LETTER XXXIV.

Artists' Fête.

ROME, April.

DEAR E.-To-day has been the great fête day of the Artists of Rome. I have endeavored in vain to discover the origin o design of this oddest of all anniversaries in the imperial city. It is confined to no nation, but embraces the artists of every land who wish to partake of its festivities and fooleries. For several days previous, books are kept open at the Greek Café for those strangers who wish to enter their names as members on the occasion, and who receive in return a blue ribbon to wear as a badge during the festivities. The place of carousal is about ten miles from the city in the open Campagna. The location is as odd as the celebration that honors it. To be sheltered from the sun, if it be a bright Italian day, and to be protected from the wet, if it be a rainy one, they have selected the ancient Quarries of Rome for their festive hall. These Quarries are the interior of a slight eminence hollowed out into chambers and arches by the gradual excavations of former centuries. The dining-hall is an old forsaken ruin near by. At eight o'clock they meet from every part of the city in front of St. Maria Maggiore, to form their procession. First comes a cart and oxen, garlanded for the occasion, on which is throned the President, dressed like nothing you ever beheld, and after him the motley group of artists and their friends, to the amount of several hundred. Each has his costume, and one would think they had not studied the old paintings in vain. Such out of the way and yet often picturesque garbs could be found in no country except Italy—and then the animals they ride, some are horses, some mules, and some the smallest, most villainous looking donkeys Rome can furnish.

My friend and myself did not accompany the procession out,

but walked up to view the baths of Dioclesian, and from them tỏ the San Lorenzo gate, expecting to catch a return hack. Soon one came up, and I hailed the driver, asking him what he would demand to take us out to the fête. Just then it began to sprinkle -the first few drops of a heavy shower. The fellow looked as if he thought he had caught us, and his management you may take as a perfect illustration of an Italian's mode of making a bargain-with foreigners. He demanded just double of an extraordinary price, so I offered him half. No-he wouldn't lis ten to it—and after some altercation I told him to drive on, I could do without him. He then fell a third, but I persisted in my first offer, and bade him go on. He drew up his reins and started off. But just before he turned an angle in the road which concealed him from view, he pulled up and hallooed to know if I would go for so much, naming a trifle less. I shook my head, and he vanished from sight. There," said my friend, "we are now in a pretty fix-raining like a storm, and no way of getting to the fête or to the city." But I knew my man, and replied, "Do you suppose he has really gone? In three minutes he will be back," and true enough the next moment a pair of black horses trotted into view, and our friend pulled up where we stood to drive another bargain. He fell still more from his original price, and began to praise his vehicle and show us all its comforts, especially in a rain storm.

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I was vexed at the fellow's impudence, and coolly asked, "Why have you returned? I am not anxious at all to have your carriage; you had better drive back to the city, or you will lose the opportunity of taking some one else." He drew up his reins with all the hauteur of an old Roman, and cracking his whip drove away with an air that said, as plainly as actions could say it, "Good day, sir-this is the last you will see of me.” After he had disappeared, my friend again began, "There, now, you have done it. He has gone sure enough, and we may get out of the scrape as we can.' “Not a bit of it,” said I. "The difference in the price he offers to take and I offer to give is trifling, but don't you see the rascal thinks to take advantage of our circumstances? I will stand here under this old colonnade till night before I will give him one baiocca more than I have offered him.

-Besides, he will be back in a minute. It is true that last take off was very well done, but these fellows are used to acting. Such an offer as I made him he has not had to-day, and he is the last man to lose it. The next time he will return and tell us to get in." I was right. In a few minutes the black team was in sight. The hauteur of the Roman had vanished, and with a touch of the hat and a smile that would have made the fortune of an English valet, he bade our "Excellencies" mount, hoping we would remember and give him a “buonomano.” "Not a bit of it," said I, though I afterward did, of my own free will. But I would not have it in the contract.

Such is universally an Italian's mode of making a bargain. After driving five or six miles, we turned into the fields, through which, far before us, were slowly winding along trains of carriages, filled with the fun-loving Italians. At length we came in sight of the spot consecrated by art-and such a sight. Did you ever see a "general training” in the country? Then you have the first view of the "artists' fête." Scattered over the green field, were carriages filled with fair spectators, patches of strolling peddlars, carts with the team detached and "wine and cake to sell," and all the strange and motley grouping of a Yankee "training ground." All these were on the summit of the eminence, underneath which were the quarries and the artists. As I approached, suddenly from out the bowels of the earth came a hurrah as wild and jolly as ever Bacchus, in the height of glory and greatness, made to ring through the home of the gods. The next moment I heard an earnest voice hurriedly inquire, “Ganymede, Ganymede! where is Jupiter ?" and then the Bacchanalian song, "Io Bacche!" Really I began to think there might be, after all, a batch of the old gods below, holding a sort of anniversary revel there, on the borders of their old dominions. I hastened down, and oh, such a spectacle! It is impossible to describe it. At one end of the caverns sat the presiding god. Around him were flags of every description and ornaments of no description. He had on a necklace made, I should suppose, of a huge Bologna sausage, with pieces a foot and a half long, putting out at intervals all round it, at the end of each of which stood an imp striving with all his might to fill it with wind. At his side

stood a drummer, that looked more like a griffin than a man, beating rapid and hurried beats upon his drum, while at every pause arose the chorus of some wild German song. Before him, in the dirt, were all sorts of divinities waltzing-two-thirds drunk. Round and round they would spin, ankle deep, in the powdered clay, until they came on the broken rocks with a jar that made my bones ache even to see. Poor fellows, thought I to myself, you will have enough to do to-morrow to count your bruises.

This is only a specimen of what was passing. There were other groups in various parts of the quarries, each with its peculiar scene. At length a company of Germans determined to have a ghost scene, and German like, they went through all the ceremonies of raising a spirit. In one of the darkest parts of the quarries was deposited a body wrapped in a sheet. At the entrance stood a company of Germans and began one of their ghostly incantations. It was enough to chill one's blood. Slowly and solemnly the incantation rose and echoed through the cavern until the ghost was actually raised. There were many excellent singers among the German artists, and some of the chorusses were admirable. I never beheld a revel to which there was no limit, and no law in which there was such perfect abandonment as this. It seemed impossible that the human heart could so utterly throw off all restraint. Indeed it could hardly be called a revel—it was a frolic, a wild and lawless frolic. The animal spirits of each seemed at the evaporating point.

In such reckless mirth, amid flowing wine and song and dance, the hours wore on, till the signal was given for the closing up scene, which was a general horse, donkey and mule race out upon the green sward. It was here that the figures and costumes showed to advantage. Thousands of people, some in carriages, some on foot, were scattered over the field. For a back ground a black rain cloud lay along the horizon. The sunlight from the clear West falling brightly over the grassy plain, threw the figures on it in strong relief against that dark cloud in the distance, till every color, ribbon and plume, was distinctly revealed. As the crowd gave way, and horseman after horseman galloped into view, it seemed more like a description I had read in some oriental tale, than an actual passing scene. Now ten or fifteen

in a company, mounted without a saddle, would gallop like the wind over the plain, their velvet mantles and plumes streaming in the wind, and the spangles in their vests and bonnets flashing like diamonds in the sunlight. And half of them were such wild spiritual looking beings. They were none of your hearty revellers, but had come out this once from the studio with all the marks of severe study and privation upon them, to be young and thoughtless for one day. Some of them were remarkably handsome fellows, and with their long black hair and blacker eyes and thin pale faces and singular costumes, shot past you like beings of another planet. There were Americans among the rest, and I am sure if they could have dropped into their native towns at home just as they were mounted and dressed to-day, their friends would have clapped them in a lunatic asylum "sans ceremonie." The racing was a mere general scamper. One bold rider on a powerful black steed, galloped round and round without end or aim, while in another direction three artists were mounted on one little donkey, not much larger than a Newfoundland dog, which they were trying to beat into a gallop. But the poor little fellow could hardly waddle under his enormous load, and seemed perfectly stupified at the sights and sounds around him. But the blows which fell thick and fast, were more natural and home-like, and seemed to restore his self-confidence; for the next moment he laid back his long ears, and with that villainous look a donkey alone can give, let fly his heels into the air, and over tumbled one of the sons of the divine art.

While I was laughing at this ludicrous scene, a beggar girl that had often molested me in Rome, came up and began her importunities again. She was the most impudent creature I ever met, and I could not shake her off, when a man dressed like a king, rode slowly up on his donkey, and addressing the girl in the most grave, deliberate, and solemn tone, said, "Andate via siete troppo importunente." "Go away, you are too importunate." The girl looked at him a moment, and walked away without saying a word. I could hardly thank him for laughter, but he never smiled, and wheeled his donkey away with the gravity of a philosopher. But it is impossible to describe the different groups in this strangest of all fêtes. An English lady whom I had often