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.
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