ROME VOTED THE CAPITAL--CONCLUSION
The other unsolved question, that of Rome, was the most thorny, the
most complicated, that ever a statesman had to grapple with. Though
Cavour's death makes it impossible to say what measure of success
would have attended his plans for resolving it, it must be always
interesting to study his attitude in approaching the greatest crux in
modern politics.
Cavour did not think of shirking this question because it was
difficult. In fact, he had understood from the beginning that in it
lay the essence of the whole problem. Chiefly for that reason he
brought the occupations of the Papal States before the Congress of
Paris. In 1856, as in 1861, he looked upon the Temporal Power as
incompatible with the independence of Italy. It was already a fiction.
"The Pope's domination as sovereign ceased from the day when it was
proved that it could not exist save by a double foreign occupation."
It had become a centre of corruption, which destroyed moral sense and
rendered religious sentiment null. Without the Temporal Power, many of
the wounds of the Church might be healed. It was useless to cite the
old argument of the independence of the head of the Church; in face
of a double occupation and the Swiss troops, it would be too bitter a
mockery. When Cavour spoke in these terms, Italian Unity seemed far
off. Now that it was accomplished, a new and potent motive arose for
settling the Roman question once for all. In May 1861 Mr. Disraeli
remarked to Count Vitzthum: "The sooner the inevitable war breaks out
the better. The Italian card-house can never last. Without Rome there
is no Italy. But that the French will evacuate the Eternal City is
highly improbable. On this point the interests of the Conservative
party coincide with those of Napoleon." There is no better judge of
the drift of political affairs than an out-and-out opponent. So
Prince Metternich always insisted that the Italians did not want
reforms--they wanted national existence, unity. Mr. Disraeli probably
had in mind a speech delivered in the House of Commons by Lord John
Russell, in which the Foreign Secretary recommended as "the best
arrangement" the Pope's retention of Rome with a small surrounding
territory. There is no doubt that a large part of the moderate party
in Italy would have then endorsed this recommendation. They looked
upon _Roma capitale_ as what D'Azeglio called it--a classical
fantasticality. What was the good of making an old man uncomfortable,
upsetting the religious susceptibilities of Europe, forfeiting the
complaisance of France, in order to pitch the tent of the nation in
a malarious town which was only fit to be a museum? Those who only
partly comprehended Cavour's character might have expected to find him
favourable to these opinions, which had a certain specious appearance
of practical good sense. But Cavour saw through the husk to the
kernel; he saw that "without Rome there was no Italy."
Without Rome Italian Unity was still only a name. Rome was the symbol,
as it was the safeguard of unity. Without it, Italy would remain a
conglomeration of provinces, a union, not a unit--not the great nation
which Cavour had laboured to create. Even as prime minister of little
Piedmont, he had spurned a parochial policy. He had no notion of a
humble, semi-neutralised Italy, which should have no voice in the
world. Cavour lacked the sense of poetry, of art; he hated fads, and
he did not believe in the perfectibility of the human species, but his
prose was the prose of the ancient Roman; it was the prose of empire.
United Italy must be a great power or nothing. Cavour was practical
and prudent, as he is represented in the portrait commonly drawn of
him, but there was a larger side to his character, which has been less
often discerned. Nor is it to be conjectured that the direction Italy
has taken, and the consequent outlay in armaments and ships, would
have been blamed by him, though he would have blamed the uncontrolled
waste of money in all departments, which is answerable for the present
state of the finances. Nor, again, would Cavour have disapproved of
colonial enterprises, but he would have taken care to have the meat,
not the bones: Tunis, not Massowah. From the opening to the close of
his career, the thought "I am an Italian citizen" governed all his
acts. Those who accused him of provincialism, of regionalism, mistook
the tastes of the private individual for the convictions of the
statesman. He preferred the flats and fogs of Leri to the scenery of
the Bay of Naples; but in politics he did not acquire the feelings
of an Italian: he was born with them. It has been said that he
aggrandised Piedmont; it would be truer to say that he sacrificed it.
For years he drained its resources; he sent its soldiers to die in the
Crimea; he exposed it again and again to the risk of invasion: he tore
from it two of its fairest provinces. But there was one thing that he
would not do; he would not dethrone Turin to begin a new "regionalism"
elsewhere. At Rome alone the history of the Italian municipalities
would become the history of the Italian nation.
Cavour deliberately departed from his usual rule of letting events
shape themselves when he pledged himself and the monarchy to the
policy of making Rome the capital. In October 1860 he said from his
place in parliament that it was a grave thing for a minister to
pronounce his opinion on the great questions of the future, but a
statesman worthy of the name ought to have certain fixed points by
which he steered his course. For twelve years their continual object
had been national independence; henceforth it was "to make the Eternal
City, on which rested twenty-five centuries of glory, the splendid
capital of the Italian kingdom."
On March 25, 1861, Cavour seized a chance opportunity to repeat and
emphasise his views. The question of Rome was, he said, the gravest
ever placed before the parliament of a free people. It was not only of
vital importance to Italy, but also to two hundred thousand Catholics
in all parts of the globe; its solution ought to have not only a
political influence, but also a moral and religious influence. In the
previous year he had deemed it wise to speak with reserve, but now
that this question was the principal subject of discussion in all
civilised nations, reserve would not be prudence but pusillanimity. He
proceeded to lay down as an irrefragable fact that Rome must become
the capital of Italy. Only this could end the discords and differences
of the various parts of the country. The position of the capital was
not decided by reasons of climate or topography, or even of strategy.
The choice of the capital was determined by great moral reasons, by
the voice of national sentiment. Cavour rarely introduced his own
personality even into his private letters, much less into his
speeches; for the last ten years of his life he seemed a living
policy, hardly a man. But in this speech there is a touch of personal
pathos in the passage in which he said that, for himself, it would
be a grievous day when he had to leave his native Turin with its
straight, formal streets, for Rome and its splendid monuments, for
which he was not artist enough to care. He called upon the future
Italy, established firmly in the Eternal City, to remember the cradle
of her liberties, which had made such great sacrifices for her, and
was ready to make this one too!
They must go to Rome, he continued, but on two conditions--the first
was, concert with France; the second, that the union of this city with
Italy should not be interpreted by the great mass of Catholics as the
signal for the servitude of the Church. They must go to Rome without
lessening the Pope's real independence, and without extending the
power of the civil authority over the spiritual. History proved that
the union of civil and spiritual authority in the same hands was fatal
to progress and freedom. The possession of Rome by Italy must put an
end to this union, not begin a new phase of it by making the Pope
a sort of head chaplain or chief almoner to the Italian state. The
Pope's spiritual authority would be safer in the charge of twenty-six
millions of free Italians than in that of a foreign garrison. Whether
they went to Rome with or without the consent of the Pontiff, as soon
as the fall of the Temporal Power was proclaimed, the complete liberty
of the Church would be proclaimed also. Might they not hope that the
head of the Church would accept the offered terms? Was it impossible
to persuade him that the Temporal Power was no longer a guarantee of
independence, and that its loss would be compensated by an amount of
liberty which the Church had sought in vain for three centuries, only
gathering particles of it by concordats which conceded the use of
spiritual arms to temporal rulers? They were ready to promise the Holy
Father that freedom which he had never obtained from those who called
themselves his allies and devoted sons. They were ready to assert
through every portion of the king's dominions the great principle of
_a free church in a free state_.
At Cavour's invitation, parliament voted the choice of Rome as
capital. From that vote there could be no going back. _Roma capitale_
could never again be put aside as the dream of revolutionists and
poets. This was the last great political act of Cavour's life. Though
he did not think that his life would be a long one, he thought that he
should have time to finish his work himself. One day, when he had been
discussing the matter with a friend, who saw nothing but difficulties,
he placed the inkstand at the top of the table before which they were
sitting, and said, "I see the straight line to that point; it is this"
(he traced it with his finger). "Supposing that halfway I encounter
an impediment; I do not knock my head against it for the pleasure of
breaking it, but neither do I go back. I look to the right and to the
left, and not being able to follow the straight line, I make a curve.
I turn the obstacle which I cannot attack in front."
What Cavour would have called the straight line to Rome was a friendly
arrangement with the Pope. He could not have hoped for this, had he
been less convinced that the true interests of the Church of Rome
would be served, not injured, by the loss of a sovereignty which had
become an anachronism. It is, of course, certain that many thought the
contrary; Lord Palmerston believed that the religious position of the
papacy would suffer, and among the advanced party the wish to weaken
the spiritual influence of the priests went along with the wish to
abolish their political dominion. Cavour looked upon religion as a
great moralising force, and he was well assured that the only form of
it acceptable to the Italian people was the Latin form of Christianity
established in Rome. Efforts to spread Protestantism in Italy struck
him as childish. Freed from the log of temporalities, he expected
that the Church would become constantly better fitted to perform its
mission.
Cavour began negotiations with Rome which, at first, he had reason
to think, were favourably entertained; afterwards they were abruptly
broken off. Nothing is more difficult than to penetrate through the
wall of apparent unanimity which surrounds the Vatican. Sometimes,
however, a breach is made, to the scandal of the faithful. Thus
the biographer of Cardinal Manning revealed the fact that the late
Archbishop of Westminster, who began by wishing the Temporal Power to
be erected into an article of faith, ended by ardently desiring some
kind of tacitly accepted _modus vivendi_ with the Italian kingdom,
such as that which Cavour proposed. Cardinal Manning was sorry to see
the Italians being driven to atheism and socialism, and so he had the
courage to change his mind. In 1861 he was in the opposite camp,
but there was not wanting then a section of learned and patriotic
ecclesiastics who desired peace. It was said that their efforts
were rendered sterile by the great organisation which a pope once
suppressed, and which owed its resurrection to a schismatic emperor
and an heretical king. However that may be, the recollection of what
befell Clement XIV. is still a living force in Rome.
Having failed to conclude a compact with the Vatican, Cavour turned to
France. To make it easier for Napoleon to withdraw his troops, he was
willing to allow the Temporal Power to stand for a short time--"for
instance, for a year"--after their departure. In the arrangement
subsequently arrived at under the name of the September Convention,
the underlying intention was to adjourn _Roma capitale_ to the Greek
kalends. Cavour had no such intention, nor would he have agreed to the
transference of the capital to Florence. His plan was warmly supported
by Prince Napoleon, and had he lived it is probable that it would have
been carried out. He did not despair of an ultimate reconciliation
with the Holy See, though he no longer thought that it would yield to
persuasion alone.
While Cavour was applying himself with feverish activity to the Roman
question, he was harassed by the state of the Neapolitan provinces,
which showed no improvement. The liquidation of Garibaldi's
dictatorship was rendered the more difficult by the undiminished
dislike of the military chiefs for the volunteers, whom they were
disposed to treat less favourably than the Bourbon officers who ran
away. Cavour hoped to get substantial justice done in the end, but
meantime he had to bear the blame for the illiberality which he had so
strenuously opposed. To have told the truth would have been to throw
discredit on the army, and this he would not do. The subject was
brought before the Chamber of Deputies in a debate opened by Ricasoli,
who spoke in favour of the volunteers, but deprecated undue importance
being assigned to the work of any private citizen. The true liberator
of Italy was the king under whom they had all worked; those whose
sphere of action had been widest, as their utility had been greatest,
should feel thankful for so precious a privilege--few men could say,
"I have served my country well, I have entirely done my duty." Cavour,
who heard Ricasoli speak for the first time, said with generous
approbation, "I have understood to-day what real eloquence is." But it
was not likely that the debate would continue on this academic plane.
Garibaldi had come to Turin in a fit of intense anger at the treatment
of his old comrades, and on rising to defend them he soon lost control
over himself, and launched into furious invectives against the man who
had made him a foreigner in his native town, and "who was now driving
the country into civil war." Cavour would have borne patiently
anything that Garibaldi could say about Nice, but at the words "civil
war" he became violently excited. The house trembled lest a scene
should take place, which would be worse for Italy than the loss of a
battle. But Cavour cared too much for Italy to harm her. The sense
of his first indignant protests was lost in the general uproar;
afterwards, when he rose to reply to Garibaldi, he was perfectly calm;
there was not a trace of resentment on his face. Such self-command
would have been noble in a man whose temperament was phlegmatic; in a
passionate man like Cavour it was heroic. He said that an abyss had
been created between himself and General Garibaldi. He had performed
what he believed to be a duty, but it was the most cruel duty of his
life. What he felt made him able to understand what Garibaldi felt.
With regard to the volunteers, had he not himself instituted them in
1859 in the teeth of all kinds of opposition? Was it likely that he
wished to treat them ill? A few days later Garibaldi wrote a letter in
which he promised Cavour (in effect) plenary absolution if he would
proclaim a dictatorship. He would then be the first to obey. There
was no petty spite or envy in Garibaldi; his wild thrusts had been
prompted by "a general honest thought, and common good to all." He was
ready to give his rival unlimited power.
By the king's wish, Cavour and Garibaldi met and exchanged a few
courteous, if not cordial, words. Cavour ignored the scene in the
Chamber; he had already said that for him it had never happened. It
was their last meeting. The wear and tear of public life as it was
lived by Cavour must have been enormous; it meant the concentration,
not only of the mental and physical powers, but also of the nervous
and emotional faculties, on a single object. He had not the relaxation
of athletic or literary tastes, or the repose of a cheerful domestic
life. Latterly he even gave up going to the theatre in order to dose
undisturbed. A doctor warned him not to work after dinner, and to take
frequent holidays in the mountains; he neglected both rules. He was
inclined to despise rest. He used to say: "When I want a thing to be
done quickly, I always go to a busy man: the unoccupied man never
has any time." He, himself, did not know how to be idle; yet he was
painfully conscious of overwork and brain-fag. He told his friend
Castelli that he was tormented by sleeplessness, but still more by
certain ideas which assailed him at night, and which he could not get
rid of. He got up and walked about the room, but all was useless; "I
am no longer master of my head." When Parliament was open, he never
missed a sitting, and he left nothing to subordinates in the several
departments in his charge. While his mental processes remained clear
and orderly, the brain, when not governed by the will, did its tasks
as a tired slave does them; thus he was surrounded by a mass of
confused papers and documents, amongst which he sometimes had to seek
for days for the one required at the moment.
In the last half of May he was noticed to be unwontedly irritable and
impatient of contradiction. The debates bored him; on the last day
that he sat in his accustomed place, he said that, when Italy was
made, he would bring in a Bill to abolish all the chairs of rhetoric.
That evening he was taken ill with fever; his own physician was
absent, and he dictated a treatment to the doctor who was called in,
which he thought would make his illness a short one. He was bled five
times in four days. On the fourth day he summoned a cabinet council
to his bedside; the ministers, sharing his own opinion that he was
better, allowed it to be prolonged for several hours. When they went
out, an old friend came in and read death in his face. Other doctors
were consulted, and the treatment was changed. It was too late. From
the first the chance of recovery was small, owing to the mental
tension at which Cavour had lived for months; whatever chance there
was had been thrown away. He knew people when he first saw them, but
then fell back into lethargy or delirium. Suddenly he said: "The king
must be told."
When the case became evidently desperate, the family sent for a monk,
named Fra Giacomo, who had promised Cavour during the cholera epidemic
of 1854 that the refusal of the sacraments to Santa Rosa should not
be repeated in his own extremity. An excited crowd gathered round the
palace. One workman said: "If the priests refuse, a word and we will
finish them all." But Fra Giacomo kept his promise. "I know the
Count," he said (for many years he had dispensed his private
charities); "a clasp of the hand will be sufficient." On the evening
of the same day, June 5, the king ascended the secret staircase
leading to Cavour's bedroom, which had been so often mounted before
dawn by too compromising visitors. Cavour exclaimed on seeing him: "O
Maestà!" but the recognition seemed not to last. "These Neapolitans,
they must be cleansed," he said, interrupting the sovereign's kind
commonplaces of a hope that was not. Then he ordered that his
secretary, Artom, should be ready to transact business with him at
five next morning; "there was no time to lose." Cavour's biographers
have repeated statements as to precepts and injunctions spoken by him
in his last hours. But he was continually delirious; all that could be
understood was that his wandering mind was running on what had been
the life of his life, Italy. In the early dawn of the 6th, he imagined
that he was making a ministerial statement from his place in the
Chamber of Deputies; his voice sounded clear and distinct, but ideas,
names, words, were incoherently mixed together. At four o'clock he
became silent, and very soon life was pronounced to be extinct.
One Sunday in June, a year before, Cavour spent some hours in the
ancestral castle at Santena, which he so rarely visited. On that
occasion he said to the village syndic: "Here I wish my bones to
rest." The wish was respected, the king yielding to it his own desire
to give his great minister a royal burial at the Superga. Cavour had
the old sentiment that it was well for a man to be buried where his
fathers were buried, and to die in their faith. At all times it would
have been repugnant to him to pose as a sceptic, most of all on his
deathbed. Once, when he was reminded in the Campo Santo at Pisa
that he was standing on holy earth brought from Palestine, he said,
smiling, "Perhaps they will make a saint of me some day." He died a
Catholic, and, instead of launching its censures against Fra Giacomo,
the Church might have written "ancor questo" among its triumphs. For
the rest, with minds such as Cavour's, religion is not the mystical
elevation of the soul towards God, but the intellectual assent to the
ruling of a superior will, and religious forms are, in substance,
symbols of that assent. The essence of Cavour's theology and morality
is expressed in two sayings of Epictetus. One is, that as to piety to
the gods, the chief thing is to have right opinions about them; to
think that they exist, and that they administer the all well and
justly. The other is: For this is your duty, to act well the part that
is given to you.
"Cavour," said Lord Palmerston in the classic home of constitutional
liberty, the British House of Commons, "left a name 'to point a moral
and adorn a tale.'" The moral was, that a man of transcendent talent,
indomitable industry, inextinguishable patriotism, could overcome
difficulties which seemed insurmountable, and confer the greatest,
the most inestimable benefits on his country. The tale with which
his memory would be associated was the most extraordinary, the most
romantic, in the annals of the world. A people which seemed dead had
arisen to new and vigorous life, breaking the spell which bound it,
and showing itself worthy of a new and splendid destiny. The man whose
name would go down to posterity linked with such events might have
died too soon for the hopes of his fellow-citizens, not for his fame
and his glory.
After thirty-seven years nothing need be taken away from this high
eulogy, and something can be added. The completion of the national
edifice within a decade of Cavour's death was still, in a sense, his
work, as the consolidation of the United States after the death of
Lincoln was still moulded by his vanished hand.
If it be true that the world's history is the world's judgment, it
is no less true that the history of the state is the judgment of
the statesman. Cavour would not have asked to be tried by any other
criterion. He achieved a great result. He doubted if ideals of
perfection could he reached, or whether, if reached, they would not be
found, like mountain tops, to afford no abiding place for the foot
of man. Perhaps he forgot too much that from the ice and snow of
the mountain comes the river which fertilises the land. But, if he
deprecated the pursuit of what he deemed the impossible, he condemned
as criminal the neglect of the attainable. The charge of cynicism was
unjust; Cavour was at heart an optimist; he never doubted that life
was immensely worth living, that the fields open to human energy were
splendid and beneficent. He hated shams, and he hated all forms of
caste-feeling. He was one of the few continental statesmen who never
exaggerated the power for good of government; he looked upon the
private citizen who plods at his business, gives his children a good
education, and has a reserve of savings in the funds, as the mainstay
of the state.
No life of Cavour has been written since the publication of his
correspondence, and of a mass of documents which throw light on his
career. It has seemed more useful, therefore, within the prescribed
limits, to endeavour to show what he did, and how he did it, than
to give much space to the larger considerations which the Italian
movement suggests. Of the ultimate issue of the events with which he
was concerned it is too soon to speak. These events stand in close
relation to the struggle between the civil and ecclesiastical powers,
which dates back to the first assumption of political prerogatives by
the Bishops of Rome. Cavour did not suffer his sovereign to eat humble
pie like King John, or to go to Canossa like Henry IV., but neither
did he ever entertain the wish to turn persecutor as Pombal was,
perhaps, forced to do, or to browbeat the head of the Church as the
first Napoleon took a pleasure in doing. He aimed at keeping the two
powers separate, but each supreme in its own province.
Content you with monopolising heaven,
And let this little hanging ball alone;
For, give ye but a foot of conscience there,
And you, like Archimedes, toss the globe.
The Italian revolution was bound up, also, with the principle of
nationalities, which is still at work in South-Eastern Europe, and
with the tendency towards unity which led to the refounding of the
German Empire. Students who care for historical parallels will always
seek to draw a comparison between Cavour and the great man who guided
the new destinies of Germany. The points of resemblance are striking,
but they are soon exhausted. Each undertook to free his country from
extraneous influence, and to give it the strength which can only
spring from union, and each was confident in his own power to succeed;
either Cavour or Bismarck might have said with the younger Pitt: "I
know that I can save the country, and I know no other man can." The
points of disparity are inexhaustible. Prince Bismarck never threw off
the aristocratico-military leanings with which he began life. He aimed
at creating a strong military empire, in which the first and last duty
of parliament was to vote supplies. Though the revolutionary tide set
in towards unity still more in Germany than in Italy, he preferred to
wait till he could do without a popular movement as an auxiliary. He
did not admire the mysticism of King Frederick William IV., but he
fully approved when that monarch, "the son of twenty-four electors and
kings," declared that he would never accept the "iron collar" offered
him by revolution "of an Imperial crown unblessed by God." Bismarck
started with the immeasurable advantage that his side was the
strongest. Cavour had to solve the problem of how a state of five
millions could outwit an empire of thirty-seven millions. All along,
the German population of Prussia was far more numerous than that of
Austria, and she had allies that cost her nothing. Napoleon, as Cavour
pointed out, fought for Prussia in Lombardy as much as for Piedmont.
If Bismarck foresaw unification with more certainty than Cavour
foresaw unity, it must be remembered that, while Cavour was held back
by doubts as to whether the whole country desired unity, such doubts
caused no trouble to Bismarck, since he was ready to adopt a short way
with dissidents.
When Prince Bismarck once said that he was more Prussian than German,
he revealed the weak side of his stupendous achievement. Prussia has
not become Germany. The empire is a great defensive league in which
only one participant is entirely satisfied with his position. In
Italy a kingdom has grown up in which Piedmont, even to the extent
of ingratitude, is forgotten. If moral fusion is still incomplete,
political fusion has, at least, advanced so far that the present
institutions and the nation must stand or fall together. The monarchy
was made for the country, not the country for the monarchy. An acute
Frenchman remarked during the Franco-German War, that Prince
Bismarck had taken Cavour's conception without what made it really
great--liberty. Possibly that word may still prove of better omen to
the rebirth of a nation than "Blood and Iron."
CHIEF AUTHORITIES
Artom I. and A. Blanc. _Il Conte di Cavour in Parlamento_.
Florence, 1868.
Bersezio, V. _Il regno di Vittorio Emanuele II.;
Trent' anni di vita italiana_. Turin, 1878-95. 8 vols.
Bert, A. _Nouvelles lettres inédites de Cavour_. Turin, 1889.
Berti, D. _Il Conte di Cavour avanti al 1848_. Rome, 1886.
Bianchi, N. _La politique du Comte Camille de Cavour_.
Turin, 1885.
Bonghi, R. _Ritratti contemporanei: Cavour, Bismarck, Thiers_.
Milan, 1879.
Buzziconi, G. _Bibliografia Cavouriana_. Turin, 1898.
Cavour, C. _Opere politico-economiche del Conte Camillo di Cavour_.
Cuneo, 1855.
---- _Discorsi parlamentari del Conte Camillo di Cavour_.
Published by order of the Chamber of Deputies. Turin,
1863-72. 8 vols.
Chiala, L. _Il Conte di Cavour_. Ricordi di Michelangelo Castelli,
editi per cura di L. Chiala. Turin, 1886.
---- _Lettere edite ed inedite di Camillo Cavour_. Turin,
1883-87. 7 vols.
Dicey, E. _Memoir of Cavour_. London, 1861.
La Rive (De), W. _Le Comte de Cavour. Récits et souvenirs_.
Paris, 1862.
La Varenne (De), C. _Lettres inédites du Comte de Cavour au
Commandeur Urbain Rattazzi_. Paris, 1862.
Marriott, F. _La sapienza politica del Conte di Cavour e
del Principe di Bismarck_. Turin, 1886.
Marriott, F. _The Makers of Modern Italy_. London, 1889.
Massari, G. _Il Conte di Cavour_. Turin, 1873.
Mazade (De), C. _Le Comte de Cavour._ Paris, 1877.
Nigra, C. _Le Comte de Cavour et la Comtesse de Circourt_.
Turin, 1894.
Reumont (Von.), A. _Charakterbilder aus der neuern Geschichte
Italiens._ Leipzig, 1886.
Reyntiens, M.N. _Bismarck et Cavour._ Bruxelles, 1875.
Tivaroni, C. _Storia critica del risorgimento d'Italia._
Turin, 1888-97. 9 vols.
Treitschke (Von), H. "Cavour," in _Historische und politische
Aufsätze._ Leipzig, 1871.
Zanichelli, D. _Gli scritti del Conte di Cavour._ Bologna, 1892.
Also the Memoirs and Correspondence of Ricasoli, La Farina,
Kossuth, Minghetti, D'Azeglio, Lanza, Arese, Della Rocca.