"Many ladies were in the waiting-saloon, which was crowded with national guards and gentlemen in plain clothes and all sorts of uniforms. "After waiting an hour (writes a spectator), shouts were heard, and the scream of an arriving train. 'He is come!' The train steams in. In the first carriage, standing on the roof, is a giant of a man, with a cap, a red shirt, and the handkerchief fastened on his shoulders. The cries and cheers increase. Suddenly all is hushed again, and we are down to zero. It is only a train of disarmed Bavarians en route from Salerno. At last he does come. The enthusiasm is overpowering. Surrounded by a band of soldiers, sons of Anak as to size, and dressed in the wild and travel-stained costumes of an irregular army on a campaign, comes Garibaldi. The first thing that strikes you is his face, and the deep determination of his extraordinary forehead. A face that might serve as a model for the sculptor, is softened almost to sweetness by the mildness of the eyes and the low tone of the most musical voice I have ever heard. Long, grizzly curls hang from his broad hat. He wears a red shirt with a silk handkerchief on his shoulders, like the 'panuelo' of the South American, and grey trousers. He escapes as well and as soon as he can from a reception, which he accepts rather than covets, and proceeds to take possession of his new abode. "Garibaldi entered the private carriage of the French minister, his staff following in other carriages, and some few on horseback; the cortége consisted of about twenty vehicles. Individually I have never seen such men as his body-guard, and the picturesque dress sets off their height and the squareness of their build. Compared with these soldiers, Garibaldi is short, but very powerfully made. Along the crowded Marinelli, the headquarters of lazzaroni, now constitutional popolani, one of whom rode before Garibaldi's carriage, through the Largo del Castello, the Strada di Toledo, and finally to the Palazzo della Regina di Savoia, opposite the Palazzo Reale, which the dictator refused to inhabit, the cortége makes its way, and Garibaldi enters into what was once a palace of the Bourbons. The shouts of the crowd now gathered together in the square penetrate the inmost recesses, and presently the window opens and Garibaldi appears, followed by a large staff of officials. The others stop, and he advances alone to the centre of the balcony that extends along the palace, and the cheering is deafening. It is no use for the hero to speak till the people have a little exhausted their powers; so he stands there alone, leaning on his hand, with his fine features in repose, and an almost melancholy expression on his face, as if he felt that his career was a duty which had its thorns as well as its roses; and that, though the end sanctifies the means, yet carnage and slaughter, tottering thrones and crumbling dynasties, leave their impression on the brow that caused them. I have