generations of honest toilers,—plain and homely to a degree. Nothing but the lofty dome of brow betrayed the mental superiority of the man; and, when subsequently he put on the never-failing slouched hat, even that not infallible sign of greatness was remorselessly hidden away.
Presently we began to talk as freely as if we had been acquainted for years. The villanous Northumbrian intonation was at first somewhat of an impediment in my way. I have never learned Northumbrian, and, being a fair linguist, did not like to acknowledge my ignorance.
One or two proper names he was good enough to spell for me. As, however, he gradually became more animated, his English became better and better, until at last he was one of the most articulate-speaking of Englishmen I had ever met.
It was a lovely day; and we decided on a stroll in the direction, as it turned out, of the modest house where Mazzini conspired against the crowned heads of Europe for so many years. On the way he spoke of that gifted friend of his youth and manhood,—the greatest man, Mr. Cowen thinks, and I am half inclined to accept his estimate, that Europe has produced for centuries; of Garibaldi and Orsini, of Kossuth, of Herzen and Bakounin, of Ledru Rollin and Louis Blanc, but, above all, of the Polish revolutionary leaders, Worcell, Darasz, Mieroslawski, Dombrowski, and Langiewicz.
I inquired why, of all the continental exiles, he appeared to have been most drawn towards the Poles. He replied with profound feeling, "Because they seemed the most forlorn." There was no getting over
