to vent their joy, but the symbol, the poesy, natural to the Italian mind.  The ever-too-wise “upper classes” regret it, and the Germans choose to resent it as an insult to Germany; but it was nothing of the kind; the insult was to the prisons of Spielberg, to those who commanded the massacres of Milan,—­a base tyranny little congenial to the native German heart, as the true Germans of Germany are at this moment showing by their resolves, by their struggles.

When the double-headed eagle was pulled down from above the lofty portal of the Palazzo di Venezia, the people placed there in its stead one of white and gold, inscribed with the name ALTA ITALIA, and quick upon the emblem followed the news that Milan was fighting against her tyrants,—­that Venice had driven them out and freed from their prisons the courageous Protestants in favor of truth, Tommaso and Manin,—­that Manin, descendant of the last Doge, had raised the republican banner on the Place St. Mark,—­and that Modena, that Parma, were driving out the unfeeling and imbecile creatures who had mocked Heaven and man by the pretence of government there.

With indescribable rapture these tidings were received in Rome.  Men were seen dancing, women weeping with joy along the street.  The youth rushed to enroll themselves in regiments to go to the frontier.  In the Colosseum their names were received.  Father Gavazzi, a truly patriotic monk, gave them the cross to carry on a new, a better, because defensive, crusade.  Sterbini, long exiled, addressed them.  He said:  “Romans, do you wish to go; do you wish to go with all your hearts?  If so, you may, and those who do not wish to go themselves may give money.  To those who will go, the government gives bread and fifteen baiocchi a day.”  The people cried:  “We wish to go, but we do not wish so much; the government is very poor; we can live on a paul a day.”  The princes answered by giving, one sixty thousand, others twenty, fifteen, ten thousand dollars.  The people responded by giving at the benches which are opened in the piazzas literally everything; street-pedlers gave the gains of each day; women gave every ornament,—­from the splendid necklace and bracelet down to the poorest bit of coral; servant-girls gave five pauls, two pauls, even half a paul, if they had no more.  A man all in rags gave two pauls.  “It is,” said he, “all I have.”  “Then,” said Torlonia, “take from me this dollar.”  The man of rags thanked him warmly, and handed that also to the bench, which refused to receive it.  “No! that must stay with you,” shouted all present.  These are the people whom the traveller accuses of being unable to rise above selfish considerations;—­a nation rich and glorious by nature, capable, like all nations, all men, of being degraded by slavery, capable, as are few nations, few men, of kindling into pure flame at the touch of a ray from the Sun of Truth, of Life.