A pic-nic on Monte Mario.—Modes of ordinary address in Europe.—View of
Rome from Monte Mario.—Comparison between modern Rome and New
York.—Contempt of Romans for strangers.—Rome kept from utter ruin,
by the Papacy;—its ultimate fate.—The pic-nic.
The Princess V——, a Russian, now in Rome for her health, has lately
given a pic-nic on Monte Mario,—if that can be called a pic-nic to which
but few contributed.—A pic-nic on Monte Mario! This was not absolutely
junketing _in_ a ruin, but it was junketing _over_ a ruin, and but for
the amiable patroness I should have been very apt to decline the
invitation. As it was, however, the[9] Chigi—not the _prince_, but the
_horse_ of the princely breed—was bestridden, and away I galloped, two
or three hours before the time. By the way, I do not remember having any
where spoken of the usages of Europe, as relates to the modes of
ordinary address, except, as I have told you, that, in society,
simplicity is a general rule of good taste; a law you know as well as
the best here.
Footnote 9:
The Italians use this article very familiarly in speaking of persons.
They say _the_ Pasta, and even _the_ Borghese and _the_ Chigi, in
speaking of the Princesses of those names. But this is not often done
by people of breeding. The custom of speaking of female artists, such
as Mademoiselle Mars, without using the prefix of Madame, or Signora,
is deemed _mauvais ton_, I believe: certainly, it is not common among
the better classes, though quite common among the cockney genteel,
especially among those who have travelled just enough to be
preeminently affected.
The Germans have a long-established reputation for the love of official
titles. In this respect they resemble the people of New England, who are
singularly tenacious of titles, while they are offensively forgetful of
the ordinary appellations of polite intercourse. Thus, the very man who
will punctiliously style a thief-taker “Officer Roe,” will speak of a
gentleman as “Doe,” or “Old Doe,” or “Jim Doe,” or as one of his
intimates. “Well-born,” “nobly born,” and such terms, are common enough
among the Germans, used by the inferior; but wo betide the wight who
forgets to give a man his official title! In France there is little of
this, though, in business, titles are given freely. M. Préfet, M.
Sous-Préfet, M. Sergeant, even, are common French styles of address;
but, in society, one hears little of all this,—nothing, it might be
said. Military titles, below that of general, are scarcely ever given.
This arises from the fact that most officers are, or were, nobles, and
their private appellations are thought the most honourable. The same
rule exists, more or less, in England. There is at Rome, now, an
Englishman of my acquaintance, who lately left a card with “Lt. Colonel”
on it; and when I expressed to him my surprise that he should never have
used this title before, he answered that until lately he was on
half-pay, but that now he was attached, though his regiment was in
another country, of course. In private, I never heard him called
Colonel; and I presume half his acquaintances here, like myself, were
ignorant, until lately, that he was in the army at all.
The common Italians are prodigal of titles. Almost every gentleman is
styled, “your excellency,” and some of the addresses of letters that one
gets are odd enough.—Beyond this, the same simplicity exists as is found
elsewhere.
To return to Monte Mario. It is a place to which I often go, and lately
I was lucky enough to enjoy the spot all alone. There is an avenue lined
by poplars, along the brow of the hill; and here I took my station, and
sat an hour lost in musing. This hill does not impend over Rome
absolutely as Montmartre overlooks Paris; but still it offers the best
bird’s-eye view of it that can be obtained from any height, though not
better than can be had from St. Peter’s, nor in some respects, as good a
one as is seen from the belfry of the Capitol. Still, it is a beautiful
and impressive scene, and one takes it, pleasantly enough, in a morning
ride.
On my mind, the comparison between Rome, as she now is, and one of our
own large towns, has irresistibly forced itself on all such occasions.
New York, for instance, and the Rome of to-day, are absolutely the moral
opposites of each other; almost the physical opposites too. One is a
town of recollections, and the other a town of hopes. With the people of
one, the disposition is to ruminate on the past; with the people of the
other to speculate eagerly on the future. This sleeps over its ruins,
while that boasts over its beginnings. The Roman glorifies himself on
what his ancestors _have_ been, the American on what his posterity
_will_ be.
These are the more obvious points of difference—such as lie on the
surface; but there are others that enter more intimately into the
composition of the two people. The traditions of twenty centuries have
left a sentiment on the mind of the Roman, which a colonial and
provincial history of two has never awakened in the Manhattanese. The
people who now live within the walls of Rome are a fragment of the
millions that once crowded her streets and Forums; whereas, they who
bustle through the avenues of New York would have to hunt among
themselves to find the children of the burghers of the last generation.
_Rome_, like Troy, _was_; but it does not seem that _New York_, though
accumulating annually her thousands, is ever _to be_.
The learned, the polished, the cultivated of every people flock to Rome,
and pay homage to her arts, past and present; while the inhabitant still
regards them as the descendants of the barbarians. Money on one side,
and necessity on the other, are gradually changing this contempt; but
traces of the feeling are still easily discovered. An American, here,
had occasion to prefer a request to this government lately, and the
functionary addressed was told by a Roman that the applicant would be
sustained by his countrymen. “What is America but a country of ships!”
was the haughty answer. What is a ship to a cameo?
We are deemed barbarians by many here who have less pretensions than the
Romans to be proud. They who crowd our marts appear there only for gain,
and they bring with them little besides their money, and the spirit of
cupidity. A Roman, in his shop, will scarcely give himself the trouble
to ascend a ladder to earn your _scudo_; but, let it be known in Gath
that one has arrived having gold, and he becomes the idol of the hour.
Nothing saves his skin but the fact that so many others come equally
well garnished.
Rome is a city of palaces, monuments, and churches, that have already
resisted centuries; New York, one of architectural expedients, that die
off in their generations, like men. The Roman is proud of his
birth-place, proud of the past, satisfied with the present, proud of
being able to trace his blood up to some consul perhaps. In New York, so
little is ancestry, deeds, or any thing but money esteemed, that nearly
half of her inhabitants, so far from valuing themselves on family, or
historical recollections, or glorious acts, scarcely know to what nation
they properly belong. While the descendants of those who first dwelt on
the Palatine cling to their histories and traditions with an affection
as fresh as if the events were of yesterday, the earth probably does not
contain a community in which the social relations, so far as they are
connected with any thing beyond direct and obvious interests, set so
loosely as on that of New York.
“Which of these two people is the happiest,” I said to myself, as my eye
roamed over the tale-fraught view; “they who dream away existence in
these recollections, or they who are so eager for the present as to
compress the past and the future into the day, and live only to boast,
at night, that they are richer than when the sun rose on them in the
morning?” The question is not easily answered; though I would a thousand
times rather that my own lot had been cast in Rome, than in New York, or
in any other mere trading town that ever existed. As for the city of New
York, I would “rather be a dog and bay the moon, than such a Roman.”
The Roman despises the Yankee, and the Yankee despises the Roman;—one,
because the other is nothing but a man who thinks only of the interests
of the day; and this, because that never seems to think of them at all.
The people of the Eternal City are a fragment of the descendants of
those who, on this precise spot, once ruled the world; of men surrounded
by remains that prove the greatness of their forefathers; of those to
whom lofty feelings have descended in traditions, and who, if they do
not rise to the level of the past themselves, do not cease to hold it in
remembrance: while the great emporium of the West is a congregation of
adventurers, collected from the four quarters of the earth, that have
shaken loose every tie of birth-place, every sentiment of nationality or
of historical connexion; that know nothing of any traditions except
those, which speak of the Whittingtons of the hour, and care less for
any greatness but that which is derived from the largeness of
inventories. The first are often absurd, by confounding the positive
with the ideal; while the last never rise far enough above the lowest of
human propensities, to come within the influence of any feeling above
that which marks a life passed in the constant struggle for inordinate
and grasping gain.—“Dollar, dollar, dollar, dollar; lots, lots, lots,
lots!”
I repeat, that the earth does not contain two towns that, in their
histories, habits, objects, avocations, origins, and general characters,
are so completely the converse of each other, as Rome and New York. If
the people of these two places could be made, reciprocally, to pass a
year within each other’s limits, the communion would be infinitely
salutary to both; for while one party might partially awake from its
dream of centuries, the other might discover that there is something
valuable besides money.
How much longer Rome will stand, is a question of curious speculation. I
do not remember to have seen a single edifice in the course of
construction within its walls; those already in existence sufficing, in
the main, for its wants. The long supremacy of the Papacy, succeeding so
soon to that of the Empire, has been the means of bringing Rome down to
our own times; else would the place have most probably been an utter
ruin. The palaces of the great nobility, many of whom still possess
large estates, the general advancement of Europe in taste, and in a love
for art and antiquities, which induce crowds from other countries to
resort hither, and the traffic in cameos, mosaics, statuary, and
castings, which adds to the other receipts of the place, will probably
suffice to keep Rome a town of interest for ages to come. Its greatest
enemy is the _malaria_, which some people affirm is slowly increasing in
malignity and extent annually, while others affirm it is stationary. As
the descent towards the sea must, in the nature of things, be gradually
lessening, it is quite within the limits of possibility that the fate of
this illustrious place should be finally decided by the slow progress of
those invisible and mysterious means that Providence is known to use in
carrying out the great scheme of creation. After all its wars, and
sieges, and conflagrations, Rome will, in all likelihood, finally fall
“without hands.” If you quicken your movements a little, however, it
will probably be in your power to reach this memorable spot in time to
anticipate the consummation. Like the often-predicted and much-desired
dissolution of the American union, it will not arrive in your time or
mine.
Our pic-nic on Monte Mario, all this time, is forgotten. It included
Russians, Poles, French, Swiss, Germans, Italians, &c. but no English. I
was the only one present who spoke the English as a mother tongue. We
had a table placed beneath the trees, and ranged ourselves so as to
overlook Rome, while we indulged in creature-comforts _ad libitum_. A
thunder-cloud gathered among the Sabine Hills, forming a noble
background to a panorama of desolation; but the sun continued to shine
on Rome itself, as if to show that its light was never to be
extinguished.
Among the guests was a clever Frenchman, who had written a witty work on
a journey around his own bed-chamber. By way of a practical commentary
on his own theoretical travels, he was now making the tour of Europe, in
a gig!