University of Virginia Library

MODERN ROME.

Among the odd traits observable in the Roman population,
is their aversion to two luxuries, especially
esteemed in more northern countries, and though
somewhat matters of taste, not altogether unallied to
a higher sentiment; these are flowers and fire. The
latter, during winter, is as truly physically requisite
as in colder climates; but less surprise should be excited
by this antipathy among a people whose idea
of comfort is so widely different from our own, and
to whom this cheerful influence brings with it none
of the domestic associations which endear it to the
denizens of bleaker localities, and the possessors of a
better founded enthusiasm. The former distaste is
more remarkable, when we consider the proverbial
predilections of the Italians for the beautiful; and
yet it is to a surprising extent true, that most are
indifferent and many decidedly averse to flowers;
whereas, in Florence, we were ever beset with
flower-girls, and the Neapolitan peasants are seldom
seen without a nosegay. I have heard this peculiarity
of the Romans ascribed to their very delicate
sense of smell, which renders even a mild perfume

quite overpowering; but it is difficult to admit a
reason which is so inconsistent with their habitual
toleration of far less genial odours, particularly the
unwholesome exhalations from the buried aqueducts
and infected campagna.

Although the period of my sojourn was considered,
in some respects, an uncommon season, yet
the excellence of the climate of Rome, according to
my best information and experience, has been sadly
exaggerated. During winter, a southerly wind, with
the usual accompaniment of rain or humidity, or a
dry piercing northerly blast, generally prevail. The
bright summer-like days, when the deep azure of
the sky and the balmy softness of the breezes recal
our cherished imaginings of Rome, are too unfrequent,
at least to please the invalid. Yet one of
those beautiful interludes in the capricious shiftings
of the weather is, if freely enjoyed, unspeakably
renovating. A promenade upon the Pincian hill or
in the Villa Borgehese, or an excursion to Tivoli, at
such a time, inclines one to forgive and forget all
the past waywardness of the elements. In summer,
that awful vapoury infection—the malaria, and the
extreme heat are alike deleterious. It is very confidently
asserted by individuals who judge from experience,
that a vast change has occurred in the climate
of Rome within the last thirty years, and that, even
within a less period, a marked difference, as regards
constancy and mildness, is observable.

The supremacy of the pope and his cardinals, denominated

the sacred college, being all but absolute,
the risk incurred by such a sway renders the government
extremely tenacious and jealous, so that of
all culprits of whom the law takes cognizance, none
are at once more frequently or less deservedly its
victims than political offenders. But the chief evil
immediately resulting from this condition of things,
consists in the concessions which the rulers make
to the ruled, in order to maintain their authority.
Many of these involve the total subversion of the
very principles which government is mainly instituted
to maintain. Capital crime, for example, is
of all offences the least liable to retribution by the
operation of law in the Roman states. And such is
the sanguinary temperament of most of the people,
that any severe civil check upon it would inflame
opposition, and hence render their political yoke
more galling. Of the two evils, therefore, as might
be anticipated, government choose that which is
morally greatest, and politically least. Consequently,
the number of personal violences and murders is
almost incredible. An incarceration of a few
months for this highest of crimes, is often the sole
punishment; and even this is dispensed with, if the
offender can effect a pecuniary compromise with the
relations of the deceased. Within a short period,
the fourth murder, under the most atrocious circumstances,
alone sufficed to bring a noted culprit to the
gallows.

The present pope, it is believed, in executing

plans for the advancement of his own views, is gradually
undermining one of the strong holds of his
power. The re-erection of St. Paul's church, in the
environs of Rome, in a costly style, and the creation
of five new cardinals, both measures in every respect
unnecessary, are among the extravagant plans with
which he is charged. The means of carrying on
these is obtained from extensive loans, for the payment
of which his most valuable revenues are
pledged, and year after year, these are sacrificed to
his inability to meet the annual demand. I have
heard it confidently estimated, that, adopting the
past as a criterion, in the space of thirteen years,
the resources of the government will be absorbed;
and if the ability of the governed to support taxation,
at that juncture, is not better than at present,
there is no conceivable means of furnishing an adequate
supply to sustain the papal credit.[6] But it is
highly probable that another and more rapid agency
than the slow depreciation of the treasury will, ere
then, have permanently altered the political condition
not only of Rome, but of all Italy.

The degeneracy of modern Rome is a subject
ever forced upon the thoughtful resident, whenever
his mind is free to revert to the local and moral circumstances

by which he is surrounded. And to
one who is in anywise familiar with her past history
or susceptible to her present influences, it
becomes an almost absorbing theme. Vainly, at
times, do the glories of the Vatican allure him; their
delightful enchantments fade before a more impressive
reality. He cannot rejoice unreservedly in the
splendours of human art, when humanity is a wreck
around him; he cannot indulge in stirring retrospection
over the sculptured figure of an old Roman,
when it serves but to render more prominent the
moral deformity of his descendant. And if a gleam
of native enthusiasm excite him, caught from scenes
which the supremacy of character has hallowed, or
a sentiment of rich gratification steals over him from
the midst of material beauty, the idea which he most
loves to connect with these—the idea of his race
brings with it an overpowering sadness. Throughout
all that art or antiquity here unfolds, he feels as
if wandering in a beautiful garden, once blest with
a presence which shall know it no more. He feels,
in his inmost soul, that it was this non-existent object
of his love which lent an hitherto unknown
interest to the marble and canvass, to mount and
river; and while ever and anon their silent beauty
affords a sad pleasure, they oftener serve but to
remind him of the grave which has closed over the
beloved of his memory.

Yet he gradually derives consolation, which sometimes
brightens into happiness, in attaching himself

to such mementos; and when they recal most
strongly what has been, the thought of what may
yet be, brings home an exquisite and almost forgotten
delight. While melancholy even imparts its
sad hue to the moral observer of Rome's relies and
ruins, something of hope, of instinctive anticipation,
bears out the mental gratification which ever flows
from them.