The Assembly sent to Oudinot, but he refused any conditions,—­refused even to guarantee a safe departure to Garibaldi, his brave foe.  Notwithstanding, a great number of men left the other regiments to follow the leader whose courage had captivated them, and whose superiority over difficulties commanded their entire confidence.  Toward the evening of Monday, the 2d of July, it was known that the French were preparing to cross the river and take possession of all the city.  I went into the Corso with some friends; it was filled with citizens and military.  The carriage was stopped by the crowd near the Doria palace; the lancers of Garibaldi galloped along in full career.  I longed for Sir Walter Scott to be on earth again, and see them; all are light, athletic, resolute figures, many of the forms of the finest manly beauty of the South, all sparkling with its genius and ennobled by the resolute spirit, ready to dare, to do, to die.  We followed them to the piazza of St. John Lateran.  Never have I seen a sight so beautiful, so romantic, and so sad.  Whoever knows Rome knows the peculiar solemn grandeur of that piazza, scene of the first triumph of Rienzi, and whence may be seen the magnificence of the “mother of all churches,” the baptistery with its porphyry columns, the Santa Scala with its glittering mosaics of the early ages, the obelisk standing fairest of any of those most imposing monuments of Rome, the view through the gates of the Campagna, on that side so richly strewn with ruins.  The sun was setting, the crescent moon rising, the flower of the Italian youth were marshalling in that solemn place.  They had been driven from every other spot where they had offered their hearts as bulwarks of Italian independence; in this last strong-hold they had sacrificed hecatombs of their best and bravest in that cause; they must now go or remain prisoners and slaves. Where go, they knew not; for except distant Hungary there is not now a spot which would receive them, or where they can act as honor commands.  They had all put on the beautiful dress of the Garibaldi legion, the tunic of bright red cloth, the Greek cap, or else round hat with Puritan plume.  Their long hair was blown back from resolute faces; all looked full of courage.  They had counted the cost before they entered on this perilous struggle; they had weighed life and all its material advantages against liberty, and made their election; they turned not back, nor flinched, at this bitter crisis.  I saw the wounded, all that could go, laden upon their baggage cars; some were already pale and fainting, still they wished to go.  I saw many youths, born to rich inheritance, carrying in a handkerchief all their worldly goods.  The women were ready; their eyes too were resolved, if sad.  The wife of Garibaldi followed him on horseback.  He himself was distinguished by the white tunic; his look was entirely that of a hero of the Middle Ages,—­his face still young, for the excitements of his life, though so many, have