CAMILLUS AND WELLINGTON.

Ετελεύτησεν, ηλικίας ἕνεκα καὶ βίου τελειότητος, ὡς εἴ τις ἄλλες ἀνθρώπων, ὡραιος. PLUT. Vit. Cam, xliii.

PLUTARCH, at the conclusion of his biography of Camillus, speaks of the happiness of that hero in having died at a ripe old age, and not before he had made his fame perfect by services done by him to his country, as a moderator of the disputes between rival parties, as well as by eminent victories in the field. He speaks also of the peculiarly deep affliction which the loss of their veteran chief inspired among all classes of his countrymen. Livy, in narrating the same event, uses language equally emphatic respecting the "Mors quam matura tam acerba Marci Furii." It is impossible at this moment to read or to recollect these passages in the Roman historians, without feeling how strikingly applicable they are to the illustrious general and statesman, of whom England has been so recently bereaved. There are indeed many points of remarkable similitude between Camillus and Wellington. Each was the most successful warrior of a warlike age, and each was regarded as the greatest captain that his country had ever produced. Each signalized himself by a great deliverance of his native land from the Gauls, and each survived that great achievement for many years without degenerating from the high character thereby acquired, or affording the least ground for the common insinuation that the conqueror's fame would have come down in more undimmed splendour to posterity, if "animam exhalasset opimam" immediately after his crowning victory. Livy truly says of Camillus, that after he rescued Rome from Brennus, "Par deinde per quinque et viginti annos (tot enim postea vixit) titulo tantæ gloriæ fuit." And we may with equal truth, say of Wellington that for thirty-seven years after he had saved England from Napoleon, he showed himself worthy of the laurel of Waterloo, and bore his honours so as to augment their lustre.

Camillus and Wellington were both aristocrats by birth, by education, and by temperament. Each became for a time the political leader of the extreme conservative section among his countrymen, and incurred at one period the most gross animosity of the ultra-popular party of his fellow-citizens. The violent oligarchs among the Roman Patricians sought to make use of the authority which his military renown gave to Camillus, to aid them in opposing those great Reform bills, which were called the Licinian laws. And we can all well remember a similar party in England tried to make the like use of the name of Wellington, in order to thwart the progress of Reform in this country. But both Camillus and Wellington were men of spirit too high, of patriotism too pure, and of intellect too discerning, for the ignoble functions of mere party-leaders. Each of these great men at last freed himself from all trammels of faction, and acted for the general good of the whole state, and not for the aggrandizement of any one of its orders. And when we read of Camillus acting as a

See Niebuhr, vol. iii. pp. 27 and 30.

mediator when party violence seemed likely to break out into open civil war; when we read how he was looked up to as one who spoke with peculiar authority, and who gave sage council in extreme difficulties, so as to avert from his country the consequences of revolutionary turbulence and of stubborn Patrician obstinacy; our hearts swell with gratitude towards the Old Duke, who, for so many years past, had been the acknowledged moderator of our party feuds, and the honest and impartial adviser of his sovereign in each crisis of political embar

rassment.

Historians often censure Camillus respecting the execution of Marcus Manlius Capitolinus, and some writers have cast blame upon Wellington on account of the death of Marshal Ney. In each case a very brave soldier was put to death, in pursuance of the sentence of a competent tribunal, on a charge of treason. It is probable that the interposition of Camillus with the Roman Assembly might have saved Manlius, and that that of Wellington with the Bourbon King of France might have obtained a pardon for Ney. In neither case can we see any obligation, legal or moral, wherefore that interposition should have been volunteered. We may observe, however, that the guilt of Ney was far clearer than that of Manlius; and that there is not the slightest ground for suspecting the English Duke of having instigated the proceedings against him. It is not equally clear that Camillus took no part in bringing Manlius to trial.

Indeed, wherever there is any difference between Camillus and Wellington, the difference is in our countryman's favour. Wellington was incapable of the savage prayer, which Camillus uttered when he went for a time into voluntary exile to avoid a trial, and prayed that his country might soon have bitter cause to regret him. Camillus appears to have been fond of the pomp and pageantry of military glory and not wholly uninfluenced by personal vanity, at least in his earlier years. Our great chieftain thought of doing his duty, and of nothing else. He accepted decorations and titles when bestowed on him by those whom he had served, but he never sought for them, and his conduct was never influenced by the desire of self-display or of self-aggrandisement. And while the suspicion of peculation tainted the fame of the captor of Veii, we know and feel in the words of Moore,

REMINISCENCES OF A MAN OF THE WORLD.

It was my misfortune to have first turned my steps to Italy in 1822. I say misfortune, because the country had but a little previously risen in insurrection, as it did in 1848, and with the same results, a short saturnalia of unmeaning freedom, followed by Austrian invasion, by restoration, proscriptions, and even executions. Crowds of illustrious exiles, especially from Lombardy and Piedmont, thronged to England, the French Bourbons being prepared to give them a very cool reception in France. It was impossible not to know these men, to pity, and admire them. But indeed it did not require a band of intelligent and noble exiles to excite English sympathy. English society was Italy-mad about that time. Italian literature occupied our beaux esprits, Italian liberty our patriots. Byron alone was sufficient to have created this mania, and hundreds of pilgrims followed in his wake. In London, too, Italian literature and liberalism had had for some time a representative in the person of Ugo Foscolo, whose "Sepolchri" and "Letters of Ortis" had made him a brilliant reputation in his own country, adding to it that degree of personal interest, which a development of the first person in sentimental writings can create. Foscolo was taken up, not only by the liberals, but by the knot of writers in the "Quarterly." So that in opposite circles, he was the literary lion, and even more.

Septinsular by birth, Foscolo became an officer in the Cisalpine army, but liked Napoleon as little as Paul Louis Courier did. Though a favourite in English society, he was little formed for it, being as susceptible as Rousseau, with much the same causes for his susceptibility. He brought to London, however, that thorough knowledge and appreciation of Italian letters and genius which no Englishman could pretend to possess. Then he gathered round him the Lombard exiles, the witty Pecchio and the worthy Porro, the learned, suave, and noble Arrivabene, the sombre Santa Rosa, and Saint Marsan, the first accomplice of Charles Albert as Duke of Carigna. Thus were the élite of North Italy thrown on the London world, and certainly as amiable and innocent a set of political children, as a revolution à l'eau de rose could have hatched.

They were of all the grades of Italian society. Porro was one of Milan's richest nobles, the brother-in-law of the Marquis of Trivulzio, considered Milan's first noble. He was a gay, vivacious, exuberant little man, almost as happy in exile as occupying eminent places in his native city, and fully as happy with some pounds as he had been with thousands. Every one pitied Porro, for all knew he had no business to be a martyr. Gonfalonieri, who was consigned to the carcere duro, and did not make his appearance till age had bent his lofty stature, and replaced the noble expression of the patriot with that of the old and the ailing man, Gonfalonieri drew every sympathy, and hundreds would have given their lives to rescue him, but pity was not the sentiment felt. Gonfalonieri and Trequi were the most regretted and revered. Count Pecchio was the wit of the emigration, Saint Marsan, son of the Minister of State, the courtier, Santa Rosa the legist and the philosopher. The latter had a likeness to Dufaure, and was of the same melancholy temperament. What a cluster of first-rate intellects! They

used to breakfast at Foscolo's, who at that time could give a breakfast, and who lived in one of the Alpha cottages, which he had built for himself, and which he called Digamma Cottage, from some controversy which he had with Dr. Marsh about that Greek character. Foscolo assumed even then all the airs of a literary dictator, from which Pecchio alone defended himself by persiflage. Santa Rosa, who on every serious subject could have pounded Foscolo in a mortar, bore this assumed superiority of the latter without a murmur. I provoked him, that is, Santa Rosa, once by giving the preference to Anglo-Saxon, and even Anglo-Norman law, over Justinian's codes. Santa Rosa sprang into a passion, and overwhelmed all present with a torrent of eloquence that lasted more than an hour, on the superiority of the Code.

Will pandects or institutes ever make a free people?

"I don't think," replied Santa Rosa, "that even freedom is worth having, whilst based upon and walled in by such misshapen blocks as your English constitution."

"You would rather have no temple of freedom, than one which did not rest on Corinthian, or at least upon Ionic columns?"

Santa Rosa grumbled something like assent, which gives an inkling of the prejudices of even an enlightened Italian liberal.

Poor Foscolo's ways and means became afterwards much straightened. An article or two for the "Quarterly," with any amount of criticism on Dante and Petrarch, could not raise a contribution from the public of 600l. or 700l., in addition to which annual expenditure Foscolo undertook that of architect, enlarging his palazzo and adorning it with a green-house. He then gave lectures. Lord John Russell remained his steady friend. But alas! Lord John was not then Premier, and never was a millionaire. So poor Foscolo went from bad to worse, till at last he took refuge as assistant in some rustic or suburban school. The author of "The Tales of the O'Hara Family" lived next door to him, I recollect, from which proximity sprang up a world of friendship and of feud.

None of the Italian emigrants showed the imprudence of Foscolo. On the contrary, nothing could be more noble than their conduct. They refrained from pressing their wants and claims, and shrank into retirement, rather than court notoriety. Some retired to Norwich and other county towns of England, where they gave lessons in Italian. Some of the young men have lived to render good service and distinguish themselves at Milan or under the constitutional government of Piedmont.

Not content with knowing these gentlemen I rather rashly took letters from them, and hied to Italy to behold the "fatal beauty" of the land, and its servi ognor frementi. I was considerably afraid of the Cerberi at the gates of Milan, knowing what letters were on my person; but the Cerberi in question, being a piquet of infantry in skyblue pantaloons held up and together by belt, that nearly cut each soldier in two, proved very placable Pandours. A crown-piece obviated the right of search, and I rolled scatheless into Milan.

The capital of Lombardy is one of the most delightful towns of Europe, and this in despite of what one should imagine to be the most unfavourable condition for being delightful. It contains a court, but all the society of Milan puts the court in Coventry, and will not go to it, nor notice it, nor receive those who attend it. The handsomest Austrian aide-de-camp of the Arch-duke could not find a partner at any ball. But there are hundreds of families at Milan, all rich. Four thousand pounds sterling

a year is a common fortune at Milan, and a very uncommon fortune anywhere else, except in London. There are no means of wasting it either, for gambling is not carried on to that extent, and there is limit to horses, equipage, and palaces. Love, so extremely expensive in so many countries, is not at all so in Italy, probably because the well-bred classes have nothing to do but to make it.

Then everything at Milan is original, and savours of a little world of its own. It has an opera of its own, a ballet of its own, a cuisine of its own (for Milan is a pays de Cocagne), and an idiom of its own well worth the learning when one is young. And Milan has habits and ideas of its own, nay, despite of Austria, a will too, and, as it has shown, a strenuous will. I had the advantage of being flung into this intelligent, impassioned, well-bred, and delightful society, which no Englishman, just past the Alps, thinks of stopping or looking for. They may look for society in Venice or Florence, but at Milan would not dream of it. The Marquis of Trivulzio, since dead, remained at the head of Milanese society. Though the brother-in-law of Porro he had carefully abstained from joining in the revolution, or rather in the conspiracy to bring it about. He was very fond of money, and very fond of antiquity and books, was quite a biblioman, and loved men of letters, more because they made books than from any intrinsic value which these productions of genius might possess. But in Italy a noble of the first rank and wealth, would consider that he derogated from his position and disgraced himself, if he did not extend all the kindness, hospitality, and attention he could bestow to his fellow-countrymen of lettered eminence. An Italian marquis would no more lead the life of an English agricultural duke than he would fill the position of his own cook or groom. Monti, therefore, and his daughter, the Countess Perticari, Mustoxidi, with all that Lombardy could boast of eminence in poetry or prose, or in either, all were at home in the salon of the Casa Trivulzio. Monti was then nearly blind, but with all his age full of vigour, enough to have denounced Austria with the fervour of Dante, had there been any possibility of indulging in such a vein. But prudence forbade and age excused. Nor was it possible to raise indignation even in prose at the Casa Trivulzio, for the noble marquis proclaimed with emphasis, qui non si parla politica. Poor Pellico had disappeared from their society which he had adorned. Manzoni's star had not yet risen. Mustoxidi was then what he has remained ever since, and is still, a cross-grained and quarrelsome individual, the same at Corfu now, that he was at Milan and elsewhere then.

Leaving so many Italian friends in London, great Anglomans, and constitutionals, I was surprised to find how few of them they had left behind in Milan. The hatred to Austria was as great there, indeed, as amongst the exiles, but far from falling back upon constitutional ideas, the old Milanese were full of Bonapartist recollections, and raved of a restoration of Prince Eugene through English influence, which would be at once an anti-Bourbonian and a liberal move. The Congress of Verona had led them to hope this. Having been announced in some letters of introduction, very falsely, in truth, of understanding politics, I was taken to the great lady, the very chief, indeed, of the Imperialist party, the worthy Princess Serbelloni. But, unfortunately, I could give no hopes of the liberalism of the English Tories, however the Duke of Wellington might have protested at Verona; and I could not but declare, that if