, thick-set columns mark the entrance and carry a massive
stone, on which is inscribed in plain large characters the name
"Giuseppe Mazzini." That day the monument and the surroundings seemed
doubly impressive, for a guard of honour had been placed to hold watch
by the great liberator's tomb. It was here, then, that the exile and the
outlaw had at last found rest in the land he loved so well--in Genoa,
the city of his birth.

I sought out a place from which I could make a water-colour sketch, and,
as I sat painting, my thoughts reverted with reverence and with love to
the master and to the friend.

[Illustration]

CHAPTER IX

ROSSINI

I well remember my first introduction to Madame Rossini in April 1854. I
was sitting with the Maestro in his study one morning whilst he was
finishing his toilet; his valet had selected one of two brown wigs, and
adjusted it on his illustrious master's head, leaving the other, placed
on a little stand, to ornament the mantelpiece. Next he brought him a
silver bowl full of milk and one or two of those cunningly-twisted rolls
or crescents, the very thought of which conveys to the appetite's memory
a whiff of dainty Paris.

Rossini liked to be informed of the latest news, meaning the up-to-date
incidents in Paris society, and to be told what the wicked world was
saying, and what _bons-mots_ the clever ones had made; so we young
fellows were expected to drop in occasionally at an early hour in the
morning and keep him posted up. His comments on our news were always
much more _spirituels_ than the best of _bons-mots_ we could impart, and
frequently a good deal more spicy than our versions of Parisian doings.
I dare say then I was carrying coals to Newcastle, and he was making
them blaze, when the door was abruptly thrust open, and a bejewelled
hand--it was Madame Rossini's--triumphantly appeared, flourishing a ham
of unusual dimensions, that she had brought for the master to see and to
rejoice over.

A pair of piercing dark eyes next swept the room to see who might be
there. Finding there was nobody--a young man like myself not
counting--the hand and the eyes were followed by the rest of her. She
struck me as every inch a queen--a tragedy queen, off duty. Her black
hair hung dishevelled over her shoulders, and she was clad in the style
the French call "neglected." The upper part of her classical figure was
more or less concealed beneath a loose white garment, which I have since