To others, who demanded an authorisation to
travel in Piedmont, the answer has been, "Go
there, if you like; but do not come back again."
They were not exiled: what is the good of
making a display of useless severity? But, in
exchange for the passport which was handed to
them, they were obliged to sign a declaration of
voluntary exile. The Greeks had a proverb,
"It is not everybody who can go to Corinth."
The Romans have modified it into, "It is not
everybody who can go to Turin."

It is rarely in the capital, under the eyes of
the French army, that harsh sentences are
pushed to the extreme. A condemned person
is subjected to a gentle suppression, by being
shut up for life in a fortress. The state prisons
are of two descriptions—healthy and unhealthy.
In the establishments belonging to the second
category, perpetual seclusion does not last very
long. The fortress of Pagliano is one of the
most healthy. When the blower of the trumpet
paid it a visit, it contained two hundred and
fifty prisoners, all political offenders. In
eighteen hundred and fifty-six, when they made
an attempt to escape, five or six of them were
shot on the roof, like sparrows. The others
would only be liable to eight years of the galleys
for the crime of breaking loose; but, an old
ordinance of Cardinal Lante was disinterred,
which allows the guillotining of a few of the
ringleaders in case of need.

It is on the other side of the Apennines,
however, that the mildness of the government
shows itself. The French are not there;
it is the Austrian army which does the
reactionary police work on the Pope's account.
There, under the régime of martial law, a
defenceless prisoner is sentenced by officers and
executed by soldiers. The ill-humour of these
gentlemen in uniform is equivalent to blows or
death. A young man lets off a few Bengal
lights—twenty years of the galleys. A woman
prevents a smoker from lighting his cigar—
twenty lashes. In seven years, Ancona
witnessed sixty executions, and Bologna one
hundred and eighty. Blood flows, and the Pope
washes his hands of the matter; for, it was not
he who signed the sentence of death. The
Austrians bring him, from time to time, a man they
have shot, just as a gamekeeper presents his
master with a fox he has killed in his preserves.

Will it be said that the priestly government
is not responsible for the crimes committed in
its service? France has felt the scourge of a
foreign occupation. The king imposed on her
by strangers, was neither a great man nor an
energetic man, nor even an excellent man; and
he had left a certain portion of his dignity in
the camp-waggons of the enemy. But it is certain
that Louis XVIII. would rather have
descended from his throne than allow the Russians
and the Prussians the legal right of shooting his
subjects. We are told that the Holy Father
never fails to mitigate the sentence passed on
offenders. What could he do to mitigate the
sentence of those who have been shot by the
Austrians? Did he order the bullets to be
wrapped in cotton wool?

In contrast with the severity exercised against
political and religious offences (which are one
and the same), stands forth the impunity with
which real crimes are committed. For some
time past, the people of Rome have contracted
bad habits. They frequent taverns; they quarrel
over their cups, and slash with knives more
frequently than English Mohoks slashed faces in
Swift's time. The small country folk imitate
the small town folk; the knife settles their
disputes about boundary walls, the amount of
legacies, and other family matters. Lawsuits
cost money, there are palms to be crossed with
silver or gold, the judge is an idiot, an
intriguer, or a rogue. Enough! the knife cuts
all that short. Giacomo falls,—he was in the
wrong; Nicolo runs away,—he has the right on
his side. This little drama is played more than
four times a day in the Papal States, as we learn
from the statistics of 'fifty-three.

The Pope would have very little trouble in
snatching the knife out of the hands of his
subjects. We do not ask him to recommence their
education; which would take a long time; nor
even to reform the system of civil legislation, so
as to increase the number of plaintiffs by
diminishing the number of assassins. We simply
beg him to cut off, quickly and effectually, a
few troublesome and incorrigible heads. Yet he
feels a dislike to this expedient. Tavern bullies
are not the enemies of government.

If they run away, he takes care, to avoid
scandal, to let them have a good start. If
they reach a river's bank, the pursuit is
discontinued, for fear they should fall into the water
and die without confession and absolution. If
they can lay hold of a Capuchin's robe they are
safe. If they can get inside a church, a convent,
or an hospital, they are safe. If they set foot
on an ecclesiastical domain, a clerical property,
justice stops short; they escape. The Pope
would only have to say a word, to suppress this
absurd right of asylum; but he scrupulously
maintains it, in order to show that the privileges
of the Church are superior to the interests of
humanity.

If by chance, and without doing it purposely,
the police arrest a murderer, they bring him
before the tribunals. They hunt lor witnesses
of the crime, and never find any. A citizen
would believe he was disgracing himself if he
betrayed his comrade to the natural enemies of
the nation. The dead man himself, if he could
come back to life, would asseverate that he did
not see the slightest breach of the peace. The
government is neither strong enough to compel
witnesses to state what they know, nor to
protect them from the consequences of their
depositions. For this reason, the most flagrant crime
cannot be proved in a Papal court of justice.

Suppose that the murderer has allowed
himself to be taken, that the witnesses have opened
their mouths, and that the crime is proved; the
tribunal hesitates to pronounce sentence of
death. The shedding of blood affects the spirits