The Continental Monthly , Vol. 2 No. 5, November 1862

The windows and balconies of the Corso are opera boxes. 'Whiz!' The flying bouquets and white pills show plainly that the prime donne are making their positively first appearances for the season. Look at that French soldier in company with another, who is passing under a balcony, when a tiny bunch of flowers falls, or is thrown at him: he stoops to grasp it: too late, mon brave, a Roman boy is ahead of you: no use swearing; so he grasps his comrade by the arm, and points to the balcony, which is not more than six feet above his head.

'Mon Dieu, qu'elle est gentille!'

And there stands the beauty, a thorough soldier's girl; weighs her hundred and seventy pounds, has cheeks like new-cut beefsteaks, hair black as charcoal, eyes bright as fire, and an arm capable of cooking for a regiment. She is dressed in full Albanian costume, has the dew of the fields in her air, and oh, when she smiles, she shows such splendid teeth!—the contadine have them, and don't ruin them by continual eating! The soldier stops, 'Oh lord, she is neat!' He wants to return her flowery compliment with a similar one; but, Tu bleu! one can't buy bouquets on four sous a day income—even in Rome: so he looks around for a waif, and spies on the pavement something green; he gallantly throws it up, and with a smile and, wave of the hand like a Chevalier Bayard on a bender, he bids adieu to the fair maiden. He threw up half a head of lettuce.

'Ach mein Gott! wollen sie nur?' and in return for a double handful of confetti flung into a carriage full of German artists ahead of him, 'bang!' comes into Caper's vehicle a shower of lime pills and other stunners—not including the language—and he is in for it. A minute, and the whole Corso rains, hails, and pelts flowers and white pills; nothing else is visible: up there laugh down at them whole balconies, filled with delirious men and women, throwing on their devoted heads, American, French, German, rattling, tumbling, fistfuls of confetti and wild flowers:—even that half head of lettuce was among the things flying! English, French, Dutch, Spanish, Germans, Italians, Americans, and those wild northern bloods—all grit and game—the Russians, are down on them like a thousand of bricks. Hurrah! the carriages move on—they are safe. Hurrah for a new fight with fresh faces! Avanti!

Comes a carriage load of wild Rustians. Ivan, the mondjik, fresh from the Nevskoi Prospekt, now drives for the first time in the Corso—Dam na vodka, Sabakoutchelovek, thinks he. Yes, my sweet son of a dog, thou shalt have vodka to drink after all this scrimmage is over. So he holds in his horses with one hand, crowds down his fur hat with the other, so that his eyes will be safe; and then bravely faces the stinging shower of confetti his lord and master draws down on him. Up on the back seat of this carriage, all life and fire, stands the Russian prince, with headpiece of mail and red surtout, a Carnival Circassian, 'down on' the slow-plodding Italians, and throwing himself away with flowers and fun. Isn't he a picture? how his blue eyes gleam, how his long, wavy moustache curls with the play of features! how the flowers fly—how the rubles fly for them! Look at the other Russians—there are beards for you! beards grown where brandy freezes! but, they are thawed out now. Look at these men: hear their wild northern tongue, how it rolls out the sounds that frighten Italians back to sleepy sonnets and voluptuous songs. Hurrah, my Russians! look fate in the face. Your road is—onward!

'Ah, yes; and really, my dear'—here a handful of white pills and lime dust breaks the sentence—'really my dear, hadn't we better'—'bang!' comes a tough bouquet, and hits milady on that bonnet—'better go to the hotel?'

'Indeed, now,' milady continues, 'they don't respect persons, these low Italians. They haven't the faintest idea of dignity.'

These 'low Italians' were more than probably fellow countrymen and women of the speaker; but they may have been 'low' all the same in her social barometer, for they pitched and flung, hurled and threw all the missiles they could lay hands on into the carriage of their unmistakable compatriots, with hearty delight; since the gentleman, who was not gentle, sat upright as a church steeple, never moving a muscle, and looking angry and worried at being flung at; and the milady also sat a la mode de church steeple—throwing nothing but angry looks. They went to the hotel. Sorrow go with them!

Caper and Rocjean now began to throw desperately, for they had a large supply of flowers and confetti on hand, which they were anxious to dispose of suddenly—since in ten minutes the horses would run, and then the carriages must leave the Corso. It was the last day of Carnival, and to-morrow—sackcloth and ashes. How the masks crowd around them; how the beautiful faces, unmasked, are smiling! Look at them well, stamp them on your heart, for many and many one shall we see never again. Another Carnival will bring them again, like song birds in summer; but a long, long winter will be between, and we will be far, far away.

The Corso is cleared, the infantry half keeps the crowd within bounds, a charge of cavalry sweeps the street, and then come rattling, clattering, rushing on the bare-backed horses, urged on by cries, shouts, yells; and frightened thus to top speed, while the Dutch metal, tied to their sides increases their alarm—whir! they are past us, and—the bay horse is ahead.

Again the carriages are in the Corso; here and there a few bouquets are thrown, floral farewells to the merry season: then as dusk comes on, and red and golden behind San Angelo flames the funeral pyre of the sun, and through the blue night twinkles the evening star, see down the Corso a faint light gleaming. Another and another light shines from balcony and window, flashes from rolling carriage, and flames out from along the dusky walls, till, presto! you turn your head, and up the Corso, and down the Corso, there is one burst of trembling light, and ten thousand tapers are brightly gleaming, madly waving, brilliantly swaying to and fro.

Moccoli! ecco, moccoli!

Along roll carriages; high in air gleam tapers, upheld by those within; from every balcony and window shine out the swaying tapers. Hurrah! here, there, hand to hand are contests to put out these shining lights, and Senza moccoli! 'Out with the tapers!' rings forth in trumpet tones, in gay, laughing tones, in merry tones, the length of the whole glorious Corso.

Daring beauty, wild, lovely bacchante, with black, beaming eyes, tempt us not with that bright flame to destruction! Look at her, as she stands so proudly and erectly on the highest seat in the carriage, her arms thrown up, her wild eyes gleaming from under jet black, dishevelled locks, while the night breeze flutters in wavy folds the drapery of her classic dress. Senza moccoli! she sends the challenge ringing down through fifteen centuries. He braves all; the carriage is climbed, the taper is within his reach.

'To-morrow I leave!'

She flings the burning taper away from her.

'Then take this kiss!'

'Senza moccoli!' black, witching eyes—farewell!

'Boom!' rings out the closing bell; fast fades the light, 'Out with the tapers!' the shout swells up, up, up, then slowly dies, as die an organ's tones—and Carnival is ended.

A handful of beautiful flowers, found among gray, crumbling ruins; a few notes of wild, stirring music, suddenly heard, then quickly dying away in the lone watches of the night: these are the hours of the Roman Carnival.

'Played is the comedy, deserted now the scene.'

THE VERMILION MIRACLE

Miracles are no longer performed in Rome. As soon as the police are officially informed, they prevent their being worked even in the Campagna:—official information, however, always travels much faster when the spurs of heretical incredulity are applied—otherwise it lags; and the performances of miracle-mongers insure crowded houses, sometimes for years.

Among Caper's artist friends was a certain Blaise Monet, French by nature, Parisian by birth, artist or writer according to circumstances. Circumstances—that is to say, two thousand francs left him by a deceased relation—created him a temporary artist in Rome.

'When the money is gone,' said he, 'I shall endow some barber with my goat's hair brushes, and resume the stylus: the first have attractions—capillary—for me; the latter has the attraction—gravitation of francs—still more interesting—that is to say, more stylish.'

Blaise Monet with the May breezes fled to a small town on top of a high mountain, in order to enjoy them until autumn: with the rains of October he descended on Rome.

'How did you enjoy yourself up in that hawk's nest?' Caper asked him, when he first saw him after his return to the city.

'Like the king D'Yvétot. My house was a castle, my drink good wine, my food solid—the cheese a little too much so, and a little too much of it: no matter—the views made up for it. Gr-r-rand, magnificent, splendid—in fact, paradise for twenty baiocchi a day, all told.'

'And as for affairs of the heart?'

'My friend, mourn with me: that hole was—so to speak in regard to that matter—a monastery, without doors, windows, or holes; and a wall around it, so high, it shut out—hope! I wish you could have seen the camel who was my monastic jailer.'

'That is, when you say camel, you mean jackass?'

'Precisely! Well, my friend, his name was Father Cipriano; though why they call a man father who has no legal children, I can't conceive, though probably many of his flock do. He prejudiced the minds of the maidens against me, and made an attempt to injure my reputation among the young men and elders—in vain. The man who could paint a scorpion on the wall so naturally as even to delude Father Ciprian into beating it for ten minutes with that bundle of sticks they call a broom; the man who could win three races on a bare-backed horse, treat all hands to wine, and even bestow segars on a few of the elders; win a terno at the Timbola, and give it back to the poor of the town; catch hold of the rope and help pull by the horns, all over town, the ox, thus preparatorily made tender before it was slaughtered: such a man could not have the ill will of the men.

'Believe me, I did all my possible to touch the hearts of the maidens. I serenaded them, learning fearful rondinelle, so as to be popular; I gathered flowers for them; I volunteered to help them pick chestnuts and cut firewood; I helped to make fireworks and fire balloons for the festivals; I drew their portraits in charcoal on a white wall, along the main street; and when they passed, with copper water jars on their heads, filled with water from the fountain, they exclaimed:

''Ecco! that is Elisa, that is Maricuccia, that is Francesca.'

'But I threw my little favors away: there was a black cloud over all, in a long black robe, called Padre Cipriano; and their hearts were untouched.

'I made one good friend, a widow lady, the Signora Margarita Baccio: she was about thirty-three years of age, and was mourning for a second husband—who did not come; the first one having departed for Cielo a few months past, as she told me. The widow having a small farm to hoe and dig, and about twelve miles to walk daily, I had but limited opportunities to study her character; but I believe, if I had, I should not have discovered much, since she had very little: she was deplorably ignorant, and excessively superstitious—but good natured and hopeful—looking out for husband No. 2. She it was that informed me that Padre Cipriano had set the faces of the maidens against me, and for this I determined to be revenged.

'A short time before I left the town, my oil colors were about used up. I had made nearly a hundred sketches, and not caring to send to Rome for more paints, I used my time making pencil sketches. Among the tubes of oil colors left, of course there was the vermilion, that will outlast for a landscape painter all others, I managed to paint a jackass's head for the landlord of the inn where I boarded, with my refuse colors:—after all were gone, there still remained the vermilion. One day, out in the fields sketching an old tower, and watching the pretty little lizards darting in and out the old ruins, an idea struck me. The next day I commenced my plan.

'I caught about fifty lizards, and painted a small vermilion cross on the head of each one, using severe drying oil and turpentine, in order to insure their not being rubbed off.

'The next dark night, when Padre Cipriano was returning from an excursion, he saw an apparition: phosphorus eyes, from the apothecary; a pair of horns, from the butcher; a tall form, made from reeds, held up by Blaise Monet, and covered with his long cloak, made in the Rue Cadet—strode before him with these words:

''I am the shade of Saint Inanimus, boiled to death by Roman legions, for the sake of my religion—in oil. My bones long since have mouldered in the dust, but, where they lie, the little lizards bear a red cross on their heads. Seek near the old tower by the old Roman road, here at the foot of this mountain, and over it erect a chapel, and cause prayers to be said for Saint Inanimus: I, who was boiled to death for the sake of my religion—in oil.'

''Sh-sh-shade of S-s-saint Ann-on-a-muss, w-w-what k-kind of oi-oil was it?' gasped Padre Cipriano.

'The shade seemed to collect himself as if about to bestow a kick on the padre, but changed his mind as he screamed:

''Hog oil. Go!'

'The priest departed in fear and trembling, and the next day the whole town rang with the news that an apparition had visited Padre Cipriano, and that a procession for some reason was to be made at once to the old tower. Accordingly all the population that could, set forth at an early hour in the afternoon, the padre first informing them of all the circumstances attending the ghostly visitor, the red-headed cross lizards by no means omitted. Arrived at the tower, they were fortunate enough to find a red-cross lizard, then another, and another; and it being buzzed about that one of them was worth, I don't know how many gallons of holy water—the inhabitants moreover believing, if they had one, they could commit all kinds of sins free gratis, without confession, &c.,—there at once commenced, consequently, a most indecorous riot among those in the procession; taking advantage of which, the lizards made hurried journeys to other old ruins. The inhabitants of another small town, having heard of the Miracolo delle lucertole, came up in force to secure a few lizards for their households: then commenced those exquisite battles seen nowhere else in such perfection as in southern Italy.

'His eyes starting out of his head, his hands and legs shaking with excitement, one man stands in front of another so 'hopping mad' that you would believe them both dancing the tarantella, if you did not hear them shout—such voices for an opera chorus!—

''You say that to me? to me? to ME!' Hands working.

''I do, to you!'

''To me, me, ME?' striking himself on his breast.

''Yes, yes, I do, I do!'

''What, to me! me! I?' both hands pointing toward his own body, as if to be sure of the identity of the person; and that there might not be the possibility of any mistake, he again shouts, screams, yells, shrieks: 'To me? What, that to me! to ME!' hands and arms working like a crab's.

'Then the entire population rush, in with, 'Bravo, Johnny, bravo!' At last, after they have screamed themselves black in the face, and swung their arms and legs until they are ready to drop off, both combatants coolly walk off; and a couple of fresh hands rush in, assisted by the splendid Roman chorus, and begin:

''What, me? me?' &c.

'But the battle of the lizards was conducted with more spirit than the general run of quarrels, for the people were fighting for remission of their sins as it were—the possession of every sanctified red-headed lizard being so much money saved from the church, so many years out of purgatory.

'The gendarmerie heard the row, and at once rushed down—four soldiers comprised the garrison—to dissipate the crowd: this they managed to do in a peaceable way. There happened to be a heretical spur in the town, in the shape of three German artists, and this incited the bishop of the province, who was at once informed of the miracle-working doings of Father Ciprian, to displace him.

'Thus, my dear friend, I was left to make love to the girls until I had to return to Rome—unfortunately only two weeks' time—for the newly-appointed priest had not the opportunity to set them against me.

'The moral of this long story is: that even vermilion can be worked up in a miraculous manner—if you put the powerful reflective faculty in motion; and doing so, you can have the satisfaction of knowing that by its means you can cause an invisible sign to be stuck up over even a country town in Italy: 'All Persons are Forbidden to Work Miracles Here!''

THE POPOLO EXHIBITION

The government, aware of its foreign reputation for patronizing the Belle Arti, has an annual display of such paintings and sculpture as artists may see fit to send, and—the censor see fit to admit: for, in this exhibition, 'nothing is shown that will shock the most fastidious taste'—and it can be found thus, in a building in the Piazza del Popolo.

Caper's painting for the display was rejected for some reason. It represented a sinister-looking brigand, stealing away with Two Keys in one hand and a spilt cap in the other, suddenly kicked over by a large-sized donkey, his mane and tail flying, head up, and an air of liberty about him generally, which probably shocked Antonelli's tool the censor's sense of the proprieties.

Rocjean consoled Caper with the reflection that his painting was refused admittance because the donkey had gradually grown to be emblematical of the state—in fact, was so popularly known to the forestieri as the Roman Locomotive, with allusions to its steam whistle, &c., highly annoying to the chief authorities—and therefore, its introduction in a painting was intolerable, and not to be endured.

The works of art included contributions from Americans, Italians, Belgians, Swiss, English, Hessians, French, Dutch, Danes, Bavarians, Spaniards, Norwegians, Prussians, Russians, Austrians, Finns, Esthonians, Lithuanians, Laplanders, and Samoyedes. There was little evidence of the handiwork of mature artists; they either withheld their productions from dislike of the managers, or through determination of giving their younger brethren a fair field and a clear show. A careful observer could see that these young artists had not profited to the fullest extent by the advantages held out to them through a residence in the Imperial City. There was a wine-yness, and a pretty-girl-yness, and tobacco-ness, about paintings and sculpture, that could have been picked up just as well in Copenhagen or Madrid or New York as in Rome. Michael Angelo evidently had not 'struck in' on their canvases, or Praxiteles struck out from their marbles. Theirs was an unrevealed religion to these neophytes.

The study of a piece of old Turkey carpet, or a camel's hair shawl, or a butterfly's wing, or a bouquet of many flowers would have taught the best artist in the exhibition more concerning color than he would learn in ten years simply copying the best of the old painters, who had themselves studied directly from these things and their like.

In sculpture, as in painting, the artists showed the same tame following other sculptors; the same fear of facing Nature, and studying her face to face. A pretty kind of statue of Modesty a man would make, who would take the legs of a satyr, the body of a Venus, the head of Bacchus, the arms of Eros, and thus construct her; yet scarcely a modern statue is made wherein some such incongruous models do not play their part. Go with a clear head, not one ringing with last night's debauch, and study the Dying Gladiator! That will be enough—something more than five tenths of you young Popolites can stand, if you catch but the faintest conception of the mind once moving the sculptor of such a statue. After you have earnestly thought over such a masterpiece, go back to your studio: break up your models for legs, arms, bodies, and heads: take the scalpel in hand, and study anatomy as if your heart was in it. Have the living model nude before you at all times. Close your studio door to all 'orders,' be they ever so tempting: if a fastidious world will have you make 'nude statues dressed in stockinet,' tell it to get behind you! After long years of earnest study and labor, carve a hand, a foot: if, when you have finished it, one living soul says, with truth, 'Blood, bones, and muscles seem under the marble!' believe that you are not far off from exceeding great reward.

In the Popolo exhibition for 1858 was a marble statuette of Daphnis and Chloe, by Luigi Guglielmi, of Rome.

Chloe had a low-necked dress on.

The Roman censor disapproved of this. In a city claiming to be the 'HOME OF ART'—they pinned a piece of foolscap paper around the neck of Chloe.

Rome is the cradle of art:—if so, the sooner the world changes its nurse, the better for the babe!

'MISSED FIRE!'

Oh not in Independence HallWill ye proclaim your will;Nor read aloud your negro call,As yet, on Bunker Hill.He said he would, and thought he could,And tried—and missed it clean;—Now he's o'er the Border, and awa',Weel thrashed and unco' mean.

THE PROCLAMATION

[September 22, 1862.]Now who has done the greatest deedWhich History has ever known,And who, in Freedom's direst need,Became her bravest champion?Who a whole continent set free?Who killed the curse and broke the banWhich made a lie of liberty?You—Father Abraham—you're the man!The deed is done. Millions have yearnedTo see the spear of Freedom cast:—The dragon writhed and roared and burned:You've smote him full and square at last.O Great and True! You do not know,You cannot tell, you cannot feelHow far through time your name must go,Honored by all men, high or low,Wherever Freedom's votaries kneel.This wide world talks in many a tongue—This world boasts many a noble state—In all, your praises will be sung,In all the great will call you great.Freedom! Where'er that word is known,On silent shore, by sounding sea,'Mid millions or in deserts lone,Your noble name shall ever be.The word is out—the deed is done;Let no one carp or dread delay:When such a steed is fairly on,Fate never fails to find a way.Hurrah! hurrah! The track is clear,We know your policy and plan;We'll stand by you through every year:Now, Father Abraham, you're our man!

THE PRESS IN THE UNITED STATES

The unexampled extent of newspaper issues in the United States has often excited the astonishment of intelligent observers; but it is doubtful whether the whole of the enormous truth could have been fully appreciated without the actual figures which reveal it. According to the "preliminary report" of the 8th census, 1860, recently published by the Hon. J.C.G. Kennedy, the superintendent, it appears that the annual circulation of newspapers and periodicals is no less than 927,951,548, or at the rate of 34.36 for every white man, woman, and child of our population. The annual value of all the printing done in the United States, for that year, is stated at a fraction less than thirty nine and three quarters millions of dollars.

These numbers are sufficiently astounding; but the rate of increase since 1850, is, if possible, even more so. In that year, says Mr. Kennedy, the whole circulation amounted to 426,409,978 copies; and the rate of increase for the decade is 117.61 per cent., while the increase of the white population during the same period was only 38.12 per cent. If the circulation should continue to grow in the same proportion for the next ten years, the number of newspapers and periodicals issued in 1870 will be a little over two billions.

In addition to these domestic publications, no inconsiderable number of foreign journals is introduced into the United States. "The British Almanac and Companion" for 1862 states the number in 1860 to have been as follows: from Great Britain, 1,557,689; from France, 270,655; from Bremen, 41,171; from Prussia, 83,349. These figures comprehend only the foreign newspapers, and not the periodicals, some of which are republished in the United States.