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 the sign of a battle.  So I sit; and truly they seem to think any one else more Worthy 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, and Gulping in hottest haste, still standing, their coffee,—­withdrawing Eagerly, jangling a sword on the steps, or jogging a musket Slung to the shoulder behind.  They are fewer, moreover, than usual, Much, and silenter far; and so I begin to imagine Something is really afloat.  Ere I leave, the Caffe is empty, Empty too the streets, in all its length the Corso Empty, 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 descending
  Down 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, and
  After 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 gossipping idly,
  Down I go, and pass through the quiet streets with the knots of
  National Guards patrolling and flags hanging out at the windows,
  English, American, Danish,—­and, after offering to help an
  Irish family moving en masse to the Maison Serny,
  After endeavoring idly to minister balm to the trembling
  Quinquagenarian fears of two lone British spinsters,
  Go to make sure of my dinner before the