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sured stanza called Ottavo rime, somewhat like the stanza that Spencer has adopted in his Fairy Queen, becomes extremely disgusting in a long work. There appears to me likewise in this performance a feebleness and want of energy sufficient to interest in so long a work, though there is a pomp of description, that if a verse he taken singly appears extremely beautiful. I must, however, except from this kind of negative censure the character of Armida, which, towards the close of the poem especially, is drawn with a truth and delicacy that in some instances would not have been unworthy of Shakespeare himself. Beware of reading the English translation of this work if you ever with to feel the charms of the original painting.

Ariosto is a much more original writer than Tafso, and though infinitely more irregular, will afford you much more pleasure, if your mind is delighted with the genuine touches of nature, which constitutes the true test of genius in poetical composition but you will find his language more difficult than that of Tafso; and you will lose infinitely more of the pleasure you ought to feel, by not understanding his fine allusions thoroughly. Open not this book, then, till you are far advanced in Italian literature.

Tafso's Aminta displays more force of genius than his Gierusalemme; but lefs chastity of judgement. It was a juvenile performance, written with great fire, while the imagination was unrestrained. There are many fine touches in it; but there is a luscious warmth in some of the descriptions which

will be rather admired than approved of. The whole of the plot is so totally out of nature as to deserve no sort of criticism.

The Pastor Fido of Guarini, viewed as a poem, is a delightful composition. For harmony of numbers, and beauty of descriptions, perhaps it has no superior in any language; but considered as a dramatic performance it is nothing. The author has evidently had the Aminto in his eye; and the plot has the same defects, and the characters the same unnatural extravagance which prevail throughout that work. But in the Pastor Fido we find more fine poetry; in the Aminto more of the enthusiasm of genius,

It is here worthy of particular remark, that though Italian poetry in general be fhackelled with rhyme and measured verse, as much as almost any of the other languages of modern Europe, yet they preserve in their dramatic pieces a degree of freedom and ease that none of these languages can boast of. Rhyme, except in the lyric pieces, they seldom adopt; and as to measure, it is free, and bounded only by the sense, and the general cadence that that requires. As a specimen I fhall transcribe the fol lowing lines, being part of a soliloquy in the Pastor. Fido, which you can read perfectly well by sounding every letter in the same way as in the Latin, and the ch as if it were written k, and c as if written ch.

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Tù torni ben, tù torni,

Ma teco altro non torna,

Che del perduta mio caro tesoro

La remembranza misera, e dolente.
Tù quella se' tù quèlla,

Ch'eri pur dinanzi sì vezzosa e bella:
Ma non son io già quel ch'un tempo fui
Sì caro a gli occhi altrui.

O dolcezze amarifsime d'amore
Quanto é più duro perdirve, che mai.
Non haver ò provate ò possedute.
Come saria l'amar felice stato

Se'l gia goduto ben non si perdefse;
O quando egli si perde,
Ogni memoria ancora

Del deleguato ben si direguase *.

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Never were there two performances which had so much similarity in name, and so little resemblance in other respects as the beautiful Scots pastoral, the Gentle Shepherd of Allan Ramsay, and the Pastor Fido of Guarini. In the first, the characters are delineated with a beautiful simplicity and truth that has no equal in any pastoral composition I know; but at the same time, there is an unnatural stiffness in the rhyming measure, which totally destroys that easy fluency, and natural melody which constitutes a principal charm in dramatic colloquy. In the Italian poem this is directly the reverse; for nothing can exceed the easy flow and delightful melody of its numbers; nor can any

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*The beginning of this beautiful soliloquy, like the Integer Vita of Horace, has been translated into all modern languages, and imitated in them times innumerable; one of the happiest imitations of it we have seen, by Drummond of Hawthornden, lately appeared under the form of a sonnet in the Bee, volume xiv. p. 68, to which the curious reader is referred. It begins,

"Sweet spring thou turn'st with all thy goodly traine." Edit.

thing be more unlike to nature than the delineation of its characters.

The same thing may be said in a certain measure of all the writings of Metastasio; for never did any man attain such a high character as a dramatic writer, who was lefs capable of delineating characters than Metastasio. If his plays, divested of his enchanting lyric pieces, were read attentively, I know no performances that would appear so unnatural and absurd; and I have often amused myself with thinking of the effect that a literal prose translation of the works of Metastasio would produce on the mind of a man who was acquainted with the characters that occur in the dramas of that celebrated writer. If he were of a morose and cynical disposition, he would throw the book into the fire, before he had read a dozen of pages; but if he had a mind apt to be tickled with ludicrous combinations, he would find it a bundle of the most laughable absurdities that could be conceived. Yet with all these glaring defects, such is the charm of those inimitably beautiful little airs which occur in every page, that no person who understands the language, and has the smallest taste for poetical imagery, can ever be satisfied with reading. There is such an ineffable charm perpetually draws him forward that he cannot desist; he admires, admires, and still admires; nor can he find words to express in any adequate terms the pleasure that he feels in their perusal. Yet though the charms of Guarini and Metastasio alike consist in the poesy of stile, there is a great difference between the two, and the

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effect they produce on the mind. In Guarini, the beauty consists in the recitative, if I may borrow a phrase from the Italian, and apply it to a work in which no music occurs; in Metastasio in the air. In Guarini, the whole of the narative is flowing, harmonious, and beautiful. You are every where carried along with the characters in the drama, and have not your attention carried off by any thing extraneous; you feel a high degree of pleasure, but no inchantment. In Metastasio, the dramatic characters are scarcely interesting at all; and the connecting scenes pafs over with little notice; but ever and anon a delightful lyric air occurs, which, from the melody of stile alone, and totally independent of the aid of music, is so enchantingly delightful, that I think it is next to impofsible for any one not to be captivated with them. Great is the power of genius! This is a maxim I have often occasion to repeat in the course of these disquisitions. I think you will deem the trouble of acquiring the Italian language abundantly repaid by the pleasure of reading Metastasio alone. I know no acquirement which would afford to a lady of fine taste, such a high fund of entertainment*.

I find I have been insensibly hurried to a greater length than I intended; so I must defer answering your queries respecting the Spanish writers till another occasion. Adieu.

* The inhabitants of Edinburgh are peculiarly fortunate at this time, in having such an able teacher of that language as Abbé Tourner, a man of eminent literary talents, a native of Rome; an advantage that can seldom be hoped for in this part of the world.

Edit.

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