Dickens, Charles – Pictures from Italy

to death with her own pilgrim’s staff. He was newly married, and

gave some of her apparel to his wife: saying that he had bought it

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Dickens, Charles – Pictures From Italy

at a fair. She, however, who had seen the pilgrim-countess passing

through their town, recognised some trifle as having belonged to

her. Her husband then told her what he had done. She, in

confession, told a priest; and the man was taken, within four days

after the commission of the murder.

There are no fixed times for the administration of justice, or its

execution, in this unaccountable country; and he had been in prison

ever since. On the Friday, as he was dining with the other

prisoners, they came and told him he was to be beheaded next

morning, and took him away. It is very unusual to execute in Lent;

but his crime being a very bad one, it was deemed advisable to make

an example of him at that time, when great numbers of pilgrims were

coming towards Rome, from all parts, for the Holy Week. I heard of

this on the Friday evening, and saw the bills up at the churches,

calling on the people to pray for the criminal’s soul. So, I

determined to go, and see him executed.

The beheading was appointed for fourteen and a-half o’clock, Roman

time: or a quarter before nine in the forenoon. I had two friends

with me; and as we did not know but that the crowd might be very

great, we were on the spot by half-past seven. The place of

execution was near the church of San Giovanni decollato (a doubtful

compliment to Saint John the Baptist) in one of the impassable back

streets without any footway, of which a great part of Rome is

composed – a street of rotten houses, which do not seem to belong

to anybody, and do not seem to have ever been inhabited, and

certainly were never built on any plan, or for any particular

purpose, and have no window-sashes, and are a little like deserted

breweries, and might be warehouses but for having nothing in them.

Opposite to one of these, a white house, the scaffold was built.

An untidy, unpainted, uncouth, crazy-looking thing of course: some

seven feet high, perhaps: with a tall, gallows-shaped frame rising

above it, in which was the knife, charged with a ponderous mass of

iron, all ready to descend, and glittering brightly in the morning

sun, whenever it looked out, now and then, from behind a cloud.

There were not many people lingering about; and these were kept at

a considerable distance from the scaffold, by parties of the Pope’s

dragoons. Two or three hundred foot-soldiers were under arms,

standing at ease in clusters here and there; and the officers were

walking up and down in twos and threes, chatting together, and

smoking cigars.

At the end of the street, was an open space, where there would be a

dust-heap, and piles of broken crockery, and mounds of vegetable

refuse, but for such things being thrown anywhere and everywhere in

Rome, and favouring no particular sort of locality. We got into a

kind of wash-house, belonging to a dwelling-house on this spot; and

standing there in an old cart, and on a heap of cartwheels piled

against the wall, looked, through a large grated window, at the

scaffold, and straight down the street beyond it until, in

consequence of its turning off abruptly to the left, our

perspective was brought to a sudden termination, and had a

corpulent officer, in a cocked hat, for its crowning feature.

Nine o’clock struck, and ten o’clock struck, and nothing happened.

All the bells of all the churches rang as usual. A little

parliament of dogs assembled in the open space, and chased each

other, in and out among the soldiers. Fierce-looking Romans of the

lowest class, in blue cloaks, russet cloaks, and rags uncloaked,

came and went, and talked together. Women and children fluttered,

on the skirts of the scanty crowd. One large muddy spot was left

quite bare, like a bald place on a man’s head. A cigar-merchant,

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