Yet there was not absent many redeeming touches in the dark picture of the times. The regular clergy fulfilled their duties unshrinkingly; and the conduct of the Jesuits was particularly admirable. They visited every corner of the city, watching by death-beds with unwearied zeal. They were seen taking, with gentle care, babes from the sides of their mothers, who lay dead in the streets, wrapping them tenderly in their black gowns, and carrying them to places appointed for their refuge. The confraternities also did not desert their post. A Roman told me he was one of three brothers; they removed their aged father to a safe place, at a distance from contagion, and remained themselves: they were employed at different quarters of the city. “I never felt happier,” said my informant; “our father was in safety; we had no fears for ourselves. All day we were busied among the sick, and when we met in the evening, it was with light hearts; the employment gave us something to do and to think about; the dangers we might be supposed to run, endeared us to each other. I remember now with regret the sort of exhilaration with which we met, thanked God for our preservation, and then again went to our task, not only without fear, but with a feeling of gladness superior to every other happiness.” The few English, also, who remained, displayed unshrinking courage. Lord C——, in particular, a Catholic nobleman, acted with a heroism that shamed the Cardinals and heads of the state. He earnestly strove to prove how erroneous was the fear of contagion; the succour he brought, and the example he displayed, were of the utmost utility, and saved many, many lives.
The country round Rome, each town and village within its cordon, was left pretty much to itself. No disturbances occurred, and the people showed themselves much more capable than could have been supposed, of self-government. One English family took refuge at Olèvano, a small town, some fifteen miles from Rome. They went thither without the intention of remaining; they took very little money with them, and could get nothing from Rome: the people of this little place showed them a kindness at once singular and touching. They not only provided them with provisions, but exerted themselves to please and amuse them. Each day some little fête was given by the mere country people for their diversion; so that they seemed, like the personages of the Decameron, to have escaped from a city of the pest, to enjoy the innocent pleasures of life with the greater zest.
Such is the amiable and courteous disposition of this people, except when their violent passions urge them to crimes, which they scarcely look on as wicked; for they are taught (for heresy, read any sin against the ordinances of the church)
“Il gran peccato è l’eresia! che gli altri
Pesan men d’una piuma, e se ne vanno
Con un segno di croce.”[[37]]
Where men’s wants are few and easily supplied, where a benignant climate clothes the earth in abundance, and nature is the indulgent mother instead of the stern overseer of our species, men have leisure, and, if they are idle, they become vicious. The air of Rome inspires lassitude, and renders the inhabitants inert. The Romans who live in the healthy parts of the city are all inclined to grow fat; their language, unidiomatic, and, so to speak, long-winded in its expressions, is pronounced with a grace of accent, a slow and melodious emphasis, that renders it more agreeable than any other Italian to the ears of strangers, and is strangely in harmony with the dreamy contentment of their minds. Accustomed to receive and to gain by foreigners, they are courteous, amiable, and ready to serve; there is among them an air of easy indolence, which, though it militates against our notions of manly energy, yet is never brutalized into stupidity. The women are among the most beautiful of the Italians. You feel as if all lived under a spell; and so they do; for, troubled and unquiet as is the rest of the papal dominions, Rome and its immediate neighbourhood remains in a sort of hazy apathy. The Pope appreciates highly their passive submission, and does all he can to keep them from communicating with the discontented districts. For this reason he is opposed to the construction of railroads; that, as he says, his revolutionary subjects of the East may not corrupt his obedient children of the West.
To the outward eye, the papal government pays a slight tribute to the increased demands of the times. There is more decency in the lives of the clergy; there is more done for the poor. But it is not eleemosynary charity that is needed—it is the spirit of improvement, just laws and an upright administration—none of these exist; and even scientific knowledge, encouraged in other parts of the peninsula, is forbidden. Meanwhile, penal laws are slight, and seldom enforced. There is, some fifteen miles from the city, a miserable collection of huts, in the middle of a tract of country, the peculiar haunt of mal’ aria; it is called Campo Morto, and is an asylum of the Church. All criminals, who fear being taken, fly hither. The spot, consecrated as an asylum, is watched by soldiers. The fugitive who once enters the fatal bounds, never dares leave them. Three years is the extent to which a man can drag out existence in this pestilential atmosphere. So here the hardened criminal comes to die, in his desire to escape from death. He is soon struck by fever, grows feeble and emaciated; and at his appointed hour is gathered to the grave.
The papal government is considered the worst in Italy; and the temporal rule of the Church is looked upon as the chief source of the nation’s misfortunes. This is no novel assertion. You may remember Dante’s apostrophe:—
“Ahi, Costantin, di quanto mal fu matre,