Rome in 1860

by Edward Dicey

I am in the Duomo of Florence. Around and about me there is a great crowd. Every niche and cornice where foot can stand is occupied. A deep gloom hangs around the darkened church, and from out the lofty vaulted roof thousands of lamps hang glimmering like stars upon a moonless sky. Ever and anon the organ peals forth triumphantly, and the clouds of incense rise fitfully; and as the bell rings, and the host is raised on high, you see above the bowed heads of the swaying crowd the figure of the excommunicated King, kneeling on the altar-steps. Then, when the service is over, and the royal procession passes down the nave, through the double line of soldiers, who keep the passage clear, I am carried onwards to the front of the grand cathedral, which for centuries has stood bare and unfinished, and which is to date its completion from the time when the city of Dante and Michael Angelo is to date her freedom, too long delayed.

The next scene present to my memory is a dark gloomy night. I am at Pisa, in the city of the Campo Santo, where hang the chains of the ancient port which the Genoese carried off in triumph centuries ago, in the days of the old Republic, and have brought back to day, in

honour of the new brotherhood. The great festival of the Luminara is to be held to-night, in the presence of the King. I have come from Florence through the pleasant Arno valley, shining in the glory of an Italian sunset, and the night has come on, and dark, rain-laden clouds are rolling up from the sea; but neither wind nor rain are heeded now. Through narrow streets, which a year ago were silent and deserted, I follow a great multitude pressing towards the river-side. A sudden turn brings me to the quay, and an illuminated city rises before me across the Arno. The glare is so strong that at first I can scarcely distinguish anything save the one grand blaze of light. Then, by degrees, I see that every house and palace-front along those mile-long quays is lit up by rows on rows of lamps, scattered everywhere. Arches and parapets and bridges are all marked out against the dark back-ground of the sky by the long lines of light, and in the depths of the dull stream that rolls at my feet a second inverted city sparkles brightly. Along either quay a great, countless multitude keeps moving to and fro, casting a dark hem of shadow at the foot of the houses which line the river. Then of a sudden the low,

ceaseless hum of ten thousand voices is exchanged for a loud cheer, and the bands begin to play, and the royal carriages, escorted by a running crowd, pass along the quays; and wherever the throng is thickest, you can tell that Victor Emmanuel is to be found, with Ricasoli by his side. Then, as the King and his party pass out of sight, the storm comes on in its fury, and the gusts of wind blow out the lamps, as if after doing honour to the King their work was ended.

Another scene which I remember well was on a long day’s journey through the Val di Chiana, a day’s journey by fertile fields and smiling villages, and on pleasant country roads. The King was coming in the course of the day along the same route. At every corner, at every bridge and roadside house, there were groups of peasants standing waiting to see Il padrone nuovo, the new sovereign and master. The children had flags in their little hands, and the cottagers had hung out their coloured bed-quilts, and the roadside crosses were decked out with flowers. The church-bells were ringing, country bands were playing lustily, and the national guard of every little town I passed stood under arms, to the admiration of all beholders. It was a holiday

everywhere; the fields were left untilled, the carts were taken up to carry whole peasant families to the market-town of Arezzo, where the King was to spend the night. Man, woman, and child wore the national colours in some part of their Sunday dress; and about everything and everybody there was a look of happiness, hard indeed to describe, but one not often seen nor easily forgotten.

Let us turn northwards. The old streets of Bologna, with their endless rows of colonnades, are filled with people. The dead Papal city is alive again. The priests have disappeared; friars, monks, Jesuits, and nuns have vanished from their old haunts. St Patrick did not clear the land of Erin more thoroughly and more suddenly of the genus reptile than the presence of Victor Emmanuel has cleared Bologna of the genus priest. It is whispered that out of top windows, and from behind blinds and shutters, priests are peeping out at the strange sight of a glad and a free people, with glances the reverse of friendly; but neither the black robe nor the brown serge cowl, nor the three-cornered, low-crowned hat, are to be seen amongst the crowd. Well, perhaps the scene looks none the less gay for their absence. The flags and flowers glitter beneath

the blue, cloudless sky, and the burning sun of a hot summer day gives an unwonted brightness to the grey colours of the grim, gaunt houses. Down the steep, winding road leading from the old monastery of St Michael, where the King is lodged, through the dark, narrow, crowded streets, a brilliant cavalcade comes riding slowly; half a horse’s length in front rides Victor Emmanuel. Amongst the order-covered staff who follow, there is scarcely one of not more royal presence than their leader; there are many whose names may stand before his in the world’s judgment, but the crowd has its eye fixed on the King, and the King alone. For three days this selfsame crowd has followed him, and stared at him, and cheered him, but their ardour remains undiminished. All the school-children of the city, down to little mites of things who can scarcely toddle, have been brought out to see him. Boy-soldiers, with Lilliputian muskets, salute him as he passes. A mob of men, heedless of the gendarmes or of the horses’ hoofs, run before the cavalcade, in the burning heat, and cheer hoarsely. Every window is lined with ladies in the gayest of gay dresses, who cast glances before the King, and try, like true daughters of Eve, to catch a smile from that

plain, good-humoured face. So amidst flowers and smiles and cheers the procession passes on. There is no pause, indeed, in the ceaseless cheering, save where the band of exiles stands with the flags of Rome, and Naples, and Venice, covered with the black veil; or when the regiments defile past with the tattered colours which were rent to shreds at San Martino and at Solferino, and then the cry of “Viva Vittorio Emmanuele” is changed for that of “Viva l’Italia!”

It is a Sunday afternoon, and at three o’clock I have turned out of the broiling streets into the vast, crowded theatre of Reggio. Every place is occupied, every box is crammed; rows of lights sparkle around the darkened house, and the heat is a thing to be remembered afterwards. There is a gorgeous ballet being acted on the stage, and Cæsar is being tempted by every variety of female art and posture, in a way which never happens except to ballet heroes, and to Saint Anthony of Padua. The dancing girls, however, dance in vain, and the orchestra plays to deaf ears, for all voices are raised at once, and all eyes are turned from the stage. The King has entered the royal box, and every lady in the long tiers of boxes unfurls the tricolor-flag she bears in her