puny delicacies of French sentimentalism. The firm touch of Alfieri is visible in their portraits: there is a sturdiness and simplicity of expression, a concentration of phrase, a weight of mind, which you look for in vain in the diluted tirades of their predecessors. Then they have extended the circle: the "celebrare domestica facta" has been received into their critical code; not, indeed, that it was altogether rejected by the ancient dramatists, but the adoption was rather connived at than approved. The rich mines of Italian history, profusely teeming as they do with every element of tragic emotion, have been stirred up; and though the surface only has been yet explored, the inquiry has been rewarded with the most encouraging harvest. Monti, Pindemonte, Foscolo, Pellico, Manzoni, and even Ventignano and Maruzi, abound with vigorous and characteristic scenes, strong glimpses (but glimpses only) of the national mind, and now and then with bursts of real nature, not unworthy of the profound and searching drama of the North. Yet, with all this, they are too much mannerists, too much of a school, too much fabricators of phrase and sentiment, to wield, with any thing like acknowledged mastery, the mighty tides of the affections. Their whole theatre is founded on a vicious principle: they began at the wrong end; and this cardinal error of their ancestors, inseparable indeed from the times, and the nature of the first influences, by which they were affected, has by no means disappeared from the pages of their successors. I never saw a single tear shed, either in sorrow or in anger, at an Italian representation, unless, indeed, accompanied with music, and then it was not difficult to decide to whom the merit of such excitation was due.* Comedy has succeeded better, and on precisely the grounds which I have just instanced. At an early period their Comic Muse threw off all allegiance to the ancients, and sought in more congenial sources at home, the secret of that power, by which she has ever since very nearly monopolized the Italian stage. Whilst Macchiavelli and his school maintained on one side, and with no inconsiderable brilliancy, the glories of ancient art, in their adaptations of Plautus and Terence to modern manners, there were rising in most of the provinces of Italy, as well as at Florence, their chief seat and centre, a series of natural representations, under various denominations, beginning, as with us, in the "Ludi" or mysteries, and finally settling in the "Commedie dell' Arte," which still survives in the masques, and Pulcinella, of the moderns. These commedie, as may be imagined, soon obtained the supremacy; they were in the habits, and temper, and language of the people: the same struggle, and with the same results, as that which had already taken place between the Latin and the lingua volgare, again succeeded: in a short time they were the only comedies known upon the stage.+ Goldoni found them The revival of letters, amongst its first results, produced a strong passion for the translation and recitation of the ancient drama. These recitations were at first confined to the academies and palaces of the noble and the learned. The general diffusion of the Latin language amongst the upper classes, extending even to the ladies, obviated a very principal objection. The representations in the theatres of Rome and Ferrara, open to the lowest citizen, presupposes, in a still more remarkable manner, its almost universal use. The transition from such performances, to close and chilly imitations in the lingua volgare, as it was still contemptuously termed, was not difficult. The Sofonisba of Trissino, the Rosmunda of Rucellai, the Orbecche, the Torismondo, successively appeared. But even this innovation was timid and gradual: the Orfeo of Poliziano, in its first editions at least, and as it probably was performed at Ferrara, is interwoven with Latin verses, as a sort of atonement for such violation of learned prejudices. Long after they had ceased, the spirit which produced them still reigned undiminished. Alfieri modified these vices, it is true; but it is reserved for another reformer, and a more tolerant generation, to correct them altogether. + Comedy preceded, as seems always to have been the case, every other species of dramatic composition in Italy. Like tragedy, that description at least which was addressed to the rich and cultivated, was, for a long period, alla Greca, and alla Romana. Terence and Plautus were applauded by the noble dames and the gal in the plenitude of this long-confirmed rule, and attempted, sometimes by stratagem, and sometimes by open force, to wrest from them the sceptre. But Goldoni had more of the ambition, than of the talents of a reformer. The success was partial, and attributable as much to the sacrifices he was obliged to make to the reigning taste, as to any compelling superiority in the mind or principle of the man himself. He forms much more the link between two schools, than the commencement of a new one: his innovations are trembling and feeble: there is nothing better in his entire encyclopædia (as his thirty volumes of comedies may justly be termed) than the Venetian comedies, which differ in nothing from the ordinary "Commedie dell' Arte," but the circumstance of their being written, instead of trusted to the impromptu genius of the performers. Yet this very similarity materially contributed to his subsequent popularity. The transition was rendered easy; opposition was comparatively neutralized; and neither the ancient predilections of the people, nor the warning sarcasm of Gozzi-the Alfieri, in some degree, of the comic stage-prevented the almost total adoption of the new regime a little after his death. The school of Goldoni may now be considered as the only recognized Comedy in Italy. He has drawn after him, with very various reputations, a cloud of minor writers. De Rossi has given some graceful and washy scenes with little or no intrigue, no comedy, and no interest. Giraud has rushed into whimsicality, licentiousness, and farce. Nota is gentlemanlike and melancholy, and attempts to dignify the sock with a more drawing-room and stately tread-a task nearly impossible, at least under existing manners in Italy, where there is no drawing-room, no gentlemanism or ladyism, to copy from. But with all these shadings, the outline and colouring of the painting, however the chiaro scuro may differ, is, substantially and eternally, the same. It does not, like the Spanish, lay any pretension to involution of plot, or to the ingenious Penelope-unravelling of three or four sets of intrigues, which, like the warp and the woof in shot silk, come shining out upon you with some new and unexpected colour at every change of the scene; neither is it the keen and polished gladiatorial encounter of the French theatre, translating into sarcasm, and repartee, and epigram, all the conventional absurdities and brilliancies of a highly artificial state of human character and society. The Italian comedy, though apparently from the same original root, differs materially from other branches of the same family; and is a mere transcript, with the good and bad verbatim, sometimes from the extravagant, sometimes from the mere commonplace, of human character. Things are taken as they are found, and transferred in mass from the street to the stage. There is no point, or pith, or effort, or art, or surprise, or even colour (unless in the Masque comedies) in any of their dialogues: the whole "vis vivida" comes out by sheer character: the touch upon touch is in action: the humour is in the alt-relief of contrast; the lant Cavalieri of most of her provincial courts; whilst the aristocracies of the North were still compelled to listen to the ballad efforts of the rudest barbarism. The first attempt at imitation was in the same language. The Catinia of Sicco Polentone, written in 1405, was still in Latin verse. Then followed the Cassaria, the Suppositi, the Calandra, in versi sdruccioli, and in versi piani, the Simillimi of Trissino, the comedies of Bentivoglio, &c. This first and artificial era of Italian comedy soon, however, gave way to something more vigorous and national. The Ludi or mysteries on one hand, ard the Novelle, with which Italian literature then abounded, on the other, gave the impulse and materials. Cini and Calmo in verse, and Ruzzante in prose, were the first to adopt the dialects of Italy, and to conduct this reformation. Then came with the Spanish domination in Italy, the Spanish innovations and extravagancies of the sixteenth century, the "Arte Nueva of Lopez de Vega," the "Commedia di Cappa e Spada," the "Commedie di dieci parti o giornate di tre ingegni," the " Atti sacramentali, allegorici, istoriali," &c. From this rubbish, good sense, and the "Commedie dell' Arte," cleared the theatre; but the revolution was not completed till very near the age of Goldoni. whole success depends upon the original good or bad selection of the subject. The Italians are by no means a fastidious people, particularly where the accessories only of composition are in question; but with every allowance for their bonhommie in criticism, it is certainly no small matter of marvel how they can endure to sit out three such homilies as the Pamelas of Goldoni, and other similar Jeremiads, which Heraclitus himself would find difficult to dignify with the name of comedy. In their very gravity there is a latent laugh, a "subrisus" of humour, which would teach them, it might be thought, a little less patience, and more ill-nature. But it was in the Fiorentini at Naples, and in the midst of one of the most crowded !audiences, during a successful season of that gay city, that I reluctantly was compelled to alter this opinion. The majority, however, of the Italians are not even of so delicate a taste. On all their provincial theatres, and on some of their metropolitan, the most intolerable trash has been substituted for the pages of Goldoni and Alfieri. In comedy, even Giraud is now a treat: you have in lieu such a mere mountebank as Panza d'oro; and in tragedy (I must profane the term), such detestable cantos as the Comedies Larmoyantes, and miserable prose translations from the worst German sentimentalists, of Federici. But the delicia of the Roman people, and which, in the country at least, supersedes every thing else, are those brigand melodrames, from God knows whom, permitted, with a most singular inconsistency, by a Government whose arm is constantly stretched out to suppress this very brigandage, and copied with a most exciting fidelity from the" causes celebres" which are passing under their eyes almost every day. Conceive such a lesson to our young moralists as the Tuthills and graces on an English and Irish stage! Yet I remember seeing, in a town near Rome, the seat of a bishop and a delegate, a very encouraging representation of the kind. No one perceived the impropriety or injury of such an influence. The Governor was present, and the people applauded. Yet the whole of that morning had been consumed by Monsignore in striking out with his rubrique, or red chalk, some objectionable words from a new opera. I saw him at a late hour, and he complained bitterly of those ariettas," where the word comes again and again upon you," said he, "da capo, da саро, at every turn." The only place where you have any chance of seeing the true drama of Italy in any perfection is at Florence, and now and then upon some of those private theatres, with which, to the honour of her nobility, the cultivated provinces of Italy still abound. It was thus I witnessed the Myrrha, the Oreste, the Filippo, the Saul, the Agamemnone, and many others of the best plays of Alfieri; and almost the entire acting theatre of Goldoni, Nota, and Giraud. The universal passion which pervades the nation, through all its classes, for this species of amusement is literally inconceivable; and, let me also add, the talent and spirit, particularly in comedy, everywhere visible, even amongst the lowest. I have witnessed, in a small town of not more than ten thousand inhabitants in the Patrimonio, besides the two public, two private theatres in the houses of the nobility, performing comedy, tragedy, and opera in rotation, with an ensemble and knowledge of the drama which is not often to be met with on the public boards. On another occasion, in a small village in the same part of the Roman states, I had the fortune to assist at the representation of many of the best of Goldoni's plays, got up in the most successful manner by a company of the bakers, butchers, carpenters, &c. of the place, under the immediate inspection and management of the apothecary. Much the greater number had never been farther than their own gates; and none, I believe, had ever entered a regular theatre. In the capitals this spirit is, of course, more conspicuous: the private theatricals of Milan, Florence, and Naples are celebrated. Alfieri, in his Memoirs, speaks with some applause even of those of Rome. The same passion which once added so much grace and dignity to the magnificence and the luxury of their ancestors, still survives in the elegant pleasures of their accomplished descendants: the splendour with which the Edipus King was performed at the house of one of the most intellectual noblemen at Bologna, would have done honour to the halls of Leo or Lorenzo, or the gardens of the Riarii or Rucellai. The tragedy had been translated with eminent success by the Marchese himself, and, with its superb decorations, music, and accompaniments, was produced at his own exclusive expense. It cost upwards of 2500 crowns, and in the first scene (one of the most imposing dramatic effects ever witnessed in Italy) there were no less than four hundred persons at one time upon the stage. The influence of such pursuits can easily be imagined: there is no drinking, no fox-hunting, no clubs -in one word, there is no ennui, in Italy. The quality, however, of dramatic talent in Italy is by no means commensurate with the quantity. You see a very creditable portion of it everywhere, but none, or scarcely none, of the very first order. This is much more to be attributed to unpropitious circumstance than defect in the national organization. In comedy the elements are scattered in profusion around you: in tragedy, the country which has produced Catalani and Pasta has given sufficient pledge of the highest capabilities, under favourable combinations, for every species of dramatic production. Yet I know not how it is, these powers are, for the present at least, very nearly dormant. The only two tragic performers of any merit I remember meeting with, were Lombardi and the Internari. Lombardi is what the French would call "très bien constitué." He has an excellent dramatic organization, size, feature, figure, all to shape him out as the representative of concentrated and commanding passion. His voice is deep and gathered; yet, when he chooses, full of relief and rich in modulation, and bold and sweeping in compass. His gesture is large and declamatory, except in the keener bursts of passion; it then gets, as is the case with most of his countrymen, jagged and torrent-like; but though in a very different idiom from ours, is as full of freshness and truth as a new-struck medal. Lombardi is the idol of the stage and its admirers, and has not been without his due proportion of "belles passions" amongst the princely circles of Italy. The Internari is remarkably his inferior in the externals of her art: though tall and tragic, she is coarse and ungraceful: sex seems almost obliterated from her appearance and manner: she is often but a bad sort of man. Accident has farther enhanced these defects-a portion of her features are mutilated; the disfigurement is glaring; to surmount it requires dramatic excellencies of the very first order; but these are excellencies which the Internari occasionally displays. I saw her in the Duca di Ventignano's "Medea," a play and character to which she seemed in a most especial manner to be adapted. The whole play is sacrificed to Medea. Jason, as unmanageable a personage as the pious Eneas himself (a sort of Jason in his way), is scarcely a foil: it is Medea, and Medea throughout. The style is Alfieresque-stern, magniloquous; short and bitter sentences; no plot, no character; but up and down lightnings of fierce passion, appalling scenes, overmastering and oppressive catastrophes, which amply atone for the inanity and insipidity which generally precede them. In these the Internari was sometimes wonderful. Her physique was wholly forgotten in the grandeur and power of her moral nature. I have seen Mademoiselle Duchesnois, in some of the last scenes of Ducis' Hamlet, work a similar miracle. But it was in the last scene (admirably managed by the author) that the Internari rose beyond the usual level of her powers. She not only justified the text, but discovered elements of which she scarcely seemed conscious. Medea had retired; an awful pause had succeeded; in a few moments the chamber-doors where her murdered children lay exposed were burst open; Medea descended through them with the bloody steel in her hand; a single glance, a few hurried sentences which flashed from her, almost without purpose or will, revealed, gloom within gloom, the interminable horror and desolation with which she was surrounded. The tragedy was completed-the curtain fell; both writer and actress had achieved the very highest exploit in the art. These, however, are rare and angel visits, and have little influence in ani mating or relieving the general mediocrity.* In such a dearth of higher talent, the Roman turns to less expensive or less laborious amusements. In one of these substitutes, which I had nearly forgot mentioning, he shines unrivalled-I mean the Puppets or Fantocini. They are what Harlequin is to Venice, and her beloved Pulcinella to Naples. The figures, as far as the mechanism goes, are inimitable; but the excellence of the performance consists in the composition. It is an exquisite miniature of the Commedie dell' Arte, a continued improvisazione. The Elenco or skeleton of the piece is given; the details are spun out from the genius of the manager, often from the dialogue observations of the audience, always on the mere spur and inspiration of the occasion. This filling-up of the canvass is often admirable. They are generally serio-comic or Bernesque; just the sort of creations which might drop from the random pencil of Pulci in one of his maddest moods. The spirit seems to have transmigrated from Florence, and to have been nurtured by Pasquin into maturity here. The passing scoff and sneer of the day is caught and embodied with a saturnine and arch simplicity, but with an effect so evanescent, so composed of indescribable and untranslatable nothings, but at the same time so keenly and instantaneously intelligible, that no government can touch it, and yet every subject can perfectly well understand. I saw on one of these occasions the "Tragic History of Nero;" his cruelties, ugliness, miserable life, and unhappy death. The story, as the programme averred, was "molto flebile," but in the performance turned out to be laughable in the extreme. The whole Teatro Fiano was in a roar; prince and peasant were in juxta-position; the same facetia were addressed to both, and both, to the scandal of all true aristocracy, seemed perfectly to taste and to understand. On the whole, then, Rome has almost no theatre: a sort of tragedy-a miserable opera-perhaps a comedy-abundance of farce; and, as makeweight and substitute for all, her Processions in the morning, and in the evening her Fantocini. THE DYING KLEPHT TO HIS COMPANION. Oh! launch thee on the river, oh! launch thee from these shores ; If happily thou navigate, may reach our native place. If happily thou shouldst arrive at our own home again, Where we held counsel and roasted whole the kids which we had slain; If our companions ask thee then some tidings of their friend, Say not that I have perished, tell not my dismal end; But only say, that distant far, in the stranger's sorrowing land, I have unto an unknown bride's united my right hand; Say worms my brothers are, a stone the mother of my bride, And the black earth the only wife, that keeps me from their side. This arises, say the apologists, from the crowds of competitors (Gozzi Tom. i. Rag.), inadequacy of reward, deficiency of study and instruction, &c. The fact is, however, incontestable, and felt no where so much as at Rome. Pasquin, in his usual tranchant manner, gave one of the best critiques of these companies |