Modern Italian Romances pt 1.
author: Mary Shelley
source date: December 1838

Mary Shelley MODERN ITALIAN ROMANCES. [Continued from page 428.] [Monthly Chronicle; A National Journal of Politics, Literature, Science, and Art , vol. II, December 1838, pp. 547-557. The essay is part two of a two-part series begun the month before. Laura DeWitt and Mary A. Waters co-edited this edition for The Criticism Archive.]

In our former article on this subject we treated of works of the imagination that had a moral and useful aim, but were not marked by a spirit of fervent patriotism. We now approach a more distinctively national class of fictions—romances dictated by hatred of the oppressor, and an ardent desire to awaken a love of freedom among the Italians.

Nothing can be in more complete contrast with the tale of Belmonte than the volumes before us — "The Siege of Florence," (L' Assedio di Firenze.) The former is a simple narrative, in which nature is mirrored as in a placid lake, clear and unexaggerated. The scope of the latter is more arduous. The author[^1] beholds the miserable state to which his countrymen are reduced. He groans over their vices — he writhes under the contempt with which they are treated by enlightened Europe. He struggles with the bonds which foreign potenates have thrown over them. He views their slavery with more impatience than Manzoni, Azeglio and Caponi, [Shelley probably means Capocci, whom she has just mentioned under the name Belmonte and whom she considered in Part I of the essay along with Manzoni and Azeglio.] and with cause, for he is a Tuscan. The Milanese must go back to the days of Frederic Barbarossa, to hunt for their title deeds to freedom — under the Visconti and the Sforzi they were subjects. The Neapolitan can only speak of the kingdom of Naples; but the Florentine, the countryman of Petrarch and Dante, sees around him at every step the monuments of the freedom of his country — a stormy liberty it is true, but, even thus, being, as liberty ever is, the parent of high virtues, memorable deeds, and immortal works of art. He feels that the soil of Tuscany might again be prolific of such, if her sons were permitted to develope their acute understandings in a worthy career, and to exercise their energy in useful and noble labors.

[^1: It seems unclear whether Shelley is aware that the author is Francesco Guerrazzi, whom she discusses later in the context of his La battaglio di Benevento (1827), a book she remarks as having a similar style to L' Assedio di Firenze .]

Perhaps no epoch of the history of Florence is more remarkable than that which this author has chosen. The Medici, who had risen to the rank almost of princes in the republic, through the joint operation of virtue, riches, and sagacity, became, when in the enjoyment of power, a degenerate race. During the struggles of the French and Spanish in the Peninsula, they had encountered various changes of fortune. When under Charles V. Rome was sacked, the Florentines took the opportunity to expel the Medici, and peace was soon patched up between the pope Clement and the emperor, chiefly for the purpose, on the part of the former, (who, before he ascended the papal chair, was Cardinal Julius de' Medici,) of inducing the latter to turn his arms against the republic, and oblige it, through fear or force, to receive back the exiled family as rulers and princes. The heads of the family he wished thus to exalt, were indeed such as freemen might disdain. The last of the race who deserved respect or love, Giovanni de' Medici, had died in the field of battle. There remained, as chief, Alessandro, the natural son of Julius himself, by a negro woman; a man bearing the stamp of a base origin and brutish race, frightful in person, and depraved in soul. The Florentines detested him, and, in truth, hated the whole race of Medici. When summoned by the emperor and pope to yield to receive them as rulers, they answered by fortifying their city, gathering what armed force they could about them, and resolving to suffer every extremity rather than submit. The emperor gave the Prince of Orange the command over the army sent against them. The siege lasted many months; and in the end Florence was lost through the treachery of the Condottiere [Mercenaries hired to fight in Italian wars of the fourteenth to sixteenth centuries.] entrusted with its defense.

Such a period was marked by stirring events, and characterised by men conspicuous for virtue or for crime; and it afforded the author of "The Siege of Florence" an ample field for the employment of his genius. His work does not consist of a continuous artfully enwoven tale, but of a succession of episodes and detached scenes, all bearing upon the same subject, and tending to the same end, but distinct from each other in their individual interest. Interspersed with these scenes are outbreaks of declamation in the author's own person. He is eloquent and energetic, but sometimes bombastic, often obscure, always exaggerated, but never affected. He writes with his whole heart; and his words are of fire, though often they may strike as being incendiary flames to destroy, rather than regulated heat to foster. It requires as much enthusiasm as the author feels in the great cause, not to find him at times tedious; but with all this, it is a work of great and lasting merit. It is animated by an heroic spirit, and breathes a genuine love of virtue and of country.

The Romance opens with the death-bed of Machiavelli — his last speech shows considerable power, and is extracted in the article in the London and Westminster Review,[^2] as a favourable specimen of the work. The preliminaries for, and the coronation of Charles V., the description of which is drawn from original documents, is somewhat tedious; but when this is over, and the author introduces us to the privacy of Clement VII., and describes him giving audience to a variety of personages, the interest awakens. Among these are the ambassadors from Florence, who endeavour to mollify his purpose towards his native city. At first the ambassadors speak in humility and prayer, till excited by the arrogant assumptions of the pope, one among them, Jacopo Guicciardini, brother to the historian, bursts forth in an eloquent oration, full of spirit and power, denouncing the ambition of Clement, and declaring the unalterable resolution of the republic to maintain its freedom. It is too long to extract, but the termination of the scene is characteristic of the style of the author: —

[^2: "Italian Literature since 1800," London & Westminster Review vol. 6, October 1837, p. 132-68. The article, originally attributed to Mazzini alone, is now identified by the Wellesley Index to Victorian Periodicals 1824-1900 (vol. III, p. 590) as a collaborative piece with Angelo Usiglio.]

"Silence!" said the pope, rising from his chair. "A truce to words—too many have already been spoken. Jacopo, your tongue runs on like the waters of a torrent. You place your cause in the hands of God: I also place it there. Let him discern and judge. From the moment we draw the sword, the sword decides the struggle." "You have gathered together all the winds from the north," replied Guicciardini, "to tear the withered foliage from the boughs. Like Pharaoh, you are proud in your horses and soldiery — beware of the Red Sea! God can make the withered leaf as tenacious as the oak of the Alps. The virtuous may appeal to the Almighty under the blows of fortune — the damned exult in the victory of the bad. If any unsearchable decree sometimes exalts the criminal, it is done that he may feel the reverse more bitterly. Tranquil, if not joyous, we confide in the event: for if we conquer, we acquire the fame due to the bold and honourable; and if we fail in our enterprise, the world may call us unfortunate, but still honourable. Do you gaze on the future? — dare to contemplate coming time with open eyes — and say, what thing do you see? We depart free men from the palace, lest, heavy as it is with the wrath of God, it fall upon us. Until now, prayers and entreaties were kindness to our country; now they become slavish and base. The David of Buonarotti [The famous renaissance sculpture David by Michelangelo.] will sooner move to defend us than the heart of this Philistine be softened. Let us now swear in the church of Santa Maria del Fiore, to liberate our country, or bury ourselves in its ruins;" and, thus speaking, struck by disdain, grief, and irrepresible anger, he placed his hand on the handle of the door, about to depart—"Stay, Jacopo," cried the pope, "and hear my last words. Let the Medici be your companions in power, not princes. Compose a senate from forty-eight families, in which the powers of government shall reside."

"If my old father had proposed so infamous a crime, the hatchet of the executioner should have covered his white hairs with blood;" and without another word Guicciardini left the room.

"You, Messer Niccolo, gifted as you are with a milder nature, listen to my offer. You do not wish to drive things to extremities — yield to the times — let us rule together."

"Your insinuations sound in my ears like those which Satan whispered to Jesus, when, from the pinnacle of the temple, he showed him the kingdoms of the earth. It becomes a citizen to shut his ears and fly from temptation." Saying these words, Niccolo Capponi followed Jacopo Guicciardini.

"Obstinate and perverse men, can I not make you listen to reason? Messer Andreuolo, be the messenger of my wishes to the Ottimati." [From the Latin Optimates ("best ones"), the Ottimati were members of a faction of aristocratic conservatives in the late Roman Republic.]

"Were my son the messenger of such inquity I would dash his head against the wall;" and with these words Niccolini disappeared.

"At least you, Soderini," said the sovereign.

"I implore you, Pope Clement, scatter ashes on your head, humble yourself in the sanctuary, and pray for pardon for your sins, if, indeed, your sins are not greater than infinite mercy;" — and the pontiff was left alone.

Pope Clement bit his hands with intense rage, and exclaimed, "The world grows for me the tower of Babel.[^3] When I ask for crime, I find virtue — when I need virtue, I find crime. Yet so much of life remains to me to suffice for such acts, that when your grandchildren ask your children what liberty means, they, pointing to your demolished dwellings and violated tombs, will reply,—Liberty means death and ruin!"

[^3: In biblical literature, the Tower of Babel represents the diversity in human language which breeds miscommunication. In Genesis 11:1-9, the Babylonians sought to distinguish themselves through the construction of a tower "with its top in the heavens." God sabotaged the project by creating a confusion in the language of the construction workers which prevented them from understanding each other, and the tower was never completed.]

The second volume commences with the opening of the Siege of Florence. The country around has been ravaged, and various deeds of horror and barbarity are brought before the reader. The council of government is held, and an animated scene takes place, in which a poor woman makes forcible entry before the Gonfaloniere and the Signoria, [The governmental position in charge of maintenance of public order and justice, and the government of the Renaissance Republic of Florence, respectively.] for the purpose of offering her only son to serve as soldier in the cause of the republic. The return of the ambassadors from the pope, and the assembly then held, is finely described; and Carduccio, the Gonfaloniere, makes an harangue of singular power and eloquence, and the carrying on of war with energy is determined upon. The tale then breaks off, so to speak, into various groups of episodes. One of the most important is that of Malatesta Baglioni, the Condottiere to whom the Florentine republic entrusted the conduct of the siege and its armies. Baglioni was a traitor, bought by the pope; and his endeavours were constantly exerted to prevent any combat of importance, and to protract the siege till the treasures of the government, and the patience of the citizens, should be exhausted, and the city fall an easy prey to the enemy. The author exerts his whole energy to paint in colours sufficiently abhorrent and despicable the soul and conduct of the traitor. Baglioni was the victim of disease; and this physical weakness, joined to an unforgotten sense of honour and right, which inspires frequent fits of remorse and irresolution in the path of crime, adds to the force of the picture. The author places beside him a sort of vulgar Mephistopheles, who accompanies him throughout, at once exciting his fears, and ridiculing and degrading him. A short scene may be given as a specimen of his mode of representing these characters. It is night—Baglioni is awake, waiting the return of Cencio, whom he had sent to make his bargain with the pope. His mind presents a thousand images of terror and despair: —

"If I move I suffer—repose is worse—my blood is poisoned—I fancied that I saw—no, no—I did see—Messer Gentile and Messer Galeotto Baglioni, who shook their bloody clothes before me—I did not kill you—you cannot bring your blood to witness against me—my brother Orazio killed you—go—torment him in hell. Messer Giampagolo, leave me in peace—sleep in your marble tomb. Why point to your trunkless head? What have I to do with that? If the Medici took my father from me, the Medici will give me back Perugia—and you, my good father, were not worth Perugia when you were alive—are you worth it dead? If you come to warn me, be at peace—I will not be killed like a sheep—I have my dagger at all hazards. But why is Cencio so long? If Cencio should betray me—if even now he should be standing before the Gonfaloniere, saying, Magnificent Messer Carduccio, Malatesta is a traitor—if even now they should send the gaoler to seize me, and the executioner—ah—what—who is there?—How long the night is! — Cencio knows too much." The gallop of a horse is at this moment heard, it approaches, it is close, the horseman alights, enters the Serristori palace, and hurries up the stairs. "That is Cencio—I know his step—he knows too much—he can betray me—he is full to the lips—I must be rid of him—three inches of steel or three drops of poison will send him so far that he will never return. Cencio—O Cencio, my friend!—welcome. I was waiting for you." "Really," said Cencio, throwing himself on a seat, and stretching out his arms and legs with a plebian familiarity, "I am sleepy, hungry thirsty—give me to drink, Malatesta." The baronial blood of Baglioni boiled—a curl of his lip betrayed the struggle of his soul; but skilful to deceive, he changed that curl into a smile, and, filling a cup of wine, gave it to the other, saying, "Drink, Cencio, and be strengthened—your life is as dear to me as my own." "Alas! Poor wretch that I am, shall I be in time to-morrow to make my will?" "What do you mean, Cencio?" "During the many years, Malatesta, that we have been travelling together towards hell, I have observed that when you are most kind to a follower, you have in your heart condemned him to death. Come—if you have poisoned me, tell me, that I may send in time for the notary and confessor." "Leave off joking, Cencio. Pope Clement has accorded my demands?" "The more you ask, the more he will promise, and the less give. He has accorded all—all." "And the indulgence, Cencio—and absolution?" "Ha! absolution—that also he promises, and will keep his promise, for it costs nothing; but Signor Baglioni, whom are you now trying to deceive, the pope, me, or God?"

There are two love stories in the work, but the author does not excel in depicting the tender passion. Generally in reading modern Italian novels, nothing appears so dissimilar to our own sentiments and ideas as the portion that treats of love. The poets of the old time knew how to describe it, and, as we do, to dress the passion in ideality — to deify the object, and invest in glorious and imaginary hues the powerful emotions of love. But the modern Italians do not understand this, which must partly be attributed to the fact that the system of chivalry never flourished in Italy. Women, therefore, were at no time exalted to that height of reverence and devotion, which was at once the great use and effect of chivalry. Love, with the Italians, is divested of those complicated sentiments with which we associate it. Love, with them, is a vehement, engrossing passion, for their natures are vehement. It is often true and faithful; but there is always paramount in an Italian's mind a sense of the inferiority of women, arising from their physical weakness. In the utmost fervour of attachment they still look down on them, and the woman or the girl who is described to be in love, is always mentioned with a sort of condescending pity, startling to our notions and habits. We find less of this in Manzoni. Religon here idealises as chivalry does with us. The purity of Lucia, and her superiority over her rustic betrothed, exalts her, and the absence of passion in her character gives her dignity; but these observations apply to all the novels we have examined above. Ginevra and Giacinta, fond and gentle, virtuous, and even noble, as they are, are still pictured in a sort of dependant and inferior grade to their lovers. The love stories in the present work are contrasted with one another. There is Bandino and Maria Benintendi—a tale of misery and treason. They had loved in youth. Bandino was betrayed; Maria, persuaded that he was dead, was induced to marry another; even thus married, she passes her days in tears, in regret, and lamentation. Bandino — imprisoned as a madman, deprived of his birthright, injured in the most grievous manner — is goaded by revenge and misery to betray his country, and to join the army against Florence. He introduces himself in the disguise of a priest to Maria, and acquaints her that he lives. There is a singular instance here of Italian manners. Maria is married, but her husband's attachment is not brought forward. There is a youth devotedly in love with her, and his tenderness and sufferings are contrasted with the vehement ravings of Bandino. While Maria struggles between her duties as a wife, her unchanged and passionate attachment for Bandino, and her compassion for her younger and gentler lover, Ludovico discovers the treason of Bandino to his native city, and a solemn challenge ensues, and at the same period Maria's husband dies. Her terror and grief at the anticipation of the duel overcome every other feeling. She visits Ludovico; she implores him to abandon his design; and, asserting her past innocence, declares her resolution of becoming a nun. She only succeeds in causing her young lover to determine to sacrifice himself for her, and to fall that Bandino may be preserved. The description of Maria's struggles at this crisis is one of the best written passages in the book. Ludovico and his friend are passing out of Florence for the purpose of the duel; and, as testimony of its deadly nature, they carry a bier [A movable stand on which a corpse or coffin is placed to be carried to its burial site.] with them. The unfortunate Maria mixes among the spectators to see him pass; Ludovico perceives her, and points with a gesture of despair to the bier. Maria, unable to endure that token of desperation, fainted, and fell upon the pavement; recovering, she prostrated herself before the altar of her religion, but altars no longer inspired peace. She knew not for whom to pray—she hesitated to confess to herself which of the two combatants she desired to see victorious. She began an ardent prayer to the Madonna and the saints that the duel might be prevented, but feeling that it would not avail, she broke off: then she began another that Bandino might conquer, and ended it with a supplication for the victory of Ludovico. Mortal heart never before endured so fierce a struggle; yet she felt that peace arose from the depths of her misery — the peace of the tomb perhaps — but still peace. From the incessant comparison she was obliged to make between Ludovico and Bandino, she became convinced of the noble nature of the former and the baseness of the latter. The one, knowing that she loved another, sacrificed his own life to his country and to her; the other, suspecting her fidelity, preserved himself for the purposes of vengeance, and detroyed [sic] her and betrayed his country. The one, having great cause for reproach, never used one word to degrade her, or, did he utter one, it escaped unwittingly from a heart full to the brim. The other, on the contrary, flung infamy by handfuls over her. Other thoughts occurred, and at length her soul appeared to cast off its dark clouds, and to distinguish the moral deformity of Bandino. Through a contradiction peculiar to our nature, the discovery pained her; she wished to replace the bandage which had blinded her, but in vain. The soul, as a bird escaped its cage, shrunk from resuming the bonds of passion. No human mechanist, nor, perhaps, divine one, avails to place again the spiritual yoke, once cast off; neither nature nor art possess a balsam that can cicatrize the wounds of the soul:—Maria did not love Ludovico, but she felt that she abhorred Bandino.

There is another love story, meant to be depicted in the simple English style. Vico, a son of Machiavelli, is the hero; and a fair Tuscan girl, Annalena, the heroine. This is the weakest part of the book — imitative and unreal, the lovers are mere idealities, and take no real hold on the imagination. It is in the stronger and nobler passions that the author shines, and in which he puts all his soul. Patriotism is the idol on which he exhausts his powers to paint it glorious and beautiful. One of his heroes in the earlier portion of the book is Michael Angelo, to whose simple, but great and fearless character, he renders that justice which has been denied by many, who have been led away by the representations of the contemporary authors in the pay of the Medici.[^4] Another favourite personage is Dante Castiglione, whom he draws in forcible colours, as an upright, valiant, and noble-hearted soldier. But the real hero of the book is Francesco Ferruccio. In his History of the Italian Republics, Sismondi represents this great man as the safeguard and hope of Florence. "Francesco Ferruccio," he says, "distinguished himself by his intrepidity and his knowledge of war, and gained the confidence of his fellow-citizens, as well as the esteem of his enemies. Although the family of Ferrucci was ancient, it was poor, and had not produced any distinguished magistrate for many generations. Francesco had served under Giovanni de' Medici. He was sent by the Signoria as commissary-general, first to Prato, and afterwards to Empoli, and after having put these towns in a state of defense, he guarded the open country with so much success, he so often cut off parties of the enemy, and carried away convoys, and maintained such good discipline in his little army, that the soldiers, who loved as much as they feared him, believed themselves invincible under his command." This great man is successfully delineated in the work before us. A simple-minded republican and a brave soldier, his soul is set on saving his country; and danger is a plaything in his hands. With a frame of iron he encounters hardship, and with a soul equally tempered to endurance, he despises peril. The best passages in the book are those which describe his exploits. In his mouth the author puts his own favourite theories for Italy. We extract one scene as a specimen of the more imaginative style of the author, and of his fervent patriotism. Ferruccio is at Leghorn, collecting troops and preparing for war; one moment of leisure for thought is afforded him:—

[^4: The character of Michael Angelo has been traduced; and with an ardour in the cause of virtue worthy of the subject, the author of this work has spared no pains to vindicate him. Michael Angelo was entrusted with the construction of the fortifications of Florence. Sismondi says of him, "He seems to have been the more ready to be struck by terror, inasmuch as his imagination was more intensely lively. On the first disasters of Florence he fled to venice — shame caused him to return. When the city fell into the hands of the Medici he was again assailed by fear, and hid himself." The last act was one of common prudence — he withdrew and concealed himself — while the Medici, in the first heat of triumph, were taking sanguinary vengeance on their enemies. But the first accusation is a heavy one, though even on the face of it absurd — he fled to Venice for safety; but, ashamed, he returned to share the danger. This accusation rests on the fact that Buonarotti did leave the city at the height of the siege, and did return. The cause of his expedition was unknown even to contemporary authors. It was easy to stigmatise his act as the result of cowardice; and, one author copying from another, Sismondi at last added his authority. But fortunately public documents entirely exonerate this great man from every shadow of such baseness. The author of "The Siege of Florence" found contradictions in the old historians, and traces of his being sent from Florence, commissioned by government. At length he found, in an obscure work, allusions to a letter that existed in the Tuscan archives, addressed to Galeotto Giugni, Florentine ambassador at Ferrara, which testified that Michael Angelo had been sent by the Signoria of Florence on a secret commission to Ferrara. The author on this was eager to consult the archives; but the government, jealous of all knowledge and enlightenment, refused him admission to them. Mortified, but not discouraged, he sought for the letter among other collections of papers. "At length," he says, "God had mercy on me; and I will not say how, but I procured a copy of this letter. It runs thus: 'Letter to Galeotto Giugni, ambassador to Ferrara, 28 Feb. 1529. Michael Angelo Buonarotti will bear this letter, who is sent by the Nine of the militia to examine those modes of fortifying which his excellency the duke has adopted; and you will do him all possible service with the duke, as his merits deserve, and the interests of the city, for whose benefit he makes this journey.'" The words — those modes of fortifying — are underlined in the original. It is evident from this document that Buonarotti went on a secret mission to the Duke of Ferrara; but, in the subsequent disasters and overthrow of his country, this mission was forgotten, and the cause of the journey being buried in obscurity, an unworthy motive was assigned. In the same way the author defends the great artist from the accusation of flattering the Medici in the figures which he sculpted for the tombs of Lorenzo, Duke of Urbino, and Giuliano, Duke de Nemours — members of that family. He adopts the explanation of Niccolini, who says that Lorenzo is made to look sad — because the thoughts of a tyrant, as he approaches death, are full of remorse — and placed the figures of twilight upon the tomb to symbolize the dark shadows slavery cast over life by the tyrants. This view is supported by the answer which Michael Angelo wrote to the verses of Strozzi, who, speaking of the statue of Night, says that it was sculptured by an angel, and that while it sleeps it has life. If you disbelieve, wake her, and she will speak. Michael Angelo replied, in the person of his image,

"Mi è grato il sonno, e più l'esser di sasso,
Infin che il danno, e la vergogna dura,
Non udir, non veder mi è gran ventura,
Però non mi destar, deh! parla basso!"

Michael Angelo refused to erect a fortress in Florence, at the desire of Alessandro de' Medici. He refused all the offers of advancement made by Cosmo I., and lived at Rome — poor, but independent — an illustrious specimen of simple and high-hearted disdain for vulgar honours. We thank the writer of "The Siege of Florence" for the pains he has taken to illustrate the conduct of this great man. There is no labour at once so meritorious in, and delightful to, an author, as the vindication of the wise and good from calumny and misrepresentation. [Shelley's note]]

With a countenance cast down, and revolving melancholy thoughts, Ferruccio walked on the shore of the sea. He turned his steps towards the west, now and then he raised his eyes and sighed, for he found no object that did not renew miserable recollections. To the right he discerned the eminence where the ancient city of Torrita once stood. Noble spirits had once life in her, holy affections had breathed, and beloved memories clung round, exalted by wisdom and greatness; now all lay buried, a thick strata of earth covered them, and a yet denser one of oblivion; even the ruins were vanishing, and time has not left one stone as a monument of the dead city. This disappearance of towns and kingdoms, without one sign being left for posterity; this death of all things, and the absence of all distinction between the annihilation of a people and the withering of the grass under the scythe of the mower, filled the soul of our hero with bitterness. Nor did the view to the left comfort him; there, at a short distance in the sea, existed the monuments which recalled the destruction of one Italian nation by another Italian nation, the terrible battle of Meloria. There Pisa was vanquished by Genoa — O inquitous fraternal wars! Ferruccio turned, and bent his steps towards the east, and he contemplated the heavens and the vast waters—magnificent elements! At first it recurred to him as if, like rival warriors, they contended as they pursued the pathway of eternity on two infinite parallel lines, and then, afar off, they grow weary of their solitary course, they unite and become confounded, and mingling together, pursue the way still before them, til they reach their bourne. The sea calms its waves, that the sky may behold its own beauty in them; and heaven, returning the fraternal affection, raises the waters through the influence of its moon, and irradiates the edges of the murmuring billows with the tremulous light of its stars. And when the divine lamp of the sun has flamed in its sphere, does it not seem strange as if it deposited it on the bosom of the ocean, to warm it in its turn? Strange thoughts rise up on the shore of the sea, wild perhaps, but ever grand; nor let any one presume to nurse high imaginations, unless they have first beheld this glorious creation of God. If ever you behold the sea, and if your heart remains mute within you, hold the plough and dig the earth; nature intended you for nothing better.

The mind of Ferruccio enlarged through such ideas. Sublime conceptions crowded like inspirations at the thought of Him whom he wished to image so that speech could express, and other minds comprehend, him. Dawn almost beyond himself, he struck his brow, and with eyes fixed on high, exclaimed, "Expand, O Creator! my understanding; my heart feels thee!" Vico Machiavelli approached Ferruccio in haste; heavy cares press on him—he calls him from a distance, but is not heard—he calls again, but still in vain. When close to him, he found him lost in thought, and fixing an anxious gaze upon the ocean, as a mother would who had confided her child to its waters, to discern the sail that was to bring him back to her arms. When he touched him, as well as spoke, Ferruccio looked at him, and spoke: —"Who art thou? Why disturb me in my glorious meditations? Vico—thou here!" and without waiting for an answer, he continued, "Come and be witness for me, that God has revealed to me the means not only of attaining the liberty of my country, but of changing the face of Italy, perhaps of the world. Look beyond there," and he pointed before him; "there is Africa; and turning to the east, almost opposite to Rome, Carthage stood. When the success of Hannibal prostrated the Roman power in Italy, our fathers dared undertake the stupendous diversion of carrying the war into Africa. Scipio changed the destinies of the world; Hannibal hurried to the succour of his country; courage returned to the Roman eagle, and he soared again to his fatal pitch. Their houses and possessions are dearer to the Signoria of Florence than the freedom of Italy. Fortune rarely favours paltry designs, often bold ones. They have conferred powers that seem ample on me, but burthened with the condition to hasten with all speed to the guard of Florence. Advance, they say, but within the circle that we trace out. Ah! if they had given me liberty to direct my own movements; now, imitating the example of Scipio, proceeding with the utmost speed day and night, I would hurry to Rome, and falling on the pope and the cardinals, I would support the doctrines of Luther, which now breathe not among the people, but in the palaces of princes. I would ally my cause to that of the German reformers; I would shake the throne of Charles; I would liberate Italy at once from her spiritual and temporal yoke; I would rebuild the Capitol, and resucitate the Roman people. Alas, this thought kills me! I must forget it. Let us shut ourselves up in Florence, and keep alive the lamp, since its extinction is threatened. Danger is there, and there also glory."

It is historically true, that Ferruccio had contemplated carrying the war to Rome, and it is true in all theory, that had Luther's doctrine triumphed in Italy, that country had, at the crisis it had reached, been raised to independence instead of falling a slave. Obeying however the commands of the government, Ferruccio marched with his troops toward Florence; and, during the march, fell on the field of battle, a victim of the treachery of Baglioni. The plan of the Signoria was prudent and well contrived, con- sisting in a consentaneous attack of Ferruccio from without on the camp of the Prince of Orange, and a sally from the city. Had this plan been executed, the republic had been saved, but Baglioni betrayed the councils of his employers; he informed the Prince of Orange of the advance of Ferruccio, and advised him to go with his whole army to meet him, promising that no attack should meanwhile be made on his unguarded camp. This last treachery sealed the fate of the republic. The Prince came upon Ferruccio unexpectedly, during his march to Pistoia; the battle was for some time dubious; the Prince of Orange fell; but succour coming up for his troops, the army of the Republic was utterly vanquished and dispersed, and Ferruccio himself slain. The facts of this memorable day are so full of grandeur and heroism, that the simplest account is the most interesting. The fault of the author of the siege of Florence is an incapacity to compress; he never knows when he has done enough; but in the pages that recount the death struggles of Italian liberty, there is much eloquence, much power, much deep and genuine feeling. With the fall of Ferruccio, Florence fell; the treason of Baglioni triumphed; and, unresisted, the troops of the pope made themselves masters of the city. Certain conditions were in appearance agreed upon; all of which were afterwards broken. The work ends by a sketch of the result of the fall of Florence, and of the fate of the survivors of the struggle. The author heaps infamy and misery on the heads of the traitors, and on the patriots adversity and honour.

It will be gathered from this sketch that the subject of the work is full of grandeur, and certain portions of it exhibit considerable talent. Many of the scenes are replete with interest, and sustained with energy. His eloquence is great, elevated by a fervent enthusiasm; but his style is exaggerated, diffuse, and even obscure; his various episodes are not sufficiently interwoven, several of them being superfluous, and the whole too long drawn out.

"The Battle of Benevento," a romance, by Doctor Guerazzi, a Livornese lawyer, bears a similarity in its style to "The Siege of Florence." It is not so openly inimical to the tyrants of Italy, nor is it the subject of such recent interest, being derived from the old times of Naples as far back as the thirteenth century. It is conceived, however, in a truly patriotic spirit, and abounds with passages that evince the author's desire to instruct and improve his countrymen. The great and exact knowledge which the work displays of the history and customs of the times in which the story is laid, places it high in the esteem of the Italians. With us this produces effects that injure the interest. Many long chapters are purely historical, which, though well written, may be called dry to the mere novel reader. Besides this drawback, the writer will sacrifice incident and character to the development of manners in a scene, or to the enunciation of his peculiar view and opinions. He does not hesitate to be long-winded, to introduce episodes that have no immediate connection with the story; his hero is thus reduced to a nonentity, and the interest flags. But the style is elegant, and the matter good. The battle of Benevento was that in which fell Manfred, grandson of Frederic Barbarossa, and which placed Charles of Anjou on the throne of Naples. We regret that Guerazzi has not done more justice to the character of Manfred. He founds his description of him on the accounts given by the writers of the Guelph party, who loaded with infamy a sovereign excommunicated by the church; but we are partial to a prince whom Dante speaks of with respect and affection, and who was acknowledged to be of a noble and magnanimous disposition, while we dislike his hard-hearted and bigoted rival. This romance does less credit to its author as the inventor of an original story, than as an eloquent writer, a deep thinker, and a man who has the improvement and welfare of Italy warm at heart.

There are other romances, but the above named are of the most note. Rosini, who continued, with strange rashness, the episode of "Gertrude," in the "Promessi Sposi," and wrote "Luisa Strozzi," is not destitute of merit; but it is laborious to read him. He is a great admirer of our Richardson, and imitates him in the minuteness of his details, and the long-windedness of his narrative; but the deep interest we take in Richardson's novels not only results from his admirable fidelity to nature, but from his taking the manners of our own country and times as his groundwork. These minutiæ, set down as appertaining to historical romances, are inexpressibly tiresome and uninteresting.

The Italians have no novels — no tales relating to the present day, and detailing events and sentiments such as would find counterparts in the histories and minds of themselves and their friends. Many reasons may be given for this. The actual state of manners could never be detailed: the Italians would be so scandalized if the mirror were held up to themselves. Goldoni's plays are the nearest approach they could bear to reality; and these, though admirable as far as they go, often sink into childishness, from the restrictions the author lies under as to faithfulness of portraiture in the darker shades of society. The real events of an Italian's life are the last that could be openly avowed. Another impediment lies in the impossibility of delineating the influence exercised by the priests; which in all cases is very great, and too often pernicious. Yet could a clever Italian give us only a Miss Austen sort of view of domestic life in that country, it would afford great amusement and instruction. We recommend this hint to Signor Rosini. His love of minutiæ would no longer repel us, if he were only bold enough to put down even half the truth.

To return, however, to the subject of our article — the romances of modern Italy.

Mazzini tells us that the school of Manzoni is that of Christianity, while the writers who aim at the recognition of Italy incline to free thinking. The contradictions which, according to this view, these several classes of thinkers fall into is worthy of comment. A devoted patriot cannot be devoid of religion. His desires not having their fulfilment in this life, he looks beyond; and when the tyrant prospers, he looks to God to balance the unequal scales of right and wrong; and, by making virtue the highest happiness, though he may be condemned to poverty or exile for political crimes eternally dishonourable to their perpetrator, even when he triumphs, he brings a power from beyond the visible creation, to exalt and to debase. On the other hand, the spirit that Manzoni and Silvio Pellico would inspire is contrary to that which animated the Saviour in his career. He forgave his enemies, but he appealed against them—he suffered on the cross, rather than abandon the teaching of the doctrines that were to redeem the world—he enforced with the apostles the necessity of going abroad, to increase proselytes and overthrow the old systems of tyranny and wrong. When he gave to Cæsar the things that were Cæsar's, he did not give obedience to the authorities that bade him cease to disseminate his doctrines. Let the well-wishers of Italy attempt to follow this divine example in all its devotion and sincerity, and they will cease to inculcate passive obedience. Could any sincerely religious reformer animate the Italians with true piety, and shake the power of the priesthood, Italy might be regenerated; as it is, the lower orders are the slaves of the Church, while the upper classes are either real or affected un- believers; and neither of them consider truth, charity, and integrity, as the beginning and end of life.

The better portion of the people of Italy are eager for instruction; they are a quick-witted and sagacious people. Italian authors are called to the sacred task of enlightening their fellow-men. No writers of other nations can do this, for they cannot sufficiently understand the spirit of the people to address their hearts and imaginations. It must be left to Italians to teach Italians, and the good name of the writers with posterity will depend on their not betraying nor growing weary in the sacred task of enlightening their countrymen, and drawing their minds from the abyss of ignorance and slavery in which they are now sunk. Were their souls emancipated from vice, the Austrian could not long enslave their bodies.

The Austrian, indeed, since the death of the "beloved Francis," has shown a spirit of humanity which does honour to the new emperor. It is to be hoped that the scenes of the dungeons of Spielburgh [Špilberk is a castle in the present-day Czech Republic. Originally used as a prison for protestants, Špilberk became the harshest prison for opponents of the Austrian Empire.] are never to be renewed, nor modern history blotted by a repetition of crimes, which we almost deemed fabulous when recorded of Venice and the Inquisition. Men whose sole crime is a love of country will not again be condemned to punishment worse than death, taken in the enjoyment of youth and glowing with an ardour for virtue; and rendered, through a long course of solitary confinement, bad food, and tedious unnatural labour, cripples in body, while their souls, losing their energy and fervour, they become the willing slaves of their cruel oppressor, and call the tameness produced by physical suffering Christianity.

Besides the subsiding of the active spirit of persecution which desolated so many Italian families, there is another hope for that country. One corner of it is emancipated from both Austrian and priest. The citizens of Ancona, having thrown off their obedience to the pope, govern themselves. Their state of enmity with the papal see may serve to loosen them from an adherence to Catholicism; and it is to be hoped that a purer religion will spring up in its stead. When the pope's bull of excommunication arrived at Ancona, the citizens fastened it to a fire balloon, with a writing appended, "Give to heaven what belongs to heaven," and sent the blasphemous curse to float among the storms of air, till it might fall in the sea, and be blotted out for ever. The pope is very eager to prevent any communication between the Anconese and the rest of his subjects; but when, as is projected for the sake of commerce with Greece, a railroad is constructed between Leghorn and Ancona, the spirit of liberty in the latter will at once become more diffused and confirmed, and its walls will at least afford a refuge to those Italians who love their native soil, and yet yearn for the rights of freemen.