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in the main street, or a party of Guides, whose chargers are in fine condition, and apparently most carefully groomed. And hark! bugles are eounding: the dormant battalion is pouring down from the narrow, steep street, with their bnglers in front, and at quick step they file out on their way to the front. And now, on this varied scene, it is only necessary that the "central interest" should appear, and render it complete. But the "General" is at the outposts; he drove off at four this morning. Anxiously does the heart beat for the moment when a carriage, accompanied by a slender staff and unassuming escort, shall cross the square, and for some brief moments present to our eyes the soldier of a thousand fights—the kingdom-maker of our day—the old sea-lion, wounded, patient, unsubdued!
III.—Under The Chestnut And
Something like the above is the picture seen from this window. Every detail it is useless to introduce, superfluous to touch in every feature; but leave the square, wander through the intricate streets; or, better still, quit the town altogether, and walk down the homeward road to the bridge. The streets were picturesque, but the sylvan beauty of the encampment gives a charm still greater to the fields. From Storo a level country extends to the river, on the further side of which green slopes of pasture and orchard stretch rapidly upward, till they meet, and are bounded by a range of rocks similar to the masses which overhang Storo.
The ground along the bank is open green sward, with scattered oaks and chestnut: the rest is gardens, orchards, vineyards, in continuous succession, unbroken by fences or by walls. Everywhere are the bivouacs of the volunteers. Tents, wigwams, and huts extend far and wide, beneath the shade of the vines, the acacias, and the fruit-trees. On either side the road or lanes they branch off in picturesque streets, till lost to the eye amidst the distant stems and foliage. They line the river-banks, and sprinkle the opposite slopes, till the blue smoke of their fires is seen rising against the lighter grey of the rocks. Rows of piled muskets alternate with the tents. Here and there long, narrow fires crackle beneath rows of big cauldrons, tended by sedulous red shirts; another, with fixed bayonet, stands sentry over a pyramid of loaves, cheeses, and huge dusky biscuits. Near the fires is carried on abundant chopping of herbs or meat, washiug of vegetables, and plucking of fowls. Wine is there in casks, sometimes drawn off into open tubs. By these often sits a vivandiere, sometimes serving out the drink, sometimes stitching at red shirts or blue. Hundreds of bullocks, mules, and horses are tethered beneath the trees, or graze in the more open meadows,
A deep hum pervades the air, and mingles with the rumbling and stir of the town. From this sometimes a bugle sounds, and is echoed back from the hills; or you hear the clock from the old campanile which overlooks the whole. It is difficult to associate the mingled reposed animation of this scene with the idea of battle, the din of the onslaught, with wounds and suffering! It is the sunny side of war; for, though there are pictures of the Salvator Rosa type, and spots everywhere where the fiercer mood of the river, as it dashes between horrent crags and beneath dark precipices, and wild figures, too, whose matted locks, fierce eyes, and swarthy faces blackened with powder almost suggest the outlawed bandit—yet the prevailing one is oneof serene beauty and picturesque enjoyment. It has the air of some mighty pic-nic, with the abandon and wildness of a gipsy encampment; but it is a pic-nic on the scale of a campaign— a gipsy settlement, with the numbers and material of an army. Come here at early dawn, when the sleepers are rising in hundreds from their blankets and straw, and rolling up their cloaks in the dewy morning air; or, rather wander here beneath this moon, beneath the soft Italian night, that has all the cool freshness of the Tyrol climate. It is the same scene that we saw, not two hours since; yet not the same, for now the moonlight's potent spell is gilding even squalor with beauty, and deepening toe picturesque into the romantic. At regular intervals gleam the bayonets of the sentries; here is a mounted guide, his grey cloak almost envelopes rider and steed in its ample folds; he sits silent, motionless, statuesque; the moon's rays shine on his charger's arching neck and sleek sides. Near are a group of his comrades' horses; all round you hear the jingle of the bells on the mules, and occasionally a shrill neigh sounds far and wide. Mellowed by distance a loud chorus is borne from some recumbent group of soldiers; nearer, a guitar is struck, and a plaintive song, which it accompanies, silences and soothes the listening bivouacs.
It is a moment for fancies fresh and free as these tender leaves and wreathed sprays overhead, which chequer the magic silver light on the turf beneath: slight as they are, they screen thee better than even yonder icy ranges from our mighty, toiling, nineteenth century! The minnesinger roams once more on his Swabian hills, the troubadour beneath the vines of Provence. The free lance gleams again! Sire Tristan carouses with his routier captors; Raymond and De Foix breathe anew, and love and fight, and sing!
Dreams are fair, but they are short. It is well: yet
'Ef; ovtipariiiv oirap,
Day is greater than night, yet even dreams are sometimes true.
IV.—Signs Of Victory.-'
The sound of music below made me tbink that another column was marching ont; but on going into the square I found that one of the volunteer bands had turned out to play there for an hour. They were surrounded by a throng of red shirts, enjoying the music; this, of its kind, was particularly good, the band, nearly thirty strong, played with the utmost vigour and animation. "Viola les signes de victoire," said R—. I don't know whether the band had really been ordered to play in honour of the morning's repulse of the "Tedescbi," but it was clear that the men connected the two in their minds. By this time the day's work was on every tongue. Men and officers were coming in every moment, who had been engaged, enquiries for friends and excited exclamations of grief or exultation mingled with the notes of cornet and bugle. Parties had been told off to assist in conveying the wounded, and the thought that some hundreds of" feriti" were even now on their way from the front, and that scores lay, not yet cold, hat never to hear drum or bugle again, made the heart vibrate to the joyous strains with a somewhat deeper throb than is generally excited by marches or dance tunes. But there ae lew who do not know that grief and exultation, which must too often meet and jarr, can sometime? harmonize and blend in one. The soldier at all events soon learns it. Many a man in that crowd might be heard to mutter during tie most jubilant cadence, "Povero Giovanni I" or "Porero Francesco!" while "Medio de fonte' leporum," something seems to surge upward, with a choking sensation from the very bottom of the heart. But there was no doubt that, if our loss had been severe, the attack had been thoroughly repulsed, and the enemy driven back even beyond their own outposts; so triumph was the order of the day. As the old walls rang to a popular tune some of the red shirts began to extemporize a waltz, dancing with each other, every couple keeping perfect time, to the old trois temps. This was an infectious sort of proceeding, couple after couple was formed, and drifted away from the central crowd, and the more scattered groups down the main street and up the narrow winding Strada di Chiesa, set to. Everywhere the eye met revolving red bliirts; it was taken up by the troops on the small square above, in front of the church, till the great fountain, the tall picturesque campanile, the town's quaint gables, and even the huge rocks that rose over all, teemed to take part in the dance.
It is the 21st, and the battle of Tiano (or of Beccezza) has been raging from dawn till afternoon; but all was over two hours since. Tomorrow morning we shall drive on to Tiano, to visit the scene of the fight.
V.—Further " Signs." The music has ceased, the crowd generally dispersed, and most of the men bare gone to
their quarters; still the squares and streets are anything but deserted; but a changed spirit rules the hour; for see, as the sun sinks lower and lower, these white-canopied waggons come rolling in. "Feriti 1" they are indeed the ambulances with wounded. From now till dark and after dark they come in at intervals: some stop at houses with sentries at the door, some pass through the town, or down the Brescia road. Their arrival creates no sensation ; there has been too much fighting during the last month for that; yet what is going on is not altogether suggestive of insensibility. I saw at every step eager-looking men gaze into the waggons—sometimes mounting the steps, sometimes taking advantage of the frequent halts which the carriages made. I beard their passionate greetings when they found a comrade among the pale occupants, their anxious enquiries, their lingering farewells. I saw others, some, apparently, themselves with slight wounds, alleviating the roughness of the progress by their exertions, for the ambulances jolted terribly over the paved streets. Their conductors surrounded them, and lifting or holding back, softened and broke the constant jolts that occurred. "Adagio! adagio!" they cried, laying hold of the spokes of the wheels, or the sides of the ambulance, and sometimes literally carrying it over the rough places.
The men were supported or lifted from the ambulance at the hospitals with almost womanly tenderness. It was impossible not to feel something more than respect for these men, some of them so unkempt and disguised by rough camp life, yet so tender and solicitous : it was a respect mingled with the conviction—" these are brave men." More too, that ready courtesy and politeness, which we are perhaps too apt to contrast with British bluffness or reserve, is, after all, not mere "superficies;" it has, after all, a core of its own—a background of Stirling humanity. It would have been mere useless officiousness to offer assistance, none was wanted. A certain class of wounds seem to have been kept at Tiano; here at least we see few of the more ghastly description—little of that rending and mangling which result from shell and round shot. The more deadly wounds often make the least external show. Men sit up or limp away whose heads, arms, and feet are swathed in discoloured bandages; these look somewhat ghastly, but seem generally cheerful and unsubdued. But others are lifted out, sometimes moaning, more often silent, whose hurts you cannot readily discover. Many of these have had their uniforms more or less stripped offby the surgeon, and are wrapped in cloaks and blankets. One I saw, near the centre of whose bare chest was a small red spot: he must have been shot right through the lungs, and a painful catching gasp seemed to say that he was drawing the few last breaths of the life he had given for Italy.
VI.—Tiano (ampola And Bkzkcca).
July 22.—Here we are in "Upper" Tiano, Tiano Superiore, 01 Tiano di Sopra, as it is called. It perfectly buzzes with excitement from yesterday's fight. At first the Garibaldians fell back on this place, but the tug of the conflict was between it and Bezecca, a little further on the road to Riva. We left Storo at five this morning, but the seven miles took nearly three hours, so blocked was the steep road with heavy material going to the front; while at the little fort or Block-Haus, Ampola, just half-way, a complete stoppage gave us full opportunity to examine the dismantled fort, the blackened walls of the baracks now almost level with the ground; the craggs from which the Italians had plied their artillery; and the romantic stream which thundered down into a hollow, right beneath the fort, in a white and brilliant cataract.
In spite of delay we got into Tiano at a lucky moment; for scarcely had we effected a lodgement in the Albergo, when officers and men, flocking in from outpost duty in search of breakfast or of rest, filled the house like a beehive. The inn had been cleared out the day before, and it was necessary to disperse in every direction In search of provisions. It was approaching noon when some of our party reappeared with partial supplies. Our meals in Stora had been scrambles, our breakfast here was a thorough "scrimmage;" yet, as before, courtesy and good-fellowship prevailed universally, and it was fortunate they did; for, in respect of food aud drink, of fire to cook by, or the wherewithal, of whatever kind, to accomplish dinner, it was everyone for himself and his own, and crowding and jostling without limit was the result. The central scene of operations was of course the kitchen, and we had again to admire the equanimity and goodnature with which the cook and her staff endured the usurpation of the guests. The landlord also and his servants were,wisely content to assist and supplement the exertions of the crowd, too numerous for their wants to be supplied by the ordinary service of the inn.
At last our turn comes. As usual we had contrived to ally ourselves with others, and to establish an impromptu mess, a process which
was greatly forwarded by D 's wide-spread
acquaintance with both officers and men, and
by R 's adroitness in the culinary line. We
sit down to salmi, roti, and omelettes of a rude but savoury description. Alas! no vegetables, no bread, not a crumb of the latter in the town. At this critical moment enter two Bersaglieri, for whom places have been kept; they have brought an ample supply of huge ration biscuits, and nothing more is wanted.
We had fasted long, most of our companions still longer. Our "breakfast-dinner" is soon finished. Cigars are lit, the thin country wine (nnt "Asti," alas!) goes round again, and talk sets in more furiously than ever. Many of the
5th are here, each man enraged at the regiment's heavy losses yesterday, and longing to revenge his colonel. All anticipate a fresh engagement. These two are all that are left of a party of thirty who dined together in Brescia before joining the camp, the other twenty-eight are killed or wounded. One of them fiercely narrates the treachery of a native, who, acting as guide, led his company into an ambush of "Tedeschi," and was shot forthwith by the narrator's own hand. There is a dark story about a body of Austrians, who appeared on the heights clad in the red shirt, and with cries of "Avanti, Garibaldini," lured on some unsuspecting volunteers, who, when close, were received with an exterminating volley. But all agreed that this tale wanted confirmation.
The man on my right tells me of his life on the hill-tops for the last three days. Always on the move; the supplies sent up, but unable to overtake the party; nothing but biscuit to live on. He has been dragging up the guns, and his neck is scarred, and his collar cut through by the ropes. He soon turns our conversation to more peaceful topics, being interested in English literature. But in this he is less at home than a comrade who pursues the subject more eagerly. He deplores the want of education among his countrymen, but hardly with justice, perhaps, if he himself is to be taken as a specimen. He works hard at English politics and English books, is especially familiar with John Stuart Mill, and has translated the Essay on Liberty: a Life of O'Connell is also one of his works. This man's conversation (and that of others like him) seems to indicate that not only the rank and wealth of Italy are represented up here in her volunteer army, but also the thought and education of the country. There doubtless are "canaglia" and ragamuffins in the ranks; but they are side by side with Visconti and Spinulas, with refined and highlyeducated gentlemen.
All this time fresh relays of volunteers have been dropping in, and fresh dinners preparing; but the crowd gets thinner and thinner, and presently a battery of field-guns passes somewhat hastily towards the front, and the dispersion of guests goes on still more rapidly. However, all remains quiet; and soon we hear that nothing is expected to occur in this direction. "Garibaldi has just driven back to Storo." The advance is to be pushed by the other road, which, from Storo, leads on Trent by Conditio and Lardaro. Lardaro! that is the next nut to crack, and a hard one it will be for troops with such light artillery. The Austrian fort there is said to be very strong. We also, therefore, drive back to Storo, and have leisure once more to remark what manner of country this is which Garibaldi and his men have so far conquered.
It looks a tiny corner on an ordinary map, this piece of the Tyrol. A war-map shows the truth somewhat better; but come and see it with your own eyes, and you will finally confess that, after all, the "red-shirt" army has done something. It is true that their more advanced politions are bat thirty miles from that fortcrowned rock of Anfo, which was Italy's outpost on the solitary lake. But that thirty miles has already taken them more than half way to Trent itself, and given them no inconsiderable portion of the coveted district. But the point is that it is thirty miles of mountain and valley.
Prussia occupied Bohemia by a ten days' campaign; hut Prussia had not to attack a ■ingle position like these which meet us at every tarn of the road. Prussia crossed the Iron Mountains it is true; but the passes were undefended, and afterwards vast plains and level roads lay before her advancing troops. But this country is all "iron mountains"; and its roads are all "passes"—all occupied with deliberate skill and defended with every advantage on the side of those attacked.
Jost above Rocca d'Anfo you see Caffaro: it is the frontier town. Two hot fights—bayonets twice crossed at its quaint little bridge—marked the opening of the campaign. Thence, one by one, Monte Suello, Bagolino, Darzo, and Lodrone witnessed the fruitless efforts of the Austriaos to hold their own against the " Camichi Rossi." At last Storo is occupied, and held at one time under the very fire of Austrian iharpthooters from the rocks above. Still day bj day, almost hour by hour the work goes on— here a village, there a height is occupied, still the advance is maintained, though not without almost daily loss. But bow can so brief an outline do justice to the arduouB details—to the ife-and-death contests, the petty skirmishes with the Tyrol marksman on the cliffs, the Austrian lancer in the valley? Or, more, to the days and nights of intense bodily toil; while guns were not dragged only, but carried to the summit* of mountains, which it was a toil even for the unladen to climb: and while forced "mountain inarches" were made to turn positions which could not be openly assaulted without fearful lots? Thus was the Val di Ledro occupied, and in consequence Ampola surrendered "Senza Condizioni," battered as it was, but not vitally injured by the light mountain guns. Thus, too, (on the Lardaro road) Condino and its dependencies are occupied. Thither we go to-morrow, with high hopes of seeing, ere long, successful operations against Lardaro itself.
VII.—An Opinion Of Thb Gabibaldian Army.
It is perhaps difficult to estimate the precise amount of interest which the English public takes iu the atfairs of Italy in general, or in the fortunes of her volunteer army in particular; much, however, has actually been said and written on this subject; and, whether opinions are uncalled for or not, it is sometimes difficult to remain silent—difficult to refrain from saying one word, however unimportant, to the end that true impressions, rather than false, may prevail. "Reserve" has arguments only top
plausible and tempting; on the other hand there is a profound gratification in the feeling liberavi animam meam.
Now, of course, every one professes the unbiassed mind, open to conviction—the temper of inquiry and of observation rather than of assertion and criticism;" so that I will only say that I, too, can see the darker side of the picture; I, too, could say my say about shortcomings in the Garabaldian army. But, for many reasons, my few remarks will be professedly on the other side only. For too often do we hear complacent scoffers (French, English, or Italian) who, mingling some few grains of truth with much of its opposite, sneer sometimes at the Garibaldian8, sometimes at their General. Even Italians (though I believe very few) are to be found who speak of their volunteers as "canaglia"—the sweepings of the streets; or who ask "What have they doner" or say, with a shrug of the shoulders, "Ah! Garibaldi is brave as a lion; but then—he has no taeliques, no strategy." Others, and truehearted men too, indignant at certain mortifying occurrences,* refuse to take a moment's account of brighter events. Others, again, well-wishers of Italy, see both sides, and, too candid to delineate the brighter features, without dwelling also on ill deserts, do neither one or the other, and indulge simply in general statements and vague expressions of praise and sympathy.
There are, however, a few tangible facts worthy of mention; a few circumstances, with regard to which the evidence of one's owu eyes forces rather than suggests certain conclusions. With regard to the Garibaldians as men, I may say that in the whole force it was impossible to see or hear of anything like ■ lisorder, brawling or ill-conduct of any Bort or kind; but the most refined courtesy and the warmest hospitality and kindness miiiht be found by the stranger in abundance. With regard to what they have done as an army, I can only speak of results— of a highly-disciplined and determined enemy driven back, step by step, his onsets met and repulsed, his tactics foiled, bis troops dislodged from positions chosen by themselves, and by nature almost inaccessible. An advance kept up almost hour by hour, as the outposts were pushed from peak to peak, from hamlet to hamlet; wbile behind, as if by magic, the fields swarmed with the camichi rossi and the fragrance of their soupa already perfumed the air, as you drove on the village just evacuated by the TedeBchi. For, take notice as we drive. Yesterday, their white tunics were in full possession of garden, field, and street. This afternoon, English and Italian ladies are already preparing hospital wards in the Albergo, where some Austrian colonel had his quarters not twenty-four hours back.
* Such, for instance as the panic which overcame many of the men on the 21st, when deprived of their officers, and for the first time, perhaps, undsr fire. It is well known that the bravest troops may quail under these circumstances.
The guns went to the front long ago, but the commissariat train is still on the move : blankets, loaves, flour, bullocks (and as before) All the road at intervals. In a convenient house the Posta Militdre is already established, doing work in a business-like style, that would not shame St. Marlin-le-Grand.
"The Telegraph will be up by the time we drive back to-morrow," says D .
"Impossible," thought I (though I had seen it on the other roads)!" Where are the workmen to dig holes by hundreds for the posts f Where are the posts, the wires, and the fixings?"
As it happened we did not return till a daylater; but there, at all events was the scientific triumph of the age; its tall posts, and miles of wire accompanying the road, leaping chasms, crossing the river, overtopping the cbesnuts, looking as if it had been there for years—so finished and thorough had been the work of crowbar, spade, and axe; but tools and workmen (Lombard or Tyrolian) have already cleared off, and left not a chip or nail behind. True it is that some of the Austrian armies are not without their telegraph, and we heard something of the Prussian field telegraph, as a proof, among others, of the science of their system and the completeness of their organization. But this is only the' Armata Voluntaria—the " unorganized crowd of brave undisciplined men, who may carry on a desultory guerilla warfare with some success, but who cannot be looked to for the work of regular troops, or take the position of a regular army." Yet, somehow this rabble of raw Garabaldini has its commissariat and quarter-master's department, its hospitals and ambulance trains, its military post, and its telegraph; and, what is more, the commissariat does feed the troops, the wounded are tended, the telegraph works, the post does dispatch your letters with care and promptitude.
True it may be that a month, or even a week, back, matters were otherwise; but how long is it since this force took the field r how many weeks since war itself was declared? Surely we know of regular armies in which similar deficiencies took something more than a week or two in being rectified. But let justice be done to all parties. May not this change for the better, in Borne measure result from the very representations of those correspondents, 6ome of whose letters, in certain London journals have given an unfavourable impression on these points? If so, all honour to those Englishmen whose resolute plain speaking has in any degree quickened the attention of the Italian public, and stimulated the Italian Government to greater regard for the requirements of their volunteers.
And, above all, honour to him, whose energy and tempered will, at once forbearing and resolute, has once more answered "invincible" to the bodings of anxious friends and the slanders of deadly enemies. I have heard "Garibaldi is not a man for this age. He is too simple and straightforward, and much too ready to think everyone like himself. In character he belongs to the crusades and the days of knight-'
errantry; but he is out of place in the 19th century."
Oh! wisdom of the unwise! is he not, then, by your own showing, above all others the man for this age? If, indeed, it is true that we are a self-seeking, "common-place," gold-worshippin jr generation, are we not, therefore, in the greater need of a man like this? not because he is less selfish or more devoted than thousands around us; but because in him that faith and singleness of heart has been united not only with the enterprise but also with the versatile prowess of a Raleigh, and has been embodied in a career at once martyr-like and romantic, which has made it shine like a beacon to his generation, kindling and animating the faith of thousands of hearts, less illustrious, but not less true than his own!
Condino is, perhaps, evenmorepicturesquethan Storo. It also has its piazza or "place "; but one side is formed by the sloping mountain itself, and big rocks and trees come striding down into the very town. As you look in this direction the view, instead of being bounded by a row of houses, passes right up into verdant glades, each a charming oasis, which the contrast with the rocky masses that flank it makes still more inviting. Rills of water from the hill cascade down them. You might envy the few horses and mules which graze upon these turfy slopes. Here and there a tent or a "leanto " against the rock, suggests that some of the troops have picked out their quarters, either with an eye for the picturesque, or for the comparative seclusion therein afforded. The square itself " hums, like a beehive," with life—eating, drinking, talking, and singing, buying and selling, &c.
"Everyone" is here, and my Italian companion has been busy pointing out individuals worth notice: now the veteran who commands the Guides, now the man who saved Garibaldi's life at the Volturno; or those here and there who, to my great wonderment, wear the wellknown "Manxman's" three-legged badge on their breasts. But I learn that it has nothing to do with the Isle of Man. It'means Sicily (Trinacia), and marks those men who are of the "thousand," and who sailed from Genoa ia Garibaldi's famous expedition.
"Menotti," said my companion, touching my arm, and directing my attention to a small group of officers and men close by.
Menotti Garibaldi is standing at the corner of the street, a friend at his side; a yard or two off stand one or two Garibaldians, and Garibaldi's negro attendant, who gazes at Menotti, and seems to feel unbounded satisfaction in doing so—at least his ink-black features are lit by a broad, genial smile of mingled pride and attachment. The appearance of the 'young Garibaldi certainly justifies his follower's ad miration. This lion's cub look? none the worse