Science holding up a guiding finger to Skill
when touching the brain or seat of Intelligence.

OUR LAST ATTEMPT.

BY A GARIBALDINO.

I. UNDER THE FIG-TREE.

WHEN General Garibaldi landed in Sicily,
nothing was less in my mind than any thought of
joining him. I was witli my mother and sisters,
at a villa of my father's, near Corleone, whither
we had gone to enjoy the fine mountain air,
instead of the hot breezes and scorching sun of
the sea-shore. None of my family were what is
called Liberals in politics. My father was, and
is, a stout adherent.of the " Casa di Savoia," and
but for his preference to a home life and its
cares, might, I believe, have been a Senator of
the Kingdom. My mother was one of the ladies
of the old Neapolitan court, and so violent in
her prejudices towards the successors that none
of us ever adverted to political matters before
her, well knowing' that the presence of strangers
or servants would not have restrained her from
indiscretion. Time was not, besides, so
efficacious as we had hoped in smoothing down these
asperities. Indeed, I rather think that she grew
more bitter towards " the Piedmontese," as she
would call them, every day; and the word
"Brigand," applied to the mountaineers in
Calabria, was always enough to give her a threat
of apoplexy.

If my sisters had any leanings, they were
towards my mother's opinions. For these reasons
we all of us carefully avoided these vexed
questions, and with a true Italian love of quiet, talked
of anything rather than public events. Villa life
is with us a very monotonous affair. The fattore,
or steward, does all that pertains to the estate,
employs the peasants, pays them, gathers the
harvest, stores and sells it, and gives half to
the proprietor; who cannot make the slightest
change or suggest the least alteration
without being met by the fattore, who will say,
"This is no concern of yours. All you have to
do is to take your moiety of the receipts, and
be off to spend it in Paris or London."

I was not a great reader—- few of us young
Italians are—- and if I had been, there were few
books to tempt me at the villa. We had no
neighbourhood, we kept no horses but a pair of
fat Calabrians for the carriage, the quail
shooting had not begun, and, in fact, I was as
completely "stranded" as may be, and had it not
been for a cigar and a fig-tree, I had been utterly
without an object to live for.

This fig-tree — I owe it a mention, since it
has already thrown some shadow over my destiny,
and may perhaps influence it to the last — grew
beside a delicious little rock-well, where even in
the hottest days of summer the water was cool
and fresh. The overflow of the spring had
made for itself a little cleft in the rocky
mountain, and ran rippling down into the valley
below, like a tiny silk thread, where it ended in
a sort of tank made by the villagers, but
religiously limited in its use to drinking.

It was on a very hot afternoon that I had
gone down as usual after dinner to eat my figs
beside the well, and enjoy the delicious breeze
that came up the mountain side and made the
large leaves tremble over my head. As I drew
nigh the spot, I heard voices talking in tones
which assured me that the speakers were
Northern Italians.

I crept stealthily on till I was within a
few paces of them. I saw three young fellows
dressed in scarlet shirts and white trousers, with
shiny black leather belts round the waist, and a
sort of kepi, or military cap, on the head; the
whole not remarkable for cleanliness, but worn
and travel-stained. They lay around the well,
passing from hand to hand a small drinking-cup
of tin, as they made their meal of black bread
and the juicy figs of my fig-tree.

"I wonder what they are doing at home,"
said the youngest, a lad of about sixteen.

"I'll tell you," said another. " Your father
is shutting up his shop in the Via del Moro, and
going to take his siesta, and mine is standing all
shivering with fear in the ante-chamber of the
sotto prefetto's office, to assure his eccellenza
that he had nothing to do with that scape-
grace son of his who has gone off to join
Garibaldi, but hopes- if it will be any
satisfaction to the monarchy, or to M. Ratazzi
-— that the rascal will be shot at the first
favourable moment."

"And now for Cesare's father," cried the first
speaker. " You must not forget him. What is
he doing?"

"Oh, Cesare's father is a Duke and a great
man. He is addressing the officers of the
National Guard, and declaring that there is but one
banner in Italy—- that of Vittorio Emmanuele.
That the Re-Galantuohomo is Allah, and Urbano
Ratazzi his prophet."

"Keep your drolleries for the class you are
more familiar with, Master Angelo," said a fair-
haired handsome fellow, who started up to a
sitting position as he spoke. " You are about
as fit to read my father's sentiments as to guess
what was served him for his dinner to-day."

"Ay, and I'll tell you that, too, if you'll keep
your temper," said the other.

"Do, Angelo, by all means, Angelo mio,"
cried the youngest of the party.

"First, then, there was the minestra — pretty
much what your father, Carlino, and mine has,
only it was served in silver, and a footman in a
fine livery handed the parmesan to season it
with. Then came, just as with ourselves, the
meat that made it; only that at the Duke's table
there were carrots cut like little dice, and turnips
made into white roses, and every onion had a
sprig of jasmine in it."

"Will you cease this balderdash, Angelo,"
said the young Duke, laughing, " and talk about
something that really concerns us? Have you
learned where Cairoly is?"

"At Poggio-— at least he will be there to
night, and his Picciotti with him."