Inspired by a nobler aim Aleardo Aleardi has devoted his muse to loftier themes to the sufferings of his country and humanity. In 1849, though still very young he was scarcely twenty-three-his verses had already brought on him the persecution and suspicion of the Austrian authorities. Accused not untruly, of hatred to the yoke, he was thrown into prison, subjected to personal ill-usage, and a severe inquisition made in his lodgings, in the hopes of discovering something which might seriously inculpate him. Luckily he had a sister, devoted like himself to the cause of independence, and the watchful guardian of her brother's safety. With courageous resolution she burned all his papers, and the police unable to find any evidence against him which animosity itself could construe into crime, was com pelled, after many months of weary captivity, to set him at liberty, But he has ever since been the object of jealous surveillance. Still, though writing under the very cannons of the Austrians at Verona, he ventures to be faithful to that law of literature which compels the Italian poets to gravitate invincibly towards the one national thought-independence! Mr. Aleardi has a peculiar predilection for versi sciolti, or blank verse, a form, indeed, which, free from the trammels of rhyme, adapts itself with peculiar facility to every poetic inspiration. nature would have been roused to tenfold | gerating and multiplying his images, and hatred by this severity. Grossi was of in his attempt to astonish and to dazzle, he gentler mold. Thankful to escape so fails to touch the heart. easily, he retired completely from the public gaze, supporting himself as best he could by giving lessons, and confining his poetic effusions to themes which could by no possibility excite the susceptibility of his masters. On the death of the Emperor Francis, Grossi, with considerable difficulty, obtained permission to purchase the business of a notary, and in this modest position passed the remainder of his existence. Even 1848 could not rouse him from his lethargy. The only part he took in that Revolution which stirred Italy to its very depths, was, at the desire of the provisional government to prepare the act of union between Lombardy and Piedmont. Since the death of Grossi, Prati, Aleardi, and Tomaseo alone have maintained the honor of Manzoni's school. The style of the first is diametrically opposed to that of Berchet and Giusti. It is fluent, elegant, elaborate, but deficient in nature and simplicity, often overburdened with ornament. Besides, Mr. Prati has adopted a preconceived system of philosophy which he reproduces on all occasions, whether in its place or out of it. He does not perceive that he who regards his verse only as the vehicle for embodying new theories or abstractions, run the risk of being neither philosopher nor poet. This system is the struggle which is perpetually going on in the heart and mind of man between the genius of good and evil, God and the devil, peace and fatality. All that we do well is due to God acting with us; for all that we do ill, Satan is responsible. Maidens can defend themselves against the temptations of the evil spirit by the Latin of some monk only. For youth Mr. Prati sees nothing possible but a wild course of pleasure; for age an expiation by penitence and devotion; all his men are Rénés or Werthers, their lives a long course of satiety, desire, or remorse; his women are invariably weak and tender, the victims of seduction, full of the most passionate devotion towards those they love, but utterly incapable of self-control or mental discipline. Surely the days for despair without aim or end are long over. It would be unjust to deny Mr. Prati considerable fancy, command of language, and harmonious versification; but contrary to the rules imposed on themselves by most of his contemporaries, he is fond of exag A few verses from a piece entitled An "Restore me, Lord, one single day of youth, Still do I hear my much-loved father's voice, I drew that fervent love of poetry, A little further the pious and tender son becomes the ardent and devoted citizen. "The hoofs of Italy's victorious steeds fortunately," he added, "the majority of the Assembly will not leave me at liberty to prove my sentiments by my actions." When Tomaseo left the palace of the Elysée, "It is easy enough to see," he exTomaseo is better known as the patriot claimed, "that this one is a prince, and and journalist, the defender of Venice, the other only a parvenu." When, after than as the poet. The interest which at- eighteen months' glorious struggle, Venice taches to his life may perhaps have lent to sank beneath the combined force of famine, his works a charm which in themselves cholera, and the enemy, Tomaseo accomthey scarcely possess. The friend and panied Manin and a few other noble exiles confident of Manin, he stood side by side to France, in a vessel freighted by the with him during that heroic defense which French consul, Vasseur, who had shown. has forever illustrated the name of Venice throughout the most generous sympathy in modern times. During the two years with the unfortunate city. There he still that she remained free from the Austrian remains. Worn by long suffering, halfyoke, Tomaseo was chosen by his fellow-blind, prematurely old, his soul still burns citizens as ambassador to Paris, in the with a patriotism equally fervent as in hopes that his celebrity as a writer, and youth, though tempered by time, sufferhis political friendships, might enable him ing, and experience. When, but a few to render useful services to the Italian months ago, his long-cherished hopes cause. But the French Republic, despite seemed on the eve of fulfillment, he warned the brilliant declamations of Lamartine, his countrymen not to expect too much. was either unable or unwilling to aid the Now that these hopes (as regards Venice) unhappy city. Tomaseo returned from are so badly blighted, he does not suffer his embassy to share the struggles and this cruel disappointment to blind him to sufferings of his unfortunate country. the advantages which have been secured to Italy as a nation, and of which his beloved city may, let us hope, ultimately share; and his letter to the French army and its Emperor is a model of nobility of soul and of generous self-sacrifice. Who shall despair of the future destiny of a nation for which such men have lived, thought, and suffered? The choice of Tomaseo as an ambassador was not perhaps a happy one. For a true poet-that is to say, a man of fiery imagination, of inspiration-to be a good diplomatist, is almost impossible. Till the Revolution of the twenty-second of March, Tomaseo had lived in almost complete retirement, devoting himself to those intellectual pursuits he so much loved. With the most loyal and chivalrous nature that ever existed, he had much of the susceptibility of a man accustomed to live alone. The tortuous paths of diplomacy, the puerility of form, the mania of protocols, the patience demanded, the thousand and one nothings which compose so large a portion of that mystic science, were little suited to his free and haughty spirit. The slightest delay irritated him. One day having called on General Cavaignac, he was requested to wait for his turn, when perceiving the Princess B. quitting the General's apartments, he set off immediately, exclaiming aloud: "I have a pen which can wound worse than a sword." Previous to leaving Paris he had requested an audience of the President of the Republic. Louis Napoleon received him most graciously, spoke to him of his works, which he had read-of the Italian cause, for which he himself had fought-of Venice, which he loved and admired. "Un VOL. XLIX.-No. 2 The list of Italian poets of the nineteenth century is far from complete, but our limits will allow of but brief mention of those who remain, though many occupy, and deservedly, a high place in the opinion of their countrymen. The Campo Santo di Brescia, a poem of considerable length, in versi sciolti, is much admired for the sustained and religious loftiness of its sentiments and the harmony of its versification, and the lessons of wisdom, patriotism, and union which the writer draws from the history of the past, which he records. The ballads of Carrel and Perticari are full of fire and energy. The Urra de Cosacci, by the former, has been not undeservedly compared to the famous song of Béranger, and his sonnets, particularly that beginning Perché tu scenda ò Notte, are remarkable for the perfection of their form, and their melancholy sweetness. The Per Monaca of Vitorelli will be familiar to most of our readers by Byron's translation. Emileo Carcano is perhaps 11 better known by his romance of Angiola Maria, than by his poetry; yet among his compositions two merit peculiar notice from the chastened tenderness of the style and the purity of the sentiments, La Sposa and La Madre. The Esule, or Exile, of Mr. Cautu, is at once touching and noble, and possesses a deeper interest when we know that is not the inspiration of the poet only, but the real adieu of the exile to the land he loves. The names of Rosetti, the fiery apostle of liberty, whose verses "All anno dell' grand speranza," poured forth in banishment, but glowing with fire and patriotic ardor, have thrilled many an Italian heart; of Bellini, Scholari, and a crowd of others attest, that despite the systematic discouragement thrown on their efforts by all the governments of Italy, (Piedmont the last ten years excepted,) despite the perils which attend, or have till now attended, every generous aspiration, every lofty sentiment, lest their expression should awaken a feeling of nationality, contemporary poets are not wanting to Italy. If none of them can claim genius of the loftiest order, great originality of thought, or wealth of imagination; if none attain the hights of sublimity or sound the abysses of passion, if some mistake noble enthusiastic emotions, clad in harmonious rhyme, for the real music of the soul, it would be unjust to deny that many possess poetic qualifications of no mean order, glowing picturesqueness, mellowness of coloring, power and pathos; and that nearly all display a pleasing talent of description, elevation of soul, an eloquent earnestness which touches the heart more than the most brilliant and elaborate painting. If we are told that their productions can boast comparatively little variety of tone or theme, that with certain exceptions they are generally mere variations on the same tune-modulations in the same key; let it be remembered that this key is the only one to which the hearts of true Italians respond, and will remain so till better and happier days. Surely we should hail as the best and surest evidence of Italy's regeneration, both national and intellectual, that no work of imagination, however admirable in itself, which does not touch the chord of patriotism and national independence, can expect popularity or attention. This is a hopeful symptom; it proves that Italy has awoke from its slumbers-awoke to a new and healthy existence. The poets of the south feel that the moment for songs of love and tenderness is past, their lyres are tuned to martial music only, as were those of the Germans during the war of liberation in 1813; when--and that day will surely yet arrive-the Peninsula has forever broken the galling fetters of Austria; when continued independence and free political institutions have restored that peace and tranquillity which are necessary to permit of our feeling an interest in the descriptions of domestic life and home enjoyments, doubtless her poetry will take a wider range and enter into another phase. May we not hope that without losing that lucidity, conciseness, and energy which now distinguish it, it will acquire greater variety in form and expression, more analysis, more imagination, that it may thus blend the tendencies each so admirable in itself, each so prone to mislead when followed alone to an extreme-the real and the ideal? FROM the earliest period of the world's history, mankind have attached an arbitrary and marvelous value to precious stones, such as the diamond, the ruby, the opal, the sapphire, and the amethyst. In itself, the beauty of these gems is very great. The rainbow, the sea, the clouds, the most gorgeous flowers, the varying tints and coruscations of the forest, are surpassed by the splendor of these jewels, which man digs up painfully from the bowels of the earth, and polishes with the rarest skill. Sometimes as we search amid the ruins of ancient cities, jewels of exquisite brilliance flash forth upon us from the rubbish, and seem to reveal more than arch, architrave, or column, the greatness of the people who dwelt there in ages past. About the beginning of the eighteenth century a poor Arab, unable to earn a comfortable subsistence by labor, who possessed neither house nor lodging of any kind, after working all day in the fields, habitually passed the night among the tombs. Once when the summer was hotter than usual, he happened to be engaged in the corn-fields by a wealthy peasant, who lived near the ruins of Achoris. As soon as night fell, the southwest wind blowing like the breath of a furnace across the Great Desert, drove every person to seek for shelter within doors, or behind some wall or rock. The individual of whose indigence we have spoken was called Sibbi, and he had no friends or relatives to whom he could apply for assistance in his distress. When the hour for closing the doors of the cottages arrived, therefore, he found himself excluded from every dwelling, and wandered away sorrowfully in the dark towards the mountains which overhang the valley on the eastern side. Arrived at the rocks, panting, and half-stifled by the hot wind, he climbed up a little in search of coolness. The higher he mounted, the pleasanter it became. Through the great gaps in the rocks which at times brought PRECIOUS STONES. down a current of east wind upon the city, nothing now came but a sort of eddy of the night-air, less scorching than the fierce furnace-blast upon the plain below. Sibbi felt refreshed by this slight improvement in the state of the atmosphere, and continued toiling up through rents in the face of the precipice till he reached the edge of the great cistern which once supplied twenty thousand persons with their daily allowance of water. Here he sat down, thinking the air absolutely delicious. Even the wind of fifty days was tempered into sweetness by that elevation, and sported and played among the honeycombed crags like a breeze of Enna or Arcady. Refreshed and soothed, Sibbi at length slept; and the sun was already lighting up the desert, and sheathing the broad river with gold, when he awoke. Sibbi was not a worshiper of the picturesque. He was hungry, and hunger is insensible to the charms of scenery. The hour, he knew, would soon be at hand when he must descend into the hot valley, and moisten his coarse black bread with the sweat of his brow; too happy even so to ward off the threatened visit of death. But as he sat in this quiet and breezy spot, he experienced extreme reluctance to renew his labors. Why not enjoy hunger and idleness for one day? He could lie in the shadow of the cliff, and look down proudly upon the slaves, scorching and frying among the dhourra stubble below. He resolved to enjoy this luxury, and remained sitting on the edge of the cistern, gazing at the heaps of whitish dust with which two thousand years had nearly filled the mighty reservoir. His eye at length alighted on a small object, that immediately riveted all his attention. It looked like a fragment of lunar light gleaming softly and serenely in the rich sunshine. What could it be? It was by no means easy to descend into the reservoir, and when there, it might prove still less easy to climb out again. But the love of adven ture is generally the feeling uppermost | beg a little bread to preserve his stomach in the mind of an Arab. Without tak- from a complete collapse. The more he ing much counsel of prudence, Sibbi pondered on his situation, the less enviable leaped into the cistern, and with beating heart approached the object which had lured him into the gulf. There, flanked by two pieces of chalky stone, it lay drinking in the morning light, and then reflecting it upon the eye softened and subdued as if by magic. With the experience which seems common to all orientals, he understood it was some rare gem, and the word which he beheld engraven on its surface might, for aught he knew, be the Great Name by which Suleiman transported the treasures of Kaf into his regal palace among the cedars. Sibbi had some scruple about touching this wonderful amulet, whose powers might shake the mountains, and call up around him all the terrible legends of the Jinn. But courage came to him as he gazed. If it be not supernatural, he thought, it may still sell for a great deal in Cairo; and emboldened by this practical consideration, Sibbi picked up the gem, and concealed it carefully in his bosom. The next question was how to escape from the reservoir. The rock all round was smooth, polished, and perpendicular, and little less than three times his own hight. But every body is acquainted with the mother of invention, who now came to the aid of the captive Arab, so that by heaping up great stones and quantities of dust against the smooth and slippery rock, he contrived to escape from his prison. Sibbi now believed himself to be in possession of wealth, and his heart was elated accordingly. He descended hastily into the valley, and without noticing whether the wind that blew was hot or cold, hurried along the path by the river's side towards the Mother of Cities. No one who has ever considered the Oriental mind can fail to have been struck by its strong propensity towards building castles in the air. Half the pleasures of life in the east spring from this faculty, which levels mountains, dries seas, fills up valleys, and creates at the least touch a paradise in the desert. During his first day's journey, Sibbi was indebted to his imagination for immunity from hunger and thirst; but on the second morning he was fain to have recourse to the pro.verbial hospitality of his countrymen, and did it begin to appear. Who would be the purchaser of the gem he had found ? Might he not be suspected of having stolen it, be taken before the cadi, and by way of investigation, be bastinadoed upon the soles of his feet till he should be halfdead ? Who would give credit to his story of the cistern and the ruined city? "Verily," thought he, "they will say it is an imposture; and I may be condemned and put to death as a thief." Being, nevertheless, persuaded that nothing can happen but what is written, he comforted himself with the reflection, that if he were hanged, it could only be in accordance with destiny. On, therefore, he went, and in due time arrived at Cairo. In that great city, which, in miniature, represents the whole East, he found a caravansary suited to his wants, and entering, was waited on by a young woman, who served all travelers, especially the poor and humble for charity. At first, he had some thought of imparting his secret to her, and taking counsel of her- and well would it have been for him had he done so-but he reflected that the owners of great wealth are surrounded by snares, and that this woman might be in league with the children of the wicked. Accordingly, he accepted her kindness, held his peace, and departed on the morrow, bestowing on her nothing but his blessing, which, in fact, except the gem, was all he had to bestow. With many doubts and much trembling he approached the shop of a lapidary in the south-eastern angle of the great bazaar; and taking out the jewel from his bosom, which he did with the air and aspect of a convicted thief, he presented it to the master, and inquired what he would give for it. The jeweler was one of those crafty and cruel men who build up their own opulence on the ruin of others. He immediately said to himself: "This Arab is a robber, who has broken into some mosque and stolen this marvelous opal from the sacred treasury. I will threaten to take him before the cadi; conscious of guilt, he will effect his escape, and the gem will become mine." But the delight imparted by this guilty scheme could not repress the jeweler's admiration for the extraordinary beauty of the opal, amid the streaks of whose clouds the cunning hand of some ancient |