The next night--Easter Monday--there was a great display of
fireworks from the Castle of St. Angelo. We hired a room in an
opposite house, and made our way, to our places, in good time,
through a dense mob of people choking up the square in front, and
all the avenues leading to it; and so loading the bridge by which
the castle is approached, that it seemed ready to sink into the
rapid Tiber below. There are statues on this bridge (execrable
works), and, among them, great vessels full of burning tow were
placed: glaring strangely on the faces of the crowd, and not less
strangely on the stone counterfeits above them.
The show began with a tremendous discharge of cannon; and then, for
twenty minutes or half an hour, the whole castle was one incessant
sheet of fire, and labyrinth of blazing wheels of every colour,
size, and speed: while rockets streamed into the sky, not by ones
or twos, or scores, but hundreds at a time. The concluding burst--
the Girandola--was like the blowing up into the air of the whole
massive castle, without smoke or dust.
In half an hour afterwards, the immense concourse had dispersed;
the moon was looking calmly down upon her wrinkled image in the
river; and half-a-dozen men and boys, with bits of lighted candle
in their hands: moving here and there, in search of anything worth
having, that might have been dropped in the press: had the whole
scene to themselves.
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