Chapter XV: Part 15

To make the resemblance between Foscolo and his imaginary hero, Jacopo Ortis, the more exact, we are told that, at this very time, he fell in love with a young lady of Pisa: his passions, naturally vehement, were inflamed to their utmost by the influence of the most engrossing of them all. The object of his attachment was singularly beautiful; her large black eyes, rich raven hair, her dignified stature and noble carriage, her whole person, in short, cast in the very mould of majestic beauty, was formed to inspire admiration and love. She possessed also all that natural talent which so usually falls to the lot of Italian women: her voice was harmonious, and her proficiency in music great. She was known afterwards to several of the biographers of her lover; and, with the simplicity and frankness usual to the Italians, spoke openly of their mutual attachment. One among them, after calling the lady "the flower of all loveliness," adds, "We heard from her--for she yet lives--that the few lines cited as being written by Teresa, in a letter of Ortis, dated 17th September, 1798, were a part of a letter which she wrote to Foscolo."[55] Giuseppe Pecchio, in his Life of Foscolo, speaks of her with great enthusiasm: "I saw her," he writes, "several times after she was married, when, at a private theatre, she took the part of Isabella in the 'Filippo' of Alfieri; and I still remember, with pleasure, her dignified action and her expressive countenance, which filled the audience with enthusiasm, and carried their feelings along with her."

This attachment was not fortunate; and Foscolo suffered all the throes of disappointment and grief. Violent in all his feelings, love possessed his heart like a burning fire; he grew sullen and gloomy, only breaking silence by muttering a few sentences indicative of his ardent desire for self-destruction. He did not openly speak of his passion; but his feelings overflowed on paper, and he wrote and published "The Letters of Two Lovers," a sort of novel, which afterwards served as a foundation to the "Letters of Ortis." While thus occupied by literature and love, he added the duties of a more laborious profession. Bonaparte, having created the Cisalpine republic, strove to raise an Italian army for its defence. The Lombard legion formed the nucleus of these troops, and the sons of the noblest families in Italy accepted commissions: among others, Foscolo became an officer.

[Sidenote: 1800. Ætat. 22.]

The absence, however, of Bonaparte in Egypt, and the invasion of the Austrio-Russian army, put a sudden end to the existence of the new republic. At the same time that Monti fled across the Alps, and wandered, a famished exile, among the ravines and woods of Savoy, Foscolo, forced also to provide for his own safety, took refuge in Genoa, and joined the French garrison commanded by Massena. It was here that the French made a last stand, endeavouring to stop the progress of the invading army. The siege of Genoa was formed; and Foscolo, serving under the French banners, had an opportunity of studying at once the military art and the science of government during the various chances of a long and arduous struggle. While day lasted, there were perpetual combats along the whole line of mountains which surround Genoa to the north; and the night was spent in popular assemblies, in which the leaders strove to inspire the citizens with resolution to endure the evils of the siege. These soon grew intolerable; and famine, and consequent disease, made frightful ravages. Foscolo sometimes collected the people together in a spot of the city made famous by the act of an Austrian corporal, who (1748) struck with his cane a Genoese, who was striving in vain to move a cannon: he endeavoured to animate his audience to heroic deeds, by describing the magnanimous vengeance with which their ancestors had vindicated the insult. Nor was he less forward in the performance of his military duties; and his name occurs in the lists of those who were most distinguished for their bravery.

During the siege, on occasion of Napoleon's return from Egypt, and being named consul, Foscolo addressed a letter to him from Genoa, which prophesied the height to which he would hereafter rise, and besought him to rest content with his present exaltation, nor to taint his well-merited renown by schemes of unmeasured ambition. This letter, which is of two pages only, is written with the freedom of a patriot and the dignity of a disinterested and noble mind. He incurred no danger by this address, but he displeased the ear of power; and the truth and frankness of his representations form an honourable contrast with the general adulation, and the barefaced flatteries, which other writers addressed to the victor.

The energetic mind of Foscolo was not satisfied by the arduous duties of his profession, to which were added the not less exciting task of guiding and animating the minds of the citizens of Genoa, when they flagged under the visitation of the most frightful calamities. It was at this period that he wrote an ode to Luigia Pallavicini, on her falling from her horse, which betrays no signs of the sufferings which he was enduring, except its motto, taken from Horace: "Sollicitæ oblivia vitæ." This poem is all grace, elegance, and classic allusion; but there is no originality nor poetic fire. The machinery is mythological, the imagery drawn from the same source; and it is rather the work of one imbued with the poetry of the ancients, and translating remembered ideas into his native language, than the outpourings of a mind inspired by passion and nature. It is strange that Foscolo should have found time to compose verses at a period when the town he inhabited was being bombarded by the English fleet, when the Austrians were making daily assaults, and the streets were filled by a famished and dying multitude. But while Foscolo shared the labours and dangers of the garrison, he did not partake their amusements; and while they were immersed in the grosser pleasures of the bottle, of cards, and smoking, he took refuge in his imagination, and found relief in the soothing and refined feelings generated by study and poetry.

Meanwhile Genoa, reduced by famine, surrendered on the 4th of June, 1800, with the condition that the garrison should be conveyed to France by the English fleet. Foscolo accompanied his fellow-soldiers, but he endured only a brief exile from his country. The battle of Marengo drove the Austrians from Italy; the Cisalpine republic was restored; and Foscolo, together with the rest of the Italian fugitives, returned to Milan.

Already known as an author and a man of letters, he increased his fame at this period by the publication of the "Last Letters of Jacopo Ortis," a romance which at once acquired great popularity, and, as being the first that had been written in the Italian language, demanded the praise of some sort of originality. Yet its chief fault is, that it is an imitation. Foscolo could not invent incidents, nor weave the artful texture of a well-told story. The plot of "Ortis" is similar to that of Goethe's more celebrated romance of "Werter." A youth of disappointed expectations, and devoured by a morbid melancholy, falls in love with a girl who is already betrothed to another. He resolves to die as soon as the marriage shall take place; but, meanwhile, fosters his passion by frequenting the society of the young lady. She had never been attached to her intended husband, and is the victim of obedience to her father's will, who, besides that his honour is engaged, would have found an insuperable obstacle to the pretensions of Ortis in his plebeian birth. His sorrowing daughter, while she obeys, returns the affection of her passionate, adoring lover; her destined husband become jealous, her father uneasy; and Ortis, called upon by duty and friendship, absents himself from her society: he travels to Florence, to Milan, to Genoa; and then, hearing of Teresa's marriage, retraces his steps to the Euganean hills, the abode of his mistress, and fulfils his long-nurtured intention of putting an end to his existence. The slight differences between this story and "Werter" are founded on Foscolo's own attachment, before alluded to.

There is, indeed, this main difference between the work of Goëthe and that of Foscolo,--that the former is, so to speak, a dramatic, and the latter a didactic, author. Goëthe founded his story on the feelings of another. He delineated the sentiments and passions of his unfortunate young friend Jerusalem; and, putting himself in his place, filled out, from his own experience and imagination, the various portions of a picture, the most highly wrought, refined, and true that, perhaps, exists in the world of fictitious portraits. Foscolo painted a _beau ideal_ of himself. So full was his mind of his own idea, that he prefixed a portrait of Ortis, which was only a favoured likeness of himself. Like the author, Ortis fled from Venice when it was made over to the Austrians. Like the author, his heart was tortured by patriotic sufferings, and his soul was in arms against the oppressor. Ortis, like Foscolo, saw misery and evil rife around him: compassion rose with him into a passion; and his heart bled and burnt alternately, as he pitied the victim, and abhorred the tyrant. Ortis, like Foscolo, meditated suicide as the cure for all evils, and regarded death as a harbour whence to retreat from the tempests of life. Yet Foscolo did not, like Ortis, destroy himself; because, we are apt to say, he is in this greater than his prototype, since he felt powers and capacities within him that led him to continue to endure the evils of life, to raise for himself a name among his fellow-creatures, to benefit and to exhort them; while Ortis, like a weak plant that wants all self-erecting power, fell prostrate, and was trampled on by the iron heels of destiny. Egotists, perhaps, are, of all people, the least likely to put an end to themselves; yet they like to dwell on their own deaths, and, feeling that the drama of their lives is incomplete without a striking catastrophe, they ponder on it, and, if led to bring themselves forward, are pretty sure to adorn their lives by describing its disastrous conclusion.

This morbid shrinking from the woes of existence, this total want of fortitude, added to a lively sensibility, presents a picture which, a few years ago, was the model by which the youth of Europe delighted to dress their minds. Men need a career--an hope, an aim: the French revolution first gave new life to these natural instincts, and then, aided by Napoleon's despotism, blighted and tore them up. Since then, a better day has dawned, and men are glad to live for the morrow, since each day is full of spirit-stirring expectation. The influence of a book like "Ortis" is null now: it was pernicious at the time when it was written. And yet, in representing his hero as a self-destroyer, Foscolo was not without moral aim. The Italians fear death to the extent of the most contemptible cowardice; they consider any one insane who engages in any actions that even remotely endanger his life; and Foscolo was earnest to prove that death was not the worst of evils, but that it might be sought voluntarily as a refuge from slavery or woe. We find, therefore, conjoined to intolerance of personal suffering, the most ardent patriotism, integrity, and independence of spirit; lively compassion for the physical evils of the poor, which are too often disregarded; and observations on life and our natural feelings, full of delicacy and profound truth. What more true than the remark, "that we are too proud to give our compassion, when we feel that we can give nothing else?" What can come more home to a man of sensibility than the exclamation of Ortis,--"I am always in perfect harmony with the unhappy, for indeed I always find something wicked in the prosperous?" And, again, when he says, "Let us gather up a treasure of dear and soothing feelings, which, during the course of years, destined, perhaps, to be sad and persecuted, may awaken the memory that we have not always been unhappy." Another merit which these letters have may be mentioned, which an Italian author has also discovered: they display a love for, and an observation of, nature, seldom found among their greatest writers. The Italians, generally speaking, are not lovers of nature: full of passion and talent, yet they do not ally themselves to the mighty mother, nor do their pulses beat responsive to her varied and living phenomena. Dante alone, perhaps, displays a true feeling for external objects, describing them as they are, and as they may be supposed to feel; while the others dilate rather on their beauty, as if they presented a scenic exhibition, than were in themselves animated beings to feel and have existence. The rambles of Ortis amidst the Euganean hills; the sentiments with which he contemplates a tempest and the succeeding calm; the glories of summer, or tyranny of winter; resemble those so often to be found in English authors, and give the work a charm peculiar to itself. The style, also, of these letters (and the Italians make style a chief merit) is pure, elegant, and forcible. It created a language hitherto unknown to his countrymen, uniting the familiar and colloquial with the tasteful and the expressive. It is too rhetorical, even thus, for our ears; but the Italians easily pardon inflation.

The success of "Ortis" was immediate and striking. The Italians usually love to be amused and made laugh; but they were caught by the charm, and content to weep over the misfortunes of the victim of love. The author had artfully contrived to mingle himself inextricably with the image of his hero; and the ladies of Italy were interested by his appearance, uncouth as it was, and his manners, dissimilar to the inanity of their usual companions. He became what we call "a lion," and he himself fell in love with one of his fair admirers; but, as is too often the case where the author is more thought of than the man, this lady's love was more of the head than the heart, and Foscolo, after a short period, was dismissed. We are told that this lady was the daughter of the courteous Marchesa F., mentioned by Sterne in his "Sentimental Journey." True passion often enforces sympathy; otherwise, we cannot wonder that Foscolo did not create a sentiment in another as strong as that which he himself felt. In personal appearance he was not formed to excite tender admiration. Pecchio, who knew him at this time, describes him in vivid but no attractive colours. According to him, Foscolo was of middle stature, rather strong and muscular of frame; he had thick, reddish, rough hair, which added to his expression of wild vehemence, and rendered his fits of gloomy silence, or transports of rage, more horrible. His eyes were of a blueish grey, small, deep set, and intensely sparkling. His complexion was ruddy; his features well formed, except that his lips, though thin, protruded, having that animal-look about the jaw which is the opposite of the _beau idéal_ of the human countenance: he wore his chin thickly covered with hair, which gave him a sort of resemblance to an oran-outang. There is a story told of him that a Frenchman said to him one day, "Vous êtes bien laid, monsieur;" to which Foscolo wittily replied, "Oui, monsieur, à faire peur." On another occasion he was engaged in a duel with a friend, who impertinently compared him to the animal above mentioned. To add to the wildness and singularity of his appearance, he was fond, in an awkward sort of imitation of Alfieri, of appearing immersed in thought, maintaining a gloomy silence, interrupted only as he muttered, or rather growled forth, various quotations or verses, in a voice which made an Italian young lady once name him "a sentimental clap of thunder." Such was the outward appearance and manners of the Italian Werter; and if he met with success among the fair sex, it must be attributed to the ready sympathy they are apt to afford to sincere feeling, and to a generous, independent spirit.

[Sidenote 1802. Ætat. 24.]

When Bonaparte, under the name of first consul, rose to supreme power in France, it became necessary to remodel the Cisalpine republic; and a congress of 450 deputies was held at Lyons, to decide on the new form of government. On this occasion Foscolo published an "Oration to Bonaparte." A good deal of uncertainty exists as to the exact circumstances under which this oration was composed. It has been supposed that it was delivered publicly at the congress; but there is no foundation for this idea, as Foscolo was not one of the deputies, and did not accompany them to Lyons. It is said, on one hand, that he wrote it at the desire of Bonaparte himself; and on the other, that the task was entrusted to him by the triumvirate, who, under the title of committee of government, were placed at the head of the Cisalpine republic; and it is said that the oration was delivered before the committee itself[56], which, considering its nature, can hardly be believed. It commences with a grandiloquent eulogium of Napoleon; it then diverges into indignant and sarcastic representations of the mal-conduct of the heads of the republic. "Men," he describes them, "who are neither statesmen nor warriors, formerly slaves, now tyrants, and for ever slaves of themselves, and of circumstances, which they neither will nor can command; conscious of their own vices, and therefore timid and discordant; cowardly with the bold, bold with the cowardly, they crush accusations by bribery, and complaints by menaces. Men who took the arms out of the hands of the militia soldiery, an army formed of citizens, to give them to bands of runaway felons and deserters." He then dilates on the miseries endured in Italy during the period of the success of the Austrians and Russians, and describes Bonaparte's return as the advent of a demigod; and he calls on him to complete his work by assuming the supreme command, instead of leaving it to the triumvirate, who betrayed the cause of liberty and oppressed their countrymen. Independent as Foscolo was, we are surprised when he goes on to say, that every patriotic Italian would elect Bonaparte for their legislator, captain, father, and perpetual prince. But this surprise diminishes when we read on, and find that he expects this supreme ruler to gift the subject country with liberty. He entreats him not to entrust the state to men, but to laws; not to the generosity of other nations, but to its own force. "Let such be your institutions," he exclaims, "such your example, such our strength, that no one shall dare rule us after you. Who, indeed, would be worthy to succeed to Bonaparte? As you cannot live for ever for us, let the seal of our liberty be set; you yourself leaving it inviolate: and, with the whole nation, I call freedom our not having (with the exception of Bonaparte) any magistrate who is not Italian, nor any general who is not our fellow-citizen. If, while you live, our liberty totters, what hope have we that it will endure after you are withdrawn from the earth? No! there is no liberty, no property, no life, no soul in any country, and under whatever form of government, when national independence is fettered!"

It is impossible that Foscolo, despite his assertions, and despite, perhaps, his hopes, should not have been aware that the strongest chain that can be imposed on the freedom of a nation is its having a foreign prince at the head of government. Still he vindicated the cause he espoused, by demanding national institutions and a national army. The style of the oration is forcible, but too rhetorical; and, though full of truths that intimidated the oppressors and did honour to the free spirit of the writer, calmer representations and closer reasoning would command more of our admiration. Not that such would have availed with the conqueror: Italy was, to him, only one other lever added to the vast engine of military force which was to raise him to the throne of the world.

Yet, though not gifted with liberty, the present epoch was a happy one for the north of Italy. After suffering from the persecutions of demagogues, and from the devastations of war, it reposed contentedly under the wise and liberal administration of Melzi. Foscolo continued to inhabit Milan: by day immersed in study, his evenings were spent in amusements. His sanguine disposition often led him to try the chances of a gambling table: when he won, he launched out into extravagant expenses; he bought horses and dress, and hired the most magnificent apartments. When Fortune turned her back, all this show of prosperity as suddenly disappeared; and he retired into a corner to study.[57] In one of these intervals of seclusion, he wrote a translation of the Hymn of Callimachus on the Hair of Berenice, accompanied by a whole volume of comments. The sort of learning which he here displayed obtained no applause; but we are told that the erudition thus made show of had for its aim, not the instructing the ignorant, but the ridicule of pedants and book-worms. It is difficult, however, to cull wit from the dry bones of verbal criticism.

Under the presidency of Melzi, an Italian legion had been formed in which Foscolo held a commission. When Bonaparte formed the camp at Boulogne, for the avowed purpose of invading England, the division of the Italian army to which the poet belonged made part of the vast assemblage of troops called together. He held the rank of captain, and was attached to the staff of general Tulliè. The Italian troops were stationed at St. Omer and Calais, at which latter place Foscolo entered on the study of the English language. The spot which he selected for the purpose of study was curiously chosen: he was often seen writing with eagerness by the light of the lamp of the billiard-table, while his fellow-officers were playing, drinking, and conversing around.

To exercise himself in English, he undertook the translation of Sterne's "Sentimental Journey;" and it is much praised for the purity of its style. But the most curious part of the publication is a disguised account of the translator. Foscolo's excessive vanity shines very apparent in this account of himself, in which he indulges in an egotistical description of his own singularities; and, according to his old fancy, conducts himself to the grave, and writes his own epitaph. The title-page of the translation declares the translator to be one Didimo Chierico; and on the character of this Didimo (being himself) Foscolo fondly dilates; mentions various works of his, the manuscripts of which he says that he possesses; and records his eccentricities and opinions in a manner which excites a smile, when we remember that he is his own memorialist of trifles, which it would be hardly worth mentioning when appertaining to the greatest men. "Didimo entertained," he tells us, "strange systems, which, nevertheless, he did not defend by argument; and, as apology to those who brought forward irresistible reasons, he replied by the single word 'opinions.' He respected, also, the systems of others, and, from carelessness or some other motive, never tried to refute them; but always remained silent, without making sign of dissent, except that he uttered the word 'opinions' with religious seriousness. On these systems or notions he founded actions and words worthy of laughter. He called don Quixote happy, because he deluded himself with glory and love. He drove away cats, because they appeared to him the most silent of all animals; at the same time he praised them, because, like dogs, they took advantage of society, and enjoyed their liberty like owls. He did not believe that you could trust any one who lived next door to a butcher, or near the place destined for public executions. He believed in prophetic inspiration, and fancied that he was acquainted with its source. He accused the nightcap, dressing-gown, and slippers of husbands, as the cause of a wife's first infidelity. He gave no better specimen of his knowledge: asserting that the sciences were a series of propositions which had need of demonstrations apparently self-evident, but substantially uncertain; and that geometry, in spite of algebra, would remain an imperfect science, until the incomprehensible system of the universe was known: and he maintained that the arts could render truth more useful to men than the sciences."

"When travelling, he dined at the public tables: he easily became familiar, though he spoke dryly to the ceremonious, proudly to the rich, and avoided all sects and confraternities. He frequented mostly the society of women; because he thought them more richly endowed by nature with pity and modesty, two pacific qualities which, he said, alone temper the combative propensities of human beings. He was listened to readily; though I know not where he found matter of discourse, since he would talk a whole evening without uttering a word concerning politics, religion, or scandal. He never asked questions, that he might not lead others to answer falsely. He was glad to receive his acquaintances at home; but when walking he liked to be alone, or with strangers to whom he took a fancy; and if any of his acquaintance approached, he took a book from his pocket, and, in room of salutation, recited scraps from a modern translation of the Greek poets; on which he was left alone."

And thus he goes on, for several pages, describing eccentricities, partly natural, partly assumed, which he wished should attract attention, as is evident by his thus introducing them to the public, who would otherwise have been ignorant of their existence.

[Sidenote: 1805.]

On his return to Italy, he became intimate with general Caffarelli, minister of war of the kingdom of Italy. Warmed by the recent sight of the encampment of Boulogne, he proposed to the general to make a new edition of the military works of Montecucoli, with notes. The text was furnished him by the marchese Trivulzio, and the edition was brought out with great splendour; but Foscolo is accused of having used his imagination, rather than critical acumen, in the emendation of his author.

The north of Italy was enjoying a great degree of prosperity at this time. Melzi gave encouragement to all undertakings that tended to elevate the Italian character; and literary men were held in that esteem which ensures their exerting themselves to bestow on their country the richest harvest of their talents. Foscolo, though he still held his captain's commission, was, in honour of his literary character, exempted from the toils of service; and, taking advantage of the liberty allowed him, he left Milan for a time, and took up his residence at Brescia. He resided in a small house, situated on an open hill, not far from the city. Here he was accustomed to study till sunset; and, whether alone or in company, he would recite the poetry of the ancients, or his own, which he was then occupied in composing. The Brescians are a happy, gay people; they live less in the town than the inhabitants of the rest of Italy, and take peculiar pleasure in rural amusements; they are hospitable and fond of festivity; not very refined, they are yet open-hearted and cordial, and noted for bravery when in the field. Foscolo's neighbours admired and visited him; persons of every sect and opinion, even the priests, flocked to his house; and often seated under a wide-spreading fig tree which was in his garden, he held forth to a numerous audience. The Brescians are naturally enthusiastic: he had the art of inflaming the souls of the young, and they crowded round him as, with stentorian voice, he uttered his moral apophthegms. When night closed in, he left his rustic drawing room, and visited the theatres; and was often seen paying homage to the dark eyes of some Brescian beauty.[58]

It was here that he wrote the most perfect of his poems--his "Ode on Sepulchres." The elegance and pure taste of this composition have caused it to be compared to Gray's well-known "Elegy;" but it is more classical in its ideas and construction, and would rather remind the reader of Milton's "Lycidas." Every verse is harmonious music; and the melancholy that is cast over it is graceful and touching, not harrowing and sombre. A law had been passed at Milan instituting a public cemetery without the walls of the city, in which all the dead were to be promiscuously buried, without marks of distinction. The poet, addressing Pindemonte, begins by commenting upon the notion that funeral pomp and an honourable tomb are of no avail to the dead; and then he speaks of the sacred sentiment that leads us to live still with our lost friends, and makes the spot of their interment precious in our eyes. Alluding to the new law, he apostrophises the muse, asking her if she does not love to linger near the desecrated tomb of her Parini, whose venerated remains, cast among the bodies of criminals, are scarcely protected from the assaults of the houseless dog, while night birds hover, screaming, over it. He speaks of the pious sentiments with which the sad relics of mortality have ever been regarded since religion first instituted sacred and social laws; and describes, in heartfelt but poetic language, the various ways in which survivors love to pay homage to the beloved dead. From tender and pathetic pictures of domestic bereavement, he then rises to describe the ennobling sentiment inspired by a sight of the tombs of the great and good. He apostrophises Florence, and gracefully brings in the well-known predilection of Alfieri for the aisles of Santa Croce; and then, taking a still higher flight, he describes Providence and destiny as presiding over the graves of the worthy, and vindicating their unforgotten names, even from the silent turf that covers them; and, carried away by his love for classic lore, with no forced digression, he concludes by speaking of the mounds that still mark the spot where the warriors of Greece died on the Trojan shore, and describes Homer, the poet blind and old, wandering around, and bestowing on them the immortal fame of which they would otherwise have been deprived.

This anatomy of a poem can convey but a slight and incomplete idea of its merits. The harmony of the versification--the tender and soft melancholy diffused throughout--the grace of the transitions--and the continual rising in his subject to the end, are all lost. Nor could a translation do justice to these, since, as evanescent as they are delicate, they would be lost in another language. The whole poem is Foscolo's masterpiece.

He also published at this time his translation of the first book of the Iliad. Monti was bringing out his version, and there was much hardihood in Foscolo's rivalship. His knowledge of Greek, contrasted with the other's ignorance, no doubt instigated him. To remove any unpleasant feeling, he dedicated it to Monti; in which he speaks at once with modesty of his own attempt, and in high praise of Monti's genius. It is difficult for a stranger to judge between the merits of the translators; but even if Foscolo's is the best, it is a mere fragment. He never published more than the first and third books; while Monti went through the labour of the entire translation, and bestowed a complete work on his country.

In 1808, Foscolo was installed professor of eloquence in the university of Pavia--a chair formerly filled by Monti and Cesarotti. The choice was universally popular; and his introductory oration, "On the Origin and Use of Letters," was listened to with enthusiasm. He had refused to introduce any praise of Napoleon into it, and the whole was conceived in the spirit of personal and political independence. This fault was visited with singular severity; since, after a short time, the professorship of eloquence at Pavia was entirely suppressed, under the pretence of a reform in the plan of studies, but in reality as a mark of disapprobation. Petty jealousy and the vain desire of ruling even the thoughts of the subject world, induced Napoleon on all occasions to punish severely any demonstration of independence. Nor was the vengeance confined to Foscolo and Pavia alone. The literary professorships at Bologna and Padua were also abolished, as well as those for the Greek and oriental languages; for history, and, in short, all except those instituted to teach law, medicine, and the sciences. Several learned and excellent men were thus deprived of an honourable living. The nation was at once robbed of all easy access to a liberal education, and to the inappreciable knowledge of those languages which contain the most glorious monuments of man's genius: and thus Napoleon gave testimony to the Italians of the truth of Alfieri's axiom, that absolute monarchs hate the historian, the poet, and the orator, and give the preference to the sciences.[59]

Foscolo retreated from the university to the seclusion of the Lake of Como; giving proof of his pure and ardent love of nature, so rare among Italians, by his retirement from cities to the sublime and luxuriant scenery of this lake. He took up his residence at a villa named the Pliniana, built on the site of the fountains whose periodical ebb and flow the younger Pliny records in his letters. The lake, paled in by mountains, bathes the walls of the villa; and the neighbouring banks, clothed with myrtle and arbutus, overhang the waters, and cast their deep shade on the clear depths: the precipitous mountain rises behind, diversified by chestnut woods; and here and there are seen huge cypresses, whose spires seem to pierce the skies, when regarded from the terraced garden of the villa. The flowing fountains keep up a perpetual murmur; and, perhaps, in all the varied earth there is no spot which affords such a combination of the picturesque, the beautiful, the rich, the balmy, and the sublime. The house itself, without being ruinous, is huge and desolate; but its vast cool halls are a pleasant refuge against the heats of mid-day. Here Foscolo studied through the morning, varying his life by spending his evenings with the family of count Giovio, a man of education and learning, whose young and gay family served to dissipate the fumes of melancholy in which the poet was rather fond of indulging.[60]

He here commenced his "Ode to the Graces:" this was a favourite composition, yet left unfinished. He was never weary of altering or improving--of softening its language, or adding new melody to the versification. It is purely classical in its idea, yet varied by the most beautiful touches of natural beauty. He occupied himself also by finishing his tragedy of "Ajax." The same faults are discoverable in this drama as in his juvenile production of "Thyestes." It is founded on the dispute between Ulysses and Ajax for the arms of Achilles, and the self-destruction of the latter. The action ends almost before it begins; the scenes are frigid, the interest null; still it excited a good deal of expectation; and reading, as he did, speeches and scenes to various friends, its representation on the stage was looked forward to with eagerness at Milan. The theatre was crowded on the first night, and the audience sat patiently and listened for a long time to scene following scene, of sonorous words, high-sounding declamations, and vehement apostrophes, all leading to nothing, ending in nothing--exciting no sympathy, but wearying the ear. At length they grew tired; and though they listened to the conclusion, it was evident that they were delighted to be dismissed.

It was a strange accident, that a drama which thus failed of eliciting any interest in the audience, and the great fault of which was dulness, should have excited a persecution against its author. His enemies spread the report that the tragedy had a political aim; that Napoleon was symbolised in Agamemnon, the king of kings; and that general Moreau was pictured in Ajax, who deserved, but did not obtain, the arms of Achilles. There seems to have been no real foundation for this supposition, but Foscolo did not deny it: he preserved a mysterious silence; whether from disdain, or from a covert pleasure in the annoyance of government, is uncertain. The ministers of Napoleon were inquisitorial and revengeful; not to praise their emperor was sin sufficient to render any author obnoxious, and any expressions that could be distorted into blame were criminal. The cities of Italy, whose inhabitants are forbidden all political discussions, and who are shut out from the pursuits that naturally excite ambition, are singularly apt to diversify the monotony of their lives by gossiping. Such a supposition as the one above mentioned spread rapidly through Milan: men met together to wonder and dispute; they worked themselves up into an idea that something had been done, and that something would ensue; while the spies of the police excited and reported each unguarded expression. The city became disturbed by the notion of Foscolo's attempt to bring Napoleon on the stage as an object of censure, and in expectation of the punishment with which his boldness would be visited; while he, silent and mysterious, refused to offer any explanation. It was intimated accordingly to him, that he would do well to change the air; and, submitting to an exile from Milan, he again visited Tuscany.

He took the house at Camaldoli, near Florence, which had, in ages gone by, been inhabited by Galileo. He alludes to this in his "Ode to the Graces," in some verses which describe the nocturnal murmur of the distant Arno, which flowed clear yet hid beneath its willows, and visited the ear of the astronomer as he watched the star of eve. It was here, he records, that dawn, and the moon, and the sun displayed to him, with various tints, the serene clouds that hung below the Alps, or illumined the plain which stretches to the Tyrrhene sea; a wide-spread scene of cities and woods, diversified by the labours of the happy husbandman, by temples; or the hundred hills with which, adorned by caverns, and olive groves, and marble palaces, the Apennines encircle the lovely city, where Flora and the Graces have garlands.[61] In one point, the poetry of Foscolo may be compared to the more didactic parts of Milton. He never omits a romantic or classical allusion; and, bringing forward all that ennobles and animates his subject, adorns it with human interest. Whoever reads in the original the verses I have so lamely translated into prose, cannot help remembering various passages inspired by the memory of Tuscany, which show like pictures of Claude in the pages of the most graceful as well as the most sublime of our poets.

We cannot refrain from observing, in this place, that we possess a proof, in the bent of Foscolo's genius, of how little the intellect is often in accord with the heart. Wild, vehement, gloomy almost to savageness, independent even to an incapacity of yielding to the common rules of society, he could not depict the wild furies of Ajax, nor, indeed, the more burning throes that often tore his own heart. His best compositions, on the contrary, seem to emanate from an impassioned but brooding spirit, nursed in soft melancholy and elegant and fanciful reverie. As we have before mentioned, he was purely a didactic writer; but perhaps no modern poet ever displayed so much harmony, grace, and truth of description. We have not the fantastic imagery nor the fire of Monti; neither the storms of the deep, nor the thunders of the sky; but an inland landscape, where the balmy air broods over waving forest and murmuring stream, and the heart of man reposing seems to take refuge

"In that sweet mood where pleasant thoughts Bring sad thoughts to the mind."

[Sidenote:1813. Ætat. 35.]

When the result of his Russian invasion shook Napoleon's throne, Foscolo returned to Milan. Public events were undergoing a vast change. Napoleon, defeated by his own ambition, retired to what seemed to him the narrow circle of France, and appeared for a while to stand at bay, while a universal attack was made on him. His authority, every where shaken, tottered in Italy. The English, who had assisted so gloriously in the emancipation of Spain, sent emissaries to Italy, to invite the people to throw off the French yoke. It would have been of no avail to have invited them to exchange servitude under France for that under Austria, and the words liberty and national independence were pronounced as a spell to rouse them. Lord William Bentinck published a manifesto calling on them to assert their freedom; he conjured the soldiers to vindicate their country's rights, and to acquire for it that liberty which Spain, Portugal, and Holland reaped from the fall of Napoleon. His voice found an echo in every heart. "We are told that the name of independence was on the lips of all; nor at any crisis of any nation in the world were so much ardour and unanimity shown, as by the Italians at this moment."[62] While thus the allies tried to win the Italians to their side, the treaty of Fontainebleau and the abdication of the French emperor placed the peninsula at their feet. The viceroy of Italy, prince Eugêne, crossed the Alps; the south of Italy fell into the hands of its old rulers; while Milan, left to itself, assembled a senate to discuss a new form of government. The point disputed was, whether prince Eugêne or a prince of the house of Austria should preside over them; but they fancied that their independence was secure under the one or the other. The latter proposition carried the day; for when the senate, recording the virtues of the viceroy, was about to solicit the allies to set him over them, a vast multitude surrounded their house, composed of every class--nobles, commonalty, artificers, rich and poor--even women of rank joined in the tumult--crying out for the independence of their country, and "No viceroy! No France!" A placard went about, saying, "Spain and Germany have cast away the yoke of France from their necks--Italy must imitate them;" while magistrates and people called aloud, "We will have electoral colleges, and no Eugêne." The senate fled--the people, roused to violence, rushed to destroy the partisans of the French, and the unfortunate Prini was torn to pieces. Liberty (alas! blood-stained) seemed to win the day; but it was a mock victory. The electoral colleges were convened, and they created a regency; it was decreed that the allies should be solicited to grant the independence of the kingdom, and a free constitution with an Austrian but independent prince at its head. Legates were sent to the emperor Francis, at Paris, with these demands. He replied, that he also was Italian--that his soldiers had conquered Lombardy, and that the answer would be given at Milan. The Austrians entered Milan on the 28th of April. Bellegarde took possession of it in the name of Austria on the 23d of May. The kingdom of Italy was at an end; its independence was crushed and exchanged for an ignominious and cruel servitude.[63]

At the commencement of these changes Foscolo remained unmoved. He pursued his studies in silence and seclusion, and seemed to forget the political crisis among his literary occupations. But when Napoleon fell, he sided with the independents against the French party; though at the same time he gave proof of his courage and humanity by exerting himself vigorously, though vainly, to save the unfortunate Prini. At the same time he resumed his military duties; and when the regency was established, he was promoted to the rank of _capo squadrone_, or colonel. To the last he took an active part in asserting the liberty of his country. When the Austrian soldiers entered Milan, the city submitted peacefully, but not silently. Six thousand soldiers of the civic guard assembled, and, in presence of the occupying army, placed in the hands of the English general, Macfarlane, an address which they begged might be laid before the allies, claiming national independence and a constitution. Foscolo drew up this address. We are told that it was brief, energetic, and dignified[64]; a precious monument of the author's patriotism.

But Foscolo was not allowed to reap any good from his firm adherence to the cause of liberty. The Austrians looked on him with suspicious eyes, and he was not popular among his countrymen. He had quarrelled with Monti, and had many enemies. He saw no mode of maintaining himself: he foresaw that he should be persecuted, and perhaps entered into plots for the subversion of government. At this moment, some member of the Austrian government, knowing the benefit that would accrue to their cause if they could win Foscolo as a writer, asked him to furnish a plan for a public journal. He consented, refusing at the same time to write in it; but this slender act of civility was tortured into one of apostacy by his enemies, and too late he found that he had given room to calumny. Pecchio relates a conversation which he had with him, which, if he did not suspect Foscolo of treason to his country, was unkindly carried on by him. They met without the eastern gate of the city, and Foscolo walked on for some time without speaking. At length he suddenly addressed his companion, saying, "You, who are accustomed to speak the truth both to friends and enemies, tell me what is said of me in public." Pecchio replied, "If you continue your intercourse with Austrians, your enemies will assert that you are their spy." This answer was as a thunderbolt to Foscolo--his countenance darkened--he quickened his steps, and said no more. The next day, without taking leave of any one, without passport, and without money, he set out in disguise for Switzerland. Whether his proud heart rebelled against continuing any longer among his suspicious countrymen, or whether, as some said, he was implicated in a plot among the soldiers, which was just then discovered, or whether, hopeless and sick at heart, he yearned for new scenes and a new life; whatever his motive was, he became henceforth a voluntary exile, and, leaving friends and country, began an untried career; adding one more to the number of unfortunate wanderers whom political changes had driven from their homes abroad on the earth.

At first Foscolo took refuge in Switzerland, and remained for two years in the city of Zurigo. He did little during that interval, except publish a sort of unintelligible Latin satire, called "Dydymi Clerici Prophetæ Minimi Hypercalypseos, Liber singularis;" which is written in imitation of the prophecies of the Bible, and satirises Paradisi and others who enjoyed offices in the fallen kingdom of Italy. Without a key it is impossible to understand it--alluding, as it does, to people little known, and to facts still more obscure; and when understood is not praised, even by his countrymen, who might be supposed to take some interest in a personal satire on men with whom they were acquainted.

Foscolo found tranquillity at Zurigo; and his disposition, not being inclined to intrigue, would have permitted him to remain there in peace; but he was poor, and obliged to seek a country where he could turn his talents to some account. England, the refuge of exiles, was the place to which he repaired. There were liberal men there, who, ashamed of the part which the country had permitted lord Castlereagh to play, in sacrificing to despotism the very men whose desire of freedom he had sought to excite, readily and generously welcomed the victims of our foreign secretary's cruel policy. Foscolo, on his arrival, was visited by the most distinguished men of the country; the Whig party received him with open arms, and he made one of the circle assembled at Holland House. He was treated with all the cordiality considered due to a man of integrity and a patriot, banished by a foreign despot, and refusing to become the pensioner of the oppressors of his country; while, at the same time, he met with the mingled respect and curiosity which an author of acknowledged talents excites: and even lord Sidmouth, armed with the terrors of the alien act, assured him that he should remain unmolested during his sojourn.

A little time somewhat destroyed the illusion which first adorned his name. The English are very ready to receive any one as a lion, but not fond of fostering intimacies with any whose habits and manners do not perfectly assimilate with their own. The vehement gestures, wild looks, and loud voice of the Italian, were all in contradiction to the etiquette of English society; and no foreigner is capable of perceiving any thing but dulness and ice in the mild, high-bred, and unpretending manners of the aristocracy of this country. The English enjoy society in their own way; and there is a charm to us in the perfect liberty each one enjoys--no one encroaching, or being encroached upon. But the sensitiveness which leads us to give freedom to others, renders us jealous of any assumption of it on their part. Foscolo had no real hold on the society of which he made a part, except through his talents, and the respect his independence and integrity commanded: but respect is a cold feeling, and can be indulged while we keep the object of it at a distance. His talents ceased to amuse, joined as they were to pride, to vehemence, and to habits which would not alter, but could not please.

Foscolo ceased to be a lion; and he retired to the neighbourhood of St. John's Wood, near the Regent's Park; and, surrounding himself by his books, and visited by a few friends, he led a life at once retired and eccentric. When Pecchio visited his friend in this retreat, in 1822, he was struck by the apparent desolation of the spot (South Bank) in which his house was situated; and at the same time by the appearance of three lovely sisters, who were the household servants of the poet,--named by his visiters the three Graces; in allusion at once to their beauty and Foscolo's poem.[65] He supported himself chiefly by writing in the Quarterly Review; and we owe to this mode of exercising his pen one of the most delightful of his productions, the "Essays on Petrarch." These are four in number: on the Love of Petrarch,--on his Poetry,--on his Character,--and a Parallel between him and Dante. On the whole, we are almost inclined to say that Foscolo scarcely does justice to the generous, amiable, and faithful lover of Laura. The pride and unbending disposition of Dante were more in accordance with his own character. But the discrimination, the taste, and enthusiasm of these Essays render them one of the most delightful books in the world. The volume in which they are collected is enriched, also, by several of lady Dacre's translations from Petrarch, which are unequalled for fidelity and grace; preserving the spirit and feeling of the original, and yet arraying them in flowing and melodious English verse.