[Continued
from page 428.]1
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 potentates 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: —
"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 Buonarotti6 will sooner move to defend us than the
heart of this Philistine be softened. Let [Page 549]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
irrepressible 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."7
"Were my son the messenger of such iniquity 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.8 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!"
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: —
"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 [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. Religion 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 Signoria12 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:—
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
iniquitous 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 vol. ii.q o[Page 554]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 resuscitate 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-[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 Guelph13
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,14 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 Spielburgh15 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