CHAPTER XXI. Travellers pass IT is the fashion to abuse the Italians. through the country, meeting only the custom house officers, the postillions, and the hangers-on at inns, and decide authoritatively on the worthlessness of the people. It is of course evident, that they see the worst portion, and can learn nothing of those traits of national character which lie below the surface. The first view is certainly not prepossessing. The traveller finds wretchedness on every side of him, and therefore records at once a condemnation against the whole country, which a little more time induces him to revoke. Such was the case with Shelley. Nothing can be more widely different than the opinion which he expresses of the people on first entering Italy, and that which we find in his letters only six weeks afterwards. And this is particularly the case in the Papal States. Your first greeting is from a crowd of beggars. In Tuscany nothing of the kind is seen, and it proves therefore that the evil is the result of wretched government. During a residence of several weeks in Florence, we were scarcely ever asked for charity, and on our way through the country saw only an active, industrious population. The instant, however, that we once more crossed the frontiers and entered the territories of the Church, on our way to Bologna, the old scene was renewed, and the carriage surrounded by swarms, entreating relief in the name of the Madonna, and all the saints in the Calendar. In Rome itself we meet with apparently the most wretched population in all Italy. There is no trade or commerce, and it seems as if half the people supported themselves by begging. Wherever you go, they gather around, and you have constantly dinned into your ears-" carità, forestieri" -(charity, strangers.) They particularly collect on the steps of the Scala di Spagna, because strangers generally reside in that vicinity, and there they lie in wait, wishing you "good morning," and for a bajoccho, adding to it a profusion of prayers for your welfare. In addition to the difficulty of finding any employment, this delicious climate probably indisposes them to active exertion. Their maxim is -"dolce far niente," (it is sweet to do nothing,) and they make life one long siesta. It glides away in a graceful listlessness a dreamy, sleepy indolence-until illness or the feebleness of age warns them that they will soon have done with it for ever. Then, some Brotherhood nurses them in their last agonies, and buries them when dead. This state of things, it is true, cannot be pleasant to a stranger, for it brings constantly before him, misery, real or feigned, in every form, until there is danger lest his heart may at last become hardened against every exhibition. وو Robberies too are frequent. Almost the only light in the narrow streets is that which comes from the faintly twinkling lamps hung before the pictures of the Madonna. There is ample opportunity therefore for the assassin to do his work, and concealed in a dark alley or doorway, he waits to spring on the passer-by. With him the old demand "Your money or your life -means something. The former must be immediately forthcoming, or the latter is gone; for the stiletto is sharp, and the arm that wields it skilful. Passengers therefore at night walk carefully in the middle of the street, looking around them with the cautious air of men, who feel that they are in an enemy's country. As it is, every week we have the tale of some murders com mitted. No newspaper indeed records them, for it is the policy of government to hush up such proofs of its weakness, yet still they are whispered about as items of the daily news. In this respect Rome is a miserable contrast to Vienna, where so admirable are the police arrangements, that a female might at midnight walk alone from one end of the city to the other without being insulted. These are things most obvious to a traveller, and which interfere most with his comfort, but they are not to be charged on the great body of the people. They are indeed hasty and fiery in disposition, but by no means cruel or sanguinary, and their crimes are very often the result of some sudden and almost irresistible impulse. The man of whom you hear as having in a moment of passion taken life, perhaps gives himself up to agonies of mind infinitely worse than the scaffold, and then passes his remaining days in a monastery, to atone by bitter repentance for his sin. Such are the extremes of Italian character. Most travellers prefer the Neapolitans to the Romans. They are charmed with the light-hearted, merry air of the poor lazzaroni, or amused with the strange contrast in their traits. With scarcely any clothing, and no home nearer than the grave-through the day lounging in the sun of their delightful climate, and at night sleeping in the grotto of Prosillippo, or any other shelter that is at hand-steeped to the lips in poverty, and with no prospect before them but to die in a hospital, and be buried like a dog in the Campo Santo-you would of course expect to find them reduced to the lowest state of brutal degradation. And yet, go out on the Mole of a beautiful day, and you will see a circle of these homeless wretches gathered around some reader, whom they have hired for a few grana to recite to them the Orlando Furioso of Ariosto, or the lofty strains of Tasso. All this of course fascinates a casual observer, but I prefer the Romans. They have less frivolity-more depth and solidity |