Page:Once a Week Jul - Dec 1859.pdf/35

24 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.

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