Canto II

Is it illusion? or does there a spirit from perfecter ages,Here, even yet, amid loss, change, and corruption abide?Does there a spirit we know not, though seek, though we find, comprehend not,Here to entice and confuse, tempt and evade us, abide?Lives in the exquisite grace of the column disjointed and single,Haunts the rude masses of brick garlanded gaily with vine,E'en in the turret fantastic surviving that springs from the ruin,E'en in the people itself? is it illusion or not?Is it illusion or not that attracteth the pilgrim transalpine,Brings him a dullard and dunce hither to pry and to stare?Is it illusion or not that allures the barbarian stranger,Brings him with gold to the shrine, brings him in arms to the gate?

What do the people say, and what does the government do?--youAsk, and I know not at all. Yet fortune will favour your hopes; andI, who avoided it all, am fated, it seems, to describe it.I, who nor meddle nor make in politics,--I who sincerelyPut not my trust in leagues nor any suffrage by ballot,Never predicted Parisian millenniums, never beheld aNew Jerusalem coming down dressed like a bride out of heavenRight on the Place de la Concorde,--I, nevertheless, let me say it,Could in my soul of souls, this day, with the Gaul at the gates shedOne true tear for thee, thou poor little Roman Republic;What, with the German restored, with Sicily safe to the Bourbon,Not leave one poor corner for native Italian exertion?France, it is foully done! and you, poor foolish England,--You, who a twelvemonth ago said nations must choose for themselves, youCould not, of course, interfere,--you, now, when a nation has chosen----Pardon this folly! The Times will, of course, have announced the occasion,Told you the news of to-day; and although it was slightly in errorWhen it proclaimed as a fact the Apollo was sold to a Yankee,You may believe when it tells you the French are at Civita Vecchia.

Dulce it is, and decorum, no doubt, for the country to fall,--toOffer one's blood an oblation to Freedom, and die for the Cause; yetStill, individual culture is also something, and no manFinds quite distinct the assurance that he of all others is called on,Or would be justified even, in taking away from the world thatPrecious creature, himself. Nature sent him here to abide here;Else why send him at all? Nature wants him still, it is likely;On the whole, we are meant to look after ourselves; it is certainEach has to eat for himself, digest for himself, and in generalCare for his own dear life, and see to his own preservation;Nature's intentions, in most things uncertain, in this are decisive;Which, on the whole, I conjecture the Romans will follow, and I shall.So we cling to our rocks like limpets; Ocean may bluster,Over and under and round us; we open our shells to imbibe ourNourishment, close them again, and are safe, fulfilling the purposeNature intended,--a wise one, of course, and a noble, we doubt not.Sweet it may be and decorous, perhaps, for the country to die; but,On the whole, we conclude the Romans won't do it, and I sha'n't.

Will they fight? They say so. And will the French? I can hardly,Hardly think so; and yet----He is come, they say, to Palo,He is passed from Monterone, at Santa SeveraHe hath laid up his guns. But the Virgin, the Daughter of Roma,She hath despised thee and laughed thee to scorn,--The Daughter of Tiber,She hath shaken her head and built barricades against thee!Will they fight? I believe it. Alas! 'tis ephemeral folly,Vain and ephemeral folly, of course, compared with pictures,Statues, and antique gems!--Indeed: and yet indeed too,Yet, methought, in broad day did I dream,--tell it not in St. James's,Whisper it not in thy courts, O Christ Church!--yet did I, waking,Dream of a cadence that sings, Si tombent nos jeunes heros, laTerre en produit de nouveaux contre vous tous prets a se battre;Dreamt of great indignations and angers transcendental,Dreamt of a sword at my side and a battle-horse underneath me.

Now supposing the French or the Neapolitan soldierShould by some evil chance come exploring the Maison Serny(Where the family English are all to assemble for safety),Am I prepared to lay down my life for the British female?Really, who knows? One has bowed and talked, till, little by little,All the natural heat has escaped of the chivalrous spirit.Oh, one conformed, of course; but one doesn't die for good manners,Stab or shoot, or be shot, by way of graceful attention.No, if it should be at all, it should be on the barricades there;Should I incarnadine ever this inky pacifical finger,Sooner far should it be for this vapour of Italy's freedom,Sooner far by the side of the d----d and dirty plebeians.Ah, for a child in the street I could strike; for the full-blown lady----Somehow, Eustace, alas! I have not felt the vocation.Yet these people of course will expect, as of course, my protection,Vernon in radiant arms stand forth for the lovely Georgina,And to appear, I suppose, were but common civility. Yes, andTruly I do not desire they should either be killed or offended.Oh, and of course, you will say, 'When the time comes, you will be ready.'Ah, but before it comes, am I to presume it will be so?What I cannot feel now, am I to suppose that I shall feel?Am I not free to attend for the ripe and indubious instinct?Am I forbidden to wait for the clear and lawful perception?Is it the calling of man to surrender his knowledge and insight,For the mere venture of what may, perhaps, be the virtuous action?Must we, walking our earth, discerning a little, and hopingSome plain visible task shall yet for our hands be assigned us,--Must we abandon the future for fear of omitting the present,Quit our own fireside hopes at the alien call of a neighbour,To the mere possible shadow of Deity offer the victim?And is all this, my friend, but a weak and ignoble refining,Wholly unworthy the head or the heart of Your Own Correspondent?

Yes, we are fighting at last, it appears. This morning as usual,Murray, as usual, in hand, I enter the Caffe Nuovo;Seating myself with a sense as it were of a change in the weather,Not understanding, however, but thinking mostly of Murray,And, for to-day is their day, of the Campidoglio Marbles;Caffe-latte! I call to the waiter,--and Non c'e latte,This is the answer he makes me, and this is the sign of a battle.So I sit: and truly they seem to think any one else moreWorthy than me of attention. I wait for my milkless nero,Free to observe undistracted all sorts and sizes of persons,Blending civilian and soldier in strangest costume, coming in, andGulping in hottest haste, still standing, their coffee,--withdrawingEagerly, jangling a sword on the steps, or jogging a musketSlung to the shoulder behind. They are fewer, moreover, than usual,Much and silenter far; and so I begin to imagineSomething is really afloat. Ere I leave, the Caffe is empty,Empty too the streets, in all its length the CorsoEmpty, and empty I see to my right and left the Condotti.Twelve o'clock, on the Pincian Hill, with lots of English,Germans, Americans, French,--the Frenchmen, too, are protected,--So we stand in the sun, but afraid of a probable shower;So we stand and stare, and see, to the left of St. Peter's,Smoke, from the cannon, white,--but that is at intervals only,--Black, from a burning house, we suppose, by the Cavalleggieri;And we believe we discern some lines of men descendingDown through the vineyard-slopes, and catch a bayonet gleaming.Every ten minutes, however,--in this there is no misconception,--Comes a great white puff from behind Michel Angelo's dome, andAfter a space the report of a real big gun,--not the Frenchman's!--That must be doing some work. And so we watch and conjecture.Shortly, an Englishman comes, who says he has been to St. Peter's,Seen the Piazza and troops, but that is all he can tell us;So we watch and sit, and, indeed, it begins to be tiresome.--All this smoke is outside; when it has come to the inside,It will be time, perhaps, to descend and retreat to our houses.Half-past one, or two. The report of small arms frequent,Sharp and savage indeed; that cannot all be for nothing:So we watch and wonder; but guessing is tiresome, very.Weary of wondering, watching, and guessing, and gossiping idly,Down I go, and pass through the quiet streets with the knots ofNational Guards patrolling, and flags hanging out at the windows,English, American, Danish,--and, after offering to help anIrish family moving en masse to the Maison Serny,After endeavouring idly to minister balm to the tremblingQuinquagenarian fears of two lone British spinsters,Go to make sure of my dinner before the enemy enter.But by this there are signs of stragglers returning; and voicesTalk, though you don't believe it, of guns and prisoners taken;And on the walls you read the first bulletin of the morning.--This is all that I saw, and all that I know of the battle.

Victory! Victory!--Yes! ah, yes, thou republican Zion,Truly the kings of the earth are gathered and gone by together;Doubtless they marvelled to witness such things, were astonished, and so forth.Victory! Victory! Victory!--Ah, but it is, believe me,Easier, easier far, to intone the chant of the martyrThan to indite any paean of any victory. Death maySometimes be noble; but life, at the best, will appear an illusion.While the great pain is upon us, it is great; when it is over,Why, it is over. The smoke of the sacrifice rises to heaven,Of a sweet savour, no doubt, to Somebody; but on the altar,Lo, there is nothing remaining but ashes and dirt and ill odour.So it stands, you perceive; the labial muscles that swelled withVehement evolution of yesterday Marseillaises,Articulations sublime of defiance and scorning, to-day col-Lapse and languidly mumble, while men and women and papersScream and re-scream to each other the chorus of Victory. Well, butI am thankful they fought, and glad that the Frenchmen were beaten.

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 sawSomething; 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; andMoving towards the Condotti, had got to the first barricade, whenGradually, thinking still of St. Peter's, I became consciousOf a sensation of movement opposing me,--tendency this way(Such as one fancies may be in a stream when the wave of the tide isComing and not yet come,--a sort of noise and retention);So I turned, and, before I turned, caught sight of stragglersHeading 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 theCrowd is coming, has turned, has crossed that last barricade, isHere 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 voicesPleading and hands putting back; official, perhaps; but the swords areMany, 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 ofSwords and bayonets, I to the outskirts back, and ask aMercantile-seeming bystander, 'What is it?' and he, looking alwaysThat way, makes me answer, 'A Priest, who was trying to fly toThe 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,--andPassing away from the place with Murray under my arm, andStooping, 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 whenWord of the nearer approach of a new Neapolitan armyFirst was spread. I began to bethink me of Paris Septembers,Thought I could fancy the look of that old 'Ninety-two. On that eveningThree or four, or, it may be, five, of these people were slaughteredSome declared they had, one of them, fired on a sentinel; othersSay they were only escaping; a Priest, it is currently stated,Stabbed a National Guard on the very Piazza Colonna:History, Rumour of Rumours, I leave to thee to determine!But I am thankful to say the government seems to have strength toPut it down; it has vanished, at least; the place is most peaceful.Through the Trastevere walking last night, at nine of the clock, IFound no sort of disorder; I crossed by the Island-bridges,So by the narrow streets to the Ponte Rotto, and onwardsThence by the Temple of Vesta, away to the great Coliseum,Which at the full of the moon is an object worthy a visit.

Only think, dearest Louisa, what fearful scenes we have witnessed!--George has just seen Garibaldi, dressed up in a long white cloak, onHorseback, 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 (inMerely a brief proclamation) appear to possess on the people.Order is perfect, and peace; the city is utterly tranquil;And one cannot conceive that this easy and nonchalant crowd, thatFlows like a quiet stream through street and market-place, enteringShady recesses and bays of church, osteria, and caffe,Could in a moment be changed to a flood as of molten lava,Boil into deadly wrath and wild homicidal delusion.Ah, 'tis an excellent race,--and even in old degradation,Under a rule that enforces to flattery, lying, and cheating,E'en under Pope and Priest, a nice and natural people.Oh, could they but be allowed this chance of redemption!--but clearlyThat is not likely to be. Meantime, notwithstanding all journals,Honour for once to the tongue and the pen of the eloquent writer!Honour to speech! and all honour to thee, thou noble Mazzini!

I am in love, meantime, you think; no doubt you would think so.I am in love, you say; with those letters, of course, you would say so.I am in love, you declare. I think not so; yet I grant youIt is a pleasure indeed to converse with this girl. Oh, rare gift,Rare felicity, this! she can talk in a rational way, canSpeak upon subjects that really are matters of mind and of thinking,Yet in perfection retain her simplicity; never, one moment,Never, however you urge it, however you tempt her, consents toStep from ideas and fancies and loving sensations to those vainConscious understandings that vex the minds of mankind.No, though she talk, it is music; her fingers desert not the keys; 'tisSong, though you hear in the song the articulate vocables sounded,Syllabled singly and sweetly the words of melodious meaning.I am in love, you say; I do not think so, exactly.

There are two different kinds, I believe, of human attraction:One which simply disturbs, unsettles, and makes you uneasy,And another that poises, retains, and fixes and holds you.I have no doubt, for myself, in giving my voice for the latter.I do not wish to be moved, but growing where I was growing,There more truly to grow, to live where as yet I had languished.I do not like being moved: for the will is excited; and actionIs a most dangerous thing; I tremble for something factitious,Some malpractice of heart and illegitimate process;We are so prone to these things, with our terrible notions of duty.

Ah, let me look, let me watch, let me wait, unhurried, unprompted!Bid me not venture on aught that could alter or end what is present!Say not, Time flies, and Occasion, that never returns, is departing!Drive me not out yet, ye ill angels with fiery swords, from my Eden,Waiting, and watching, and looking! Let love be its own inspiration!Shall not a voice, if a voice there must be, from the airs that environ,Yea, from the conscious heavens, without our knowledge or effort,Break into audible words? And love be its own inspiration?

Wherefore and how I am certain, I hardly can tell; but it IS so.She doesn't like me, Eustace; I think she never will like me.Is it my fault, as it is my misfortune, my ways are not her ways?Is it my fault, that my habits and modes are dissimilar wholly?'Tis not her fault; 'tis her nature, her virtue, to misapprehend them:'Tis not her fault; 'tis her beautiful nature, not ever to know me.Hopeless it seems,--yet I cannot, though hopeless, determine to leave it:She goes--therefore I go; she moves,--I move, not to lose her.

Oh, 'tisn't manly, of course, 'tisn't manly, this method of wooing;'Tisn't the way very likely to win. For the woman, they tell you,Ever prefers the audacious, the wilful, the vehement hero;She has no heart for the timid, the sensitive soul; and for knowledge,--Knowledge, O ye Gods!--when did they appreciate knowledge?Wherefore should they, either? I am sure I do not desire it.Ah, and I feel too, Eustace, she cares not a tittle about me!(Care about me, indeed! and do I really expect it?)But my manner offends; my ways are wholly repugnant;Every word that I utter estranges, hurts, and repels her;Every moment of bliss that I gain, in her exquisite presence,Slowly, surely, withdraws her, removes her, and severs her from me.Not that I care very much!--any way I escape from the boy's ownFolly, to which I am prone, of loving where it is easy.Not that I mind very much! Why should I? I am not in love, andAm prepared, I think, if not by previous habit,Yet in the spirit beforehand for this and all that is like it;It is an easier matter for us contemplative creatures,Us upon whom the pressure of action is laid so lightly;We, discontented indeed with things in particular, idle,Sickly, complaining, by faith, in the vision of things in general,Manage to hold on our way without, like others around us,Seizing the nearest arm to comfort, help, and support us.Yet, after all, my Eustace, I know but little about it.All I can say for myself, for present alike and for past, is,Mary Trevellyn, Eustace, is certainly worth your acquaintance.You couldn't come, I suppose, as far as Florence to see her?

...... To-morrow we're starting for Florence,Truly rejoiced, you may guess, to escape from republican terrors;Mr. C. and Papa to escort us; we by vetturaThrough Siena, and Georgy to follow and join us by Leghorn.Then---- Ah, what shall I say, my dearest? I tremble in thinking!You will imagine my feelings,--the blending of hope and of sorrow.How can I bear to abandon Papa and Mamma and my Sisters?Dearest Louise, indeed it is very alarming; but, trust meEver, whatever may change, to remain your loving Georgina.

....... 'Do I like Mr. Claude any better?'I am to tell you,--and, 'Pray, is it Susan or I that attract him?'This he never has told, but Georgina could certainly ask him.All I can say for myself is, alas! that he rather repels me.There! I think him agreeable, but also a little repulsive.So be content, dear Louisa; for one satisfactory marriageSurely will do in one year for the family you would establishNeither Susan nor I shall afford you the joy of a second.

Mr. Claude, you must know, is behaving a little bit better;He and Papa are great friends; but he really is too SHILLY-SHALLY,--So unlike George! Yet I hope that the matte is going on fairly.I shall, however, get George, before he goes, to say something.Dearest Louise, how delightful to bring young people together!

Is it Florence we follow, or are we to tarry yet longer,E'en amid clamour of arms, here in the city of old,Seeking from clamour of arms in the Past and the Arts to be hidden,Vainly 'mid Arts and the Past seeking one life to forget?Ah, fair shadow, scarce seen, go forth! for anon he shall follow,--He that beheld thee, anon, whither thou leadest must go!Go, and the wise, loving Muse, she also will follow and find thee!She, should she linger in Rome, were not dissevered from thee!