tish--Count Eliovich--found himself an outcast,
helpless and hopeless, obliged to live from hand to mouth.

That he was greatly belied, I had reason to know. That he was cruelly
misunderstood, and wickedly misrepresented by the whole newspaper press
of our country, I had reason to believe, upon evidence not to be
questioned; but we are anticipating.

One day, in the summer or fall of 1839, Colonel Bouchette of Quebec, son
of the late Surveyor-General of Canada, brought a stranger to see me,
whom he introduced as Major-General Bratish, late in the service of her
Catholic Majesty, the Queen of Spain, and associate of General De Lacy
Evans, of the Auxiliary Legion. They were both (Bouchette and Bratish)
living in Portland at the time, and occupied chambers in the same
building; and I inferred from what passed in this or in a subsequent
interview that the Colonel had known the General in Quebec or Montreal,
about the time of the outbreak there in which they were implicated.

The object they had in view, on their first visit, was to open a way for
General Bratish to lecture in Portland, upon some one--or more--of many
subjects,--on Greece, Hungary, Poland, the war in Spain, South America,
our own Revolutionary War, modern languages, or matters and things in
general.

The appearance and deportment of the gentleman were much in his favor.
He seemed both frank and fearless, with a mixture of modesty and
self-reliance quite captivating. He looked to be about five-and-thirty,
according to my present recollection, stood five feet nine or ten, with
a broad chest and good figure. He had not much of military
bearing,--certainly not more than we see in General Grant,--and on the
whole bore the appearance of a young, handsome, healthy, well-bred
Englishman, accustomed to good society. He was neither talkative nor
reserved, but natural and free; speaking our language with uncommon
propriety, French and German still better, and Italian like a native,
and often expressing himself with singular strength and
picturesqueness,--reminding me of the Italian poet and critic, Ugo
Foscolo,--whom I saw at the time he was furnishing the papers translated
by Mrs. Sarah Austin for the Edinburgh Review.

Arrangements were soon made for a first appearance; and the result was
all that could have been hoped for, and much more than could reasonably
have been expected. His manner was dignified, unpretending, and earnest;
and he had a sort of unstudied