Towards the Mediterranean, north, east, south, and west of Rome, and wherever the Papal benediction extends, the flat country, which covers an immense extent, is at once uninhabited, uncultivated, and unhealthy.  Various are the modes in which experienced persons have attempted to account for the wretched condition of this fine country.

One says,

“It is uncultivated because it is uninhabited.  How can you cultivate without men?  It is uninhabited because it is unwholesome.  How can you expect men to inhabit it at the risk of their lives?  Make it healthy, and it will populate itself, and the population will cultivate it, for there is not a finer soil in the world.”

Another replies,

“You are wrong.  You confound cause with effect.  The country is unhealthy because it is uncultivated.  The decayed vegetable matter accumulated by centuries ferments under the summer sun.  The wind blows over it, and raises up a provision of subtle miasma, imperceptible to the smell, and yet destructive to life.  If all these plains were ploughed or dug up three or four times, so as to let the air and light penetrate into the depths of the soil, the fever which lies dormant under the rank vegetation would speedily evaporate, and return no more.  Hasten then to bring ploughs, and your first crop will be one of health.”

A third replies to the two first,

“You are both right.  The country is unhealthy because it is uncultivated, and uncultivated because it is unhealthy.  The question lies in a vicious circle, from which there is no escape.  Let us therefore leave things as they are; and when the fever-season arrives, we can go and inhale the fresh mountain air under the tall trees of Frascati.”

The last speaker, if I am not greatly mistaken, is a Prelate.  But have a care, Monsignore!  Frascati, once so renowned for the purity of its air, now no longer deserves its reputation; and I may say the same of Tivoli.  The quarters of Rome most remarkable for healthiness, such for instance as the Pincian, have of late become unhealthy.  Fever is gaining ground.  It is equally worthy of observation that at the same time the cultivation of the land is diminishing; and that the estates in mortmain—­that is to say, delivered into the hands of the priesthood—­have been increasing at the yearly rate of from L60,000 to L80,000 a year.  Is mortmain indeed the hand which kills?

I submitted this delicate question to a very intelligent, very honourable, and very wealthy man, who farms several thousand acres of Church property.  He is one of the Mercanti di Campagna, mentioned in a former chapter (Chap.  VI.).  The following is the substance of his reply.

     “Six-tenths of the Agro Romano are held in mortmain. 
     Three-tenths belong to the princely families, and the
     remaining tenth to different individuals.