No sand-blast of science had yet skinned off the epidermis of history， thought， and feeling. The pictures were uncleaned， the churches unrestored， the ruins unexcavated. Mediæ；val Rome was sorcery. Rome was the worst spot on earth to teach nineteenth-century youth what to do with a twentieth-century world. One's emotions in Rome were one's private affair， like one's glass of absinthe before dinner in the Palais Royal； they must be hurtful， else they could not have been so intense； and they were surely immoral， for no one， priest or politician， could honestly read in the ruins of Rome any other certain lesson than that they were evidence of the just judgments of an outraged God against all the doings of man. This moral unfitted young men for every sort of useful activity； it made Rome a gospel of anarchy and vice； the last place under the sun for educating the young； yet it was， by common consent， the only spot that the young -- of either sex and every race -- passionately， perversely， wickedly loved.
Boys never see a conclusion； only on the edge of the grave can man conclude anything； but the first impulse given to the boy is apt to lead or drive him for the rest of his life into conclusion after conclusion that he never dreamed of reaching. One looked idly enough at the Forum or at St. Peter's， but one never forgot the look， and it never ceased reacting. To a young Bostonian， fresh from Germany， Rome seemed a pure emotion， quite free from economic or actual values， and he could not in reason or common sense foresee that it was mechanically piling up conundrum after conundrum in his educational path， which seemed unconnected but that he had got to connect； that seemed insoluble but had got to be somehow solved. Rome was not a beetle to be dissected and dropped； not a bad French novel to be read in a railway train and thrown out of the window after other bad French novels， the morals of which could never approach the immorality of Roman history. Rome was actual； it was England； it was going to be America. Rome could not be fitted into an orderly， middle-class， Bostonian， systematic scheme of evolution.
No law of progress applied to it. Not even time-sequences -- the last refuge of helpless historians -- had value for it. The Forum no more led to the Vatican than the Vatican to the Forum. Rienzi， Garibaldi， Tiberius Gracchus， Aurelian might be mixed up in any relation of time， along with a thousand more， and never lead to a sequence. The great word Evolution had not yet， in 1860， made a new religion of history， but the old religion had preached the same doctrine for a thousand years without finding in the entire history of Rome anything but flat contradiction.
Of course both priests and evolutionists bitterly denied this heresy， but what they affirmed or denied in 1860 had very little importance indeed for 1960. Anarchy lost no ground meanwhile. The problem became only the more fascinating. Probably it was more vital in May， 1860， than it had been in October， 1764， when the idea of writing the Decline and Fall of the city first started to the mind of Gibbon， "in the close of the evening， as I sat musing in the Church of the Zoccolanti or Franciscan Friars， while they were singing Vespers in the Temple of Jupiter， on the ruins of the Capitol." Murray's Handbook had the grace to quote this passage from Gibbon's "Autobiography，" which led Adams more than once to sit at sunset on the steps of the Church of Santa Maria di Ara C渓i， curiously wondering that not an inch had been gained by Gibbon -- or all the historians since -- towards explaining the Fall. The mystery remained unsolved； the charm remained intact. Two great experiments of Western civilization had left there the chief monuments of their failure， and nothing proved that the city might not still survive to express the failure of a third.
The young man had no idea what he was doing. The thought of posing for a Gibbon never entered his mind. He was a tourist， even to the depths of his sub-consciousness， and it was well for him that he should be nothing else， for even the greatest of men cannot sit with dignity， "in the close of evening， among the ruins of the Capitol，" unless they have something quite original to say about it. Tacitus could do it； so could Michael Angelo； and so， at a pinch， could Gibbon， though in figure hardly heroic； but， in sum， none of them could say very much more than the tourist， who went on repeating to himself the eternal question： -- Why！ Why！！ Why！！！ -- as his neighbor， the blind beggar， might do， sitting next him， on the church steps. No one ever had answered the question to the satisfaction of any one else； yet every one who had either head or heart， felt that sooner or later he must make up his mind what answer to accept. Substitute the word America for the word Rome， and the question became personal.