any country or people whom we English could,
in many respects, imitate with such great advantage
to ourselves.

CAMPAIGNING IN THE TYROL.

"IF you wish to see something," wrote a
friend to me from Garibaldi's head-quarters,
"come up directly. Business. No food—no
lodging—no horse—no ass—no anything."

Interpreting this last sentence as a salutary
warning rather than discouragement, I at once
discarded that first step from luxury to starvation,
which terminates at Brescia, and there
encountered a friend who had received a similar
announcement, and was already fortifying
himself for the unpromising "front."

"They can't give us rations if they would,"
he casually remarked. "Their commissariat is
at Lonato, and they are at Storo. Fifty miles
apart, you see."

I did see that there might be a certain
inconvenience in going that distance every day to
fetch one's dinner, and therefore acquiesced in
the purchase of a cheese, which, previously cool,
seemed to break into a profuse perspiration at
the idea of going to the front—a mighty
sausage whose prevailing element was
apparently pomatum—a bottle of imposition
denominated "rum," and in every way deserving the
name—and a revolver. These refreshments being
stowed away in a haversack, our next step was
to enter into covenant with the proprietor of a
vehicle, obsolete save in Brescia, to be and
remain with us at the cost of fifteen francs or liri
per day, until it should either break down from
natural infirmity, or be forcibly seized for
purposes of war. In this, we set forth.

Our driver was a patient and resigned
individual, who had outlived all curiosity as to his
own future fortunes. When all was ready, he
gave his steed the usual "Ah!" and, jogging
out at the nearest gate, demanded whither the
signors would be driven? Had we mentioned
Jerusalem, I am persuaded he would have taken
an easterly direction, and never stopped until
brought up by the natural obstacles of the way.

As it was, we named Rocca d'Anfo, and—
with a halt on the road, to deliver some hospital-
stores confided to my care by Gavazzi—reached
our goal about eight in the evening.

The little town was in a condition of blockade;
hay-carts, commissariat-waggons, artillery-trains,
ambulances, were jammed together in a mass
so hopeless, that we abandoned our chariot, and
made our way into the town on foot. Here, we
discovered that the petulance of a mule who
had been doubled short up, and as it were
broken in two, by the sudden stopping of the
cart next before him, had caused the whole
imbroglio. Instead of untying this new species
of "mule-twist," the bystanders were quarrelling
over it. And it required all the authority of
a stalwart figure in red shirt and grey capote,
who charged, whip in hand, into the heart of
the tumult, to restore order and locomotion.

The new comer, in whom we recognised our
friend Major W. of the staff, was charged, for
that night, with the command of the town, for
the purpose of facilitating the passage of
military stores. He used his authority to procure
us what we had regarded as past hoping for—a
lodging for the night. He confirmed, the report
that the mysterious "something" would
certainly come off on the morrow, and advised us
to start at dawn.

Along the quiet margin of Lake Ydro,
reflecting the green shadows of wooded heights,
broken into every imaginable form, past
picturesque ruins and ripening vines, that
recalled the Rhine, we crossed the bright rushing
mountain stream that feeds the lake, and
reached Garibaldi's head-quarters by seven in
the morning.

Storo, tourists may remember, is a small
village, with scant claims to the beautiful,
at the entrance of a gorge in the Italian
Tyrol, and nestling closely under rocky heights,
that rise, almost perpendicularly, about fourteen
hundred feet above the valley. Leaving
the village, on the one side, the road leads
up through the gorge to Tiarno, the vale of
Ledro, and Riva. On the other, it takes a
westerly sweep, conducting through Condino
to the Trentine capital, at which it was
supposed to be Garibaldi's object to form a
junction with the royal forces, approaching from
Venetia.

The enemy, however, were in considerable
force upon the mountains; and on the day of our
arrival—the sixteenth of July—the general, who
had under his orders about twenty-five thousand
men, was still detained at Storo, the enemy
holding a fort on each of the diverging roads
—Ampola, in the gorge, three miles distant,
mounting five guns, with a hundred and thirty
men—and Ladaro, on the other side, mounting
fourteen guns, with a strong garrison, and a
supporting force in the mountains. The latter,
for the present, was left alone; but Ampola,
the capture of which would turn the larger
fort, was "wanted." Its time was come, for
Garibaldi and his red-frocks must pass through
that defile, and two of its guns sweep the narrow
road for half a mile.

On the previous day, guns had been, by
manual labour, placed on the surrounding
crests, and the garrison invited to surrender.
They offered to retire.

"That will not suit me," said Garibaldi. "I
must have you." So the fire opened.

This was the second day of the bombardment,
and the "rimbombo" (excellent word) of the
guns was echoing among the mountains. But
before we could enjoy the spectacle, a circumstance
occurred. We were engaged in a leisurely
inspection of the town, when a singular whiz,
and a little cloud of white dust struck from a
wall, close to my friend's head, attracted his
attention.

"Now, wouldn't you have said that was a
bullet?" he asked, smiling.

The phenomenon was repeated, while faint