the conspirator, would give way to the poet, the
dreamer, as he would speak of God's nature, and of its loveliest
creation, Woman; of innocent childhood, of sunshine and flowers.

I have heard much said about Woman and Woman's Rights since the days of
Mazzini, from pulpit and platform, from easy-chair and office-stool. It
often seemed to me to be said in beautiful prose; but still in prose.
Mazzini spoke the language of poetry; not in hexameters or blank verse,
but still it was poetry. We of to-day look forward, create a new ideal,
a new woman; he looked backward to the days of his childhood, and
conjured up a vision of Maria Mazzini, his mother.

He loved children, too, and they him. There were boys and girls of all
ages in the Roche family, clever and active, and, consequently, what
wise and sapient parents call naughty. Some of these now ex-children
tell me they have a distinct recollection of having been on more than
one occasion turned out and sent to bed prematurely. "We often got into
trouble," they say, "when Louis Blanc was there, but we were always good
for Mazzini; that was because he was so kind, and never failed to
inquire after the dolls; and then we loved to sit and listen to him. To
be sure we sometimes didn't understand a word of the conversation going
on, but his voice was so beautiful that it fascinated us."

Overawed, I think, would frequently have been more correct, when I
remember how they must have heard him denouncing the Austrian rule, or
holding up to execration his crowned enemies. I always looked upon him,
as I certainly believe he did upon himself, as the ordained champion of
the oppressed, and as a menacing tool in the hands of an unflinching
Providence. He was as unflinching as the Fates themselves, and,
regarding himself as the embodiment of a good cause, he cared little for
the obloquy his opponents ever heaped upon his head. To name but one
instance: When Orsini attempted the life of Napoleon III., throwing a
bomb at the imperial carriage as it was approaching the Opera House in
the Rue Drouot, killing, not the object of his hatred, but so many
innocent people, a cry of horror went through the civilised world, and
Mazzini got his full share of execration. Nobody entertained a doubt
that he was at the bottom of the plot. It could only be he who had
organised it; he had supplied the bombs, and Orsini was but a tool sent
to the post of danger, whilst he himself remained on the safe side