sidence there, that he has preserved his life and his writings unsullied by the profligacy and dissolute habits of the people and of the court. The Quarterly Reviewers do not grudge him the honour of having done this, when they observe," Judging Ugo Foscolo as the author of these Letters, as we have judged his literary, so we ought to weigh his moral character, with reference to the country in which he was born, and where he received his earliest impres sions." Though the genius of Ugo Foscolo is highly national, it is also, like Alfieri's, a good deal in unison with some of our old English writers, who were understood also to have imitated the poets of Italy. We thus find him extremely well read in English literature, and in the old English poets, as well as in the best authors of antiquity. "Homer, Dante, and Shakspeare," he exclaimed, "are the only three great masters of the human soul-they are indelibly impressed upon my imagination and my heart-I have bathed their verses with my tears-and I seem to hold converse with their divine shades, as if I really beheld them throned upon the clouds of heaven, holding dominion over time and eternity." In a few passages of his works he is thought to have imitated Gray, as in those fine lines in his Elegy "And who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey, This pleasing, anxious being e'er resign'd!" Italicè—“E chi mai cede a una eterna oblivione questa cara e travagliata esistenza!" But the charge of borrowing was likewise brought against Gray by Pignotti; and, if we reflect upon the number of casual coincidences, both of thought and expression, such charges will be found to rest on no very solid foundation. To the Last Letters of Ortis is added a short episodical tale, entitled "Lauretta," written in the manner of Sterne; which, with other little effusions, are considered by Foscolo as the trifles of a youthful leisure hour. We now come to a more mature and important production from the pen of Ugo Foscolo-a work in which the fair promise of excellence held out in his "Tieste" is amply redeemed, in a harvest of rich poetic fruit, worthy of so fresh and so full a spring. His "Ricciarda" is a perfectly original exhibition of dramatic power and skill. We are at a loss to say, whether the truth and nature of the characters, the strength and beauty of the sentiments, or the individual passages and fine bursts of poetry, most richly abound. It bears the same stamp of passionate character as the drama of Alfieri, though it is quite new in its conception, and in the style and execution of the piece. With the same breathless haste, and terrible manifestation of fatality, shewn in the progress of the stories of his predecessor, it has a richer poetical diction and an eloquence of passion to which Alfieri never attained. The "Ricciarda" is also entitled to the best praise to which tragedy can aspire-that of nationality and a native growth of thought and feeling, derived from the motives and habits of a people, and without which, the drama can never be a complete representation of human action and character. Foscolo divides the honour with Monti and Manzoni of having achieved a more national and peculiar species of dramatic writing-at once more simple and natural, and more in unison with the mind and genius of modern Italy. It is quite free from the monotony of style, and the mawkishness of erotic and poetic sentiment, which load many of the early dramatic pieces of their predecessors, modelled upon traditionary rules, and imitated from the ancients. Such are the "Sophonisba" of Trissino, the "Orestes" of Ruccellai, and the "Antigone" of Alamanni. Several tragedies of Torquato Tasso are obnoxious to the same charge. Voltaire, in treating of the Italian drama, observes, "Les Italiens fùrent les premiers qui élévèrent de grands theatres, et qui donnèrent au monde quelque idée de cette splendeur de l'ancienne Grèce, qui attirait les nations étrangères à ses solemnités, et qui fut le modèle des peuples en tous les genres." This eulogium, we may be sure, would not have been granted to Italy by Voltaire had it not been especially merited: but, though the first specimens of dramatic art, among the Italians, were founded upon a mistaken principle, they are exquisite master-pieces, in their way, and fine models of classical composition. The plot of the "Ricciarda" is simple-the interest depending upon the materials and masterly execution, rather than on the mysteries and employment of the rules of art. The story merely turns upon the private history of a Prince of Salerno-not the despot of his country, but the petty tyrant of his kindred and his friends-the Saturn of his own unhappy little world-the destroyer of his children. Goaded by feelings of envy and imaginary insult towards a relation of his house, whose son aspires to the hand of his own daughter, Guelfo resolves not only to oppress, but, if possible, to destroy him. He thus carries war and devastation into the bosom-peace of those whom he should cherish. One of the sons he has secretly dispatched by poison; and, having discovered the attachment of Ricciarda to his surviving brother, Guido, he becomes harsh and tyrannical to his own daughter. Urged by fears for her safety, as well as by the excess of his affection, Guido has privately left his father's camp, to introduce himself, in disguise, into the castle of his deadliest foe. Suspicions are awakened in the breast of Prince Guelfo; for Corrado, the friend of Guido, is observed, and pursued, as he is making his escape out of the castle, whither he had followed Guido, with the commands and prayers of his father (Averardo) to return. The enraged Guelfo charges Ricciarda with having concealed her lover under his own roofthreatens her with his vengeance, if she refuses to yield him upand, on her denying it, gives way to the utmost rage and violence of his nature. In the mean time, he encounters the troops of his brother, towards whom he indulges a deadly enmity-Guelfo is worsted, and pursued into his castle. It is then that vengeance and despair seize upon his spirit. Imagining that Guido is concealed in the vaults of the castle, he drags his daughter, by her dishevelled hair, among the tombs; calling on her lover to come forth, or that he will, in a moment, stab her to the heart. Guido suddenly appears; and the father commands him, if he would not see Ricciarda bleed, to use no resistance, but to approach him unarmed. He does so-and Guelfo wounds him with his dagger. At this moment, Averardo appears, followed by his victorious troops; but Guelfo warns them off, as he stands, with his bloody weapon, ready to immolate his daughter to revenge himself upon his foc. He addresses him in the following words, which we have ventured to translate from the original, while we regret how much its spirit and its beauty must be lost. It is from the last scene of the fifth act. Guelfo. But, must I see thee live! In my soul's strife and ignominy, bear To hate, and see thee live!-Why live?-but hark! Thy age most sorrowful--and to the tomb My throne shall follow thee, when here awhile Deserted in my violated halls, Thou hast watched our name, our blood, and all decay I am one more swift to act than imprecate Unhappy things-Now, Guido, mark thee well! See if I dare to die-trembles my hand [Guelfo here stabs Ricciarda. Ricciar. Take me, O mother, take thy daughter home! Not thine. He would not let me save thee, love- Guelfo. Lo! I follow. [She dies. [He stabs himself. In this hasty and inadequate sketch, we feel how little we have done justice to the admirable genius of the author. The bold and shadowy power-the terrible delineation of passion--and the masterly touches of character, with richness of poetic thought and expression, are above any praise which we can bestow upon them. WOMAN. 66 -one hand Was threading lightly through her crisped locks, Then parting her luxurious lips, she spoke, And did confess herself a mere, mere woman."-Cinthia. No one who has read Dryden's Fables, can have forgotten the translation of that gallant Bird the Cock : "Mulier est hominis confusio, Madam, the meaning of this Latin is That woman is to man his sovereign bliss." " : This is the very type of human conduct. Men rail against women, call them mutabile genus with Horace, exclaim with Lord Byron that treachery is all their trust," or with the "Gentleman who has left his Lodgings," "that they are soon contented to follow the crowd;" yet, in spite of all these objections, the influence of woman remains about the same as it was when Antony lost the world for Cleopatra. Men still shut their eyes against conviction, and walk blindly to their fate-they rail against the faithlessness and the heartlessness of woman one day, and they marry the next-and thus they are reduced to the necessity of translating Latin like Dryden's feathered biped, or, like Dominie Sampson, of addressing their ladies with "sceleratissima, that is, good Mrs. Margaret; impudentissima, that is to say, excellent Mrs. Merrilies." We rather think that the testimony of these gentlemen cannot be relied upon they are interested witnesses, and they are already evidently in two stories. From them, therefore, we must not enquire the character of woman. To whom therefore shall we resort? To the philosophers? They have always been jealous of women, who are their most powerful antagonists, overturning systems with a smile, and destroying the most perfect reasoning with a nod of the head, and unphilosophising even the soul of a stoic. Besides, all philosophers call women Xantippes, being deep commiserators of the fate of Socrates. Can any of our readers form an idea of a philosopher courting? The very notion is as preposterous as that of an abstract idea of a Lord Mayor in Martinus Scriblerus. If then it is so useless to consult the philosophers, shall we get a better answer from the poets? Here the partiality is as great on the other side. What oceans of adulation! There is not a single superlative word of excellence that the poets have not pressed into the service of their mistresses-but of the poets' notions we shall say more anon. Ask the man of the world what he thinks on the subject. He pauses-and you see his head is running on settlements. When the poet calls his mistress heavenly-minded, the prudent worldling says she is a good match; and while the enraptured bard murmurs some impassioned words, about " the mind, the music breathing from her face," our man of the mart is coolly calculating "£5000. 3 per cents now, and something more when the old fellow dies." Now which of these opinions shall we choose? We confess, for our own parts, we patronize the poet's, both because we believe it to be nearer the truth, and because, even if it were not so, it is by far the pleasantest of the three. But let us be understood, before we commence our panegyric, for we foresee it will be such-let us be fully understood to speak of woman in the abstract; not of old women, nor cross women, nor ugly women, nor foolish women, nor blue stockings, nor poissardes, but of the ideal woman, such as the soul of Milton conceived when he shadowed out the beautiful picture of his Eve. At the same time, we should be exceedingly chagrined if it were imagined that we intended any studied insult to the very respectable classes of females we have just mentioned. We have felt an affectionate veneration for several old ladies, and many a pleasant hour have we passed in their company. For his mother's sake a man is bound to respect old ladies--at least, in our minds. Now, as to cross women, it is a very well known fact, that their attachment is frequently stronger than that of good-humoured ones; and besides, it should be recollected that they contribute very much to a man's happiness by exercising the valuable qualities of forbearance and resignation. Want of beauty, as a quality, only relates to young women; for it does not matter whether an old one be ugly or not-but this circumstance, which is so often considered a misfortune, is very frequently a blessing, as those who have read Mr. William Parnell's Julietta, and Miss Burney's Camilla, feel perfectly convinced. Far be it therefore from us to speak with disrespect of a lady because perchance her nose is not of seemly proportion, or because her complexion happens to be rather like that of a lawyer. As for the foolish ladies, we can only say, we feel as much regard for them as we can, and have no possible intention of offending them; we would, however, venture to make one remark, that if they happen to be pretty, they may possibly achieve a conquest if they will but hold their tongues; but many a strong impression, made by a handsome set of features, has faded away at the utterance of a silly speech. Then, as to the blue stocking, or true literary lady-the precieuse-" a female who cares for no man, but boasts that her protectors are Titlepage the publisher, Vamp the bookseller, and Index the printer:" -as for her, it will perhaps be as prudent to hold a discreet |