his police,
who were outwitted by the astute republican. Mazzini is an incarnation
of the _Sub Rosa_, and we doubt whether he could live an hour, were it
possible to fulminate a bull for the abolition of intrigue and secret
societies. Dall' Ongaro was a co-laborer of Mazzini's in Rome in '48;
and when the downfall of the Republic forced its partisans to seek
safety in exile, he travelled about Europe with an American passport. "I
could not be an Italian," he said to us, "and I became, ostensibly, the
next best thing, a citizen of the United States. I sought shelter under
a republican flag."

It was at Villino Trollope that we first shook hands with Colonel
Peard,--"_l'Inglese con Garibaldi_," as the Italians used to call
him,--about whose exploits in sharp-shooting the newspapers manufactured
such marvellous stories. Colonel Peard assured us that he never _did_
keep a written account of the men he killed, for we were particular in
our inquiries on this interesting subject; but we know that as a
volunteer he fought under Garibaldi throughout the Lombard campaign and
followed his General into Sicily, where, facing the enemy most manfully,
Garibaldi promoted him from the rank of Captain to that of
Lieutenant-Colonel. It is good to meet a person like Colonel Peard,--to
see a man between fifty and sixty years of age, with noble head and gray
hair and a beard that any patriarch might envy surmounting a figure of
fine proportions endowed with all the robustness of healthy
maturity,--to see intelligence and years and fine appearance allied to
great amiability and a youthful enthusiasm for noble deeds, an
enthusiasm which was ready to give blood and treasure to the cause it
espoused from love. Such a reality is most exhilarating and delightful,
a fact that makes us take a much more hopeful view of humanity. We value
our photograph of Colonel Peard almost as highly as though the
picturesque _poncho_ and its owner had seen service in America instead
of Italy. His battle-cry is ours,--"Liberty!"

There, too, we met Frances Power Cobbe, author of that admirable book,
"Intuitive Morals." In her preface to the English edition of Theodore
Parker's works, of which she is the editor, Miss Cobbe has shown herself
as large by the heart as she is by the head. That sunny day in Florence,
when she, one of a chosen band, followed the great Crusader to his
grave, is a sad remembrance to us, and it seemed providentially ordained
that the apost