The houses of modern Rome generally present a good appearance, from the circumstance, that, although built of brick, they are, with few exceptions, plastered with great skill and dexterity to resemble stone, outside and inside. The puzzolana earth forms an admirable cement, and even when placed on the tops of houses it forms a terrace impenetrable by water. The streets are kept rather clean by the employment of convicts, but there is always abundance of dirt around the dwellings of the poor, who inhabit the ground floors, which are used not only for the residence of poverty and wretchedness, but for stables, and shops of every kind. The men, women, and children, however, in these unpromising abodes, are fat, dirty, and merry, and present no appearance of being victims of malaria or despotism. The streets, except the Corso, are seldom straight; but in the evenings they are filled with people, the rich taking a fashionable drive, with the utmost seriousness and silence, the poor lying and sitting on the ground, eating a piece of bread, or a fresh head of lettuce, in general, silent and serious like their betters, but occasionally bursting into roars of laughter, and expressing their hilarity by loudly clapping their hands.
"As the warm weather advances, every kind of workman who can get out his little bench, apparatus or chair, is at work in the street close up to his house. I have counted nine shoemakers, with their stalls, in front of one house, for the purpose of enjoying light and air. Benches and chairs are likewise occupied by the idle, chiefly old gentlemen, in front of the coffee-houses, especially in the Corso, where they are amused by the continual movement of carriages and pedestrians. In the evening, especially on holidays, tables are spread out with white cloths, and brilliantly illuminated and decorated with flowers, containing various articles of food, whilst a cook is busy on one side with his portable kitchen, cooking dough-nuts, or other articles, which are eaten on the spot.
"The English and French style of dress, both among men and women, prevails not only in the higher classes, but through all others, and in every part of the city. Huge Parisian bonnets, full set with broad ribands, are seen in every street; contrasting widely with the fashion of the country, which covers the head with a white linen cloth, folded square, and either hanging loose, or kept flat by sticks within them, or long pins like skewers, which bind up the hair. Long waists and stays are universal—the rich wear the fashionable corset of France—the poor, the stays of the country, thick set with bone, covered with gay velvet, and worn outside of their gowns, when they have any on, and tied at the top and back of the shoulders with long bunches of gay ribands. An apron, skirted with many coloured bands, hangs in front of a short petticoat with similar bands, and the shoes have great silver buckles. The taste for large ear and finger rings is universal, and heavy rolls of beads encircle almost every neck—the dark red coral being calculated, by its contrast, to improve their brown Italian complexion.
"The peasants, as they appear in town, differ from these, in wearing coarse pointed wool hats, decorated with ribands or flowers; wretched, old, ragged, or patched clothes; breeches without buttons or strings at the knees; sandals which they make out of raw hide, turning up a little above the sole, and with strong cords bound to their feet, the cord passing around their legs and up to their knees, encircling coarse linen or rags, which they wear instead of stockings. On Sundays and holidays, certain streets, as the Repetti, are the rendezvous of labouring men, who are then a little, but very little, better dressed than on other days; always displaying their stout legs in coarse white stockings, their knees still unbuttoned, and their shirt collars open even in cool weather, and, if warm, their jacket across one shoulder, one sleeve hanging in front—the other behind, and shifted to the other shoulder, should their exposure to the wind or current of air require it. I have often stopped to notice these groups, and have been surprised to find them generally silent, but with an expression of content. Occasionally, when a joke would circulate, it was managed with the fewest words. It is only when much excited, that a Roman displays any volubility of tongue or extravagance of gesticulation to disturb his usual air of dignity—whether above or below contempt—whether with much thought or with no thought at all.
"The Romans are certainly a sober people, but the lower classes, though they are not afflicted by Irish, Scotch, or American whiskey, Holland gin, or English porter, yet often indulge to excess in the cheap wine of the country. Every body drinks wine, and to offer water to a beggar would be an insult. It is only used occasionally with lemons in hot weather. At a late hour in the evening, in many streets, may be heard the noise of Bacchanalian merriment proceeding from some deep cavernous chamber, which, seen by lamp-light, shows nothing but coarse plastered walls, a greasy brick pavement, and benches and tables, around which, in the absence of all other comforts, the most miserable enjoy their principal, or only meal of the day, and freely circulate the bottle as a social bond. Besides, on holidays, the wine shops are frequented by groups of men and women, who sometimes exhibit around the door a noisy and licentious crowd. But wine is not always deemed sufficient, and those who are disposed to take a walk about sunrise, may every day see persons with little baskets of aqua vitæ, which is swallowed by artificers between their beds and their workshops."
During Mr. Peale's stay at Rome, the election of the pope afforded him an opportunity of witnessing the many gorgeous and striking ceremonies, which attend the elevation of the spiritual father of the church to his temporal throne. These he has described minutely, but with little variation from the accounts given by those who have been at Rome on previous and similar occasions. He speaks of the sudden illumination of the vast dome of St. Peter's, as a sight of singular magnificence; in an instant the whole edifice appeared to throw out flowers of flame, and then, a few moments after, a new succession of lights, still more vivid, by their superior brightness, rendered the first nearly invisible.
From Rome, Mr. Peale went to Tivoli, and spent some days among the lovely scenery of that spot, familiar to every one who has not forgotten the exquisite praises Horace has bestowed on it. He saw and admired the remnants of the temple of the Sibyl, which Claude Lorraine has so often selected to add to the harmony and beauty of his inimitable landscapes; and amid the importunities of beggars, who infest a traveller in Italy in every haunt to which the love of antiquity or of scenery can lead him, and beneath the spray of the cataract—the polvere del'acqua, as it was called by the natives—he sketched a drawing of a spot which poets and painters have alike loved to select in ancient and modern days.
On entering Tuscany, he was pleased to find no longer the rags and patches of Naples and Rome, but a peasantry, better clad, and more industrious; the country was in a fine state of cultivation, and the habitations were neat and commodious. It was the season of harvest, and the fields abounded with men and women in nearly equal numbers, and apparently happy as they were cheerful.
At Florence, where Mr. Peale arrived on the 7th of July, he remained until the 22d of April following, thus devoting to that fair seat of the arts more than eight months. His time was zealously employed in the pursuit of his favourite studies; and he made, in the galleries so liberally opened to artists, copies of many of those works which have been considered as masterpieces at all times, which have been deemed the noblest of the spoils of conquest, and have become the guides of aspiring genius, and the test of taste, throughout the world.
The manners of the inhabitants are lively, but in general decorous; and whenever crowds are accidentally assembled, they disperse without tumult.