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 author² 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,³ 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.

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 [Page 548]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 Condottiere⁴ 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,⁵ 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: —

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,⁹ 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 [Page 550]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: —

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 [Page 551]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 bier¹⁰ 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 [Page 552]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.¹¹ Another favourite personage is Dante [Page 553]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:—

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-[Page 555]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
o o 2[Page 556]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-[Page 557]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 Spielburgh¹² 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.
o o 3