companion, by means of an extinguisher fastened to the end of a
long stick, put out the lights, one after another. The candles
being all extinguished, and the money all collected, they retired,
and so did the spectators.
I met this same Bambino, in the street a short time afterwards,
going, in great state, to the house of some sick person. It is
taken to all parts of Rome for this purpose, constantly; but, I
understand that it is not always as successful as could be wished;
for, making its appearance at the bedside of weak and nervous
people in extremity, accompanied by a numerous escort, it not
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unfrequently frightens them to death. It is most popular in cases
of child-birth, where it has done such wonders, that if a lady be
longer than usual in getting through her difficulties, a messenger
is despatched, with all speed, to solicit the immediate attendance
of the Bambino. It is a very valuable property, and much confided
in – especially by the religious body to whom it belongs.
I am happy to know that it is not considered immaculate, by some
who are good Catholics, and who are behind the scenes, from what
was told me by the near relation of a Priest, himself a Catholic,
and a gentleman of learning and intelligence. This Priest made my
informant promise that he would, on no account, allow the Bambino
to be borne into the bedroom of a sick lady, in whom they were both
interested. ‘For,’ said he, ‘if they (the monks) trouble her with
it, and intrude themselves into her room, it will certainly kill
her.’ My informant accordingly looked out of the window when it
came; and, with many thanks, declined to open the door. He
endeavoured, in another case of which he had no other knowledge
than such as he gained as a passer-by at the moment, to prevent its
being carried into a small unwholesome chamber, where a poor girl
was dying. But, he strove against it unsuccessfully, and she
expired while the crowd were pressing round her bed.
Among the people who drop into St. Peter’s at their leisure, to
kneel on the pavement, and say a quiet prayer, there are certain
schools and seminaries, priestly and otherwise, that come in,
twenty or thirty strong. These boys always kneel down in single
file, one behind the other, with a tall grim master in a black
gown, bringing up the rear: like a pack of cards arranged to be
tumbled down at a touch, with a disproportionately large Knave of
clubs at the end. When they have had a minute or so at the chief
altar, they scramble up, and filing off to the chapel of the
Madonna, or the sacrament, flop down again in the same order; so
that if anybody did stumble against the master, a general and
sudden overthrow of the whole line must inevitably ensue.
The scene in all the churches is the strangest possible. The same
monotonous, heartless, drowsy chaunting, always going on; the same
dark building, darker from the brightness of the street without;
the same lamps dimly burning; the self-same people kneeling here
and there; turned towards you, from one altar or other, the same
priest’s back, with the same large cross embroidered on it; however
different in size, in shape, in wealth, in architecture, this
church is from that, it is the same thing still. There are the
same dirty beggars stopping in their muttered prayers to beg; the
same miserable cripples exhibiting their deformity at the doors;
the same blind men, rattling little pots like kitchen peppercastors:
their depositories for alms; the same preposterous crowns
of silver stuck upon the painted heads of single saints and Virgins
in crowded pictures, so that a little figure on a mountain has a
head-dress bigger than the temple in the foreground, or adjacent
miles of landscape; the same favourite shrine or figure, smothered
with little silver hearts and crosses, and the like: the staple
trade and show of all the jewellers; the same odd mixture of
respect and indecorum, faith and phlegm: kneeling on the stones,
and spitting on them, loudly; getting up from prayers to beg a