MAFFICKING IN ROME.

Stratford Evening Post, Volume XXXII, Issue 3, 13 December 1911, Page 3

MAFFICKING IN ROME.

NIGHT DEPARTURE OF THE TROOPS.

“THEY SANG THE SONG IN THE STREETS.”

They sang the song in the streets last night just as they sang it in the clays of ’4B (writes Alphonso Conrlander, “Express” special correspondent, on 7th October). “Farewell, my beautiful one,” they sang, “the army is going away, and if 1 do not go with them then 1 shall be" a coward.” They sang also the stirring hymn of Mameli, and fluttered flags and palm branches, and cried “Abasso i Turchi!” because the 22nd Regiment was leaving for the front.

The taking of Tripoli, the hoisting of the Italian flag, and the appointment of the Governor left them calm here in Rome, but the departure of the troops was quite another matter-, that was something human, something that touched the deepest chords of patriotism within them. There was no sadness) nor hint of grim disaster in this march of the soldiers towards Tripoli. You remember the poignant days when the troops used to march through London to the Boer War, how one watched and wondered. . . . But here there was laughter and gaiety in the crowd that cheered and the soldiers who cheered in answer. It was more like the return of a triumphant army than the departure to a distant battleheld, into the vague hazards of the future. Into the Esedra di Termini —that vast amphitheatre with its great colonnades of cafes and shops, circling the spot where once the baths of Diocletian, stood—the crowd poured, as into an opormous bowl, spilling itself down the Via Nazionale, and along all the streets'that load from the Lepauto barracks on the other side of the Tiber. Magic Moon cf qn laiian Night. Alcove them the 1 magic moon of a warm Italian night, around them the shadows made by persimmon and palm trees, and, as. an accompaniment to the murmurous noise of the chactteriug crowd, the peaceful splashing of the Aqua Marcia fountain—a mighty blur of bronze in the background. I seemed that 1 was watching the crowd of a dream set in the lucent beauty of a colour and movement. The cockaded hats of the Carabinieri, the smother of green shimmering plumes on the black capelli of the Bersaglieri, blotches of colour made careless here and there as officers wandered in and out of the throng, held a strange enchantment for the eye. There were no pojice, save a few of the municipal guards; this great crowd, converging from all points into the Esedra di Termini, kept itself in order, and its passions well under control. Beyond the outer fringe of people there was a ring of cabs in which 5 or G people stood, and beyond that I saw Die trees and the lampposts and the palm vases that line the high colonnade,, .entangled will, clinging youths and-men. Crey-Crcen. A throb and a quiver went through the great crowd as thhy craned for-' ward and tip-toed to see a narrow stream of men in grey-green uniforms, hoarded together like sheep between the multitude that pressed in on them and waikdd with them, shaking light) from their flaming tqrches and painting the whole scene with lire. “EwlvW Tripoli Italiana! Evviva Italia!” There was a riot of shouting. Out of the confusion and chaos of voices therh emerged the martial music of the Mameli hymn, and strident voices singing:— . 0! Brothers of Italy Italy ilias.avpikenqd,,,..; r .■ ■■,.. w She hits placed on her head The helmet of Scipio . . . Their hands struggled to reach the soldiers as they plodded through the surge andUswell of the 1 crowd. They broke into the line,‘hand put their hands beneath the''heavy weight of haversack and mantle to lessen the burden of their soldiers on the march to the station. Women ran out and throw flowers to them and kissed them. It waS rone of those glorious moments in life'that uplift and exalt., as only the expression of patriotism can.

The torches made halos of glaring yellow round the faces of the soluiei'.s. Magnificent men of the 82nd! They went to the war as soldiers should go, not with pallid faces and trqmulous lips, but with Hushed cheeks and dark eyes that held laughter in them, and lips that cried out the splendour of Italy. They made jokes with the crowd. They stuck little red-white- and-green lings in their rifles and waved them proudly; they were radiant with happiness'and drunk with the homage of she people. Heads Qarod to the Flag. The flag of the regiment by, all covered in oilcloth for the long journey, and every man’s head was bared to'blio flag, though it was a mere bulging lump at the end of a flagstaff. ijittlo details come back to me. . . 1 see a dark-skinned soldier plodding along with his sweetheart on iiis arm. . . . He sees and hears nothing of the crowd around them. . . He only sees the brown depths of her tender eyes, and hears her voice murmuring farewells and calling on the saints to protect him. I see another soldier waving his grey hat and crying with every step he takes, “Abasso i Turchi !” as if it were the best joke in the world. And so the pageant passes, and suddenly, for tiie first time, as the crowds break apart, a note of the grimness of war is struck. I hear a man say to bis comrade, “Ah, there s a lot of them going; but how many ill come back?” There had been no thought of that in the merry departure, and now some intangible uneasiness broods over the people. Who knows what will happen? Fever, starvation, and the bitter hardships of a barren land are before them, even if there be no fighting. . The citizens throng homewards down the Via Nazionale, and before them the vivid visioin of the National Monument rises white and enormous against the moonlit sky—a vision of mighty pillars, of groups of tangled satuary, and, above those, Victories and Victories in clear marble and glittering gold. They pass before this, homewards, seeing its symbolism and the dead rains of the Forum and the Palatine Hill and the departed glory of Rome, and they smile to think of the young generation marching toward'victory and conquest beyond the sea. v

For the Inst of conquest and greatness is i'n these people now.