mer,

it was easy to see she was extremely discomposed with the absurd hyperboles that were mercilessly addressed to her. After this weary performance, her own begun. The parting of Titus and Berenice,the address of Moses to the Israelites on the passage of the Red Sea,-(some passages very fine,)— the Fall of Man,-Adam and Eve expelled from Paradise, the Death of Arria,-the Parting of Venus and Adonis, (by far the best,)-the Battle of Constantine and Maxentius, (not suited to her, and very poor,)-and Calliope, at the Tomb of Ho-a favourite Italian mode of verse-making, in which the supposed visitor, whether muse or man, pours forth an appropriate strain of lamentation, these were some of the principal subjects on which she sang with various, but sometimes distinguished success. She is almost the only performer in whom I have ever seen much hesitation. She was frequently obliged to repeat the last line twice, and even thrice. I believe I forgot to tell you that few improvisatori, except Sgricci, ever perform without music, and none ever accompany themselves. They choose a simple, but marked measure, suited to the rhythm they are going to compose in, which is played on the piano-forte by another person; and the cadence, and strong intonation in which they recite, is nearly singing.

The utility of the music is not so much to conceal any irregularity in the metre, as to give a certain inspiration to the performer,-to kindle a certain feeling, which it is vain to describe, but which all who are susceptible of the power of music or poesy,

must have felt. The improvisatori seem to have the power, by certain associations, of calling up at will those trains of feeling under which alone they can pour out the unpremeditated strains of lyric song. Several of the Italian improvisatrice, in their raised and inspired moods, pouring forth their unpremeditated strains,—exactly as if pos sessed,-remind me of all I have heard of the Sybils of old, who, I believe, were nothing more than improvisatrice, except that they spoke and were heard, under the belief of their oracular divine mission.

LETTER LXXXIV.

POETRY, LITERATURE, AND SCIENCE.

THERE are few places in which the Latin classics are more generally studied, or understood, than at Rome, nor are the great Italian poets less duly appreciated. There is not a line of Dante, or Tasso, or Petrarch, that is not diligently conned. Yet, in spite of all this studying of poets, there is no poetry. Tides of verse are poured forth in an unceasing flow, but nothing remains. They all pass into the quiet stream of oblivion.

Of all the innumerable living poets of Rome, there is not one whose works I ever yet could read to an end; perhaps, therefore, I am not competent to give an opinion upon their merits; and posterity, I suspect, will not have the means of deciding upon them. It certainly proves a disinterested love of the Muses, that there should be so many of their votaries in a country where a poet must be poor, and where indeed no author can

easily make any money; but these capricious ladies do by no means seem to respond to the passion entertained for them, or bless with their favours their importunate Roman suitors.

If I am not struck with the charms of their verse, I am scarcely more captivated with their prose. Its needless length, its unvaried dulness, and its wearisome verbosity, are inconceivable, except to those who have laboured at it; and these qualities, with few exceptions, are characteristic alike of the old and of the new writers. At least, I can truly say, that, during the two years that have elapsed since I first came to Rome, not a work has passed the press to which their own expressive "Seccatura !" does not apply. Why they always think it necessary to involve their meaning, when they have any, in such a cloud of words, is more than I can pretend to explain. Neither do I understand how it happens that men, who, in conversation, are so clever and entertaining, should, in their writings, be so tedious and stupid.

These observations, in some measure, apply not to Rome only, but to the whole of Italy. At the same time, wide is the difference at present between the south and the north of this country. The scale of intellectual gradation may be said to rise regularly with the degrees of latitude, from Naples to Milan. It is there you must look for literature and science. It is there, too, that the last poets of Italy flourished. Perhaps I ought to speak in the present tense, for Pindemonte is still alive, and it would be

ungrateful to pass over one who sang the praise of the beauty, the virtue, and the mental charms and graces of my countrywomen, in strains that ought to live. Passerone's poems, too, possess great merit; but none, in my opinion, are equal to Parini, the Pope of Italy, whose admirable Giorno, in its witty strain of satire, may even court a comparison with the Rape of the Lock.

Like Pope, too, he was deformed, and even from childhood a cripple ;-and like Burns, this elegant satirist, the idol and the scourge of drawing-rooms, and the bugbear of a court, raised himself from the station of a ploughman, and struggled with poverty and with hardship, cruelly aggravated by a long life of sickness and suffering. He wrote many admirable pieces, but " Il Giorno" is by far the best.

With this solitary exception,-and we can scarcely call that a poem of the day, which has been read nearly half a century,-the most popular modern poems in Italy are, at present, translations from the English; and Ossian and the Seasons, are scarcely less admired in the vales of Italy, than among their native Caledonian mountains. Poetic genius, indeed, seems to have taken its flight to our favoured island, and while the name and the lays of Byron, Campbell, Moore, Scott, Crabbe, Southey, &c. &c., resound beneath our gloomy skies, none have caught the ear of Fame, in the country which would seem to be the native land and to boast the native language of song.

The modern bards of England surpass those of Italy, as much as the immortal poets of Italy's bet