w them to be
ready to make this last sacrifice to their country. Might Italy not
forget the cradle of her liberties when her seat of government was
firmly established in the Eternal City!
He went on to say that he had not lost the hope that France and the
Head of the Church would yield to the inexorable logic of the
situation, and that the same generation which had resuscitated Italy
would accomplish the still grander task of concluding a peace between
the State and the Church, liberty and religion. These were no formal
words; Cavour's whole heart was set on their realisation. He did not
doubt that the knot, if not untied, would be cut by the sword sooner
or later. He felt as sure as Mazzini felt that this would happen; but
more than any man of any party he had reckoned the cost of ranging the
Church with its vast potential powers for good, for order, for public
morality, among the implacable enemies of the nascent kingdom. And,
therefore, his last public utterance was a cry for religious peace.
Always an immense worker, in these latter months Cavour had been
possessed by a feverish activity. 'I must make haste to finish my
work,' he said; 'I feel that this miserable body of mine is giving way
beneath the mind and will which still urge it on. Some fine day you
will see me break down upon the road.' On the 6th of June, after two
or three days of so-called sudden illness, he broke down upon the
road.
Fra Giacomo, faithful to his old promise, administered the sacraments
to the dying minister, who told Farini 'to tell the good people of
Turin that he died a Christian.' After this his mind rambled, but
always upon the themes that had so completely absorbed it: Rome,
Venice, Naples--'no state of siege,' was one of his broken sayings
that referred to Naples. It was his farewell protest against brute
force in which he had never believed. 'Cleanse them, cleanse them,' he
repeated; cleanse the people of the South of their moral contagion;
that, not force, was the remedy. He was able to recognise the King,
but unable to collect the ideas which he wished to express to him.
Cavour's death caused a profound sensation in Europe, and in Italy and
in England awakened great sorrow. Hardly any public man has received
so splendid a tribute as that rendered to his memory in the British
Houses of Parliament. The same words were on the lips of all: What
would Italy do without him? Death is commonly the great reminder that
no man is n
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