Two of the balls that struck St. Peter’s have been sent to Pius IX. by his children, who find themselves so much less “beloved” than were the Austrians.

These two days, days of solemn festivity in the calends of the Church, have been duly kept, and the population looks cheerful as it swarms through the streets.  The order of Rome, thronged as it is with troops, is amazing.  I go from one end to the other, and amid the poorest and most barbarous of the population, (barbarously ignorant, I mean,) alone and on foot.  My friends send out their little children alone with their nurses.  The amount of crime is almost nothing to what it was.  The Roman, no longer pent in ignorance and crouching beneath espionage, no longer stabs in the dark.  His energies have true vent; his better feelings are roused; he has thrown aside the stiletto.  The power here is indeed miraculous, since no doubt still lurk within the walls many who are eager to incite brawls, if only to give an excuse for slander.

To-day I suppose twelve thousand Austrians marched into Florence.  The Florentines have humbled and disgraced themselves in vain.  They recalled the Grand Duke to ward off the entrance of the Austrians, but in vain went the deputation to Gaeta—­in an American steamer!  Leopold was afraid to come till his dear cousins of Austria had put everything in perfect order; then the Austrians entered to take Leghorn, but the Florentines still kept on imploring them not to come there; Florence was as subdued, as good as possible, already:—­they have had the answer they deserved.  Now they crown their work by giving over Guerazzi and Petracci to be tried by an Austrian court-martial.  Truly the cup of shame brims over.

I have been out on the balcony to look over the city.  All sleeps with that peculiar air of serene majesty known to this city only;—­this city that has grown, not out of the necessities of commerce nor the luxuries of wealth, but first out of heroism, then out of faith.  Swelling domes, roofs softly tinted with yellow moss! what deep meaning, what deep repose, in your faintly seen outline!

The young moon climbs among clouds,—­the clouds of a departing thunderstorm.  Tender, smiling moon! can it be that thy full orb may look down on a smoking, smouldering Rome, and see her best blood run along the stones, without one nation in the world to defend, one to aid,—­scarce one to cry out a tardy “Shame”?  We will wait, whisper the nations, and see if they can bear it.  Rack them well to see if they are brave. If they can do without us, we will help them.  Is it thus ye would be served in your turn?  Beware!

LETTER XXXI.

THE FRENCH TREASON AT ROME.—­OUDINOT.—­LESSEPS.—­LETTER OF THE
TRIUMVIRATE.—­REPLY OF LESSEPS.—­COURSE OF OUDINOT.—­THE WOUNDED
ITALIANS.—­GARIBALDI.—­ITALIAN YOUNG MEN.—­MILITARY FUNERAL.—­HAVOC OF
THE SIEGE.—­COURAGE OF MAZZINI.—­FALSENESS OF THE LONDON TIMES.