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who had a respect for me, and in her presence reproached the two deceivers for their various impudent cheats, and especially for this their last attempt at imposition; adding, that if they did not forthwith withdraw and rid her sister and herself of their presence, she would send word by her maid to her brother, who would presently take effectual means to expel them. They took the hint and departed, and we saw no more of them.

"At the end of three days we departed from Rome, but the maid whom the priests had cajoled remained behind, and it is probable that the youngest of our ladies would have done the same thing, if she could have had her own will, for she was continually raving about her image, and saying she should wish to live with it in a convent; but we watched the poor thing, and got her on board ship. Oh, glad was I to leave that fetish country and old Mumbo behind me!"

CHAPTER LIV.

"We arrived in England, and went to our country-seat, but the peace and tranquility of the family had been marred, and I no longer found my place the pleasant one which it had formerly been; there was nothing but gloom in the house, for the youngest daughter exhibited signs of lunacy, and was obliged to be kept under confinement. The next season I attended my master, his son, and eldest daughter to London, as I had previously done. There I left them, for hearing that a young baronet, an acquaintance of the family, wanted a servant, I applied for the place, with the consent of my masters, both of whom gave me a strong recommendation; and, being approved of, I went to live with him. "My new master was what is called a sporting character, very fond of the turf, upon which he was not very fortunate. He was frequently very much in want of money, and my wages were anything but regularly paid; nevertheless, I liked him very much, for he treated me more like a friend than a domestic, continually consulting me as to his affairs. At last he was brought nearly to his last shifts, by backing the favorite at the Derby, which favorite turned out a regular brute, being found nowhere at the rush. Whereupon, he and I had a solemn consultation over fourteen glasses of brandy and water, and as many cigars-I mean between us -as to what was to be done. He wished to start a coach, in which event he was to be driver, and I guard. He was quite competent to drive a coach, being a first-class whip, and I dare say I should have made a first-rate guard; but to start a coach requires money, and we neither of us believed that anybody would trust us with vehicles and horses, so that idea was laid aside. We then debated as to whether or not he should go into the church; but to go into the church-at any rate to become a dean or bishop, which would have been our aim it is necessary for a man to possess some education; and my master, although he had been at the best school in England, that is, the most expensive, and also at college, was almost totally illiterate, so we let the church scheme follow that of the coach. At last, bethinking me that he was tolerably glib at the tongue, as most people are who are addicted to the turf, also a great master of slang, remembering also that he had a crabbed old uncle, who had some borough interest, I proposed that he should get into the House, promising in one fortnight to qualify him to make a figure in it, by certain lessons which I would give him. He consented, and during the next fortnight I did little else than give him lessons in elocution, following to a tittle the method of the great professor, which I had picked up, listening behind the door. At the end of that period, we paid a visit to his relation, an old gouty Tory, who at first received us very coolly. My master, however, by flattering a predilection of his for Billy Pitt, soon won his affections so much that he promised to bring him into Parliament, and in less than a month was as good as his word. My master,

partly by his own qualifications, and the assistance which he had derived, and still occasionally derived, from me, cut a wonderful figure in the House, and was speedily considered one of the most promising speakers. He was always a good hand at promising-he is at present, I believe, a cabinet minister.

"But as he got up in the world, he began to look down on me. I believe he was ashamed of the obligation under which he lay to me; and at last, requiring no further hints as to oratory from a poor servant like me, he took an opportunity of quarrelling with me and discharging me. However, as he had still some grace, he recommended me to a gentleman with whom, since he had attached himself to politics, he had formed an acquaintance, the editor of a grand Tory review. I lost casté terribly amongst the servants for entering the service of a person connected with a profession so mean as literature, and it was proposed at the Servants' Club, in Park Lane, to eject me from that society. | The proposition, however, was not carried into effect, and I was permitted to show myself among them, though few condescended to take much notice of me. My master was one of the best men in the world, but also one of the most sensitive. On his veracity being impugned by the editor of a newspaper, he called him out and shot him through the arm. Though servants are seldom admirers of their masters, I was a great admirer of mine, and eager to follow his example. The day after the encounter, on my veracity being impugned by the servant of Lord C- in something I said in praise of my master, I determined to call him out, so I went into another room and wrote a challenge. But. whom should I send it by? Several servants to whom I applied refused to be the bearers of it; they said I had lost caste, and they could not think of going out with me. At length the servant of the Duke of B- consented to take it, but he made me to understand that, though he went out with me, he did so merely because he despised the Whiggish principles of Lord C—'s servant, and that if I thought he intended to associate with me, I should be mistaken. Politics, I must tell you, at that time ran as high among the servants as the gentlemen, the servants, however, being almost invariably opposed to the politics of their respective masters, though both parties agreed in one point, the scouting of everything low and literary, though I think, of the two, the liberal or reform party was the most inveterate. So he took my challenge, which was accepted; we went out, Lord C's servant being seconded by a reformado footman from the palace. We fired three times without effect; but this affair lost me my place; my master on hearing it forthwith discharged me; he was, as I said before, very sensitive, and he said this duel of mine was a parody of his own. Being, however, one of the best men in the world, on his discharging me he made a donation of twenty pounds.

"And it was well that he made me this present, for without it I should have been penniless, having contracted rather expensive habits during the time that I lived with the young baronet. I now determined to visit my parents, whom I had not seen for years. I found them in good health, and, after staying with them for two months, I returned again in the direction of town, walking, in order to see the country. On the second day of my journey, not being used to such fatigue, I fell ill at a great inn on the north road, and there I continued for some weeks till I recovered, but by that time my money was entirely spent. By living. at the inn I had contracted an acquaintance with the master and the people, and had become accustomed to inn life. As I thought I might find some difficulty in procuring any desirable situation in London, owing to my late connection with literature, I determined to remain where I was, provided my services would be accepted. I offered them to the master, who, finding I knew something of horses, engaged

me as a postillion. I have remained there since. You have now heard my story.

"Stay, you shan't say that I told my tale without a perperoration. What shall it be? Oh, I remember something which will serve for one. As I was driving my chaise some weeks ago, on my return from L—, I saw standing at the gate of an avenue, which led up to an old mansion, a figure which I thought I recognized. I looked at it attentively, and the figure, as I passed, looked at me; whether it remembered me I do not know, but I recognized the face it showed me full well.

"If it was not the identical face of the red-haired priest whom I had seen at Rome, may I catch cold!

"Young gentleman, I will now take a spell on your blanket-young lady, good night."

THE END.

CONCERNING STORMS.

"It was not a blow on the head this morning. It was not so bad as that. But it was a smart rap over the fingers. And I found it painful enough."

These were the words which my friend Milverton said to me, relating that day's experience of troublesome life.

Trouble is of infinite variety. Even after you have passed fifty years you may get a blow on the head or a rap over the fingers which will be entirely different in its sensation from any you had ever felt before. All troubles are disagreeable: some are very terrible: yet no two are alike; each has its own characteristic and distinguishable sting. And the sting is indescribable in words. You can not communicate to another what like it is; in suffering you are quite alone. And in fact, you do not try to communicate to any one your inner experiences. If you had a bad headache, you would naturally say so to those nearest you. But the heartache you keep to yourself. A cloud has overspread your sky: you are jarred and unhappy through some painful thought which has possessed you. But you are ashamed of this, as you were not ashamed of the headache. You go away out for a solitary walk of many miles, hoping thus to escape your trouble, or at least to endure it without worrying anybody else. And though you live in a well-filled home, through these melancholy miles you are as truly alone as you would be in the Great Sahara, in the vicinity of Timbuctoo.

"I think I have known every kind of trouble but the want of money. That I have never known." I once heard a good and tried man say just these words. Poor Campbell the poet (who seems being quickly forgotten) had his years of this special trouble. They came pretty near to killing him. And he records that he had found this cross so agonizing that he would say to misfortune, "Take any form but that!"

You and I, kindly reader, have been thinking of certain troubles which our experience of this life suggests as likely to come to us: possibly as being sure to come. And I have ventured to assert that we shall not be so much afraid of these as we sometimes tend to be, if we boldly look them in face, reckon them up and see the worst of them. For to bring things to book does almost invariably bring them down greatly: and it is the vague and undefined that

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It is what I call a storm. Do not fancy that by any harmlessness, insignificance or caution, you will escape such. The quest of quietness is a vain quest, in the world without us or the world within. You need not think to say that you are such an inoffensive little being, you so shrink from strife, you so long for peace, that surely the winds of heaven will never blow rudely on your humble dwelling; never shake your windows and moan in your chimney and turn your umbrella inside out. You are not so foolish as that comes to. You know you must take your share of the winter gales and sleet: always liking them less as you grow older.

But you must take it in, for it is certain, that now and then a howling storm will arise in the world of your spiritual concerns, God knows why and how. Even if you had been far wiser than Solomon you could not have foreseen or averted it and in fact, you are not so wise as Solomon, but you sometimes make hasty speeches and do ill-considered deeds. The moral storm must come as surely as the physical and you need no more look to keep quiet always within your heart than to have calm always around your eaves. The coming of the storm is as incalculable in the spiritual as in the material world. Ay, more incalculable: No telegram comes with a weather prognostic bidding you for the next few days or weeks be specially careful to keep your temper and bridle your tongue, for that the condition of the atmosphere in which your soul lives, bodes a storm as brewing: no warning comes to bid you be prepared to submit patiently to the buffeting of a moral and social blast, which you had no share, earthly, in arousing. Everything is going on quietly and pleasantly and friendly; when suddenly there is thunder in the air, and the storm breaks bitterly and fiercely upon your defenceless head. Many things go wrong all at once. The gossiping person, always telling malignant lies, somehow of a sudden has his (or her) thoughts turned upon you. Things said and done in all innocence are by a little twist in telling made to appear not at all to your advantage. A very little twist sometimes suffices. I know a preacher who ministers in a historic church which Carlyle came to see a few years ago. The great man asked who ministered in that church: and being told, he said God bless him. But Mr. Mactattle diligently disseminated throughout the parish that the words of the sage were God help them: implying that the flock which worshiped in that edifice needed help and pity in a special degree. No doubt they did, and do: but the sentiment expressed by Carlyle did not convey that sense. Then a cer

tain proportion of those who know you are sure to dislike you, and they hasten to be down upon you when you seem to be down. This is not magnanimous. But many of the race are not magnanimous. And I remark that among civilized and Christian nations the manner is just the same. Likewise that in the realm of party politics the case is even so But we pass from these: It is the microscope we are using just at this moment. A man of mean nature quite honestly dislikes your doings: always disliked them: but he kept silent when all was prosperous with you. Now, he opens his mouth and dips his little quill. One has remarked, in a small community, how when a disaffected person write to the local newspaper complaining that some public mar has said or done this or that, quite a chorus of like letter follow: human beings pluck up courage and have a kich at the wounded lion. Now is the time to quarrel with the bishop: to tell lies about the principal. Your luck ha quite failed you for the time: nothing succeeds to which you put your hand. And under the circumstances the sa likelihood is that you lose your head, and say and do thing which harm yourself and play into the hands of the adver saries. In lesser and greater matters, notably in the very least, many of the thanes will fall from what seems a fall

ing cause. The petted and quarrelsome person whom you kept right with difficulty, of a sudden develops a special wrong-headedness. Doubtless, you too, are not so patient and forbearing as you are wont to be. And, with the extraordinary capriciousness and irony of events in this world, the day comes on which something you have said fifty times without causing complaint from any mortal, being said once more suddenly brings a nest of hornets about your ears. For not only may one privileged man steal a horse without rebuke while another may not look over the hedge without being accused of horse-stealing, but the self-same man may at one season steal a team of horses amid general approbation, and at another season be severely mauled for looking over the hedge and being thankful he has nothing to do with horseflesh. It is a fact of not remote history that a certain great man, by expressing views upon a certain subject which (though unsound) are in fact held by all educated persons, and are most freely expressed in social life: which, moreover, as fenced about by him could not possibly do harm to any mortal: did (because the time was not opportune and things not quite ripe) raise a brief though most furious hurricane which even he did not like at all. And one remarked how, in those dark days, every spiteful little creature (some hawks and many geese) hastened to peck and hiss at the maimed eagle. It was a sorry manifestation of what abides, under a little veneer, in many human souls.

You and I, friendly reader, are humble folk: quite content if we may be let alone to quietly do the work given us. Yet the painful storm (it may appear to many as no more than a storm in a teacup) will break loose upon remote nooks in the valley of humiliation, and will vehemently shake even "Nature's unambitious underwood, and flowers that prosper in the shade." One has known it prove a specially trying and sorrowful experience to pass through. It has bent some weary heads to the very earth: and made some weary hearts wish they were under it. But looking out from the loopholes of retreat toward the high places of this world, one has many times wondered how the mighty of the earth, those who direct the great councils of nations, manage to live at all. For upon those heights the storm rarely ceases: the furious storm of abuse, misrepresentation, and keen hatred, from this or that class whose interests are menaced: not to name the earthquakes and convulsions which are always imminent in the politics of even fairly-settled nations. I remember a time, some years ago, a wintry time, when we had in this remote place two months of ceaseless tempest: no weaker word than tempest will convey the fact. Every afternoon, as it darkened, round a dwelling set on a cliff above a wide and bleak sea, the wind began to howl: it produced moans and shrieks which you would have said no wind could make: stout walls shook under it: and there were hours through which you could hardly hear a voice. It appeared as though life would not have been worth having had that raging fury of the elements been appointed to abide in permanence. Yet even such, as concerns the moral tempest, is in these days the life of some who have scaled ambitious heights: and who must stand out ceaselessly in the sight and hearing of many millions of men. I suppose their skins become tough. One has heard of a great prime minister who gazed long upon a hippopotamus, and said, "How I envy that creature the thickness of his hide!" I suppose, too, that they conclude that upon the whole it is worth while to be so blown about, so blown up. Possibly they merely feel that they are in for it, and must go through: the sensation being like that of one who found himself rolling along in a tumbril in the days of the Terror. One thing is certain: that in this world there are many souls, like Izaak Walton, studying to be quiet, who would not have that awful eminence at any price. D

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But to these shrinking mortals their own storm is sure to come: a great storm to their little strength and endurance. Revolutionary periods will arrive in their modest history in which all things will go amiss: and the dear old way, which they wished might just go on as heretofore, will change, will cease. And I include in this apprehension of the storm which must come when it is due, the disquieting knowledge, brought by experience, that a moral machinery which is playing smoothly and efficiently and which has long done so, may all of a sudden jar, creak, stand still, break down. Only experience can make us understand the truth, so well understood by the ageing, that the chance is great against any considerable number of human beings going on for any great length of time in harmonious and cordial coöperation. The little rift may come from the most unexpected quarter. Good sense and good nature may some day utterly desert one who has hitherto been invariably judicious and goodnatured. "We have gone on beautifully in this pleasant organization for six months; for two years; we are safe to go on beautifully for ever." That is the reasoning of inexperienced youth. But such as have lived longer, and come to understand the curious material with which you deal, dealing with human nature, are thankful that things go smoothly, take great pains to avoid what may ruffle, make the most of the present time and opportunity, but know that time is on the side of change, and that pleasant things can not always go on. It is not that those will fail you, who are old friends. One has no fear of that sad contingency, no fear at all. That is an impossibility, in the case of the few who are indeed old friends. Only the last great change can bring any change there. But you have to work a good deal with people who are no more than acquaintances; whom you never would have chosen even to be such; but circumstances make many things inevitable. And men who have lived long have very strong reason for placing no reliance on the sense and temper of the people with whom they are brought into professional or business relations; little reliance (it must be sorrowfully said) upon their truthfulness and consistency. You may find it necessary to make use of crooked sticks; to have transactions with men and women whom you know to have told malignant falsehoods, whom you know to be little better than fools.

Ah, the wrong-headedness of many even among educated folk, and their capacity of taking offense, of taking the pet, of jibbing, of lying down in the harness, of kicking out viciously! Any man who has to deal with a great many of his fellow-creatures is taught by experience to calculate on a certain percentage of cantankerous, quarrelsome, crotchetty, and dishonest beings. Wherefore, precious above words is a sweet-natured, sensible, and truthful man or woman. God be thanked, the race (Frederick the Great notwithstanding) has its percentage of these too. No greater blessing has been vouchsafed this writer in this life, than that he is brought into daily relation with not a few of them.

Sometimes the current of things in general sets in a direction which favors and encourages some evil tendency in human nature. This is notably so in the matter of procrastination. For though it frequently happens that great trouble comes through putting off till to-morrow what ought to be done to-day, yet now and then it happens, too, that something about which you were worrying yourself clears itself up wonderfully through being left alone, and things come right of themselves which your best endeavors might have put further wrong. Not through willful procrastination, but through unwilling delay, has help come, in the matter of this essay, to its writer, at this stage. He is going to say just what he intended from the first; but fresh experience has made him feel, very vividly, how true is what

he intended to say as consolation to the reader who is today beaten by a moral storm. It will blow over, h

For a fortnight this page remained without a line added. In all these years the like never happened the writer before. You think this a small matter; but it is not such to one for whom the burden is never lifted till the work has ended which has been once begun. But there came a great pressure and worry of work, some of it most uncongenial; the driving day passed over, leaving nothing to show; and there was not a minute in which to collect one's thoughts, in which to write a line. It was a painful experience: that is the fact. But good has come of it at the end. For I have seen and felt, with wonderful distinctness, how true it is that if you do but have patience, the storm passes away, and things right themselves that seemed as if they would never have been right more. Here is my consolation under this trouble, which is sure to come, and which some of us very specially fear to see.

That which I have called the storm will come; unless our luck is quite exceptional. And it may be very trying while it lasts. But it will blow over; it will go down again as capriciously as it rose. Things had gone all amiss, in some degree through your own fault, but in tenfold greater degree through your ill-luck. Just bow your head to the blast: and bear, as you may, the jarring of all your nature. Things will come right again. Only a good deal of experience will convince you that the storm must come. Only a good deal of experience will assure you that the storm will go. Just you cheer up: do not lose heart. We can stand very trying experiences, if we are sure they can not last long. It is very painful, very discouraging, after all your hard, faithful work, after all the thought you have given to the avoiding of offense, to be so misapprehended, misrepresented, and vilified. Believe, it will all be made up for. Those who to-day are doing you less than justice, will in a little while do you much more. I am not speaking of those human beings who by grave misconduct have passed under a cloud which is not likely to lift in this world: that is a different case altogether, though I could suggest very strong consolation there too. I am speaking of ordinary decent folk, who have got into a painful scrape but will get out of it: who have brought a hornet's nest about their ears by some doing which at the very worst is far short of an unpardonable sin. The storm will go down as capriciously as it got up. I have seen it do so twice since I paused in writing this essay.

And this is the consolation I suggest, in the endurance and the prospect of this especial trouble. I might speak of our getting good through the storm breaking upon us. Nothing on earth is more certain than that in divers ways we do: always providing we take the storm rightly: wisely, humbly, patiently. Yet this is equally certain: that if on this page I went on that tack, the blight of the sermon would forthwith fall upon my page, and the average reader would turn away from it. There is a certain line of thought which, though it be true and real, yet suggests church and church-time: and we all know extremely well what happens to pages which set out that line of thought. It shall not happen to this, if I can help it: the reader need not have the smallest fear that anything more transcendental than the most worldly considerations shall be presented to him here. It might indeed be suggested, without rousing that peculiar pricking sensation of the extremest weariness with which we are all familiar, that the storm teaches us to take pains to avoid that in speech or conduct which raises the storm; and that the mortal who has got into a painful scrape learns at least to shun that which may get him into another like it. But the consolation for to-day is this one assured fact of experience: that the storm, in all ordinary cases, will not last long: that the storm, in all but the most excep

tional cases, will in due time blow over. In our days of ignorance and inexperience, we fancy that when the sky blackens in the moral world and the wind gets up, it will never be calm again. You know whether a storm abides for ever in the outward world: and the two worlds are analogous. It may blow hard upon earth and sea for a long time: but the time comes to an end. "Is the weather ever to clear up, John?" was the question I heard put in my boyhood by a country parson to his "man." The cautious Scot forebore to prophesy. But he said what suggested much: "It has aye done so hitherto."

I looked out this morning (though the morning be but midway in February) on a calm sea and a blue sky which smiled like May: and I thought of the blackness and the wild waves of two days since. I recalled the long-departed season in which one of the most amiable of men, and the most cautious, the incumbent of a rural parish, did, by publishing in an official document a statement (which was quite true) as to the ways of his female parishioners, make that parish for several weeks too hot to hold him. Then it cooled down to the normal temperature as of old. I thought how a great preacher and orator, by making a speech which stupid folk understood as meaning that you need not obey the Ten Commandments unless you liked, awaked a storm which was furious for a little space: but which speedily changed into the most sunshiny of summer weather. I remembered how my friend Smith attended a meeting in the city of St. Peter (near Melipotamus in Ethiopia), held in honor of a retiring ruler of that little community; and heard men speak kindly of one who had been very severely mauled, verbally, while he reigned. There had been breezes: that was the word employed, and it was a mild one to express the fact. But the breezes had died away; and the calm was as of the evening of July. These things are sure. Words.

And they are consolatory.-Good

TO-DAY.

Why do we tune our hearts to sorrow When all around is bright and gay, And let the gloom of some to-morrow Eclipse the gladness of to-day?

When summer's sun is on us shining, And flooding all the land with light, Why do we waste our time repining, That near and nearer creeps the night?

We teach ourselves with scornful sadness
That it is vain to seek for bliss-
There is no time for glee and gladness
In such a weary world as this.

The snare of doubting thoughts has caught us,
And we to grim forebodings yield,
And fail to learn the lesson taught us,
By all the "lilies of the field."

They take no thought for each to-morrow,
They never dream of doubt or sin,
They fear no dim forthcoming sorrow,
"They toil not, neither do they spin."

Yet still they tell the same old story
To us who crave in vain for ease,
That "Solomon in all his glory
Was not arrayed like one of these."

GARIBALDI.

Mrs. Jessie Mario White writes of the world-renowned and recently deceased Garibaldi as follows:

Giuseppe Garibaldi, the Italian patriot, soldier and statesman, was born at Nice, on the 4th of July, 1807. The little house upon the quay in which he first saw the light, and which his townsmen point out with pride to strangers, commands a view of the harbor of Nice, with the mountain-site of its ancient castle and present cemetery, where the ashes of the brave Anita repose with those of his parents, rising westward. Mont Boron but indicates the lofty range of hills that form its eastern ramparts, while southward the Mediterranean sweeps from the horizon and nestles in its quiet bay. His father was a sea captain, his grandfather a ship owner, and Giuseppe was born with that love of freedom and adventure which a seaboard life engenders. But his gentle-hearted mother, Rosa Ragiudo, whose piety and tenderness hover ever as a charm around his stormy life, had destined him for the priesthood, her one ambition being to see him a minister of that Church which in her eyes was of no sect or party, but her life and trust. So the education given him was adapted to these designs. Joseph profited thereby as much as might have been expected, especially as his studies were carried on in French, a language which he always spoke perfectly, but which was distasteful to him from a boy. He spent his time chiefly among the mountains, eagerly conning the Saracen traditions of "battles fought and won," or wandering by the olive-bordered gulf where Doria, with his handful of braves, defied the stranger myriads, and Caterina Segurana kept Turk and Gaul at bay, and preserved to the house of Savoy the castle and town of Nice, which but for her heroism would have been wrested then by Francis I, king of France, from the effeminate grasp of Carlo, but which remained to be bartered later by one of Carlo's descendants. It was to these legends and historical memories that Garibaldi owed his early aspirations for Italy's future to be worthy of her heroic past.

EARLY LIFE.

Many a story of noble daring and self-forgetfulness in which we recognize the hero of later years are still current among his townsmen, and very soon it became evident to his friends that his unresting energies would ill befit the tonsure and the gown. A sailor he was to be. He had privately commenced his nautical career by a voyage to Genoa in a little boat with a few daring comrades; but, betrayed by a "spy," his priestly tutor, and pursued by a "corsair," his own father, he was brought back to Nice, to find his mother sorrowfully preparing his sailor's outfit, with which, in the brig Constantine, whose "wooden walls" in these days of iron-clads he still talked of with regretful pride, he sailed for the Black Sea. As a member of Young Italy he was among the volunteers enlisted for the Savoy expedition, and the result was that on the 5th of February, 1834, in the disguise of a watercress seller, he passed out of Genoa an exile. At Marseilles he saw his own name in print for the first time. The sentence of death had been passed on him by King Charles Albert. From Marseilles, where he acted as voluntary nurse in a cholera hospital, he went to Rio Janeiro, and soon espoused the cause of the republicans of Rio Grande against their haughty Brazilian foes. Wishing to extend the revolution to other provinces, the republic offered aid to the inhabitants of the island of St. Caterina, and in passing the narrow channel by which the island is approached, Garibaldi's vessel struck upon a rock and went to pieces. Out of the seven Italians devoted to him, and whom he strove in vain to save, not one survived; out of a crew of thirty, but sixteen. But it was on this island of St. Caterina, parted from all early friends, that he found the young Brazilian, who from the moment the words "Tu devi

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esser mia" (Thou ought to be mine) were uttered in her ears, followed him as wife, friend, and fellow-soldier, never quitting him unless torn away by the foe, even then escaping, guided back to him by her love. So she cherished, so sustained him, till the woman's strength was spent, and when Rome's disastrous work was done, closed this life of devotion, following, flying with him, and dying in his arms. With this helpmate to share his dangerous exploits, Garibaldi, commanding one of the three new vessels built by the South American republic, commenced a series of daring enterprises, the mere index of which would occupy a column. At San Simon, on the 10th of September, 1840, his first child was born, and called Menotti, after Ciro Menotti, the victim of the Duke of Modena. Before his birth the mother had endured great fatigue and much hunger, and had several falls from her horse, and Dr. Odicini has often related that when summoned to attend her he found neither light nor food nor clothing for the new born babe, afterward a fine, stalwart fellow, who never knew an hour's illness in his life. The government of Montevideo next made Garibaldi commander of its squadron, then of its little army, and here he trained the vieux garde, whose blood has watered every Italian battle-field, and of whom a few mutilated members told of the battles fought for the liberties of a foreign people, of which Garibaldi was so proud. Two battles he singled out from the rest as typical of Italian valor-San Antonio and Calatafimi. In the battle of San Antonio three hundred Italians gained a signal victory and put to flight the cavalry and infantry of the enemy in overwhelming force. Garibaldi's war-cry was, "Italy's honor is at stake!" The South American government erected a monument to the fallen braves. On one side is written, "Thirty-six Italians killed on the 8th February, 1846." On the other, "One hundred and eighty-four Italians killed on the battle-field of San Antonio," and on the Italian banners in letters of gold inscribed, "Exploit of the 8th February, 1846, of the Italian Legion, under the command of General Garibaldi." In each review of the national militia the right was always occupied by this legion. Garibaldi, in writing of it to a friend, says, "I would not change my title of Italian Legionary for the world in gold (il globo in ora.)”

AID FOR PIO NONO.

But in 1847, rumors of the new hopes for Italy reached Montevideo, and we can not refrain from giving the concluding sentence of Garibaldi's letter to the Nuncio of Pio Nono, then the idol of the liberals and the centre of their aspirations:

If, then, to-day, men who have some practice in the use of arms should prove acceptable to His Holiness, it is scarcely needful to say that we shall gladly consecrate ourselves to the service of him who is doing so much for the country and the Church. We shall, indeed, deem ourselves fortunate if we can contribute aught to the work of redemption instituted by Pio Nono. We speak in the name of our companions, who gladly offer their blood and their hearts to such a sacred cause.

MONTEVIDEO, October 12, 1847.

On the 15th of April, 1848, the Speranza, freighted with sixty-three patriots, all young and accustomed to the battle field-the remnants of San Antonio-set sail for Italy, and, touching at the island of St. Palo, learned that the Milanese had driven out the Austrians; that the bloodless revolution of Venice was achieved; that the King of Piedmont had sent his army to aid the Lombards, and that Italy was sending up her thousands to the holy war. Charles Albert, instead of Pio Nono, was now the Italian pole star, and Garibaldi went straight to the king's camp. But the king received him coldly. For weeks he was sent from Dan to Beersheba without being able to point a musket at the Austrians. Then, when delay and party politics had rendered the return of the Austrians inevitable, he was allowed to organize a corps of volunteers in Milan, and soon suc

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