both rise. For clodpoles we shall henceforth have agricultural operatives, working by machinery, and paid according to their intelligence and skill.
We see this happening already, and more and more extensively every year. We see prizes won,—not so much now for sparing the rates, but for superior skill in the arts of agriculture, and for success in the accomplishments of horticulture. We see leisure hours and spare pennies spent in floricultural rivalry, instead of at the public-house. We see men of John’s order manifesting his virtues, with a fairer course before them.
Under such improved circumstances the health and longevity of the class must steadily and rapidly improve. Still, we shall have to go on registering unnecessary deaths, and grieving over unnecessary misery from year to year, while our peasantry have not habitations admitting of health, comfort, and decency, and while they are kept ignorant of the knowledge, and untrained in the habits, by which men’s health and life are put, as it were, into their own hands. Whenever this duty of rich men to the labourers who have tilled their fields is done, the lot of the peasant may again become what it once was, and more deservedly than ever,—the cheerful theme of the poet and the moralist.
THE CARNIVAL AT ROME.
“This feast is named the Carnival, which being
Interpreted, implies—‘farewell to flesh.’”—Byron.
A week or two since the fun, fast and furious, of the Roman Carnival was at its height. Unless varied by some particular event (for instance, the presence of the Prince of Wales last year), the Carnival of one year is pretty much the same as the Carnival of another; so that, although the mad scenes of mirth the writer is about to describe occurred a few years since, very similar ones were undoubtedly taking place, with much the same scenery and dresses, though many of the actors were changed.
For eight days this modern Saturnalia holds “sovereign sway and masterdom” over the city of Rome; and there are few quarters in which tokens of its reign do not appear in the shape of an endless variety of costumes, exhibited in shops of all descriptions, which have become extempore masquerade warehouses, containing harlequins, mysterious-looking dominoes, ponchinelli, and dresses of all periods, many of them stuffed, and hanging by the neck, or standing beside the door, looking as though they had officiated at every Carnival for the last half century. In the grocers’ and confectioners’ shops are bushels of sugar-plums, bonbons, and tempting little trifles done up in gold, silver, and coloured papers. The expenditure of scudi annually is estimated at one million, about 212,500l.; the expenditure of fun defies calculation. The grand scene of the Carnival is the Corso, a straight street about a mile in length, which, though considerably too narrow for the comfortable performance of business or pleasure, is the best street in the Eternal City. As on a great Festa day, all the windows and balconies are hung with tapestries and draperies of the brightest colours, and flags and streamers of every kind flutter in the air. The festival is opened in due form by a Cardinal; it commences each day at one o’clock, reaches its climax about four, and concludes with a horse-race just before the Ave Maria.
The fifth day, “Giovedi grasso” (fat Thursday), as it is termed, is considered the day, especially among “the people,” whose custom it is on that day to do their utmost in the way of costume. The “Giovedi grasso,” however, of the year of which we are writing was a failure, owing to that with us common misfortune—the weather. For when the Corso had become a dense mass of carriages and people—when bouquets and sugar-plums were ascending and descending unceasingly—when every window framed a group, and the balconies groaned beneath their loads—when smiles were on all faces—when boys were courting destruction beneath horses’ hoofs and carriage-wheels in struggles after bonbons and bouquets—when the long street echoed from end to end with gay laughter—when flower, “confetti” and sugar-plum sellers were roaring themselves hoarse—it began to rain.
For a time the fun continued with unabated vigour, but so did the rain; and although the votaries of pleasure fought obstinately, at last it conquered; umbrellas showed thickly among the foot passengers, the carriages commenced a retreat, the occupants of the balconies quitted their posts, the archways and porticoes became crowded by motley groups, the confetti and sugar-plums turned into paste, and the bouquets were swallowed up in the mud—and so ended this particular “Giovedi grasso.”
But the eighth and last day made amends for all, and I will endeavour to describe something of what we saw on that day. Just as W. and I were starting, our landlady, a Roman matron of the largest size, entered our room with her two daughters, to show us how well they looked. The eldest was simply dressed in a black velvet body and yellow satin skirt; but her sister, a thorough little Roman, with large black eyes, was very gaily attired in a white satin skirt, trimmed with gold lace, just short enough to show a well-turned leg and ankle, a jacket of red, blue vest, and a sort of turban. Of course I expressed great admiration, and asked if the latter costume represented anything particular.
“Si, Signor, la figlia d’un banditto,” (Yes, sir, the daughter of a brigand.)
“And does your husband go as the brigand, and you, Signora, as the brigand’s wife?” I simply asked.
“O Dio! no, Signor. Che coppia faremmo!” (Why what a pair we should make!) she cried, with a laugh.
The daughters also laughed; and the youngest threw up her lustrous eyes to the ceiling, exclaiming, “O Dio mio, che bell’ idea.” (Oh my, what a fine joke!) And certainly the idea was absurd, for the father was a slight, mild-looking, white-haired man, the very antipodes to a brigand, and the mother, as I have said, of the largest Roman dimensions.
But I must hasten to the real business in