The star blazed on; but its brightness was
fading. From a pure and flaming white it changed
to the ruddy glow of Mars and then to the dull and
leaden hue of Saturn, as it receded into the limitlees wilderness of space. Then there came a heavy
drift of grey and wateiy clouds, and when they
passed away — the star was gone!
Straining his eyes into vacancy, through the point where he had last seen it, and then returning to earth with a sigh, the astronomer said, “I have sounded the depths of all science, and have found only doubts and disappointments — vanity of vanities? My heart is empty! What is there to fill the void?” There was no Christina near him to answer; but, two days after, she again visited the palace in Copenhagen, and, as the king had predicted, handed him another letter.
H. O.
GARIBALDI.
It was in the month of November, in the year 1857, the writer of these lines, being then at Rome, visited for the last time the Villa Pamfili Doria, which lies about half a mile outside the Porta S. Pancrazio. This famous villa, the present of Innocent X. to his brother’s wife, has ever been an object of attraction to the strangers who, for one reason or another, flock to the capital of the ancient world. The Basilica of St. Peter may be seen to more advantage from the grounds of this villa than from any other point of view. Mount to the Belvedere at the top, and you will have the Campagna towards Ostia and Civita Vecchia stretched out at your feet like a section of the North American prairie. Immediately about the house are some alleys of ever- green oaks, of magnificent growth and stature — whilst the groups of pines which are scattered here and there within the limits of the park are almost as celebrated as St. Peter’s itself.
It was not, however, to see Michael Angelo’s dome even from the best possible point of view — nor the deserted Campagna — nor the alleys of oak — nor the groups of pine-trees, that this little excursion had been undertaken; but because the Villa Pamfili Doria and its grounds had been the scene of the most sanguinary struggle between Garibaldi’s contingent and the French troops in 1848. I wished — for more convenient expression, I will adopt the first person — to visit a spot where a man whom I had learned to respect and honour had performed one of his most daring exploits — and he has performed many. The old woman who guided us over the place did not, however, appear to share my feelings. “The villa was not what it used to be — things had been stolen — statues mutilated — the grounds destroyed — and all by that brigand Garibaldi!” Now, as I remembered the place well, I looked about me, and saw but little trace of this devastation. The pine groups were pretty much what they used to be. The works of art were unchanged — what little damage they had suffered was obviously the work not of Garibaldi, but of Time. Of course it was not for me to say if anything had been stolen — but certainly Garibaldi was a very unlikely man to be the thief. From what I had seen of him, I should have said that the thief, if brought before him, would have stood an excellent chance of being converted into an ornament for one of the pine-trees in the grounds within five minutes after conviction. The more closely I questioned the old lady the more I elicited facts to the disadvantage of the famous Free Lance. She wound up her denunciations by informing me, with an air of the most profound conviction, that her settled and decided opinion was, that Garibaldi was the Great Devil, or Satanasso himself.
Such is the idea entertained of Garibaldi in the Eternal City by the hangers-on, and dependents of the noble families — the Borghesi, the Dorias, the Massimi, and tutti quanti. The monkeries, and confraternities, and droning swarms of priests would, no doubt, be of a similar opinion. The Roman nobles themselves — not the most enlightened of their class — would probably think that if Garibaldi was not immediately the arch enemy of mankind, at least he was of the family.
Let us turn from Rome, the scene of his most memorable exploits, to our own country, and ask what Englishmen know about Garibaldi? The leading notion with regard to him has been, until recently, that he was a kind of melo-dramatic sabreur — something between Joachim Murat and General Walker — with a sword and an arm ready for any cause; bearded like the pard — the terror of fathers of families and of men who pay rates and taxes.
Even the events of 1848 were insufficient to train English opinion to a correct appreciation of this remarkable man. We are afflicted here with such a crowd of mock refugees — the charlatans of patriotism, dirty and dishonest men — that we may be well excused for hesitation in any ordinary case. But Garibaldi’s is not an ordinary case. So far from being the Bobadil supposed, he is in private intercourse the most gentle and unassuming of men. Children would run to play with him. If in a crowded room you look round for some one to whom you would give a wife or sister in charge, you would single Garibaldi out amongst hundreds, there is such a stamp and impress of one of nature’s gentlemen about the man. It is, however, something far higher than the mere varnish of a drawing-room which gives the charm to his manners. There is not about him one shadow of affectation or self-consciousness — it never seems to enter into his imagination that he is one of the heroes of his country, and his age. In conversing with him you would suppose yourself to be conversing with a well-bred English military or naval officer — possibly the marine element somewhat pierces through now and again. Another noticeable point about him is, that he never, by any chance, falls into the cant of the professional patriot. For his country he is perfectly ready to fight by day or by night — to lay down his life for her if need should be; but no stranger yet ever heard Garibaldi prating and babbling about the woes and chains of Italy. He does not carry his heart in his hand for the inspection of the first comer. In this proud reticence he differs from most of his countrymen — otherwise sincere and honourable men.
A few dates and facts about the career of a man