A NIGHT WITH ANTHONY PASQUIN, IN 1851. "A BLOT, no blot until hit," is a truism which extends beyond the backgammon table; many a man undergoes and escapes dangers, upon which, when he looks back, it must be with wonder at the temerity and childish daring which led him into them. Had I read that chapter of "Whiteside's Italy," entitled "A Night Walk in Rome," before instead of after my visit to the "Eternal City," I more than doubt that I would ever have paid my respects to Anthony Pasquin, except in broad daylight. Another little incident gives a startling interest to the escapade of a man who, having seen fifty winters, cannot plead youthful blood in excuse for an act of rashness. Our lodgings were in the Via di Condotti, at the corner of the street Santa Maria degli Fiori-a house cheerful enough in the daytime, but with one of those awful outer halls from a nook of which an assassin might any evening start forth upon his victim in the twilight with a desperate advantage. The pian-terreno, or ground-floor of the opposite house, was occupied by a baker, "Boulanger Ancien," as his door-sign styled him; and how well I remember his clean white apron and "mealy face," as he used to lounge in the sun at his door with that "far niente" air which is characteristic of the Roman shopkeeper; by association of ideas, he always recalled to me the stanza of Tennyson's "Miller's Daughter:" I see the wealthy miller yet, His double chin, his portly size; And full of dealings with the world. Who would think that this picture of "one so jolly and so good" would, now and evermore, stand connected in my memory with violence and blood; yet so it is. We left Rome early in May, just as the Romans were beginning to hint their impatience of foreign occupation and French fraternité, by using their daggers against obnoxious individuals, and by night-encounters with patrols; some lives had already been lost before our departure, and it was, I think, at Milan that I first read a newspaper giving, among the "Roman news," the following startling incident as detailed in the journals of the day: a "A few evenings since, just as twilight was falling, an individual, with loud cry, staggered wildly from the Via Santa Maria degli Fiori, across the Condotti, into the "Boulanger Ancien," and calling in frantic tones for a priest, sank on the floor of the botega, weltering in his blood. chanced that a Franciscan was passing at the moment, who made his way through the crowd which immediately collected, and was soon at the side of the dying man, busied in offering him the last offices of religion, for which there was but scant time, for the sufferer breathed his last while attempting to pour his confession into the venerable man's ear. Rumours of all kinds as to the cause of his death were quickly spread, but the crowd was dispersed, without obtaining any certainty on the sub ject, by the approach of a French patrol from the Piazza di Spagna. Some whispered that the dead man had fallen a victim to political enmity; others, that he had been a citizen passing accidentally, and assassinated in mistake for some obnoxious individual; but a third and more probable rumour hinted that he was a young noble famous for his gallantries, and that he had met his fate in prosecuting or attempting some intrigue. The French patrol took possession of the shop, which they closed, and a secret investigation was carried on within, the result of which had not transpired; so that all is at present wrapped in mystery, and adds to the general alarm and disquiet pervading the city. 66 The poor baker! when I think of his clean, well-appointed shop, usually made misty with the floating meal," now dabbled with blood, and disturbed by a murderer's victim gasping forth life on the floor,—then the crowd, and the passing monk bending over the dying man,-and the crucifix,—all these form a vision mingling strangely with my reminiscences of Rome; and it becomes doubly interesting in the thought, that had I lingered there a few days longer, I should probably have been looking down from my window on the scene as it actually occurred. But what has this to do with Anthony Pasquin? Much, gentle reader; because it enhances, on recollection, the sense of unsuspected dangers through which I achieved my nocturnal prank. Roman streets cannot be said to be badly lighted, simply because they are not lighted at all; pass from the "Corso" or the "Via Babuino," or one or two other streets, "where the Inglese most do congregate," and you are at once and completely in Cimmerian darkness. A monsignore gravely assured me that they had made an experiment in gas, but that the Roman ladies complained of it as prejudicial to health! and the ruling powers were only too ready to return to that "grateful shade," so essential to the double pursuits of love and murder; and although Mr. Whiteside does speak of the respectful terror with which the Romans regard an Englishman "keeping the crown of the causeway," armed with his national weapon-a stout oak-stick-still, had I bethought myself how easily an assassin might have sprung upon me from any of the many dark corners-oh, how dark!-which I passed to achieve my "pasquinade,” assuredly I should never have ventured forth upon the chance of parrying a stiletto with a shillelagh; hence, I should never have had a nocturnal interview with the satirical tailor of the Piazza Navona, nor would this "true tale" ever have been written. So that you perceive, gentle reader, that the episode of the baker has somewhat to do with Anthony Pasquin. We were driving slowly up the ascent of the Montè Mario, to one of the finest points of view in or about Rome, when Asaid to me, "You are not admiring-you are not looking"Yes," I replied, "I am looking for a rhyme, and cannot find it. I want to finish an Italian stanza." At this bravade, from a man who could scarcely ask his way in Italian, and could as soon read an Ogham inscription as a stanza of Ariosto, my lady friends all burst into loud and most disrespectful laughter. I looked half affronted and half entreating. "You should help me, and not laugh at me," said I; "I must have this couplet completed, in order to an adventure I mean to achieve this very night." In whatever other qualities the ladies, bless their little hearts! may be deficient, they are seldom found wanting in curiosity; at the word "adventure," they were instantly all attention and interest, and willingness to assist; so that with their contributions of appropriate words, my couplet was speedily fashioned into the doggerel I desired. But what was the composition? simply a few lines I wished to affix to Pasquin's statue. I had already the sense, or nonsense, I wanted, in good Latin and tolerable English verse; but as I was anxious to give the Italians the benefit of John Bull's opinion of some late doings of their "liege lord the Pope" in their vernacular tongue, I determined, however rudely, to hammer out a version in Italian, in order to complete my triglot on the following subject. It need scarce be told, that when we left England in the early spring of 1851, to seek health and warm weather in the sunny south, the whole country was in its fiercest paroxysm of anger and alarm at the papal demonstration of an intention to take England once again under the formal rule and government of "his Holiness." "The papal aggression fever" was at its height, and among the symptoms not least remarkable was this, that publications whose aim and object lay far apart from political or theological discussion, were seen occupied with the engrossing topic of the day. Among others, that most amusing miscellany, "Notes and Queries," gave, in its number for December, 1850, among its various odds and ends of philology, chronology, folk-lore, and etymology, the following epigram: Cum Sapiente, Pius nostras juravit in aras; The following rather heavy rendering of the above was added: Oh, Pious man, unwise-oh, impious Wiseman. This couplet took my fancy amazingly, and as I had then my journey to Rome in contemplation, I made a kind of vow or engagement with myself, that if I ever saw the "seven-hill'd city," I would affix it to the great affiché of stray wit-Pasquin's statue. I thought the English version might be better; and, finally, that an Italian one, if it could be accomplished, would bring the point of the epigram more home to the natives; hence the brain-cudgelling process on Monte Mario, which resulted in my producing the following in the form in which it finally saw the light in Rome: Cum Sapiente Pius, nostras juravit in aras, Impius heu Sapiens, desipiensque Pius. When a league 'gainst our faith Pope with Cardinal tries, Quando Papa? o cardinale, The point of the Italian is derived from a half-defaced inscription, which, in spite of police erasure, can even yet be deciphered at Rovigo, in the Lombardo-Venetian states, where the Pope's title and family-name are, by means of punctuation, turned into a sly satire upon his unchanged and not admired character: Pio? no, no-ma-stai Feretti, Pius, not at all, but still Feretti. Great was the laughter of my female critics at the violation of concords and disregard of idiom in my Italian; they told me, over and over, that the keen-witted natives would make sport of my grammatical blunders; but I was bent on playing out my play, and as I could do no better, I insisted that "it would do very well." One young lady, who had given me considerable help in putting it together, was, or pretended to be, alarmed, when I told her that I meant to affix it to Pasquin's statue that night; and that if the Pope's police should catch me in the fact, I would certainly name her as my accomplice in "murdering la lingua Toscana." I could make my way through Rome tolerably well in broad daylight; we had already driven several times to the Piazza Navona, a favourite resort of ladies, curious in those showy silk scarfs-the solitary manufacture of Rome in the way of textile fabric; but I knew it was quite a different affair to make my way thither in the dark. No fear of the stiletto ever crossed my thoughts, but I did dread somewhat the losing my way, as soon as I had left the beaten track for the defiles of the bye streets of Rome; however, I took my bearings and objects as well as I could, while we drove about in the daylight. My last landmark was the great Palazzo Borghese, and turning down to the left hand from that, I was to go forth with "Providence my guide;" but whether in the whole affair I was tempting or trusting Providence, (?) truly this is a question which I do not much care to look in the face. There were sundry jokes among the young people when I made known my intention at the dinner-table; they one and all declared that they expected to hear of me from the Castle of St. Angelo next morning, and amused themselves by speculating which of our Roman friends should be applied to to "bail me out." One young lady, more "learned in the law" than the rest, gravely asked me, "What kind of Habeas Corpus Act they had at Rome?" to whom I as gravely replied, that "The Roman Habeas Corpus had no force save in the Roman province of Limbo;" at least, that I never heard that they pretended to liberate the oppressed from any other part of the papal territories. The evening wore on, the short twilight of the south deepened into darkness, and by nine o'clock all was quiet as the grave. I sallied forth for my expedition, armed with my epigram in legible print hand in one pocket, a gumbottle (!) in the other, and a stout stick in my hand. 66 that Pasquin's statue is generally said to stand in the Piazza Navona, but this is not quite correct: it stands at the corner of the Palazzo Braschi, in a street leading into the Piazza, and at a point where several streets converge. It is now- -whatever it may have been-a mere clumsy Torsoa block of stone, sans head, sans arms, sans feet." Report says more than one Pope has attempted to remove this foundling hospital for stray and often stinging satires, but that the owner of the adjacent palace has always claimed property in the fragment, and refused to allow it to be taken away; it is said that the pontiffs acknowledged the rights of property, but that, acting on the celebrated maxim that "property has its duties as well as rights," the princely owner was informed that he should stand responsible for every waggery or witticism fathered upon his statue: from the date of this "responsibility," the wit of Pasquin is said to have waned and faded considerably. I was ignorant of all these particulars when I determined to make the Italian tailor speak my triglot epigram to the public. Leaving the Borghese Palace on the right, I dived down a long street running parallel to the Corso, at the bottom of which I had previously marked a church by which I was to turn, and a few paces down a dark lane brought me to the near corner of the Piazza Navona. Pasquin stood at the opposite end of the same side of the square, and I had nothing to do but to follow the line of houses to arrive at the scene of action. This was quickly done. I retired under a dark archway nearly opposite the statue, and prepared my placard as well as I could; I am sure I wasted my gum "pretty considerably," and what between haste, darkness, and trepidation, I made but a clumsy bill-sticker after all. At length all was ready; but though there was scarce a soul passing, I could not get the streets perfectly free of passengers. There I stood, like a spider in his web-hole, ready to dart across the way the moment I could get a clear stage, but whenever I prepared to rush forth, I was sure to hear the echo of approaching footsteps, and was obliged to wait again until they died away in the distance; all this while I had ample leisure to consider the following pleasant questions: Suppose a French patrol, or some of the Roman police, should come by and perceive me in my lurking-place; should require me to give an account of myself, or to explain my business there; what could I say in such a case? What probable or satisfactory account could I offer for my silly undertaking, which would be intelligible to them, or, if intelligible, would not compromise me the more? In short, I was becoming nervous; I began to think my pretended apprehensions might turn out sad realities, and that it was quite within possibilities that morning might dawn upon me in the Castle of St. Angelo. At length the coast seemed really clear; not a sound broke the silence of the street; I darted across, hastily stuckmy gummed paper on the side of the statue, and then took to my heels as fast as I could run. Conscience makes cowards of us all yes, and fools as well as cowards. Had I reflected for a moment, I should have seen that I was doing the very thing to make myself an object of suspicion and remark; as it happened, I met no patrol; but had I done so, any soldier or sbirro of the commonest intelligence must have suspected something wrong, in meeting an elderly gentleman, "fat, and scant of breath," posting along at my rate of going as it was, I met no one; but after a minute or two of hard running, my breath failed, and I was obliged to pull up, and look about me. Conceive my dismay. I found that I had not the remotest idea where I was; in my headlong haste I had run away at the wrong side of the statue, and instead of being on the open piazza, I found myself in some street, where the tall houses nodded over head in a horrible proximity, threatening me with many of Juvenal's "mille pericula sævæ urbis ;" nor did I know the moment when some window gaping over head would dis |