be no general action to-day. Our report of these words, as
we rejoin our companions, is the first intimation given that the
bombardment is deferred. But, though, there is some disappointment,
their surprise is not extreme. For Garibaldi never informs even his
nearest aide-de-camp what he is about to do. In fact, he quaintly says,
"If his shirt knew his plans, he would take it off and burn it." Some
half-hour later, having descended from the eminence, we take our last
look of Garibaldi. He has retired with a single servant to a sequestered
place upon the mount, whither he daily resorts, and where his mid-day
repast is brought to him. Here he spends an hour or two secure from
interruption. What thoughts he ponders in his solitude the reader may
perhaps conjecture as well as his most intimate friend. But for us, with
the holy associations of a very high mountain before our mind, we can
but trust that a prayer, "uttered or unexpressed," invokes the divine
blessing upon the work to which Garibaldi devotes himself,--the
political salvation of his country.

* * * * *

TWO OR THREE TROUBLES.

[Concluded.]

Every day, and twice a day, came Mr. Sampson,--though I have not said
much about it; and now it was only a week before our marriage. This
evening he came in very weary with his day's work,--getting a wretched
man off from hanging, who probably deserved it richly. (It is said,
women are always for hanging: and that is very likely. I remember, when
there had been a terrible murder in our parlors, as it were, and it was
doubtful for some time whether the murderer would be convicted, Mrs.
Harris said, plaintively, "Oh, do hang somebody!") Mr. Sampson did
not think so, apparently, but sat on the sofa by the window, dull and
abstracted.

If I had been his wife, I should have done as I always do now in such a
case: walked up to him, settled the sofa-cushion, and said,--"Here, now!
lie down, and don't speak a word for two hours. Meantime I will tell you
who has been here, and everything." Thus I should rest and divert him by
idle chatter, bathing his tired brain with good Cologne; and if, in the
middle of my best story and funniest joke, he fairly dropped off to
sleep, I should just fan him softly, keep the flies away, say in my
heart, "Bless him! there he goes! hands couldn't mend him!"--and then
look at him with as much more pride and satisfaction than, at any other
common wide-awake face a