The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 01, No. 05, March, 1858. VariousЧитать онлайн книгу.

        So I have seen a man killed! An experience that, among others!

        Yes, I suppose I have; although I can hardly be certain,

        And in a court of justice could never declare I had seen it.

        But a man was killed, I am told, in a place where I saw

        Something; a man was killed, I am told, and I saw something.

        I was returning home from St. Peter's; Murray, as usual,

        Under my arm, I remember; had crossed the St. Angelo bridge; and

        Moving towards the Condotti, had got to the first barricade, when

        Gradually, thinking still of St. Peter's, I became conscious

        Of a sensation of movement opposing me,—tendency this way

        (Such as one fancies may be in a stream when the wave of the tide is

        Coming and not yet come,—a sort of poise and retention);

        So I turned, and, before I turned, caught sight of stragglers

        Heading a crowd, it is plain, that is coming behind that corner.

        Looking up, I see windows filled with heads; the Piazza,

        Into which you remember the Ponte St. Angelo enters,

        Since I passed, has thickened with curious groups; and now the

        Crowd is coming, has turned, has crossed that last barricade, is

        Here at my side. In the middle they drag at something. What is it?

        Ha! bare swords in the air, held up! There seem to be voices

        Pleading and hands putting back; official, perhaps; but the swords are

        Many, and bare in the air,—in the air! They descend! They are smiting,

        Hewing, chopping! At what? In the air once more upstretched! And

        Is it blood that's on them? Yes, certainly blood! Of whom, then?

        Over whom is the cry of this furor of exultation?

        While they are skipping and screaming, and dancing their caps on the

          points of

        Swords and bayonets, I to the outskirts back, and ask a

        Mercantile-seeming bystander, "What is it?" and he, looking always

        That way, makes me answer, "A Priest, who was trying to fly to

        The Neapolitan army,"—and thus explains the proceeding.

        You didn't see the dead man? No;—I began to be doubtful;

        I was in black myself, and didn't know what mightn't happen;—

        But a National Guard close by me, outside of the hubbub,

        Broke his sword with slashing a broad hat covered with dust,—and

        Passing away from the place with Murray under my arm, and

        Stooping, I saw through the legs of the people the legs of a body.

        You are the first, do you know, to whom I have mentioned the matter.

        Whom should I tell it to, else?—these girls?—the Heavens forbid it!—

        Quidnuncs at Monaldini's?—idlers upon the Pincian?

        If I rightly remember, it happened on that afternoon when

        Word of the nearer approach of a new Neapolitan army

        First was spread. I began to bethink me of Paris Septembers,

        Thought I could fancy the look of the old 'Ninety-two. On that evening,

        Three or four, or, it may be, five, of these people were slaughtered.

        Some declare they had, one of them, fired on a sentinel; others

        Say they were only escaping; a Priest, it is currently stated,

        Stabbed a National Guard on the very Piazza Colonna:

        History, Rumor of Rumors, I leave it to thee to determine!

        But I am thankful to say the government seems to have strength to

        Put it down; it has vanished, at least; the place is now peaceful.

        Through the Trastevere walking last night, at nine of the clock, I

        Found no sort of disorder; I crossed by the Island-bridges,

        So by the narrow streets to the Ponte Rotto, and onwards

        Thence, by the Temple of Vesta, away to the great Coliseum,

        Which at the full of the moon is an object worthy a visit.

        George has just seen Garibaldi, dressed up in a long white cloak, on

        Horseback, riding by, with his mounted negro behind him:

        This is a man, you know, who came from America with him,

        Out of the woods, I suppose, and uses a lasso in fighting,

        Which is, I don't quite know, but a sort of noose, I imagine;

        This he throws on the heads of the enemy's men in a battle,

        Pulls them into his reach, and then most cruelly kills them:

        Mary does not believe, but we heard it from an Italian.

        Mary allows she was wrong about Mr. Claude being selfish;

        He was most useful and kind on the terrible thirtieth of April.

        Do not write here any more; we are starting directly for Florence:

        We should be off to-morrow, if only Papa could get horses;

        All have been seized everywhere for the use of this dreadful Mazzini.

        Mary has seen thus far.—I am really so angry, Louisa,—

        Quite out of patience, my dearest! What can the man be intending?

        I am quite tired; and Mary, who might bring him to in a moment,

        Lets him go on as he likes, and neither will help nor dismiss him.

        It is most curious to see what a power a few calm words (in

        Merely a brief proclamation) appear to possess on the people.

        Order is perfect, and peace; the city is utterly