A glorious flame burns higher and higher in the heart of
the nations.
* * * * *
The rain was constant through the Roman winter, falling in torrents
from 16th December to 19th March. Now the Italian heavens wear again
their deep blue, the sun is glorious, the melancholy lustres are
stealing again over the Campagna, and hundreds of larks sing unwearied
above its ruins. Nature seems in sympathy with the great events that
are transpiring. How much has happened since I wrote!--the resistance
of Sicily, and the revolution of Naples; now the fall of Louis
Philippe; and Metternich is crushed in Austria. I saw the Austrian
arms dragged through the streets here, and burned in the Piazza del
Popolo. The Italians embraced one another, and cried, _miracolo,
Providenza!_ the Tribune Ciccronachio fed the flame with fagots; Adam
Mickiewicz, the great poet of Poland, long exiled from his country,
looked on; while Polish women brought little pieces that had
been scattered in the street, and threw into the flames. When the
double-headed eagle was pulled down from 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 instantly
the news followed, that Milan, Venice, Modena, and Parma, were driving
out their tyrants.
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