METASTASIO

1698-1782.

Metastasio was of obscure origin. He owed his prosperity, in the first

place, to the talents with which nature had endowed him; and, in the

second, to singular good fortune; while his amiable disposition and

excellent character gave a scope to the course of felicitous

circumstances; which, among men of genius, is frequently checked by

their impetuosity and thoughtlessness, or by the proud sense of

independence attendant upon their organisation. The name of the poet's

father was Felice Trapassi, a citizen of Assisi. His poverty had forced

him to enter into the Corsican regiment of the pope; and he added to his

slender means by acting as copyist. He married Francesca Galasti, of

Bologna; by whom he had two sons and two daughters. Later in life, he

saved money enough to enter into partnership in a shop of _l'arte

bianca_,--a sort of chandler, where maccaroni, oil, and other culinary

materials, are sold. His younger son, Pietro, was born at Rome, on the

13th of January, 1698. The child gave early indications of genius; and

his father resolved to bestow on him the best education in his power;

and placed him, at a very early age, with a watchmaker, that he might

learn a respectable art.

But the boy was born to pursue a nobler career. He was already a poet;

and, when only ten years old, attracted an audience in his father's shop

by his talents as improvisatore. It happened, one summer evening, that

Vincenzo Gravina, a celebrated jurisconsult, and renowned for his

learning and love of letters, was walking with the poet Lorenzini in the

streets of Rome. Passing by Trapassi's shop, he was attracted by the

childish voice of the juvenile poet, who was in the act of reciting

extempore verses. He joined the audience; and, being perceived by

Pietro, the little fellow introduced some stanzas in his praise into his

effusion. Gravina, charmed by his talent and prepossessing appearance,

offered him money, which the child refused. The lawyer continued to

question him, and was so satisfied by the propriety and spirit of his

answers, that he immediately proposed to adopt him as his son; promising

to give him a good education, and to facilitate his career in the same

profession as himself. No objection could be raised to so generous and

beneficent an offer. The boy was not to be taken from his native town,

nor were his duties towards his parents to be interfered with.

One of Gravina's first acts was to change his adopted son's, name from

the ignoble one of Trapassi to the better sounding appellation of

Metastasio, which was a sort of translation of his paternal name into

Greek. Gravina did not delay to cultivate the boy's understanding, so as

to fit him for a literary career. Being an idolater of ancient learning,

his first care was to initiate his pupil in the languages of the writers

of Greece and Rome, and then to imbue him with a knowledge of their

works. Metastasio showed himself an apt scholar: at the age of fourteen

he wrote a tragedy, which, in a letter written in after years, he freely

criticised. "My tragedy of 'Giustino,'" he says, "was written at the age

of fourteen, when the authority of my illustrious master did not permit

me to diverge from a religious imitation of the Greek models; and when

my own inexperience prevented me from discerning the gold from the lead

in those mines whose treasures were but just opened to me." The tragedy,

written thus in strict imitation, is necessarily frigid; nor does the

language bear the stamp of the ease and grace which so distinguished

Metastasio's after writings.

He still continued to improvisare verses in company. This attractive art

renders the person who exercises it the object of so much interest and

admiration, that it is to be wondered that any one who has once

practised it, can ever give it up. The act of reciting the poetry that

flows immediately to the lips is peculiarly animating: the declaimer

warms, as he proceeds, with his own success; while the throng of words

and ideas that present themselves, light up the eyes, and give an air of

almost supernatural intelligence and fire to the countenance and person.

The audience--at first curious, then pleased, and, at last, carried away

by enthusiastic delight--feel an admiration, and bestow plaudits, which,

perhaps, no other display of human talent is capable of exciting. The

youth, the harmonious voice, and agreeable person of Metastasio added to

the charm: yet, fortunately, he gave up the exercise of his power before

it had unfitted him for more arduous compositions. He gives an account

of his success, and his quitting the practice, in a subsequent letter to

Algarotti. "I do not deny," he writes, "that a natural talent for

harmony and rhythm displayed itself in me earlier than is usually the

case; that is, when I was about ten years of age. This strange

phenomenon so dazzled my great master. Gravina, that he selected me as

soil worthy to be cultivated by so celebrated a man. Until I was

sixteen, he brought me forward to improvisare verses on any given

subject; and Rolli, Vanini, and Perfetti, then men of mature years, were

my rivals. Many people tried to write down our effusions while we

extemporised, but with no success; for, besides that they were no adepts

in short-hand, it was necessary to deceive us cleverly, otherwise the

mere suspicion of such an operation would have dried up my vein. This

occupation soon became burdensome and injurious to me; burdensome,

because I was perpetually obliged, by invitations which could not be

refused, to task myself every day, and sometimes twice a day,--now to

gratify some lady's whim, now to satisfy the curiosity of some high-born

fool, and now to fill up a blank in some grand assembly,--losing thus

miserably the greater part of the time necessary for my studies. It was

injurious, because my weak and uncertain health suffered. It was

perceptible to every one that the agitation attendant on this exercise

of the mind, used to inflame my countenance and heat my head, while my

hands and extremities became icy cold. Gravina consequently exerted his

authority to prohibit me from making extempore verses,--a prohibition

which, from the age of sixteen, I have never infringed, and to which I

believe that I owe the remnant of reasonable and connected ideas that

are to be found in my waitings." He goes on to state the evils that

result to the intellect perpetually bent on so exciting a proceeding;

when the poet, instead of selecting and arranging his thoughts, and then

using measure and rhyme as obedient executors of his designs, is obliged

to employ the small time allowed him in collecting words, in which he

afterwards clothes the ideas best fitted to these words, even though

foreign to his theme: thus the former seeks at his ease for a dress

fitted to his subject; while the latter, in haste and disturbance, must

find a subject fitted to his dress.

On withdrawing his pupil from the exercise of this fascinating art.

Gravina became aware that his education could not be carried on with

success amidst the pleasures and idleness of his life at Rome; and he

sent him to study under his cousin Camporese, who lived near the ancient

Cortona, a town of Magna Græcia, famous in antiquity for its schools of

philosophy. Metastasio was very happy at this period of his life; and,

in a letter written at an advanced age, he recurs to it with yearning

fondness. "Of how many dear and pleasing ideas, my friend," he writes to

Don Saverio Mattei, "you have awakened the recollection, by causing me

to go over in my thoughts the happy time I spent, not less usefully than

delightfully, between boyhood and adolescence, in Magna Græcia. I saw

again as if they were present all those objects which pleased me so much

at that time. Again I inhabited the little chamber, in which the sound

of the breakers of the neighbouring sea so often lulled me into the

sweetest sleep; and, by force of my imagination, I revisited in my boat

the shores of neighbouring Scalea; and the names and aspects of many

places recurred to me, before forgotten. I heard again the venerable

voice of the renowned philosopher Camporese; who, stooping to instruct

one so young, led me, as it were, by the hand among the vortexes of the

then reigning Descartes, of whom he was a strenuous advocate, and

attracted my boyish curiosity, by showing me in wax, as if in a game,

how globules were formed from atoms, and filling me with admiration of

the bewitching experiments of philosophy. It seems to me as if I again

saw him labouring to persuade me that his dog was formed upon the same

principle as a watch; and that the trinal dimension is a sufficient

definition of solid bodies. And I behold him smile, when, having kept me

long plunged in a dark reverie, by forcing me to doubt of every thing,

he perceived that I breathed again, on his assertion, 'I think,

therefore, I am;' the invincible proof of a certainty which I had

despaired of ever again attaining." Camporese died, unfortunately, in

the midst of these studies, and Metastasio returned to Rome.

[Sidenote: 1718.

Ætat.

20.]

It was soon after his lot to lose his adopted father, Gravina. He

expresses, both in letters written at the time, and in after years, his

deep grief on the death of his benefactor. Gravina kept his word, of

considering him as his son; and, with the exception of a legacy to his

mother, left him heir to all that he possessed, to the amount of about

fifteen thousand crowns. Finding himself thus independent, and even rich

in his own eyes, Metastasio gave himself up to the study of poetry.

Hitherto the rules of Gravina had limited his reading: now he emerged

into freedom; and, having been before allowed only to peruse Ariosto,

among the Italians, he read the "Jerusalem Delivered" for the first

time. He was enchanted by the order and majesty of a single action,

conducted with art, and terminated with dignity. The grandeur of the

style, the vivid colouring and fervid imagination of Tasso, transported

him with delight. Ovid was also an especial favourite; and it is

recorded that he regarded Marini with an approbation which that poet,

indeed, deserves, but of which, as the original corrupter of the Italian

style, and the leader of the degenerate Seicentisti, he is usually

deprived.

Unfortunately, independence and youthful thoughtlessness led Metastasio

into other deviations from Gravina's lessons, less praiseworthy than

reading Tasso. The poet was warm-hearted, hospitable, and gay. He was

surrounded by companions ready to share the pleasures and luxuries which

his money procured; while he believed his future prospects secured by

the promises he received from influential protectors. Two years had not

passed before he was undeceived. He had squandered the greater part of

his fortune; he had made many enemies, and his friends fell off. With a

firmness worthy of his education, he stopped short of actual ruin; and,

disgusted with the society of Rome, and the treatment he had suffered,

he changed, on a sudden, his whole plan of life, following up his new

designs with zeal and perseverance.

"There lived at Naples," says his biographer, Venanzio, "a rough incult

lawyer, called Castagnola, covered with rust and dust, and an enemy to

every thing that was not allied to forensic struggles and turmoils."

Wishing to place a barrier between his will and his inclinations,

Metastasio went to Naples, and chose this man for his master, believing

that his asperity and detestation of poetry would serve to guard him

against having again recourse to an art towards which nature impelled

him. For nearly two years he submitted to the control of Castagnola, and

devoted himself to the severest study. But he was well known at Naples,

and his talents were appreciated. He was perpetually solicited to

compose epithalamiums, theatrical pieces, and occasional verses. He

resisted the temptation as long as he could: at last, commanded by the

viceroy, he consented to write a drama, to celebrate the birthday of the

empress Elizabeth Christina, wife of Charles VI. He, however, obtained a

promise of secrecy, and hoped to conceal his crime from his master. To

accomplish this, he was obliged to steal for his work the hours usually

devoted to sleep; but his natural vein, checked for some time, flowed

with such felicity, that he accomplished his task before the appointed

time. The "Orti Esperidi" charmed his august employer, who bestowed on

it the highest praise, and presented the author with a purse containing

two hundred ducats.

The success of this interlude on the stage confirmed the judgment of the

viceroy. It was admirably set to music, and the decorations were most

splendid. All Naples flocked to the representation--all Naples resounded

with its praises, and every one was eager to thank and applaud the

author. But Metastasio, reluctant to quit his legal studies, shrank from

the censures of his master, and continued to preserve the concealment he

had at first adopted: he even angrily denied the charge when he was

accused of being the writer, and put enquiry to fault; till at last the

discovery was made by the prima donna, Marianna Bulgarelli, usually

called La Romanina, from her native city. She had received the greatest

applause in the character of Venus, in this drama; and her gratitude and

admiration made her eager to learn to whom she owed her success. Despite

all his efforts, she discovered that Metastasio was the author, and she

lost no time in spreading the report throughout Naples.

Castagnola was highly indignant. He treated his pupil with severity and

disdain; while, on the other hand, the Romanina used every argument to

inspire him with self-confidence, and to induce him to follow the career

for which he was formed by nature. He consented at last: he quitted the

angry lawyer, who refused even to listen to his farewell; and, at the

earnest invitation of his new friend, took up his abode at her house.

Marianna Bulgarelli had a society around her of distinguished men and

accomplished artists, and among these Metastasio found every

encouragement to pursue his new career. He studied the science of music

under Porpora, the first composer of the day, and acquired a knowledge

of the art which greatly assisted the melody of his verses; so that, he

tells us, he never wrote any lyrical poetry without imagining an

accompaniment at the same time, which regulated its cadences and

modulated the sounds. His natural inclination led him to desire to write

tragedies; but, on reflection, he found that it was not sufficient that

tragedies should be written, if there were no actors to represent them,

nor an audience which could take interest in the representation. His

association with musical people, and a prima donna, led him to consider

the opera as the natural drama of Italy. Operatic dramas owed their

origin to Florence, the birthplace of so much that is great and

admirable, and were first brought forward in 1594. After that time they

fell into disrepute, till Apostolo Zeno, choosing in ancient mythology

and history the groundwork of his plots, brought out pieces that

acquired great popularity. To this species of composition Metastasio

accordingly turned his thoughts. Marianna encouraged him to proceed;

and, when he received the commission to furnish the Neapolitan theatre

with an opera for the carnival of 1724, she suggested the subject of

"Didone Abbandonata," or the desertion of Dido. In this, she filled the

part of the unfortunate queen; and her dignity, pathos, and musical

powers imparted an attraction to the piece, which filled the audience

with enthusiasm, while her heart warmed with gratitude towards the poet,

whose admirable conception and execution gave a scope to her talents,

before denied to them. The reputation of Dido spread through Italy:

during the carnival of the following year, it was acted at Venice, la

Romanina being still engaged to fill the principal part. Metastasio

accompanied his friend, and wrote, while in that city, another opera,

called "Siroe."

This was the last appearance of Marianna on the stage: she was no longer

young, and retired from her profession. She took up her residence at

Rome, and with some difficulty persuaded her friend to return to his

native city. The two families resided under the same roof--Marianna and

her husband--Metastasio with his father, elder brother, and two sisters.

The relations of the poet were indigent; but he possessed some property,

and his friend was comparatively rich. The household was in common;

Marianna acting as steward and housekeeper, while she still kept her

station beside the poet; encouraging him in moments of despondency;

suggesting subjects for his muse; and displaying, at all times, that

active and generous affection which so distinguished her.

Metastasio did not, however, meet with the encouragement at Rome which

hailed his first exertions. He wrote his drama of "Cato," which was

acted in 1727: but it was not attended with his accustomed success. The

austere character of the Roman hero--the cold loves--and disastrous

ending--displeased the morbid tastes of the spectators, who were unable

to appreciate the simplicity of the plot, or the grandeur of the

sentiments. Metastasio had a true tragic bias for an unhappy

catastrophe; but his audience did not relish it, and, subsequently, he

adapted himself better to their tastes, and his operas have usually the

happy ending, then supposed more consonant to the inherent lightness of

musical dramas, or, probably, to the talents of the singers: as, in our

days, the sublime acting of Pasta has induced composers to bring forward

tragedies of the deepest dye, "Medea" and "Otello," as the subjects best

fitted for their art.

Metastasio was discouraged: he was poor, and he had many enemies at

Rome, who prejudiced the pope against him, and rendered his abode very

disagreeable. At this moment, fortune came to his aid, and his whole

future life became prosperous and stable. In November, 1729, he received

a letter from prince Pio of Savoy, director of the imperial theatricals,

inviting him to become the court poet of Vienna. Apostolo Zeno was at

that time poet laureate to the emperor Charles VI.; but he also, with

praiseworthy liberality, seconded the emperor in his wish to invite

Metastasio to his court; and the way was opened to him by the absence of

envy in one, who might have looked on him as a rival, but who generously

preferred regarding him as a fellow-labourer, or rather, successor, to

his own exertions. Metastasio at once accepted the offer with many

expressions of gratitude. He was allowed to delay his journey to Vienna

till the spring of 1730, and to fulfil his engagement of supplying the

Roman theatre with two pieces for the carnival. These were "Alexander in

India," and "Artaxerxes." The latter was a favourite from the first: the

poet considered it the most fortunate of his productions, and was

accustomed to say that he owed it more obligations than any other of his

dramas; since, even when set to indifferent music, it never failed to

meet with success.

Metastasio thus made his appearance at Vienna, surrounded by the halo of

a recent triumph. He left Rome with pleasure; but he quitted his family

with regret: more than all he must have lamented his separation from his

generous and affectionate friend, Marianna, the encourager of his

youthful timidity, the chief promoter of his fortunate choice of a

profession, and his unwearied comforter during adverse circumstances. He

went to new scenes and to a new people, and adapted himself at once to

the change. He was kindly received by the emperor, and his heart

overflowed with gratitude for his condescension and beneficence.

It is a strange fact, how little we are contented with negative

qualities in our fellow-creatures; and, indeed, how amiability, and even

generosity, become slight in our eyes, if unaccompanied by energy,

independence, and pride. Metastasio was the most amiable of men: his

disposition was affectionate and constant; yet he was derided in his own

time for his courtier-like qualities, and the gratitude he naturally

evinced towards his imperial benefactors; and censured for a coldness of

heart of which we can find no trace in his writings or actions. There is

one circumstance that renders posterity more just, and, in particular,

induces those who write his biography to regard him with a favourable

eye: this is the publication of his letters. We possess a series from

the age of thirty to that of eighty-four, when he died, which let us

into the secrets of his heart, and display his good sense, his friendly

disposition, his justice, and the ready sympathy that he afforded to

those to whom he was attached, in a more undisguised manner than could

be known to his contemporaries. These letters prepossess the reader in

his favour; and, while the biographer finds few events to record, and

little of misfortune or error to mark his pages with high-wrought

interest, he may envy the tranquil career of the fortunate poet, and

wish that fate had made him the friend of such a man.

Metastasio entered on his employments at Vienna in the year 1730, at the

age of thirty-two. He took up his abode in the house of Niccolo

Martinetz, who held a place in the court of the apostolic nuncio, and

with whom he remained to the end of his life. The dramas that he brought

out during the year succeeding to his arrival were eminently successful.

These were "Adriano," and "Demetrio;" and, during the three following,

he wrote the "Olimpiade," "Demoofonte," and "Issipile." Each, as it

appeared, excited still renewed admiration and applause. After the

representation of "Issipile," the emperor broke through his habitual

majestic reserve, and expressed his satisfaction to the poet, who was

enraptured by the unusual condescension. His imperial master soon after

testified his approbation in a more solid manner, by bestowing on him

the place of treasurer to the province of Cosenza in Naples, worth

annually 350 sequins. Unfortunately, the war of the Spanish succession

deprived him of this income, after he had enjoyed it but for a few

years.

The poet's heart and soul were in his profession, and his operas were

written with that fervent and exalted spirit which marks the

compositions of genius; while his modesty engendered doubts concerning

their reception, which were delightfully dissipated by the triumph of

their success. His feelings are all ingenuously expressed in his letters

to Marianna Bulgarelli, who, together with her husband, still remained

at Rome with the poet's family. "I did not believe," he writes, "that I

should have been able to send you the good news I now give--I was so

entirely prepared for the contrary. My _Demetrio_ was brought out last

Sunday, and with so great success, that the old people here assure me

they never witnessed such universal applause. The audience wept at the

Addio--my august master was not unmoved--and, notwithstanding the

respect paid to the imperial presence, the public could not restrain

themselves from giving marks of applause. My enemies have become my

applauders. I cannot express my surprise, for this opera is so

delicately touched, without any of that strong colouring that strikes at

once, that I feared that it was not adapted to the national taste. I was

mistaken--every one seems to understand it, and passages are recited in

conversation, as if it were written in German." While composing the

"Olimpiade," he thus addresses his friend:--"Here is a moral sonnet

which I wrote in the midst of a pathetic scene, that moved me as I wrote

it: so that, smiling at myself, when I found my eyes humid from pity at

a fictitious disaster, invented by myself, I expressed my feelings in

the sonnet I send. The idea does not displease me; and I did not choose

to lose it, as it will serve as an incitement for my piety." The thought

of the sonnet is, that, while he smiles at himself for weeping over

dreams and fables of his own invention, he may remember that every thing

that he fears and hopes is equally fictitious,--that all is false, his

existence a delirium, and his whole life a dream;--and it ends with a

prayer that he may awaken and find repose in the bosom of truth.

Again, he writes, "Will you suggest the subject of an opera? Yes or no?

I am in an abyss of doubt. Oh! do not laugh, and say that the disease is

incurable; for indeed; the choice of a subject merits all this

inquietude and scepticism. It is my lot to be forced to make a choice;

and I cannot avoid it; otherwise I should continue to doubt until the

day of judgment; and then begin again. Read the third scene of the third

act of my 'Adrian;' remark the character which the emperor gives of

himself, and you will see my own.[47] From this you may conclude; that I

know my faults; but not that I can correct them. This pertinacity in a

fault; which torments me without the recompence of any pleasure; and

which I clearly perceive; without being able to remedy; makes me often

reflect on the tyranny which the body exercises over the mind. If my

understanding is convinced, when reasoning calmly, that this excess of

indecision is a troublesome, tormenting, and useless vice, and an

obstacle to the execution of any design, why do I not get rid of it? Why

not abide by a resolution, so often taken, to doubt no more? The answer

is clear; that the mechanical constitution of the soul's imperfect

habitation gives a false colouring to objects before they reach it, as

rays of the sun appear yellow or green or red, according to the hue of

the substance which they traverse to meet our eyes. Hence it is clear,

that men for the most part do not act from reason, but from mechanical

impulse, subsequently adapting, by the force of their understanding,

their reason to their actions, so that the cleverest frequently appear

the most reasonable. Do not get weary, because I play the philosopher

with you; I have none else with whom to play it; and doing it thus by

letter, I call to mind conversations of this kind, which made us spend

so many happy hours together.--O, how much more matter for such has my

experience in the world given me!

[Footnote: July 4.

1733.]

We will again talk on these subjects, if fortune does not, through some

caprice, entangle the thread of my honourable but laborious life."

A few months after fortune cut, rather than entangled, the thread of

these prospects; Marianna died, and, true to her feelings of

friendship[48] to the end, she left the poet heir to her possessions, to

the amount of thirty thousand crowns. Metastasio writes thus to his

brother, on receiving this sad intelligence:--

"In the agitation I feel from the unexpected death of the poor and

generous Marianna, I cannot long dilate. I can only say, that my honour

and my conscience have both induced me to renounce her bequest in favour

of her husband. I owe it to the world to undeceive it from a great

mistake,--that of fancying that my friendship was founded on avarice and

interested motives. I have no right to take advantage of the partiality

of my poor friend to the injury of her husband, and God will by some

other means make up for what I now renounce. I need nothing for myself;

I possess sufficient at Rome to maintain my family in decency, and if

Providence preserves to me my property in Naples, I will give my

relations other marks of my affection, and think seriously of you in

particular. Communicate my resolution to my father, as I have not time

to write to him. Assure him of my intention always to contribute as

heretofore to his comfort, and even to increase my assistance, if my

Neapolitan income does not fail me. In short, make him enter into my

feelings, so that he shall not imbitter them by disapproving of my

honest and Christian determination.

"You will continue to live with signor Bulgarelli, who will, I hope,

display towards you that friendly kindness which my conduct with regard

to him deserves. All will go on as before; only poor Marianna will never

return, nor can I hope for any consolation, and the rest of my life will

be insipid and painful."

"I feel," he wrote to another friend on this occasion, "as if I were in

the world as in an unpeopled solitude; desolate as a man would feel, if,

transported in his sleep among the Chinese or Tartars, he should, on

awakening, find himself among a people whose language, manners, and

customs are alike unknown to him. In the midst of such fancies, so much

reason remains, as permits me to be aware how without foundation they

are, and how produced; but reflection has not yet sufficed to dissipate

them. You will have heard that I have renounced the bequest. I know not

whether this renunciation will be approved of by all, but I know that

neither my honour nor my conscience permit me to take advantage of the

excessive partiality of a woman to the injury of her relations, and that

the want of the riches which I refuse, is more tolerable than the shame

which they would produce in me."

Metastasio was, with his accustomed modesty, disturbed by the fear, lest

his honourable conduct would be disapproved of by his friends and the

world; and he was agreeably surprised when, on the contrary, it met with

the general approbation it deserved. "I should be insincere," he writes

to the same friend, "if, affecting philosophy, I pretended to be annoyed

by the kind approval which my country has universally yielded to my

renunciation of Marianna's bequest. It delights me in the first place,

and like a vow, confirms me in my opinion of the justice of the act; and

in the second, it surprises me, as being the testimony of the affection

of so great a mother for the least of her sons."

This, during the space of ten years, from the time of his first arrival

in Vienna, was the only event that disturbed Metastasio's life. These

ten years are the period during which his poetic powers flourished most

vigorously, and during which his best as well as the greater number of

his works were produced. The favour they met confirmed his situation at

court, while they caused him to labour unintermittingly. It is difficult

to give one not versed in the Italian language a correct idea of the

peculiar merits of his poetry, and the excellences of his dramas. They

are not absolute tragedies: their happy conclusions, the introduction of

airs, and their being compressed into three acts, give them a lightness

and a brevity unlike the heavier march of tragedy. They are to a great

degree ideal, and yet possess the interest which passion and plot,

described and developed with masterly skill, necessarily impart. His

command of language is singularly great, and he adapted poetic diction

to dramatic dialogue with wonderful felicity. A long and profound study

of the genius of his native tongue gave him such extreme facility, that

the perfection of art takes the guise of the most unadorned nature; and

the flow and clearness of his verses so excite our sympathy, as to make

us feel as if the thoughts and sentiments which we find in his pages

were the spontaneous growth of our own minds. The magic of his style

renders sensible and distinct the most delicate and evanescent feelings,

so that it has been remarked[49], that many of the movements of the

human soul, which the ablest writers have scarcely been able to indicate

in prose, and which, from their subtlety, are almost hidden from our

consciousness, are brought home to us in his verses with a lucid

felicity of expression, that leaves no portion of them either obscure or

vague. He thus formed a language peculiarly his own. In his airs the

words flow in so unforced a manner and with such extreme propriety, that

they appear to place themselves: not one can be changed, not one

omitted. There is no pedantry, no affectation; simplicity is his

principal charm; it seems as if a child might utter them,--they are so

unstudied; and yet no other poet possesses to an equal degree the art of

clothing his ideas with the same easy grace.

When we reflect on the singular perfection of his style, we are not

surprised that he preserved it with the most jealous watchfulness. He

was careful not to accustom his mind to the use of any language except

Italian, and never knew more of German than the few words "sufficient,"

as he forcibly expresses it, "to save his life." Many nobles of Vienna

paid him the compliment of learning his language for the sake of

conversing with him, and Italian being in common use among the

well-educated, he did not lose so much as might be expected: yet he must

have felt the privation. He was right, however, in adhering to his

resolution. He was settled at Vienna for life, while at the same time

his present occupation and his future glory depended on his preserving

uninjured that delicacy of taste, and felicity of expression in his

native language, which characterises his compositions. But to return to

his operas.

He himself has said, that if he were forced to select one of his dramas

to be preserved, while all the rest were annihilated, he should fix upon

"Attilio Regulo." The principal action of this play, founded on the

well-known heroism of Regulus, in dissuading his countrymen from an

exchange of prisoners, and his consequent return to servitude and a

cruel death in Carthage, is conducted with dignity and pathos. But the

interest of the piece is somewhat marred by an underplot, and the airs

interspersed are not among his best. Perhaps we are inclined to give the

preference among them to "Themistocles:" the dignity of the subject

raises it to this pre-eminence; but in pathos, tenderness, and

impassioned dialogue, the "Olimpiade" is unequalled. Devoted friendship

forms the action; the personages are placed in the most interesting

situations, and the language is sustained to the height of those

emotions which the clash of heroic feelings would inspire. There are

scenes in "Demofoonte" as fine as any to be found in Metastasio, but

there is a reduplication of plot which mars the unity of the action; as,

after deeply sympathising with the hero in his fears concerning his

wife's fate, through nearly four acts, we are somewhat exhausted, and

cannot well reawaken other sentiments, to mourn over the relationship

that he imagines that he has discovered to exist between them. Voltaire

and others have praised the scene between Titus and Sestus in the

"Clemenza di Tito," as surpassing the representation of any similar

struggle of feeling in any other dramatic poet; and the airs in that

piece are among his happiest compositions. It was the poet's aim and

pleasure, in all his writings, to make virtue attractive, and to paint

patriotism, self-sacrifice and the best affections of the soul, in

glowing and alluring colours. This gives a great charm to his dramas. We

live among a better race, and yet the sorrows and passions and errors of

the personages are represented in a manner to call forth our liveliest

sympathy. A heartfelt pathos reigns throughout, and if passages of

sublimity are rare (though there are several which merit that name), the

elevated moral feeling acts on our minds to prevent the enervating

influence of mere tenderness and grief.[50]

Besides his dramas, Metastasio composed at this period two canzonetti,

which are among the best of his productions. The "Grazie agli inganni

tuoi," or thanks of a lover to his lady for having disenchanted him by

her caprices, is written at once with feeling and spirit. The "Partenza"

is yet more beautiful. It was founded on the unfortunate attachment of a

Viennese nobleman for a public singer, who at last yielded to the

entreaties of his friends, in detaching himself from her, on condition

that Metastasio should write some verses of adieu. The lover must have

been satisfied, and the lady charmed, despite regret, by the passion,

tenderness, and beauty of the poem which celebrates their separation.

Metastasio's tranquil and prosperous life was broken in upon in 1740, by

the death of the emperor Charles VI., who fell a victim to either poison

or indigestion, after eating mushrooms. The poet was unfeignedly

attached to his imperial master, whose moral and religious character was

congenial to his own; and the disturbed state of Europe, immediately

after, added to his regret. This prince had no son, and his daughter,

Maria Teresa, succeeded to him as queen of Bohemia and Hungary. Her

husband aspired to the imperial crown; but the influence of France

caused the duke of Bavaria to be elected, under the title of Charles

VII. This disappointment was not the only misfortune of the queen; the

king of Prussia invaded Silesia almost immediately after her father's

death, and Vienna being threatened with a siege, she was obliged to quit

it, and to take refuge in Presburg. After a reign of four years, Charles

VII. died, and the husband of Maria Teresa, then grand duke of Tuscany,

was elected emperor in the year 1745, under the name of Francis I.: but

the war still continued, and its various success, and the disasters,

with which it was attended, gave the court little leisure or inclination

for amusement, until the peace of Aix-la-Chapelle.

On the death of Charles VI., several of the European sovereigns invited

Metastasio to their courts, and made him advantageous and honourable

offers; but, as Maria Teresa still continued him in the place he held

under her father, the poet felt that fidelity and gratitude alike

forbade him to change masters during her adversity. His naturally

sensitive mind was strongly agitated by the various success of the

empress queen's arms. His susceptibility of disposition did not allow

him to regard the course of events with a stoical eye; and to the

disquietude he suffered is attributed the bad state of health into which

he fell after the year 1745, when he was forty-seven years of age. His

malady was chiefly nervous; hysterical affections, and a rush of blood

to the head, were brought on by the slightest mental exertion, followed

by a total temporary inability to write, or even to think: he was thus

obliged entirely to suspend his poetic labours; and when he forced

himself to them, they bear the mark of a falling off in his powers. It

cannot be doubted that this unfortunate state was brought on in a great

degree by climate. He was a native of Rome, and, till the age of

thirty-two, had resided constantly in the south of Italy. What a dreary

contrast did Vienna present to the enchanting land in which he passed

his youth! The clear skies, the perpetual summer, the cheerful feelings

produced by the habits of a southern life, were injuriously changed for

the gloom of the freezing north. The very precautions which the natives

take to protect themselves from cold during the interminable winters,

the stoves, closed windows, and consequent want of fresh air and healthy

exercise, being in diametrical opposition to the more hardy habits of

southern nations, are injurious to the health and spirits of those who

are accustomed to regard the "skiey influences" as friendly instead of

inimical to their comfort and well-being. Metastasio never left Germany

after he first entered it. A part of his occupation, in the sequel,

became the teaching the archduchesses, daughters of Maria Teresa,

Italian: this was an office he felt that he could not desert, with any

grace, even for a limited number of months. The kindness of the empress

in yielding to the total suspension of all theatrical composition on his

part, forced on him by ill health, bound him yet more devotedly to her.

As he grew older, he became a man of habit, and consequently averse to

travelling. It is impossible, however, not to believe, that if he had

varied his residence in Germany by occasional visits to his native

country, the disease under which he laboured, which embittered though it

did not shorten existence, would have been dissipated and cured.

Metastasio's life, we are told, is only to be found in his letters, yet

these detail no event; one of them contains, indeed, an offer of

marriage to a lady, whose name is omitted: it is well written, and with

considerable delicacy of sentiment; but, as he had no acquaintance with

the object, and aspired to her alliance on account of her character, and

his friendship for her father, his feelings could not be very deeply

interested. Many of his letters are addressed to his brother, and they

display a warm interest for his family. After the death of Marianna, the

management of his affairs in Italy devolved on his relatives, and many

are taken up with directions and advice. Leopold, and the rest of

Metastasio's family, fell into the common error of supposing, that since

he was in favour at court, the greatest prosperity would flow in upon

him. The poet endeavoured to undeceive him:--"Princes and their

satellites," he writes, "have neither the will nor power to confer

benefits correspondent to the notions people are pleased to form. I do

not know what definition merit bears among them; and I religiously

abstain from inquiring, placing it among those mysteries which are

beyond, though not contrary to, our understanding. Following these

principles, I do all that is enough to prevent my feeling remorse for

sins of omission; but I never allow hope to interfere in the guidance of

my cautious line of conduct. It is a long time since I have ceased to be

the dupe of hope, and it would be shameful to become such at our age.

Expect less, therefore, on my account, and you will find the scales more

even. This letter speaks more freely than any other, as I write only for

you, and among other earthly goods, I desire for you the most useful of

all,--a clear perception, if not of all, of the greater part of those

innumerable errors, contracted through our lamentable education, and our

intercourse with fools."

These sentiments did not float merely on the surface of Metastasio's

mind,--he made them the guides of his actions. As he says, gratitude and

duty regulated his conduct, but no servile hunting after greater

benefits mingled with the deference he manifested towards those in

power. He acted on the defensive in his intercourse with courts, with

such consistency of purpose, that he refused the honours chiefly valued

there, and declined the various orders, and the title of count, which

the emperor Charles VI. had offered to bestow on him.

It is from passages such as these, interspersed in his letters, that we

can collect the peculiar character of the man--his difference from

others--and the mechanism of being that rendered him the individual that

he was. Such, Dr. Johnson remarks, is the true end of biography, and he

recommends the bringing forward of minute, yet characteristic details,

as essential to this style of history; to follow which precept has been

the aim and desire of the writer of these pages.

In other letters Metastasio writes concerning his works, and explains

his views in the developement of his dramas; but he never makes himself

the subject-matter without an apology. "Never in my life," he writes on

one occasion, "did I before write so much concerning myself. I perceive

this at the end of my letter, and blush, not because I feel myself

guilty of too great self-love, but because I shall appear so to you.

Remember that few people distrust themselves to a fault, as I do; and in

communicating to you the perfection which I desire to attain, I do not

fancy that I am exempt from those defects, to which human nature and my

own weakness expose me."

All his letters to his brother express the most earnest and affectionate

interest. It is the more necessary to mention this, as one of the

calumnies propagated against him was, an aversion to render service to

his relatives. "You know," he writes to his brother, "that your honour

and welfare have always been the objects of my solicitude, and that I

never proposed to myself any reward, except the agreeable consciousness

that my endeavours to introduce you and sustain you in the career of

letters, have not failed of success; if you think that you owe me any

gratitude, pay it by increasing my self-satisfaction on this account.

You can never show yourself more generous to me than by meriting that

esteem which begins to be your due."

On the death of their father he writes with great feeling:--"The loss of

our poor father did not surprise, while it filled me with the liveliest

grief. I measure your sorrow by my own. I feel that it will require time

to render me reasonable. I thank you for your fraternal kindness in the

midst of your affliction. Dear brother, you now fill the place of a

father in his stead: do it worthily, and if there is any thing that I

can do to comfort you, demand it from me without reserve: your

consolation will produce mine. My poor sisters!--how lost they will feel

themselves! take care of them, dear Leopold: reflect how much fewer

supports they have than we against the assaults of passion, especially

of that feeling which is derived from the most sacred of nature's laws.

Adieu. If I have always loved you, consider how this affection is

augmented by the loss of him who possessed before so large a proportion

of it. Let yours increase also."

His brother distinguished himself afterwards by some writings in favour

of religion; and it appears that he even had the design of writing the

poet's Life. Metastasio, while he praised Leopold for occupying himself

in a praiseworthy manner, advised him against publishing controversial

arguments, which would occasion him to be attacked by the cleverest men

of Europe; and which, doubtless, were not stamped with that talent which

could insure success. Metastasio, while deprecating the spread of

unbelief occasioned by the French philosophers of those days, yet joined

with the throng in fearing their attacks, and in flattering

Voltaire,--showing in how great awe he stood of the enmity and sarcasm

of that wonderful man. It is supposed that Leopold died in 1770, after

which date no more letters appear addressed to him.

One of the principal correspondents of Metastasio, and to whom his most

agreeable letters are addressed, is Farinelli. The poet and the singer

were nearly of the same age; both began their career at Naples at the

same time; which causes Metastasio to give his friend the affectionate

appellation of his twin. Both met with immediate and complete success;

and they formed a friendship, which the letters of the poet prove to

have been maintained on his side with sentiments of the warmest

affection, and the most active wish to render service. After having met

with the greatest applause in the various theatres of Europe, Farinelli

was invited to Spain, in 1737; where his voice had the peculiar effect

of calming and solacing the accesses of malady to which the king, Philip

V., was subject. On this account he was retained at the Spanish court, a

large income was settled on him, and he never sang again on the public

stage, being, to please the Spanish notions of etiquette, made cavalier

of the orders of St. Jago and Calatrava, that he might be considered of

rank sufficient to attend the private hours of the monarch. Philip V.

died in 1746, but Farinelli continued in equal favour with his

successor. His prosperity continued till the accession of Charles III.,

in 1763, when he was ordered to quit Spain, and, with singular cruelty,

not permitted to make choice of an abode. At last, Bologna was

prescribed to him as the place that would best please the Spanish

monarch,--we are not told for what reason, except that Farinelli was as

a foreigner in that city, and cut off from all personal intercourse with

his friends.

An interesting volume might be formed out of Metastasio's letters to the

singer. They are full of enthusiastic friendship; now dwelling on

alterations made to operas for the peculiar benefit of Farinelli,--now

on more personal topics. Metastasio's days were clouded by ill health,

and his genius impaired through the same cause; but it did not check the

overflow of his kind heart, nor injure the happy influence of his

contented disposition. It is difficult, however, to select passages,

since the interest consists in the openness, friendship, and warmth of

the whole, and mere isolated extracts would be devoid of attraction. The

whole correspondence is replete with frank exhibitions of the writer's

mind, and the style is remarkable for its vivacity as well as elegance.

With the exception of his physical sufferings, which were rather

annoying than painful, and that sensibility of character which could not

fail to chequer his life with a thousand various emotions, Metastasio's

latter years was singularly prosperous, and perfectly monotonous. A few

weeks spent each autumn in Moravia was his only change. The empress

kindly excused him from forcing his powers to compose new dramas, and

his occupation principally consisted in the easy task of instructing the

archduchesses in Italian. When the empress Maria Theresa died, the

emperor Joseph II. continued to him his protection; and the esteem and

even affection in which he was held at the imperial court prevented the

death of his benefactress from injuring his fortunes, or disturbing his

repose.

He filled, however, a place in the public eye which exposed him to a

good deal of trouble. As the first Italian poet of the day, each minor

aspirant to the laurel sent their verses for his criticism, or rather

approval. He has been accused of lavishing praise without moderation or

judgment. It is difficult for one author not to flatter other authors,

since severity of criticism will be attributed to envy or ill-humour;

and, besides, the Italian genius is singularly inclined to superlative

panegyric. But it may be remarked that, though Metastasio gilds the

pill, he never fails, particularly to his friends, to point out the weak

points of their works, and to bestow sagacious and valuable

observations.

When Dr. Burney visited Vienna in 1772, Metastasio was an old man; and

his life, uninterrupted by any events, flowed on in one unbroken and

quiet stream. "He lives," writes the doctor, "with the most mechanical

regularity, which he suffers none to disturb. He has not dined from home

these thirty years. He studies from eight o'clock in the morning till

noon. Then he is visited by his acquaintance. He dines at two; and at

five receives his most intimate friends. At nine, in summer, he goes out

in his carriage, pays visits, and sometimes plays at ombre. He returns

at ten o'clock, sups, and goes to bed before eleven. In conversation he

is constantly cheerful; fanciful, playful, and sometimes poetical; never

sarcastic or disputatious; totally devoid of curiosity concerning the

public news or private scandal in circulation; the morality of his

sentiments resembles that of his life. In confidence with few, but

polite to all, his affection to his countrymen is great, and extends to

ecclesiastics, painters, musicians, poets, and ministers from the

Italian states, who are all sure of his kindness and good offices. I was

no less astonished than delighted to find him look so well; he does not

seem more than fifty years of age. There is painted on his countenance

the genius, goodness, propriety, and benevolence, which characterise his

writings. I could not keep my eyes off his face,--it was so pleasing and

worthy of contemplation."

He thus spent in ease and peace the last years of his life. It has been

said that, like Dr. Johnson, he had a great aversion to any allusion

being made to death in conversation, and carefully avoided all

lugubrious subjects. He continued to live with his friend Martinetz,

whose daughter, Marianne, being educated by Gluck, became a celebrated

musician; and in this family he met with that respect, attachment, and

attention that rendered old age easy.

His last letter was written to Farinelli. He complains of the "dreadful

season," and says, that he "cannot find a friend or acquaintance who

does not complain of ill health."--"We are all equally obliged," he

writes, "to have recourse to resignation. My neighbour prays for me, and

I pray for my neighbour; and we all are wishing better health to our

afflicted friends. My complaints obstinately defend their posts, and I

my patience."

This letter is dated in March, 1782, and was written but a short time

before he died. Though advanced to the age of eighty-four, his death was

unexpected, as the vigour of his constitution, and his vivacity and

unbroken powers, promised several years more of life; nor did his

nervous indispositions threaten dissolution, for they neither interfered

with his sleep nor appetite, nor the enjoyment he both conferred and

received in his domestic circle. A fever, attended with weakness and

loss of speech, and lethargy, carried him off after an illness of only

twelve days. He died tranquilly, and without pain, on the 12th of April,

1782. He left the family of Martinetz his heirs to considerable wealth;

his property consisting of about 130,000 florins, in addition to many

valuables presented to him by sovereign princes. He was sincerely

regretted at Vienna; and Martinetz struck a medal in his honour. Nor was

he forgotten in his native country; and the various literary academies

of Italy vied with each other in offering poetic testimonials of

veneration to his worth and genius.

[Footnote 47: "Ah, tu non sai

Qual guerra di pensieri

Agita l'alma mia.

* * * *

Trovo per tutto

Qualche scoglio a temer. Scelgo, mi pento;

Poi d' essermi pentito

Mi ritorno a pentir. Mi stanco intanto

Nel lungo dubitar, tal che dal male

Il ben non distinguo: alfin mi veggio

Stetto dal tempo, e mi risolvo al peggio."

"Ah, thou knowest not the war of struggling thoughts

That agitates my soul. I find in all

Some peril still to dread. I choose; and then,

My choice repent--and then again regret

Having repented; while protracted doubt

Wearies my mind, so that the ill from good

No longer I distinguish; till at length

The flight of time impels me to the worst."]

[Footnote 48: We have made no remark on the nature of this kind-hearted

and generous woman's attachment. In Italy it is customary to look on

such as formed by friendship only, and to consider that they are

rendered respectable by constancy. The Italians lavish the greatest

praise on Marianna Bulgarelli for her perception of the poet's merits,

her zeal in persuading him to, and assisting him in, his arduous career;

and the disinterested affection which caused her at once to make a

sacrifice of her own feelings, and to advise his journey to Vienna. Her

errors are those of her country. Any one who has visited Italy must at

once censure, and deeply deplore, the social system there carried on--a

system which blights the affections, degrades the moral feeling, and

causes almost universal unhappiness. But it is unjust to heap the

censure of a system belonging to a whole country, and carried on for

centuries, on the head of an individual, whose virtues, we may presume

to say, redeemed an error, the very existence of which is, after all,

uncertain.]

[Footnote 49: Baretti.]

[Footnote 50: There is a curious instance in Metastasio of a poet using

the same image adopted by a preceding writer, which yet, it is probable,

that the later one had not read. The explanation may be, that both drew

it from an ancient writer; but we have been unable to find it. The

passages are subjoined as, if both are unborrowed, it forms a curious

though natural coincidence of thought.

And as goodly cedars,

Rent from Oeta by a sweeping tempest,

Jointed again, and made tall masts, defy

Those angry winds that split 'em, so will I

New pieced again,

And made more perfect far,

Stand and defy bad fortunes.