whose name is now so prominently before the
public, may not be unacceptable to the reader.
Joseph Garibaldi was born at Nice on the 4th of
July, 1807. He was destined for the sea service,
and his early youth was spent amongst the boatmen and fishermen of that pleasant coast. In
due course he entered the Sardinian navy, and
remained in the service until he had attained his
twenty-seventh year. The romance of his life
lies in the fifteen years which elapsed between
1884 and 1849; of course I am not speaking of
recent events. During the years which immediately succeeded 1834, Italy was undergoing one
of her periodical revolutionary movements, and
with this young Garibaldi got mixed up, and was
obliged to make good his escape to the French
territory. He was not destined to see his native
land again for many a long year.
Driven thus from his own country and from his appointed career, young Garibaldi first endeavoured to obtain service with the Dey of Tunis; but, as might have been expected, he was soon disgusted with the exigencies and satiated with the monotony of such a position. In South America there was a fairer field for his courage and spirit of enterprise. He took service with the Republic of Uruguay, and there formed that famous Italian Legion which inflicted such frequent and such terrible losses upon the troops of Buenos Ayres. Garibaldi had the command not only of his Legion but of the squadron; and thus fought, and fought well, both by land and by sea. Throughout the whole of this eventful contest, however, one thought was ever present to him: in his own mind, his Italian Legionaries were destined for service in Italy as soon as opportunity should offer of crossing swords with the Austrians with possibility of success. Opportunity came in 1848; but, as it turned out, his battle was to be not only with Austria, but with France. He quitted South America, and brought a good portion of his Legion back with him to Europe. With these he attacked the Austrians on the Southern Tyrol, whilst Charles Albert was acting against them in the plains of Lombardy, and proved himself to be amongst old Radetski’s most troublesome opponents. When that contest was settled, as far as Lombardy was concerned, at Novara, in March, 1849, Garibaldi looked around him to see where he could still prolong the struggle. Venice, destined to succumb on the 28th of August, was held in a state of such close blockade that the attempt to enter the city at the head of any considerable force would have led to certain destruction. Rome still remained. Intelligence had reached Italy that the French were about to occupy Civita Vecchia, which they effectively did under the command of General Oudinot in April, 1849; but there was no difficulty in reaching the city, inasmuch as investment was out of the question with so small a force, even when it should reach the spot.
It would be idle to enter into the details of this French foray upon Rome— all this is now matter of history, and too familiar to English readers to need repetition here. It was Garibaldi who was the life and soul of the defence. The King of Naples — that wretched man who is now gone to his account — was advancing upon Rome from the south, whilst the French, coming from Civita Vecchia, had taken up their first positions on the eastern side. Garibaldi, without their knowledge, withdrew his troops, and took them by forced marches to Palestrina, where he inflicted a most signal defeat upon the forces of the King of Naples. This was on the 9th of May. A few days afterwards he was victorious in another battle at Velletri, and though wounded in this last action, returned to Rome to continue the defence, which he did until resistance became hopeless. At the last, had his advice been taken, more desperate counsels would have prevailed. From Rome, when the surrender had been resolved upon, Garibaldi made good his retreat with his own adherents, whom he disbanded at St. Marino, and then proceeded with his wife and a few of his immediate followers towards Venice by way of Ravenna. It was now that the sad tragedy of his wife’s death occurred, and Garibaldi was compelled to leave her dead, who had never abandoned his side whilst living — nor in the day of battle. This blow came also from the Austrian enemy.
A few words will suffice to bring the history of this remarkable man down to the last few months, when we have seen him re-appearing on the scene in his old character of the Nemesis of Austria. When the Italian struggle of 1848-9 was at an end, Garibaldi returned to his old pursuits. For a very brief period he was in the service of Peru; but the larger proportion of his time, until about four years ago, was spent in the command of a trading-ship. To provide a comfortable means of subsistence for his children was his object, and this he has sufficiently accomplished. In the year 1855 he bought an estate on the little island of Caprera, which lies in the Straits of Bonifazio, just on the north of Sardinia,
and between that island and Corsica. Here he became an object of particular veneration to the islanders, who assisted him in the building of his house; and here he lived with his children in retirement until the outbreak of the present war. The time has not yet arrived for giving an account of his share — no mean one— in recent transactions; but it may be safely said, that no nobler or more honest man, no truer patriot, no braver soldier, has ever drawn sword in the cause of Italy than Joseph Garibaldi.A. A. Knox.
AN ELECTION STORY.
“Where doth the black fiend, Ambition, reside?” inquires somebody in one of Shakespeare’s plays — not that Shakespeare wrote the line, it is the elegant work of one of his improvers. Had the demand been made, the other day, to any person who was really in the confidence and secret soul of Maurice Halgover, Esq., gentleman, aged thirty- six, no occupation, living on his rather handsome means, married, the reply would have been, “At No. 73, Mandeville Crescent North, Hyde Park Gardens.” And this would have been a much more practical answer than that given in the play, namely, “With the mischievous devil of Pride,” as if every body knew his address.
Listen to a brief story of an election. It is not