older than I, had not the same right to hope, but that the clemency of the Emperor Ferdinand was so great, that he would end very probably by obtaining the same conditions. My mother believes, hopes, departs on the instant, and arrives here. I leave you to imagine what I suffer at the moment I am writing to you. It is in vain that I endeavour to make her comprehend that duty orders me to remain here, that I should be happy to see my country again, but that when I shall direct my steps toward it, it will not be to live an ignominious life, but to die there a glorious death; that my safe conduct in Italy rests henceforward on the point of my sword; that no affection ought to be able to detach me from the flag which I have embraced; and that the flag of a king can be abandoned,— that of a country never. My mother, agitated, blinded by passion, cannot comprehend me, calls me impious, unnatural, assassin, and her tears rend my heart; her reproaches, well as I feel not to merit them, are to me as so many strokes of a poniard; but the desolation does not deprive me of mind; I know that these tears and this anger fall upon our tyrants, whose ambition condemns families to such struggles. Write me a word of consolation.' I know not what others will think of the refusal of Emilio; but to me, Emilio appears yet greater at this moment than when he fell calm and cool under the fire at Cosenza. Many men think they love when they aspire to happiness, and in following the shadow here below, even in betraying their duty; many women. alas! educated in the selfish habits of despotism, preach, without knowing it, in the name of love, to their children or their husbands, the abandonment of the Law of God, the eternal worship of the Just and True. And love, the purification of two souls, the one through the other, loses itself in the personal or sensual instinct of the brute. But when Faith, to-day extinct in men's souls, shall have rebuilt its temple of Love, the saintliness of the affection of Emilio for his mother, and his refusal, will be, I repeat, in the eyes of all, the fairest flower in his martyr-crown.

Attilio rejoined his brother at Corfu. They were no more separated. They received a citation to appear before the Austrian court-martial, to which they replied together by a refusal, expressed in some lines which were published in the Maltese Journals. War was thus declared; and another young officer, their friend from infancy, handsome as an angel, pure as a child, brave as a lion, DOMENICO MORO, quitted then the Adria, which happened to touch at Malta, and went to say to them: we have lived, loved, and suffered together; together we will die.

For it was their clear purpose to die. The two Bandieras, open as they were to all great thoughts, were, above all, men of action. They respired it at every pore. Impatient to bear witness, they sought on all sides to find the arena upon which to fling themselves. Ignorant of detail, they comprehended instinctively Italy, such as she is to-day; full of national aspirations, but backward, uncertain in her knowledge of the means which compass great things; rich in individual devotedness; weak in anything like collective action: fretted by the common evil, a difference between theory and practice. The Italians, said they, need to learn that life is but the realization, the incarnation of thought; that they only believe who feel the necessity of translating, come what may, into acts that which


they think to be the True. Italy will live when Italians shall have learned to die. And for that there is no teaching but by example.

Thus they were determined to die. The severe carriage of Attilio, the serene piety of Emilio, betrayed the reflection of the same thought; the first had the air of meditating the accomplishment of the mission he had imposed upon himself; the second had bidden adieu to the things of earth, and waited tranquilly till the hour should sound upon the watch of his brother. They were consecrated victims. Hearts devoted unto death.

We all knew that. And jealous of preserving for better combined efforts two such precious lives, we struggled desperately against the fatality of the idea which dragged them on. But they were too strong for us. During a brief time while we had only to struggle against the sombre rapture of their sacrifice, we hoped to conquer. Later, the Italian government, alarmed by informations to which I will not return, but which Englishmen will do well not to forget, began to throw the weight of all their scoundrelism into the scale, and we were lost. In June, the agents of the Neapolitan government poured into their ears the most encouraging reports: Calabria was in flames; bands of insurgents overran the mountains; they only waited for chiefs to develop their action; and those chiefs were expected from among the Italian exiles. They believed them; they sold all they had of jewels, of souvenirs of any value; they converted them into arms, and set forth.

'In a few hours,' said the last letter I received from Attilio, written the 11th of June, we set out for Calabria. If we arrive safe and sound, we shall do our best, militarily and politically. Seventeen other Italians follow us, exiles for the most part; we have a Calabrian guide. Remember us, and believe that if we are able to set foot in Italy we shall be firm in sustaining those principles which we have preached together. If we fall, tell our countrymen that they imitate our example. Life has only been given to us to employ it usefully and nobly; and the cause for which we shall combat, and shall die, is the purest, the holiest, that has ever warmed human breasts.'

The rest is better known. A traitor had been placed among them; he quitted them on the 16th, as soon as they disembarked. He went by Cotrone, to declare to the government the direction they took, their plan, their force; they wandered three days in the mountains, till at last, reaching the villiage of San Giovanni in Fiore, usually ungarrisoned, they found themselves surrounded by forces twenty times superior. They struggled, however: one of them, Miller, fell dead; another, Moro, riddled with wounds; two contrived to save themselves in the mountains; the rest were taken.

The 25th of July, at 5 in the morning, Attilio and Emilio Bandiera, with seven of their companions, Nicola Ricciotti, Domenico Moro, Anacarsi Nardi, Giovanni Venerucci, Giacomo Rocca, Francesco Berti, and Domenico Lupatelli, were shot to death at Cosenza. Their last moments were worthy of them. They were awakened, the morning of the day, from a tranquil sleep; they dressed themselves with care, with even a sort of elegance, as if they prepared for a religious solemnity. A catholic priest, who presented himself, was mildly repulsed. We

have sought, said they, to practice the law of the gospel, and to make it triumph at the price even of our blood. We hope that our works will recommend us to God, better than your words. Go and preach to our oppressed brothers! Arrived at the place of execution, they entreated the soldiers to spare the face, made in the image of God. They cried out: Viva l'Italia; and all was said.

Some months after, a letter reached one of our friends at Corfu, written twelve hours before the fatal moment, by one of those who fell with them. The calm, solemn tone in which it is written, reminds me of the heroes of Plutarch; and I bring it forward here, because it must suffice to prove what men accompanied the two brothers in their enterprise.

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Dear Friend, I write to you for the last time: within twelve hours I shall be no more. My companions in misfortune are the two brothers Bandiera, Ricciotti, Moro, Venerucci, Rocca, Lupatelli, and Berti. Your brother-in-law is exempted from this fate, nor do I know to how many years he will be sentenced. Remember me to your family, and all friends, as often as possible. If it be granted me, I will, before ascending to the Eternal, revisit the Exoria. Kiss for my Dante and all your children. When you think proper you may make known this my fate at Modena and to my brother. Receive the affectionate remembrances of all my companions. I embrace you.

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P.S.-I write with handcuffs, and therefore my writing will appear as if written with a trembling hand; but I am tranquil, because I die in my own country, and for a sacred cause. The friend who used to come on horseback was our ruin. Once more, farewell.

TO THE MEMORY OF THE MARTYRS OF COSENZA, JULY 25TH, 1844. When I received from you, O young men! the charge to pronounce in this temple a few words sacred to the memory of the brothers Bandiera and their martyr companions at Cosenza, I thought that perhaps some one of those who heard me might exclaim with noble indignation, To what end are these laments for the dead? The martyrs of Liberty can only be worthily honoured by winning

* Exoria (a Greek word, signifying exile, banishment) is the name of the house erected by the exiled Dr. Savelli, in the district of Covacchiana, and where Nardi, too, was living.

b-Dante is a boy, the first-born of Dr. Savelli, to whom Nardi was godfather.

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[THIS sublimest funeral-song is extracted from a supplementary number of the Italia del Popolo' (Italy of the People), a daily paper, published by Mazzini, in Milan, from the 20th of May to the 4th of August, 1848, the day before Charles Albert's shameful capitulation. The address was intended to be spoken in some church.]

the battle they have begun. Cosenza, the land where they died, is a slave; Venice, the city which gave them birth, hemmed in by foreigners. Let us emancipate them, and from this moment no sound be on our lips but that of war.' But another thought arose and said to me, why are we not victorious? Why is it that, while the north of Italy combats for independence, Liberty perishes in the south? Why is it that a war which ought to have leaped with a lion's bound to the Alps, drags along for four months slowly and uncertainly as the crawl of a scorpion girt by a circle of fire? Why is it that the rapid, powerful intuition of the genius of a People risen again to life has sunk into the weary and incapable fancy of a sick man turning in his bed? Ah! if we all had risen in the holiness of that idea for which our martyrs died,-if the Standard of their faith had gone before our young men in their battles,-if with that collected unity of life which was so powerful in them we had made of every thought an action, of every action a thought, if their last words, devotedly harvested in our minds, had taught us that liberty and independence are one and the same thing; that God and the People, that Country and Humanity are inseparable terms in any undertaking of people who wish to become a Nation-that Italy cannot be unless she be One, holy through the equality and love of all her sons, and great through her worship of the Eternal Truth, by her consecration to a high mission, to a moral priesthood among the Peoples of Europe,-we should to-day have victory, not war; Cosenza would not be condemned to venerate in secret the memory of the martyrs; the dread of seeing them profaned by the insults of the foreigner would not withhold Venice from honouring them with a monument; and we, assembled here, might without uncertainty as to our fate, without any cloud of sadness upon our front, gladly invoke their sacred names, and say to those fore-running souls-Rejoice, because your brethren have incarnated your ideal, and are worthy of you!

Not yet, O young men! is their adored conception resplendent, pure and perfect, upon your banners. The sublime programme which they dying bequeathed to the nascent Italian generation, is not yours so mutilated and torn to fragments by false doctrines that, elsewhere overthrown, have taken refuge amongst us. I look and see an agitation of separate populations; an alternation of generous raging and of unworthy quiet, of free cries and formulas of servitude, in all parts of our Peninsula: but where is the heart of the Peninsula? Where is the unity of this unequal, manifold movement ?-where is the dominating Word of these hundred voices of ministers of divers counsels, ever crossing each other, misleading and seducing the multitude? I hear talk, usurping the national omnipotence, of a Northern Italy, of a League of States, of a Federal Pact among princes; but where is ITALY? Where is the common country which the Bandieras saluted as the initiator, for the third time, of an era of European civilization? Intoxicated by the first victories, improvident of the future, we bore not in mind the idea revealed by God to those who suffered; and God punishes the forgetfulness by deferring the triumph. The movement of Italy, brothers! is by the decree of providence, the movement of Europe. We rising become sureties of moral progress for the European world. But neither political fictions, nor dynastic aggrandisements, nor theories of opportunity, can transform and renew

the life of the People. Humanity lives and moves only in one faith. Only great principles are the stars which guide Europe to the Future. Let us, O young men! turn to the sepulchres of our martyrs, to ask from the inspiration of those who died for us all, the secret of victory, the adoration of a Principle-even Faith. The Angel of Martyrdom and the Angel of Victory are brothers; but the one looks towards the heavens, the other towards the earth, and only when, from epoch to epoch, their regards encounter each between earth and heaven, creation beautifies itself with new life, and a People arises from the cradle or from the tomb,-Evangelist or Prophet.

I will in few words tell you, O young men! what was the faith of the martyrs. As to the externals of their life, they are to-day a part of history well known to you; I need but remind you of it.

The faith of the Brothers Bandiera, which was and is ever ours, rests upon a few simple and incontestible truths, which scarcely any one attempts to declare false, but which yet are betrayed or forgotten by almost every one.

God and the People: God at the pinnacle of the social edifice; the People, the universality of our brethren, at the base; God, the Father and Educator; the People, the progressive Interpreter of his law.

There is no real society without a common faith and a common purpose. Religion declares the faith and the purpose; Policy (the political) orders society toward a practical interpretation of this faith and prepares the means for attaining this purpose. Religion represents the principle: policy its application.

There is only one sun in heaven for the whole earth; there is only one law for all who people earth. It is the law of human being, the law of the life of Humanity. We are here not to excrcise our individual faculties according to our caprice-faculties and freedom are means and not ends,-not merely to labour for our own happiness on earth-happiness can only be elsewhere obtained, and there God works for us, but for this, to consecrate ourselves to the discovering as much as possible of the Divine Law, to practise it as far as our individual faculties and the times allow, and so shed forth knowledge and love among our brethren. We are here to labour to found fraternally the unity of the human family, so that it may one day present but one fold and one shepherd, the spirit of God-his Law. To attain the True, God has given us Tradition,-the life of the preceding generations of Humanity, and the voice of our own conscience. Where these are in accord with each other, there is the True; where they stand in opposition, there is Error. To conquer this harmony, this accord between the conscience of the individual and the conscience of the human race, no sacrifice can be too great. The Family, the City, the Country, Humanity—are but different spheres in which our activity and our power of sacrifice should be exercised for the attainment of that supreme purpose. God watches from on high to ordain the inevitability of human progress, and to sustain those priests of his truth and guides of the many in their pilgrimage, the powers of Genius and of Love, of Thought and of Action.

From these principles, pointed to in their letters, in their proclamations, in their discourse, from the conscience they so deeply felt of a mission confided by

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