I Thought, Upon The Whole, That It Would Be A Dull, Sad Fate, For
Somehow We Seem Born In A Certain Country In Order To Die In It, And I
Went Home, To Come Again Other Sundays To The Pincio, But Not All The
Sundays I Promised Myself.
On one of these Sundays I found Roman boys playing an inscrutable game
among the busts of their storied
Compatriots, a sort of "I spy" or "Hide
and go whoop," counting who should be "It" in an Italian version of
"Oneary, ory, ickory, an," and then scattering in every direction behind
the plinths and bushes. They were not more molestive than boys always
are in a world which ought to be left entirely to old people, and I
could not see that they did any harm. But somebody must have done harm,
for not only was a bust here and there scribbled over in pencil, but the
bust of Machiavelli had its nose freshly broken off in a jagged fracture
that was very hurting to look at. This may have been done by some
mistaken moralist, who saw in the old republican adviser of princes that
enemy of mankind which he was once reputed to be. At any rate, I will
not attribute the mutilation to the boys of Rome, whom I saw at other
times foregoing so many opportunities of mischief in the Villa
Bor-ghese. One of them even refused money from me there when I
misunderstood his application for matches and offered him some coppers.
He put my tip aside with a dignified wave of his hand and a proud
backward step; and, indeed, I ought to have seen from the flat, broad
cap he wore that he was a school-boy of civil condition.
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