in your own tongue. You will feel it in that sad, haughty anger which will drive the blood to your brow when you hear insults to your country from the mouth of a stranger. You will feel it in more proud and vigorous measure on the day when the menace of a hostile race shall call forth a tempest of fire upon your country, and when you shall behold arms raging on every side, youths thronging in legions, fathers kissing their children and saying, “Courage!” mothers bidding adieu to their young sons and crying, “Conquer!” You will feel it like a joy divine, if you have the good fortune to behold the re-entrance to your town of the regiments, weary, ragged, with thinned ranks, yet terrible, with the splendor of victory in their eyes, and their banners torn by bullets, followed by a vast convoy of brave fellows, bearing their bandaged heads and their stumps of arms loftily, amid a wild throng, which covers them with flowers, with blessings, and with kisses. Then you will comprehend the love of country; then you will feel your country, Enrico. It is a grand and sacred thing.
May I one day see you return in safety from a battle fought for her; safe,—you who are my flesh and soul. But if I should learn that you had preserved your life because you were concealed from death, your father, who now welcomes you with a cry of joy when you return from school, would then receive you with a sob of anguish. I should never be able to love you again. I should die with that dagger in my heart.
Your Father.
