In forming his modest household here, at
Storo, the general purposely selected the
Austrians of the place, and they serve him heart
and soul.

The noble chief is not a very good house-
keeper, and might sometimes be left without
a dinner but for the watchful care of his
attached English friends, Colonel and Mrs.
Chambers; the latter of whom, in despair at
the poverty of the general's larder, insisted on
becoming his caterer, and sends him his dinner
every day. Fish, fruit, and ice-cream, are his
luxuries; but his tastes, as is well known, are
simple in the extreme. While he was on board
the Ripon, on his way to England, a mighty bill
of fare was every morning laid before him.
He examined it with great gravity and approval,
but it was observed that he invariably made
his repast of the dish—whether peas, potatoes,
meat, or fish—that happened to be before him.

While staying at Stafford House, Garibaldi,
who always rose at five, was summoned to
breakfast about ten. He said he had already
partaken of that meal. Respectful inquiry was
made whether he had had all that he needed?
"O yes," he replied; "I had some beer, and
there was some bread left last night; I ate him."

Garibaldi's tastes in literature are as simple
as in eating. He has a decidedly poetic and
imaginative turn, and has written striking fervid
poetry. He loves the page of Scott, but also, with
a childlike interest that might make fools laugh,
but would charm the wise, will dwell upon the
adventures of Jack and the Bean-stalk, or suffer
himself to be caught in the meshes of one of
those thrilling domestic histories which, for a
penny, inform us what unimaginable horrors
are passing under our noses, without in the
least disturbing the polished surface of society.

All sorts of provisions, even bread, were frightfully
scarce at head-quarters. I would not be
understood as affirming that the two-sous loaf
is worth a napoleon; but I do know that some
rich but famishing Dives offered the latter sum
for one, and that Lazarus refused.

A day or two since, Menotti Garibaldi, whose
fine regiment—the Ninth—is encamped forward,
invited his English friends out to a pic-nic,
warning them (a lady being of the party) that
it was likely to be a perfectly "quiet day."
There being little else than biscuit and wine in
Menotti's camp, the visitors were requested to
bring their own provisions. A luncheon—
splendid for Storo—was accordingly provided,
and the merry party were just sitting down,
when a gentle pattering sound was heard,
and the rimbombo announced, as Menotti
remarked, that the enemy had heard of the pic-
nic and demanded their share. There was a
general bustle; the lunch departed, none knew
whither; and the "quiet day" filled more than
one room in the hospital.

Up to this period, the wounded do not exceed
six hundred. It is well there are no more, for,
though fighting commenced a month ago, the
hospital arrangements are shamefully defective.
The medical staff is weak and quite insufficient,
even for the comparatively small number at
present requiring aid. We shall see what
happened at an emergency. The political
jealousies of a set immediately surrounding
Garibaldi have destroyed unanimity, marred the
method and system of every department, and
exposed the sick and wounded to neglect and
privation disgraceful to humanity. The ablest
medical practitioner in Italy offered his
gratuitous services. He was rejected. The
"squadri"—parties of four hospital-attendants
and a doctor, who volunteer hospital service—
offered themselves. The attendants were
accepted, but the doctor was rejected. Stores,
sent by a generous ladies' committee at Milan
for the use of the wretched hospitals in front,
which needed every essential, were detained
and appropriated by the head of the medical
staff, simply because they were addressed
to the care of an English lady who does
not belong to the "clique" above mentioned
—only to the guild of Christian charity.
Poor Garibaldi has had worse enemies to
contend with, this war, than the Austrians.
Bureaucracy—government influence unworthily
exercised—false friends, on whom his generous
nature relies, but who systematically conceal
from him the imperfect condition of matters
essential to the welfare of his army and his
own honoured name.

"I dream of my wounded," he said yesterday.
"Go, C., tell them I ever dream of them."

If, instead of dreaming of them, the brave
old chief had shot one of their neglecters, a
better state of things might have been the
result.

One hospital—that of Rocca d'Anfo—free
from the bad influences before referred to, and
under the charge of an able independent man,
Dr. Brandini, was an absolute model of
comfort, neatness, and everything that can tend to
lessen the gloom of these abodes of suffering.
Visiting it, one day, with Mrs. Chambers, the
doctor presented us with a mighty pike,
taken in the adjacent lake, Ydro. My companion
was almost speechless with joy. The general
loves fish, and none is to be obtained. We
went racing back to Storo, at the imminent
hazard of our necks: Mrs. C.'s driver—a sort of
bashi-bazouk, covered with remarkable weapons
—urging the horse with wild shrieks to its
utmost speed. Providentially we arrived without
broken bones, and half the pike appeared at
the general's four o'clock dinner; the remainder
being made into broth for his three o'clock
breakfast next morning.

Little Ampola—naughty little Ampola—has
been slapped enough, and at ten o'clock to-day
(the nineteenth) hung out a white tablecloth, as
much as to say that the storm might cease, and
she was going to breakfast; a meal she could
scarcely have enjoyed of late. The staff, with
a very large following for a fort so small, took
possession about two, and the civil authorities
that is to say, the writer, the Popular One,
the West-end journal, and another distinguished
Englishman, whose beard of warmest tint had