows, and so, though the straws themselves are valueless, yet as indications of what is coming, their motions are worth noting. It is thus that I judge of the series of demonstrations which marked the spring of this year in Rome, and which ended in the outrage of St Joseph’s day. Of themselves they were less than worthless, but as tokens of the future they possess a value of their own. In recent Papal history they form a strange page. Let me note their features briefly, as I wrote of them at the time.
At last there is a break in the dull uniformity of Roman life.—There is a ripple on the waters, whether the precursor of a tempest, or to befollowed by a dead calm, it is hard to tell. Meanwhile it is some gain at any rate, that the old corpse-like city should show signs of life, however transient. Feeble as those symptoms are, let us make the most of them.
Since the Imperial occupation of Rome, the building in the Piazza Colonna, which old Roman travellers remember as the abode of the Post Office, has been confiscated to the service of the French army. It forms, in fact, a sort of military head-quarter. All the bureaux of the different departments of the service are to be found here. The office of the electric telegraph is contained under the same roof, and the front windows of the town-hall-looking building, lit up so brightly and so late at night, are those of the French military “circle.” The Piazza Colonna, where stands the column of Mark Antony, opens out of the Corso, and is perhaps the most central position in all Rome. At the corner is the café, monopolized by the French non-commissioned officers; and next door is the great French bookseller’s.
Altogether the Piazza and its vicinity is the Frenchquartierof Rome. At seven o’clock every evening, the detachments who are to beon guard, during the night, at the different military posts, are drawn up in front of the said building, receive the pass-word, and then, headed by the drums and fifes, march off to their respective stations. Every Sunday and Thursday evening too, at this hour, the French band plays for a short time in the Piazza. Generally, this ceremony passes off in perfect quiet, and in truth attracts as little attention from bystanders as our file of guardsmen passing on their daily round from Charing Cross to the Tower. On Sunday evening last, a considerable crowd, numbering, as far as I can learn, some two or three thousand persons, chiefly men and boys, assembled round the band, and as the patrols marched off down the Corso, and towards the Castle of Saint Angelo, followed them with shouts of “Viva l’Italia,” “Viva Napoleone,” and, most ominous of all, “Viva Cavour.” As soon as the patrols had passed the crowd dispersed, and there was, apparently, an end of the matter. The next night poured with rain, with such a rain as only Rome can supply; and yet, in spite of the rain, a good number of people collected to see the guard march off, and again a few seditious or patriotic cries (the two terms are here synonymous) wereheard. Such things in Italy, and in Rome especially, are matters of grave importance, and the Government was evidently alarmed. Contrary to general expectation, and I suspect to the hopes of the clerical party, the French general has issued no notice, as he did last year, forbidding these demonstrations. However, the patrols have been much increased, and great numbers of the Pontifical gendarmes have been brought into the city. On Tuesday night the Papal police made several arrests, and a report was spread by the priests that the French troops had orders to fire at once, if any attempt was made to create disturbance. On the same night, too, there was a demonstration at the Apollo. I have heard, from several quarters, that on some of the Pontifical soldiers entering the house, the whole audience left the theatre, with very few exceptions. However, in this city one gets to have a cordial sympathy with the unbelieving Thomas, and not having been present at the theatre myself, I cannot endorse the story.
Last night I strolled down the Corso to see the guard pass. The street was very full, at least full for Rome, where the streets seem empty at their fullest, and numerous groups of men werestanding on the door-steps and at the shop windows. Mounted patrols passed up and down the street, and wherever there seemed the nucleus of a crowd forming, knots of the Papalsbirri, with their long cloaks and cocked hats pressed over their eyes, and furtive hang-dog looking countenances, elbowed their way unopposed and apparently unnoticed. In the square itself there were a hundred men or so, chiefly, I should judge, strangers or artists, a group of young ragamuffins, who had climbed upon the pedestals of the columns, and seemed actuated only by the curiosity natural to the boy genus, and a very large number of French soldiers, who, at first sight, looked merely loiterers. The patrol, of perhaps four hundred men, stood drawn up under arms, waiting for the word to march. Gradually one perceived that the crowds of soldiers who loitered about without muskets were not mere spectators. Almost imperceptibly they closed round the patrol, pushed back by the bystanders not in uniform, and then retreated, forming a clear ring for the guard to move in. There was no pushing, no hustling, no cries of any kind. After a few minutes the drums and fifes struck up, the drum-major whirled his staff round in the air, the ring ofsoldier-spectators parted, driving the crowd back on either side, and through the clear space thus formed the patrol marched up the square, divided into two columns, one going to the right, and the other to the left, and so passed down the length of the Corso. The crowd made no sign, and raised no shout as the troops went by, and only looked on in sullen silence. In fact, the sole opinion I heard uttered was that of a French private, who formed one of the ring, and who remarked to his comrade that this duty of theirs wassacré nom de chien de métier, a remark in which I could not but coincide. As soon as the patrol had passed, the crowd retreated into the cafés or the back-streets, and in half-an-hour the Corso was as empty as usual, and was left to thesbirri, who passed up and down slowly and silently. Even in the small side-streets, which lead from the Corso to the English quarters, I met knots of the Papal police accompanied by French soldiers, and the suspicious scrutinizing glance they cast upon you as you passed showed clearly enough they were out on business.
The present has been a week of demonstrations, both Papal and anti-Papal. Last Thursdaywas the Giovedi Grasso, the great people’s day of the carnival. In other years, from an early hour in the afternoon, there is a constant stream of carriages and foot-passengers setting from all parts of Rome towards the Corso. The back-streets and the ordinary promenades are almost deserted. The delight of the Romans in the carnival is so notorious, that persons long resident in Rome possessed the strongest conviction beforehand, that no human power could ever keep the natives from the Corso upon Thursday. The day, unlike its predecessors, was brilliantly bright. The Corso was decked out as gaily as hangings and awnings could make it. The sellers of bouquets and “confetti” were at their posts. A number of carriages were sent down filled with adherents of the Government, dressed in carnival attire, to act as decoy-ducks. All officials were required to take part in the festivities. The influence of the priests was exerted to beat up carnival recruits amongst their flocks, and yet the people obstinately declined coming. The revel was ready, but the revellers were wanting. The stiff-necked Romans were not content with stopping away, but insisted on going elsewhere. By one of those tacit understandings, which are always the characteristicof a country without public life or liberty, a place of rendezvous was fixed upon. Without notice or proclamation of any kind, everybody knew somehow, though how, nobody could tell, that the road beyond the Porta Pia was the place where people were to meet on the day in question. The spot was appropriate on various grounds. Along the Via Nomentana, which leaves Rome through this gate, lies the Mons Sacer, whither the Plebs of old seceded from the city, to escape from the tyranny of their rulers. The gate too, which was commenced by Michael Angelo, was completed by the present Pontiff, and there is an irony dear to an Italian’s mind in the idea of choosing the Porta Pia for the egress of a demonstration against the Pope Pius. Perhaps, after all, the fact that the road is one of the sunniest and pleasantest near Rome may have had more to do with its selection than any abstract considerations. Be the cause what it may, one fact is certain, that from the time when the Corso ought to have been filling, a multitude of carriages and holiday-dressed people set out towards the Porta Pia. The Giovedi Grasso is a feast-day in Rome, and all the shops are shut, and their owners at liberty. All Rome, in consequence, seemed to be wendingtowards the Porta Pia. From the gate to the convent of St Agnese, a distance of about a mile, there was a long string of carriages, chiefly hired vehicles, but filled with well-dressed persons. As far as I could judge, the number of private and aristocratic conveyances was small. The prince of Piombino, who is married to one of the half-English Borghese princesses, was the only Roman nobleman I heard of, as being amongst the crowd. But if the nobility were not present on the Via Nomentana, they were equally absent from the Corso. The footpaths were thronged with a dense file of orderly respectable people. There were, perhaps, half-a-dozen carriages, the owners of which had some sort of carnival-dress on, but that was all. There were no cries, no throwing of confetti, no demonstration of feeling, except in the very fact of the assemblage. As far as I could guess from my own observation, there were about 6000 people present, and from 400 to 500 carriages; though persons who ought to be well informed have told me that there were double these numbers. No attempt at interference was made on the part of the French. There were but few French soldiers about, and what there were, were evidently mere spectators. Pontifical gendarmespassed along the road at frequent intervals, and, not being able to arrest a multitude, consoled themselves with the small piece of tyranny of closing theosterias, which, both in look and character, bear a strong resemblance to our London tea-gardens, and are a favourite resort of thirsty and dusty pedestrians. The crowd, nevertheless, remained perfectly orderly and peaceful, and as soon as the carnival-time was over, returned quietly to the city. As I came back from the gate I passed through the Corso just before the course was cleared for the races. I have never seen in Italy a rabble like that collected in the street. The crowd was much such a one as you will sometimes meet, and avoid, in the low purlieus of London on Guy Faux day. Carriages there were, some forty in all, chiefly English. One hardly met a single respectable-looking person, except foreigners, in the crowd; and I own I was not sorry when I reached my destination, and got clear of the mob. Yet the report of the police of the Pope was, that the carnival wasbrilliante, e brilliantissimo.
On the following day (Friday) much the same sort of demonstration took place in the Corso. There being no carnival, the whole street, fromthe Piazza del Popolo to the Capitol, was filled with a line of carriages, going and returning at a foot’s pace. The balconies and windows were filled with spectators, and the rabble of the previous day was replaced by the same quiet, decent crowd I had seen at the Porta Pia. The carriages, from some cause or other, were more aristocratic in appearance; while the number of spectators was much smaller—probably because it was a working day, and not a “festa.” By seven o’clock the assemblage dispersed, and the street was empty. Meanwhile, Friday afternoon was chosen for the time of a counter-demonstration at the Vatican. All the English Roman Catholics sojourning in Rome received notice that it was proposed to present an address to the Pope, condoling with him in his afflictions. Cardinal Wiseman was the chief promoter, and framed the address. Many Roman Catholics, I understand, abstained from going, because they were not aware what the terms of the address might be, and how far the sentiments expressed in it might be consistent with their position as English subjects. The demonstration outwardly was not a very imposing one; about fifty cabs and one-horse vehicles drove up at three o’clock to the Vatican, andaltogether some 150 persons, men, women, and children, of English extraction, mustered together as representatives of Catholic England. The address was read by Cardinal Wiseman, expressing in temperate terms enough the sympathy of the meeting for the tribulations which had befallen his Holiness. The bearing of the Pope, so his admirers state, was calm, dignified, and resolute. As however, I have heard this statement made on every occasion of his appearance in public, I am disposed to think it was much what it usually is—the bearing of a good-natured, not over-wise, and somewhat shaky old man. In reply to the address, he stated that “if it was the will of God that chastisement should be inflicted upon his Church, he, as His vicar, however unworthy, must taste of the chalice;” and that, “as becomes all Christians, knowing that though we cannot penetrate the motives of God, yet that He in his wisdom permits nothing without an ulterior object, we may safely trust that this object must be good.” All persons present then advanced and kissed the Pope’s hand, or foot, if the ardour of their devotion was not contented by kissing the hand alone. When this presentation was over, the Pope requested the company to kneel, and then prayedin Italian for the spiritual welfare of England, calling her the land of the saints, and alluding to the famousNon Angli, sed angeli. He exhorted all present “to look forward to the good time when justice and mercy should meet and embrace each other as brothers;” and finally, with faltering voice, and tears rolling down his cheeks, gave his apostolical benediction. Of course, if you can shut your eyes to facts, all this is very pretty and sentimental. If the Romans could be happy enough to possess the constitution of Thibet, and have a spiritual and a temporal Grand Llama, they could not have fixed on a more efficient candidate for the former post than the present Pope; but the crowds of French soldiers which lined the streets to coerce the chosen people, formed a strange comment on the value of pontifical piety. It is too true that the better the Pope the worse the ruler. Probably the thousands of Romans who thronged the Corso knew more about the blessings of the Papal sway than the few score strangers, who volunteered to pay the homage to the Sovereign of Rome which the Romans refuse to render.
To-day the demonstration was repeated on the Porta Pia; and the Vatican, indignant at itspowerlessness to suppress these symptoms of disaffection, is anxious to stir up the crowd to some overt act of insurrection, which may justify or, at any rate, palliate the employment of violent measures. So in order to incense the crowd, the public executioner was sent out in a cart guarded by gendarmes to excite some active expression of anger on the part of the mob. It is hard for us to understand the feeling with which the Italians, and especially the Romans, regard thecarnefice. He is always a condemned murderer, whose life is spared on condition of his assuming the hated office, and, except on duty, he is never allowed to leave the quarter of St Angelo, where he dwells, as otherwise his life would be sacrificed to the indignation of the crowd, who regard his presence as a contamination.
The poor fellow looked sheepish and frightened enough, as he patrolled slowly with his escort up and down the crowded Porta Pia thoroughfare; but even this insult failed to effect its object. The device was too transparent for an Italian crowd not to detect it, and the ill-omenedcortégeof the “Pope’s representative,” as the Romans styled the executioner, passed by without any comment.