We had a very witty Judge in Ireland, who was not very scrupulous about
giving hard knocks to his brothers on the bench, and who, in delivering
a judgment in a cause, found that he was to give the casting-vote
between his two colleagues, who were diametrically opposed to each
other, and who had taken great pains to lay down the reasons for their
several opinions at considerable length. “It now comes to my turn,” said
he, “to declare my view of this case, and fortunately I can afford to
be brief. I agree with my brother B. from the irresistible force of the
admirable argument of my brother M.”
The story occurred to me as I thought over Garibaldi and the
enthusiastic reception you gave him in England; for I really felt, if it
had not been for Carlyle, I might have been a bit of a hero-worshipper
myself The grand frescoes in caricature of the popular historian have,
however, given me a hearty and wholesome disgust to the whole thing; not
to say that, however enthusiastic a man may feel about his idol, he must
be sorely ashamed of his fellow-worshippers. “Lie down with dogs, and
you’ll get up with fleas,” says an old Irish adage; but what, in the
name of all entomology, is a man to get up with who lies down with these
votaries of Garibaldi? So fine a fellow, and so mangy a following, it
would be hard to find. The opportunity for all the blatant balderdash
of shopkeeping eloquence, of that high “Falootin” style so popular over
the Atlantic, of those grand-sounding periods about freedom and love
of country, was not to be lost by a set of people who, in all their
enthusiasm for Garibaldi, are intently bent on making themselves
foreground figures in the tableau that should have been filled by
himself alone.
“Sir Francis Burdett call _you_ his friend!--as well call a Bug his
bedfellow!” said the sturdy old yeoman, whose racy English I should like
to borrow, to characterise the stupid incongruity between Garibaldi and
his worshippers. It is not easy to conceive anything finer, simpler,
more thoroughly unaffected, or more truly dignified, than the man
himself. His noble head; his clear, honest, brown eye; his finely-traced
mouth, beautiful as a woman’s, and only strung up to sternness when
anything ignoble or mean had outraged him; and, last of all, his voice
contains a fascination perfectly irresistible, allied, as you knew and
felt these graces were, with a thoroughly pure, untarnished nature. The
true measure of the man lies in the fact that, though his life has been
a series of the boldest and most daring achievements, his courage is
about the very last quality uppermost in your mind when you meet him.
It is of the winning softness of his look and manner, his kind
thoughtfulness for others, his sincere pity for all suffering, his
gentleness, his modesty, his manly sense of brotherhood with the very
humblest of the men who have loved him, that you think: these are the
traits that throw all his heroism into shadow; and all the glory of the
conqueror pales before the simple virtues of the man.
He never looked to more advantage than in that humble life of Caprera,
where people came and went--some, old and valued friends, whose presence
warmed up their host’s heart; others, mere passing acquaintances, or,
as it might be, not even that; worshippers or curiosity-seekers--living
where and how they could in that many-roomed small house; diving into
the kitchen to boil their coffee; sallying out to the garden to pluck
their radishes; down to the brook for a cress, or to the seaside to
catch a fish,--all more or less busy in the midst of a strange
idleness; for there was not--beyond providing for the mere wants of the
day--anything to be done. The soil would not yield anything. There was
no cultivation outside that little garden, where the grand old soldier
delved, or rested on his spade-handle as he turned his gaze over the
sea, doubtless thinking of the dear land beyond it.
At dinner--and what a strange meal it was--all met, full of the little
incidents of an uneventful day. The veriest trifles they were, but of
interest to those who listened, and to none more than Garibaldi himself,
who liked to hear who had been over to Maddalena, and what sport they
had; or whether Albanesi had taken any mullet, and who it was said he
could mend the boat? and who was to paint her? Not a word was spoken
of the political events of the world, and every mention of them was
as rigidly excluded as though a government spy had been seated at the
table.
He rarely spoke himself, but was a good listener--not merely hearing
with attention, but showing, by an occasional suggestion or a hint, how
his mind speculated on the subject before him. If, however, led to speak
of himself or his exploits, the unaffected ease and simplicity of the
man became at once evident. Never, by any chance, would an expression
escape him that redounded to his own share in any achievement;
without any studied avoidance the matter would somehow escape, or, if
accidentally touched on, be done so very lightly as to make it appear of
no moment whatever.
To have done one-tenth of what Garibaldi has done, a man must
necessarily have thrown aside scruples which he would never have
probably transgressed in his ordinary life. He must have been often
arbitrary, and sometimes almost cruel; and yet, ask his followers, and
they will tell you that punishment scarcely existed in the force under
his immediate command--that the most hardened offender would have
quailed more under a few stern words of reproof from “the General” than
from a sentence that sent him to a prison.
That, to effect his purpose, he would lay hands on what he needed, not
recklessly or indifferently, but thoughtfully and doubtless regretfully,
we all know. I can remember an instance of this kind, related to me by
a British naval officer, who himself was an actor in the scene. “It was
off La Plata,” said my informant, “when Garibaldi was at war with Rosas,
that the frigate I commanded was on that station, as well as a small
gun-brig of the Sardinian navy, whose captain never harassed his men by
exercises of gunnery, and, indeed, whose ship was as free from any ‘beat
to quarters,’ or any sudden summons to prepare for boarders, as though
she had been a floating chapel.
“Garibaldi came alongside me one day to say that he had learned the
Sardinian had several tons of powder on board, with an ample supply
of grape, shell, and canister, not to speak of twelve hundred stand of
admirable arms. ‘I want them all,’ said he; ‘my people are fighting with
staves and knives, and we are totally out of ammunition. I want them,
and he won’t let me have them.’
“‘He could scarcely do so,’ said I, ‘seeing that they belong to his
Government, and are not in _his_ hands to bestow.’
“‘For that reason I must go and take them,’ said Garibaldi. ‘I mean to
board him this very night, and you’ll see if we do not replenish our
powder-flasks.’
“‘In that case,’ said I, ‘I shall have to fire on you. It will be
Piracy; nothing else.’
“‘You’ll not do so;’ said he, smiling.
“‘Yes, I promise you that I will. We are at peace and on good terms with
Sardinia, and I cannot behave other than as a friend to her ships of
war.’
“‘There’s no help for it, then,’ said Garibaldi, ‘if you see the thing
in that light:’ and good-humouredly quitted the subject, and soon after
took his leave.”
“And were you,” asked I of my informant, Captain S.----“were you
perfectly easy after that conversation? I mean, were you fully satisfied
that he would not attempt the matter in some other way?”
“Never more at ease in my life. I knew my man; and that, having left
me under the conviction he had abandoned the exploit, nothing on earth
would have tempted him to renew it in any shape.”
It might be a matter of great doubt whether any greater intellectual
ability would not have rather detracted from than increased Garibaldi’s
power as a popular leader. I myself feel assured that the simplicity,
the trustfulness, the implicit reliance on the goodness of a cause as a
reason for its success, are qualities which no mere mental superiority
could replace in popular estimation. It is actually Love that is
the sentiment the Italians have for him; and I have seen them,
hard-featured, ay, and hard-natured men, moved to tears as the litter
on which Garibaldi lay wounded was carried down to the place of
embarkation.
Garibaldi has always been a thoughtful, silent, reflective man, not
communicative to others, or in any way expansive; and from these
qualities have come alike his successes and his failures. Of the
conversations reported of him by writers I do not believe a syllable. He
speaks very little; and, luckily for him, that little only with those on
whose integrity he can rely not to repeat him.
Cavour, who knew men thoroughly, and studied them just as closely as he
studied events, understood at once that Garibaldi was the man he wanted.
He needed one who should move the national heart--who, sprung from the
people himself, and imbued with all the instincts of his class, should
yet not dissever the cause of liberty from the cause of monarchy. To
attach Garibaldi to the throne was no hard task. The King, who led the
van of his army, was an idol made for such worship as Garibaldi’s. The
monarch who could carry a knapsack and a heavy rifle over the cliffs
of Monte Rosa from sunrise to sunset, and take his meal of hard bread
before he “turned in” at night in a shepherd’s shieling, was a King
after the bold buccaneer’s own heart.
To what end inveigh against the luxuries of a court, its wasteful
splendours, or its costly extravagance, with such an example? This
strong-sinewed, big-boned, unpoetical King has been the hardest nut ever
republicanism had to crack!
It might be possible to overrate the services Garibaldi has rendered
to Italy--it would be totally impossible to exaggerate those he has
rendered the Monarchy; and out of Garibaldi’s devotion to Victor
Emmanuel has sprung that hearty, honest, manly appreciation of the King
which the Italians unquestionably display. A merely political head of
the State, though he were gifted with the highest order of capacity,
would have disappeared altogether from view in the sun-splendour of
Garibaldi’s exploits; not so the King Victor Emmanuel, who only shone
the brighter in the reflected blaze of the hero who was so proud to
serve him.
Yet for all that friendship, and all the acts that grew out of it,
natural and spontaneous as they are, one great mind was needed to guide,
direct, encourage, or restrain. It was Cavour who, behind the scenes,
pulled all the wires; and these heroes--heroes they were too--were but
his puppets.
Cavour died, and then came Aspromonte.
If any other man than Garibaldi had taken the present moment to make
a visit--an almost ostentatious visit--to Mazzini, it might be a grave
question how far all the warm enthusiasm of this popular reception could
be justified. Garibaldi is, however, the one man in Europe from whom
no one expects anything but impulsive action. It is in the very
unreflectiveness of his generosity that he is great. There has not been,
I am assured, for many years back, any very close or intimate friendship
between these two men; but it was quite enough that Mazzini was in
trouble and difficulty, to rally to his side that brave-hearted
comrade who never deserted his wounded. Nor is there in all Garibaldi’s
character anything finer or more exalted than the steadfast adherence he
has ever shown to his early friendships. No flatteries of the great--no
blandishments of courts and courtiers--none of those seductive
influences which are so apt to weave themselves into a man’s nature when
surrounded by continual homage and admiration--not any of these have
corrupted that pure and simple heart; and there is not a presence
so exalted, nor a scene of splendour so imposing, as could prevent
Garibaldi from recognising with eager delight any the very humblest
companion that ever shared hardship and danger beside him.
To have achieved his successes, a man must of necessity have rallied
around him many besides enthusiasts of the cause; he must have recruited
amongst men of broken fortunes--reckless, lawless fellows, who accepted
the buccaneer’s life as a means of wiping off old scores with that old
world “that would have none of them.” It was not amidst the orderly, the
soberly-trained, and well-to-do that he could seek for followers. And
what praise is too great for him who could so inspire this mass, heaving
with passion as it was, with his own noble sentiments, and make them
feel that the work before them--a nation’s regeneration--was a task too
high and too holy to be accomplished by unclean hands? Can any eulogy
exaggerate the services of a man who could so magnetise his fellow-men
as to associate them at once with his nobility of soul, and elevate them
to a standard little short of his own? That he _did_ do this we have the
proof. Pillage was almost unknown amongst the Garibaldians; and these
famished, ill-clad, shoeless men marched on from battle to battle
with scarcely an instance of crime that called for the interference of
military law.
Where is the General who could boast of doing as much? Where is the
leader who could be bold enough to give such a pledge for his followers?
Is there an army in Europe--in the world--for whom as much could be
said?
All honour, therefore, to the man--not whose example only, but whose
very contact suggests high intent and noble action. All honour to
him who brings to a great cause, not alone the dazzling splendour
of heroism, but the more enduring brightness of a pure and unsullied
integrity!
Such a man may be misled; he can never be corrupted.