# Rambles in Germany and Italy in 1840, 1842, and 1843/Part 3/Letter 16

LETTER XVI.
Italian Literature.—Manzoni.—Niccolini.—Colletta.—Amari.
Italian literature claims, at present, a very high rank in Europe. If the writers are less numerous, yet in genius they equal, and in moral taste they surpass, France and England. In these countries everybody reads, and there is a great demand for books of amusement. M. de Custine remarks, that the French write now for “les concierges et les forçats,” the ignorant and depraved; we write for the frivolous. The uneducated and idle in Italy do not read at all; and an Italian author writes for readers whom he respects, or wishes to instruct: I speak of the lighter literature. In the higher walks we are lamentably deficient, while France boasts of admirable historians. The Italians possess modern histories to compete with France.
There has been a great revolution in Italian poetry of late years; and it has, to a great extent, returned to the nature and character that marked ​its outset. When poetry first assumed a form in the Peninsula, Europe was still, if not in a barbarous state, at least in the very infancy of civilisation; and Italy alone, among European nations, taught arts, science, and letters. The character of the youth of modern European civilisation, with all its defects and all its charms, is indelibly impressed on the literature of that age. The poetry of the first great Italian poets sprang from the complicated feelings which a new æra awoke in them. When you read their best productions, you feel that they are animated by the energy proper to the young; and even when they appear to guide themselves by ancient rules, the true soul of poetry, the youth of the spirit, breaks its way through every obstacle. The first Italian poets never obeyed, but on the contrary resisted, Aristotelian rules. Dante, the greatest of all—Petrarch and Ariosto, abandoned themselves to the genuine impulse of their minds, and were great;—great, because free. The history of Italian poetry confirms the truth, that the poet follows the real and the sublimest scope of art when he keeps in mind the character of his country and of his age. The highest Italian poetry is truly national.
The poets who followed were, with few exceptions, imitators; they bowed to the rules of Aristotle, and ​produced no great works. Since the fall of the republic of Florence, poetry and eloquence, which ought to have waited on the changes and advancement of civilisation, and to have harmonised with the thoughts and manners of the country, failed to do so. Italian painting left no path untried so to arrive at perfection, and sought originality by a thousand different roads; while poets were afraid of novelty. This is not strange. The creations of genius and the inventions of the imagination are derived from, and depend on, the moral culture of the intellect, and this culture was shackled. After the sixteenth century Italy never enjoyed political liberty, and the intellect of the country was unable to develope itself with freedom. On this account the Italians ceased to contemplate man and nature in an original manner: they were imitators of the ancients, and in the sequel, imitators of imitators, their literature even became influenced by that of the French. No attempt was made to enlarge its limits or to renovate its spirit; for such an attempt, from political reasons, would have been dangerous. Governments who are not strengthened by public opinion, always shackle the free exercise of the intellectual faculties. Writers both in prose and verse, thus grew to aim at grace of diction and beauty of imagery, unsustained by ​daring and original thought, or even by variety of invention, which is more nearly allied to the enjoyment of freedom than is usually supposed. Yet, notwithstanding these obstacles, Italian poetry of the seventeenth and the beginning of the eighteenth centuries, possesses high merit; and such, so to speak, is its exterior beauty, that, had it greater intrinsic power, it would surpass every other in the world.
Towards the end of the eighteenth century the dawn of a reform in every branch of human knowledge may be perceived. Every one felt the need of having recourse to the real source of inspiration, the hopes and fears which form the national spirit of the age; among others Alfieri rose. There can be no doubt that he was the writer who best knew how to echo the passions and hopes of his contemporaries. I pass over the names of the great writers who, on every subject, shed lustre over Italy at that time, and come at once to the authors of the present day, who sprung up at the close of the wars of the French empire, and may be said to be the offspring of a bitter contest that arose at that time among the literary men of Italy: and even among these, I shall confine myself to the two who possess the highest and most durable influence, Manzoni and Niccolini; men who, in common ​with other Italian writers of the present day, reject letters as a tribute to frivolity, or means to fortune; consecrating them to the advancement of the great interests of their fellow-creatures, desiring to make them, as Lord Bacon expresses himself, “a rich storehouse for the glory of the creator, and the relief of man’s estate.”
I have mentioned in another letter how, under Monti’s auspices, a great war of words began in Italy: about the same period another battle raged between what was called the classic and romantic schools. It began in 1818, when Berchet, a poet of merit, descended suddenly into the arena, throwing, by way of challenge, a translation of the Leonora of Burgher, accompanied by an essay, discarding the old models and planting a new banner, beneath the shadow of which the flower of the Italian youth eagerly crowded to contend—displaying the more enthusiasm, because under this literary discussion was hid the hope of regenerating the political opinions of Italy. The classists were not slow in meeting the attack; and when they found their authority, which had been respected for centuries, was in danger of being overthrown, they hurried to the rescue. Monti fought with them. Angry epithets, ridicule, abuse, were bandied about by both parties in the ardour of fight. Book succeeded to ​book; pamphlets and articles poured furiously down, each breathing the ire of an earlier and more uncivilised age. The Romanticists wished to banish the mythology—to make poetry patriotic—that is, founded on national faith, chronicles, and sympathies. They added example to precept; Berchet published a volume of odes which met with eminent success; the subjects were Italian, and breathed great force of passion and feeling. Grossi, the rival, or rather, as he calls himself, the pupil of Manzoni, commenced with “Ildegonda,” a tale in verse, founded on a Milanese story, which was received with immense applause. Manzoni published his “Carmagnola;” Pellico his “Francesca da Rimini” and “Eufemio da Messina.” Pellico, afterwards so sadly celebrated for his misfortunes, was at this time tutor to the sons of Count Porro. He projected founding a periodical work which should serve as a common link between the writers of every state in Italy. Porro and Gonfalonieri seconded him, and hence arose a periodical publication named “Il Conciliatore” (the Conciliator). Gioga, Romagnosi, Manzoni, Grossi, Berchet, and Montani contributed to its success, without mentioning the political contributions of Gonfalonieri, Porro, Pecchio, Arrivabene, and many others, who were then secretly conspiring against the ​government, and preparing the ill-starred revolution of 1820-21. The first number of the “Conciliatore” was published Thursday, 3rd September, 1818—it came to an end in 1820. From its birth the Austrian government had decreed its extinction; but its short life was yet glorious, since it excited the public mind to free discussion, and gave an impetus to letters.
Manzoni rose into notice as the poet of this party. His sacred hymns and his tragedy of “Carmagnola” appeared at the time when the literary war raged hottest. His poems were received with enthusiasm. “Carmagnola” and “Adelchi” were hailed as national and romantic dramas; their fame spread into Germany and France. Goëthe speaks of them as making “a serious and profound impression, such as great pictures of human nature must always create.” “Let the poet,” he says, “continue to disdain the feeble and vulgar portions of human passion, and attempt only such high arguments as excite deep and generous emotions.”
To us these tragedies appear, though eminently beautiful as poems, to be failures as dramas. It is not enough that passions and events are developed, we desire character also: they have not succeeded even on the Italian stage, on which several of Alfieri’s have kept their place. In the “Carmagnola” the audience are at a loss on whom to expend their ​sympathy. A vague and uncertain tone keeps us in suspense—not that suspense arising from the mingled blame and admiration excited by the hero, which is the true foundation of dramatic interest, but caused by a sense that the writer has no determined object. The “Adelchi” is, in parts, more interesting; but even in that we find no real hero. Our sympathy is most excited by Ermengarda; but she is entirely episodical. These tragedies, however, breathe a spirit that renders them dear to every Italian. They have for their subject national events, which are treated in a powerful and original manner. Alfieri makes his Lombard princesses express themselves like Grecian heroines: Manzoni imbues himself with the spirit of the times; and his personages speak and feel in his dramas, as his creative imagination taught him that they did during life. More particularly this is found in the “Adelchi,” where the veil is for the first time lifted from the intrigues of the Popes, who contrived the overthrow of the Longo Bardi, and the successful invasion of Charlemagne, not in the interests of Christianity, but in that of their own temporal power; and the vain struggle of the falling Lombards, with the insolence of the invader and the hypocrisy of the priest, is finely drawn. It is his odes, however, that give high rank to Manzoni as a ​poet. In these, his diction is exquisitely finished, and his conceptions rise to the sublime. No reader can fail of being carried away by the pathos and fire of the chorus in Carmagnola, describing the horrors of the wars of invasion in Italy, which became civil contests, as the various states adhered to one or other of the foreign powers, who poured down from the Alps for their destruction. The “Cinque Maggio” is, out of his own country, the most popular of Manzoni’s odes, but this chorus and the sacred hymns obtain the greatest meed of praise in Italy.
The “Promessi Sposi” followed. This, to a certain degree, is an imitation of the romances of Walter Scott: it rises above in grandeur of description and in unity and nobility of purpose, though in inexhaustible fecundity of character, the Scotch writer surpasses the Italian. The historian Ripamonti suggested his subjects. The account of the Innominato is to be found in his pages, as well as that of the errors of a high-born nun—of a sedition, a famine, a pestilence—of the character and life of Federigo Borromeo; but these, though suggested by history, are treated with a poetic fire, an originality of idea, and a vitality, which belongs entirely to Manzoni himself. His tale is sustained by a moral, or rather religious scope. He desires in his romance to prove that society, both civil and political, is diseased, and ​that Catholicism must be the remedy. Manzoni is a devout Catholic. He paints, with peculiar fervour, the merits and uses of a pious clergy; and personifying it under the names of Father Cristofero and Cardinal Borromeo, he shows the beneficial influence it may obtain over the people and the nobility, of whom Renzo and Lucia, the Innominato and Don Rodrigo, are the representatives. It is not the vulgar notion of bringing forward the Pope, with his army of priests and monks, as the regenerators of society, at which he aims; it is the Christian spirit of resignation and self-denial that he wishes to revive, and render the master-feeling of the world. Manzoni is eminently pious and resigned—this is the internal spirit; in form he adheres to ancient Catholicism, which he regards as the final tendency of humanity.
Manzoni was born at Milan in 1784. I have heard that his father was a man totally without instruction; while his mother, the daughter of the Marchese Beccaria, author of the well-known work, “Dei delitti e delle Pene,” was an accomplished and active-minded woman. Manzoni spent many of his early years on the Lake of Como, at the very spot where he places the scene of his romance. In his youth the Latin poets occupied his attention; he read Virgil and Tibullus with delight—while in Italian ​he studied the works of the cinquecentiste: so that I have heard that his early unpublished verses are conceived in the spirit of those writers. But he soon broke away from such fetters. He read and admired Dante, with the deep-felt enthusiasm a poet naturally experiences for that sublime writer. At the beginning of the present century Manzoni visited France, and lived for some years with his mother in Paris. In 1808 he returned to Milan, and soon after, chiefly induced by the instigations of his relations, he married a Protestant lady, the daughter of Blondel, a banker of Geneva. They visited Rome, where the lady became a convert to Catholicism; and, as I am told, converted also her husband, who heretofore had been sceptical or careless on religious subjects—but who, from that hour, became an ardent and devout Catholic. He passes the greater portion of the year at his villa, five miles from Milan; he sees little society, being by disposition excessively shy. In 1831 he had the misfortune to lose his wife, whom he fondly loved and entirely trusted. I never had the happiness of seeing him: he is, I am told, of middle stature, of gentle aspect, resembling the portraits of Petrarch—and suffers somewhat from nervousness. He is profoundly versed in history, political economy, and agriculture; and it is said is now occupied on a ​history of Italian literature and a philosophical work. In his tastes with regard to poetry not Italian, he admires Schiller and Shakspeare; but, unlike almost every other foreigner, the scepticism of Lord Byron renders his poetry distasteful to him. His soul is filled with love of the beautiful, the elevated, and the pure. These qualities shine forth particularly in his odes, which, since Petrarch, are the most perfect lyries in the language; and among them, the “Inni Sacri” are distinguished for the exquisite finish and poetic fire that adorns the fervent piety which they breathe.
It would be vain to attempt to say even a few words of the swarm of romance writers that have tried to follow in his steps, and who all deserve the same praise of writing to instruct and elevate, and not, as is too usual with writers of fiction, to amuse, and even corrupt. Out of Italy, Azeglio ranks highest. Like all Italian writers of the day, he is animated by a patriotic feeling. The desire of destroying the prejudices that separate state from state, made him, who is a Piedmontese, choose for his heroes Neapolitans and Florentines. In his first novel, “Ettore Fieramosca,” he impresses on his readers the loveliness of the feminine character, depicting the purest struggles between passion and duty. In “Niccoli de’ Lapi,” a ​burning love of country, joined to a piety at war with the grosser superstitions of Rome, adorns his venerable hero. The Tuscans generally do not like his style, and prefer that of Grossi. Tommaso Grossi is the intimate friend of Manzoni, to whom he dedicated his popular romance of “Marco Visconti,” calling him by the endearing name of “Master.” He commenced his literary career by the publication of two beautiful tales in verse, “Ildegonda,” and the “Fuggitiva;” in this species of composition there is no one to compare with him, and “Ildegonda,” in the estimation of his countrymen, is quite inimitable. A Florentine, Guerrazzi, has published two romances, “L’Assedio di Firenze,” and “La Battaglia di Benevento,” popular in his own country, from the ardent, the almost frantic love of liberty which inspires their author. This is a spirit that ever finds a clear echo in hearts palpitating with the sense of wrong, and with the aspiration to independence. He is eloquent and passionate in his style, and has happy touches of situation and character which show him to be a man of genius—but he is diffuse, exaggerated, and sometimes incoherent.
A greater man than these, and in the eyes of his countrymen, equal to Manzoni, is the Florentine, Gian. Battista Niccolini. This poet, it is true, is ​not as celebrated as the author of the “Promessi Sposi” on this side of the Alps, but in Italy he has attained an equal, and indeed, in some respects, a higher reputation. Niccolini is a tragic and lyric poet, and a great prose writer. He commenced his career, as a dramatist, by tragedies on Greek and mythological subjects. His mind full of the verses of Dante, Tasso, and Ariosto, he reproduced on the stage, garbed in simple and sublime poetry, the theatre of the Greeks. His “Polixena”—his “Ino e Temisto,” and his “Œdipus,” might be said to be written on the model set by Alfieri, and equally liberal in sentiment. They were acted, and the beauty of the verses insured their success. Niccolini soon, however, became aware that his works did not meet the wants of modern society, and that he ought no longer to remain in the ways trodden by his masters; but that the time had arrived when to cease imitating the ancients. He resolved to seek the reputation of an original poet, and to create a new theatre. The “Foscarini,” a national subject, in which he paints, in the liveliest and blackest colours, the dark tyranny of the Venetian aristocracy, had a success on the stage previously unexampled in Italy. The enthusiasm spread among every rank of society; country people, farmers and labourers from the environs of Florence, were seen ​mingled with the lower class of citizens, besieging the avenues of the theatre for hours before the opening of the doors. Animated by this success, Niccolini composed the “Sicilian Vespers,” which is, in fact, a protest in favour of Italy. This drama was received with transports of enthusiasm. The French Secretary of Legation, M. de la Noue, had the folly to complain to the Tuscan government of certain expressions levelled against the French nation. The Austrian Minister laughed at his application, and saw through the artifice. “Vous ne voyez pas,” he said, “que si l’addresse est à vous, le contenu est pour moi.” An interesting and sad incident occurred on the first representation of this play. The mother of Niccolini, an aged woman, insisted on being present—the immense success and triumph of her son were too much for her—she was carried dying out of the theatre, and only survived two days.
The style of Niccolini’s tragedies is looked upon by his countrymen as a perfect model for the romantic drama. It is elevated and yet natural. The poet rises to the height of his argument; his versification is harmonious yet severe—his imagery rich and choice; his tone is majestic, and through ​all there glows an ineffable love of his art. Niccolini is celebrated also as a lyric poet; but as far as I have read, he falls very short of Manzoni. As a prose writer he has as yet only published his speeches delivered in the Accademia delle belle Arti. They justify his reputation for research, and may be pointed out as models of style and eloquence; he proves himself in them to be an original thinker, and capable of understanding and judging the age in which he lives.
Niccolini joins to his intellectual greatness a character that makes him the darling of his native city. Devoid of vanity, of pure and exemplary life, he passes his days at Florence, surrounded by friends who respect and love him. He is at present busily occupied by an arduous work, the “History of the House of Swabia.”
Italy, from the earliest times, has been renowned for its historians. From Dino Compagni and Villani until Botta, Colletta, and Amari, the Italians appear to inherit the art of narrating events, and describing men and countries, as well as of deducing philosophical conclusions from the experience of past ages.
Colletta’s “History of the Kingdom of Naples, from the year 1734 till the year 1825,” is a remarkable work, as not being the production of an ​author who spent his life among books, but of a man who bore a distinguished part in the political and military affairs of his time, and who was somewhat advanced in years when, exiled from his country, he dedicated himself to the study of his native language and the composition of his history.
The first publications of Colletta consisted of a “Narrative of the Revolution of Naples in 1820,” and the “History of the Death of Murat.” The vigour of his style, the truth that reigned in his narrative, and the warmth of enthusiasm that animated his pen, attracted attention, and received applause. To a certain degree an adherent of the French rule in Naples, though fully aware of its faults and its injustice, he, in the account of the death of Murat, undertook, with just indignation, to defend the illustrious partizans of the fallen sovereign, whom the minister, Medici, falsely accused of having ensnared and betrayed him; throwing the blame where it was due, on the rashness of the victim and the baseness of his enemies. This narration is incorporated in his history, and forms one of its most striking passages. It seems to me one of the finest pieces of writing in the world—full of a mournful dignity, that renders its pathos touching, and gives grandeur to its scorn.
A few pages are prefixed to his history, written, ​I believe, by his friend Count Gino Capponi, which gives an account of his life. While yet a mere boy, he was imprisoned by Ferdinand on a slight suspicion of liberalism, and with difficulty escaped with his life. He, though his name is omitted by French writers, accompanied the soldiers of Murat in their attack upon Capri, and by his gallantry and sagacity mainly contributed to its success. Many important posts, both civil and military, were entrusted to him by Murat, and, on his return, by Ferdinand, and he acquitted himself in all with reputation. He acted at once a prudent, firm, and patriotic part, during the Neapolitan revolution. But though Ferdinand employed, frequently consulted, and often followed his advice, this did not save him after the Austrian invasion. He was first imprisoned at Brünn, in Moravia, at the foot of the Castle of Spielburg, of infamous renown; afterwards, as his health failed, he was allowed to transfer himself to Tuscany. During his severer imprisonment and milder exile, ever ambitious of a noble fame, he meditated his future work. First, he applied himself to the study of his native tongue, forming his style on that of Tacitus; and then, armed with the strength of pictorial and vigorous language, he dedicated himself to the compilation of his history.
​An eye witness of many of the events which he narrates, and frequently a prominent actor in them, he strives to be impartial both to friends and enemies. He has not, however, escaped the blame of undue bias. He expresses his opinions at times with too much passion, displaying excessive severity against his rivals or opponents in his military career. This, however, is not much; and, with very slight drawbacks, he may be esteemed worthy of the reader’s confidence. He knew the men whose character he draws, and these individual portraits give value to the work they contribute to adorn. Among them may be named, in especial, that of the infamous Canosa, and the youthful hero, Emanuel de Deo. Even more admirable are his striking descriptions, after the manner of Tacitus. If you shrink from undertaking the whole work, read the accounts of the earthquake in Calabria in 1783—of the executions of 1799—of the death of the unfortunate Murat—of the tragical fate of the Vardarelli—and the character of the reign of Ferdinand, at the conclusion. It will be difficult to find finer passages in any history.
He came to Florence in 1823, and died on 11th November, 1831. The interval was spent in composing his work, and rendered happy by his intimate friendship with two Italians, esteemed as ​the cleverest men of their time, Count Gino Capponi and Valeriani, translator of Tacitus. These friends assisted him with their counsels and criticisms—some Italians go so far as to consider Gino Capponi the writer of the history. But others, who associated with Colletta and his friends at Florence, have assured me that this supposition is entirely erroneous.
Quite lately, another historical work has appeared, the production of a young Sicilian, Michele Amari, who promises, from his talents, his industry, and the admirable spirit of his book, to add another illustrious name to Italy.
The Sicilian Vespers was a tremendous event, which astonished and confounded the nations, and even in Italy was ill understood by contemporary historians. It was supposed to be the result of a conspiracy formed by Giovanni da Procida, under the auspices of Don Pedro, King of Arragon, who reaped the fruits. Amari, on consulting the archives of Sicily, found reason at first to suspect the truth of, and afterwards entirely to reject, this explanation of an event, which, in this light, could only be regarded as a cruel massacre—but which, from the documents he adduces, he proves to have resulted, not from a treacherous conspiracy, but from the sudden impulse of a people maltreated ​and insulted to desperation; whose only defence was the knife, whose only safety rested in utterly rooting out their oppressors.
Fired with generous sympathy for a people who, against a fearful odds, resolved to liberate themselves from a barbarous foreign oppression, Amari relates the events of the war that followed the massacre with glowing eloquence. The history of the siege of Messina may take place beside the noble resistance of Numantia and Saragossa, with the more cheering result that it was successful. This portion of his work, and the subsequent chapters that describe the last war and death of Don Pedro of Arragon, are admirably written. You will scarcely find in any historian a more animated and graphic narration than that which tells how Don Pedro, deserted by all, hated by all, proudly and sternly, and at last successfully, stood his ground against his numerous and triumphant foes.
It is the work of a young man, and of a Sicilian, who had to learn and form the language in which he writes. The style wants elegance; the construction of the history is imperfect, and, at times, rambling; but it has the first and best merit of a work of genius—it is written from the heart. The enthusiasm of the author carries the reader along with him; you forget the imperfections in ​the justness of his reflections, and the sincerity of his convictions; you excuse the absence of methodical order as you are carried away by the interest which he throws over the facts he narrates.
* ↑ In the same manner his tragedy, lately published, “Arnaldo da Brescia,” is a splendid protest against the temporal dominion of the Pope and the abuse of the power of the church.
* ↑ This work was first published at Palermo about two years ago, under the title of “Un Periodo delle Istorie Siciliane del secolo 13$^{mo}$.” The manuscript was of course submitted to the censor of the press, who permitted its publication. It acquired universal reputation, and was enthusiastically received in the kingdom of Naples. As soon as public attention was excited, the police of that state grew suspicious and fearful. The book was prohibited, the remaining copies were sequestrated, and all notice of it in newspapers and periodical works, which had already begun to praise the author and give an account of his book, was forbidden. The persecution did not cease here; influenced by some sinister, and, as is supposed, personal motive, Del Carretto, director or minister of the police, gave orders that Amari should be dismissed from an employment he held in a government office, and sent to Naples. Signor Amari was warned in time, and convinced that a long and severe imprisonment awaited him at the capital, he preferred going into voluntary exile from his country, to falling into the hands of a cruel enemy. Signor Amari is at present living in Paris, where he published, about a year ago, a second edition of his work, under the amended title of “Guerra del Vespro Siciliano,” with corrections and additions. He is at present occupied in collecting materials for the compilation of a history of Sicily, from the occupation of the Saracens; for which, as he must consult Arabic documents, he is studying with unwearied ardour; he thus adds another proof that the Italians of the present day are capable of severe application and learned research, in addition to the frequent gift of remarkable talents.—1844.