prayer for some minutes. She rose up, and the executioner came forward; "Thank you,” she said mildly to him, "but my daughter will assist me." Tryphena removed her mother's hood, and her finely shaped head appeared covered only by her long and snowwhite hair. With trembling hands the loving daughter cut off all that long flowing hair; and then, kneeling before her mother, prayed her blessing. "God, for Christ's sake, bless and keep you, my own child," she exclaimed aloud, and kissed her fondly. "We shall indeed meet again to part no more: now pray for me," she added, “obey my last request, I am sure you will not disobey me now. Do not turn your head."-Tryphena did obey.-There was a short, but awful pause; -a loud and sudden stroke sounded in the ears of the daughter-and she fell beside the headless corpse of her mother.

L. W.

ON COTEMPORARY ITALIAN WRITERS.

No. I.-IPPOLITO PINDEMONTE.

IT has been frequently a subject of remark, especially of late, how little cotemporary Italian literature is known in England. Even among the generality of literary men,-of those who know something of the literature of foreign countries,-the first-rate Italian classics, and Alfieri among the modern, are the only authors which may be said to be commonly appreciated.

The literary productions of Italy which have appeared since the French revolution are almost a dead letter in England; indeed, we have heard it asked, with real inquisitiveness, whether there were any recent Italian authors worth reading. Many causes may be assigned for this singularity. The want of a common centre of information in Italy itself, from which circumstance many of her authors remain unknown beyond the precincts of their respective states; the scarcity of reviews and other periodical works; the little encouragement literature enjoys, and the insecurity of literary property; the fashionable use of the French language; the censure; the custom-house duties; all these are sufficient motives to account for the slowness and difficulty with which literary novelties circulate even through Italy. Adding to these the distance between that country and England, and the consequent expense and trouble attending the carriage of books; the want of a speculative spirit among Italian booksellers, and the little intercourse that

akes place between the natives of the two countries, we shall not wonder so much at Italian cotemporary literature being little known in England. However, as we think this literature not altogether contemptible, although not perhaps in as flourishing a state as that of various former periods, we shall endeavour to fill this void in encyclopedic information, by giving a series of articles upon the most distinguished Italian writers of the day, attaching ourselves principally to the spirit of their works, and their connexion with, and influence upon, the present state of mind in that country.

It has been said by a modern writer, that "le siècle qui suit une epoque de troubles est toujours le siécle des genie." If this If this proposition were true, and it bears at first sight an air of plausibility, our age ought to be blessed with a greater quantum of genius than any since the flood. Troubles, and disturbances, and convulsions, there have been enough at the close of the last century and at the beginning of this; ten years have now nearly elapsed since the termination of those calamities,-a full time at least for the first beams of this promised blaze of intellectual splendour to have illuminated the horizon. Those countries, too, that have been the principal scene of troubles, and wars, and mighty changes, ought, by a natural deduction, to have the greater share of the subsequent benefit. But, alas ! facts are stubborn things, and overset the most flattering theories. Our age, with all its increase of education and general information, is remarkable for a scarcity of that unacquirable gift of nature called genius; and this scarcity is particularly observable in those countries which have, for a quarter of a century, been in a state of political and moral fermentation hardly equalled in history. France and Italy are decidedly poor in writers of original transcendant genius; indeed, in the former country, we should be much embarrassed to point out a literary character which, by the opinion of Frenchmen themselves, deserves to be placed in the same rank with their great writers of the age of Louis XIV., or even with those of the last century. With regard to Italy, which is more particularly concerned in the present article, we are bound to acknowledge an almost equal deficiency in original inventive genius; and the principal exceptions are those of two or three writers who belong properly to the age that is past, and who may be said to have flourished before and during that very disturbed period. The truth is, that the avatars of genius cannot be foretold; the appearances of that child of heaven do not seem to be connected with the tide of other human affairs; its visits have taken place at epochs the most dissimilar; amongst the din and the horrors of war, as well as in the luxurious times of peace: it has appeared to the soldier in the busy field, to the party-man during the contentions of civil war,

and to the cænobite in the solitude of his cell; and even, at times, to the savage in the gloom of his forests, and to the barbarian roaming over the trackless waste. The combinations which determine its coming forth are beyond the power, as well as above the research, of man.

In the latter half of the last century, and in times of profound peace, Italy was irradiated by a constellation of bright intellects, such as she had not seen since the age of Leo. These great men had formed themselves under circumstances, which, in our days, we are apt to consider as peculiarly disadvantageous: they were the natives of Roman catholic countries, the subjects of absolute governments; they had been educated according to the old system, and most of them by jesuits. Some were churchmen themselves. And yet, from such a state of society, and under the shade of such institutions, came forth Passeroni, Gozzi, Bettinelli, Verri, Parini, Cesarotti, Denina, Alfieri, Monti, Pindemonte, Bertola, and several more who might be mentioned. Of this glorious list, two or three only are now surviving. Monti and Pindemonte are both very old; and when they are gone, their seats on the Italian Parnassus will probably remain long vacant.

Ippolito Pindemonte was born a younger son of a patrician family of Verona, in the Venetian states. His elder brother, Giovanni, is known in Italy for some tragedies he wrote, and which enjoyed, at the time, some popularity. They are now nearly forgotten,-an instance of the precariousness of Italian literary reputation, owing to the great influence exercised upon the public by the opinion of a small class of literati; an influence which has at times weighed heavily on genius, and which is opposed now, but with doubtful success, by a school of young men that will no longer submit to it. Ippolito Pindemonte, however, by his genius, the independence of his mind, the amiability and modesty of his manner, and his immaculate reputation, has either conciliated or conquered the severity of this self-constituted areopagus; for men of all parties, and critics of various opinions, speak of him with deference and respect, both for his talent and character. "He is fully possessed," says Countess Albrizzi, "of that most difficult art of making the wicked forgive him his goodness, the ignorant his learning, the vicious his virtues, and women his indifference." This latter charge, however, has been gently repelled by Pindemonte, whose alleged coolness in this respect seems to have proceeded not from natural indifference to female charms, of which supposed indifference indeed many of his earlier productions afford a refutation, but from the mastery which it has been the study of his life to give to the nobler and purer, over the lower and more earthly, passions.

Among Pindemonte's earlier productions are his prose and

poesie campestri, which, as he informs us, were written in the year 1785, while he was living in his rural residence of Avesa near Verona. "A man," thus he described himself in the introduction," who does not dislike living with himself, who loves independence and liberty, and who is enamoured of the country, finds himself, for the first time in his life, free, independent, and retired in the green recesses of a delightful villa. He is arrived at that crisis in which men become undeceived about most of the illusions of this world,—a crisis perhaps not very desirable, but yet unavoidable sooner or later in life, by those who have a single grain of philosophy in their heads. His disposition is somewhat inclined to melancholy, and his precarious health contributes to this bias; but his melancholy flows tranquilly and mildly, and the forewarnings of a slow but cruel disease which threatens his days, endears to him still more his rural leisure, which he perhaps will not be able to enjoy much longer. He has exerted himself from boyhood in the art of composing; an art of which he knew the difficulty only when its charms had deprived him of the power of forsaking it: hence the various sensations and ideas which, in this his new situation, now crowd to his mind or warm his heart; he traces them on paper, now in the language of poetry, and now in that of prose, accordingly as he feels himself inspired. I am that man, and the reader will thus know what he has to expect from this book."

These rural compositions are, by their sentiments and their style, well adapted to the subject. There is not in them any affectation of sentiment, but mild wisdom, love of the human kind, and an elegant taste for the beauties of nature. The language of the prose is flowing and familiar without being trivial; it is a fair specimen of plain Italian composition, and shows that language well adapted for the humbler walks of light literature as well as for the loftiest flights of poetry. The author describes the inducements to rural life, and its advantages; and maintains its usefulness. "The inhabitants of cities, and especially of Italian cities, have a sort of contempt for country life; they look upon any one who does not live with them as being out of the world, as if there were no human beings out of cities. And yet no where can the wise and the rich render themselves useful as in the country, where that part of the human race exists which is often in want of our greatest care, and which certainly deserves it most. It is in the country that, far from forgetting mankind, one learns better to love and serve it; while in cities one is in danger of deceiving others, to avoid being oneself deceived." These, and other reflections of the same sort, serve to prove that Pindemonte's philosophy was not of the indolent and epicurean character, but philanthropic and patriotic. Of this latter quality, indeed, he affords so many proofs throughout his writings that it were idle to doubt it. But the circumstances of his

native country have been so peculiarly unfortunate, that Pindemonte's patriotism, like that of many of the best among his countrymen, could not possibly coincide with any of the parties, whether foreign or domestic, that strove for the mastership over the country, "che giova nelle fata dar di cozzo?" Pindemonte felt this early, and despairing, as well he might, of being of any use, he took the only path he thought he could conscientiously follow,that of obscurity. The state of his health might be an additional reason for this resolution, and the history of Italian events can but serve to shew its wisdom. Of what advantage would it have been to Italy had Pindemonte sacrificed himself, and added one more to the number of its illustrious victims? Where there is no truly national cause, no national interests, there can be no political duties imposed upon individuals. Noi non abbiamo patria, abbiamo soltanto un domicilio, thus we heard once a warm-hearted Calabrian exclaim at Naples; and yet Naples had at least a shadow of nationality which, since the fall of the Venetian republic, has been refused to Pindemonte's native country. But we will touch again upon the subject of our author's national sentiments as we advert to his later works.

"With great delight I look back to the days of my early youth. The greatest charm of that age is derived from the illusive vista of the future. . Our life is like a mount, on the summit of which shines an enchanted palace of wondrous beauty, the higher we ascend the fainter it appears, until, arrived at the summit, we find nothing but an empty space.' Prose.

In his third prose, he gives an interesting description of the localities of his rural retreat, and he leads the reader about the delightful country round Verona. The house in which he then lived belonged at one time to the jesuits; and the celebrated Bettinelli had written in it most of his works. "He converted the youth of his country to God in the church, and afterwards in his apartments gave them lessons of taste and literature." After the expulsion of the jesuits, several Englishmen resided there, attracted by the salubriousness of the air, and among the rest the then Duke of Gloucester, who experienced great benefit from the climate.

In another of his prose he enters into a short historical disquisition upon the taste for country seats and rural leisure, which, after having prevailed to a great extent among the Greeks and the Romans, declined during the ages of barbarism, and revived in Italy together with the other arts in the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries. Boccaccio in his Decameron gives us a description of an elegant villa; but the first, says Pindemonte, among the more lordly mansions, was that of Bagnaja, near Viterbo, begun in the year 1511, and brought to a termination by Cardinal Gambara.