Atlantic Monthly, Volume 7, Issue 42, April, 1861 by Various

V >> Various >> Atlantic Monthly, Volume 7, Issue 42, April, 1861

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In one of the stories of the "Arabian Nights" we are told of an Afrite
confined by King Solomon in a brazen vessel; and the Sultana tells
us, that, during the first century of his confinement, he said in his
heart,--"I will enrich whosoever will liberate me"; but no one liberated
him. In the second century he said,--"Whosoever will liberate me, I will
open to him the treasures of the earth"; but no one liberated him. And
four centuries more passed, and he said,--"Whosoever shall liberate me,
I will fulfil for him three wishes"; but still no one liberated him.
Then despair at his long bondage took possession of his soul, and, in
the eighth century, he swore,--"Whosoever shall liberate me, him will
I surely slay!" Let the Southern statesmen look to it well that the
breaking of the seal which confines our Afrite be not deferred till long
bondage has turned his heart, like the heart of the Spirit in the fable,
into gall and wormwood; lest, if the breaking of that seal be deferred
to the eighth or even the sixth century, it result to our descendants
like the breaking of the sixth seal of Revelation,--"And, lo! there was
a great earthquake; and the sun became black as sackcloth of hair, and
the moon became as blood, and the heaven departed as a scroll, when it
is rolled together; and the kings of the earth, and the great men, and
the rich men, and the chief captains, and the mighty men, and every free
man hid themselves in the dens and in the rocks of the mountains, and
said to the mountains and rocks, 'Fall on us and hide us, for the great
day of wrath is come'" On that day, at least, will end the reign of King
Cotton.

* * * * *

GLIMPSES OF GARIBALDI.

FIRST GLIMPSE.

It is a sultry morning in October, and we are steaming in a small
Sardinian boat from Leghorn towards Naples. This city has fallen into
the power of Garibaldi, who is concentrating his forces before Capua,
while the King of Sardinia bears down with a goodly army from the North.

The first object of special interest which comes into view, after we
pass the island of Elba, is Gaeta. Though care is taken not to run near
enough to invite a chase from the Neapolitan frigates, we are yet able
to obtain a distinct view of the last stronghold--the jumping-off place,
as we hope it will prove--of Francis II. The white walls of the fortress
rise grimly out of the sea, touching the land only upon one side, and
looking as though they might task well the resources of modern warfare
to reduce them. We soon make out the smoke of four or five steamers,
which we suppose to be armed vessels, heading towards Gaeta.

About two o'clock we glide into the far-famed Bay of Naples, in company
with the cool sea-breeze which there each afternoon sends to refresh
the heated shore. As we swing round to our moorings, we pass numerous
line-of-battle-ships and frigates bearing the flags of England,
France, and Sardinia, but look in vain and with disappointment for the
star-spangled banner. A single floating representative of American
nationality is obliged to divide the favor of her presence between the
ports of both the Two Sicilies, and at this time she is at the island
portion of the kingdom.

Our craft is at once beset by boats, their owners pushing, vociferating,
and chaffering for fares, as though Mammon, and not Moloch, were the
ruling spirit. Together with a chance companion of the voyage, Signor
Alvigini, _Intendente_ of Genoa, and his party, we are soon in the hands
of the _commissionnaire_ of the Hotel de Rome. As we land, our passports
are received by the police of Victor Emmanuel, who have replaced those
of the late _regime_.

As we enter our carriage, we expect to see streets filled with crowds of
turbulent people, or dotted with knots of persons conversing ominously
in suppressed tones; and streets deserted, with shops closed; and
streets barricaded. But in this matter we are agreeably disappointed.
The shops are all open, the street venders are quietly tending their
tables, people go about their ordinary affairs, and wear their
commonplace, every-day look. The only difference apparent to the eye
between the existing state of things and that which formerly obtained
is, that there are few street brawls and robberies, though every one
goes armed,--that the uniform of the soldiers of Francis II. is replaced
by the dark gray dress of the National Guard,--and that the Hag of
the Tyrant King no longer waves over the castle-prison of Sant' Elmo.
Garibaldi, on leaving Naples, had formally confided the city to the
National Guard; and they had nobly sustained the trust reposed in them.

A letter of introduction to General Orsini, brought safely with us,
though not without adventure, through the Austrian dominions, gains
a courteous reception from General Turr, chief aide-de-camp to the
"Dictator," and a pass to the camp. General Turr, an Hungarian refugee,
is a person of distinguished appearance, not a little heightened by
his peculiar dress, which consists of the usual Garibaldian uniform
partially covered with a white military cloak, which hangs gracefully
over his elegant figure.

After a brief, but pleasant, interview with this gentleman, we climb to
the Castle of Sant' Elmo, built on a high eminence commanding the town,
and with its guns mounted, not so as to defend it against an invading
enemy, but to hurl destruction on the devoted subjects of the Bourbon.
We are told that the people Lad set their hearts on seeing this
fortress, which they look upon as a standing menace, razed to the
ground, and its site covered with peaceful dwellings. And it is not
without regret that we have since learned that Victor Emmanuel has
thought it inexpedient to comply with this wish. Nor, in our ignorance,
can we divest ourselves entirely of the belief that it would have been a
wise as well as conciliatory policy to do so.

We are politely shown over the castle by one of the National Guard, who
hold it in charge, and see lounging upon one of its terraces, carefully
guarded, but kindly allowed all practicable liberty, several officers of
the late power, prisoners where they had formerly held despotic sway. We
descend into the now empty dungeons, dark and noisome as they have been
described, where victims of political accusation or suspicion have pined
for years in dreary solitude. It produces a marked sensation in the
minds of our Italian companions in this sad tour of inspection, when
we tell them, through our guide Antonio, that these cells are the
counterpart of the dungeons of the condemned in the prison of the Doges
of Venice, as we had seen them a few days before,--save that the latter
were better, in their day, in so far as in them the cold stone was
originally lined and concealed by wooden casings, while in those before
us the helpless prisoner in his gropings could touch only the hard rock,
significant of the relentless despotism which enchained him. The walls
are covered with the inscriptions of former tenants. In One place we
discover a long line of marks in groups of fives,--like the tallies of
our boyish sports,--but here used for how different a purpose! Were
these the records of days, or weeks, or months? The only furniture of
the cells is a raised platform of wood, the sole bed of the miserable
inmate. The Italian visitors, before leaving, childishly vent their
useless rage at the sight of these places of confinement, by breaking to
pieces the windows and shutters, and scattering their fragments on the
floor.

We have returned from Sant' Elmo, and, evening having arrived, are
sitting in the smoking-room of the Hotel de Grande Bretagne, conversing
with one of the English Volunteers, when our friend General J--n of the
British Army, one of the lookers-on in Naples, comes in, having just
returned from "the front." He brings the news of a smart skirmish which
has taken place during the day; of the English "Excursionists" being
ordered out in advance; of their rushing with alacrity into the thickest
of the fight, and bravely sustaining the conflict,--being, indeed,
with difficulty withheld by their officers from needlessly exposing
themselves. But this inspiring news is tinged with sadness. One of their
number, well known and much beloved, had fallen, killed instantly by a
bullet through the head. Military ardor, aroused by the report of
brave deeds, is for a few moments held in abeyance by grief, and
then rekindled by the desire of vengeance. Hot blood is up, and the
prevailing feeling is a longing for a renewal of the fight. We are told,
if we wish to see an action, to go to "the front" to-morrow. Accordingly
we decide to be there.

The following day, our faithful _commissionnaire_, Antonio, places us
in a carriage drawn by a powerful pair of horses, and headed for the
Garibaldian camp. A hamper of provisions is not forgotten, and before
starting we cause Antonio to double the supplies: we have a presentiment
that we may find with whom to share them.

There are twelve miles before us to the nearest point in the camp, which
is Caserta. Our chief object being to see the hero of Italy, if we do
not find him at Caserta, we shall push on four miles farther, to Santa
Maria; and, missing him there, ride still another four miles to Sant'
Angelo, where rests the extreme right of the army over against Capua.

As we ride over the broad and level road from Naples to Caserta,
bordered with lines of trees through its entire length, we are surprised
to see not only husbandmen quietly tilling the fields, but laborers
engaged in public works upon the highway, as if in the employ of a long
established authority, and making it difficult to believe that we are
in the midst of civil war, and under a provisional government of a few
weeks' standing. But this and kindred wonders are fruits of the spell
wrought by Garibaldi, who wove the most discordant elements into
harmony, and made hostile factions work together for the common good,
for the sake of the love they bore to him.

About mid-day we arrive at a redoubt which covers a part of the road,
leaving barely enough space for one vehicle to pass. We are of course
stopped, but are courteously received by the officer of the guard.
We show our pass from General Turr, giving us permission "freely to
traverse all parts of the camp," and being told to drive on, find
ourselves within the lines. As we proceed, we see laborers busily
engaged throwing up breastworks, soldiers reposing beneath the trees,
and on every side the paraphernalia of war.

Garibaldi is not here, nor do we find him at Santa Maria. So we prolong
our ride to the twentieth mile by driving our reeking, but still
vigorous horses to Sant' Angelo.

We are now in sight of Capua, where Francis II. is shut up with a strong
garrison. The place is a compact walled town, crowned by the dome of a
large and handsome church, and situated in a plain by the side of the
Volturno. Though, contrary to expectation, there is no firing to-day, we
see all about us the havoc of previous cannonadings. The houses we pass
are riddled with round shot thrown by the besieged, and the ground is
strewn with the limbs of trees severed by iron missiles. But where is
Garibaldi? No one knows. Yonder, however, is a lofty hill, and upon its
summit we descry three or four persons. It is there, we are told, that
the Commander-in-Chief goes to observe the enemy, and among the forms we
see is very probably the one we seek.

We have just got into our carriage again, and are debating as to whither
we shall go next, when we are addressed from the road-side in English.
There, dressed in the red shirt, are three young men, all not far from
twenty years of age, members of the British regiment of "Excursionists."
They are out foraging for their mess, and ask a ride with us to Santa
Maria. We are only too glad of their company; and off we start, a
carriage-full. Then commences a running fire of question and response.
We find the society of our companions a valuable acquisition. They are
from London,--young men of education, and full of enthusiasm for
the cause of Italian liberty. One of them is a connection of our
distinguished countrywoman, Mrs. Harriet Beecher Stowe. Before going to
Santa Maria, they insist on doing the honors, and showing the objects
of interest the vicinity. So they take us to their barrack, a large
farm-house, and thence to "the front." To the latter spot our coachman
declines driving, as his horses are not bullet-proof, and the enemy is
not warranted to abstain from firing during our visit. So, proceeding on
foot, we reach a low breastwork of sand-bags, with an orchard in advance
of it. Here, our companions tell us, was the scene of yesterday's
skirmish, in which they took an active part. The enemy had thrown out a
detachment of sharp-shooters, who had entered the wood, and approached
the breastwork. A battalion of the English Volunteers was ordered up. As
they marched eagerly forwards, a body of Piedmontese, stationed a little
from the road, shouted, "_Vivano gl' Inglesi! Vivano gl' Inglesi!_"
At the breastworks where we are standing, the word was given to break
ranks, and skirmish. Instantly they sprang over the wall, and took
position behind the trees, to shoot "wherever they saw a head." Each
soldier had his "covering man,"--a comrade stationed about ten feet
behind him, whose duty it was to keep his own piece charged ready to
kill any of the enemy who might attempt to pick off the leading man
while the latter was loading. One of my young friends had the hammer of
his rifle shot off in his hand. He kept his position till another weapon
was passed out to him. The action lasted till evening, when the enemy
drew off, there being various and uncertain reports as to their loss.
Our British cousins had some ten wounded, besides the one killed.
Fighting royalists, we will mention here, was no fancy-work about that
time, as the Neapolitans had an ugly trick of extinguishing the eyes of
their prisoners, and then putting their victims to death.

We return to our carriage, drive into a sheltered spot, and give the
word of command to Antonio to open the hamper and deploy his supplies,
when hungry soldiers vie with the ravenous traveller in a knife-and-fork
skirmish. No fault was found with the _cuisine_ of the Hotel de Grande
Bretagne.

The rations disposed of, we set off again for Santa Maria. Arrived at
the village, at the request of our companions, we visit with them a
hospital, to see one of their comrades, wounded in the action of the
preceding day, and, as we are known to profess the healing art, to give
our opinion as to his condition. We enter a large court-yard surrounded
with farm-buildings, one wing of which is devoted to hospital purposes.
We find the wards clean and well ventilated, and wearing the look of
being well attended. This favorable condition is owing in great measure
to the interposition and supervision of several ladies, among whom are
specially mentioned the two daughters of an English clergyman, without
omitting the name of the Countess della Torres. The wounded comrade of
our friends had been struck by a ball, which had not been readied by the
probe, and was supposed to have entered the lung. The poor young fellow
draws his rapid breath with much pain, but is full of pluck, and meets
the encouraging assurances of his friends with a smile and words of
fortitude. Some time afterwards we learn that he is convalescent, though
in a disabled state.

It now becomes necessary to say our mutual farewells, which we do as
cordially as though we had been old friends. We go our respective ways,
to meet once more in Italy, and to renew our acquaintance again in
London, where we subsequently spend a pleasant evening together by a
cheerful English fireside.

Scarcely have we parted with these new-found friends of kindred blood
and common language, when we are provided with another companion.
An Italian officer asks a seat with us to Caserta. Our letter of
introduction to General Orsini being shown to him, he volunteers to
assist us in attaining our object, that of seeing the hero of Italy.
At five, we are before the palace of Caserta, now a barrack, and the
head-quarters of the Commander-in-Chief. The building is one of great
size and beauty of architecture. A lofty arch, sustained by elegant and
massive marble pillars, bisects the structure, and on either side one
may pass from the archway into open areas of spacious dimensions, from
which lead passages to the various offices. We approach a very splendid
marble staircase leading to the state apartments. A sentinel forbids us
to pass. This is, then, perhaps, the part of the building occupied by
the Commander-in-Chief. Not so. The state apartments are unoccupied, and
are kept sacred from intrusion, as the property of the nation to which
they are to belong. Garibaldi's apartments are among the humblest in the
palace. We go on to the end of the archway, and see, stretching as far
as the eye can reach, the Royal Drive, leading through a fine avenue of
trees, and reminding us of the "Long Walk" at Windsor Castle. Retracing
our steps, and crossing one of the court-yards, we ascend a modest
staircase, and are in the antechamber of the apartments of the
Commander-in-Chief. There are sentinels at the outer door, others at
the first landing, and a guard of honor, armed with halberds, in the
antechamber. Our courteous companion, by virtue of his official rank,
has passed us without difficulty by the sentries, and quits us to
discharge the duty which brought him to Caserta.

We are now eagerly expectant of the arrival of him whose face we have so
long sought The hour is at hand when he joins his military family at an
unostentatious and very frugal dinner. In about half an hour there is
a sudden cessation in the hum of conversation, the guard is ordered to
stand to arms, and in a moment more, amid profound silence, Garibaldi
has passed through the antechamber, leaving the place, as it were,
pervaded by his presence. We had beheld an erect form, of rather low
stature, but broad and compact, a lofty brow, a composed and thoughtful
face, with decision and reserved force depicted on every line of it.
In the mien and carriage we had seen realized all that we had read and
heard of the air of one born to command.

Our hero wore the characteristic red shirt and gray trousers, and,
thrown over them, a short gray cloak faced with red. When without the
cloak, there might be seen, hanging upon the back, and fastened around
the throat, the party-colored kerchief usually appertaining to priestly
vestments.

Returning to Naples, and sitting that night at our window, with the most
beautiful of bays before us, we treasure up for perpetual recollection
the picture of Garibaldi at head-quarters.

GARIBALDI AT POMPEII.

It is Sunday, the 21st of October. We have to-day observed the people,
in the worst quarters of the city as well as in the best, casting their
ballots in an orderly and quiet manner, under the supervision of the
National Guard, for Victor Emmanuel as their ruler. To-morrow we have
set apart for exploring Pompeii, little dreaming what awaits us there.
Our friend, General J--n, of the British Army, learning that there is no
likelihood of active operations at "the front," proposes to join us in
our excursion.

We are seated in the restaurant at the foot of the acclivity which
leads to the exhumed city, when suddenly Antonio appears and exclaims,
"Garibaldi!" We look in the direction he indicates, and, in an avenue
leading from the railway, we behold the Patriot-Soldier of Italy
advancing toward us, accompanied by the Countess Pallavicini, the wife
of the Prodictator of Naples, and attended by General Turr, with several
others of his staff. We go out to meet them. General J--n, a warm
admirer of Garibaldi, gives him a cordial greeting, and presents us as
an American. We say a few words expressive of the sympathy entertained
by the American people for the cause of Italy and its apostle. He whom
we thus address, in his reply, professes his happiness in enjoying the
good wishes of Americans, and, gracefully turning to our friend, adds,
"I am grateful also for the sympathy of the English." The party then
pass on, and we are left with the glowing thought that we have grasped
the hand of Garibaldi.

Half an hour later, we are absorbed in examining one of the structures
of what was once Pompeii, when suddenly we hear martial music. We follow
the direction of the sound, and presently find ourselves in the ancient
forum. In the centre of the inclosure is a military band playing the
"Hymn of Garibaldi"; while at its northern extremity, standing, facing
us, between the columns of the temple of Jupiter, with full effect given
to the majesty of his bearing, is Garibaldi. Moved by the strikingly
contrasting associations of the time and the place, we turn to General
J--n, saying, "Behold around us the symbols of the death of Italy, and
there the harbinger of its resurrection." Our companion, fired with a
like enthusiasm, immediately advances to the base of the temple, and,
removing his hat, repeats the words in the presence of those there
assembled.

GARIBALDI AT "THE FRONT."

Once again we look in the eye of this wonderful man, and take him by the
hand. This time it is at "the front." On Saturday, the 27th of October,
we are preparing to leave Naples for Rome by the afternoon boat, when we
receive a message from General J--n that the bombardment of Capua is to
begin on the following day at ten o'clock, and inviting us to join his
party to the camp. Accordingly, postponing our departure for the North,
we get together a few surgical instruments, and take a military train
upon the railway in the afternoon for the field of action.

Our party consists of General J--n, General W., of Virginia, Captain
G., a Scotch officer serving in Italy, and ourself. Arrived at Caserta,
Captain G., showing military despatches, is provided with a carriage, in
which we all drive to the advanced post at Sant' Angelo. We reach this
place at about eight o'clock, when we ride and walk through the camp,
which presents a most picturesque aspect, illuminated as it is by a
brilliant moon. We see clusters of white tents, with now and then the
general silence broken by the sound of singing wafted to us from among
them,--here and there tired soldiers lying asleep on the ground, covered
with their cloaks,--horses picketed in the fields,--camp-fires burning
brightly in various directions; while all seems to indicate the profound
repose of men preparing for serious work on the morrow. We pass and
repass a bridge, a short time before thrown across the Volturno. A
portion of the structure has broken down; but our English friends
congratulate themselves that the part built by their compatriots has
stood firm. We exchange greetings with Colonel Bourdonne, who is on duty
here for the night, superintending the repairs of the bridge, and who
kindly consigns us to his quarters.

Arrived at the farm-house where Colonel Bourdonne has established
himself, and using his name, we are received with the utmost attention
by the servants. The only room at their disposal, fortunately a large
one, they soon arrange for our accommodation. To General J---n, the
senior of the party, is assigned the only bed; an Italian officer
occupies a sofa; while General W., Captain G., and ourself are ranged,
"all in a row," on bags of straw placed upon the floor. Of the
merriment, prolonged far into the night, and making the house resound
with peals of laughter,--not at all to the benefit, we fear, of several
wounded officers in a neighboring room,--we may not write.

Sunday is a warm, clear, summer-like day, and our party climb the
principal eminence of Sant' Angelo to witness the expected bombardment.
We reach the summit at ten minutes before ten, the hour announced for
opening fire. We find several officers assembled there,--among them
General H., of Virginia. Low tone of conversation and a restrained
demeanor are impressed on all; for, a few paces off, conferring with
two or three confidential aids, is the man whose very presence is
dignity,--Garibaldi.

Casting our eye over the field, we cannot realize that there are such
hosts of men under arms about us, till a military guide by our side
points out their distribution to us.

"Look there!" says General H., pointing to an orchard beneath. "Under
those trees they are swarming thick as bees. There are ten thousand men,
at least, in that spot alone."

With an opera-glass we can distinctly scan the walls of Capua, and
observe that they are not yet manned. But the besieged are throwing out
troops by thousands into the field before our lines. We remark one large
body drawn up in the shelter of the shadow cast by a large building.
Every now and then, from out this shadow, a piercing ray of light is
shot, reflected from the helm or sword-case of the commanding officer,
who is gallantly riding up and down before his men, and probably
haranguing them in preparation for the expected conflict. All these
things strike the attention with a force and meaning far different from
the impression produced by the holiday pageantry of mimic war.

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