Gleanings in Europe

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.

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!