owing to her love of talking in preference to writing. Her thoughts flowed for the tongue rather than the pen,-they are too ambitious for the solitary reader, and seem to require a brilliant saloon with an assembly of elegant and quick-sensed auditors to give them due reception and applause. As to the purity and correctness of her style, we leave the consideration to those verbal hypercritics, that swarm in Italy and France, who think their literary lives well spent in preserving the purity of national diction, without adding a single new idea to national thought. If the writings of Madame de Staël be not French, as some have asserted, all to be said is, that they are something far superior. An entertaining and acute writer, Mr. Simond, has discussed this censure in his late "Voyage en Suisse," on the occasion of his visiting Coppet:

"J'entends dire que le style de Madame De Staël n'est pas Français : en seraiton surpris? Rousseau aussi avait le style refugié. Notre langue et notre littérature, usées comme la vielle monnaie, ne presenteront bientot plus qu'une surface polie, d'où l'empreinte aura totalement disparu. Toute originalité en est bannie aussi complétement que la nature l'est de nos jardins; et le style légitime, en compartimens et tirés au cordeau comme nos parterres, ne saurait s'écarter de l'allée droite et de la plate-bande: ainsi entravés de règles et chargés de fers, que nous nous sommes forgés, on nous voit reduits, que l'on me passe le paradoxe, à chercher l'originalité en traduction. N'est il pas étrange que le même peuple qui, depuis trente ans, se joue des formes établies et des précédens en matière de lois et de gouvernement, n'est jamais osé faire, en littérature, un seul pas sans y être autorisé par l'usage, et veuille toujours soumettre la génie à cette legitimité, dont il fait si peu de cas en politique."

"There are a thousand anecdotes," continues Simond, "related concerning this celebrated woman during her youth, of her natural maladresse, and of the many errors into which she was led by her short sight, confiding temper, and energy of affection." Indeed, there is scarcely any one of whom so many interesting anecdotes are told: she has herself preserved a great number, all displaying her character in the most amiable light, yet without the least tincture of vanity or affectation displayed in the relation. She is, perhaps, the only author who has written volumes upon herself without being ever egotistic. The "Dix Années d'Exil" is one of the most amusing books any where to be met with on this account. It is the only work she has left, written with the most perfect ease. It contains the primal idea of almost every striking thought in her more laboured work of the "Considerations ;" and also presents a full picture of her mind, even to its most secret foibles. There is even a little personal vanity allowed to manifest itself in it, which never escaped in her other compositions. Her views of foreign countries, manners, character, and society, are much more just in this little sketch than either in the Italie, or Allemagne. They are the first impressions-but the first impressions of one experienced in such things. And the force and justice of every remark confirm me in an old opinion I entertained concerning books of travels, &c.-that they should be written hot, quick, while new per ceptions were fresh, but that this should be not on the first visit but the second. In her Italie and Allemagne, scenic description is either totally overlooked, or else laboriously and ambitiously worked up; whereas in Russia, Norway, and those parts of Europe, which she de

scribes carelessly at the moment of first beholding them, the pictures are spirited and vivid as the life. It is impossible to forget her account of her Russian journey,-the interminable roads, scarce varied even by the triste bouleau, or melancholy birch; the rapid courier, bouncing on his wooden seat, the only fellow-voyager to be met with; the wooden huts and palaces intermingled; and, above all, the fêtes given her at St. Petersburgh, where "the wind of the North whistled through the flowers of the South:"-these are pictures not to be equalled by the eloquence of her "Corinne."

At length she arrived in England, and thence witnessed the most sudden overthrow that ever continent was subjected to by fortune. Her perplexity in these times of change and crisis; her ignorance what to expect, or even what to hope, is in some instances amusing. A very comical part of her character is her continual struggle to be patriotic, which she thought a duty, and the direct opposition to all such feelings into which she was every now and then led by her love of truth and ardour of expression. Most of her eloquent panegyrics upon England, Italy, and Germany, are cut short in their highest flight from some qualm arising from this cause. In the midst of her enthusiastic praise, she recollects that a reserve is due to her chosen country, France, and thus she winds up a brilliant paragraph with a lame and unnatural sort of a salvo. This is very evident in the dangerous task she undertook in "Corinne," of placing an English and a French gentleman side by side, and making them act and speak according to their national characters. As for myself, in spite of Corinne's predilection, I think Nelville a most stupid mortal, and give my vote for the French hero with all my heart. În the Germany, her enthusiasm in favour of the German poets and philosophers often led her into the same quandary after a long argument, that evidently implies a contempt for all French tragedy, she politely concludes with a reserve in favour of Racine. Madame de Staël possessed too great a genius to be of any country, and it is pity that she did now know this.

R.

ITALY.

LOST Italy! what though thy sweetness can cheer
The frame in disease, and the spirit in pain;
Though thy groves in their greenness all lovely appear,
Like the shades of old Eden reviving again;

Though thy gales in their range shed a pleasant perfume;

Though the cloud of the storm from thy sky hath been driven;
Though thy streams through the vallies still lucidly flow,
And the flowers that around them spontaneously grow
Seem as deep in their tint, and as rich in their bloom,
As if newly transplanted from Heaven :—
Still Man's doom'd to droop in thy fields of delight,
For the curse of the slave hangeth o'er him;
He knows not the worth of one home-born right,
And he loves not the country that bore him.
Oh, Liberty! give me the rock, were it bare,
Oh! leave me the cliff dark and hoary;

For the one will be rich, and the other be fair,
If thou smilest on their soil in thy glory.

F.

ALFIERI'S POLITICAL COMEDIES.*

THE Comic irony of the play rests entirely on the mock election of a king of Persia made by a horse; and a most renowned election it is; gravely handed down to us by certain credulous historians, and happily turned by our poet against monarchy. Hence the elector-horse is not the least conspicuous personage in the piece; and, now he is unexpectedly seized with such a cruel disorder, the household of Darius (who, blind mortals! are unable to foresee the glorious issue) are, in the beginning of the third act, filled with mourning and confusion. Darius weeps like a child by the side of the invalid, and has solemnly vowed to Mithras a sacrifice of twelve noble steeds if his favourite is restored to health. A statesman, a warrior, and a free-thinker, to play the infant for a petted brute! to descend to womanish vows and vulgar superstitions!

"Ma già, quand' è il pericolo,

Tutti allor si ricordano de' humi."

"But when danger is nigh, all men are mindful of Heaven,” observes his wife, the pious, domineering Parisa, who is by no means displeased to see the vaunted philosophy of her husband brought to so low an ebb-a little trait of the female character, which is usually not slow in seizing every new foible of man as a means of more easily ruling him. She has, however, penetrated still deeper into the credulity of Darius where his interest is concerned. She knows that he wears about his person, and highly values, a horoscope, which he obtained when he accompanied Cambyses into Egypt, and which is thus expressed :

"Dario, in ver grande sarai,

Si in buon punto a cavallo salirai," "You shall be a very great man, Darius, if you mount your horse in proper time." This prediction and the fate of Chesballeno are so closely connected in the mind of Darius, that, were he to lose his horse prematurely, he would give up his expected greatness as lost likewise. Parisa is puzzling her brain to cure the fated steed. She determines to advise with the high priest of Mithras, who, smelling out that the crown is likely to fall to the lot of Darius, clings closer to him than to any of his competitors, and loses no time to settle his priestly bargain. He has demanded a private audience of Parisa, in which he is interrupted by a visit from Pafima, the daughter of Orcanes, who comes to intrude upon the heavy thoughts of his patroness. This visit contributes nothing to forward the plot, and only shews how the usurping Magian was detected. The account of Pafima is quite similar to that which is given by pretended historians; but the poet has improved it into a striking exhibition of the circumstances, both laughable and shocking, upon which the destiny of a whole nation must depend, when it is decided within the walls of a dining-room or bed-chamber, amidst the collision of the petty passions and domestic whims of a single over-powerful family. Then comes the high priest; upon whose entrée at the house of Darius, Pafima looks with a jealous and disconcerted eye-this mysterious personage being a frequenter of the mansion of

*Continued from page 272.

her father likewise, and by no means sparing of promises to him. On her departure, Colacone, which is the holy man's name, being left alone with Parisa, with all humility tenders his services to Darius. This cringing, double-tongued character is sketched from the life. In a certain country, no sooner did the mitre cease to lord it over the crown, than she helped her rival against the people, that she might glean from the compliance at least a few offals of her former dominion. Colacone discovers to his new patroness that the demagogue Orcanes (another character in which the poet has drawn low ambition, clad in à more fashionable hypocrisy), who scorns all forms of government excepting pure democracy, has secretly endeavoured to add the high priest to his party, that he may dispose the mob to favour his projected sovereignty, and disseminate calumnies against both Megabyzus and Darius, reporting them as outrageous patricians and likely to turn out the worst of tyrants. On the other hand,

"Ch' io poi di lui le meraviglie spanda,
Chiedemi, e ch' io già già un secondo Ciro
Men vada in lui preconizzando, un raro
Filosofo questone tutto leggi

E umanità, e popolarità,
Un giojello."

"He desires that I will distribute wonders respecting himself, and already foretel in him a second Cyrus, a rare upright philosopher, and a jewel framed altogether according to law, humanity, and popularity." Parisa is agreeably surprised at this unexpected token of friendship from the high priest. Darius had believed him to be hostile to his designs, and now, could he only obtain by his means the sanction of Heaven, the cause were already won. Parisa reminds the holy man of the mutual services they might render to each other;

"Assai l'un l' altro entrambi

Giovar potiete voi ;"-

and Darius, entering at this moment, is assured by Colacone that he sends fervent and unceasing prayers to Heaven, that Darius may soon, and for ever, be the sole ruler of the state. The Satrap is slow to credit these sudden professions. "Were I to trust to you to win the crown for me," says he, "would you seriously and earnestly assist me, confiding in me for your reward hereafter ?" "I can see none more worthy than you to rule over us." "Do not be too hasty in praising me," replies Darius, being neither whimsical nor philosophic enough to despise a crown, nor sufficiently blind in his ambition to lose sight of his human frailty;

"Rimirami qual sono:
Turbato, e quasi or fuor di me rimirami
Per un soggetto pueril, risibile,

Stolido, e tal, ch' io dirtelo arrossisco,
Eppur negarlo non mi attento, e dimmi

Poi, ch' io son degno di ottener comando ;"

:

"Behold what I am," he continues, " look at me, perplexed and nearly beside myself as I now am, and on such childish, laughable, and silly grounds, that I blush to discover and yet dare not deny them and now tell me whether I am fit to rule." But Parisa, who little understands the sort of philosophy which turns against ourselves, frankly

confesses to Colacone that the strong understanding of Darius is quite disordered by the sickness of his horse :-there is here, surely, no ground for a patrician to blush, and still less, as Darius is not doting upon an irrational brute, but upon the high hopes connected with that brute's life. Here the groom enters, quite breathless: Chesballeno is not yet recovered, but very sanguine hopes are entertained from the diviner's interpretation of the stable dream.-What! dare to speak of gipsy predictions under the very nose of the high priest! Colacone himself, however, checks the pious indignation of Darius-in the house of the powerful never trifle with trifles, for great things depend upon them; Ippofilo is allowed to relate the enigmatic answer, which, if properly attended to, is to secure the life of the fated steed with which are so intimately connected the destinies of Darius and of Persia. The oracle says

“Ciò, ch' egli ha in corpo, annasi con le frogi

E sarà sano, e tutti ei farà grandi ;"

"That which the horse has in his body let him smell it with his nostrils, and he will recover his health and raise all of you to greatness." Darius again loses his patience. "What riddles ! what fooleries !" But the groom unravels the enigma to a tittle, having received the clue to it from his dream. "What has the horse in his body?" Why, he has the sceptre and diadem of Cyrus, that is notorious: let him smell to the real diadem and sceptre, and he will presently recover: "And raise all of us to greatness!" adds Parisa, who, like an able stateswoman, has more consideration for the end than the means. All the by-standers are astounded with joy and amazement. "What sublime and promising mysteries! The human understanding is too limited to account for them, and nothing remains but to admire and obey! The regalia of Cyrus are in the custody of the high priest, who hurries home to produce them; having first forbidden Darius to harbour any more impiously sophistical objections, and recommended him to trust in Heaven. Darius can withstand the temptation no longer, and he now yields unresistingly to the fair promises of his fortune and the ambitious suggestions of his wife.-A loved woman, a priest, a fine horse, and a crown! What an inflexible mortal must he be whose mind could resist all these!

The fourth act opens with the appearance of Gobria on the stage; and, though the persons in this play are rather disputants than actors, and the characters rather sketched than finished, that of Gobria is powerfully drawn. Alfieri has here depicted himself, such as he was in his last years with regard to his opinion of politics and mankind. Gobria is a man of the world and a philosopher, but not a selfish apathist, like many in our days who screen themselves behind the revered name. Gobria has felt, and still feels, strong noble passions, but now, being well acquainted with mankind, he despairs of ever doing any thing that can gratify them. Nevertheless, he has not, from being undeceived, inferred that public virtue is a dream, or that the love of our country is a mere notion-ideas which have been adopted by many undeceived worthies who are well pleased with the vices of their species, as a means of more safely indulging their own, and happy that liberty is so difficult to establish, that they may cast themselves headlong into the pursuits of low ambition through baseness and iniquity.