Returning to the early years of the last century and applying the same superficial examination to Wordsworth, who shared with the unwilling recluse at Recanati his delight in landscape and his affection for the children of the soil, we feel at once how great is the advantage this proper sense of restraint gives to the least diffuse of poets over one who is most so. In the realm also of lesser ethics, the undeniable self-sufficiency and occasional want of consideration for others shown by Wordsworth, and his extraordinary complacency, compare poorly with the perfect breeding and divine discontent' of one who cared nothing for worldly wealth or state and everything for his art.

These are considerations that lead us to ask how far the quality of an artist's production may be affected by the ethical atmosphere in which he works; and certainly in the present case much of Leopardi's distinction of manner may have sprung from his avoidance of anything that could exercise a lowering influence on his intellect and nature. Doubtless this was a necessary concomitant-we remember how jealously the author of 'Paradise Lost,' who so well understood the virtue of condensation in verse, guarded the purity of his singing robes; but the faultlessness referred to seems rather, or also, to derive from an inbred gentilezza which may have come to Leopardi from a lineage connecting him with the Crusades, and is apparent in all he does. On the other hand, more must not be claimed than is really deserved. The narrowness of the limits within which Leopardi excels should always be borne in mind; and, if less subject to worldly solicitations than the great men we have named, he may have been less in sympathy with the bulk of mankind. Looking round for comparisons that may further enlighten us, it is, we think, in the deep sad thought of Dante that equal depth and pathos should be sought; and only in the matchless prosody of Milton that a finer ear for melody and surer mastery over numbers may possibly be discovered. We have not here to deal with a Jove-like creative force such as that wielded by Goethe, but rather with a co-ordinate influence that may perhaps be likened to that of the Parcae. It is the sense of doom, of weight and authority in all he says, and his intelligence of the

underlying principles in human life, that make Leopardi's work so impressive.

But it is time to turn to the poems, and in the first place to the 'Risorgimento.' We hear it often said that some man of marked originality or genius came into the world charged with a message, whether of joy or sorrow, of warning or encouragement, to his fellow-men, received presumably from what conventionally we refer to as Nature. Among these cases it occasionally happens that Nature's ordinary channels or media of communication, such as the popular preacher, politician, novelist or essayist, seem hardly suited to her purpose; she then makes a poet. But the process whereby a true poet is made has often proved extremely painful, so much so that few would claim the honour, were choice permitted, at the cost of suffering so unusual; and, in effect, much of the best work of those elect to the office has been produced under a burning sense of resentment at the unhappiness of their lot. This was eminently the case with Leopardi, whose finest poems relate almost exclusively to his personal experience and include much bitter denunciation of Nature and Fate, 'il brutto poter che, ascoso, a comun danno impera.' Essentially a cry of distress, this lyrical work has the high and rare merit of absolute sincerity unaffected by literary pose; and, as we read, we feel that he speaks for large classes who from ill-health or adverse fortune have, like himself, been deprived of the ordinary solaces to human existence -scapegoats condemned to suffer in silence and bear the woes, if not the sins, of their more favoured fellow mortals. From the point of view of such an unfortunate, as represented in Leopardi's odes, Nature appears wholly indifferent to his distress, if not actually the cause of it. He therefore proclaims her the enemy, and advises union among men to oppose her-a kind of Socialism, as Carducci observes, far removed from the merely negative philosophy which is sometimes laid to his charge, and has militated against a better knowledge of his work in England. Like Keats, whose Hellenism he shared, but with the added discernment of a profound scholar, Leopardi was perhaps only half in love with death, and bravely endured the worst his supposed enemy had to inflict.

Leopardi's metrical compositions, being thus inex

tricably bound up with the course of that 'long disease his life,' constitute in effect a kind of autobiography in verse, which however requires a commentary. The circumstances attending their production may well be recalled. As to the 'Risorgimento,' interesting and attractive as it is, Straccali seems to be justified in observing that it must be considered 'one of the least beautiful among Leopardi's odes'; and for this the metrical form here employed, for the first and last time, may be held responsible. Biographically, however, it is one of the most important. In it are described the successive stages in an abnormal mental condition which began in the twenty-second and continued until the thirtieth year of the poet's life (1819-28). It is a prelude to the later and more elevated flights, to which in tone and expression it stands in marked contrast, while throwing needful light on the origin and tendency of the finer work; for all this later production proceeds naturally, almost logically, from the state of mind analysed in the poem. This mental disturbance resembles in many particulars the well-known crisis in John Stuart Mill's life. In both instances (which rather curiously happen to synchronise) the malady was partly caused by over-study; and if Mill's attack, which was certainly shorter, appears from the account he gives to have been less severe, allowance must be made for the time which elapsed before he set down his impressions, while Leopardi's ode followed hard upon the events to which it refers.

In 'Il Risorgimento' Leopardi commemorates his release from this oppression of spirit and paralysis of poetical power, which he divides into two periods or phases. The first lasted about three years. It was occasionally relieved by pleasant recollections and some of the illusions of childhood. But gradually a sombre conviction of the utter nullity and lack of significance in human affairs forced itself on the sufferer's mind; and, in the second term, which continued five years longer, complete apathy and suspended emotional and intellectual energy supervened. Escape from this overshadowing influence, which might have quenched the most vigorous mind, seems to have been hastened or assisted by some disdainful act on the part of a lady to whom the poet was attached and whom he compliments rather ambiguously

in some of the stanzas. Mill was more fortunate in this respect, and may have owed ultimate recovery to the smiles of his Egeria. In spite, however, of the scanty measure of favour extended to Leopardi by the fair sex, he rarely loses an opportunity to pay poetical tribute to Love, 'immortale amor,' as here designated. This lady is believed to have been the Countess Teresa Carniani Malvezzi, a literary celebrity of the day, twelve years older than her admirer and engaged at the time of their acquaintance (1825-27) in translating Cicero. She also published a blank-verse rendering of 'The Rape of the Lock' and some original verse. At this period Leopardi was earning a bare subsistence in the service of the publisher Stella, which enabled him to live for many years, with some intermissions, away from the paternal roof, first at Bologna, then at Florence and Pisa. The kind of intimacy between him and the Countess may be gathered from the following letter. Although an admirer of Pope, this gentildonna seems to have emulated Lady Mary in her treatment of genius allied with physical infirmity.

6

To his brother Carlo at Recanati.

'BOLOGNA, 30 May, 1826.

I have entered into relations with a lady, Florentine by birth and married into one of the principal families here, which now make up a great part of my life. She is not young, but (believe it from one who till now thought the thing impossible) her charm and intelligence take the place of youth and create an astonishing illusion. During the first days that I knew her I lived in a kind of delirium and fever. We never speak of love except to laugh at it, but live together in a tender and delicate amity, with mutual consideration and absence of restraint, which is as it were a love affair without disquietude. She has an excellent opinion of me; if I read to her something of mine, she often sheds heartfelt tears without any affectation. Praise from others has no effect on me whatever; hers seems to mingle in my blood and become part of my being. She is attached to and thoroughly understands letters and philosophy; subjects of conversation never fail, and almost every evening I am here with her from Ave Maria till past midnight. We confide all our secrets to each other, correct each other, and advise together upon our defects. In short this acquaintance forms, and will form, a well marked epoch in my life, for it has

disillusioned me of disillusion, has convinced me that there really are some pleasures in the world, which I used to think impossible, that I am still capable of permanent illusion in spite of experience and contrary ways of thought so deeply rooted; and it has resuscitated my heart after a sleep, rather an absolute death, of many years.'

It is a pity that an acquaintance begun with so much mutual esteem should have so soon withered; but within a year the lady seems to have grown tired of her sickly poet's attentions. We will now give the poem which had its origin in the circumstances just told, rendered in the exact form and measure of the original. We also append, for comparison, the passage in Mill's 'Autobiography' which relates his similar experience, and which may be new to some of our readers.

'IL RISORGIMENTO (The Awakening).

Penumbra.

'I thought, while my springtime yet lingered,
All feeling within me was dead,

That the sweetness of sorrow had fled,

Sole joy of my earlier years;

The sweetness of sorrow, the tender
Repinings that sank on my heart,
Whatever could pleasure impart

To the well-spring of feeling, my tears.

What tears, then, what querulous plainings
Were mine when I learned my new state,
When sorrow herself, my poor mate,
In the cold of my bosom had died!
When affliction no longer could pain me
Nor love wring a sob from my breast,
Now stiff in a wintry unrest,

And frozen the breath that had sighed.

I wept, thus despoiled, my lost sorrow,
The life without life that I led;
Over earth seemed a barrenness shed
Where aught that could move me must die;
By day all was desert about me;

The night in her silence, how dark!

Of stars I saw never a spark,

The moon looked a blot on the sky.