own emotions. Alfieri, by a singular chance, was transplanted from antiquity into modern times. He was born for action, yet permitted but to write: his style resented this restraint. He wished by a literary road to reach a political goal; a noble one, but such as spoils all works of fancy. He was impatient of living among learned writers and enlightened readers, who, nevertheless, cared for nothing serious, but amused themselves with madrigals and novelettes. Alfieri sought to give his tragedies a more austere character. He retrenched everything that could interfere with the interest of his dialogue, as if determined to make his countrymen do penance for their natural vivacity. Yet he was much admired, because he was truly great, and because the inhabitants of Rome applaud all praise bestowed on the ancient Romans, as if it belonged to themselves. They are amateurs of virtue, as of the pictures their galleries possess; but Alfieri has not created anything that may be called the Italian drama,- that is, a school of tragedy in which a merit peculiar to Italy may be found. He has not even characterized the manners of the times and countries he selected. His 'Pazzi,' Virginia,' and 'Philip II.' are replete with powerful and elevated thought; but you everywhere find the impress of Alfieri, not that of the scene nor of the period assumed. Widely as he differs from all French authors in most respects, he resembles them in the habit of painting every subject he touches with the hues of his own mind." At this allusion, d'Erfeuil observed:

"It would be impossible for us to brook on our stage either the insignificance of the Grecians, or the monstrosities of Shakespeare. The French have too much taste. Our drama stands alone for elegance and delicacy; to introduce anything foreign, were to plunge us into barbarism.”

“You would as soon think of surrounding France with the great wall of China!" said Corinne, smiling: "yet the rare beauties of your tragic authors would be better developed, if you would sometimes permit others besides Frenchmen to appear in their scenes. But we, poor Italians, would lose much. by confining ourselves to rules that must confer on us less honor than constraint. The national character ought to form the national theater. We love the fine arts, music, scenery, even pantomime; all, in fact, that strikes our senses. How, then, can a drama, of which eloquence is the best charm, content us? In vain did Alfieri strive to reduce us to this; he

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himself felt that his system was too rigorous. His 'Saul,' Maffei's Merope,' Monti's Aristodemus,' above all, the poetry of Dante (though he never wrote a tragedy), seem to give the best notion of what the dramatic art might become here. In 'Merope' the action is simple, but the language glorious; why should such style be interdicted in our plays? Verse becomes so magnificent in Italian, that we ought to be the last people to renounce its beauty. Alfieri, who, when he pleased, could excel in every way, has in his 'Saul' made superb use of lyric poetry; and, indeed, music itself might there be very happily introduced, not to interrupt the dialogue, but to calm the fury of the king, by the harp of David. We possess such delicious music, as may well inebriate all mental power; we ought, therefore, instead of separating, to unite these attributes; not by making our heroes sing, which destroys their dignity, but by choruses, like those of the ancients, connected by natural links with the main situation, as often happens in real life. Far from rendering the Italian drama less imaginative, I think we ought in every way to increase the illusive pleasure of the audience. Our lively taste for music, ballet, and spectacle is a proof of powerful fancy, and a necessity to interest ourselves incessantly even in thus sporting with serious images, instead of rendering them more severe than they need be, as did Alfieri. We think it our duty to applaud whatever is grave and majestic, but soon return to our natural tastes; and are satisfied with any tragedy so it be embellished by that variety which the English and Spaniards so highly appreciate. Monti's 'Aristodemus' partakes the terrible pathos of Dante and has surely a just title to our pride. Dante, so versatile a masterspirit, possessed a tragic genius, which would have produced a grand effect if he could have adapted it to the stage; he knew how to set before the eye whatever passed in the soul; he made us not only feel but look upon despair. Had he written plays they must have affected young and old, the many as well as the few. Dramatic literature must be in some way popular; a whole nation constitute its judges."

"Since the time of Dante," said Oswald, "Italy has played a great political part-ere it can boast a national tragic school great events must call forth, in real life, the emotions which become the stage. Of all literary chefs-d'œuvre, a tragedy most thoroughly belongs to a whole people; the author's genius is matured by the public spirit of his audience; by the govern

ment and manners of his country; by all, in fact, which recurs each day to the mind forming the moral being, even as the air we breathe invigorates our physical life. The Spaniards, whom you resemble in climate and in creed, have, nevertheless, far more dramatic talent. Their pieces are drawn from their history, their chivalry, and religious faith; they are original and animated. Their success in this way may restore them to their former fame as a nation; but how can we found in Italy a style of tragedy which she has never possessed?"

FATHER WILLIAM.

BY ROBERT SOUTHEY.

[For biographical sketch, see page 245.]

"You are old, Father William," the young man cried, -
"The few locks that are left you are gray;

You are hale, Father William, a hearty old man :
Now tell me the reason, I pray."

"In the days of my youth," Father William replied,
"I remembered that youth would fly fast;

And abused not my health and my vigor at first,
That I never might need them at last."

"You are old, Father William," the young man cried,
"And pleasures with youth pass away;

And yet you lament not the days that are gone:
Now tell me the reason, I pray."

"In the days of my youth," Father William replied,

"I remembered that youth could not last:

I thought of the future, whatever I did,
That I never might grieve for the past."

"You are old, Father William," the young man cried,
"And life must be hastening away;

You are cheerful, and love to converse upon death:
Now tell me the reason, I pray."

"I am cheerful, young man," Father William replied;
"Let the cause thy attention engage:

In the days of my youth I remembered my God,
And he hath not forgotten my age."