University of Virginia Library

26. CHAPTER XXVI.

Whoever has not witnessed the festivities of the
carnival week at Rome, will scarcely lend credit to
the burlesque extravagances even to this day committed
by all classes. It is a page of reality resembling

one of old romance; and the stranger
wonders to see its antique and remarkable leaf thus
bound up in the prosaic volume of common life
The grave and sensible Englishman, the observing
and intelligent American, is astonished at the spectacle
of a whole people abandoned to the maddest
freaks of frolic and fancy—disguising themselves
in grotesque habits, masking their faces, altering
their gait, form, and demeanour—entering with
lively ardour into the wildest folly. From the violent
gesticulations and various costumes, it appears
as if the theatres of the world had emptied their
wardrobes, and sent forth their performers to play
each in the face of Heaven those thousand parts,
in other countries—at least in ours—reserved for
the midnight stage. Here a brigand stalks in the
full glory of arms and equipments, with flowing
tresses, dark mustaches, and a countenance of more
than human ferocity. He steals along after the
rolling carriage, and aims his carbine at some beauteous
victim. There a Spanish lover, with his
graceful cloak, broad hat and feathers, and love-breathing
guitar, sings his serenade to each passing
fair; sometimes, for the occasion excuses all civil
familiarity, he murmurs a soft air to an English
belle in her carriage; sometimes whispers love to
the gay French girl; sometimes kneels to the Contadina
in the street; and again, directs his strain to
a bright face peeping from a palace window, or
leaning and laughing over a balcony. Behind him
treads a knight glistering in armour, who bears upon
his lance the favour of his lady-love, or hands a
letter on its point to the first pair of eyes that take
his fancy—stranger or native, high or low. The
fierce Saracen stalks through the throng, brandishing
his cimeter and twirling his mustaches. The
copper-coloured Indian, with his tomahawk, threatens
swift destruction to each shrinking maid. Old
lords and ladies, in dresses of antique magnificence,
recall the splendours of the most celebrated courts.
The frolicksome sailor reels along, as if the light
Italian wines had been too strong for his brain.
The lover sighs—the warrior shouts—the spectre
glides; and many striking characters are correctly
dressed, and represented with serious accuracy and
excellent effect. Others there are who delight to
fling over the whole the broadest possible air of
ridicule. Humpbacks swelled into mountains—
eyes glaring like moons—huge mouths—bald pates
—overgrown stomachs—statues of twice the ordinary
height—deformed foreheads—and noses of
such ponderous dimensions, magnified proportions,
and rubicund colours, as may chance, if you eat too
heavy a supper, to haunt your late slumber in the
shape of an incubus. All that mirth and ingenuity
can invent to distort and caricature, here floats upon
the vast and ever-moving tide, rising and sinking in
the dense, universal commotion—disappearing and
appearing again; carriages loaded with double
numbers—horses rearing with two and four—
women seven feet high, and sweet girls in uniform
of banditti. Those whose ambition does not seek
to support distinct and memorable rôles, content
themselves with the simple, smooth, common mask
—a pretty girlish countenance, whose everlasting
repetition at length wearies the eye, and becomes
no theme of curiosity or distinction.

Some, too—so picturesque are the inhabitants of
Rome—even while wearing their every-day habiliments,
can with difficulty be distinguished from the
maskers; and the barefooted and cowled monks
and friars—the long-bearded mendicants, covered
with rags and wrinkles—the fat priest, and the stern
soldier, are only known from the giddy surrounding

concourse by their unmasked faces, steady step,
and grave demeanour. Nearly all the town join
in this sport; or, if they do not actually participate,
at least throng together by thousands and thousands
to witness it and swell the extraordinary spectacle.
Countless numbers of ladies, both natives and foreigners,
may be seen either in their carriages or at
the windows—gentleman and noble, young and
old, peasant and duke, all mingled and blended together,
in a wild, excited, half-familiar, half-merry,
half-mad mass of human beings—crying, laughing,
screaming, gesticulating, leaping, dancing, singing,
shouting, and pelting each other with flour sugar-plums,
or oats steeped in plaster of Paris resembling
them, and covering the air, the street the walks,
and all the population, with the white of a universal
snow-storm. A hundred thousand people are
not unfrequently assembled, either as actors or
audience, upon the scene of action, which is in the
Corso and the adjoining streets, squares, and
avenues.

Our readers, on either side of the ocean, need
not be reminded that the Corso is the Regent-street,
or Broadway, of modern Rome, straight and exceedingly
narrow, built up closely on both sides
with high houses, or gloomy, but immense and
magnificent, old palaces, all of which are crowded
upon every point; where men and women sit,
stand, or climb, from roof to basement, cornice,
pedestal, and balcony. Through this principal thoroughfare
two processions of carriages and pedestrians
go slowly, in opposite directions, pelting each
other, and all around them and all above them, with
snowy tributes; and receiving in return discharges
in showers from every quarter. The middle of the
street presents a tide of the gayest and gaudiest
colours, and the most lively motion—not unlike the

rapid stir and agitation of a fierce battle. On either
side, tiers of seats—a most lucrative profit to the
proprietors—are provided for the thousands who
desire, stationary and secure, to behold the giddy
scene. A sloping bank of faces thus rises on either
hand of those moving in the procession, leaving
only a passage sufficiently wide for the two rows
of carriages to pass each other.

“Well,” said a stranger, who had taken a seat
before the Dorian palace, and in the midst of the
wildest clash and riot of the revel, “it is a brilliant
day, signore.”

“It is, indeed,” cried the other.

“Are there ordinarily so many spectators to this
gay fête?”

“I know not, signore stranger—but I think not.
I have lived in Rome, on and off, for forty years,
and in that period the carnival has been up and
down several times. Lately I have not seen it so
well attended.”

“What remarkable order is preserved!” said the
stranger. “I have not heard an angry word, nor
seen a blow, nor a quarrel, nor beheld a man drunk,
except a mad wag of a sailor; and his drunkenness,
like his mask, was only put on.”

“There are rarely any disorders here, signore,”
said the Roman.

“One almost envies the character of a crowd
where no brawls disturb the general hilarity. It
speaks well for their morals.”

“Humph!” said the Roman, “there are other
things besides morals which may keep folks from
fighting or getting drunk.”

“Other things besides morals!—what other
things?”

“Sharp bayonets and drawn swords,” said the
Roman, dryly.

The stranger in his turn muttered, “Humph!”
or what in the French is equivalent; but, however,
continued the conversation—“I am sorry to hear
you backward in doing honour to the Roman government.”

“The city is full of spies,” said the Roman;
“and one does not like to talk too much to one
whom one does not know.”

“I approve your prudence; but, in my case, it
is ill applied, as I am quite a stranger, with no disposition
to meddle in its affairs, either by turning
informer myself, or by expressing any opinions
which might furnish food for the information of
others. I am but a recent visiter to this part of
the world, and know more of my late residence,
China, than of your Eternal City.”

“I can see by your accent,” said the Roman,
“that you are not Italian, as no Italian speaks
French like you. However, I neither was, nor need
be, fearful of expressing my opinion. I say, that
one does not like to see double lines of soldiers
stationed about the streets, with their gleaming
helmets and drawn swords, scowling on these poor
children of foolery as if they watched a decent
pretext to cut their noisy throats.”

“How!” said the stranger, “is it not the usual
regulation?”

“No, signore: there is always a military guard
very properly stationed about town to prevent confusion;
but look yonder—they do not flock in such
numbers as that, nor do they wear such faces.
Why, they look like wolf-dogs; or, by the Virgin,
wolves themselves, peering and glaring over into
the sheepfold.”

“And what reason is there for this extra care?”

“His holiness has discovered a plot again,” said
the Roman, with a sneer: “arms have been found

is a house, and men who dared to own them. The
muskets and swords are now turned against the
people's own bosoms, and the plotters are quartered
in St. Angelo and elsewhere. All the authorities
from Como and Venice to Naples have already
received intelligence, and to-day it is reported that
the rising was to have taken place.”

“The danger is over, then?”

“It is: but a strong guard is posted everywhere
through the streets; and there will be some will
feel cold steel or heavy lead for this day's work.”

“It might have been worse, friend,” said the
stranger. “Rebellion is a wild business, and is
but too often placing a knife in the hands of a
madman. But—see this fellow!”

“Ay, he personates a priest,” said the Roman,
“and has been going about all day preaching, with
that long beard and huge book.”

“His lungs must be strong,” said the stranger,
laughing.

“There is a beautiful creature,” observed the
Roman, “in that rich carriage.”

“How the villains pelt her!” replied the stranger;
“why, they will put her eyes out.”

“And a prettier pair could not be extinguished,”
said the Roman.

“But, surely,” cried the stranger, “I know yonder
party—two ladies and two gentlemen in that
barouche: see, they are now surrounded by pelters,
and are half lost in a cloud of white. I have seen
them before, I am certain.”

“They are Americans,” said the Roman.

“Ha! Flora—Flora Temple!” exclaimed the
other; “I could have sworn I knew her; and yon
tall stately dame is her mother.”

“And the good-looking, portly gentleman, Mr.
Temple.”

“And the fourth—I know him: it is Clairmont,
as sure as life; it is that reprobate of a count.”

“You know them well, friend.”

“Ay: they recall days gone by. It is but a few
hours since I landed at Naples, after a long voyage
from the East Indies. These people I once knew
something of in America. Their story was interesting.
I must follow them; make myself known
again; and push some queries, touching old times
and friends.”

The stranger was about pressing a passage
through the crowd, but his new acquaintance stopped
him.

“You will easily see them, signore, when the
festivities of the day are over. At present (to say
nothing of the difficulty which you will find in overtaking
them) you will but mar their sport. See,
they are far away already.”

In fact, the party had now nearly disappeared.

“They will return again, and we shall have them
by us in a few moments once more; for you observe,
signore, that the carriages move, as it were,
in a circle—driving into the Corso by the Capitoline
Hill, and leaving it through the Piazza del Popolo,
or the Via Condotti, and hastening by the parallel
streets back towards their original entrance by the
Capitol.”

“True,” said the stranger; “I will wait—more
especially as I believe I must; for yon soldier has
so pressed back the crowd with his drawn sword,
that I can scarcely at present effect my retreat.”

“Right,” answered the other; “and surely here
is a spectacle worthy of a few moments' extra attention.
What a strange aspect of human nature!”

“Strange indeed!” echoed the foreigner—“Yon
fat fellow with the trumpet.”

“And this giant upon stilts.”

“And that enormous woman driving the barouche
full of harlequins.”

“And—Ha!—that is most extraordinary of all,”
said the Roman.

“Extraordinary indeed! But—no—she is not
masked. It is really a female. How well she
plays her part!”

The object which had thus attracted the attention
of the two chance acquaintances was indeed one
calculated to interest every beholder; and she had
already excited considerable admiration among
those spectators who, amid the discord and confusion
of the scene, had happened to catch a distinct
view of her. The character represented was that
of a female, pale and wild; her dress disordered;
her hair floating loose about her shoulders; clad in
raiments of white, which appeared to have been
caught up carelessly from a bed, and wrapped
around her in the form of a mantle. In her hand
was a mask, which she sometimes held to her face,
and sometimes waved in the air. She had been
several times seen in opposite parts of the town;
—now on some eminence, attracting all eyes by
the singularity of her actions and dress;—now
sinking again in the crowd, and lost as in the general
waves of a heaving sea. No one had time to
regard her long, nor to follow her course; but
many were the remarks drawn forth by the ingenious
and impressive propriety of her costume, and
the great talent she exhibited in acting her rôle.
Uniform attention, in such a restless and agitated
scene, where many were much more eagerly intent
on displaying their own persons and powers than
on animadverting upon those of others, she could
not hope to acquire. Every thing around her was
wild, grotesque, and striking as herself. And those
who had the curiosity to fix their eyes upon her

for any length of time, were afterward heard to declare,
that her actions were strangely and powerfully
eloquent and affecting: sometimes singing
wild catches of music; sometimes smiling, and
laughing aloud to herself; again shouting, and apparently
affrighted by the fear of pursuit; from
which mood she started again into the airs of a
princess—bowed her head ostentatiously to the
occupants of the palaces, and smiled upon the gay
equipages as they rolled by. Often, as if appalled
by some awful recollection, she shrank, shuddered,
and trembled at every passing voice and glance;
and, clasping her hands energetically together,
gazed up to heaven with streaming eyes. Yet no
one attended to her, as she was generally in the
midst of the turmoil, pressed by the crowd in the
street, and pelted with plums. Her shrieks, her
prayers, her entreaties, and her agonies, whether
assumed or real, all passed for mere mummery—
all for idle show. Now a party whom she addressed
with extended, imploring hands, shouted in
derision. Another drove carelessly by. Again
lost, again borne out of view by the multitude—the
mirth of some, the wonder, the neglect of all—she
floated with the tide, like mad Ophelia upon the
stream, singing as she sank. At last she became
the theme of general notice; and had, indeed, drawn
towards her all eyes, at the moment when the
masked Roman and the inquisitive stranger had
first discovered her. After a few moments' gaze,
each uttering an involuntary expression of deep astonishment
and interest, they parted company, and
were soon separated in the crowd.