Beyond the tomb there dwells not enmity,

And on the blessed shore, where now we part,
Justice and mercy reign triumphantly.

In the second canto, Basville enters Paris, with the angel, his guide, at the moment of the execution of Louis :

The Shade upon his guide, whose cheeks were stain'd
With tears, in wonder gazed, and on each street,
Along whose bounds still deepest silence reign'd.
Mute was the brazen trumpet, and the feet
Of artizans were heard not, nor did sound
Of anvil, or of saw, the strangers greet;

A whisper only tremblingly crept round,
'Mid guarded looks, and fearful questionings,
While grief within each heavy heart was found.
Voices were heard, confused murmurings,

The voice of many a mother, who in fear
Her trembling arms around her infant flings;
Voices of wives, who, as their husbands dear
Pass o'er the threshold, on their footsteps press,
And stay their ardent course with sigh and tear;
But woman's love and kindly tenderness

Were conquer'd by their fury's fiercer power,
Which tore them from the conjugal caress.*

Oltre il rogo non vive ira nemica,

E nell' ospite suolo ove io ti lasso,
Giuste son l'alme, e la pietade è antica.

E l'ombra si stupia quinci vedendo
Lagrimoso il suo duca, e possedute
Quindi le strade da silenzio orrendo.
Muto de' bronzi il sacro squillo, e mute
L'opre del giorno, e muto lo stridore
Dell' aspre incudi, e delle seghe argute.
Sol per tutto un bisbiglio ed un terrore,
Un domandare, ud sogguardar sospetto,
Una mestizia che ti piomba al cuore ;

E cupe voci di confuso affetto,

Voci di madri pie, che gl' innocenti
Figli si serran, trepidando, al petto;
Voci di spose, che ai mariti ardenti
Contrastano l'uscita, e sugle soglie
Fan di lagrime intoppo e di lamenti.
Ma tenerezza e carità di moglie

Vinta è da furia di maggior possanza,
Che dall' amplesso conjugal li scioglie.

We have elsewhere spoken of the two tragedies of Monti, which are the pride of the modern Italian theatre. We are happy, in concluding this account of the literature of Italy, to be able to contemplate a man of genius, who, still in the prime of his age, may yet enrich his language with masterpieces worthy of being placed by the side of those of the greatest writers of his country; more especially if, yielding only to the dictates of genuine inspiration, he should refuse to sacrifice to the interests of the moment, a reputation which was made to endure for ages.

We have attempted by the extracts which we have made, and by the fragments of translations which we have introduced, to make the reader acquainted with the poets, who, during the last five centuries, have shed such lustre upon the Italian language; or rather our object has been to awaken curiosity and to induce the reader to judge for himself. Italy still possesses another class of poets, whose fugitive talents leave no traces behind them, but who yet give birth for the moment to a very lively pleasure. We should convey an exceedingly imperfect idea of the poetry of Italy, did we omit to say a few words of the Improvvisatori. Their talent, their inspiration, and the enthusiasm which they excite, are all most illustrative of the national character. In them we perceive how truly poetry is the immediate language of the soul and of the imagination; how the thoughts at their birth take this harmonious form; and how our feelings are so closely connected with the music of language and with the rich graces of description, that the poet displays resources in verse, which he never appears to possess in prose; and that he, who is scarcely worthy of being listened to in speaking, becomes eloquent, captivating, and even sublime, when he abandons himself to the inspiration of the Muse.

The talent of an improvvisatore is the gift of nature, and a talent which has frequently no relation to the other faculties. When it is manifested in a child, it is studiously cultivated, and he receives all the instruction which seems likely to be useful to him in his art. He is taught mythology, history, science and philosophy. But the divine gift itself, the second and more harmonious language, which with graceful ease assumes every artificial form, this alone they attempt not to change or to add to, and it is left to develope itself according

to the dictates of nature. Sounds call up corresponding sounds; the rhymes spontaneously arrange themselves in their places; and the inspired soul pours itself forth in verse, like the concords naturally elicited from the vibrations of a musical chord.

The improvvisatore generally begs from the audience a subject for his verse. The topics usually presented to him are drawn from mythology, from religion, from history, or from some passing event of the day; but from all these sources thousands of the most trite subjects may be derived, and we are mistaken in supposing that we are rendering the poet a service in giving him a subject which has already been the object of his verse. He would not be an improvvisatore, if he did not entirely abandon himself to the impression of the moment, or if he trusted more to his memory than to his feelings. After having been informed of his subject, the improvvisatore remains a moment in meditation, to view it in its various lights, and to shape out the plan of the little poem which he is about to compose. He then prepares the eight first verses, that his mind during the recitation of them may receive the proper impulse, and that he may awaken that powerful emotion, which makes him as it were a new being. In about seven or eight minutes he is fully prepared, and commences his poem, which often consists of five or six hundred verses. His eyes wander around him, his features glow, and he struggles with the prophetic spirit which seems to animate him. Nothing, in the present age, can represent in so striking a manner the Pythia of Delphos, when the god descended and spoke by her mouth.

There is an easy metre, the same which Metastasio has employed in the Partenza a Nice, and which is adapted to the air known by the name of the Air of the Improvvisatori. This measure is generally made use of when the poet wishes not to give himself much trouble, or when he has not the talent to attempt a higher strain. The stanza consists of eight lines with seven syllables in each line, and divided into two quatrains, each quatrain being terminated by a verso tronco, so that there are properly only two of the lines rhymed in each quatrain. The singing sustains and strengthens the prosody, and covers, where it is necessary, defective verses, so that the art is in this form within the capacity of persons

possessing very ordinary talents. All the improvvisatori, however, do not sing. Some of the most celebrated amongst them have bad voices, and are compelled to declaim their verses in a rapid manner, as if they were reading them. The more celebrated improvvisatori consider it an easy task to conform themselves to the most rigid laws of versification. At the will of the audience, they will adopt the terza rima of Dante, or the ottava rima of Tasso, or any other metre as constrained; and these shackles of rhyme and verse seem to augment the richness of their imagination and their eloquence. The famous Gianni, the most astonishing of all the improvvisatori, has written nothing in the tranquillity of his closet which can give him any claim to his prodigious reputation. When, however, he utters his spontaneous verses, which are preserved by the diligence of short-hand writers, we remark with admiration the lofty poetry, the rich imagery, the powerful eloquence, and, occasionally, the deep thought which they display, and which place their author on a level with the men who are the glory of Italy. The famous Corilla, who was crowned in the Capitol, was distinguished for her lively imagination, her grace, and her gaiety. Another poetess, La Bandettini, of Modena, was educated by a Jesuit, and from him acquired a knowledge of the ancient languages, and a familiarity with the classical authors. She afterwards attached herself to scientific pursuits, that she might render herself equal to any theme that might be proposed to her, and she thus rendered her numerous acquirements subservient to her poetical talents. La Fantastici, the wife of a rich goldsmith of Florence, did not devote herself to such abstruse branches of knowledge; but she possessed from heaven a musical ear, an imagination worthy of the name she bore, and a facility of composition, which gave full employment to her melodious voice. Madame Mazzei, whose former name was Landi, a lady of one of the first families in Florence, surpasses, perhaps, all her compeers in the fertility of her imagination, in the richness and purity of her style, and in the harmony and perfect regularity of her verses. She never sings; and absorbed in the process of invention, her thoughts always outstrip her words. She is negligent in her declamation, and her recitation is therefore not graceful; but the moment she commences her spontaneous effusions, the most harmonious language in

the world seems at her bidding to assume new beauties. We are delighted and drawn forward by the magic stream. We are transported into a new poetical world, where to our amazement we discover man speaking the language of the gods. I have heard her exert her talents upon subjects which were unexpectedly offered to her. I have heard her in the most magnificent ottava rima celebrate the genius of Dante, of Machiavelli, and of Galileo. I have heard her in terza rima lament the departed glory and the lost liberties of Florence. I have heard her compose a fragment of a tragedy, on a subject which the tragic poets had never touched, so as to give an idea in a few scenes of the plot and the catastrophe; and lastly I have heard her pronounce, confining herself to the same given rhymes, five sonnets on five different subjects. But it is necessary to hear her, in order to form any idea of the prodigious power of this poetical eloquence, and to feel convinced that a nation in whose heart so bright a flame of inspiration still burns, has not yet accomplished her literary career, but that there still perhaps remain in reserve for her greater glories than any which she has as yet acquired.

CHAPTER XXIII.

ORIGIN OF THE SPANISH LANGUAGE AND POETRY. POEM OF THE CID.

WE may be considered as making the tour of Europe for the purpose of examining, nation by nation, and country by country, the effect which was produced by the mixture of the two great races of men, the northern and the southern. We are thus present, as it were, at the birth of the modern languages, and of that genius and literature with which they were accompanied. We remark the local circumstances which modified each simultaneous developement. We behold the formation of national taste and genius; and we are enabled to understand in what manner each nation of Europe created a literature which differed from the rest, not only in the rules which it laid down, but likewise in the object which it proposed to itself, and in the means which it took to secure the accomplishment of that object. Having already traversed Provence, the North of France, and Italy, we now arrive at