of the capital, amid
vast continuous multitudes, blocking roadways, filling windows, lining
every parapet and roof with eager gazers. For five hours Garibaldi passed
on amid tumultuous waves of passionate curiosity, delight, enthusiasm. And
this more than regal entry was the arrival not of some loved prince or
triumphant captain of our own, but of a foreigner and the deliverer of a
foreign people. Some were drawn by his daring as a fighter, and by the
picturesque figure as of a hero of antique mould; many by sight of the
sworn foe of Giant Pope; but what fired the hearts of most was the thought
of him as the soldier who bore the sword for human freedom. The western
world was in one of its generous moments. In those days there were
idealists; democracy was conscious of common interests and common
brotherhood; a liberal Europe was then a force and not a dream.

"We who then saw Garibaldi for the first time," Mr. Gladstone said nearly
twenty years after, "can many of us never forget the marvellous effect
produced upon all minds by the simple nobility of his demeanour, by his
manners and his acts.... Besides his splendid integrity, and his wide and
universal sympathies, besides that seductive simplicity of manner which
never departed from him, and that inborn and native grace which seemed to
attend all his actions, I would almost select from every other quality
this, which was in apparent contrast but real harmony in Garibaldi--the
union of the most profound and tender humanity with his fiery valour."(80)
He once described the Italian chief to me as "one of the finest
combinations of profound and unalterable simplicity with
self-consciousness and self-possession. I shall never forget an occasion
at Chiswick; Palmerston, John Russell, and all the leaders were awaiting
him on the _perron_; he advanced with perfect simplicity and naturalness,
yet with perfect consciousness of his position; very striking and very
fine." Garibaldi dined with Mr. Gladstone, and they met elsewhere. At a
dinner at Panizzi's, they sat by one another. "I remember," said Mr.
Gladstone, "he told a story in these words: 'When I was a boy,' he said,
'I was at school in Genoa. It was towards the close of the great French
Revolution. Genoa was a great military post--a large garrison always in the
town, constant parades and military display, with bands and flags that
were beyond everything attractive to schoolboys. All my schoolfellows used
to run here and