CHAPTER V.
RESIDENCE AT ROME—CEREMONY AT ST. PETER’S—MIDSUMMER MADNESS—ANECDOTE OF M. CLERMONT—THE AMBASSADOR AND THE ACTRESS—POPE GANGANELLI.
On the 28th of June, 1780, being St. Peter’s-eve, we went to a house near the bridge of St. Angelo to see the Constable Colonna conveying the tribute-horse, which was annually presented to the Pope by the King of Naples. The procession commenced with the Pope’s light horse, sent to escort the constable. Then came the servants of several cardinals and princes in their liveries, in attendance upon some of their gentlemen on horseback with black mantles. The constable’s were the last, with their mantles turned back with gold stuff. Next followed the horse, richly caparisoned, the present—a silver flower—being carried on his back. Behind the animal came the constable, preceded by his pages in lilac and silver, and by his first gentlemen. He was dressed in light brown, with a mantle, and was mounted on a beautiful horse: he himself was a pretty figure. His state carriages followed him. The first was a chariot, which belonged to his uncle, Cardinal Pamfili, when he was nuncio in France, and the second one was a coach, richly ornamented, belonging to the King of Naples, whom he represented as ambassador; the rest were of various colours, but all drawn by fine horses. When they arrived at St. Peter’s, the guns of St. Angelo were fired, and after them a volley of musketry. We entered St. Peter’s a few minutes before the Pope came in to receive the constable. He was carried on men’s shoulders down the body of the church, attended by the cardinals. The horse was then brought in and led up to the altar, when he received a slight tap with a wand, and immediately knelt down, and the Pope gave him his benediction. The statue of St. Peter was dressed in gold stuff, with a ring on its finger, rare jewels on its breast, and a tiara on its head. Large candle-sticks with lighted tapers were placed in front, and a guard of soldiers stationed to check the indiscreet devotion of the saint’s votaries; but the black face and hands of the statue had a comical effect. The church was hung with crimson velvet and gold, the great altar finely arranged, and festoons of artificial flowers hung round the silver lamps that surrounded it. The throne of the Pope was set out for next day’s mass, and the whole building in perfect “fiocchi.”[[26]] The constable returned in his state coach, drawn by six horses.
During the great heats of July, 1781, many people went mad. Amongst others, a bricklayer, in his madness, killed a priest near St. Pietro in Vincoli, and then went to his work. His master, observing that his hands were bloody, told him he looked as if he had been killing somebody. He said, so he had; that he had just killed a priest. On this his master, being frightened, gave him some money, and advised him to run away. He went towards the Coliseo, where he killed, at one stroke, a very beautiful woman, then broke in two places the arm of another woman who was walking with her, and wounded a priest who came to her assistance. In short, they say he killed, or wounded, seven persons. He was at last secured, and thrown into prison. Many other madmen have tried to fight, but people were put on their guard, and precautions taken to prevent any violence. One of the madmen, meeting the Pope in St. Peter’s, said he would confess to him, and tell him all the evils the poor experienced from bad bread and dear oil. Another beat the statue of St. Peter; it was reported he had beaten that of Pasquin. Four barbers, also, counterfeited madness, but were taken up, and two of them sent to the galleys for ten years, and the others sentenced to be hanged.
A story is told of M. Clermont, ambassador of France at the Court of Naples, that he became very attentive to an actress known as “La Balduzzi.” M. de Bièvre, calling upon him one morning, found him in his garden gathering flowers. So he asked him what he was doing; when the ambassador replied that he was gathering “garofolis” for the Balduzzi. “Ah, monsieur,” exclaimed the other, “gare aux folies!” This M. de Bièvre complained one day that Colonel Chrysti was very tiresome. “He is a very honest man,” remarked a gentleman who was present, “he is a Swiss.” “Eh bien, donc,” cries M. de Bièvre, “il faut le mettre à la porte.”
Mr. Jenkins, our banker, having remarked that he didn’t know what Mr. Pigot would think of the race on the Corso, he who had been so celebrated on the turf: “Well,” said Mr. Hodges, “he can now be celebrated on the pavé.”
When Pope Ganganelli died, who had made a great favourite of Padre Buontempi, a monk of his own order, some one put an umbrella up over Pasquin’s statue, with a writing, “E finito il buon tempo.” At another time, a wag wrote on this statue, in answer to the question, “Che fa Roma?” “Opera di misericordia. Veste i Gnudi ed arrichisce gli Onesti.”[[27]] Gnudi was the name of a person who came from Cesena with Don Luigi Onesti, the Pope’s nephew, and was previously in the greatest poverty. In the chapel, too, of the new sacristy, where an inscription testified that it was built in consequence of the vota publica, a paper was affixed with these lines:
Publica! mentiris, non publica vota fuêre,
Sed tumidi capitis vota fuêre tui.
His Holiness was so much offended, that it was said he would have put the author to death for his impertinence, if he could have found him. The Italians used to say of the Pope’s arms, in which were stars, an eagle, and the wind blowing on fleurs-de-lys: “L’Aquila è andata in Germania, i Gigli in Francia, le Stelle sono tornate nel cielo, e non gli è rimasto altro che il Vento.”[[28]]
The Cavalier Guglielmi, about this time, asked the Cardinal Secretary-of-State to promote his brother to a better post. The cardinal, taking snuff, replied, negligently, with the common proverb, “Chi sta bene, non si muova.” The cavalier took no immediate notice of this answer, but after a little while, imitating the cardinal’s action, he said: “Vostra eminenza, mi ricordo, era nunzio a Bruxelles, e stava bene, ma voleva qualche cosa di più, e fu fatto nunzio a Napoli; stava benone, ma voleva qualche cosa di più, e fu fatto cardinale; stava ottimamente, ma voleva qualche cosa di più, e fu fatto segretario di stato; vedo chi sta a maraviglia, ma chi sa se ancora non vuole qualche cosa di più.”[[29]] The cardinal felt the rebuke, and gave the desired post to Cavalier Guglielmi’s brother.
It was also some time in the year 1781 that I became acquainted with the following instance of gratitude on the part of a Turk, and which was then of quite recent occurrence. The commander of a merchantman of Leghorn was taken by an Algerine corsair, after making a gallant defence. He was carried to Algiers, and exposed for sale in the market-place, where he was soon observed by a Turkish merchant, who bought him immediately, without further inquiry. While he remained between hope and fear of his future situation, the Turk asked him whether he knew him. He replied that he could not recollect ever having seen him. The Turk then said: “I have not bought you for your harm, but for your good. I am the man you took prisoner some years since, and whom you treated with such humanity, and afterwards set at liberty. I mean, therefore, to make you free, and will give you a ship larger than that you have lost, and will freight it with corn, which is here at a very low price. And when you return to Leghorn you will make what profit you can upon it, only restoring to me the original price of the corn; all the rest, together with the ship, is at your service.” The grateful and generous Turk fulfilled his promise; and the man returned to Leghorn, and disposed of his cargo to great advantage.
Mr. Jenkins told us of a curious affair that happened at Urbino. The governor of that town, Monsignor Lucchesini, whose power was almost absolute, being offended with the nobility of the place because they had beaten one of his servants, searched through the records for some obsolete law with which he could plague them. He found an obsolete ordinance, which forbade the nobility of Urbino to stir out at night without carrying torches, which all Italians have a great aversion to doing. So he insisted upon this law being put in force, and, when they refused to obey, he ordered the barigel[[30]] to compel them to do so. That officer, however, told him that he dared not act against all the principal families of the town; but the prelate still remained obstinate. Whereupon all the families of the nobility assembled, and agreed to go with their torches to the door of a lady’s house, whom monsignor visited every evening by stealth. Accordingly, they posted themselves at the door just at the time he usually went away, and he had the pleasure of being escorted home in the full light of all their torches.
One day in September, as the Pope was talking to his nephew, he observed that he made no answer, and asked him the reason. The latter made signs that there was somebody listening at the door. The Pope instantly got up, went to the door, and, flinging aside the curtain, found there Monsignor di Spagna, whom, it is said, he beat pretty handsomely for his impertinent curiosity—others, however, deny the latter part of the story.
On the 23rd of December, 1783, we met the Emperor Joseph II. at the Princess Santa Croce’s conversazione. His Majesty was travelling incognito as Count Falkenstein. As we entered the grand apartment we saw him standing near the door with Cardinal de Bernis by his side, and surrounded by all the men in the room, which was very full. He was in a plain uniform, blue with red lappels, and had much the look of a military man. His figure was good, and his eyes very fine. We had not, however, a good opportunity of observing him, as the apartment was so crowded in the part where he stood. The cardinal told him who we were, and he made us very polite bows, after which we went off in search of seats. The emperor talked a good deal to those near him, and stayed about half an hour, but he had been there some time before we entered, and had made a previous visit to the Princess Doria.
His Majesty had arrived that morning from Florence a little before noon, without having given any notice to the Pope. About one, his Holiness was sitting with Don Luigi, his nephew, and the Bailli Antinori, his familiar friend, and finding that he had still some time to spare before his usual hour for going out, he went into his closet to write a letter. Just then a favourite valet-de-chambre ran into the room, and told Don Luigi that Cardinal Hertzan, the emperor’s representative, was ascending the staircase, and demanded an immediate audience. Greatly agitated by this announcement, Don Luigi knocked at the door, and informed Pius VI., who was not less disconcerted. Presently, the valet again hurried in, and said that the emperor also was there. Don Luigi thereupon told his uncle, who threw open his closet door just as the emperor and the cardinal entered the apartment through the opposite door. When his imperial visitor rose to take leave, Pius VI. conducted him through the apartments of the Countess Matilda into St. Peter’s. The Pope then proposed that they should offer up a prayer together, and invited the emperor to kneel by his side on a prie-Dieu, with two cushions, but the latter flung aside the one intended for himself, and knelt down on the bare floor. “Then,” said Pius, “I, too, must kneel on the floor: I cannot take this place.” “You may do as you please,” replied the emperor, “but I always kneel so.” He made a very short prayer, and, wishing the Pope good morning, went to see the Museum, and at four o’clock dined with Cardinal Hertzan, at whose house he had alighted.[[31]]
On the following day he dined with one of the generals who accompanied him, at a lodging-house in the Piazza di Spagna, and, according to his usual custom, sent down a large fish from the table to the mistress of the house. As he was going away, an immense number of the populace, who had collected round the door, began to cry aloud, “Viva l’imperadore!” “Viva Cesare!” His Majesty stopped a moment, and made them a sign to be quiet, and then jumped into his carriage and drove off. In the evening the emperor was present at the Duchess Bracciano’s, and afterwards at Princess Altieri’s, who had lighted up her house, of which he complained, as he does not permit the slightest ceremony, not even torches on the staircase.
On Christmas-day, Joseph II. and Gustavus III., King of Sweden, who had arrived at a late hour of the previous evening, attended high mass at St. Peter’s. The behaviour of the emperor was particularly decorous, without any affectation or hypocrisy. The king at first hesitated about kneeling, and asked the emperor what he should do. “Do as I do,” replied Joseph. “But I am not of your communion,” rejoined the other. “Well,” resumed the emperor, “believe what you will, but as you came here of your own choice, you should act so as not to scandalise others.” Gustavus took the hint, and knelt down.
The next evening we went to Cardinal de Bernis’, who had illuminated his house, and was to give a concert in honour of the King of Sweden. The day before he invited the emperor, who said that, if the concert were given as a compliment to the king, he would certainly come, as he had no objection to partake of fêtes, provided they were not offered to himself. But, he added, if his eminence sent a single torch to him on the stairs, he should instantly retire. There was a vast deal of company assembled on the occasion, and it was remarked that it was like the East Indies—all heat and diamonds.
About seven o’clock the King of Sweden, who was travelling under the title of the Comte de Haga, came in, followed by two gentlemen. The Princess Santa Croce[[32]] took him by the hand, and introduced him to everybody in the room. His Majesty was dressed in a satin coat, wearing his order, &c.; but there was nothing remarkable in his figure or address, except an air of levity and affectation. Very different in this from the emperor, of the perfect ease and propriety of whose conduct too much cannot be said in praise. The latter talks to all around him with the utmost politeness, but carefully avoids giving any trouble to others, and never suffers any one to take liberties with himself. A Roman gentleman went up to him at Cardinal de Bernis’, and said that he had the honour of being acquainted with his Majesty. “What majesty?” asked the emperor, looking around. “There is no majesty here.” “Oh!” insisted the gentleman, “my family is too much attached to the House of Austria for me not to know that I must address you as your Majesty.” “If you speak to the Comte de Falkenstein,” said Joseph, “he will answer you. But if you speak to the emperor, it is taking a great liberty to address him first.” At this concert his Majesty stayed rather less than an hour, and heard Marchesi[[33]] sing one song, after which he ran off in great haste.
The King of Sweden, however, remained to supper, and did not leave till two in the morning. He had also dined at the cardinal’s, and professed himself wholly attached to the Court of France. At supper his Majesty was seen to scratch his head with his fork, and also with his knife, and afterwards to go on eating with them. Before his departure from Rome for Naples, the emperor had a very satisfactory interview with the Pope, who appeared more cheerful afterwards. It is said that his Holiness reminded his Majesty that his ancestors had more than once been indebted for their crown to the See of Rome. The emperor’s munificence was much spoken of. He gave five hundred sequins to the mistress of the lodging-house in the Piazza di Spagna where he used to sleep, and bestowed upon her husband an employment in the Milan post-office. At the Museum he left fifty sequins, and a similar sum at the library, &c., and scattered a great deal of money among the populace. On one occasion the emperor asked several questions of a footman, who answered him readily, in ignorance of his rank, and so much pleased his Majesty that, on leaving the man, he gave him three sequins for his company. At another time he sent for a dish of coffee from the coffee-house, and laid a baiócco[[34]] and a half on the saucer to pay for it, but gave a sequin to the boy who brought it. In this respect he was very different to the King of Sweden, of whom it was said:
Il Conte de Haga tutto vede, e niente paga.[[35]]
As he was returning from Naples, the postilions contrived to upset his imperial Majesty’s carriage; whereupon he gave each of them three sequins to comfort them under their mishap. Everybody agreed that Joseph II. had conducted himself so as to win the hearts of all Rome, and this without the slightest derogation to his own dignity. Several anecdotes were told of his Majesty, illustrating his kindly disposition and dry humour. When he was attending mass at St. Peter’s, some one remarked that Cardinal Orsini had so bad a voice that he could not intone the Gospel. “Se non intona,”[[36]] replied the emperor, “non stuona.” Seeing the Pope’s niece seated near the door, he asked her, “Lei sta quà per mangiar il prossimo?”[[37]] As she did not appear to understand him, he added, “Perchè prende il fiato di tutti quelli che entrano.”[[38]]
At the Duchess Bracciano’s the emperor was standing in the middle of the room, engaged in general conversation, when some ladies who had followed him and the King of Sweden about everywhere, again came up to him. He took a snuff-box out of the Venetian ambassador’s hand, and showed them the lid; on it was painted the portrait of the Grand Signor. At Vienna his Majesty used to dismiss all the soldiers from the palace at ten o’clock. Not a single sentinel was stationed in the imperial apartments. Even at the camp he had never more than two guards, and those he chiefly employed as messengers. In driving about the streets of his capital he was attended by only one servant, and not unfrequently he accompanied ladies in their private carriages. If he happened to be unwell, he would invite every evening four or five ladies of the first distinction to keep him company. A horse was always kept ready saddled, so that if he heard of a fire he was almost immediately upon the spot. While at Rome, his Majesty went to see the caves of the Capucins, where human bones and skulls were arranged in a very fanciful manner. Looking round him, he asked: “What will these good people do at the day of judgment, now that you have mixed their bones so?” An old Capucin, who was kneeling close by, and who, though at prayer, overheard the emperor, made this reply: “Ci pensa chi l’ha fatti.” One day the emperor, while walking about the Villa Medici, inquired of the guarda-roba what he meant to do with his children. The man answered, that he intended to bring two of them up as priests, if they would study. The emperor then said that their studying was of no great consequence, for, if they could barely read and write, they might hope to become prelates, cardinals, the Pope himself.
His majesty entertained a very poor opinion of the Roman clergy. On his return to Vienna, after his first journey into Italy, his mother, the Empress Maria Theresa, asked him to give her some account of Rome. “I can do it in a few words,” he replied: “great luxury, little religion, and much ignorance.” While visiting the hospital of Santo Spirito, the emperor remarked that it was a great expense. “Yes,” said a bystander; “but your Majesty is at a still greater expense for the maintenance of three hundred thousand soldiers.” “You may add sixty thousand to that number,” replied Joseph; “but the money is all spent in the State, and, by keeping up so large an army, I save the lives of many of my subjects, who would otherwise perish in the wars my powerful neighbours would raise up against me if I were not so well prepared.” He was out hunting one day with the King of Naples, when the latter expressed a wish to see Count Falkenstein at the head of a hundred thousand men. “Well,” answered the other, “if you like, I will send a hundred thousand of my troops here, and come and command them.” Upon this the king exclaimed, in the lazzaroni dialect, which he generally used: “Malora, ci vuoi assassinar.”
When the Emperor Joseph was at Florence, he thought to give the fourth son of the Grand-Duke of Tuscany the colonelcy of a regiment that was just then vacant, and called to him to approach, in the presence of his father and mother. Taking a paper out of his pocket, he said that he had just returned from Rome, and brought him a brief from the Pope for a cardinal’s hat. The boy, who was not eleven years of age, reddened with indignation, and presently burst into tears. The emperor then embraced him, and told him it was a colonel’s commission, whereupon the little prince danced about the room with the greatest delight, much to the satisfaction of his uncle.[[39]]
At Milan, a poor woman petitioned the emperor on behalf of her husband, who had been kept in prison seventeen months by order of Count Belgiojoso, for having killed a hare on his estate. The same evening his Majesty happened to meet the count in company, and telling him he was sorry to hear that he preferred his game to the good of his fellow-creatures, ordered him to set the man at liberty immediately, and make his family amends for the sufferings they had sustained through his absence, by giving them a florin a day for the time the poor fellow was in prison. “And,” continued the emperor, “to avoid all temptation to play the tyrant, do away with your game preserves.”
There was much ill-natured gossiping this year on the subject of the Countess of Albany[[40]] and Count Alfieri. The moment the countess heard that the Pretender was lying at the point of death, she forwarded the news to Cardinal York,[[41]] at Frascati, who instantly hastened to Florence to see his brother. On his return to Rome, he spoke only a few cold words to the countess, but informed the Pope that it was his brother’s wish that his wife should either dismiss Count Alfieri and return to him, or go into a convent. The countess thereupon wrote a letter to the Pope, in which she cleared her own character, and declared that if Count Alfieri’s visiting her gave his Holiness any displeasure, she was quite sure she could prevail upon that gentleman to leave Rome. The Pope replied that he approved of her conduct, and had no doubt of its correctness, but as the cardinal disapproved of the count’s visit to her house, it might be as well to request his absence, taking care, however, to do it in such a manner as not to offend him, or any other gentleman who visited her. The cardinal, it is said, told every postilion on the road from Florence to Rome the bad opinion he had of his sister-in-law and Count Alfieri, and he held the same discourse with all the shabby people about Frascati. It was generally believed that the Grand-Duchess of Tuscany was the originator of all this disturbance, from jealousy of her husband, who was partial to the cause of the unfortunate lady. The count informed the Countess de Château-Dauphin that he had good reason to believe that the Pretender meant to have him assassinated. He afterwards consented to quit Rome for a time, and travelled through France to England.
The countess’s mother, the Princess de Stolberg, arrived in Rome soon after this with her youngest daughter, a chanoinesse. The cardinal offered them apartments in his house at Frascati, which they declined, but they consented to dine with him one day when he came into the town. In April, 1784, through the mediation of the King of Sweden and Baron Sparr, articles of separation were agreed upon and signed by the count and countess, the former fully vindicating his wife’s reputation. She entered very fully with us into the details of the sufferings she had undergone during the twelve years of her married life. The count, she said, was constantly and madly drunk, and seldom had a moment of reason. He was ever talking about his restoration, or abusing the French and the Pope. He was equally covetous and extravagant. His own table was always sumptuously provided, but he would grudge the countess a little mutton broth in the morning. She acknowledged he had one good quality—he never betrayed a secret, and never disclosed who had belonged to his party until after their death; nor would he ever listen to any ill-natured things said of people. He once crossed over into England after the rebellion, and was in London, but he never would mention in what year;[[42]] the countess, however, was pretty sure that it was in the year after the rebellion. She spoke of him with great calmness and compassion, and thought, drinking apart, that he was a less despicable character than Cardinal York.
About this time I gathered some anecdotes about preachers. The Marquis de Montreuil told me of a preacher who, in the year of the Jubilee (1775), exhorted the people to repentance in such forcible terms, that a woman stood up on a chair and confessed publicly all her sins. A moment afterwards, a man got up and declared that she was his wife, and a very good woman, but she was a little mad, so they must not believe what she had said. Several other women at the same time made public confession, and were sent by the cardinal-vicar to religious houses, where they were clothed and fed for some months.
The Cardinal de Bernis gave me two anecdotes of missionary preachers in Languedoc. One of them said to his hearers that they were not ashamed to live in the mud of their sins, but were ashamed to confess them publicly. If it were not so, why did they not hide their heads in the mud in token of repentance? It so happened that they were just then standing in a very muddy place, and in obedience to the preacher they all plunged their heads into the mire, standing with begrimed faces to hear the remainder of his discourse. The other missionary used to carry a death’s head about with him, which he dressed up in the cap and ornaments then in fashion among ladies of rank. This skull he would throw down on the floor of the pulpit, and talk to it, answering himself in a low voice, to imitate that of a woman. “Qui êtes-vous?” “Je suis une marquise.” “Êtes-vous dame de la cour?” “Oui, monsieur, je suis dame de la reine.” “Où êtes-vous?” “Dans l’enfer, monsieur.” “Et pourquoi cela?” To this last question he used to give answers that embodied satirical allusions to the doings of the most celebrated women of fashion.
One of the missionaries, at that time preaching at Santa Maria, in Trastevere, also took a death’s head about with him, which he tossed up and down like a ball. When the Duke de Bracciano opened the box which he had held for the missions, in the garb of a penitent, he found scarcely any money in it, but plenty of bits of wood, buttons, &c. &c. At first he flew into a violent passion, thinking it to be an impertinence levelled at himself personally, but he was soon pacified on discovering that all the other gentlemen employed in the same business had been treated in a similar manner.
The Duke of Parma used frequently to clothe himself in a friar’s robe and live ascetically. One day he remarked to the duchess that her head-dress was not becoming. “Oh!” said she, “è bello e buono per un frate.” For her part she spent much of her time in hunting, and loved to wear man’s attire. The Emperor of Austria told the duchess, his sister, if she would come to Rome while he and the King of Sweden were there, they might have great luck at a game much played at Vienna, in which the best hand consists of two kings and a card called “la matta” (the fool).
The King of Sweden remained in Rome till the middle of April, 1784. The night before he set out for Naples he presented the Cardinal de Bernis with a snuff-box, on which was his portrait, set in brilliants, valued at sixty thousand livres.[[43]] He also gave one to the Chevalier de Bernis, estimated at fifteen thousand livres, and a similar one to the major-domo, besides leaving five hundred sequins for the cardinal’s servants. A few days before his majesty’s departure, he was received at the Arcadia by the name of Anaxander, and verses were composed in his honour, after the fashion known as a Corona, the last line of each piece being the first of the following one. Most of these effusions referred chiefly to Queen Christina, the great patroness of the Arcadia, but some of them also eulogised the king, and alluded to his assumed name as King of Men. I don’t think his Majesty understood these allusions, for he told me in the evening that his name was “Anaxamandre.” He seemed, however, much gratified by the compliments paid to him, but remarked that he did not deserve them. What he had done, he added, might make some figure in history, but not in poetry.
The King of Sweden also presented to the Pope three caskets, containing Swedish medals, ninety of which were of gold and one hundred and fifty of silver. His Holiness made a handsome return by a present of two large mosaics and two pieces of tapestry, besides some prints by Piranesi. One of the mosaics alone was worth more than the whole of the Swedish medals, but the king set down on a piece of paper the cost of his own and the Pope’s presents, and made out that the latter was not worth half as much as the former.
One night, at Monsignor de Bayane’s, an air balloon[[44]] was sent up to gratify his Swedish Majesty, whose arms were painted upon it, with the motto: “Ce n’est pas un conte.” The king amused himself with making all kinds of ridiculous experiments with Naples biscuits, in concert with the Princess Santa Croce.
Being at supper once with the King and Queen of Naples, the latter asked Gustavus a number of questions about his revolution (in 1772), which he answered in monosyllables, with evident reluctance. At last she inquired what the Queen of Sweden was doing all that time. “Why,” said he, “she remained shut up in her own room, awaiting the event. What have women to do with political affairs?” However, he kissed the queen one evening as he was taking leave of her, in the presence of the king, her husband, who exclaimed: “Malora! in faccia mia!”
About this time I made the acquaintance of Lieutenant Koehler, General Elliott’s aide-de-camp during the siege of Gibraltar. He said that the general used to rise every morning at four, but scarcely ever went to bed before twelve or one, and even then was continually awakened to hear the reports from the different batteries of every circumstance that happened in the enemy’s camp. While the floating batteries were burning, he exclaimed: “They will make us pay for them; for they have a hundred thousand witnesses to prove that it was we who set them on fire.” As he walked up and down, watching the conflagration, he caught himself humming one of his favourite airs: “Le matelot brûle au milieu des flots.”
While General Elliott was planning the great sortie that destroyed the Spanish works, he did not speak of it to any one. But when he had arranged and decided upon every part of the manœuvre, he sent for the commanding officers, and explained his intentions to them, appointing each to a particular duty. He then ordered all the suttling-houses to be closed, in order that the men might be quite sober, and even when they were under arms he kept them waiting for four hours, so that if any of them should happen to have been drinking they might have time to recover from the effects. He then said he should accompany them to the gate, but no one knew that he meant to go any further, though his aide-de-camp had observed that his great-coat—which he wore with a belt, and called his “kitchen fire”—stuck out more than was usual over his ordinary small sword. But when he arrived at the gate he threw off his coat, and ordered some one to carry it home, and it was then seen that he had his fighting sword on, slung by a belt over his shoulder. As the path was exceedingly difficult, many of the soldiers offered their arm to steady him, but he told them that they would have enough to do to take care of themselves, and so contented himself with leaning on his aide-de-camp’s shoulder. When they reached the Spanish lines he exclaimed: “We have had a run for it, but it has been the right way.”
After having completely destroyed the enemy’s works, he walked with the slowest pace and most majestic demeanour. If any man happened to be wounded, the general always inquired closely into the circumstances of the case, and severely rebuked any officer who did not take good care of the lives of his men. If any man was killed, he always asked if he had left a wife or family, and made it his business that they should be provided for. Every morning he visited the hospital, to see that it was kept perfectly clean, and the patients properly attended to. The first lemons in his garden were always sent there, and whatever else was likely to contribute to the comfort of the sick and wounded.
Whenever he wanted to propose some new scheme which he had designed in his own mind, General Elliott used to go to the persons to whose department it belonged, and mention the matter to them as if asking their opinion. By degrees he would insinuate his own idea into their heads, and then applaud them for it, as if it were their own, and invite them to carry it out immediately. They would thus set about the performance with greater alacrity, and the general never claimed any merit for his original idea, but generously relinquished the credit to others. He likewise banished all libertinism and dissipation from the garrison, setting himself a good moral example, as he did of activity and industry. At the same time, he was particularly attentive to procure for his officers every comfort in his power, and his own table[[45]] was remarkably elegant and agreeable. At dessert he always had vast quantities of natural flowers, and in the spring, when he gave the grand dinners after reviewing the regiments, he used to raise columns of hoops covered with canvas, all wreathed round with natural flowers. He had a good library, and passed a portion of every evening in reading the works of ancient authors, particularly Cæsar’s Commentaries.
In the early part of the siege there was a great dearth of firewood, until a violent storm drove towards them almost an entire forest, which the Spaniards had cut down. The garrison was occupied for three days in getting it in, and when this supply was nearly exhausted, some old fire-ships sent against them by the enemy were secured, which lasted them for the rest of the time.
An officer was walking one day in his garden, which was a very beautiful one, and had been of great service to the men, and he thought with sorrow how soon everything in it must perish from want of water. He was a remarkably devout man, and began praying for rain. Suddenly a shell from the enemy flew over his head, and struck the rock at a few yards’ distance. Instantly a plentiful stream of water gushed forth, which sufficed for the entire garrison, and never failed them.
At another time, General Elliott was walking in his own garden with two of his aides-de-camp. It was a few nights before the affair of the floating batteries, and a little after midnight. He was conversing with his companions about these expected ships, wondering where they would be moored, and calculating the means of destroying them, when a ball of fire sprang from behind a certain part of the rock and fell into the sea. Raising his hand with characteristic vivacity, he exclaimed, like a Roman of the ancient times, “I accept the omen.” It was afterwards ascertained that the spot where the meteor first appeared was the site of the batteries that destroyed the ships, and that the spot where it fell was the exact part of the bay in which those ships were moored.
The general encouraged the country people to bring in provisions, by telling them to sell their things as dear as they could. In consequence of which, they would run any risk to supply the garrison. He used to say that it made his heart ache to see the great dinners that were carried to the batteries for the officers, while the children were dying of hunger in the streets. To set an example of abstinence, he himself lived for several days on six ounces of rice per diem.
The following parody on the old song of The Vicar of Bray was a great favourite with the general:
And this is law I will maintain,
My tune it ne’er shall alter,
That whosoe’er is King of Spain,
We will keep Gibraltar.[[46]]
In the course of this year I picked up also the following anecdotes. Captain Bonapace said that there was an old gentleman, seventy-five years of age, living at Venice, whose father still allowed him only a very small weekly sum for pocket money. One day a beggar asked him for alms. “Come volete,” he exclaimed, “che il figlio del padre eterno vi dia qualche cosa?”[[47]]
A Turk, who had been converted to the Roman Catholic religion, being rebuked for eating fowl on a Friday, sprinkled a little water upon it, saying: “As a drop of water turned me into a Christian, why should not a drop of water turn that fowl into a fish?”
Sir James Hall told us, that when Sir Robert Keith introduced Mr. Trevelyan and Mr. Lemon to Count Kaunitz, the latter asked: “Ces messieurs parlent-ils Français?” “Fort bien, fort bien, monsieur,” replied Mr. Lemon. “Pour moi,” said the count, “j’aimais mieux ces Anglais qui venaient autrefois, et qui parlaient mal le Français.” “Dans ce cas-là,” answered Sir Robert, “vous serez très content de ces messieurs-ci.”
The Pope sent to the Grand-Duke of Tuscany, and asked him, as a favour, to change one hundred thousand crowns’ worth of “cedules.” The grand-duke expressed his readiness to do so if his Holiness would allow him to buy as many oxen as he pleased in the Papal territories without paying the usual tax. To this the Pope agreed, and the grand-duke bought up an immense quantity of cattle, for which he paid in the “cedules” he had just been changing.