"The people pa.s.s the most of their time in coffee-houses. They are an idle set--have nothing in the world to do. It is still a mystery to me how they live.
"The fact is, there are too many soldiers and priests. Now it is evident that these gentry, being non-producers, must be supported directly or indirectly by the producers. This is the cause, I suppose, of the poverty of a great part of the population.
"Begging is reduced to a science. In this I confess the Italian beats the American all to pieces. The American eye has not seen, nor ear heard, the devices of an Italian beggar to get along.
"I have seen them in great crowds waiting outside of a monastery for their dinner, which consists of huge bowls of porridge given by the monks. Can any thing be more ruinous to a people?
"The only trade that I could discover after a long and patient search was the trade in brooches and toys which are bought as curiosities by travellers.
"There are nothing but churches and palaces wherever you go. Some of these palaces are queer-looking concerns. There isn"t one in the whole lot equal to some of the Fifth Avenue houses in New York in point of real genuine style.
"There has been too much money spent in churches, and too little on houses. If it amounted to any thing it would not be so bad, but the only effect has been to promote an idle fondness for music and pictures and such like. If they tore down nine-tenths of their churches and turned them into school-houses on the New England system, it would not be bad for the rising generation.
"The newspapers which they have are miserable things-wretched little sheets, full of lies--no advertis.e.m.e.nts, no news, no nothing.
I got a friend to translate what pretended to be the latest American news. It was a collection of murders, duels, railway accidents, and steamboat explosions.
"I don"t see what hope there is for this unfortunate country; I don"t really. The people have gone on so long in their present course that they are now about incorrigible. If the entire population were to emigrate to the Western States, and mix up with the people there, it might be possible for their descendants in the course of time to amount to something.
"I don"t see any hope except perhaps in one plan, which would be no doubt impossible for these lazy and dreamy Italians to carry out.
It is this: Let this poor, brokendown, bankrupt Government make an inventory of its whole stock of jewels, gold, gems, pictures, and statues. I understand that the n.o.bility throughout Europe would be willing to pay immense sums of money for these ornaments. If they are fools enough to do so, then in Heaven"s name let them have the chance. Clear out the whole stock of rubbish, and let the hard cash come in to replace it. That would be a good beginning, with something tangible to start from. I am told that the ornaments of St. Peter"s Cathedral cost ever so many millions of dollars. In the name of goodness why not sell out the stock and realize instead of issuing those ragged notes for twenty-five cents, which circulate among the people here at a discount of about seventy-five per cent?
"Then let them run a railroad north to Florence and south to Naples.
It would open up a fine tract of county which is capable of growing grain; it would tap the great olive-growing districts, and originate a vast trade of oil, wine, and dried fruits.
"The country around Rome is uninhabited, but not barren. It is sickly in summer-time, but if there was a population on it who would cultivate it property I calculate the malaria would vanish, just as the fever and ague do from many Western districts in our country by the same agencies. I calculate that region could be made one of the most fertile on this round earth if occupied by an industrious cla.s.s of emigrants.
"But there is a large s.p.a.ce inside the walls of the city which could be turned to the best of purposes.
"The place which used to be the Roman Forum is exactly calculated to be the terminus of the railroad which I have suggested. A commodious depot could be made, and the door-way might be worked up out of the arch of t.i.tus, which now stands blocking up the way, and is of no earthly use.
"The amount of crumbling stones and old mined walls that they leave about this quarter of the city is astonishing. It ought not to be so.
"What the Government ought to do after being put in funds by the process mentioned above is this:
"The Government ought to tear down all those unsightly heaps of stone and erect factories and industrial schools. There is plenty of material to do it with. For instance, take the old ruin called the Coliseum. It is a fact, arrived at by elaborate calculation, that the entire contents of that concern are amply sufficient to construct no less than one hundred and fifty handsome factories, each two hundred feet by seventy-five.
"The factories being built, they could be devoted to the production of the finer tissues. Silks and velvets could be produced here. Gla.s.s-ware of all kinds could be made. There is a fine Italian clay that makes nice cups and crocks.
"I could also suggest the famous Roman cement as an additional article of export. The Catacombs under the city could be put to some direct practical use.
"I have hastily put out these few ideas to show what a liberal and enlightened policy might effect even in such an unpromising place as Rome. It is not probable, however, that my scheme would meet with favor here. The leading cla.s.ses in this city are such an incurable get of old fogies that, I verily believe, rather than do what I have suggested, they would choose to have the earth open beneath them and swallow them up forever--city, churches, statues, pictures, museums, palaces, ruins and all.
"I"ve got a few other ideas, some of which will work some day.
Suppose Russia should sell us her part of America. Spain sell us Cuba, Italy give us Rome, Turkey an island or two--then what? But I"ll keep this for another letter."
"That"s all," said the Senator.
d.i.c.k"s face was drawn up into the strangest expression. He did not say any thing, however. The Senator calmly folded up his paper, and with a thoughtful air took up his hat.
"I"m going to that Coliseum again to measure a place I forgot,"
said he.
Upon which he retired, leaving d.i.c.k alone.
CHAPTER XXIX.
THE LONELY ONE AND HIS COMFORTER.--THE TRUE MEDICINE FOR A SICK MAN.
d.i.c.k was alone in his chamber. Confinement to his room was bad enough, but what was that in comparison with the desolation of soul that afflicted him? Pepita was always in his thoughts. The bright moment was alone remembered, and the black sequel could not efface her image. Yet his misadventure showed him that his chances of seeing her again were extremely faint. But how could he give her up? They would soon be leaving for Florence. How could he leave never to see her again--the lovely, the sweet, the tender, the--
A faint knock at the door.
"Come in," said d.i.c.k, without rising from his chair.
A female entered. She was dressed in black. A thick veil hid her features, but her bent figure denoted age and weariness. She slowly closed the door.
"Is it here where a young American lives with this name?"
She held out a card. It was his name, his card. He had only given it to one person in Rome, and that one was Pepita.
"Oh!" cried d.i.c.k, rising, his whole expression changing from sadness to eager and beseeching hope, "oh, if you know where she is--where I may find her--"
The female raised her form, then with a hand that trembled excessively she slowly lifted her veil. It was a face not old and wrinkled but young and lovely, with tearful eyes downcast, and cheeks suffused with blushes.
With an eager cry d.i.c.k bounded from his chair and caught her in his arms. Not a word was spoken. He held her in a strong embrace as though he would not let her go. At last he drew her to a seat beside him, still holding her in his arms.
"I could not stay away. I led you into misfortune. Oh, how you have suffered. You are thin and wan. What a wretch am I! When you see me no more will you forgive me?"
"Forgive!" and d.i.c.k replied in a more emphatic way than words afford.
"They would not let me leave the house for ten days. They told me if I ever dared to see you again they would kill you. So I knew you were not dead. But I did not know how they had beaten you till one day Ricardo told me all. To think of you unarmed fighting so gallantly. Four of them were so bruised that they have not yet recovered. To-day Luigi went to Civita Vecchia. He told me that if I dared to go to Rome he would send me to a convent. But I disobeyed him. I could not rest. I had to come and see how you were, and to--bid--adieu--"
"Adieu! bid adieu?--never. I will not let you."
"Ah, now you talk wildly," said Pepita, mournfully, "for you know we must part."
"We shall not part."
"I will have to go home, and you can not follow me."
"Oh, Pepita, I can not give you up. You shall be mine--now--my wife --and come with me home--to America. And we shall never again have to part."
"Impossible," said Pepita, as big tear-drops fell from her eyes.