Read Ebook: Queen Maria Sophia of Naples a Forgotten Heroine by K Chler Carl Upton George P George Putnam Translator

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"What could a King do with all these people?"

"He could kill them all!" replied Ferdinand, then added solemnly, bowing low and crossing himself, "He could, my son, but he would not, out of respect for the holy religion."

Ferdinand the Second's system of police and priestly rule did not fail to bear fruit in the shape of numerous uprisings and attempted assassinations that terrorized the last years of his reign. He knew himself to be an object of universal hatred and that hundreds were plotting against his life, and grew more nervous and uneasy every day. Added to these mental anxieties he had acute physical sufferings. The unfortunate prince could find no rest, day or night. At the age of forty-five his hair had turned completely white and he looked like an old man.

His natural tendency toward bigotry increased with illness and worry and he became as superstitious as the most orthodox prince of the Middle Ages. Before mounting a horse he always crossed himself, and he never met a priest or monk on one of his drives without stopping the carriage while he alighted and knelt upon the ground until the holy man had passed. He went frequently to confession and had daily masses read for himself in all the churches. Every night he prayed, rosary in hand, with his wife and children, and before retiring would kiss each of the holy images with which the walls of his bedchamber were adorned. But even these pious observances failed to bring relief. Conscience tortured him, and he sought sleep in vain.

The betrothal of his eldest son and heir to the Bavarian Princess brought a gleam of light into the darkness. The house of Wittelsbach, besides its high rank and antiquity, was strongly orthodox in its Catholicism, a most important item in Ferdinand's eyes; and the alliance was a strong one politically, for by it his son would become the brother-in-law of the Emperor of Austria, and closely connected also with several others of the reigning houses of Europe. In spite of his state of health, the King had determined to be present at the second and real wedding of Francis and Maria, and succeeded, indeed, in reaching Bari, where the ceremony was to take place; but the fatigue and hardships of a Winter journey over the Apennines were too much for his strength, and he arrived at Bari so ill and exhausted that there was no possibility of his being able to assist in the festivities.

The King ill unto death, the country on the verge of revolution, the royal house and kingdom threatened by enemies at home and abroad--a sorry state of affairs to greet the fair young Bavarian Princess, entering for the first time the land of which she was soon to become the sovereign!

It was on a beautiful Spring morning, the third of February, 1859, that the Crown Princess approached her new home. All the roads leading to Bari were filled with curious sightseers, eager for a glimpse of the bride. All tongues were busy with praises of her beauty and goodness. Her name was on every lip; but instead of being called the Princess of Bavaria or Duchess of Calabria, she was and still is familiarly spoken of in Italy as Maria Sophia, to distinguish her from many of her predecessors on the throne who had borne the name of Maria. The whole royal family had journeyed to Bari to welcome her and were lodged on the first floor of the Intendant's palace, where apartments had also been prepared for the Duchess of Calabria and her suite; but in spite of the joyous air of expectancy that pervaded the town, a dark cloud hung over the palace itself, owing to the condition of the King, who was confined to his bed and suffering greatly. He had looked forward with the deepest pleasure and interest to his son's marriage, and it was a bitter disappointment to him not to be present at the wedding ceremonies.

It had stormed all night, but the sea now lay calm and smiling as if in welcome, and it seemed to Maria that she had never seen such a wonderful blue before. As they drew near the beautiful harbor with the town of Bari beyond, bathed in Italian sunshine, she was so absorbed in the enchanting scene that at first she did not notice the approaching launch. Suddenly she caught sight of Francis standing up in the craft in his gay hussar uniform, and her face lit up with a joyous smile. She recognized him at once from his portrait and found him more agreeable-looking than she had expected. Advancing to the side of the vessel to meet him as he came aboard, she held out her hand with charming impulsiveness and said, "Bonjour, Fran?ois!"

"Bonjour, Marie!" replied the Prince, shyly taking both her hands in his and kissing her on the forehead. The Queen then embraced the young girl and presented her to the princesses, Maria inquiring solicitously for the King and expressing her regret at his absence. She then asked with great interest about the coast, the town they were approaching, the vessels in the harbor, and all the new sights and scenes about her. The young bridegroom, meanwhile, stood silent and embarrassed beside his stepmother, so overcome with the emotion of meeting his bride and finding her even more fascinating than he had dared to imagine, that he was more shy and awkward than usual and could only stammer a few disjointed words in answer to her questions.

At the landing they were met by the assembled officials and escorted to the pavilion, where the royal party entered their coaches and drove back to the palace. Maria's beauty and girlish charm won instant favor. A storm of cheers greeted her entrance into the new land; and even after she had disappeared within the palace, the enthusiastic Italians continued to shout till she was obliged to come out and show herself once more on a balcony. The Crown Princess had scarcely time, however, to acknowledge the people's homage, before she was summoned to the King's bedside. She found him sitting up to greet her, his face deeply lined with suffering. With all a father's tenderness, Ferdinand embraced his new daughter-in-law, shedding tears at this sorrowful meeting, so different from what he had hoped for, while Maria also wept and returned the embrace warmly. It was the first time in this foreign land that she had been welcomed with anything like the affection to which she had been accustomed at home, and she felt drawn at once to her dying father-in-law, who had taken her into his heart at their very first meeting, realizing with pity how thickly strewn with thorns must be the path in life of this fair young creature who seemed made only for joy and happiness. Maria had little time to dwell on this scene, however, for the Queen led her away almost immediately to her chamber, where Nina Rizzo exchanged her travelling suit for the white satin bridal robe, and placed on her luxuriant hair--a characteristic of all the Wittelsbach sisters--a wreath of orange blossoms with a magnificent lace veil which she had brought with her from home.

An altar had been erected in the banqueting hall, the walls of which were lined with pictures of the Madonna. Before the altar a throne with arm-chairs was placed for the princes and princesses. The bishops and distinguished guests had taken their places and the ceremony was about to begin, when an incident occurred that made it hard for those present to preserve their gravity. The Queen's second son, Alphonso, Count of Caserta, who though eighteen years old was as wild and ungovernable as a schoolboy, had succeeded in fastening a long paper train to the uniform of one of the highest court officials, whose solemn air of unconsciousness only added to the humor of the situation. One of the court gentlemen, however, quietly managed to remove the ridiculous appendage, the victim remaining in blissful ignorance of the trick that had been played upon him.

The young couple entered and took their places before the altar, where the bishop concluded the ceremony with a solemn address in Italian, invoking the blessing of God upon them. At the close of the Te Deum an orchestra struck up the National Hymn and a salvo of artillery announced to the waiting crowds without that the marriage was completed, while the bridal pair went at once to the King's chamber to receive his paternal blessing. That evening the whole town was brilliantly illuminated, and the square before the palace was filled with cheering throngs far into the night; but in spite of these demonstrations there was much secret uneasiness as to the King's condition. The excitement of the wedding had had a bad effect on Ferdinand; though he did all in his power to conceal his sufferings, and the royal family seemed quite unaware of the alarming nature of his illness.

When the Count of Caserta's mischievous prank reached the ears of the King, he sent for that youth and administered a sharp rebuke, declaring such a performance could only have been expected of a street urchin. Three days' confinement to his room was to be his punishment, but at the Queen's intercession the sentence was somewhat lightened.

The early months of the married life of Francis and Maria Sophia were similar in many ways to those of Marie Antoinette and Louis the Sixteenth of France. Francis, like Louis, was awkward, timid, and doubtful of himself. Although brought up in the land of art and beauty, he had no taste for such things. Like the King of France, he was honest, just, and deeply religious, but weak and irresolute, and conspicuously lacking in those qualities naturally looked for in princes of royal lineage.

Equally marked were the points of resemblance between Marie Antoinette and Maria Sophia. Both were gay, childish, and impulsive, with remarkable personal courage and a frankness that was as attractive as it was dangerous; both were too beautiful not to excite envy, and too full of high spirits not to cause offence. The Wittelsbach Princess, however, had qualities the Dauphiness lacked--perfect honesty and the robust health and splendid vitality brought from her Bavarian Alps. She was a finished horsewoman, a good shot, a tireless walker, and devoted to out-of-door recreations of all sorts. Her husband, on the other hand, was grave, silent, and melancholy. Sports had no attraction for him. He never hunted, and in spite of his hussar uniform the Neapolitans declare that he was never known to mount a horse. One point, however, they shared in common--indifference to luxury and love of simplicity.

At the time of her marriage the Crown Princess could scarcely speak a word of Italian. Francis's knowledge of French was very limited, and of German he was entirely ignorant, so that unrestrained communication between the young couple was difficult at first. The education of the Duke of Calabria had done little to prepare him for the lofty position that awaited him. His stepmother, who completely spoiled her own children, neglected him shamefully in some ways and was unnecessarily harsh in others. Overshadowed by his cleverer stepbrothers, who despised him, and conscious of his own mental and physical deficiencies, the poor boy had become morbidly shy and reserved. Yet he had many good qualities. He never forgot the smallest service shown him, and was invariably kind and courteous even to the humblest. Many tales are told of his sympathy with the poor and suffering, and even as a child he would part with his dearest treasure to help any one in distress. But his appearance was so unprepossessing as to be almost unpleasant; and the consciousness of this made him appear at his worst with his wife, whose beauty and vivacity so enthralled him that he became dumb at her approach and would often hide behind the door when she entered the room, to avoid speaking to her.

The Neapolitan court was a contrast in more ways than one to the home Maria Sophia had left, and for which she yearned so longingly. Barely eighteen years old, overflowing with health and spirits, she found herself surrounded by an atmosphere of false humility, deceit, and religious hypocrisy; and although her natural light-heartedness helped her through many troubles and disappointments in the new life, yet she could never forget that she was a stranger in a strange land, alone and almost friendless. Fond as her father-in-law was of her, he was too ill to be able to do anything toward making her life pleasant, and the little princesses, while outwardly civil, were stiff and unsympathetic. With her brothers-in-law she was on a somewhat better footing, for they were charmed with the zest with which she entered into their sports; but the Queen from the very first had treated her with the most marked unfriendliness, correcting her constantly, as if she had been a schoolgirl, and regarding her most innocent diversions with suspicion. She even refused to allow her to ride, as she had been used to do at home; and the young Duchess sorely missed her favorite occupation.

Maria Theresa was a woman of strong will and had been accustomed to obedience from her family as well as her subjects. She had selected her most trusted lady-in-waiting to attend her stepson's wife, hoping that Nina Rizzo, who was devoted to her mistress, would teach the Crown Princess to bow to her will as every one else did. But in this she was mistaken, for though Maria Sophia liked Nina, she remained deaf to all her exhortations on the subject, firmly determined to preserve her independence at all costs.

Meanwhile the King grew steadily worse, and the cloud over the palace darkened. The young princes tried to relieve the gloom and pass away the time by walks about the town, running races in the palace courtyard, and playing tricks on the gentlemen of the court, pastimes in which they were frequently joined by Maria Sophia. One day she went down to the shore and, with the help of an old boatman, succeeded in catching a whole basketful of fish which she bore home in triumph and had cooked for the royal table. Another time she promised her brothers-in-law to make them some Bavarian pancakes. A portable grate was secured and placed over a charcoal fire, and the Princess set to work. But no frying-pan or ladle was to be had. At this moment the mayor of Bari made his appearance, in gold-laced coat and knee breeches, to pay his respects at court. Maria Sophia was no longer in a quandary. In her own lively way she begged the official to go down into the market-place and get her the needed utensils. The obliging mayor hastened to do her bidding, and soon returned with the desired articles; but the result of the Princess's culinary labors was most unsatisfactory after all, for the pancakes proved uneatable. Large holes were burned in the tablecloth and napkins, and amid shouts of laughter Maria Sophia abandoned any further attempts to shine as a cook in Italy. The mayor carried the frying-pan and ladle home with him as souvenirs of the merry scene, and they are still preserved as relics in his family.

Amid the general sadness that prevailed, however, these lively outbreaks became less and less frequent, and the young Duchess hailed with joy the news that the court was to move to Caserta. Nina Rizzo had often told her of the beauties of that place, and she eagerly looked forward to their departure as an hour of deliverance. The journey was long deferred, however, as the King's sufferings were so acute he would not allow himself to be moved. A monk at length succeeded in persuading the sick man to consent, and he was carried on a mattress to a steam frigate which was to convey him from Bari to Portici in order to avoid any stop at Naples. From Portici to Caserta the five hours' journey caused the unfortunate sovereign such torture that the Archbishop of Naples ordered continuous prayers to be offered for him in all the churches. Once amid these new surroundings--the lofty halls and salons of the palace, the enchanting park and gardens--Maria Sophia's spirits rose, and she felt almost happy again. But it was not for long. Between the Queen's animosity and her husband's weakness, she soon relapsed into her old loneliness and helplessness. Almost her only diversion now was her family of parrots. She had ten, and her laughter over the ludicrous results of their attempts to speak German was the sole evidence that her natural gayety was not entirely suppressed and crushed.

Meanwhile the Queen's supposed treasonable designs were freely discussed throughout the kingdom. It was said that on the King's death she intended to seize the double crown for her own son, and that many of the police officials were ready to support her plans; also that the Crown Prince was forcibly excluded from his father's sick-room. There was no truth in this latter report, however; for although Francis had indeed been carefully kept from taking any part in affairs of state hitherto, now at the eleventh hour, Ferdinand insisted upon having his son with him constantly, and giving him instructions for future guidance; these the Crown Prince copied on a sheet of paper and used frequently to consult after he became King. On the tenth of April Ferdinand made his last will and testament, leaving equal portions of his property to each of his children, with a large share to his wife, and a twelfth part to be divided among religious institutions.

In spite of the statements already published in regard to the amount and distribution of his estate, Ferdinand was popularly believed to own enormous sums in private, mainly derived from confiscation of the property of political criminals. His fortune was said to amount to three hundred million ducats. As a matter of fact, however, the King's actual property was scarcely more than seven million ducats, although he owned a great number of jewels and other valuables.

On the twelfth of April Ferdinand received the last sacrament; but he lived on for more than a month. The superstitious Neapolitans expected his death to occur on the fifteenth of May, the anniversary of the riots there in 1848, of which the King had taken advantage for his shameful persecution of his subjects; but it was not till the twenty-second of May that his sufferings were finally ended. A frightful storm broke out during the hour of his death and this was looked upon by many as a bad omen for the new reign.

Aside from the comparatively small circle at Bari, few of her subjects had ever seen the new Queen, while Francis himself was almost as little known to the people. A few days after their accession, the youthful sovereigns held a levee at the royal palace in Naples. The King in his hussar uniform, and the Queen in her crown and ermine robes, stood under a canopy in the centre of the great hall, while all the high officials, nobles, and dignitaries of the court and kingdom stepped forward to kiss the hands of Their Majesties. As the gorgeously attired procession wound its way past the throne, the sudden appearance of a band of poets striding along in their long black cloaks and broad-brimmed hats formed such a startling contrast to the rest of the glittering throng that Maria Sophia burst into an irrepressible peal of laughter which soon spread to all about her.

Freed at last from the dreadful oppression that had weighed her down as Crown Princess, she quickly recovered her exuberance of spirits, which found expression in various ways. The relations between her and her husband also became much more free and natural after their accession to the throne. Francis had begun, soon after the wedding, to be in love with his wife, although he did not show it. The long system of repression to which he had become accustomed had inflicted permanent injuries on his sensitive nature; but Maria Sophia's personal charm was so great and her gayety so spontaneous that it was impossible for him to escape her fascination. Under his awkward manner, however, she did not perceive his dawning love for her, while he felt strange in the world of lovers and was unable to express his feelings, except by the eagerness with which he fulfilled her slightest wish. Nor did Maria Sophia hesitate to use her power. Once her own mistress, she quickly cast off the yoke laid upon her by the Queen at Bari and Caserta, and gave unmistakable proof that she, too, had a strong will.

At table she would beg permission to have her favorite dog, Lyonne, in the room. The King always consented; and the huge Newfoundland with her four pups would come tearing in and enjoy themselves during the rest of the meal, leaping madly about the table, and sometimes even upon it, to the indignation of the court and their mistress's intense delight. Photography had recently come into fashion, and she had herself taken in every possible position and costume, greatly to the disgust of her mother-in-law, who objected strongly to her continual changes of costume and her frequent riding excursions. But the time was past when Maria Sophia allowed herself to be dictated to. Like a young Amazon she dashed about the streets of Naples, exciting universal admiration and amazement at her daring horsemanship.

As Crown Prince, Francis the Second had not been unpopular with the people. His mother had been almost worshipped; and the Neapolitans pitied the sickly boy whose life, even, so it was said, had been attempted by his stepmother. But he was utterly lacking in the qualities necessary for a sovereign. It needed a clear head and a firm hand to guide the ship of state safely through those stormy seas. His judgment was sound enough; but he was good-natured to the point of weakness, and superstitious to an almost fanatical degree. He never let a day pass without hearing mass, and went regularly to confession. One of his favorite occupations was to hold long religious conversations with Father Borelli and other priests who happened to be at court. He talked much of his dead mother, before whose portrait he would kneel for hours in prayer, and he would frequently clasp his head in his hands as if in distress, crying, "Ah, how heavy this crown is!"

One day, soon after his accession, while holding a conference with his minister of finance, Raymondo del Liguoro, the table at which they sat moved slightly, and the minister turned to see what had caused it.

"It was I who shook the table," said the King. "I had a sudden fit of trembling. That is a bad sign. It means that I shall die soon."

Liguoro adjured His Majesty to banish such thoughts, as his life was not his own, but belonged to the people over whom he ruled. "I do not value either my life or my kingdom very highly," replied Francis. "I always think of what is written, 'The Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away.'"

The dowager Queen was a truly proverbial stepmother. She had never been able to reconcile herself to having her stepson inherit the united kingdoms while her own sons had nothing; even during her husband's lifetime she had attempted to secure the succession of her eldest boy to the throne of Sicily. But King Ferdinand would not listen to this. On his death-bed he had extracted a solemn oath from each member of his family to support the rightful heir, and after his death the widowed Queen had flung herself at her stepson's feet and promised him her allegiance. That she broke this vow has never been historically verified, the only proofs having been generously destroyed by King Francis himself. It happened in this way. Minister Filangieri had long suspected Maria Theresa of being at the head of a conspiracy to depose the young sovereign and place her son, the Count of Trani, on the throne, and at last succeeded in obtaining certain proof of this. He carried the documents at once to the King; but Francis refused to look at them. Without a glance he flung them into the fire, saying, "She was my father's wife!"

Maria Theresa afterward indignantly denied this, declaring the whole affair a plot to sow discord between her and the King; but, be that as it may, there is no doubt that she was greatly to blame for Francis's lack of education and training in early youth and childhood. She had brought him up as if he had been a girl, destined to live in retirement, rather than as a man who had a lofty mission to fulfil, emphasizing his natural awkwardness and timidity, and choosing tutors totally unfitted to prepare his mind for the demands of the times and his future position. His whole nature had been cowed and stunted in order that he might be kept subservient to her will.

She had also attempted these tactics with Maria Sophia, but with less success. The Bavarian Princess was far too self-reliant to submit to any such yoke. She was quite as strong-willed as her mother-in-law, besides being far wiser and cleverer. She also had her own political views, which were directly opposed to those of the dowager Queen. The latter was full of the old ideas of absolutism and had no sympathy with the new spirit of liberty, while Maria Sophia openly proclaimed her liberal opinions and urged the King to grant the country more freedom.

History shows that many women have filled the highest and most important positions with credit and honor. England has her Elizabeth, Russia her Catherine, Austria and Hungary their Maria Theresa, Scandinavia its Margareta. Maria Sophia of Naples is yet another example of feminine ability and judgment in political affairs. King Francis had no abler counsellor than his own wife, and had he followed her advice the issue of events might have been very different. But he was blinded by prejudice, by family tradition, by his education, and by court intrigues. As a child he had witnessed the bloody riots in Naples and been taught to regard such outbreaks as criminal attacks on a divinely instituted form of government. Even before his illness, Ferdinand had taken pains to instill his own principles into his son, and almost with his last breath had urged him never to allow himself to be carried away by the stream of liberalism that threatened to overflow Italy. Much as Francis loved and admired his young wife, therefore, he found it impossible to break away from the despotic ideas in which he had been steeped from his infancy, and not until it was too late did he realize the wisdom of her advice.

Meanwhile events were occurring in northern Italy that were to exert a far-reaching influence on the Kingdom of Naples. The throne of Sardinia was occupied by a bold and able sovereign, Victor Emanuel of Savoy, who was fortunate enough to have as his counsellor Cavour, one of the foremost statesmen of the nineteenth century.

Together with Napoleon the Third, Victor Emanuel had inflicted a series of defeats on the Austrians early in 1859, breaking their rule in Lombardy, and thereby giving a tremendous impetus to the spirit of Italian unity. It was as if the whole country had suddenly awakened to a realization of the fact that the various States into which Italy had been divided for centuries really belonged together; and the idea of uniting them seized the popular mind with irresistible force. It is interesting to note that the national movement which occurred some ten years later in Germany had many points of resemblance to this. Both nations had only of late aspired to greater political importance: both were good fighters and governed by princes who knew how to wield the sword themselves, as well as to choose their generals and statesmen. In both cases the right men appeared at the right moment--Von Moltke and Bismarck in Germany, Garibaldi and Cavour in Italy. Cavour had several times attempted to bring about an alliance between Sardinia and Naples during the reign of Ferdinand; but his offers had been treated with scorn by that short-sighted monarch. After his death and the brilliant victory over the Austrians at Magenta, overtures to this end were again made by Sardinia to the new King of Naples.

On the twenty-fourth of June, 1859, Victor Emanuel sent Salmour, one of his ablest and most trusted diplomats, to Naples. He reminded Francis of the ties of blood that bound him to the house of Savoy, and pointed out the fact that an alliance between the two kingdoms would be security for the independence of Italy. The plan had been warmly supported by the press of northern Italy and its popularity was testified to by the enthusiasm with which Salmour's arrival was hailed in Naples. But, on the other hand, it met with powerful opposition at court, especially on the part of the dowager Queen, who, as an Austrian archduchess, was bitter against Sardinia for the defeats her native land had suffered at its hands, and used all her influence to prejudice the weak young King against the plan. As a result, Salmour was obliged to return without accomplishing his object and the diplomatic transactions were never made public. But though Francis might reject the offer of such an alliance, he could not prevent the idea of a union between northern and southern Italy meeting with popular favor; and it spread with such lightning rapidity throughout the two kingdoms that soon only a spark was needed to kindle public enthusiasm into a blaze. In less than a year from the time that Francis refused Victor Emanuel's proposal, that spark appeared in the form of Garibaldi.

On the sixth of May, 1860, Garibaldi embarked at Genoa with a thousand volunteers, and on the eleventh landed at Marsala, on the west coast of Sicily. Brave and hardy as his followers were, it was a hazardous undertaking to attempt, with such a force, to attack an army of over one hundred thousand regular troops; but Garibaldi knew his adversary and hoped for assistance from the people. On the fourteenth of May he assumed the dictatorship of the island in the name of Victor Emanuel, and the next day, with the aid of some hundred revolutionists, defeated General Laudi's force of three thousand men who were occupying the heights of Calatafimi. When the Garibaldians lit their watchfires that night on the field of victory, they had good cause for rejoicing. The first battle had been fought and won. The Neapolitan troops were fleeing in confusion toward Alcamo. The people's leader had shown that he could defeat a king's army, and the Neapolitans had learned to fear the tri-colored banner and the red shirt. While the Neapolitan generals were vainly searching for Garibaldi in the mountains, he was already pressing on towards Palermo, the capital, meeting with strong support from the people everywhere. After three days of hard fighting before that city, it capitulated, and was occupied by the revolutionists, although two weeks elapsed before the dictator could follow up his victory. At the end of that time he again took the war-path and at Melazzo surprised the columns of General Bosco, who was in command of the finest and best disciplined troops in Sicily.

On the twenty-eighth of June the Neapolitans were forced to evacuate Messina, and a few days later the "red shirts," whose force had now increased to about twenty thousand men, camped in the streets of that city, from Taormina to Capo del Faro. Sicily was won. Garibaldi now turned his glances toward the mainland, whose mountains towered threateningly above him across the straits, and on the evening of the twenty-first of August the banner of Italy floated above the fortifications of Reggio, the strongest post in Calabria. The defence of Reggio was the last effort of the royalist army south of Naples. Defeated and disheartened, they retreated northward, leaving the fortified towns to vie with one another in throwing open their gates to the conquerors. The fleet, too, seemed paralyzed. It made no effort to prevent the passage of Garibaldi's men from Sicily, but proceeded northward to Naples without having fired a gun. Europe was dumb with amazement at the audacity of these champions of liberty. Garibaldi's march from the southern extremity of Italy to Naples appeared at that time, as it still does, like a tale of the imagination. It seemed incredible that the splendid army created by King Ferdinand with the labors and sacrifices of thirty years could go to pieces like a building in an earthquake. Of course there were many reasons for this, but the chief one was Garibaldi himself. No man could have been better fitted for the leadership of such a movement. Glowing with patriotism and love of liberty, inspired with the idea of Italian unity, yet at the same time a true democrat, friend of the oppressed and foe to tyranny, disinterested, self-sacrificing, bold, and daring, a knight without fear and without reproach, he seemed created to be an ideal popular hero. Wherever he appeared in his red shirt and black felt hat he aroused the wildest enthusiasm; and popular fancy soon invested him with a halo of glory almost equal to that of William Tell in Switzerland or Joan of Arc in France.

These events created the greatest consternation at the court of Naples, and many royalists fled the country in terror. The dowager Queen's father, Archduke Charles of Austria, had advised King Ferdinand many years before to fortify Gaeta and Capua strongly, so as to have a safe retreat in case of revolution; and mindful of her father's words, Maria Theresa immediately betook herself to Gaeta with all her children.

On the news of Garibaldi's landing, Francis had consulted the Duke de Chambord as to the state of affairs. "With the enemy at the gates, there is no time for concessions and reforms," the head of the house of Bourbon replied. "The King should mount and lead his troops against this Garibaldi and his followers!" This answer was quite in accordance with the young Queen's opinion. She had been strongly in favor of the alliance with Victor Emanuel; but now that the opportunity for that was past and the enemy was advancing, it seemed to her there could be no other course than to take up arms in defence of the kingdom. Mirabeau declared that Marie Antoinette was the only man about Louis the Sixteenth, and those who were with Maria Sophia at this time have said the same of her; for she seemed to be the only one at court who did not lose her head. She tried in every way to encourage her husband and urge him to fight; but to her despair Francis seemed incapable of arriving at any decisive course of action. He wavered to and fro like a reed in the wind, doubtful of himself and suspicious of all about him; seeking for support now here, now there, but unable to decide on anything till it was too late, and the time for parleying was past.

On the fourth of September news was received that Garibaldi was nearing Naples with a large army, the number of which was enormously exaggerated, however. The King hastily summoned a council in the middle of the night. The only remedy for the situation now would have been to attempt to block Garibaldi's approach by attacking him at Salerno, which was connected with Naples by rail; but General Bosco, who was in favor of this course, was ill in bed, and his views were not shared by the other commanders, who feared the revolutionists might effect a landing nearer the city, thus cutting off the troops from a retreat. They all agreed that it was better to make Capua and Gaeta the centre of operations against the enemy, and the only dissenting voice was that of the aged General Carrascosa, who declared to the King, "If Your Majesty leaves Naples now, you will never return!"

His words made no impression, however. Francis left it to the generals to decide; but they refused to take the responsibility.

As a last resort, Maria Sophia pointed out to her husband that it was his duty to prevent his capital from being destroyed by a bombardment; and in this appeal she was joined by Cardinal Riario Sforza, who besought the King to save Naples from fire and sword. He was thinking, no doubt, of the one hundred and eighty churches within the city walls; but his words had the desired effect, for Francis had the deepest reverence for anything that concerned religion. The next morning he summoned Sforza to the palace and informed him that he had decided to withdraw the army to a strong position between Capua and Gaeta. At the same time he requested his trusted counsellor, Spinelli, to assist him in drawing up a farewell proclamation to the people; and after this had been accomplished, he went out to drive with the Queen in an open carriage, escorted by two gentlemen of the court. It was their last ride through the streets of Naples.

Francis, however, did not betray the slightest anxiety over the important step he was about to take; and as for the Queen, she was apparently in her usual spirits, laughing and joking with the King and her two cavaliers: yet how often in those weary years of exile must their thoughts have reverted in memory to that scene they now looked upon with such indifference!

At the end of the Strada di Chiaja, directly in front of the court apothecary's shop, the royal carriage was stopped by a long line of loaded wagons. The apothecary had a sign over his door, bearing the Bourbon lilies, and a man was now mounted on a ladder busily engaged in removing it. The Duke of San Donato, who happened to be passing, was furious at the sight and expressed his anger in no measured terms; but neither Francis nor Maria Sophia showed the least displeasure. They only looked at each other and laughed at the apothecary's foresight. The following morning the King's proclamation was displayed on every street corner in Naples. It was calm and dignified in tone, and expressed less resentment than resignation. At the same time he issued a protest to all the foreign powers against Garibaldi's invasion of his territory, together with an assertion of his rights. It was no small task to prepare for so sudden a flight, and there was little sleep that night in the palace. Huge vans were loaded and sent off secretly under military guard, and their contents carried early the next morning on board two steamships which lay at anchor in the harbor; but in the hurry, only personal belongings were taken, and all the treasures of the palace, such as the vast quantities of gold and silver plate that had been accumulated during the hundred and twenty-six years of Bourbon rule in Naples, were left behind and afterwards confiscated by Garibaldi and turned over to the provisional Government. All that Francis carried away with him, except for a chest containing various relics and images of saints, were a painting of St. Peter, a statue and marble bust of Pope Pius the Ninth, a Titian portrait of Alexander Farnese, and a Holy Family by Raphael. Of these, the last was undoubtedly the most valuable; but even this splendid work of art the young sovereigns did not keep. The Spanish ambassador, Bermudez de Castro, begged Francis to give it to him, and the good-natured King consented. De Castro afterward tried to sell it to the Louvre galleries, but was not satisfied with the price offered. He then sent it to the South Kensington Museum in London, where by an unskilful attempt at restoration it lost so much of its beauty and value that no one would buy it. In his will the ambassador returned it to the exiled King; but neither Francis nor Maria Sophia ever claimed it, and the painting still remains at South Kensington.

On the morning of the sixth of September, Francis sent for the commander of the National Guard, and after expressing his thanks for their loyal support, repeated the comforting assurance that the troops had received strict orders to protect the capital. He had prepared a list of those of his court whom he wished to accompany him to Gaeta; but when the time came to leave, the royal master of the horse, Count Micha?lo Imperiale, was the only member of the royal household present. The King was so touched by his devotion that he presented him on the spot with the Grand Cross of the Order of San Fernando.

About four o'clock in the afternoon the ministers repaired in a body to the palace to take leave of their sovereign, whose hand they were to kiss for the last time under his own roof. Francis tried hard to control himself, speaking kindly to all, and tenderly embracing his two most devoted friends, Torella and Spinelli. But the number present was pitifully small. Those who had received the most favor at the hands of their sovereigns were as usual the first to desert them. Nor were there any special manifestations of regret and sympathy among the populace at the departure of the King and Queen, which was regarded merely as a measure for assuring the safety of the city, while Garibaldi's approach was anticipated with mingled hope and fear.

About half-past six Francis and Maria Sophia left the palace on foot, he in uniform as usual, she in an ordinary travelling dress and large straw hat trimmed with flowers. Accompanied by several ladies and gentlemen of the court, they walked through the palace gardens and down the long flight of steps that led to the arsenal, the Queen leaning on her husband's arm, gay and cheerful as ever in spite of the ominous cloud that shadowed their departure. Below them lay the Gulf of Naples, smooth and bright as silver; but in the distance the bare, sombre peak of Vesuvius rose like a menace amid the smiling beauty of nature. The firemen of the ship in which the royal party was to embark had had to be kept on board by force, and some advised the King to place himself under the protection of some foreign flag, or to escape from the city secretly. Undecided, as usual, Francis knew neither what he could do, nor what he ought to do; but the captain of the vessel, who was thoroughly loyal, finally persuaded him to go on board, urging that it would be beneath the King's dignity to flee from his capital like a criminal.

Only one Italian vessel accompanied the King, but with it were two Spanish warships carrying the Austrian, Prussian, and Spanish ambassadors. The journey was most depressing. It had been decided upon so suddenly that no one thought of taking such ordinary things as food or even the few necessaries that would have made them comfortable. It was a wonderfully beautiful night, and the Queen sat on deck until ten o'clock, when it grew cold. Worn out with the fatigues and excitement of the last twenty-four hours, she went into the little deck cabin and lay down on a sofa. The King did not go to bed at all. Except for a few words now and then with the Captain, he spent the night silently pacing up and down the deck, watching the shores of Naples gradually fade from view, and thinking, who knows what?

About two o'clock he asked whether the Queen had retired, and when told she was still asleep in the little cabin he went in and stood for a long time gazing down at her. Then removing his own cloak he gently spread it over her to protect her from the chill of the night air, and returned to his silent watch. Early the next morning they entered the harbor of Gaeta, and were met at the landing by Maria Theresa and her children with Father Borelli, her confessor. Francis had consulted this priest some months before as to the advisability of granting his subjects a more liberal form of government, and Father Borelli had merely echoed the views of the deceased King, declaring that such a course would only hasten a revolution, and warning him against it.

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