There is no Roman dialect in the sense in which there is a Venetian a Piedmontese and a Neapolitan dialect--habitually spoken by all classes among themselves. The _Romanesco_ spoken in Rome by the people is a debased Italian, not a real dialect. The purest Italian is, as we all know, spoken in Tuscany, where there is no dialect, and the best pronunciation is the Roman. Hence the proverb: "The Tuscan language in the Roman mouth," _Lingua toscana in bocca romana_. _The Roman's Character_ The pride of the Roman is his chief characteristic; it keeps him from some of the pettinesses of his neighbours and is occasionally the idol to which self-interest is sacrificed. But the same people who are too proud to work are not too proud to beg. This kind of pride, indeed, is to be found a little everywhere in Italy, and I have known a distinguished Italian with a starving family who would consent to give lessons in "Italian literature" but not in "Italian grammar." In France where there is the maximum of self-respect this kind of pride is unknown. The Roman pride, however, is consistent with hearty ways and with great frankness and sincerity of nature. The Roman, indeed, is not only famous for his bad language, but for his out-spokenness in all directions: he tells you just what he thinks of you, and will by no means conceal his own humble origin when he becomes a great man; he will not insist that his ancestor was a count or at least a baron as an Italian from another province might do. But the Roman pride is a disease; it clamours for its own license and respects no one else's liberty; it plays into the hands of the Latin lawlessness, and the Roman spirit of revolt has tormented the popes ever since Constantine deserted the capital of the West. The Roman resents what he calls _prepotenza_, but a self-disciplined law-abiding people can hardly understand the stupid _prepotenza_ say of the cabmen in Rome--a majority of whom are Romans. The Roman lad or the Roman man takes it into his head to make a bee-line in your direction, to walk over that particular piece of road or pavement, and the feeble sense of righteous indignation he possesses is only kindled if you attempt to thwart him. The satyr-like--half-childish, half-malignant--cult of the _dispetto_, the miserable pleasure taken in deliberately inconveniencing you, are so many proofs of an undisciplined nature--and where shall we see so many undisciplined faces as in Rome?--albeit that here it masquerades as the just _orgoglio_ of a people descended from gods and heroes. _"Non me lo dica, perche io sono romano"_ (Do not say it to me, for I am a Roman), is a warning phrase repeated in perfect good faith, as who should say: "Do not provoke this son of a god." [Illustration: GIRL SELLING BIRDS IN THE VIA DEL CAMPIDOGLIO The Forum in the background. The road marks the old _Clivus Capitolinus_. See page 30.]