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 your father that I no longer desire an introduction to Garibaldi. His speech at the Crystal Palace, before the Italian Committee, will have a damaging effect on England's liberty, and an interview between him and myself, with those sentiments ringing in my ears—the adulation of such men as Palmerston and Gladstone—the truest enemies of English freedom—alongside the poor sophism of our sham prosperity and civilisation—the remembrance of these statements put forward in Garibaldi's speech would render the interview between us (to me, at least), irksome, and uncandid.

Thank your father for his very kind compliance with my former wish, now longer entertained, and believe me,

Yours very sincerely,

A few days after the receipt of the preceding letter Garibaldi was hurried out of England by the Government of the day, at the instigation of Napoleon III.

"Dream no dream of the future," was the advice given by the late Lord Lytton on the occasion of a rectorial address to the students of a Scotch university, many years ago. "For depend upon it," he said in effect, "the future will prove to be totally unlike anything you now anticipate." The truth of these words was verified in my case, for, despite my literary aspirations, I found myself in 1865 following a much less attractive pursuit. Later on, when exploring the floral beauties of the lanes of South Devon, on the back of a Dartmoor pony, it occurred to me that I might fill up my leisure time by contributing to magazines. Remembering Captain Reid's promise to befriend my efforts, I wrote to him. The Captain to whom I, although then a young man, apparently yet remained a youth, responded in terms which show that even successful and established authors encounter periods of depression:—

"The Rancho, Gerrard's Cross, Bucks, ,—I feel great regret at my inability to assist you. I have tried several publishers of journals, who all say they do not need any contributions. You will give me credit, when I tell you that I am unable to sell any of my own stuff just now. There appears to be a stagnation in the publishing market, or else it arises from the frightful multiplication of writers during the last few years. I shall bear your letter in mind, and if I hear of anything will communicate with you.

Yours very sincerely,"

This was the last communication I received from Captain Mayne Reid—the parting of the ways had commenced—and I pursued my prosaic career in various parts of England, always noting with pleasure any public mention of the Captain until his regretted death.

Such are my recollections of Captain Reid, which are recorded as a grateful tribute to the memory of the friend of boyish days, who equally at ease, whether fighting or writing—attained an international reputation as a brilliant novelist, and a valorous soldier, and to whom belongs the double distinction of having made himself, in the words of Montrose, "glorious by his pen, and famous by his sword."

At Kensal Green a sword and pen crossed, carved on a block of white marble, which is inscribed with a characteristic quotation from one of his earliest works, appropriately indicates the grave of "The Boys' Novelist."