Page:Once a Week Jul - Dec 1859.pdf/36

. 9, 1859.] whose name  is  now  so  prominently  before  the public, may  not  be  unacceptable  to  the  reader. 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

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