had been cajoled into relying,—­a baseness that deserves the pillory; and on a pillory will the “Magnanimous,” as he was meanly called in face of the crimes of his youth and the timid selfishness of his middle age, stand in the sight of posterity.  He made use of his power only to betray Milan; he took from the citizens all means of defence, and then gave them up to the spoiler; he promised to defend them “to the last drop of his blood,” and sold them the next minute; even the paltry terms he made, he has not seen maintained.  Had the people slain him in their rage, he well deserved it at their hands; and all his conduct since show how righteous would have been that sudden verdict of passion.

Of all this great drama I have much to write, but elsewhere, in a more full form, and where I can duly sketch the portraits of actors little known in America.  The materials are over-rich.  I have bought my right in them by much sympathetic suffering; yet, amid the blood and tears of Italy, ’tis joy to see some glorious new births.  The Italians are getting cured of mean adulation and hasty boasts; they are learning to prize and seek realities; the effigies of straw are getting knocked down, and living, growing men take their places.  Italy is being educated for the future, her leaders are learning that the time is past for trust in princes and precedents,—­that there is no hope except in truth and God; her lower people are learning to shout less and think more.

Though my thoughts have been much with the public in this struggle for life, I have been away from it during the summer months, in the quiet valleys, on the lonely mountains.  There, personally undisturbed, I have seen the glorious Italian summer wax and wane,—­the summer of Southern Italy, which I did not see last year.  On the mountains it was not too hot for me, and I enjoyed the great luxuriance of vegetation.  I had the advantage of having visited the scene of the war minutely last summer, so that, in mind, I could follow every step of the campaign, while around me were the glorious relics of old times,—­the crumbling theatre or temple of the Roman day, the bird’s-nest village of the Middle Ages, on whose purple height shone the sun and moon of Italy in changeless lustre.  It was great pleasure to me to watch the gradual growth and change of the seasons, so different from ours.  Last year I had not leisure for this quiet acquaintance.  Now I saw the fields first dressed in their carpets of green, enamelled richly with the red poppy and blue corn-flower,—­in that sunshine how resplendent!  Then swelled the fig, the grape, the olive, the almond; and my food was of these products of this rich clime.  For near three months I had grapes every day; the last four weeks, enough daily for two persons for a cent!  Exquisite salad for two persons’ dinner and supper cost but a cent, and all other products of the region were in the same proportion.  One who keeps still in Italy, and lives as the people do, may really have much simple luxury for very little money; though both travel, and, to the inexperienced foreigner, life in the cities, are expensive.