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(1285) had tried to people it in vain. His own experience indeed was no good advertisement for his experiment. The year before his election a conference of cardinals which met upon the Aventine had been attacked by the fatal scourge. Honorius, then Cardinal Savelli, alone had stuck to his post when all the others fled in terror. By keeping up good fires and by other precautions the plucky Cardinal escaped the malaria. But the Romans did not forget the incident, and to this day have not forgotten it. The Aventine and the district between the Baths of Caracalla and the Porta San Sebastiano alone remain to-day to tell the stranger what half Rome was like fifty years ago. It is safe to predict that both these districts will at no distant date be covered with buildings. The Aventine will in all probability then be found to be as healthy and as desirable as any other part of the city. Outside the walls suburban districts have grown up in the neighbourhood of the chief gates. The quarter near the Porta San Lorenzo is densely populated by a workman class, who are not always on the best of terms with the police. Beyond the Porta del Popolo, the Porta Pia, and the Porta San Giovanni, the open vineyards have given place to factories, warehouses, and dwelling houses. But nowhere is the change more striking than in the Prati di Castello adjoining the Vatican City on the north. In 1870 these were still open fields with hardly even a factor's house upon them, and so they had remained since the day when Cincinnatus tilled them. At the point where the river is now crowned by the Ponte Cavour a ferry boat, of the exact build and appearance of the barchetta which appears in Raphael's ‘Miraculous draught of fishes,' plied by a rope and pulley from the Via degli Schiavoni, on the city side, to the Wicolo della Barchetta, a narrow country lane, on the other bank. The ferry and its surroundings were probably little altered in appearance since that night, in the times of the Borgia, when the charcoal burner saw the masked man on the white horse bring the body of the Pope's murdered son down from the Via degli Schiavoni to fling it into the Tiber. Three bridges now lead across to the great new quarter which covers the farmlands of Cincinnatus with its rectangular arrangement of streets and squares. In this neighbourhood, too, all along the city side of the Tiber, the embankment, which has done so much for the health of Rome, has swept away innumerable tenements—some of the most picturesque and interesting, no doubt, which survived in Rome from the sixteenth and even from the

fifteenth centuries. It was here that Wanozza, the mother of Caesar Borgia, owned a hostelry; and here as one wandered in the crowded narrow streets near the Via del Orso one could best realise the appearance of the city in its strange mixture of squalor and magnificence four hundred years ago. The making of the great thoroughfare, the Corso Vittore Emmanuele, which leads from the Piazza di Venezia to the Ponte St. Angelo, also has removed many an ancient landmark. That thoroughfare follows in parts the line of the ancient Via Papalis by which the popes made their transit from St. Peter's to the Capitol, while in other parts blocks of houses have been removed bodily to give a convenient direction to the route. The streets in this part were previously narrow and tortuous, little altered in appearance since the days of Sixtus IV., who, with the aid of his henchman, Cardinal d’Estouteville, about the year 1480, had greatly widened them, and had paved many of them with tiles. It is needless to say that the latter had long given way to the little square blocks of lava from the Capo di Bove quarries. It was difficult sometimes, as one looked at these picturesque but very crowded thoroughfares, to persuade oneself that they could have ever been considered broad and commodious. Yet it is in evidence that before the days of Sixtus it was hardly possible for two horsemen to pass abreast. In the days of Pius IX., when the colossal coach of the Pope was sometimes to be met driving through the streets in this neighbourhood, it was impossible for another carriage to pass it. There is no part of Rome whose appearance has undergone a greater change than this, except the now embanked portion east and south of the Tiber. The task which the municipality of Rome has had to face since the city has become the capital of Italy has been both vast and difficult. They have performed it perhaps no better, certainly no worse, than other municipalities have performed far less important tasks. To double in thirty to forty years the accommodation of a population, to double also the area over which building extends, to provide suitable means of traffic and adequate measures of sanitation in a city whose natural position has at all times made drainage a difficult problem, would tax the capacities of the most capable Board of Works engaged in developing a comparatively new city. But in Rome the problem has been far more difficult. It has meant the endeavour to turn an ancient city into a modern. At every few hundred yards some fresh problem arose; some memory of classical or mediaeval or Renaissance days stood in the way of the new thoroughfare or the needed sewer. Moreover, you could not drive a new street in any direction among the older parts of Rome without sweeping away picturesque rookeries beloved by generations of artists. Were none of these to go? Was no sacrifice to be made to the needs of a great modern capital 2 Mistakes were made in plenty; that may freely be admitted. In the early days which followed on the ‘Risorgimento” there were evidences of feverish haste, and the jerry-builder set up his memorial, likely to be all too short-lived, in the Via Nazionale and in a few other streets, the instability of whose houses is as notorious as of those in the fashionable quarters of Kensington, where dancing is forbidden by the terms of the lease. It may be freely owned, too, that sacrifices have been too evidently made to that love of the rectangular which is the first inspiration of the modern city-builder. He who would learn the depths to which dreariness may attain in the hands of the city surveyor pledged to uniformity might do worse than spend an hour or two of a dusty June day in the new quarters between the Lateran and S. Maria Maggiore. Again, with regard to the enormous monument to Victor Emmanuel, without accepting the view of those who declare that that monarch should need no memorial in a national Rome—an argument which, driven to its logical results, would give monuments only to those who are least worth remembering—we may fairly deplore its colossal character and the destruction which has resulted from it. We may still more readily admit that in the carrying out of the Tiber Embankment the modern Roman fell painfully short of his traditions. Here was an opportunity exactly suited, it would have seemed, to the engineering and architectural genius of the race. One asks oneself what the engineers of the days of Augustus and Trajan– even of Sixtus or Julius II.-would have made of it. But to-day the Tiber creeps dismally between its sad and sewer-like walls, a work of incredible dullness. One has to remind oneself, as one's wrath rises, that no more practically useful work has been accomplished since the days of the Cloaca Maxima and of the Roman aqueducts. It would have been not less useful if the architectural opportunities which arose along its line had been better utilised by the descendants of Servius and of Claudius. But when one has admitted all this and a great deal more, and when one has even exhausted all the charges which architect or engineer, historian or poet, artist or bric-à-brac man may bring against those who have been endeavouring to shape old Rome to the needs of a modern city, one must still in fairness return to the old conclusion that there is no nation in Europe, and no municipality within any nation, which, judging by their results in far less difficult undertakings, would have made fewer mistakes than have been made in carrying out a task which has had no parallel in the previous record of cities. Something has been lost undoubtedly; at given points more has been lost perhaps than need have been; but preservation, not annihilation, has been on the whole the keynote of the transformation. The cry which goes up from other countries, but especially from England, from time to time, that Italy is indifferent to and negligent of her art and her antiquities, is curiously unjust to a nation which, out of a not overflowing exchequer, spends very large sums upon these objects, and occasionally spends a portion of it badly. It is perhaps in one sense fortunate for us that Italians do not travel in large numbers in our country. An educated Italian who wandered through England and noticed how the restorations of the last fifty years have robbed us of some two-thirds of our noblest memorials as effectively as if they had been swept into the rivers, might be inclined to ask on what superiority in these matters we in England rest our claim to tell Italy how a nation ought to deal with her national birthright. Having said this, I shall not be misunderstood when I express regret for the loss, the inevitable loss, of so much that gave to Rome its peculiar charm, its flavour—I fear the word may be used in more senses than one—in the days when, forty years ago, she was still looking back in many respects to the Renaissance rather than forward to the twentieth century. It was then still the Rome of Nathaniel Hawthorne, of Charles Dickens, of William Story. Mark Twain's jest that you could not fall out of a two-pair window in Rome without killing a monk or a soldier had some point in it then, for the streets still swarmed with the various orders. They were a typical feature, naturally, of Rome. Numerous in the city ever since the days of St. Francis and St. Dominic, they were perhaps never more numerous than in the years which immediately preceded the fall of Rome. In the mornings the lay brothers went forth armed with their large copper vessels of hat-box shape to gather in the gifts of the faithful or the charitable. Naturally the rich strangers' quarter about the Piazza di Spagna was a favourite hunting-ground for them, though the poorest quarters were not omitted. A very familiar figure to those who lived in Rome at that time was a magnificent dark-bearded Capucino, whose beat in the early mornings lay along the Babuino. The brown-cowled, stately figure drew many an admiring stare from the passing forestieri, a compliment which he never failed to acknowledge by crossing himself, either as a protection against the inroads of vanity or, more probably, as a safeguard against the evil eye. I often wonder what his fate was at the suppression of the monasteries, whether he was one of those who went forth into the world again, or whether he had already found a quiet rest in the city of his soul before the evil day came. One may be allowed to hope that the latter was his fate. To-day these picturesque figures are as rare in Rome as in any other town of Italy. They may be seen, silent kneeling figures, in the church of Araceli, most Roman of all Roman churches, but the streets and public places of Rome know them no more save as occasional visitors. The markets of Rome, in old days almost the most interesting of Europe, have fallen into line with the less picturesque but more regulated markets of the great capitals. The great cattlemarket just outside the Porta del Popolo, a position which it shared with the extemporised Anglican Church—for no Protestant place of worship was allowed within the walls—has migrated to a corner of Rome not far from the old Protestant cemetery, but nearer to the Tiber. The wild Campagna horsemen, with their goatskin aprons and long ox-goads, no longer form a feature of the Piazza del Popolo, nor do the unseemly vehicles piled high with the quaking carcases of pigs and oxen any longer rumble down the Ripetta or the Babuino. Gone, too, is the people's market in the Piazza Navona, where everything that flew or ran or crawled, from turkeys and pheasants to porcupines and hedgehogs, squirrels and tortoises, and even green snakes, could be purchased by the frugal housewife in search of variety. It was a favourite resort, too, of the coin-hunter and bibliophile, for here the simple-minded dealer set forth his ‘Roba di Campagna,’ and here the equally simpleminded buyer bought his bargains or his experience. For though the peasant did no doubt often deliver here the coins which he had ploughed up from the soil of the Campagna, the antiquity dealer likewise used it for the output of his industries. The stalls have migrated now to the Campo dei Fiori, at no great distance. But the forger of to-day is either less skilful or more unblushing—perhaps both. But even more interesting was the market, hardly reckoned as such, in the Piazza Montanara, under the Theatre of Marcellus,

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