Atlantic Monthly, Vol. 4, no. 25, November 1859 | Page 6

within the limits of a city, more
distinctly remembered by the transatlantic traveller,--the only spacious
area of solid ground under the open sky, in that marvellous old city of
the sea,--the gay centre of a recreative population, where the costumes
and physiognomies of the Orient and the West mingle in dramatic
contrast,--the nucleus of historical and romantic associations, singularly
domesticated in two hemispheres by the household lore of Shakspeare
and Otway, Byron and Rogers, Cooper and Ruskin. The ancient temple
of St. Mark, the bronze horses of Lysippus, the arched galleries of the
Palace, the waters of the Adriatic, the firmament above, and the stones

beneath seem instinct with the fame of commercial grandeur, maritime
triumphs, and diplomatic prowess; the cheerful arcades that shade the
_caffès_ remind us of the "harmless comedy of life" which Goldoni
recorded; the flush of sunset on dome, balcony, and canal seems warm
with the peerless tints which Titian here caught and transmitted; the
crowd of pleasure-seekers recall the music, love, and chivalry, of which
this was once the splendid centre; while the shadow of a dark _façade_
whispers of the mysterious oligarchy, the anonymous accusers, the
secret council, and the venerable Doge;--a more remarkable union of
gloom and gayety, of romance and reality, of the beautiful and the
tragic, directly suggested by inevitable local associations, cannot be
found in the whole range of European travel. Imagine this memorable
square, on the afternoon of a great Christmas festival;--fair faces at
every window,--the adjacent roofs crowded with spectators,--an
Austrian regiment drawn up around a scaffold,--the Viceroy, brother of
the Emperor, standing in the large balcony of the Palace,--two cannon
placed between the columns of San Marco and San Teodoro,--every
inch of the vast Piazza, without the circle of soldiery, occupied by
eager spectators. Over this vast assemblage, amid the impending
thoughts which the incidents of the hour and the memory of the Past
inspired, reigned a profound silence; no laugh or jest, such as bespeaks
a holiday, no heartless curiosity, such as accompanies a mere public
show, no vulgar excitement was evident; on many faces dwelt an
expression of awe and pity,--on others an indignant frown,--on all
painful and sympathetic expectancy. Every class was represented, from
the swarthy fishermen of the lagoons to the dark-eyed countess of the
Palazzo,--pale students, venerable citizens, the shopkeeper and the
marquis, the priest and the advocate. It was not merely the fate of the
few prisoners on the scaffold, deep as was the public sympathy, which
occasioned this profound suspense; they represented the national cause,
and in every city of the land there were scores of the bravest and the
best equally involved in the patriotic sacrifice, and whose destiny had,
for long and weary months, agonized their relations, friends, and
countrymen. The anomalous tyranny under which the nation had
collapsed was demonstrated not so much by the outward aspect as by
the moral facts of that fatal day in the Piazza of San Marco. On the
scaffold were a group of educated, courageous, honest Italians, guarded

by Austrian soldiers and overlooked by the official representative of
imperial despotism; their attitude was criminal, their acts sublime;
ostensibly condemned, they were in reality glorified. Not a being in
that vast multitude, except the official creatures of Austria, but gazed
with respect, love, sorrow, pride, tenderness, and admiration upon her
noble victims; it was the apparent triumph of physical force, and the
actual realization of moral superiority: the silence of that multitude was
the eloquent protest of humanity.
And this ominous silence was all at once broken by the clear,
well-emphasized voice of a judicial officer, reading the sentence; it was
listened to with such breathless attention, that, when the phrase,
_condemned to death_, was uttered, a visible shudder vibrated, like an
electric shock, through the dense mass of human beings, and upturned
faces flushed or grew pallid in an instant; but scarcely were these
simultaneous emotions recognized, when another phrase, _life granted_,
called forth a cry as of one mighty voice. All were spared: but a
sentence, to such as understood its meaning, of living death,--carcere
duro in Spielberg and the Castle of Lubiano,--some for ten, others for
fifteen, and the remainder for twenty years,--was substituted.
This entire ceremony was characteristic of Austrian despotism, aware
of the profound sympathy among the Italians for their patriot martyrs,
of the widespread disaffection, of the necessity of exciting vague and
terrible apprehension,--and at the same time conscious that policy
forbade arousing the fury of despair. The accused were thus kept more
than two years alternating from hope to desperation, the people in
ignorance of the issue, and then, when led out, as they supposed, to die,
they served as a warning to those who dared imperial vengeance, while,
by a sudden act of apparent clemency, the