gn Office, "A strong Italy is
the best thing in the world for you. A strong Italy is the surest of all
barriers against France." There may be some truth in the assertion if
Italy could spring at once--Minerva fashion--all armed and ready for
combat, and stand out as a first-rate power in Europe; but to do this
requires years of preparation, long years too; and it is precisely
in these years of interval that France can become all-dominant in
Italy--the master, and the not very merciful master, of her destinies
in everything. France has the guardianship of Italy--with this addition,
that she can make the minority last as long as she pleases.

Perhaps my Garibaldian companion has impregnated me with an unreasonable
amount of anti-French susceptibility, for certainly he abuses our dear
allies with a zeal and a gusto that does one's heart good to listen to;
and I do feel like that honest Bull, commemorated by Mathews, that "I
hate prejudice--I hate the French." So it is: these revolutionists,
these levellers, these men of the people, are never weary of reviling
the French Emperor for being a _parvenu_. Human inconsistency cannot go
much farther than this. Not but I perfectly agree with my Garibaldian,
that we have all agreed to take the most absurdly exaggerated estimate
of the Emperor's ability. Except in some attempts, and not always
successful attempts, to carry out the policy and plans of the first
Empire, there is really nothing that deserves the name of statesmanship
in his career. Wherever he has ventured on a policy, and accompanied it
by a prediction, it has been a failure. Witness the proud declaration
of Italy from the Alps to the Adriatic, with its corroboration in the
Treaty of Villafranca! The Emperor, in his policy, resembles one of
those whist-players who never plan a game, but play trick by trick, and
rather hope to win by discovering a revoke than from any honest success
of their own hand. It is all the sharp practice of statecraft that
he employs: nor has he many resources in cunning. The same dodge that
served him in the Crimea he revived at Villafranca. It is always the
same ace he has in his sleeve!

The most ardent Imperialist will not pretend to say that he knows his
road out of rome or Mexico, or even Madagascar. For small intrigue,
short speeches to deputations, and mock stag-hunts, he has not his
superior anywhere. And now, here we are in Genoa, at the Hotel Feder,
where poor O'Connell died, and t