good, he refused honors, he scorned death, he adored Italy. When he uttered his war-cry, legions of valorous men hastened to him from all quarters; gentlemen left their palaces, workmen their ships, youths their schools, to go and fight in the sunshine of his glory. In time of war he wore a red shirt. He was a blonde, strong and handsome. On the field of battle he was a thunder-bolt; in his affections he was a child, in affliction he was a saint. Thousands of Italians have died for their country, happy, if, when dying, they saw him pass victorious in the distance; thousands would have allowed themselves to be killed for him; millions have blessed and will bless him.
He is dead. The whole world mourns him. You do not appreciate him now. But you will read of his deeds, you will constantly hear him spoken of in the course of your life; and gradually, as you grow up, his image will grow before you; when you become a man, you will behold him as a giant; and when you are no longer in the world, when your sons' sons and those who shall be born of them are no longer among the living, the generations will still behold on high his luminous head as a redeemer of the people, crowned by the names of his victories as with a circlet of stars; and the brow and the soul of every Italian will beam when he utters his name.
Your Father.
THE ARMY
Sunday, 11th.
The National Festival Day. Postponed for a week on account of the death of Garibaldi.
We have been to the Piazza Castello, to see the re-
