Modena, who abandoned not only
what other men hold dear,--home, fortune, peace,--but also endured,
without the power of using the prime of his great artist-talent, a
ten years' exile in a foreign land; his wife every way worthy of
him,--such a woman as I am not.
Mazzini had suffered millions more than I could; he had borne his
fearful responsibility; he had let his dearest friends perish; he had
passed all these nights without sleep; in two short months, he had
grown old; all the vital juices seemed exhausted; his eyes were all
blood-shot; his skin orange; flesh he had none; his hair was mixed
with white: his hand was painful to the touch; but he had never
flinched, never quailed; had protested in the last hour against
surrender; sweet and calm, but full of a more fiery purpose than ever;
in him I revered the hero, and owned myself not of that mould.
You say truly, I shall come home humbler. God grant it may be entirely
humble! In future, while more than ever deeply penetrated with
principles, and the need of the martyr spirit to sustain them, I will
ever own that there are few worthy, and that I am one of the least.
A silken glove might be as good a gauntlet as one of steel, but I,
infirm of mood, turn sick even now as I think of the past.
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