Letters to an Old Garibaldian

Italy, twice hast thou spoken; and time is athirst
for the third.--SWINBURNE.

My Dear ------

It is a long time since we met; and I fear these letters may never reach
you. But in these violent times I remember with a curious vividness how you
brandished a paintbrush about your easel when I was a boy; and how it
thrilled me to think that you had so brandished a bayonet against the
Teutons--I hope with the same precision and happy results. Round about
that period, the very pigments seemed to have some sort of picturesque
connection with your national story. There seemed to be something gorgeous
and terrible about Venetian Red; and something quite catastrophic about
Burnt Sienna. But somehow or other, when I saw in the street yesterday the
colours on your flag, it reminded me of the colours on your palette.

You need not fear that I shall try to entangle you or your countrymen in
the matters which it is for Italians alone to decide. You know the perils
of either course much better than I do. Italy, most assuredly, has no need
to prove her courage. She has risked everything in standing out that she
could risk by coming in. The proclamations and press of Germany make it
plain that the Germans have risen to a height of sensibility hardly to be
distinguished from madness. Supposing the nightmare of a Prussian victory,
they will revenge themselves on things more remote than the Triple
Alliance. There was a promise of peace between them and Belgium; there was
none between them and England. The promise to Belgium they broke. The
promise of England they invented. It is called the Treaty of Teutonism. No
one ever heard of it in this country; but it seems well known in academic
circles in Germany. It seems to be something, connected with the colour of
one's hair. But I repeat that I am not concerned to interfere with your
decision, save in so far as I may provide some materials for it by
describing our own.

For I think the first, perhaps the only, fruitful work an Englishman can do
now for the formation of foreign opinion is to talk about what he really
understands, the condition of British opinion. It is as simple as it is
solid. For the first time, perhaps, what we call the United Kingdom
entirely deserves its name. There has been nothing like such unanimity
within an Englishman's recollection. The Irish and even the Welsh were
largely pro-Boers, so were some of the most English of the English. No one
could have been more English than Fox, yet he denounced the war with
Napoleon. No one could be more English than Cobden, but he denounced the
war in the Crimea. It is really extraordinary to find a united England.
Indeed, until lately, it was extraordinary to find a united Englishman.
Those of us who, like