"Long live the Roman Republic!"
Such was the cry resounding through the streets of Rome in the year
1849; and among the voices vociferating it were those of Luigi Torreani
and Henry Harding.
But while the young Englishman was helping the cause of freedom abroad,
older Englishmen at home were plotting its destruction. At that time a
Secret Convention was sitting _en permanence_, composed of
representatives from most of the crowned heads in Europe; its purpose
being to arrange ways and means by which the spark of Liberty should be
trodden out, wherever it should show itself.
In Hungary it had flared up into a brilliant flame: short-lived; for by
the aid of Russian bayonets it was soon stifled. The same result had
followed in France--the ends and means being slightly different.
Diplomacy again exerted its influence; and backed by British gold--
secretly but profusely spent--succeeded in placing upon the Presidential
chair a man foresworn to change that chair into a throne. And with this
same corrupting metal, and the sinister influence derived from a great
historic name, he was but too sure of success. Then a President in
name--an Emperor in embryo--encouraged by the secret assistance of the
other crowned heads, he was soon to have France at his feet.
It only required a trick to disfranchise the two millions of Houses, and
then the French Assembly would be sufficiently conservative to transform
the Republic into an Empire! There was still danger to be apprehended
from the _blouses_.
How was this grand disfranchisement to be effected?
An astute diplomacy easily supplied the answer: "Let England snub the
French ambassador. Let France recall him. Let there be a pretended
attitude of mutual hostility, and while that is maintained the Assembly
can take its measures."
The counsel was followed. The minister was snubbed and recalled. Then
while the British bull-dog was barking at Dover, and the Gallic cock
crowing at Calais, the betrayed _blouses_, with angry faces turned
towards England, instead of having their eyes upon their own National
Assembly, were by this packed parliament speedily stripped of the
privilege of voting.
In Hungary the game had been more open; though there, as in France,
Liberty fell by the basest of all betrayals.
And again, in Baden the same foul play, though there the Secret
Convention decided to settle it by the sword. The perjured King of
Prussia was the man called upon to wield it, and his hireling soldiers
proved too strong for the patriots of the Schwarzwald.
Once more, at the eleventh hour, another spark of that eternal flame of
freedom appeared in an unexpected quarter--the very hotbed of despotism,
political and religious--in the ancient city of Rome. And again sat the
Secret Convention: an eminent English diplomate the most active of its
members--he of all others the most successful cajoler of peoples--he
whose long career had been a succession of betrayals. He has gone hence
without witnessing their exposure. For all that, history will one day
expose them.
Once more then sat the Secret Conclave; and once more went forth the
edict for this fresh spark of Liberty, that had sprung up in agonised
Italy, to be stifled like the rest. There was no need to use artifice.
Slight strategy would suffice for an enemy so insignificant.
It was merely a graceful concession to Catholic Christendom, to make it
a pretence of restoring the Pope. The Republic would have been crushed
all the same if the Pope had gone to purgatory. The sword was again
invoked, and it became a question of who was to wield it. English
soldiers could not be sent, for England was a Protestant country, and
the thing would have looked queer. But English gold was easily
convertible into French soldiers, whose sovereign had no such scruples;
and these hirelings were selected to restore the Pope. By them it was
ostensibly done; but the act was equally due to the other crowned heads;
and its direction specially to the British, diplomate of whom we have
spoken. History holds the indisputable proof.
Poor Mazzini, and Saffi, and Aurelli! If there had not been a voice in
all Rome against you--in all Italy--you could not have triumphed!
The decree had gone forth for your destruction. Your doom had been
pre-ordained, and was pronounced in the very hour of your victory; even
while the streets of Rome, cleared of the rotten rubbish of despotism,
were ringing with that regenerating shout, "Long live the Republic!"
For three months did it resound through the _stradi_ of the classic
city--the city of the Caesars and Colonnas. It was heard upon bastion
and battlement, from behind battery and barricade, amidst scenes of
heroic strife that recalled the days of Horatius. It was heard in the
eloquent speeches of Mazzini--in the exciting war-cry of Garibaldi!
All in vain! Three short months--and it was heard no more. The
Republic was overthrown, less by bayonets than by betrayal; but the rule
of the bayonet succeeded, and _Chasseur_ and _Zouave_, _Spahi_ and
_Turco_--all ruffians of the truest type--from that day to this have
stood guard over the fettered limbs of Roman liberty.
In these troublous times, of three months' duration, Luigi Torreani took
part with the Republic. So did his friend, the young Englishman. So,
too, did Luigi's father; for the _sindico_, shortly after the affair
with the brigands, had transferred his household gods to the city, which
then promised a safe retreat from the insecurity he had long
experienced.
But with the Republic at an end, and despotism once more triumphant,
Rome itself was only safe for the foes of freedom. As Francesco
Torreani was not one of these, another move became necessary. In what
direction was it to be made? There was no part of Italy that offered an
asylum. The Austrians still held Venice. Carlo Alberto had been beaten
in the north, and the brigand's king ruled the Neapolitans with a rod of
iron. Turn which way he would, there was no home on Italian soil for a
suspected patriot.
Like men similarly situated, his thoughts turned towards the New World;
and, not long after, a bark sailed down the Tyrrhenian Sea, and on
through the Straits of Gades, bearing him and his to the shores of a far
western land.