Rome in 1860 | Page 2

trudging homewards
from some outlying chapel. That red-bodied funereal- looking
two-horse-coach, crawling at a snail's pace, belongs to his Excellency

the Cardinal, whom Papal etiquette forbids to walk on foot within the
city, and whom you can see a little further on pottering feebly along the
road in his violet stockings, supported by his clerical secretary, and
followed at a respectful distance by his two attendant footmen with
their threadbare liveries. At last, out of the dreary waste, at the end of
the interminable ill-paved sloughy road, the long line of the grey
tumble-down walls rises gloomily. A few cannon-shot would batter a
breach anywhere, as the events of 1849 proved only too well. However,
at Rome there is neither commerce to be impeded nor building
extension of any kind to be checked; the city has shrunk up until its
precincts are a world too wide; and the walls, if they are useless, are
harmless also; more, by the way, than you can say for most things here.
There is no stir or bustle at the gates. Two French soldiers, striding
across a bench, are playing at picquet with a pack of greasy cards. A
pack-horse or two nibble the blades of grass between the stones, while
their owners haggle with the solitary guard about the "octroi" duties. A
sentinel on duty stares listlessly at you as you pass,--and you have
entered Rome.
You are coming, I will suppose, from Ostia, and enter therefore by the
"Porta San Paolo;" the gate where legends tell that Belisarius sat and
begged. I have chosen this out of the dozen entrances as recalling
fewest of past memories and leading most directly to the heart of the
living, working city. You stand then within Rome, and look round in
vain for the signs of a city. Hard by a knot of dark cypress-trees waves
above the lonely burial-ground where Shelley lies at rest. A long,
straight, pollard-lined road stretches before you between high walls far
away; low hills or mounds rise on either side, covered by stunted,
straggling vineyards. You pass on. A beggar, squatting by the roadside,
calls on you for charity; and long after you have passed you can hear
the mumbling, droning cry, "Per l'amore di Dio e della Santa Vergine,"
dying in your ears. On the wall, from time to time, you see a rude
painting of Christ upon the cross, and an inscription above the slit
beneath bids you contribute alms for the souls in purgatory. A
peasant-woman it may be is kneeling before the shrine, and a troop of
priests pass by on the other side. A string of carts again, drawn by
bullocks, another shrine, and another troop of priests, and you are come

to the river's banks. The dull, muddy Tiber rolls beneath you, and in
front, that shapeless mass of dingy, weather-stained, discoloured,
plaster-covered, tile-roofed buildings, crowded and jammed together on
either side the river, is Rome itself. You are at the city's port, the
"Ripetta" or quay of Rome. In the stream there are a dozen vessels,
something between barges and coasting smacks, the largest possibly of
fifty tons' burden, which have brought marble from Carrara for the
sculptors' studios. There is a Gravesend-looking steamer too, lying off
the quay, but she belongs to the French government, and is employed to
carry troops to and from Civita Vecchia. This is all, and at this point all
traffic on the Tiber ceases. Though the river is navigable for a long
distance above Rome, yet beyond the bridge, now in sight, not a boat is
to be seen except at rare intervals. It is the Tiber surely, and not the
Thames, which should be called the "silent highway."
A few steps more and the walls on either side are replaced by houses,
and the city has begun. The houses do not improve on a closer
acquaintance; one and all look as if commenced on too grand a scale,
they had ruined their builders before their completion, had been left
standing empty for years, and were now occupied by tenants too poor
to keep them from decay. There are holes in the wall where the
scaffolding was fixed, large blotches where the plaster has peeled away;
stones and cornices which have been left unused lie in the mud before
the doors. From the window- sills and from ropes fastened across the
streets flutter half-washed rags and strange apparel. The height of the
houses makes the narrow streets gloomy even at midday. At night, save
in a few main thoroughfares, there is no light of any kind; but then,
after dark at Rome, nobody cares much about walking in
out-of-the-way places. The streets are paved with the most angular and
slippery of stones, placed herringbone fashion, with ups and downs