tains schools of theology at Pavia and at Padua, whose tendency is to favour the exercise of private investigation, and selects its bishops from among priests, who, like the Monsignore Farina, Bishop of Padua, have quarrelled with the Court of Rome. The collection of religious opinions taught at Pavia is known in Italy under the name of Jansenism; this Jansenism, Leo XII. proposes to destroy by the instrumentality of the Jesuits, whom he encourages with that view. The grand book on the Jansenism side is that of the energetic professor, Abbé Tamburini, called Vera Idea della Santa Sede, 2 vols. This work was lately translated into French. I have seen the Abbé Tamburini-he is an old man of eighty, full of fire and energy. He has written forty octavo volumes against the pretended infallibility of the Pope. He used the following argument in my presence: " Pope Ganganelli, Clement XIV, (who was afterwards poisoned by the Jesuits) suppressed the Jesuits on the plea of their atrocious crimes-he was infallible. Pope Pius VII. re-established the order-he also was infallible. Nevertheless, one of these two Popes must have been mistaken, ergo-habemus confitentem reum-the doctrine of infallibility is absurd. I defy the Papists to reply to this argument." I hope I have clearly shown, in the first place, how the appearance of the Bassvigliana caused a revolution in Italian literature, and in the second, how the most Ultra and the most sanguinary poem that ever existed-an apology for murder-has turned the minds of men towards private investigation in religious matters, and consequently towards protestantism and humanity. The eminent men of Italy do not print—it is an infallible way to draw upon themselves persecution from the Jesuits, and from five out of the six despotic governments whose sole object appears to be the debasement of the noble souls with which heaven has peopled that lovely country. If you print, you are sure to be persecuted by the government of the King of Sardinia; by the Austrian government; by the despicable and execrable petty tyranny of the Duke of Modena; by the Papal government, under the guidance of a driveller of eighty-two, (Cardinal della Somaglia, Prosegretario di Stato), himself the tool of Father Fortis, the general of the Jesuits; and, lastly, by the government of Naples. The Grand Duke of Tuscany alone has hitherto been kept within the bounds of good sense by his wife, who is a very clever woman, and by his minister, Fossombroni, the celebrated mathematician. As reflecting men who prefer their tranquillity to popular applause do not print, the field is left clear for pedants. The Florentines, the least reflecting, the least enthusiastic, and the most pedantic people of Italy, have laid it down, first, that they are the only people in Italy who can write; secondly, that the long and obscure sentence which Boccacio borrowed from Cicero, is the only true Italian sentence, and that every sentence in which any attempt is made to introduce French clearness is not Italian. This Italian system has been followed by a pedant, named Botta, who, in 1815, published at Paris a History of the United States of America; and, in 1824, a History of Italy, for the last Thirty Years; the former work curious for the absurdity of its style, the latter for its innumerable lies, told for the base purpose of flattering Austria, and of calumniating Bonaparte, the regenerator of Italy. The Florentine system has been combated by Monti, who, old, and heart-broken at seeing the genius of evil reign paramount in Italy, has ceased to write poetry. He has published five octavo volumes, entitled, Proposta di emendazioni all Vocabulario, della Crusca. Although Monti knows very little of general grammar, and scarcely understands the reasonings of the school of Condillacs, he has the soul of a great poet, and judges with admirable tact as to the appropriateness of certain words to certain styles of writing. I recommend every body who understands Italian to read Monti's book. It recalled to my mind the French line Même quand l'oiseau marche on sent qu'il a des ailes. Over these dry grammatical discussions, envenomed as they are by all the fury of Italian pedantry, Monti contrives to diffuse grace. This is no slight praise, for in their literary discussions the Italians display the urbanity of the fourteenth century: they call each other ass, animal, scoundrel, and such like polite names. The incidental questions: Is it necessary to write exactly as people wrote in Florence in the fifteenth century? is it lawful to admit a little of the French clearness and simplicity of construction?-has frozen the stream of Italian song. Every Italian who has a heart is engrossed by politics and by Carbonarism. In many parts of the country, the magistrates, whose office is to prosecute Carbonari, the gaolers entrusted with the care of them, the soldiers who are set to arrest them, are Carbonari. You may imagine that such subjects of interest must necessarily throw poetry into the back ground; people may, perhaps, read what is written, but they will write no more. Literature is thus abandoned by generous spirits to pedants, or to men whose merits are of too ordinary a stamp to excite the alarm of the governments. Men of elevated minds are universally disheartened. 66 Italy will be free," say they, "but when? In 1880, perhaps," and, impressed with this melancholy conviction, they retire to the country and cultivate their estates. The great poetical revolution brought about by the immense success of the Bassvigliana, has recalled Italy to the adoration of Dante, but it has created no chefs d'œuvres. From the year 1796, Bonaparte occupied the attention of Italy. If the other governments had acted with the mildness of the Grand Duke of Tuscany in 1814, Italy would probably have fallen asleep again. But the persecution levelled against Carbonarism, in itself a very feeble and very innocent institution, keeps the country awake. The total dearth of literary productions is a terrible symptom for the tyrannical governments, and for the Jesuits who oppress that lovely country (and all are Jesuits except Austria). It is a proof that the minds of all Italians of deep and earnest sensibility are fixed upon politics. Italy teems with men of talent and genius, and intelligence; the cause of this is obvious. In France there is only Parisevery provincial writer is ludicrous. Lyons, Nantz, Marseilles, Bourdeaux, towns containing a hundred thousand inhabitants, do not possess a poet or a prose writer of any genius. In Italy, on the contrary, Bologna laughs at the literary taste of her neighbour, Florence, and Milan annuls the literary decrees uttered at Turin or at Venice. This state of things, which has existed from the time of the republics of the middle ages, must for ever render Italy a curious and interesting country to lovers of literature. Another feature in its literary character is, that Italian writers, excepting a few of the lowest order, are, by no means, imitators of French literature. They are more disposed to imitate Lord Byron. I find at Rome some of the poems of that illustrious man translated, and in great request. The length of this letter, in which I have endeavoured to give you an idea of the literary aspect of Italy at the time of the Congress of Milan, in 1825, compels me to defer to another time the explanation of the singular condition of the unfortunate Italian language, which is, in fact, a compound of ten different languages. Buratti and Thomas Grossi, the two greatest living poets after Monti, do not write in the Italian with which you are acquainted, the Italian of Florence and of Rome, the Italian of the Bassvigliana and the Gerusalemme Liberata. Adieu, and believe me, &c. ODE TO THE ANATOMIE VIVANTE, Now exhibiting at the Chinese Saloon, in Pall Mall. I. SHADE! spectre! grisly shape! What art thou ?-Some lean tenant of the tomb, Through some sepulchral gape? Or turn'd from Tartarus for want of room? C. D. What souls in sulphur dwell? For then I'd ask thee of some absent friends! Or has Death only lent Some grudging furlough-some too dear permission, II. Oh! art thou come to daunt Some bloody kinsman, basely moved to pour Shows dry and slim, Like a dead tree wither'd and without sap, Shows pale and sleek.† As if well nursed on Isabella's lap ! III. Why hast thou left the grave's oblivious charms? And all the hushing mould about thy head, Some yearning for the sweet buds blossoming? Did the old bedew'd daisies bring some smart, And with their stirring roots tug at thy buried heart— Or the merry wild bird's morning invocation Wake e'en thy pallid nation! Then thou didst bravely, wisely, thus to fling Vide the story of the Basil Pot, in the Decameron. "The most curious circumstance perhaps in the man's condition is, that while his whole body exhibits these extraordinary appearances of decay, his face displays no signs of attenuation whatever."-Every-Day Book. Thy mouldy coverlid and wander soon, IV. Corpse! Spectre! Grisly shape! What bleak bare arms thou hast,—and slender legs What spare gaunt ribs! and what a bony nape! Or hast thou filch'd a skin And quitted Surgeons' Hall, and brother " Otamies?" Or hath old Pluto horribly exil'd thee, A shape so lean, so wither'd, and so sorry, A "wretch's Outline"-though no kin to Faust! V. In sooth I wonder what "Sharp misery has worn thee to the bone!" "Into this lean and slipper'd" sans-culotte! 'Tis in most strange and Otaheitan taste, That meagre cloth about thy waspish waist,- As if the charity called Scottish, had On thee its parsimonious bounty spilt A pair of shoes-and a most scanty kilt! VI. Aye, speak! and tell me who Tempted thee from thy clothes-what sordid Jew Eats of thy show-bread-what new Guinea swindler Claims thee, unhappy dwindler! |