UGO FOSCOLO

1778-1827.

The most necessary quality of an author is, that he should impress us

with the conviction that he has something to say. In reading his pages,

we ought to feel that he puts down the overflowing of his mind--ideas

and notions which, springing up spontaneously, force a birth for

themselves from the womb of silence, and acquire an existence through

their own native energy and vitality. An author, therefore, is a human

being whose thoughts do not satisfy his mind, ruminated on merely in his

own isolated bosom: he requires sympathy, a world to listen, and the

echo of assent from his fellow-creatures. But this is not all. Few men

can be excited by a mere abstraction, by the images of their own mind,

and the desire of communicating them for the benefit of their

fellow-creatures. Pride or vanity mingle essentially in the fabric of a

writer's mind: the pride which leads him to desire to build up an

enduring monument for his name, formed from his own compositions; or the

vanity that leads him to introduce himself to the reader, and to court

the notoriety which usually attends those who let the public into the

secret of their individual passions or peculiarities.

The three great authors of modern Italy form a singular contrast to each

other, as to their apparent motives for authorship. Alfieri, proud,

independent, and gloomy, sought at once to honour his own name, to exalt

and refine his countrymen, and to produce such works as would benefit

his species; while the vehement passions of his own soul were their

primal source and inspiration. Monti was a poet of the imagination. He

wrote because the imagery, the melody, the aerial fabric of poesy were a

part of his essence. The subjects of his poems were of less consequence,

in his eyes, than the well treating them, or the variety, grandeur, and

fantastic ideality displayed in his verses. Thus, at the word of

command, he could celebrate the usurper, taint the struggles of a noble

and free nation, and adorn the naked form of despotism with garments of

beauty. Foscolo, on the contrary, was impelled to produce and reproduce

himself: and yet to this assertion we must put some limit, for Foscolo

was a man of learning and taste, and he was capable of giving light to

compositions formed by the rules of art, and adorned by the graces

culled from an intimate knowledge of the finest of human works. But

vanity was still the mainspring,--a vanity accompanied by honesty of

principle and independence of soul, and yet which was vanity--the

worship of self--the making his own individuality the mirror in which

the world was reflected.

Ugo Foscolo was born in the island of Zante, about the year 1778. The

Ionian isles had long been under the dominion of Venice. The family of

Foscolo was of Venetian origin; and his father was a surgeon in the navy

of the republic. Little is known of his early years. He seldom mentioned

them in conversation, though his imagination sometimes delighted to

recur to the sunny land of his birth, and to regret it. In one of his

sonnets he exclaims,--

Ne più mai toccherò le sacre sponde

Ove il mio corpo fanciulletto giacque

Zacinto mia, che te specchi nell' onde

Del Greco mar.

Tu non altro che il canto avrai del figlio,

O materna mia terra; a noi prescrisse

Il fato illacrimata sepoltura.

O! never more shall I thy sacred shores

Approach, where my young limbs first sprung to life,

Beloved Zante! who look'st upon the waves

Of the Greek sea; and thou the song alone

May'st claim of thy lost son, maternal land!

For fate to him decrees an unwept tomb.

The Ionian islands were at that time held as colonies of the Venetian

government, and tyrannised over by the most odious and oppressive laws.

Among others, no schools nor colleges were allowed to exist, and the

youth of the islands were sent to Venice for the purposes of education.

At an early age, therefore, Foscolo repaired to the parent city. His

father, it would seem, was at this time dead, for we hear only of his

mother, to whom he was always tenderly attached; and it appears that

she, also, transferred herself to Venice at the same period. Foscolo

seldom mentioned his family, with the exception of his mother. He had

two brothers, one who died, it is reported by his own hand, about the

year 1797; the other enlisted as a soldier, and rose, from his good

conduct and valour, to the rank of captain of dragoons.

When boyhood was passed, Foscolo was sent to the university of Padua,

and studied under Cesarotti. There was great dissimilarity in the tastes

and literary opinions of the master and pupil; and thus Foscolo soon

displayed his original and independent turn of mind. Cesarotti explained

and commented upon Homer, and undertook at the same time to emend and

improve the verses of the father of poetry. He preferred Voltaire to

Euripides, and Ossian to Homer. While a great portion of ridicule

attaches itself to such paradoxes, the real learning and extensive

reading of the professor benefited his scholars; and by liberating them

from the narrow system of instruction which had subsisted for many

years, he introduced them, as it were, from the paled and guarded park

of classical literature, to the wilds, the moors, the incult mountains,

in short, to all the vast variety of unfettered nature.

Foscolo, though taught by the advocate of Ossian, was all his life a

worshipper of Homer. Studious, as well as ardent in his literary

pursuits, he became a critical scholar; and, admiring not only Greek

poetry, but the fabric and machinery which constitute its structure, he

modelled his own poetic productions on them, and made ancient mythology,

and allusions to classical history, the props as well as the ornaments

of his verses. At the same time he admitted Cesarotti's rules with

regard to the Italian language, and abandoned the dialect of the

Trecentisti,--so long held up as a model, and yet which had become a

dead tongue,--to form an animated, simple, living language, introducing

into it phrases and words of modern use; expressions for ever on the

lips of the Italians, though heretofore banished from their pens.

We are told that, on leaving college, Foscolo hesitated whether to enter

the clerical profession, which held out the prospect of competency to

its followers; but he was fortunately turned aside from a profession

whose narrow rules and arbitrary laws were in direct opposition to his

impetuous and independent disposition. Instead of assuming the tonsure,

Foscolo resolved to follow in the steps of Alfieri, and to acquire fame

as a tragedian.

[Sidenote: 1797.

Ætat.

19.]

He produced his drama of "Thyestes" at the early age of nineteen; and it

may be said to be a creditable production for a youth. It is from his

after works that we judge that it was not inexperience, but an absolute

defect of a certain species of talent, that made this boy's tragedy a

mere bald imitation of those of his illustrious predecessor. Alfieri was

not a fanciful poet; his talent lay in developing plot, animating

dialogue, and interesting the reader by the clash of passion, or the

concentrated feelings of a single person. Foscolo possessed far more of

the peculiar spirit of poetry; but it was of didactic poetry. He could

not invent incident, nor describe any feelings but such as originated in

his own heart. "Thyestes," founded on one of the domestic crimes of the

unfortunate house of Pelops, possesses all the faults of Alfieri's

tragedies. He imitated him in producing only a few personages on the

scene; so that, as a critic observes, it seems as if it were written

just after the deluge, when the human race congregated by threes and

fours: obscurity of plot is added to this simplicity of action, and the

purpose and aim of the poet is never clearly discerned. One scene

follows another, not because produced by the antecedent one, but because

it is necessary that something should be said and done, or all would be

at a full stop. The language is clear and energetic; but, as we are

uninterested by the ideas which it conveys, this must appear a very

secondary merit.

"Thyestes," however, succeeded in the theatre; and, as success in

representation is certainly the test of dramatic merit, we might suppose

some latent energy in its concoction, unapparent to the reader, but that

its success appears to have arisen from political feeling. It was acted

for the first time on January 4. 1797, in the theatre of St. Angelo at

Venice, to a vast concourse of spectators, and was repeated with

applause for nine consecutive nights. The extreme youth of the author

filled the audience with admiration, and he was called for after the

representation. We cannot well discern the political allusions that gave

it its chief interest, except that the name of king and tyrant are made

synonymous; a style, it might be imagined, neither distasteful nor

injurious to a republican government, however aristocratic. It would

appear, however, that this avidity for liberal sentiments was the cause

of its temporary success; for it was never again acted on any stage in

Italy.

Adversity meanwhile was hanging over the head of the poet. The fall of

Venice, which occurred in the autumn of the same year, deprived him of

the very name of country. Hatred of the Austrian is a sentiment

profoundly engraved in every Italian heart; and when Venice was made

over by treaty to the German despot, Foscolo became a voluntary exile.

Whether he was in danger of being marked out in any of the lists of

proscription does not appear; but as it is evident that he is the hero

of his "Letters of Jacopo Ortis," we gather from that book, that his

friends feared for his personal liberty if he remained, and besought him

to shelter himself, while there was yet time, from the enmity of the new

government. "I have left Venice," Ortis writes, "to avoid the first and

most violent persecutions. How many victims remain! We Italians

ourselves bathe our hands in Italian blood. Let what will happen to me!

Since I despair of good, either for myself or my country, I can await in

tranquillity a prison or death."

All these letters are full of the indignant struggles, and the sorrow,

as well as of the opinions which ruled the heart of Foscolo, as he found

himself driven a wanderer from his home, sometimes lamenting his own

misfortunes, sometimes those of his country.

"How many of our fellow-citizens repent their flight from home," he

writes, "and mourn! for what can we expect except indigence and

indignity--or, at the best, that brief and sterile compassion which

uncivilised nations offer to the stranger exile? And where shall I seek

an asylum--in Italy? Unhappy land! and can I behold those who have

robbed, scorned, and sold us, and not weep with rage? Oh! if the tyrants

were one only, and if the slaves were less abject, my hand would

suffice. But those who now blame me for cowardice would then accuse me

of crime; and the prudent would lament over, not the heroism of one

resolved, but the frenzy of a desperate man. What can be done between

two powerful nations, who, from being sworn, ferocious, and eternal

enemies, colleague to enslave us? and where force alone does not avail,

the one cajoles us with the name of liberty, the other with that of

religion; and we, debased by ancient servitude and new-born licence,

groan, betrayed, enslaved, famished, and yet not roused, either by

treason or famine. Ah! if I could, I would destroy my house and all dear

to me, and myself with them; I would leave nothing for the tyrants to

triumph over. Were there not people who, to escape the Romans, robbers

of the world, gave to the flames their dwellings, their wives, their

children, and themselves, burying their sacred independence among the

glorious ashes of their country?"

Thus passionately attached to liberty, Foscolo was not to be deluded by

the false halo that then surrounded the name of Bonaparte, or by the

fallacious promises of the French republican crusaders. "Another set of

lovers of their country," he writes, "lament loudly. They exclaim that

they are betrayed and sold; but, if they had armed themselves, they

might have been conquered, but never had been betrayed; and if they had

defended themselves to the last drop of blood, the conquerors could not

have sold, nor would the conquered have sought to buy, them. Many of our

countrymen imagine that freedom can be bought with money. They fancy

that foreign nations come from a disinterested love of justice to

slaughter each other mutually on our fields, for the sake of liberating

Italy. But will the French, who have rendered the divine theory of

public liberty execrable, become Timoleons for our sakes? Many,

meanwhile, confide in the young hero, sprung from Italian blood, born

where our language is spoken. But I expect nothing useful or noble from

a cruel and base mind. What is it to me that he has the strength and

roar of the lion, if he have the soul of a fox--and glories in it? Yes!

base and cruel; nor are these epithets exaggerated. Has he not sold

Venice, with open and boasted barbarity? Selim I., who caused 30,000

Circassian warriors, who had surrendered, confiding in his faith, to be

massacred on the shores of the Nile; and Nadir Shah, who, in our time,

massacred 300,000 Indians, are more atrocious, but less contemptible.

With these eyes I saw a democratic constitution signed by the young

hero; yes, it was subscribed by his own hand, and sent by Passeriano to

Venice for acceptance; and at that very time the treaty of Campo Formio

was already confirmed and ratified: Venice was sold; and the confidence

which the hero fostered in us all, has filled Italy with proscriptions

and exiles. I do not blame the reasons of state, through which nations

are sold like flocks of sheep; it was ever so, and so will it ever be:

but I grieve for my country, which I have lost. '_He was born Italian,

and will one day regenerate his country_:' others may believe this,--I

never can. I replied, and shall always reply, 'Nature made him a tyrant,

and a tyrant cares not for his country, nor does he possess one.'"

Ruminating on all these violent and bitter feelings, the offspring of

patriotism and adversity, Foscolo took the road to Tuscany. "In this

blessed land," he writes, "poetry and letters first awoke from

barbarism. Wherever I turn, I behold the houses where were born, and the

turf that covers, those renowned Tuscans; and I fear at every step to

tread on their remains. Tuscany is a garden, its inhabitants are

naturally courteous, the sky serene, and the air full of life and

health; but I am not happy here. I hope always for better things on the

morrow, when I shall reach another town: but to-morrow arrives, and I

pass from city to city; and this state of exile and solitude grows each

day more unendurable. We Italians are foreigners and exiles even in

Italy; and scarcely do we leave our little native territory, than

neither understanding, nor fame, nor blameless habits can shelter us;

and we are lost if we endeavour to distinguish ourselves. Our very

fellow-citizens look upon all Italians who are not natives of their own

town, and on whose limbs the same chains do not hang, as strangers."

Thus Tuscany afforded no asylum to the fugitive. He desired to see no

one in Florence except Alfieri; and the retired and reserved habits of

the count prevented his seeking his acquaintance. He saw him, as he

describes in one of his poems, wandering silently along the most

solitary bank of the Arno, gazing anxiously on earth and heaven; but,

finding nothing living that could warm his heart, he took refuge in the

aisles of Santa Croce, while wished-for death overspread his countenance

with pallid hues."[54] The silence and the concentrated melancholy of

Alfieri made a deep impression on the mind of his admirer; and Foscolo

sought afterwards to imitate it in his own person, forgetful that his

natural impetuosity and vehemence were very dissimilar to the gloom and

pride of his model.

From Florence, Foscolo pursued his way to Milan, which was then the

capital of the Cisalpine republic, and imparted its rights of

citizenship to all the wandering patriots of Italy. The new republic

afforded a strange spectacle: formed upon notions of Greek and Roman

liberty, picked up from learned priests, mingled with modern notions of

freedom, it displayed the most ridiculous anachronisms; and its members,

all Italians, yet strangers to each other, and regarding with oblique

looks all those born in a different city, met without amalgamating. The

young found hope and life in the new stage on which they were permitted

to act a part; and though ridicule and blame might be attached to many

of their public actions, still the more sanguine lovers of their country

hoped that, when the first springtide of enthusiasm should ebb,

prudence, unanimity, and strength would be the first born of national

independence. Foscolo, however, was not among those. Irascible and

misanthropic, and sensitively alive to the sufferings of his

fellow-creatures, he saw the evils around him, and desponded.

One of the advantages derived from this new capital was, that it served

to draw together the most distinguished Italians within the walls of the

same city. Each town of the peninsula sent some man esteemed for his

talents; and names, scattered before over the surface of the country,

now congregated together. Foscolo had thus an opportunity of becoming

acquainted with all his more illustrious countrymen. In his "Letters of

Jacopo Ortis," he mentions Parini especially with reverence and

affection; and he became intimate also with Monti, who then displayed

fervour in the cause of liberty, while his inward dislike for the

members of the actual government must have accorded with the sentiments

of Foscolo. Two decrees, passed at that time, served, indeed, to show

that blame deservedly attached itself to them: one was the law enacted

to deprive of office all those who had formerly written against

liberty--an act of despotism levelled expressly against Monti; the other

was the sentence passed by the great council against the Latin language:

whether it was because Latin was the language of their religion and the

priests, or from mere stupid barbarism, they passed a decree to prohibit

its being taught in the public schools. Foscolo saw, in the languages of

the ancient world, not only the root of all our knowledge, but also the

most splendid monuments of human intellect: he knew how fallacious and

trivial all translations are; he was imbued to the heart with a love of

classic lore; and he saw, in the suppression of the Latin, the paramount

influence of the French language. No wonder that he, as well as every

well-educated man, regarded such a law and its promulgators with mingled

scorn and disgust.

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.

Foscolo published also a translation of the third book of the Iliad; and

his tragedy of "Ricciarda." Though founded on a story of the middle

ages, there is no more interest in this last drama than his preceding

ones: the feelings and situations are forced and unnatural. Fraternal

hatred is the mainspring of the plot: Guelfo detests his half-brother,

Averardo; and, on the death of their father Tancred, goes to war with

him, to deprive him of his portion of their common heritage. As a

further mark of hate, he betroths his daughter Ricciarda to Guido, the

son of Averardo, merely to discover whether she loves her cousin or not;

and, finding that she does, separates them with violent denunciations,

and resolves to marry her to another. The drama opens while the brothers

are at war. On account of the unfortunate unities--which force the

author to bring all the persons together in one place, however

improbable it may be that they should there meet--the poet causes Guido

to leave his father's camp, and to secrete himself in Guelfo's palace,

for the sake of watching over Ricciarda's safety, whose life he imagines

to be menaced by her father. The action chiefly turns on Averardo first

sending a friend, and then coming himself in disguise, to induce Guido

to return to him; in Guelfo's denunciations against his daughter; and in

scenes between the lovers. At length Averardo assaults and enters his

brother's palace; and Guelfo, finding himself defeated, first kills

Ricciarda, to prevent her marrying Guido, and then stabs himself; while

Guido swears that he will soon follow his mistress to the tomb. The only

beauty of the tragedy consists in the character of Ricciarda, her

struggles between filial piety and love, her obedience to her father,

and her devotion to her lover. But the whole is conceived in one

unvaried tone of hate and unhappy love--of meditated murder and suicide.

You neither perceive the end that the author has in view, nor that there

can be any end except by their all dying. Foscolo dedicated this tragedy

to lord William Russell. His politics naturally brought him into contact

with what was then the opposition party; and this alliance was drawn

closer when the exiles of Parga applied to him to draw up the petition

to be presented to parliament. He assented gladly, and wrote four

hundred pages without avail; former treaties preventing the English from

interference in behalf of the Pargiotes.

Foscolo found difficulty in obtaining the means of life, and lady Dacre

in particular interested herself in pointing out some method by which he

might turn his talents to account. She proposed, and zealously promoted,

the course of lectures on Italian literature which Foscolo delivered in

1823. Mr. Stewart Rose was another of his real and anxious friends; and

Foscolo's acknowledged talents, and the interest excited by his exile,

facilitated their endeavours. His lectures were numerously attended, and

brought him a thousand pounds;--a small sum, if on it he was to found a

sufficient income to maintain him for the rest of his life; a large one

to an Italian, accustomed to look on a few hundred crowns as riches. And

thus it was that the success that attended his undertaking was, in the

end, fruitful of annoyance and disaster. The poet's head was turned--he

fancied his treasure inexhaustible, and he set about spending it with as

much knowledge as a child would have had of its real quantity and value.

He built a house, furnished it expensively, and adorned it with all

those luxuries that cost largely and are of least intrinsic value. His

entrance hall was adorned by statues, and he had a conservatory filled

with the rarest flowers; while the three Graces still waited on him, and

did not contribute to the economy of his household. As all the houses in

the suburb of St. John's Wood, which he continued to inhabit, are

distinguished by a name, he, to the no small puzzle of the common

people, christened his Digamma Cottage; in commemoration of a literary

victory which he believed achieved by his "Essay on the Digamma." "I

went to see him," Pecchio writes, "on my return from Spain, in August,

1823. I found him inhabiting a new house, surrounded by all the luxury

of a financier suddenly become rich. I was astonished, and could not

account for this sort of theatrical change; it appeared to me a dream.

I thought to myself, Ugo Foscolo has followed in the steps of doctor

Faustus, and has entered into some compact with the fiend

Mephistopheles. He certainly displays good taste; and if he be not rich,

he deserves to be so; and if all I see is not a vision, he deserves that

it should be real. But too truly it was a vision: little or nothing of

what I saw was paid for; it was the palace of king Theodore, tapestried

with promises to pay. His destiny was similar to that of him of whom

Young says--"

"A man who builds, and wants wherewith to pay,

Provides a home from which to run away."[66]

Poor Foscolo too soon paid the penalty of his inexplicable want of

common sense; he became pressed by his creditors, his goods were seized,

and he, threatened by arrests, was obliged to leave his villa, which so

resembled a castle in the air, and to hide in a lodging in an obscure

corner of London. He was now obliged to provide for his daily

necessities by writing articles for various reviews and magazines. The

merit and success of his "Essays on Petrarch" suggested to Mr.

Pickering, a London bookseller, the idea of an edition of Dante,

Petrarch, Boccaccio, and Tasso, with preliminary notices and critical

notes by Foscolo. The offer was tolerably liberal, being 600_l_. for the

whole work, if completed in two years. But even now Foscolo was ruined

by another mistake. Had he provided Essays similar to the admired ones

already written, adding a few critical and historical observations, it

had been well; he would have produced, at no great cost to himself, a

popular work that had repaid the bookseller for his speculation. But

Foscolo had already given token of a predilection for verbal and minute

criticism. His prefatory notice to Boccaccio consisted of a critical

history of editions, totally uninteresting to the general reader, and of

no value except to book collectors. The commentary on Dante is somewhat

less confined in its topics; and, with great subtlety and talent, he

compares various readings, and gives reasons for his own selection. But

even in this his observations are almost entirely grammatical and

verbal, though interspersed by others of great acuteness on the meaning

and intentions of Dante. Still his work, altogether, bore no similarity

to his delightful Essays, which portray the character, spirit, and

history of Petrarch and Dante in so new and attractive a manner.

Unfortunately, intense labour was required for a work so little alluring

or profitable; and Foscolo spent months collating, consulting, and

emending: producing, in the end, a work to be read with tedium and

fatigue. While thus diligently occupied, and at the same time harassed

by many cares, ill lodged, and full of chagrin and mortification, he

fell ill. He grew thin, and a tendency to dropsy manifested itself; the

consequence of an affection of the liver, from which he had long

suffered. A few friends visited him; and, dividing his time between them

and his literary labours, he never left the house. Yet his work did not

advance. He and his bookseller were at cross purposes. Mr. Pickering

desired a popular and saleable publication, which he supposed would cost

not much more time than the author's celebrated articles in the reviews.

Foscolo wished to immortalise himself by a work of labour and erudition,

which should become a text book and authority to all who hereafter read

or wrote upon the poets in question.

Anxieties thus grew upon him. Economy, and a desire for tranquillity and

better air, induced him to leave London; and he hired a small house at

Turnham Green. Here the last months of his life were spent A few friends

visited him: some of these were English; but they consisted mostly of

the exiles driven from the south of Europe by the ill success of the

attempted revolutions of 1820-21. The canon Riego was one among them,

who attached himself warmly to Foscolo, admiring his independence and

consistency. Meanwhile his disease gained ground, and it became publicly

known that small hopes were entertained for his recovery. This

announcement excited universal sympathy; and his rich or noble English

friends, who, from incompatibility of manners and character, had fallen

from him, came forward to offer assistance. The friends around him

declined receiving more than fifty pounds to meet the exigencies of the

moment; and even this supply was concealed from Foscolo, whose pride

would have been deeply and uselessly mortified by the sense of pecuniary

obligation. Money, indeed, was not the only kindness proffered: lord

Holland sent wine, the duke of Devonshire, game; but the kindness and

services most deeply felt, were those of the canon Riego, who spared no

trouble to assist and comfort his dying friend. Foscolo was sensible of

his friendship, but feared that it might become officious; and he wrote

to him, thanking him warmly, but entreating him to do no more. "I beg of

you," he writes, "and it is my most earnest prayer, that you do not

inform any one, man or woman, of my situation, for the purpose of

obtaining assistance. I make this fervent request, because I heard of

something of the kind from miss Florida. But your kindness on this point

would only cruelly torture my heart, increase the sufferings of my mind,

and the sickness of my body."

He lingered two months after this letter. On the day of his death he was

visited by his noble countryman, count Capo d'Istria, who, passing

through London to assume the presidentship of Greece, paid the homage of

a visit to the most renowned author of modern Greece. Foscolo was now in

a state of torpor, and unconscious of the honour done him.

To the last he was patient, submissive to his medical attendants, and

courageous; commenting on the inevitable advances of death with

fortitude and calmness. He died on the 10th of October, 1827. His

funeral was private and modest; his remains were followed to the grave

by five friends, and they were buried in the neighbouring churchyard of

Chiswick, where, a little to the left of the church, amidst a crowd of

tombstones, is to be found one, inscribed simply:

Ugo Foscolo,

Obiit XIV. Die Septembris,

A. D. 1827.

Ætatis 52.[67]

The character of Foscolo, and his literary merits, may be gathered from

the foregoing biography. Consistency was among his most prominent

virtues, for his writings and actions were in strict accordance one with

the other. He always rose superior to the blows of fortune, and

preserved his independence in the midst of the disasters brought on him,

either by the misfortunes of his country or his own imprudences. Vanity,

that assumed the appearance of disdain, rendered him difficult of

access, but compassion and warmth of heart were hidden by this outside.

Fearful of being thought servile, he ran into the opposite extreme, and

was little apt to praise even those to whom praise was due. Vehement in

his opinions, yet he disliked dispute; and if ever led into it, in a few

minutes sheltered himself again in silence. His heart was a stranger to

the feeling of hatred, but neither was he very open to friendship; he

was intimate but with few, and even with these he was reserved. He

preferred the society of women, and in early life loved with sincerity

and passion; and there was delicacy and refinement in all his feelings

with regard to the fair sex. As he expresses himself, in Ortis, "I have

been taught by some how to seduce and betray, and I might perhaps have

seduced and betrayed, but the pleasure I anticipated fell coldly and

bitterly on my heart, which has never been tamed either by time or

reason; and thus you have often heard me exclaim, that all depends on

the heart, which neither heaven, men, nor we ourselves can ever change."

The sincerity of his feelings had their reward--since his affections had

on some occasions met a return, which his uncouth appearance and strange

manners would never have commanded, and which was due only to his truth.

He loved solitude and study, was abstemious in his habits, but not of

strong health, and was often devoured by the deepest gloom. He spoke

well, and detested all artifice and deceit. To these virtues we may add

his constant attention to and affection for his mother. Strange, wild,

and imprudent, his faults chiefly hurt himself; and even the impetuosity

of his character seldom led him into any acts that injured or annoyed

others.

As an author, he may be said to be a bad tragedian, and not a good

novelist; but he was an elegant writer, conversant with the depths and

the refinements of the human heart. His subtle turn of mind led him too

much to verbal and minute criticism--his love of the ancients sometimes

injured the warmth and originality of his productions; but we may name

two among them as nearly perfect in their several species;--the "Essays

on Petrarch," in prose; and, in verse, his "Ode on Sepulchres," which,

for harmony, grace, sweetness, and pure taste, is perhaps unequalled by

any other poem in the world.

[Footnote 54: Dei Sepolcri di Ugo Foscolo.]

[Footnote 55: See the biographical notice of Foscolo, prefixed to the

"Ultime Lettere di Jacopo Ortis. Londra, 1829."]

[Footnote 56: Pecchio, "Vita di Ugo Foscolo."]

[Footnote 57: Pecchio.]

[Footnote 58: Pecchio.]

[Footnote 59: Hobhouse's Illustrations of the Fourth Canto of

Childe Harold.]

[Footnote 60: Pecchio.]

[Footnote 61: "Con elle (le Grazie)

Qui dov' io canto Galileo sedea

----a spiar l' astro

Della loro regina, e il desviava

Col notturno rumor l' acqua remota

Che sotto ai pioppi della riva d' Arno

Furtiva e argentea gli volava al guardo,

Qui a lui l' Alba, la Luna e il Sol mostrava

Gareggianti di tinte, or le serene

Nubi sulle cerulee Alpe sedente

Ora il piano che----alle tirrene

Nereidi, immensa di città e di selve

Scena--e di templi e d' arator beati,

Or cento colli, onde Appenin corona

D' ulivi e d'antri, e di marmoree ville

L' elegante città, dove con Flora

Le Grazie han serti, e amabile idioma."]

[Footnote 62: Storia d' Italia, scritta da Carlo Botta.]

[Footnote 63: Carlo Botta.]

[Footnote 64: Pecchio.]

[Footnote 65: It was on account of one of these Graces that Foscolo

believed himself obliged to challenge one Graham, an American. When they

met in the field, the poet received, but did not return, his adversary's

fire, and the affair terminated without a reconciliation.. Graham was at

that time a reporter to a newspaper, and had served Foscolo as

translator of his works. He afterwards got into difficulties, committed

a forgery, and was obliged to leave this country. Soon after, he fell in

a duel in America.]

[Footnote 66: Pecchio, Vita di Ugo Foscolo.]

[Footnote 67: There is an error in this inscription with regard to the

day of Foscolo's death, and also probably of his age, since it is

supposed that he was not more than forty-nine when he died. His

countrymen also regret that instead of the above inscription, that was

not adopted which he wrote for himself, under the feigned name of Didimo

Chierico, which runs thus:--

Didymi Clerici

Vitia: virtus: ossa

Hic: post: annos . . .

Conquiescere cœpere.]