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.

The Commander-in-Chief is now disengaged, and our party approach him to pay their respects.  By the advice of General J—–­n, we proffer our medical services for the day; and we receive a pressure of the hand, a genial look, and a bind acknowledgment of the offer.  But we are told there will be no general action to-day.  Our report of these words, as we rejoin our companions, is the first intimation given that the bombardment is deferred.  But, though, there is some disappointment, their surprise is not extreme.  For Garibaldi never informs even his nearest aide-de-camp what he is about to do.  In fact, he quaintly says, “If his shirt knew his plans, he would take it off and burn it.”  Some half-hour later, having descended from the eminence, we take our last look of Garibaldi.  He has retired with a single servant to a sequestered place upon the mount, whither he daily resorts, and where his mid-day repast is brought to him.  Here he spends an hour or two secure from interruption.  What thoughts he ponders in his solitude the reader may perhaps conjecture as well as his most intimate friend.  But for us, with the holy associations of a very high mountain before our mind, we can but trust that a prayer, “uttered or unexpressed,” invokes the divine blessing upon the work to which Garibaldi devotes himself,—­the political salvation of his country.

* * * * *

TWO OR THREE TROUBLES.

[Concluded.]

Every day, and twice a day, came Mr. Sampson,—­though I have not said much about it; and now it was only a week before our marriage.  This evening he came in very weary with his day’s work,—­getting a wretched man off from hanging, who probably deserved it richly. (It is said, women are always for hanging:  and that is very likely.  I remember, when there had been a terrible murder in our parlors, as it were, and it was doubtful for some time whether the murderer would be convicted, Mrs. Harris said, plaintively, “Oh, do hang somebody!”) Mr. Sampson did not think so, apparently, but sat on the sofa by the window, dull and abstracted.