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.