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lic eye, as to secure the favor of a large class of readers; the only sure path to the purse of his publishers. This cannot be done by history, for the composition of history requires long, and patient, and laborious research; nor by poetry, unless the bard be gifted with the fertile genius of a Byron; nor by philosophy, nor by any branch of science, for however extensive and durable the fame, which success in these departments may secure, it can seldom be attended by popular favor, or extensive gain. Prose fiction, whether in the form of novels or of tales, whether grounded upon facts, or derived from the imagination of the writer, is the only branch of literature, which can gratify at once the passion for immediate reputation and pecuniary profit. This enables him to keep constantly before the public; to prevent his readers, by the regularity of his appearance, from losing sight of him amid the crowd that never fails to flock into every successful path; and when he has once secured attention by writing well, to command it at will by the mere authority of his name.

We have dwelt upon this point longer than we had intended, from an anxiety to induce our readers to examine and weigh carefully the correctness of our views, before we proceeded to uncover the other side of the picture. The inducements, which we have represented as contributing so much towards the cultivation of romance by men of great intellectual power, exist not in Italy. The division of the territory into petty states, and under the dominion of different families, renders the privilege of copy-right, even where it can be obtained, of little or no advantage. No sooner is a work announced in one part of the country, than the publishers of other states, and often those of different cities within the same states, prepare themselves for its appearance. If it proves successful, it is immediately reprinted wherever there is a chance of finding purchasers. If it be a failure, the first publisher feels the loss and nobody ever hears of it again. But as far as the pecuniary interest of the author is concerned, both cases, success and failure, are nearly alike in their consequences. He gains nothing, or at best but a trifle. Were this all, there would still be a certain appearance of justice in his lot. But he has often to lose in his own person, and, while struggling with poverty, to view, without the power of reclamation, the profits which others derive from the productions of his genius. An example which we have from the lips of the individual himself,

will place this melancholy truth in a stronger light, than any observations of ours can possibly do. Botta's History of the American Revolution is well known in this country; and the translation of it has passed through two editions under the sanction of American copy-right. The French translator, also, was liberally rewarded for his labors by the publishers of Paris. In Italy, the editions of the original text have been multiplied in every part of the country; and have proved in every form, a fruitful source of gain to the editors. What in the mean while was the reward of the author? He had drawn upon his scanty patrimony in order to defray the expenses of the original publication; for no bookseller could be found in Paris willing to undertake it at his own risk. While the Italian reprints and the French translation were obtaining an unexampled circulation, the copies of the first edition were lying a dead weight upon the hands of the author; and he was at last constrained to sell six hundred of them, at the price of waste paper, for a few sous a pound, in order to purchase for his wife the privilege of dying in her native land.

What then can induce the Italian to renounce the ease of a life of indolence, or the advantages of commerce, for the cares and anxieties, and in speaking of Italy we must add, the dangers, of literature? We know of but two causes at all adequate to such a result. The love of literature for itself; and the thirst for a durable reputation. To these should be added, but as acting with them, rather than as a separate cause, the hope of doing something towards the regeneration of his fellow citizens.

That the love of letters does exist in Italy, if not in perfect purity, at least free from the corruptions by which it is tarnished in other countries, would seem to be sufficiently evident from what has already been stated with regard to the situation of its votaries. And in fact, when, on the one hand, we consider the obstacles which obstruct the path of the man of letters, in this unhappy land; his sacrifice of peace and of domestic quiet; the alternative to which so many are reduced of choosing between a prison and an exile, and the meagre and uncertain rewards which attend the most successful exertions; and, upon the other, contemplate the ardor with which the best talent of the land consecrates itself to literature, and the unwavering devotion, with which it meets every sacrifice and hardship that its choice imposes; we are struck with an admi

ration which we had never felt before, and are compelled to acknowledge that beautiful arrangement of Providence, which, when every ordinary motive would turn us back from the paths of intellectual culture, decks them with a winning, an irresistible loveliness, stronger than the suggestions of indolence, or the attractions of interest. Neither is the prospect of an ephemeral reputation, overshadowed as it is by cares and vexations, and deprived of all the advantages, which in other countries make it attractive, sufficient to account for the literary devotion of a modern Italian. He undoubtedly labors for applause; but the fame after which he endeavors is that tardy fame, which is sculptured upon the tomb, and which, by an unaccountable, though undeniable illusion, reconciles man to the trials which he actually endures, by the hope of those tributes of love and veneration which he can neither hear nor enjoy.

If the view which we have taken of the personal inducements to literary exertion in Italy be correct, it will necessarily follow that men of genius will choose that course, which promises to lead more directly and surely to the reward after which they aspire; or, in other words, they will naturally adopt that branch of literature, which gives the greatest security of durable fame. We can hardly be accused of rashness or of prejudice, when we assert, that of all the various forms of composition, although none may lead more promptly than romance to immediate applause, yet none is so insecure a guide to permanent reputation. It was one of the first inventions of modern literature. It was one of the earliest and most curious pictures of the Middle Ages. It has followed every turn of society, and everywhere adapted itself to the feelings and character of the age. But, as these give place to new feelings and to new character, the fictions which formed the delight of one century have been almost instantly forgotten, if not caricatured and despised, in the next. Nor has this proceeded more from those changes in our pursuits and in our mode of life, which call for a concurrent change in works of this kind, than from the nature of the writing itself, which, holding a middle station between poetry and history, and neither shackled by the difficulties of the one, nor requiring the laborious research of the other, presents temptations to the formation of habits of carelessness and haste, which few have the strength or the courage to resist. Our own age

has already witnessed the rise of three new forms. Two of them, though at first hardly less popular than the other, are nearly forgotten. The third, and most recent, still survives. Whether it be destined to share the fate of its predecessors, is a question which cannot yet be decided. Bound as westill are by the spell that it has thrown around us, we are unable to see beyond the magic circle, and tell how far the current that has swept away every other class will carry this. Then it is distinguished from all others by one great advantage. With the same privilege of taking its subjects from real life, and thus representing human nature as it is, it possesses the additional one of throwing light upon those parts of history, over which the pen of the historian passes with a faint and rapid stroke. But history has accused it of yielding too often to the temptation of misrepresenting and falsifying its pictures, and this even in the hands of the greatest of its masters. Here the advantages and disadvantages are peculiar to this class. In every other respect, and in the fatal facility with which it may be written, it is upon a level with all other prose fiction.

But these disadvantages, notwithstanding their tendency to repress that ardor, without which no writer can hope for success, might be overlooked by the Italian, were it possible for him to believe that this might be rendered more subservient to the cause of Italy, than any other kind of composition, and that, whatever his fate as a writer, he would have secured the gratification of contributing something towards the future prosperity of his country. But he cannot fail to perceive, how inadequate and ill-calculated such an instrument is to the accomplishment of what every enlightened Italian aspires after. Were Italy really oppressed with that torpor which many suppose, scarce any thing could be better adapted to rouse her, than that exciting mixture of historic truth and high colored fiction, which acts so powerfully upon the warm blood of the south. But the tragedies of Alfieri have done more towards forming the Italians to that stern and elevated patriotism which is essential to a successful effort for freedom, than romance ever has or ever could have done; and the events of the last forty years have scattered those seeds, which, even though they fall upon stony ground or by the way-side, never fall in vain. Italy now requires the slow but certain guidance of sober history. At the side of those passions which should

work out her freedom, are those wild and fanciful hopes, which, if left to their free play, would poison all its sources. It is only by chastening these in the school of real life, that so fatal a catastrophe can be prevented. Excitement and passion have done their part. If reason, speaking with the voice of experience, be listened to, they will not have done it in vain. Whatever has a tendency to work upon the imagination, and carry excitement beyond the point which it has already reached, although it may hasten the moment of action, and produce by a convulsive effort that which the natural course of events is inevitably bringing about, will retard, for at least another century, the true progress of Italy and of Europe.

Thus the only causes, which seem to us capable of moving the minds of Italians of the highest order, tend to confirm that neglect of historical romance, which has prevailed at every period of their literary history. As long as these remain in force, so long will the success of this school be doubtful. Literature has always been the child of circumstances; and they alone of her followers have been successful, who have known when to yield to their impulse, and when to temper it. For the last twelve years, there has been a struggle in Italy, between the state of things which we have hastily sketched in the present paper, and the enthusiasm kindled by the romances of Scott. Had the writer, who is acknowledged to be at the head of this party, been endowed with a fertility of invention proportioned to his accuracy of observation, and a force corresponding to the delicacy of his genius, it would be difficult to conjecture how far he might have succeeded in triumphing over the obstacles, which have proved fatal to the cause when intrusted to the hands of his partisans. As it is, his beautiful production stands almost alone. We may endeavour, in another paper, by a full examination of the work of Manzoni, and a sketch of the works of his disciples, to enable our readers to decide for themselves, how far we are right in the opinions which we have ventured to express in this.

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