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 his watch, his books, and even on one occasion his boots and waistcoat, in order to get money for food. His generosity to others who were still worse off than himself made things more difficult. In the winter he risked his health by giving away his only overcoat. At last he had to go to moneylenders. It was indeed a desolate and miserable period for him, and had it not been for the great spirit within him, he might have broken down completely in despair. But he battled on, learned the English language, wrote articles for English newspapers, and began to make English friends. His sympathies were always on the side of the destitute and the downtrodden; he taught in an evening school for poor Italian children, and worked to prevent small boys of poverty-stricken parents in Southern Italy being brought to England by scoundrels who made them grind organs.

His first close English friendship was with the great writer, Thomas Carlyle, and his wife. "They love me as a brother," he wrote, "and would like to do me more good than it is in their power to do." He liked Carlyle's open nature and broad views, but they often had heated arguments. "He may preach the merit of holding one's tongue," said the Italian, "but the merit of silence is not his." Mrs. Carlyle was at first very sympathetic and interested in his political views, but after a while she, like her husband, expressed disapproval of his revolutionary ideas. However, he continued to be a frequent caller, coming in