utility had been greatest, should feel thankful for so precious a privilege—­few men could say, “I have served my country well, I have entirely done my duty.”  Cavour, who heard Ricasoli speak for the first time, said with generous approbation, “I have understood to-day what real eloquence is.”  But it was not likely that the debate would continue on this academic plane.  Garibaldi had come to Turin in a fit of intense anger at the treatment of his old comrades, and on rising to defend them he soon lost control over himself, and launched into furious invectives against the man who had made him a foreigner in his native town, and “who was now driving the country into civil war.”  Cavour would have borne patiently anything that Garibaldi could say about Nice, but at the words “civil war” he became violently excited.  The house trembled lest a scene should take place, which would be worse for Italy than the loss of a battle.  But Cavour cared too much for Italy to harm her.  The sense of his first indignant protests was lost in the general uproar; afterwards, when he rose to reply to Garibaldi, he was perfectly calm; there was not a trace of resentment on his face.  Such self-command would have been noble in a man whose temperament was phlegmatic; in a passionate man like Cavour it was heroic.  He said that an abyss had been created between himself and General Garibaldi.  He had performed what he believed to be a duty, but it was the most cruel duty of his life.  What he felt made him able to understand what Garibaldi felt.  With regard to the volunteers, had he not himself instituted them in 1859 in the teeth of all kinds of opposition?  Was it likely that he wished to treat them ill?  A few days later Garibaldi wrote a letter in which he promised Cavour (in effect) plenary absolution if he would proclaim a dictatorship.  He would then be the first to obey.  There was no petty spite or envy in Garibaldi; his wild thrusts had been prompted by “a general honest thought, and common good to all.”  He was ready to give his rival unlimited power.

By the king’s wish, Cavour and Garibaldi met and exchanged a few courteous, if not cordial, words.  Cavour ignored the scene in the Chamber; he had already said that for him it had never happened.  It was their last meeting.  The wear and tear of public life as it was lived by Cavour must have been enormous; it meant the concentration, not only of the mental and physical powers, but also of the nervous and emotional faculties, on a single object.  He had not the relaxation of athletic or literary tastes, or the repose of a cheerful domestic life.  Latterly he even gave up going to the theatre in order to dose undisturbed.  A doctor warned him not to work after dinner, and to take frequent holidays in the mountains; he neglected both rules.  He was inclined to despise rest.  He used to say:  “When I want a thing to be done quickly, I always go to a busy man:  the unoccupied man never has any time.”  He, himself, did not know how to be idle; yet he was