For beauty of situation as for salubrity, probably the whole shore of the Mediterranean could offer nothing superior to Varegnano. But were it even otherwise, the choice of a safe spot of detention for Garibaldi was a very limited one. It would have been the height of rashness to have kept him in the south. Ancona, too, would have been a dangerous vicinity. To convey him to Alessandria or Fenestrella must necessitate the landing at Genoa, and the passage through that fiery furnace of Mazzinism; so that nothing remained but Spezia or Savonna. Between the two, there could not be a moment’s hesitation.
Spezia, too, was easily guarded—a few mortar-boats in the Gulf, and a battalion of Bersaglieri on land, could secure Varegnano against all surprise, if such were to be apprehended.
If it be but fair to disabuse the world of the false impression that Garibaldi’s place of detention is a prison, and his room a cell, it is equally owing to justice to state that in all that regards intercourse with his friends, and communication with them, he is treated with a rigid severity. None who are admitted once, are ever permitted to return, if they leave the precincts of Varegnano; and thus his own children, not to lose the advantage of his presence, have been obliged to take up their abode with him, within the walls, and never leave them. His letters—as well those he writes, as those he receives—are all opened and read; and, in a word, even to the character of the individual to whom his safe custody is committed, there is nothing omitted which could be employed towards one fully convicted and sentenced in an open tribunal. Poor Garibaldi, even in his brief experience of imprisonment, has met his Sir Hudson Lowe!
When the doctors met first in consultation on the case, on the morning of the 3rd, they found Garibaldi less worn and exhausted than they expected. He had been somewhat impatient for their arrival; but, as they entered the room, he shook each cordially by the hand, and seemed cheerful and good-humoured. He said that the journey, and especially the transit from the ship to the shore, had cost him much pain, but that he was then easier, and perfectly ready to submit to whatever they recommended—even amputation, if necessary. While this was his manner to the doctors, his reception of all officials of the Government was cold and haughty, and Turr and Bixio, it is said, went away overwhelmed with sorrow at the less than friendly greeting of the old general.
This is not the place, nor is it my intention, to be led away to discuss this rash enterprise, with all its varying accidents; but certainly the judgments passed upon Garibaldi savour far more of those which attend failure, than those which criticise fairly a daring attempt.
There were, in reality, ten thousand more chances for Garibaldi to succeed in anything—no matter what—now, than when he undertook the expedition against Naples in 1859. His name alone was worth an army, and so he would have proved it, had it not been that he was “counter-mined.” Had Cavour been alive, and the minister, instead of Ratazzi, there is not a man in Italy doubts, that the Italian flag would be floating to-day over the Capitol.
Garibaldi was recalled from Caprera to arouse, as he was told and believed, the dormant patriotism of Italy; but, in reality, to give the Cabinet a certain power of pressure on France, to be relaxed if needed. When that need did come, and it was seen that Louis Napoleon, instead of lessening his hold on Italy, only confirmed and tightened his grasp, Garibaldi was ordered to keep quiet. Like Nelson, however, “he would not mind the signal,”—he went on; but, unlike Nelson, not to victory!
All who know Italy, know well that he failed, not because Italy was against him. Public opinion opposed. The army faithful, and his own means small and inadequate, he failed simply by being too soon. In one fortnight more, the mass of the nation would have been with him. The great truth was breaking—only breaking on the popular mind, that the country was no better than a French province, and that Garibaldi alone could relieve them of this disgrace.
And now, a prisoner, and wounded in Varegnano, this man’s name, so far from the prediction of certain newspaper-writers being true, is a spell which could move Italy to its very centre; and the whole fate of the Peninsula hangs now, not on the will of Austria, or the will of France, but on the resolve of the Turin Cabinet, What is to be done with Garibaldi?
A VISIT TO THE HAREEM OF SAÏD PACHA.
Having been fortunate in obtaining an introduction to some Egyptian hareems, and, among others, to that of the Viceroy, during the course of last winter, it has struck me that a short account of it might be acceptable to some of my untravelled countrywomen. I will, however, ask them to accompany me first through the mysterious recesses of a private hareem at Cairo, a visit to which is really far more interesting than to the royal one, where the number of European ladies who have been admitted has modified many of the Eastern peculiarities.
We drove through a porte-cochère into a large open court, on one side of which hung a curtain, similar to those at the entrance of Roman Catholic churches. As soon as we had got out of the carriage, a tall black man appeared, handed us up the steps, and let the curtain drop behind us. At this moment, three or four female slaves arrived, with large glass lanterns, and ushered us up a long staircase into a passage; on either hand were small rooms, in which were other slaves, some embroidering, others smoking, or crouched asleep on the ground. This passage led into a magnificent marble hall, the centre of which was lighted by a lofty dome, and the four sides formed alcoves, round each of which ran a low divan. Here the slaves disencumbered us of our wraps, and we proceeded through more passages and staircases, some of them open to the air, then through several large rooms, with only the usual divan for furniture; most of them were entered by a low step, down one or two of which I slipped. I began to think we should never reach the en-
