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He rejected her, left her alone, forgot her there, where hunger balanced her; he has forgotten her there, where she found herself deprived of those who advised her, taught her, guided, defended, adorned! We should not let them leave alone, our poor emigrants! And we must not let them leave alone anymore, and forget them alone. Here is the university extension that Italy must and must experience! Young engineers here that you have only to build, and doctors who are too many for the sick in the country of malaria and misery are many, and you eloquent and generous connoisseurs and critics of the laws and state and society, and you masters of sciences and you masters of letters and arts, beyond the mountains and beyond the seas, are your brothers who have no defense and have no assistance and have no direction and often have more ideals and sometimes have no respectability, and not they get justice, and they are deprived of the word of the distant homeland! Is it possible that the great colonizer, who was Italy, could not give the picks to the virgin lands? I say these things with peat consciousness. These things are not preached in words, but in facts. For these things it is not said: Go, but: Come. I do not therefore have the right to say it. And yet … And yet those unhappy people who were here, if you like, are servants, but there, beyond the mountains and beyond the seas, they are hermits, that is, servants of foreigners, it seems to me that they mention and call me. Me too. Yes, I, who are struggling rather than recognize the most useless of the arts, I who are considered here a disutile, there I would have had my mission and my purpose: to narrate those pains and those torments and insults: summon here hearts that forget, and there console those who do not forget; and for my part, which may be the part of each of you, or good and strong young people, to plant the terms, there, of the new saturnie lands and to found the new Pelasgian cities.

Our University placed on the sea and between lands that give so many lives to emigration, to me more than any other destined to accomplish, through the means of its students, the reconquest of the nomadic Italy. And this has already begun. A doctor who leaves here and goes there to exercise his art, is more deserving of the Italic name, than any man of state, even the most energetic and the most provident. A ship that among the migrant workers, has some young graduates, with a pensive forehead and compassionate eyes, brings on board the fortune of Italy. That ship goes on to a far more human and more lasting conquest, than the caravels of Cortez and Pizzarro! Oh! the burning and luminous Sicily must give back to Italy the Thousand who helped her to redeem herself! Salpino, when it is; and it does not matter if all together, and without other weapons of intellectual light, I sail the thousand of Sicily, and go to rescue, to unite, to redeem Italy transoceanic! Who knows: perhaps a shining destiny hangs over our Athenaeum: perhaps it is the Quarto beach of the peaceful expedition. And who knows: in time he will have founded a filial and fraternal institution beyond the ocean; and both will be lapped by the same ideal current that makes the same products germinate in different latitudes. And between one and the other a current of generous young people will come and go, that here bring the spirit of renewal and there carry the spirit of tradition. Whence the ideal city of good living will rise up on solid foundations, because she does not collapse in the wind like a fantastic edifice, and at the top rises adhere, where is the pure air of every miasma and of every perverse ferment. .

These playful hopes reason me in the soul on this day, which laughs peacefully in a week of struggle and passion. These hopes are based on two easy predictions: on the prediction that the universities will be in time, like so many other things, left to themselves, with all that is reasonable for them to keep and buy; on the prediction, that the union of the parts of Italy will become more and more firm. One prediction is a consequence of the other. There is no need to bind the brothers together, so that they warm up at the same hearth and sit at the same table. Only, fire the fire in the hearth, and smoke the food on the table! The union of Italy comes from the need for love, not by fate! And here it is especially possible to banish this truth, in this city that has repeatedly rushed towards Italy, which still did not exist politically, with heroic impatience; in this island, which gave, from the noble Palermo, the sign of the Italian aurora, with its bells; in the face of that lido Calabro who first brought that sacred name, and he always remembered it and always showed it worthy.

And you young Calabrian-Sicilians have thought of this truth, when, in so many copies of people more worthy of me, amid so much glory of my illustrious colleagues and your fellow citizens, you have chosen, to inaugurate your feasts, me, though, indeed because not Sicilian or Calabrian. And perhaps you thought that those who were adopted into a family, and, without any obligation on her part, hosted and loved, are generally not the ones who reciprocate with less affection the affection of their mother of choice.

So start your holidays. Begin with a thought of gratitude for the local authorities who preserved this predestined place of study, if the heart does not deceive me, at a higher future; for those who insisted and insisted that this office should have its due and its due, for its acquired rights and future destinies.

Begin your festivities, turning a brotherly thought to your companions and our colleagues from the two other Sicilian universities, who are inspired by you; to your companions and to our colleagues from all the Italian universities, who work on the same ideal as you and see your own visions, freedom and justice, patriotic preservation and defense, and human peace and harmony.

And be happy, and what is best wishes, make you happy.

There were many people, and behind them and under many banners, a row of men dressed in red. The brown guys from beyond and citra Faro contemplated them. Suddenly the trumpets blared, uttering the alarms; and they continued with the song of the Italic resurrection. It was June 2nd …

It is very this hymn to commemorate Garibaldi. Is not it, Red shirts? The hymn resounds: the tombs are discovered, and Garibaldi rises again.

He has abated in his island. Two little girls make him company. The tireless sea moves, blinding around that stillness, and rises and lowers, and rises again and again, as if to see what it is. Nothing! Nothing! And the sea never ceases to speak around that silence, shedding (as you say) on the sand and moaning among the cliffs. And perhaps he wants to awaken his sea, and tells him with eternal repetition:

“Come, come on me! let’s go fight on the Atlantic, let’s go and dream about the Pacific! Come and climb on the slender tree-lined Constance, which was so beautiful! Your youth beautified it. You did not know then that there was a country to redeem; but the name of the brig was already the wish of your life. Come on Hope! La Speranza, which brought you back to Italy, is still cradled in the seas of Italy: come and hoist your flag, come and sing your song! Let’s go back to the Silver River. There is so much Italy working on the banks of the great river! They love each other here, Italians and Argentinians, and they work together, speaking the two languages, which you, Amigo, know well, both of them. We sail at the gates of the Tiber; let’s go see the nearest settlers, the settlers of Ravenna, who reap. You’ll be pleased to see them: they’re your soldiers who have a spade instead of a rifle. Your sight will make them forget fever. Especially since they do not see now another, your friend King, who was going to shake their hardened hands … Let’s go also more at: we go to La Spezia: you will not stop at Varignano. Come, with your great marine heart whose pulses are trade winds and monsoons, to cheer on the Queen Margherita … A ship of Italy, not the woman of Italy: forward this, poor woman, now you cry … But you will exult before the greatest and most beautiful ship in the world, which will bring “our banner to the fruitful struggles of peace and work”, and yes, when necessary, “also to the dangers of battles, where rights to defend and glories to conquer” . They are words that sent the woman to the ship, from a distance, where she is between a cradle that yesterday began to tremble, and a still grave … Come on! let’s go to the Lighthouse! Do you remember? It was all bloomed red shirts in the sixties. You have entered the fair Messina, the faithful city, which you give it, does not make it if not buried, if ever, under its ruins. You were part of the bridgehead of Italian unity. Do you remember? The horse of Bosco, between the legs of Medici, as he made the iron nails on the pavement of the street! … Let’s go to the Lighthouse. Do you remember? From the tower you looked and looked at Aspromonte … Ah! It’s true … Do not remember. Or look, let’s see, but without approaching with the lenses of rancor distant things. Look at this, and tell me if you see that forest and that farmhouse and that blood. Oh! no: everything blends into a single clear blue, like a sky that has forgotten the clouds, like a sea that has forgiven the storm ».

So the sea whispers, and rises and falls, and returns to rise, softly and eternally, to see that it is that silence and stillness.

And sometimes he grumbles and whispers and persists and shouts and screams: “Déstati: there’s a lot to do! Far away there is a basin between arid trees, a valley full of blood! our blood! They are not yours; I am of those of the King; but there is so much blood, so red, that you would believe your red shirts. And then, who knows? It seems that at a Morrone Castle called Amba-Alagè, your Pilade Bronzetti has been resurrected, to be immediately reborn. It is the greatest Toselli: is it not yours? And you hear that frantic bangs! Are not Beola batteries? No: they are Sicilian batteries; but it is the same. Come! Come! Come and say the big word: do you have to stay there, in Africa, or come away? advance or retreat? Speak and Italy will say “obey”, because your advice to withdraw can not be interpreted abandonment, and your command to advance can not be considered a sacrifice. Without your warning, the Italians are perplexed, and the Italian name suffers from it, wherever it is Italian labor, that is, in the whole world … Oh! what a dream your big sea is doing! Garibaldi leading a hard colony of enotrii workers in a land of fire with his red shirt under his blouse! a sacred spring that flourishes beyond the oceans! a new people of wild horse-tamers, called Garibaldian or Italian, which is the same! Déstati, there’s plenty to do, always to do. Our youth is lost, uncertain, inert. Could you not hear a ring of what you called “the trumpet of duty”?

And then the eternal sea comes back to talk softly, as it wanted, but to awaken the old hero, but let the little companions sleep. «We need you, we need an ideal and a faith, always ever, more than ever».

And he never keeps silent, and on the island full of holy sleep is the odor of travel and adventure. The red geraniums blaze, which he planted, and the bees of his bugnies buzz, and there is some flickering bleating of goats hanging from the cliffs. Stretch a few cannon shots from the estuary or from the warships bombs and echoes for a long time. And then again, the shouting of the cicadas of the mastic trees and of the myrtles and of the acacias that were to serve the hero’s pyre, returns to sonare, the same and continuous. And among the screeching of the cicadas and the shuffling of the sea, with the accent of those who ask for anything, the voices of the blacksmiths that were near his window rise when he died.

He died? Two rings, two shouts: we discover the tombs, and Garibaldi is ahead of us.

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He is a young blond sailor, in an inn in Taganrok, in the Black Sea, who hugs the heart who first spoke to him about Giovine Italia. He is a dying old man, all white, who comes to hear Vespers in Palermo before he dies. He is a gaucho who is born on horseback, and rides through virgin forests with a woman on the side and a child in a handkerchief over his shoulder; and warms the breast with the breath that has the name of a martyr. It is a head of legions, dirty with dust and red with blood, lit in the face for the battle with moenia, which rises the Capitol and thus presents itself to the Senate. He is a Pampa herdsman, sleeping in the shadow of his crouched horse, who seems to be watching over him; and he, in the meantime, dreams of distant Italy. He is a good farmer who prunes the vines in his stony possession of Caprera. It is the warrior, whose great heart sways here and there in the chest, before leaving for the war ; and goes lonely along the tireless beach of the sea, and stands for long hours still and taciturn. It is the dictator who moves with a gesture all the souls of a people, like the wind, with a breath, all the leaves of a forest. It is the exile that makes candles in New York, and does not find work as a sailor or porter in the harbor. He is the great foreigner, whom Lincoln wanted to head the Union army against slavers. He is the condottiere expected in vain, for a long time, by his dispersed in the prairies of the Roman agro; and a dawn of the mesto october, in the middle of the fog, dressed in a woolen knit, like an old pastor, he shows himself. A huge scream and then sudden silence. The rumble of wings of the rumully vultures is heard in the air. He extends his arm, and with his gentle voice, as sweet as a woman, sends a single word on those thousand heads: to Rome! And it is, alas, the leader who returns, on the evening of Mentana:

The dictator, alone, a mournful

row forward, twisted and tacit,

he rode: the earth and the sky

squalid, leaden, cold around.

His horse was heard of his horse

scurry in the mud: behind they heard

pass in cadence, and sighs

de heroic breasts in the night.

Or aedo worthy of the hero, Giosuè Carducci!

It is the hero who marches to the battle, stops to hear the song of a nightingale. It is the hero who knows the path of the stars, and moves his nocturnal hosts, with his eyes to heaven. It is the hero who writes: I obey; What cramp: Where are you going? the enemy is not here; that warns: What do you say, Bixio? Here we die! that “pale, hoarse, dark, aged twenty years, howl: Sit down and you will win!”

To all he is present and dear to anything intimate and personal. For everyone it is he who redeems us in blood and in glory; but the more familiar memory of him is in every order and degree of citizens: in the King, who was born in Naples that the hero returned to himself and to Italy; in the workers, of whom he knew life, and suffered hunger; in the army, which had it general in Varese; in the army, who would have liked Admiral to Lissa; in the nobility, which provided him with the guides for his ranks; in the priests … even in the priests, yes, who gave him the highest of his martyrs, Ugo Bassi, and the most effective of his saviors, Giovanni Verità: a friar and a priest: regular and secular clergy. And outside the country, the Italians in their name cling together, and in his memory they console themselves, when they are despised, persecuted, lynched, they who had Garibaldi, Garibaldi, who could have taken his place near Washington and Lincoln, and be Ulysses Grant, and he did not want and could not, because he had to remain in Italy … Garibaldi, and be there, perhaps, wounded, imprisoned, denied! And in the fazendas of the Rio Grande, our unhappy Iloti, in their exile terrible work of uprooting and looting others’ lands, nor the ravings of hunger and fever, hear the Iloti, galloping in the nights, for the piccadas, the divine Filibuster .

But he is the homeland vision, which appears everywhere on the Alps and near the lakes, around which he fought in three wars and won in vain; on the Apennines it clashed with a more admirable escape of every victory; on the seas that all ran from childhood to old age, and on which Piedmont and Lombardo managed; in the islands, among which he rested, sublime corsair lurking and waiting for the movements of the peoples; among the rushes of a swamp where he disappeared with his woman in his arms, pursued with cannonades; in the farmhouse of a mountain, where he sat bloodied and a prisoner; on the summit of the Gianicolo donde triumphs. And it appears to everyone, in the workshops and in the countryside, in the barracks and in the schools.

To everyone. No wonder it comes to me too, a lonely poor thinker. Yesterday I raised my hand from a study on the Alighieri and set myself to writing about Garibaldi. The pen ran as if by itself. There was no detachment between writing about the General and writing about the Poet. And I do not make you one of those usual comparisons in which the industry of speech, here limiting there by welding, makes any face like any other. No. You say. What is the name you would proclaim in the face of those who did not know your country? Which? Or one or the other of these two: the poet or the hero. In true where the hero did not arrive, we placed the poet!

If the stranger magnified his nation’s civilization compared to that of yours, and enumerated its inventors, writers, thinkers; you would answer: Dante! And if the stranger exalts the glories of his conquests and the glories of his revolutions and the fortunes of his empires; you would answer: Garibaldi! One of the two names you would choose, to be brief; that many others you would have; but they are enough to say everything.

Dante, the sculptor of souls, includes Michelangelo; Dante who raises the sails for waters never ran, resembles Columbus. Dante who keeps his eyes now staring at the stars, now bending to the point where the weights are drawn, prepares Galileo.

And Garibaldi? Garibaldi not only understands, but purifies and emends all your past political and military glories. He is a Mario without cruelty, a Caesar who fights for freedom and not for the imperio, a Carmagnola or Sforza who wants to reconcile, even when he kills them, the brothers; a Ferruccio who not only knows how to die but also knows how to win; an Ariosto living his marvelous poem; a Machiavello naive and deeper than the ancient, who finds at last his Prince strong but gentleman!

Between these two names you would choose, depending on whether your pride was offended in this regard (to talk about the school language of Dante, which won me over to him) about either the contemplative life or the active life. But if Italy, in your presence, denies the merits of both these lives – but we use the formula renewed by the one who gave the hero won and welcoming in himself the youthful tremor of a thousand heroic lives extinguished over the centuries; he gave Garibaldi the embrace of Dante dead; the formula renewed by Giuseppe Mazzini – if you denied Italy the glory and the perfection of Thought and Action, then you would couple, easily jumping over twenty generations, the two great names: the pale thinker and the red warrior, the poet of the overworld and the hero of two worlds, the exile of Ravenna and the solitary of Caprera; that they do not have one if not a pen and the other if not a sword, and they make a great vengeance that is an eternal claim: Dante and Garibaldi.