It is the fashion to call
the Italians fallen and degraded; and none are more acrimonious in their
censures than the Anglo-Italians—a race which, while forgetting their
patriotic duties in the delights of that paradisaics climate—while
availing themselves of the benevolence and courtesy of the
inhabitants—and while eating the fruits of that fertile
land—without care or annoyance, repay the advantages they enjoy by
abusing the natives. There is a gentleness, a facility, a kindliness in the
Italians which spreads an atmosphere of repose around them. Their visitors
feel and enjoy this; but, far from being grateful, they blind themselves to
the virtues which benefit themselves, and fix their eyes on the faults which
are injurious only to the Italians. They even go further, and often rail the
louder, while they imitate more grossly the vices they denounce.

Most of the defects of the Italians are those that always arise in a society
debarred from active duties. An Italian has no career, and can find
occupation only in intrigue and vice. The utter hopelessness that pervades
their political atmosphere, the stagnation of every territorial or
commercial enterprise, the discouragement cast over every
improvement,—all these are checks to laudable ambition; and yet such
is not entirely checked. How many Italian hearts beat high for their
country. When any opening has presented itself, how many victims have rushed
into the breach. Perhaps in the history of no people in the world has there
appeared so tenacious a love of country and of liberty, nor so great a
readiness shown to make every sacrifice to acquire independence, nor so
confirmed and active an hatred for tyranny.

After various struggles, and the destruction of their best citizens by the
despot, still the Italians pant for freedom, and hope to attain it. The
well-educated among them feel that their chief duty is, to counteract the
pernicious effects of slavery and superstition in debasing the national
character. To do this, several of the most eminent have turned authors, and
risked property and safety for the holy task of disseminating principles and
sentiments which, in their effect, will keep alive a sense of their rights
in the minds of their countrymen, and render them worthy of the liberty they
hope one day to see them enjoy.

They are fortunate in one circumstance—the soil they would cultivate is
rich and fertile. The thing that chiefly strikes any one conversant with the
Italians, is their quick and clear understandings. In unfrequented parts of
England, the people are stupid, and even savage. In France, they are still
worse. They may practise the domestic virtues, but their minds are shrunk
and shrivelled, or covered by so impenetrable an husk, that there are no
means of having communication with them. The facilities of
intercourse—for ever multiplying in this country—and the better
education that subsists, has partly done away with this state of things; but
in Italy, the peasant of its remotest regions is a conversable being. He has
intelligence, imagination, and the power of expression. He has fewer
prejudices in favour of old habits, a greater reverence for knowledge in
others: it is easy, therefore, to teach him. While the same divine bounty
that has gifted him with a capacity to understand, has been also extended to
his instructors; and the educated men of Italy are singularly able,
laborious, e e
4[Page 416]and enlightened. Italians are found to excel in every
province of literature. The names of their poets rank among the highest:
their novelists, either tragic or comic, are unsurpassed: their historians
yield only to those of the ancient world. In science, in morals, in every
species of inventive or disquisitive literature, we find Italians among the
foremost in desert. No wonder their rulers fear such a people, and put in
action all their efforts either to crush or turn aside from any, to them
injurious, purpose, the labours of their men of genius and learning. Thus
Ugo Foscolo was banished;
thus Monti was corrupted; the
eloquent and admirable productions of the lover of liberty were proscribed;
and not only were the writings of the slave impregnated with a base spirit,
but his very subjects were dictated to him. To turn aside the thoughts of
the men of letters from an elevated and useful aim, Monti was commanded to raise
that pitiful war of words which sprung from his
"Proposta."² The Austrian government well understood the
Italian spirit, when it excited the Royal Institute of Milan to busy itself
in the reform of the national dictionary, and imposed on Monti the task of overthrowing
the authority of the "Della Crusca,"³ and of asserting the
propriety of adopting, as the classic language of Italy, a language not
wholly Tuscan, but intermingled with modes of speech peculiar to other
provinces. Monti and his
son-in-law, Perticari, began
what they called a crusade against the "Della Crusca." Perticari, young and
virtuous, and led by Monti,
was probably innocent of any sinister motive. Monti himself entered into the
views of the Austrians: he knew his countrymen, and the unfortunate
prejudices in Italy, which makes one portion the rival and enemy of another.
The effect of his attack was electric. As if it had been the cause of
independence, each literary man arose to defend the system of his country.
The Tuscans thought their territory invaded, their dearest privileges
undermined: the war continued for years. At present, many of the chief
combatants are no more, while the few survivors may wonder at their folly at
being thus entrapped to forget the nobler uses of their talents in so
puerile a question; they may feel that had one among them written a book, in
which genius and power had been clothed in elegant and forcible language,
drawn either from the purest Tuscan source, or mingled with modes of speech
deemed less classical, yet not less true to feeling, it had been a far
better answer than volumes of verbal dispute.

The Austrians, though they corrupted one of the greatest geniuses of Italy
(Monti), and sent another
(Foscolo) to die in a foreign
land, and were successful in causing all the talents of the country to be
absorbed by a war of words, yet enjoyed only a temporary success. Deeper
interests were awakened among the Italians during the outbreaks and
struggles which marked the years 1820-21. Since then, their writers have
been thoroughly awakened to the importance of their task in enlightening
their countrymen, and in teaching them either lessons of Christian virtue,
or animating them to a love of liberty.

A very excellent article has appeared in the eleventh number of
"The London and Westminster Review," written,
we believe, by a peculiarly clever and well-informed Italian resident in
this country, named Mazzini,⁴ which throws great
light on the moving springs of Italian literature. The author has, with
great judgment, divided the writers of his country into two classes, both
bent on ameliorating the character of their fellow countrymen, but by
different means: the one aims at fostering the, so to speak, inoffensive
virtues; the other, burning with a hatred of the oppressor, and with a
thirst for the deliverance of their native land, endeavors to strengthen and
elevate—to teach the Italians to become patriots and citizens—to
inspire, [Page 417]not resignation, but hope—not merely piety and
benevolence, but ardour for the dissemination of the blessings of
civilisation and freedom—not simply fortitude, but active courage,
without which higher virtues, they are aware that Italy can never be
delivered and renovated.

Amidst the whole field of literature which Mazzini glances over, we
select only one portion—its novels and romances.

When a new sort of literature was, as it were, discovered, and men of the
first talent in France and England occupied themselves by the composition of
romances and novels—all sorts of fictitious adventure in prose,
whether belonging to past ages or modern manners—it was to be supposed
that the Italians would shine also in the same career. At first, however,
they did not originate any work of the sort worthy of themselves, and it
grew into a common opinion that the spirit of Italy was so crushed and
deadened, that their writers had fallen into a low scale. Ugo Foscolo was a mere imitator in
his "Jacopo Ortis." But Foscolo was strictly a didactic
writer. His refined and discerning mind, his eloquent and enthusiastic
spirit, which dictated his labours on Petrarch and Dante, and his poem of the
"Sepolcri"—the most finished elegy of
modern Italy, was not inventive of facts. "Jacopo
Ortis" was a vehicle for opinions and emotions—not an
epic, whose incidents and conduct were to interest and delight.

Manzoni redeemed the
reputation of his country. The "Promessi Sposi,"
translated into every European language, is proof that the Italians are
still themselves. It yields to no romance of any country in graphic
descriptions—in eloquence—in touching incident and forcible
reflection. It is, however, so entirely Italian in all its parts, that it
can only be truly relished in its native guise. It has seized and
individualised, as it were, various species of human beings, specimens of
which can be found only in that soil; and thus, to a certain degree, its
reputation must be local. Any one conversant with the Italian character
perceives at once the truth and vividness of the picture; to others it is a
fancy piece, and cannot come home in the same way to their experience and
sympathies; besides that, the translation is vapid and lifeless, and
incapable of communicating the spirit of the original. The excellence of
this work consists, in the first place, in its admirable discrimination and
representation of character. Its personages are not shadows and vague
generalities, but men and women stamped with individuality. They all live
and move before us—we feel as if we should recognise if we saw
them—and those who have been in Italy have seen such, and perceive not
portraits, but vivid resemblances. We have seen and recognise Don Abbondio,
and his servant Perpetua; their modes of thinking and phraseology are all
familiar to us, though graced in the work with the ideality which marks the
perfection of art. The spirit and reality of such portions as may pass for
episodes, the stories of Gertrude and Cristofero, are unsurpassed in any
work, in any language, for interest, truth, and beauty. The conversion of
the Innominato—the riots at Milan—the progress, prevalence, and
cessation of the plague, are passages of high-wrought eloquence that carry
the reader along with them. They show not only the deepest knowledge of the
human heart, but a vivid graphic talent, surpassing that of every modern
tale-writer. The defect of the work is its whole. Admirable in parts, it
wants the artifice of plot, which should make the interest rise continually.
From the moment that Lucia is liberated by the Innominato, the story, such
as it is, comes to a stop. Much of this arises from the character of her
betrothed. She herself, gentle, resigned, and affectionate, interests us
more than that sort of person in a book usually does; but Renzo is not her
fitting lover. It is [Page 418]true that he is nature itself, the
absolute portrait of an Italian rustic. We ought to be content that Lucia, a
Milanese peasant, should have for a husband a person in the same situation
of life; but the sweetness and blameless simplicity of the heroine removes
her from the vulgarities of her situation, while Renzo is immersed in them;
the discrepancy jars on our taste, and injures the tale as a work of
art.

The author of the "Promessi Sposi" has not aimed at
inspiring ardour for liberty and hatred of the tyrant: his lessons are
rather those of piety and resignation. In any other work we might blame
this; but the truth is so much better than declamation, and the picture he
gives of the evils of misrule and ignorance is so forcible, that it stands
in lieu of didactic tirades. The effect of the book being to impress the
reader with a deep sense of the mischiefs that ensue from a people being
kept in a state of bigotry and ignorance, and from a foreign, inert, and
short-sighted government, every un-prejudiced person must reap a
well-founded hatred of tyrants and superstition from such worth a thousand
diatribes.

This want of a generous and enlarged aim is more to be deplored for the
author than the work. Manzoni is a man of first-rate genius. Besides the
"Promessi Sposi," he has written two
tragedies⁵ — poems rather than dramas, composed
according to the French notion of the Athenian theatre, but interspersed
with choruses. As dramas, these plays are defective—as poems, they are
highly beautiful. There is, in particular, a chorus in the
"Camaledole" on the horrors of war and the
blessings of peace, which may rank among the most beautiful lyrics in the
Italian language. But the want of moral energy that blinds a Milanese to the
real evils that afflict his country, superstition and despotism, has fallen
heavily on the poet. Manzoni has become a bigot and a slave. His life is spent in
churches. His thoughts and actions are under the government of a priest, in
obedience to whose dictates he has destroyed a beautiful romance on the
subject of Napoleon. Thus that
system of thought which teaches, "Humble thyself, pray, be resigned to
thy misfortunes; heaven is thy country, the things of this world are
unworthy of thy attention, knowledge is vanity, and justice here below a
dream⁶ ," has fallen with club-like weight on the
head of this illustrious man, crushing his genius, rendering him ungrateful
to his Creator for the surpassing gifts of mind lavished on him, causing him
to "hide his light under a bushel;" so that, at the great account,
when asked to what use he put the vast bounty of God, in giving him powers
of soul superior to the multitude, he can only answer, "I disdained
your gift, and regarded the telling of my beads as the chief end and aim of
an intelligent being’s life." Miserable, indeed, are the effects of
catholicism, which causes the believer to surrender his conscience into the
hands of another; which deprives man of his best privilege, that of judging
by his innate sense of right and wrong; and utterly brutalises him, as he
regulates his sense of duty by a fictitious code of morality, invented for
the sole purpose of enslaving him, instead of resting it on the plain
precepts of enlightened religion; which, while it teaches us to "love
our neighbour as ourself," will also teach that the best proof a man of
genius can give of his obedience to this command, is to enlighten the
ignorant, and animate to virtue the demoralised—a task that can in no
way be so well fulfilled as by the multiplication of works that will
convince the head of the excellence of right, and warm the heart with
courage to exercise it.

Next to Manzoni, as a
novelist, we may rank his son-in-law, Azeglio, author of
"Hector Fieramosca." This work has enjoyed
great reputation in [Page 419]Italy, and, though far below the
Promessi Sposi in genius, possesses considerable
merit.

"The Duel of Barletta" (La Sfida di Barletta)⁷ is naturally a favourite topic with the Italians. Being so
often stigmatised as cowards, they turn with pride to this glorious
achievement. Its origin is briefly as follows:—Naples had been reigned
over by a branch of the house of Aragon for the space of sixty-five years,
when Charles VIII., King of
France, was stimulated by the treachery and ambition of a prince of Milan to
bring forward the claim of the house of Anjou. He (and then first those
disastrous wars began, when the French met the Spaniard on the fields of
Italy) entered the Peninsula, and overran and possessed himself of Naples:
but, on his return to his native kingdom, he lost his conquest as speedily
as he had gained it. On his death, which soon after followed, his successor,
Louis XII., prosecuted the same
claim to the Neapolitan crown. Frederic, king of Naples, turned for assistance to his relative,
Ferdinand of Spain,
who, making the fairest promises, acted with the utmost treachery. He and
Louis agreed to dispossess the
reigning sovereign, and to divide the kingdom between them. Louis was to possess the Abruzzi and
the Terra di Lavoro; Ferdinand, Calabria and Puglia. The Pope ratified this compact.
For a time, however, it was kept secret. Louis invaded Naples, but Ferdinand promised his
kinsman succour, and sent, apparently for that purpose, him whom the
Spaniards name the "great captain," — Gonzalvo de Cordova. The
catastrophe was soon brought about: the French overran the northern portion
of the kingdom of Naples; Capua was besieged, and taken by treason; and Frederic, while he hoped to find
assistance in the Spaniards, was informed of the treachery of Ferdinand. Dispossessed of
his kingdom, he first retired to Ischia, and afterwards took refuge in
France. The French and Spaniards, after some resistance on the part of the
eldest son of Frederic,
possessed themselves of the land: peace, however, was not the result. The
division they had agreed upon was not made so carefully but that room was
left to dispute the boundaries. At first, the rival pretensions were
amicably arranged in a meeting of Louis d'Armagnac, Duc de Némours, the French viceroy,
with Gonzalvo de Cordova: but
this was of short duration, and war speedily broke out. The Spanish party
was weak and unprovided, and Gonzalvo, to gain time, fortified himself at Barletta, there to
await the arrival of succour from Spain, and to wear out the French by a war
of outposts. The Neapolitans themselves were divided; the Aragonese party
adhering to Spain; the partisans of the house of Anjou, to France: the
former, however, considered themselves as the real patriotic party, and
treated their antagonists as traitors.

The Duc de Némours
blockaded Barletta: both generals avoided attacks and general engagements,
while the numerous chivalry on both sides satisfied their martial tastes and
thirst for honour by various challenges and duels. Gonzalvo reaped every
advantage from this species of warfare, and in the delay that ensued. The
Duc de Némours
endeavoured to draw his antagonist into battle, and failed; but, while
despising an enemy who refused to fight, he marched with the utmost
carelessness. The Spaniards fell on his troops, and made a great many
prisoners.

Among these was Charles Hennuyer de la Motte, a French officer of
distinguished bravery. He and his friends in misfortune were invited to
partake of a feast given by Mendoza, his conqueror. During the conversation that took place
on this occasion, Mendoza
attributed his victory to the admirable monœuvring of the Italian
cavalry, commanded by Prospero
Colonna. The French despised the Italians; and La Motte exclaimed
that, vanquished as they were on all occasions, they could not presume to
compare [Page 420]with the French in any species of warfare, and were
only worthy to hold the stirrup to the knights of France. The good humour of
the festival was not interrupted by this insult, but, on the morrow, Prospero Colonna called on La
Motte to retract his words: he refused. The honour of both nations appeared
to be engaged; and the generals on either side permitted the question to be
decided by an appeal to arms. Thirteen Italians and thirteen Frenchman,
completely armed, agreed to meet in the lists to fight till they fell, or
were made prisoners. The lists were selected midway between Barletta and the
quarters of the Duc de
Némours. They were surrounded only by a furrow made by a
ploughshare; but it was settled that, whoever among the combatants could be
driven beyond this boundary, must surrender as vanquished. The Italians were
victorious. The French having in their presumption neglected to bring with
them the hundred apiece, agreed on as ransom, were led prisoners to
Barletta.

Such is the history of the celebrated challenge which Azeglio has made the ornament
of his tale. This work has already been translated—badly enough; but
the mere English reader has probably gathered the gist of the story from the
translation, as well as from any skeleton account that we can give. The
first thing that strikes the Italian reader, on commencing the perusal, is
the purity and elegant simplicity of the style. This merit is lost in the
translation. It is more difficult, perhaps, to translate well from the
Italian than any other language; for the peculiarity of its prose is a
wordiness unendurable in any other; and it requires a thorough knowledge of
the genius of the language, as well as considerable practice in authorship,
at once to preserve the peculiar style of the author, and to produce a
readable book.

The beauty of Azeglio's
writing is very great: it is forcible, without exaggeration; elegant,
without effort; and in this is very well adapted to the characteristic of
his work, which derives its merit from its story, rather than from masterly
delineation of character. It is not that the plot is perfect, especially
according to our ideas; but it is congruous in its parts, and deeply
interesting as a whole. The ill-fated pair of lovers are presented to us in
situations full of pathos: the delicacy of sentiment and heroism which they
display redeems their position from its usual difficulties. A wife,
disliking her husband, and loving another man, is a subject, the topics of
which are so obvious, that it is rather a favourite with modern
novel-writers; yet it is always infinitely displeasing. Azeglio has managed it far
better than any other: the passionate, yet regulated, love of the gentle
Ginevra, which she broods over in her island convent; the deep, religious
devotion of Fieramosca to her and to virtue; the dark terrors that surround
them, as well as the chivalric glory that adorns and gilds both themselves
and all that surrounds them, sheds grace over every page; and, though these
characters are rather shadowed forth than strongly marked, and others are
but sketched, yet the few lines we perceive are masterly, and so much in
keeping, that though the whole picture is, so to speak, presented in a
subdued light, there is no obscurity, nor confusion, nor distortion. The
only fault we find is in the personage Cæsar Borgia. He acts at
once too subordinate and too influential a part. Kept for the most part in
the background, he yet is the most important actor on the scene:—nor
does his conduct seem natural: he, the most restless and fiery of men, is
described as being content to remain secreted for many days in a secret
chamber of his enemy's fortress, for no sufficing reason, and then,
unexpectedly, the most disgusting and heinous crime is thrown in his path,
which he commits, and then disappears. We may be hypercritical: it would be
unnatural to place a romance in that age, and [Page 421]people it with
such personages, and not introduce crime in the foreground. But a
romance-writer must never rest the justification of his plot on bare truth,
without adding the dress of art. In real life, our acts and impulses are
often most motiveless, in our own eyes, when once past; but in fiction we
ought always to feel the enchainment of events as inevitable. Azeglio wished to paint his
heroine the greatest virtue triumphing over the greatest misfortune: for
this he makes her die deceived as to her lover, and believing him
inconstant. We feel the heroism of her character, but recoil from the trial
to which it is put, and we would fain that Donna Elvira, herself undeceived,
had undeceived Ginevra, and that her last moment had been gladdened by the
consciousness of Fieramosca's truth, which, if she had already forgiven
her rival, would not have detracted from the height of her virtue. We
scarcely know any passage in any author impregnated with a more pathetic
spirit than the conclusion of the novel. The night that Fieramosca passes
preceding the great duel; his endeavours to believe that all is well with
Ginevra; and the unquiet emotions inspired by the scarce audible psalmody
over the dead, and by the beams of the light which, in truth, was placed
beside the corpse of her he loved, whom he thought living; are touched with
a truth and delicacy that go to the heart. The lighter parts of the work are
also admirable: the bull-fight—the feast—the characters of
Fanfulla, Paredes, &c., are entertaining and sprightly; and the
description of the great duel itself is brilliant and spirited. There is
both pathos and humour in different portions of the tale, but there is no
wit. The Italians are not a witty people, nor does their language lend
itself to wit: the peculiarity before mentioned, its wordiness, is against a
quality whose characteristic is brevity and terseness. Manzoni is highly humorous
in Don Abbondio, but he is never witty; and the same with
Azeglio; the same with
every other Italian prose writer; the same will be found in their
conversation. In this, as in almost every other quality of mind, they are in
contrast with the French.

The challenge of the Barletta is so dear to the Italians, that it has been
selected to adorn the pages of another novel of great merit.
"The first Viceroy of Naples" (Il Primo
Vicere di Napoli) deserves honourable mention in this account of
Italian romances. It is the work of Capocci, a Neapolitan, a celebrated astronomer, and a man of
profound learning. Deeming that the acknowledgement of so light a production
might injure his reputation as a man of science, he has put the name of
Belmonte, which was that of his mother, in the titlepage; and, with that
pride in honouring those they love, which belongs to the Italians, he has
dedicated it to his wife, a lady of great merit and talents.

The warriors of Barletta are the heroes of this tale. Fieramosca and
Brancaleone are introduced as principal personages; and one of the first
incidents is the meeting of the latter with his friend's sister, and
their mutual and sudden attachment. But the spirit of the romance is in
absolute contrast with Azeglio's. "Hector Fieramosca" is a
tale of living, struggling humanity: it describes individuals suffering
misfortune and deep sorrow, occasioned by such events as grow out of the
situation of their country, and the characters of their contemporaries. It
is almost too real for fiction in its disappointments, long-enduring griefs,
and tragic catastrophe; while "The First Viceroy of
Naples" is, as far as plot is concerned, the commonplace
loves of a boy and girl, whose attachment, after a series of adventures and
disasters, ends in a happy marriage. One of the chief merits of this book is
its simplicity, both of style and sentiment. Wearied by the tendency to
bombast now prevailing in literature, the reader is charmed by the [Page 422]ease of the language, and becomes interested unawares in the
tissue of incidents, artlessly but agreeably combined. The tale begins with
the siege of Capua, mentioned in the sketch given above of the progress of
these wars; and here an episode is introduced, which is a good specimen of
the manner and power of the author, though, from its length, it must be
somewhat abridged.

Antonello Caracciolo, the head of one of the noblest families of Naples, was
a youth of great promise; he was courteous and gentle; and this in spite of
the evil lessons of a natural brother, Raymond, who stimulated him to acts
of folly and vice: his only faults were such as belonged to his few years.
He became enamoured of a peasant girl, the daughter of one of his Calabrian
vassals. This girl had a brother, Rocco, a man of giant force and vehement
passions, a ruffian—who was only not a bandit, because he still loved
his parents and his sister. Raymond perceived his brother's attachment
to Constance, and conceived a plan of villany to get her into his power. A
man had been assassinated near her dwelling; her brother was at a distance.
Raymond accused her father of the murder, and threw him into prison; and
then instigated her mother to go, accompanied by Constance, and throw
herself at Antonello's feet. The conclusion may be guessed: the
daughter was led away, the mother roughly dismissed, but with the intimation
that her request was granted. The father was liberated, and returned; but,
when he found that the ransom paid was his daughter's honour, he broke
out into the fiercest imprecations; and his son suddenly at this moment
returning, he threatened to curse him unless he washed out the stain on the
family by some act of dire revenge. Rocco, foiled in his attempt to see
Raymond, is driven by insult to assassinate several of Antonello's
followers, and flies to the mountains. That same night terrible signs of his
fury were visible in the vast possessions of the prince, and dreadful fires
marked the fatal rise of the most famous bandit of an age in which so many
flourished.

The father appealed for vengeance for his wrongs to his sovereign. Antonello
had taken refuge in Naples with his peasant mistress, to whom he had become
passionately attached. An order was issued that the family of Caracciolo
should deliver him up to justice; and when this command was disobeyed, a
party of masons were sent to raze the houses of the family, with an order to
level one after the other to the ground, till Antonello should be found. On
this the unfortunate youth was delivered up, and condemned to death. The
tale continues:—

The account given in this work of the duel itself is peculiarly striking. The
unaffected simplicity of the style rises into dignity when supported by the
importance of the subject. It is, in some respects, superior to Azeglio's, especially in
the interest it excites. The duel in "Hector
Fieramosca" is placed at the end of the work. The reader has
been deeply affected by the [Page 425]wrongs and death of Ginevra: the
duel serves neither to avenge her, nor to advance any portion of the story;
and loses its natural interest from its taking place when that of the story
to which it is appended has drawn to the close. In Belmonte's romance it
takes place early in the tale, and the personages are full of ardour, hope,
and enjoyment. We extract a portion, as a further specimen of the merits of
this work; a good translation of which we should be glad to see among our
English romances.

The combat itself is described with great vivacity, and in particular the [Page 427]encounter of La Motte and Brancaleone. Brancaleone is the hero
of the tale, but he is a mere youth; and the author, while he wished to
attribute to him the honour of vanquishing the French leader, felt that it
was too much to make him fall by his hand. But he extricates himself from
this difficulty admirably. They had already met and fought, and been
separated in the mêlée, and now they met again. "The
dauntless La Motte had begun to lose faith in his unvanquishable prowess;
since in this species of skirmish his giant stature and immense strength
were of less avail than the agility of the youth, whom with presumptuous
confidence he had despised. He writhed, and foamed, and became confused
through rage; his desire to conquer became a balk; and the more blindly he
rushed on to wound his adversary, the more he exposed himself to his blows.
So much blood flowed from his body, and he was wounded in so many places,
that he no longer feared injury, since, could he strike to earth his daring
adversary, he had been content to be killed by a thousand wounds. At length,
among the innumerable blows dealt by La Motte, one reached its aim, and poor
Brancaleone also poured out a river of blood; and, on recovering from the
stroke, he staggered so that his enemy thought it all over with him. Then
his boldness returned; believing that his victory was secure, he turned his
eyes to the other combatants, to gather the triumph of the entire conflict.
And, though his companions strewed the field, yet, as he saw some among them
still on horseback, fighting valiantly, he believed that, could he lend his
aid, they would conquer. He therefore changed his mode of attack, and became
cautious, and as avaricious of his blood as before he had been lavish. On
the other side, Brancaleone, who believed that the blood he spilt must
inevitably occasion his death, gave, as a light that expires, the last
flame, and threw himself on La Motte with inexpressible fury; while he,
warding off the blows, continued to back, and waited to take advantage of
some good opportunity, afforded by the other’s fury, to end the great
struggle by a blow with his club. But, at this crisis, he heard the cry
around—'La Motte, prisoner! Prisoner, La Motte!' Both
paused: La Motte looked around—he perceived that he had passed the
furrow, and was without the lists! A heavy groan burst from him, and he fell
with extended arms, as if struck by a thunderbolt."

The story of this work turns on the loves of Brancaleone and Giacinta, the
sister of Fieramosca; the brother being at first friendly, and then adverse,
to their marriage. The prince of Caracciolo, drawn on by the instigations of
his bastard brother, Raymond, seeks her hand; and Hector is desirous of this
alliance. The prince is assassinated under circumstances that cause poor
Brancaleone to be more than suspected. He is thrown into prison, and
condemned; he escapes, and flies to the mountains, Giacinta being the
companion of his flight. The most pleasing passages of the work are those
that describe the wanderings of the lovers, and their residence at the rude
but hospitable village of Picinisco. The interest is never high-drawn, but
the purity of the style, and the artless simplicity of the narrative, spread
a grace over the pages, very unlike the inflated and exaggerated sentiment
now the fashion in French romances. The village life at Picinisco is a
picture full of innocence and repose. It is disturbed by the inroads of some
notorious banditti, the leader of whom is Rocco del Pizzo, brother of the
unfortunate Constance, who, under the name of Gambalunga, spreads terror
around; and who declared, in scoff of the guard of hunters among Picinisco,
that, when they least expected it, he would appear alone among them, and
carry off the prettiest girl in the village. His success in this enterprise
is amusingly told:—

The pursuit of the villagers, with Brancaleone at their head, brings on the
catastrophe of the story, which, after many perils to the lovers, and
romantic incidents, ends happily. The whole presents a pleasing and lively
picture of the Italians—their vehement passions, which lead them right
on to their object, accompanied, at the same time, by a sense of natural
justice and open-hearted frankness, and adorned by unaffected and gentle
manners. This, too, mixed up with so much of wickedness in the bad
characters as give darker shades of interest to the tale. We think a
translation of this romance would be popular in England.

[To be
continued.]      

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
author¹² 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,¹³ 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 Condottiere¹⁴ 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,¹⁵ 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,¹⁹
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 bier²⁰ 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.
²¹
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 Signoria²² 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 Guelph²³ 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,²⁴ 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 Spielburgh²⁵ 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