Margaret Fuller Ossoli - At Home And Abroad

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The 15th was a beautiful day, and I had gone out for a long walk.
Returning at night, the old Padrona met me with her usual smile a
little clouded. "Do you know," said she, "that the Minister Rossi has
been killed?" No Roman said _murdered_.

"Killed?"

"Yes,--with a thrust in the back. A wicked man, surely; but is that
the way to punish even the wicked?"

"I cannot," observed a philosopher, "sympathize under any
circumstances with so immoral a deed; but surely the manner of doing
it was great."

The people at large were not so refined in their comments as either
the Padrona or the philosopher; but soldiers and populace alike ran up
and down, singing, "Blessed the hand that rids the earth of a tyrant."

Certainly, the manner _was_ "great."

The Chamber was awaiting the entrance of Rossi. Had he lived to enter,
he would have found the Assembly, without a single exception, ranged
upon the Opposition benches. His carriage approached, attended by a
howling, hissing multitude. He smiled, affected unconcern, but must
have felt relieved when his horses entered the courtyard gate of
the _Cancelleria_. He did not know he was entering the place of his
execution. The horses stopped; he alighted in the midst of a crowd; it
jostled him, as if for the purpose of insult; he turned abruptly,
and received as he did so the fatal blow. It was dealt by a resolute,
perhaps experienced, hand; he fell and spoke no word more.

The crowd, as if all previously acquainted with the plan, as no doubt
most of them were, issued quietly from the gate, and passed through
the outside crowd,--its members, among whom was he who dealt the blow,
dispersing in all directions. For two or three minutes this outside
crowd did not know that anything special had happened. When they did,
the news was at the moment received in silence. The soldiers in whom
Rossi had trusted, whom he had hoped to flatter and bribe, stood at
their posts and said not a word. Neither they nor any one asked, "Who
did this? Where is he gone?" The sense of the people certainly was
that it was an act of summary justice on an offender whom the laws
could not reach, but they felt it to be indecent to shout or exult on
the spot where he was breathing his last. Rome, so long supposed the
capital of Christendom, certainly took a very pagan view of this act,
and the piece represented on the occasion at the theatres was "The
Death of Nero."

The next morning I went to the Church of St. Andrea della Valle, where
was to be performed a funeral service, with fine music, in honor of
the victims of Vienna; for this they do here for the victims of every
place,--"victims of Milan," "victims of Paris," "victims of Naples,"
and now "victims of Vienna." But to-day I found the church closed, the
service put off,--Rome was thinking about her own victims.

I passed into the Ripetta, and entered the Church of San Luigi dei
Francesi. The Republican flag was flying at the door; the young
sacristan said the fine musical service, which this church gave
formerly on St. Philip's day in honor of Louis Philippe, would now
be transferred to the Republican anniversary, the 25th of February. I
looked at the monument Chateaubriand erected when here, to a poor girl
who died, last of her family, having seen all the others perish
round her. I entered the Domenichino Chapel, and gazed anew on the
magnificent representations of the Life and Death of St. Cecilia. She
and St. Agnes are my favorite saints. I love to think of those angel
visits which her husband knew by the fragrance of roses and lilies
left behind in the apartment. I love to think of his visit to the
Catacombs, and all that followed. In one of the pictures St. Cecilia,
as she stretches out her arms toward the suffering multitude, seems
as if an immortal fount of purest love sprung from her heart. It gives
very strongly the idea of an inexhaustible love,--the only love that
is much worth thinking about.

Leaving the church, I passed along toward the Piazza del Popolo.
"Yellow Tiber rose," but not high enough to cause "distress," as he
does when in a swelling mood. I heard the drums beating, and, entering
the Piazza, I found the troops of the line already assembled, and
the Civic Guard marching in by platoons, each battalion saluted as it
entered by trumpets and a fine strain from the band of the Carbineers.

I climbed the Pincian to see better. There is no place so fine for
anything of this kind as the Piazza del Popolo, it is so full of
light, so fair and grand, the obelisk and fountain make so fine a
centre to all kinds of groups.

The object of the present meeting was for the Civic Guard and troops
of the line to give pledges of sympathy preparatory to going to the
Quirinal to demand a change of ministry and of measures. The flag of
the Union was placed in front of the obelisk; all present saluted it;
some officials made addresses; the trumpets sounded, and all moved
toward the Quirinal.

Nothing could be gentler than the disposition of those composing the
crowd. They were resolved to be played with no longer, but no
threat was uttered or thought. They believed that the court would be
convinced by the fate of Rossi that the retrograde movement it had
attempted was impracticable. They knew the retrograde party were
panic-struck, and hoped to use the occasion to free the Pope from its
meshes. All felt that Pius IX. had fallen irrevocably from his high
place as the friend of progress and father of Italy; but still he was
personally beloved, and still his name, so often shouted in hope and
joy, had not quite lost its _prestige_.

I returned to the house, which is very near the Quirinal. On one
side I could see the palace and gardens of the Pope, on the other the
Piazza Barberini and street of the Four Fountains. Presently I saw the
carriage of Prince Barberini drive hurriedly into his court-yard gate,
the footman signing to close it, a discharge of fire-arms was heard,
and the drums of the Civic Guard beat to arms.

The Padrona ran up and down, crying with every round of shot, "Jesu
Maria, they are killing the Pope! O poor Holy Father!--Tito, Tito,"
(out of the window to her husband,) "what _is_ the matter?"

The lord of creation disdained to reply.

"O Signora! pray, pray, ask Tito what is the matter?"

I did so.

"I don't know, Signora; nobody knows."

"Why don't you go on the Mount and see?"

"It would be an imprudence, Signora; nobody will go."

I was just thinking to go myself, when I saw a poor man borne by,
badly wounded, and heard that the Swiss were firing on the people.
Their doing so was the cause of whatever violence there was, and it
was not much.

The people had assembled, as usual, at the Quirinal, only with more
form and solemnity than usual. They had taken with them several of the
Chamber of Deputies, and they sent an embassy, headed by Galetti, who
had been in the late ministry, to state their wishes. They received
a peremptory negative. They then insisted on seeing the Pope, and
pressed on the palace. The Swiss became alarmed, and fired from the
windows and from the roof. They did this, it is said, without orders;
but who could, at the time, suppose that? If it had been planned to
exasperate the people to blood, what more could have been done? As it
was, very little was shed; but the Pope, no doubt, felt great panic.
He heard the report of fire-arms,--heard that they tried to burn
a door of the palace. I would lay my life that he could have shown
himself without the slightest danger; nay, that the habitual respect
for his presence would have prevailed, and hushed all tumult. He did
not think so, and, to still it, once more degraded himself and injured
his people, by making promises he did not mean to keep.

He protests now against those promises as extorted by violence,--a
strange plea indeed for the representative of St. Peter!

Rome is all full of the effigies of those over whom violence had no
power. There was an early Pope about to be thrown into the Tiber;
violence had no power to make him say what he did not mean. Delicate
girls, men in the prime of hope and pride of power,--they were all
alike about that. They could die in boiling oil, roasted on coals, or
cut to pieces; but they could not say what they did not mean. These
formed the true Church; it was these who had power to disseminate
the religion of him, the Prince of Peace, who died a bloody death of
torture between sinners, because he never could say what he did not
mean.

A little church, outside the gate of St. Sebastian commemorates the
following affecting tradition of the Church. Peter, alarmed at the
persecution of the Christians, had gone forth to fly, when in this
spot he saw a bright figure in his path, and recognized his Master
travelling toward Rome. "Lord," he said, "whither goest thou?" "I
go," replied Jesus, "to die with my people." Peter comprehended the
reproof. He felt that he must not a fourth time deny his Master,
yet hope for salvation. He returned to Rome to offer his life in
attestation of his faith.

The Roman Catholic Church has risen a monument to the memory of
such facts. And has the present head of that Church quite failed to
understand their monition?

Not all the Popes have so failed, though the majority have been
intriguing, ambitious men of the world. But even the mob of Rome--and
in Rome there _is_ a true mob of unheeding cabbage-sellers, who never
had a thought before beyond contriving how to satisfy their animal
instincts for the day--said, on hearing the protest, "There was
another Pius, not long since, who talked in a very different style.
When the French threatened him, he said, 'You may do with me as you
see fit, but I cannot consent to act against my convictions.'"

In fact, the only dignified course for the Pope to pursue was to
resign his temporal power. He could no longer hold it on his own
terms; but to it he clung; and the counsellors around him were men to
wish him to regard _that_ as the first of duties. When the question
was of waging war for the independence of Italy, they regarded him
solely as the head of the Church; but when the demand was to satisfy
the wants of his people, and ecclesiastical goods were threatened with
taxes, then he was the prince of the state, bound to maintain all the
selfish prerogatives of bygone days for the benefit of his successors.
Poor Pope! how has his mind been torn to pieces in these later days!
It moves compassion. There can be no doubt that all his natural
impulses are generous and kind, and in a more private station he would
have died beloved and honored; but to this he was unequal; he has
suffered bad men to surround him, and by their misrepresentations and
insidious suggestions at last entirely to cloud his mind. I believe he
really thinks now the Progress movement tends to anarchy, blood, and
all that looked worst in the first French revolution. However that may
be, I cannot forgive him some of the circumstances of this flight. To
fly to Naples; to throw himself in the arms of the bombarding monarch,
blessing him and thanking his soldiery for preserving that part of
Italy from anarchy; to protest that all his promises at Rome were null
and void, when he thought himself in safety to choose a commission for
governing in his absence, composed of men of princely blood, but as to
character so null that everybody laughed, and said he chose those
who could best be spared if they were killed; (but they all ran away
directly;) when Rome was thus left without any government, to refuse
to see any deputation, even the Senator of Rome, whom he had so gladly
sanctioned,--these are the acts either of a fool or a foe. They are
not his acts, to be sure, but he is responsible; he lets them stand as
such in the face of the world, and weeps and prays for their success.

No more of him! His day is over. He has been made, it seems
unconsciously, an instrument of good his regrets cannot destroy. Nor
can he be made so important an instrument of ill. These acts have not
had the effect the foes of freedom hoped. Rome remained quite cool and
composed; all felt that they had not demanded more than was their duty
to demand, and were willing to accept what might follow. In a few
days all began to say: "Well, who would have thought it? The Pope, the
Cardinals, the Princes are gone, and Rome is perfectly tranquil, and
one does not miss anything, except that there are not so many rich
carriages and liveries."

The Pope may regret too late that he ever gave the people a chance
to make this reflection. Yet the best fruits of the movement may
not ripen for a long time. It is a movement which requires radical
measures, clear-sighted, resolute men: these last, as yet, do not show
themselves in Rome. The new Tuscan ministry has three men of superior
force in various ways,--Montanelli, Guerazzi, D'Aguila; such are not
as yet to be found in Rome.

But should she fall this time,--and she must either advance with
decision and force, or fall, since to stand still is impossible,--the
people have learned much; ignorance and servility of thought are
lessened,--the way is paving for final triumph.

And my country, what does she? You have chosen a new President from
a Slave State, representative of the Mexican war. But he seems to be
honest, a man that can be esteemed, and is one really known to
the people, which is a step upward, after having sunk last time to
choosing a mere tool of party.

Pray send here a good Ambassador,--one that has experience of foreign
life, that he may act with good judgment, and, if possible, a man
that has knowledge and views which extend beyond the cause of party
politics in the United States,--a man of unity in principles, but
capable of understanding variety in forms. And send a man capable
of prizing the luxury of living in, or knowing Rome; the office of
Ambassador is one that should not be thrown away on a person who
cannot prize or use it. Another century, and I might ask to be made
Ambassador myself, ('tis true, like other Ambassadors, I would employ
clerks to do the most of the duty,) but woman's day has not come yet.
They hold their clubs in Paris, but even George Sand will not act
with women as they are. They say she pleads they are too mean, too
treacherous. She should not abandon them for that, which is not
nature, but misfortune. How much I shall have to say on that subject
if I live, which I desire not, for I am very tired of the battle with
giant wrongs, and would like to have some one younger and stronger
arise to say what ought to be said, still more to do what ought to be
done. Enough! if I felt these things in privileged America, the cries
of mothers and wives beaten at night by sons and husbands for their
diversion after drinking, as I have repeatedly heard them these past
months,--the excuse for falsehood, "I _dare not_ tell my husband, he
would be ready to kill me,"--have sharpened my perception as to the
ills of woman's condition and the remedies that must be applied. Had
I but genius, had I but energy, to tell what I know as it ought to be
told! God grant them me, or some other more worthy woman, I pray.

_Don Tirlone_, the _Punch_ of Rome, has just come in. This number
represents the fortress of Gaeta. Outside hangs a cage containing
a parrot (_pappagallo_), the plump body of the bird surmounted by a
noble large head with benign face and Papal head-dress. He sits on
the perch now with folded wings, but the cage door, in likeness of a
portico, shows there is convenience to come forth for the purposes
of benediction, when wanted. Outside, the king of Naples, dressed
as Harlequin, plays the organ for instruction of the bird (unhappy
penitent, doomed to penance), and, grinning with sharp teeth,
observes: "He speaks in my way now." In the background a young
Republican holds ready the match for a barrel of gunpowder, but looks
at his watch, waiting the moment to ignite it.

A happy New Year to my country! may she be worthy of the privileges
she possesses, while others are lavishing their blood to win
them,--that is all that need be wished for her at present.

LETTER XXVII.

ROME.--THE CARNIVAL: THE MOCCOLETTI.--THE ROMAN CHARACTER.--THE
POPE'S FLIGHT.--THE ASSEMBLY.--THE PEOPLE.--THE POPE'S MISTAKE.--HIS
MANIFESTO: ITS TONE AND EFFECT.--DESTRUCTION OF THE TEMPORAL DOMINION
OF THE CHURCH.

Rome, Evening of Feb. 20, 1849.

It is said you cannot thoroughly know any place till you have both
summered and wintered in it; but more than one summer and winter of
experience seems to be needed for Rome. How I fretted last winter,
during the three months' rain, and sepulchral chill, and far worse
than sepulchral odors, which accompanied it! I thought it was the
invariable Roman winter, and that I should never be able to stay here
during another; so took my room only by the month, thinking to fly so
soon as the rain set in. And lo! it has never rained at all; but there
has been glorious sun and moon, unstained by cloud, always; and these
last days have been as warm as May,--the days of the Carnival, for I
have just come in from seeing the _Moccoletti_.

The Republican Carnival has not been as splendid as the Papal, the
absence of dukes and princes being felt in the way of coaches and
rich dresses; there are also fewer foreigners than usual, many having
feared to assist at this most peaceful of revolutions. But if
less splendid, it was not less gay; the costumes were many and
fanciful,--flowers, smiles, and fun abundant.

This is the first time of my seeing the true _Moccoletti_; last year,
in one of the first triumphs of democracy, they did not blow oat the
lights, thus turning it into an illumination. The effect of the swarms
of lights, little and large, thus in motion all over the fronts of
the houses, and up and down the Corso, was exceedingly pretty and
fairy-like; but that did not make up for the loss of that wild,
innocent gayety of which this people alone is capable after childhood,
and which never shines out so much as on this occasion. It is
astonishing the variety of tones, the lively satire and taunt of which
the words _Senza moccolo_, _senza mo_, are susceptible from
their tongues. The scene is the best burlesque on the life of the
"respectable" world that can be imagined. A ragamuffin with a little
piece of candle, not even lighted, thrusts it in your face with an air
of far greater superiority than he can wear who, dressed in gold and
velvet, erect in his carriage, holds aloft his light on a tall pole.
In vain his security; while he looks down on the crowd to taunt the
wretches _senza mo_, a weak female hand from a chamber window blots
out his pretensions by one flirt of an old handkerchief.

Many handsome women, otherwise dressed in white, wore the red liberty
cap, and the noble though somewhat coarse Roman outline beneath this
brilliant red, by the changeful glow of million lights, made a fine
effect. Men looked too vulgar in the liberty cap.

How I mourn that my little companion E. never saw these things, that
would have given him such store of enchanting reminiscences for all
his after years! I miss him always on such occasions; formerly it was
through him that I enjoyed them. He had the child's heart, had
the susceptible fancy, and, naturally, a fine discerning sense for
whatever is individual or peculiar.

I missed him much at the Fair of St. Eustachio. This, like the
Carnival, was last year entirely spoiled by constant rain. I never
saw it at all before. It comes in the first days, or rather nights, of
January. All the quarter of St. Eustachio is turned into one toy-shop;
the stalls are set out in the street and brightly lighted, up. These
are full of cheap toys,--prices varying from half a cent up to twenty
cents. The dolls, which are dressed as husband and wife, or sometimes
grouped in families, are the most grotesque rag-babies that can
be imagined. Among the toys are great quantities of whistles, tin
trumpets, and little tambourines; of these every man, woman, and
child has bought one, and is using it to make a noise. This extempore
concert begins about ten o'clock, and lasts till midnight; the
delight of the numerous children that form part of the orchestra, the
good-humored familiarity without the least touch of rudeness in the
crowd, the lively effect of the light upon the toys, and the jumping,
shouting figures that, exhibit them, make this the pleasantest
Saturnalia. Had you only been there, E., to guide me by the hand,
blowing the trumpet for both, and spying out a hundred queer things in
nooks that entirely escape me!

The Roman still plays amid his serious affairs, and very serious have
they been this past winter. The Roman legions went out singing and
dancing to fight in Lombardy, and they fought no less bravely for
that.

When I wrote last, the Pope had fled, guided, he says, "by the hand
of Providence,"--Italy deems by the hand of Austria,--to Gaeta. He
had already soiled his white robes, and defamed himself for ever,
by heaping benedictions on the king of Naples and the bands of
mercenaries whom he employs to murder his subjects on the least sign
of restlessness in their most painful position. Most cowardly had been
the conduct of his making promises he never meant to keep, stealing
away by night in the coach of a foreign diplomatist, protesting that
what he had done was null because he had acted under fear,--as if
such a protest could avail to one who boasts himself representative
of Christ and his Apostles, guardian of the legacy of the martyrs! He
selected a band of most incapable men to face the danger he had feared
for himself; most of these followed his example and fled. Rome sought
an interview with him, to see if reconciliation were possible; he
refused to receive her messengers. His wicked advisers calculated upon
great confusion and distress as inevitable on the occasion; but,
for once, the hope of the bad heart was doomed to immediate
disappointment. Rome coolly said, "If you desert me,--if you will not
hear me,--I must act for myself." She threw herself into the arms of
a few men who had courage and calmness for this crisis; they bade her
think upon what was to be done, meanwhile avoiding every excess that
could give a color to calumny and revenge. The people, with admirable
good sense, comprehended and followed up this advice. Never was Rome
so truly tranquil, so nearly free from gross ill, as this winter. A
few words of brotherly admonition have been more powerful than all the
spies, dungeons, and scaffolds of Gregory.

"The hand of the Omnipotent works for us," observed an old man whom I
saw in the street selling cigars the evening before the opening of the
Constitutional Assembly. He was struck by the radiant beauty of the
night. The old people observe that there never has been such a winter
as this which follows the establishment by the French of a republic.

May the omens speed well! A host of enemies without are ready to levy
war against this long-suffering people, to rivet anew their chains.
Still there is now an obvious tide throughout Europe toward a better
order of things, and a wave of it may bear Italy onward to the shore.

The revolution, like all genuine ones, has been instinctive, its
results unexpected and surprising to the greater part of those who
achieved them. The waters, which had flowed so secretly beneath the
crust of habit that many never heard their murmur, unless in dreams,
have suddenly burst to light in full and beautiful jets; all rush to
drink the pure and living draught.

As in the time of Jesus, the multitude had been long enslaved beneath
a cumbrous ritual, their minds designedly darkened by those who
should have enlightened them, brutified, corrupted, amid monstrous
contradictions and abuses; yet the moment they hear a word
correspondent to the original nature, "Yes, it is true," they cry. "It
is spoken with, authority. Yes, it ought to be so. Priests ought to
be better and wiser than other men; if they were, they would not need
pomp and temporal power to command respect. Yes, it is true; we ought
not to lie; we should not try to impose upon one another. We ought
rather to prefer that our children should work honestly for their
bread, than get it by cheating, begging, or the prostitution of their
mothers. It would be better to act worthily and kindly, probably would
please God more than the kissing of relics. We have long darkly felt
that these things were so; _now_ we know it."

The unreality of relation between the people and the hierarchy was
obvious instantly upon the flight of Pius. He made an immense mistake
then, and he made it because neither he nor his Cardinals were aware
of the unreality. They did not know that, great as is the force of
habit, truth _only_ is imperishable. The people had abhorred Gregory,
had adored Pius, upon whom they looked as a saviour, as a liberator;
finding themselves deceived, a mourning-veil had overshadowed their
love. Still, had Pius remained here, and had courage to show himself
on agitating occasions, his position as the Pope, before whom they had
been bred to bow, his aspect, which had once seemed to them full of
blessing and promise, like that of an angel, would have still retained
power. Probably the temporal dominion of the Papacy would not have
been broken up. He fled; the people felt contempt for his want of
force and truth. He wrote to reproach them with ingratitude; they were
indignant. What had they to be grateful for? A constitution to which
he had not kept true an instant; the institution of the National
Guard, which he had begun to neutralize; benedictions, followed by
such actions as the desertion of the poor volunteers in the war for
Italian independence? Still, the people were not quite alienated
from Pius. They felt sure that his heart was, in substance, good
and kindly, though the habits of the priest and the arts of his
counsellors had led him so egregiously to falsify its dictates and
forget the vocation with which he had been called. Many hoped he would
see his mistake, and return to be at one with the people. Among the
more ignorant, there was a superstitious notion that he would return
in the night of the 5th of January. There were many bets that he would
be found in the palace of the Quirinal the morning of the 6th. All
these lingering feelings were finally extinguished by the advice of
excommunication. As this may not have readied America, I subjoin a
translation. Here I was obliged to make use of a manuscript copy;
all the printed ones were at once destroyed. It is probably the last
document of the kind the world will see.

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