pper all the same.

Her husband was--alas! that I should write so; for no Indian wife's
life was ever more ended by her suttee than Jessie Mario's life has
practically been ended by her husband's untimely death!--Alberto Mario
was among the, I fear, few exceptions to Peard's remarks on the men
who were around Garibaldi. He was not only a man of large literary
culture, a brave soldier, an acute politician, a formidable political
adversary, and a man of perfect and incorruptible integrity, but he
would have been considered in any country and in any society in Europe
a very perfect gentleman. He was in political opinion a consistent and
fearlessly outspoken Republican. He and I therefore differed _toto
coelo_. But our differences never diminished our, I trust, mutual
esteem, nor our friendly intercourse. But he was a born _frondeur_. He
edited during his latter years a newspaper at Rome, which was a thorn
in the side of the authorities. I remember his being prosecuted and
condemned for persistently speaking of the Pope in his paper as
"Signor Pecci." He was sentenced to imprisonment. But all the
Government wanted was his condemnation; and he was never incarcerated.
But he used to go daily to the prison and demand the execution of
his sentence. The gaoler used to shut the door in his face, and he
narrated the result of his visit in the next day's paper!

It was as Jessie Mario's friend then, that I first knew Garibaldi.

One morning at the villa I then possessed, at Ricorboli, close to
Florence, a maid-servant came flying into the room, where I was
still in bed at six o'clock in the morning, crying out in the utmost
excitement, "_C'e il Generale! c'e il Generale; e chiede di lei,
signore!_"--"Here's the General! here's the General! And he is asking
for you, sir!" She spoke as if there was but one general in all the
world. But there was hardly any room in Florence at that time where
her words would not have been understood as well as I understood them.

I jumped out of bed, got into a dressing-gown, and ran out to where
the "General" was on the lawn before the door, just as I was, and
hardly more than half awake. There he was, all alone. But if there had
been a dozen other men around him, I should have had no difficulty in
recognising him. There was the figure as well known to every Italian
from Turin to Syracuse as that of his own father--the light grey
trousers, the little foraging cap, the red shirt, the bandana
handk