How handsome he was! I have a coloured engraved portrait of him, a cheap thing, but very precious to me, because of the inscription signed by him, “Al signor Mitford la mia amicizia se vuol gradirla”—a cheap thing, but so like. Long, fair hair, with a curling wave in it, just turning grey; the fine complexion which none of his campaigns, none of his seafaring had been able to spoil; the clearly-cut features and the soft, almost womanly eyes. A cheap thing, but a Velasquez could not have given a more living picture of the man. When I saw him he was dressed in the familiar garb—the scarlet shirt, the grey flannel trousers; a lanyard round his neck and a black silk kerchief tied in a sailor’s knot. No star, no decoration; nothing to mark him as something above the humble folk by whom he was surrounded, save that inborn distinction which, had he been in rags, would not have forsaken him. For a while we loitered about the outside of the house, while a copious and most hospitable breakfast was being prepared. The famous Francesca—the Penelope of Caprera—Garibaldi’s third wife, a peasant woman who had been nurse to his grandchild—must have been taken aback by the advent of three hungry Englishmen, for whom the possibilities of the tramp had meant something very like starvation for many hours; but she rose to the occasion and no guests were ever made more welcome. Meanwhile we took notice of the surroundings; no pleasure garden, nothing of what are called by dealers in houses “the amenities.” One thing I did mark—a huge dog-kennel; what would Ulysses, what would Ithaca be, without a dog? And on the dog-kennel some wicked wag had expressed his anti-papal convictions by painting upon it in huge white letters “CASA DI PIO NONO.” This jest, cruel if it had not been so babyish, was none of Garibaldi’s doing—indeed, he probably never saw it, for, crippled as he was with rheumatism, a confirmed invalid, and very lame from the old wound in the foot which was shot through at Aspromonte, he moved about very little; but the fanatic hatred which his unruly followers showed to the Pope and the whole ecclesiastical body of the Neri was quite irrepressible. He, if the truth must be told, shared their views, witness his book “Clelia, ovvero il Regno del Monaco,” but he laughed at their childish ways of expressing their hatred.