Italian literature may be explained by the very fact | that its heart and conscience have been stirred so profoundly, that the questions at issue are of such vast bearings, that the fruits must be waited for, the produce left to mature itself for years yet to come. certain vagueness and hesitation is perhaps the truest testimony to a state of mind consequent upon such transitional, such momentous conditions of the nation's life. The enthusiastic patriotism that used to find vent in Italian sonnets or canzoni has now its positive and more rational utterance. Next among prominent features of this literary movement is the absolutely startling impetus of the hostility against an ecclesiastical system which, still potent and sincerely accepted as it is by millions on this side of the Alps, no longer corresponds to the developments of civil life or intelligence among the reflective or active-minded. precisely a virtue of youth, since it provokes the irony of comparison. Happy are they who have wept in the season of enthusiasm and love! who have followed their phanAtoms of purity through the clouds of morning, who have wished to kill themselves like Werther, who have dreamed on the border of the lake, who have experienced the griefs of Olympus. They have steeped their souls in a spring-tide humidity which, in exhaling during the remainder of their life, will incessantly renew the sap, and will not be dissipated until the late hour when the sun of autumn shall illume the harmony of the dead leaves and despoiled branches of ripened nature. Laughter arises then, no longer provoking and assaulting, but, like the hymn of the unconquered spirit, remaining faithful to the love of good and of virtue and to healthful ideas of life, notwithstanding cowardice, shame, tempest, winter. And yet this literature, considered as a whole, cannot be called irreligious; rather indeed is it imbued with an under-current of reverence, in the spirit of indignant protestation for the honor of Divine Truth. In imaginative literature we perceive a purer moral than ever announced itself in the novelle or romanzi of earlier time; in the historic, a wider sympathy for the human; in the aggregate we find sufficient in its attributes to claim a heartfelt welcome for Italian literature as pre-eminently that of Hope. VICTOR HUGO'S NEW VOLUME OF [We translate from the Paris journal Le Temps the following notice of Victor Hugo's new volume, "Les Chansons des Rues et des Bois."] A VOLUME by Victor Hugo, whether it be verse or prose, always causes a great disturbance when it appears, and disappoints the foresight of curiosity. We are surprised, before we comprehend, and we first wonder at the inexhaustible variety of the master, his knowledge of the picturesque, his novel resources, before admiring the sentiment. He never suffers the artist to be subdued in him by the feeling He offers his tears in a chased cup. The tears often lose nothing thereby, and the artistic worth serves at least to engage those who cannot attain the height of his ideal confidence. of the man. In the Chansons des Rues et des Bois, the tears are rare; so much the more we see shining at the point of a verse, as at the extremity of a grass-blade, a little dew, which the poet has left there in coquetry of tenderness. But his predominating humor is gay, lively, I will not say young, for the calmness of its expression indicates maturity, but puissant and virile. It is the smiling out, among flowers, meadows, woods, and the noise of cities, of an energetic temperament, that no struggle has wearied, no bitterness withered, that no disillusion, although they may be all enumerated, has been able to disenchant. For my part, I am dazzled by this serenity, and reanimated by this power. I find in this gayety which flows over deeps of melancholy the true condition of poetic genius, I should say of human genius, taken in its absolute sense. Alas for those who laugh too loud and too proudly in their twentieth year! They deprive themselves of the necessary fogs of the morning; they begin with the noonday sun; they exhaust the sap; they dry the soil; they reserve sadness, ennui, disgust of nature and themselves, for the age when they should give counsel, and serve as teachers and models. Laughter is not Discouragement and the sterility of egotism are found at the end of the poets' career who were happy in their debut; but hope is engraven at the summit by poets who have begun in despair. Victor Hugo no longer requires ode, elegy, or even satire. Sublime appeals, touching tears, bitter sarcasm, he has expressed, has experienced all; but his valiant heart is steeped in these trials, and has conquered youth in these conflicts. Implacable and smiling, he knows well that nothing relating to him will be forgotten, any more than he can forget himself; and to show that exile and grief have neither darkened nor fatigued him, he walks abroad in the woodland, saluting Nature gayly, who never deceives, and Love, who deceives always! The key-note of this book is, indulgence! The poet gathers his harvest, and extends a few bunches to the austere Muses, urging them not to refuse to recognize the sky, the flowers, and the fruit, because men are ungrateful and wicked. Laughter under these conditions must be as free as it is necessary. Beside, how can we hinder a poet essentially French, who goes into the woods of Meudon, from thinking of Rabelais? I should be shocked by reticences, second meanings, subdued and mouse-like gayety, which could combine a spice of academic modesty with the solicitation of this fine, frank, large, and human laughter. We must either sing or weep. The snivelling which is neither grief nor joy fits only the hypocrites and the weak. The Chansons des Rues et des Bois are the joyous trumpetings of a powerful nature. "Je m'enivre des harmonies Qui, de l'azur à chaque pas, M'arrivent claires, infinies, Joyeuses, et je ne crois pas "Que l'amour trompe nos attentes, Qu'un bien-aimé soit un martyr, Et que toutes ces voix chantantes Descendent du ciel pour mentir?" But this confidence constitutes also a portion of the deceptions. . . . . In the piece entitled L'Oubli we feel something like an effort to rise above grief, which gives a dreamful attraction to these striking verses. They should all be read. . . . . To those who need to recall the Feuilles d'Automne, in order to pardon Victor Hugo for this sincere laughter, I would like to recite, for the sake of knowing if they could read it without tears, the piece entitled Lettre. The sentiment, young and petulant in the beginning, is subdued at length, and ends in vague contemplation. The poet, abandoned, does not wish to condemn her who forsakes him, and turns to observe a picture, a view of Ven- | accident, have been brought to melancholy, never ice, that he may forget to be jealous. He sees a rise above it. If the awakening of a vanished voice smile there, and something like a vision of love in penetrates their crape, they hide themselves to enthe beautiful lovers whom their bark brings to-joy the gayety which seems impious, and complicate wards the Lido. There is in this pièce moqueuse this escapade by hypocrisy and sacrilegious intention. a finesse and exquisite grace as touching as an Chateaubriand surrendered himself to this wrong elegy. and folly. If I am angry with poets who have never wept, I am more so with the eternal weepers. The melancholy of young beginners is like the fog of the morning: it promises sunshine as well as rain. Victor Hugo, a long time ago, at the happy age when everything smiled for him,family, occupation, country, wrote the elegy, Sunt Lacrymæ Rerum. It is only consequent with him, that to-day, speaking to us from the depths of exile and solitude, things have also their smiles. And this fine laughter is always an exhortation, a counsel, a hope. The philosophy of this volume may be contested, I know; but the artistic care with which it is composed and written seems to me incontestable. The little pictures, always perfect in Victor Hugo, are chefs-d'œuvre. Un Jour de Fête aux Environs de Paris, the little piece beginning, "Quand les guignes furent mangées," Chelles, the Doigt de la Femme, Fête de Village en plein Air, an Alcôve au Soleil levant, Souvenir des Vieilles Guerres, and other sketches, have a careful and free touch in handling, which would suffice for the glory of this volume. Two of those little outlines have as much light and depth as the greatest pictures. Especially the Soir dans la Saison des Semailles: I know nothing of the kind grander than these eight stanzas. The idea which the contemplation of the sower awakens finds a sublime formula in these verses : FOREIGN NOTES. MADAME SAND, who had been announced to lecture at the hall Valentine, has addressed to Baron Taylor the following letter, which we translate from the Paris Temps : MONSIEUR: You have obtained a promise from me which I cannot keep. You, and the eminent writers who seconded you, were persuasive, affecting, indulgent, irresistible; but I have presumed too much upon my powers in the face of a duty to fulfil. There are duties also towards the public, who should not be lured by an attraction one feels incapable of offering. "Il marche dans la plaine immense Va, vient, lance la graine au loin, Rouvre sa main et recommence Et je medite, obscur temoin, "Pendant que, déployant ses voiles, L'ombre où se mêle une rumeur, Semble élargir jusqu'aux étoiles Le geste auguste du semeur." The Meridienne du Lion is the second small piece the assembly for the purpose of introducing a timid You would be obliged to regret having convoked which it appears to me succeeds, by its noble senti- and awkward person, who must fail in her part. ment, in extending itself beyond the limits of the My children and my friends were shocked at the framework. Victor Hugo has always been incom-announcement of this lecture. They oppose it with parable in the art of concise works, the brevity of all their power. They know that I have never in which astonishes while it awakens the soul to infinite any circumstance been able to surmount my embar to pay in person. reveries. His nervous genius does not wander in rassment, my absolute defiance of myself. Ask, them, and he cannot be reproached, with any plau-demand anything else where I shall not be obliged sible pretext, for those abundant enumerations which overflow and exhibit too fully the virtuosity of the artist, the talent of the carver. I will acknowledge that this proud fault of abundance is found in some of the pieces in this new collection. Junior est Senior, Au Cheval, Chêne du Parc, would certainly gain by the sacrifice of some beauties. This is the only criticism which I wish to make. I am not of those who are alarmed by certain epithets, the unexpected advent of which disturbs the idleness of commonplace. These striking expressions are usually justified by observation. Nor am I scandalized by certain familiarities: Victor Hugo cannot see nature and life through the glasses of ordinary lunettes. His artistic temperament seeks first the picturesque side of things, and he usually discovers eccentricity to be simply the violent accumulation of truths. I have said what I thought of the sentiment in which this volume was conceived. I do not insist upon its execution. The master has attained a richness of rhymes and a suppleness of rhythm, beyond which there is only the abyss of verse-making for the sake of using old rhymes. In fine, the glory of the great lyrist takes one ray more, instead of contracting itself, in this publication. I repeat, finally after his sighs, his struggles, his sorrows, his angers, the poet, by the evolution natural to strong souls, attains that happy serenity which is not egotistic satisfaction, but a smiling challenge. Mediocre thinkers, who, either by temperament or Believe, Monsieur, you and the members of the committee who have honored me with their visit, that I can only console myself for my powerlessness and my failure by the memory of the kindnesses you have shown me, and by the gratitude they inspire. GEORGE SAND. Sections of Mr. De La Rue, the President, stated that his hopes THE COUNTESS MILLEFIORI, known by the name of Rosina, is dead. Some years ago the newspapers announced the morganatic marriage Feb. 10, 1866.1 of Victor Emmanuel with the Countess Millefiori. | nevolent peculiarity, this disposition to systematize This news was not contradicted. The Countess and theorize, apparently interfered with her powMillefiori leaves two children, -a son and daugh- ers of observation as a tourist. Her travels, at all ter. They have received the title of count and events, exhibit more of self-occupation than that countess. No one in Italy is ignorant of the influ- freedom which receives every kind of impression, ence exercised by the Countess Millefiori over the and that brightness and skill which can bring what mind of the King. She had for a long time hesi- has been seen before the eyes of others. tated to go to Tuscany; she, however, decided to do so, and a splendid residence was being prepared for her. She died aged forty-two. It was for the purpose of being present at her death-bed that Victor Emmanuel left, in the height of the Ministerial crisis, for Mandria. The Countess was the daughter of a drum-major, who became an officer in the corps of the King's Guards. Mazzini is at this moment ill in an humble dwellTHE Paris Temps last week remarked: "Joseph ing in the Brompton-road. The man who for so in the fogs of the North and in a climate which kills long was the incarnation of Italian unity expires him. Now that the old conspirator is no longer in a position to terrify any one, why does not the King of Italy allow him to breathe his last on his native AN ingenious method for registering the electric soil?" To this a reply has been given by a friend, earth-currents is now employed at the Greenwich from which we learn that the great Italian has been Observatory. Paper sensitive to light is fastened ill,-seriously ill, for the last three weeks; but round a cylinder of polished ebonite, which with- he is now better, and the doctors pronounced him stands chemical action. This being placed horizon- out of all danger some days ago. His illness has tally in a dark box, is made by clockwork to re- been "nervous gastritis." With regard to the exvolve once in the twenty-four hours. A ray of gas-pression "humble," the reply is made that the exlight which has passed through naphtha shines triumvir stands in no need of pecuniary assistance, through a hole in the lid of the box upon the cen- and that his few and simple wants are more than tre of the slowly-moving cylinder. Two wires, run- supplied by those trusty friends who have "steadning the one to Croydon and the other to Dartford, fastly clung to him through all his troubles, and are brought into this box and connected with an who have loved him only the more dearly as ignoastatic galvanometer. The one wire hangs as rant and unthinking men have slandered and asnearly as possible in the magnetic meridian, and sailed him." the other at right angles to it. The earth-currents cause the needle to move, and thereby they photograph themselves on the sensitized paper. photograph is effected by means of a small mirror, which is attached to the needle, and which, in moving with it, reflects a ray of light from side to side of the paper, and thus registers the intensity of the currents. The describes his observations respecting the Greater IN a recent number of the Zoologist Mr. Maurice tice when in Oaxaca forty years ago; and as I conSpotted Woodpecker, which had attracted my nosider woodpeckers exceedingly clever birds, and capable of performing acts that would seem to denote, or require something more than instinct, I have been surprised not to find any explanation or suggestion regarding the wonderful provision made by the Great Spotted Woodpeckers for storing their winter food. TWENTY-TWO years have elapsed since Mrs. Howitt's translation of "The Neighbors" introduced to us the distinguished Swedish novelist, Fredrika Bremer, whose death has just been an- It is in the higher regions of the Cordilleras that nounced. She was born at Abo, in Finland, a con- the habits of the numerous species of woodpecker temporary assures us, in 1802; and the same au- may be advantageously studied. In some such lothority mentions that, like our own Hannah More calities a large and very beautiful woodpecker exand Mrs. Jameson, she had some years of experi-hibits the most marvellous indications of forethought ence in the training of youth in Norway and Stock- and design. The acorn is its principal food, the holm before she presented herself to the public as storing of which is performed, I suppose, by the an author. Her success we believe to have been woodpecker taking the precise measurement of an instant: it spread the more rapidly because of her acorn, and then making a hole in the bark of the tales having been translated into German as fast as pitch- (or candle-) pine so exactly the size and they appeared. And well was the success merited, shape of the acorn that it must cost some trouble by the deep and tender human feeling, the sly and to pack it the narrow end foremost (which it invaquaint humor, the delicate discrimination of char-riably does), and the part that was attached to the acter, the pictures of unfamiliar manners, which her best novels contain: these being "The Neighbors," "The Home," "The Diary," and "Strife and Peace"; most of these, however, it must be added, are marred for the English taste by the introduction of violent incidents and sentimental passages of over-strained feeling, which do not consort well with the simple, every-day life which it was Miss Bremer's object to paint, and which she painted so well. Had it not been for such discrepancy, she might have been called the Miss Austen of the North. Her best novels have been named; besides these, however, she wrote books of travels, having visited Germany, England, America, Greece, Italy, and (like Mrs. Jameson) always with the philanthropic purpose of improving the condition of her sex; not seldom confused in its views, often pragmatical in her setting forth of the same. This be cup, outside, but not protruding from the bark. I have seen trees in Oaxaca upwards of one hundred feet high, so completely stuffed with acorns, that it seemed impossible to find a place for an additional one. Trees thus treated have a very singular appearance. Some years ago I saw in the Athenæum a similar description to my own by a traveller in California, who considered that his observations were something quite new. But I have never seen any reason given, any guess hazarded, as to why the woodpecker acts so wisely as he does in selecting the pitch-pine alone for storing his food. Why not take the white-fir, the cedar, alder, or hundreds of other trees that to an unobservant person would appear equally, if not better adapted to the purpose? The question remains still unanswered as to why the woodpecker prefers the pitch-pine. I therefore venture to offer my own explanation. In the forests the woodpeckers inhabit there is scarcely an oak-tree without a squirrel skipping along its branches. When the acorns are shed, or rotting, or producing young oaks, the squirrels have to look for food elsewhere. If the woodpeckers stored their food in the bark of the cedar, whitepine, or almost any other tree, the squirrels would find no difficulty in gnawing their way to the woodpecker's dinner. But they are too wise to attempt to extract a single acorn from the bark of the pitchpine, for they would have to gnaw into turpentine, and would be laughed at by the woodpeckers for their pains. dering tribe, a kind of negro gypsies, of lighter color than the negroes, and having shorter hair on the head and hairy bodies. The average height of the women, a few individuals of whom he measured, was only from four feet four inches to four feet five inches. After he had advanced two hundred miles farther than any European had yet penetrated, his undertaking was brought to an unexpected termination by an accident. This was at the village of Mooaoo Kombo, two hundred and seventy miles from the mouth of the Fernand Vaz. One of his men fired off a gun accidentally, and two of the natives a man and a woman -were unfortunately killed. The villagers became at once excited and attacked AN interesting account of M. Du Chaillu's second himself and his party with their spears and poisoned journey into Western Equatorial Africa was lately arrows. He could not blame them for the suspicion read before the Geographical Society, London. M. and irritation under which they acted, and he, thereDu Chaillu stated that he left London on the 5th of fore, forbade his men to fire on them. He then orAugust, 1863, and on the 9th of October in the dered his followers to retire, which they did, at first same year he reached the mouth of the Fernand in good order, while he himself remained in their Vaz River, on the African coast, immediately to the rear, as he believed he was in a less degree than south of the equator. The ship in which he had they an object of resentment to the excited natives. sailed had to land its cargo in native canoes, and in A panic, however, soon seized his party; he found going ashore himself with his scientific instruments it impossible to check them: they threw away all he was capsized, and the most valuable part of the the articles which they carried; he himself felt cominstruments lost. A new set from England was or-pelled to join them in their flight and to part with dered, but it did not reach him till August in the following year, a delay which he employed by making collections of Natural History, and transmitting them to England. He then advanced eastwards to the Ashira country, where he had been on his former journey, and where he was well remembered and kindly received. The country from the coast eastwards rises by successive steps. First, there is the belt of low land near the sea, then a succession of hilly ranges running northwest and southeast, with valleys between, the ranges increasing in altitude towards the interior, and the passes over them ranging (by aneroid and boiling-point) between 1,864 and 2,400 feet. The greater part of the country is covered with dense forest, through which are narrow paths leading from village to village; but from the Ashira country eastward there are three main lines of path,-one to the northeast, another to the east, and the third to the southeast. The tribes are divided into clans, and each village has its own chief, the inhabitants always be-worthy of a poet of the first order."] longing to the clan of the mother. The villages are more populous and larger than those near the coast. In reading the works of Grant, Speke, and Burton, he observed many words identical with or closely resembling words used in the district he had traversed, and he had no doubt that the tribes of Western and Eastern Africa had formed originally one people. He After he and his party had been about three weeks in Ashira, a visitation of small-pox ravaged the country. Misery and destruction were spread on every side, and he was himself reduced to a most dejected and prostrate condition. To increase his difficulties, the chief, Olenda, his old and tried friend, died of the disease, and the traveller was accused of causing his death by witchcraft. was, moreover, prohibited from continuing his march eastward through the Apingi country (the route which he had followed on his former journey), owing to the Apingi king having died soon after his visit, and his death being attributed to the white traveller, who was believed to have wished to carry the spirit of the chief back with him to his own country. He was ultimately enabled to continue his journey eastward by the Ötando country. In the course of the journey he met with a singular diminutive wan many of the most valuable things which he had in his possession. The result was that, although his men energetically rallied, he lost all his instruments as well as his ammunition, and all that could have enabled him to continue his journey with advantage. He lost also the whole of the Natural History collections he had made in the interior, and a fine series of photographs of the scenery and natives. He saved, however, his chronometers, which he himself carried, and his journals, with one set of his astronomical observations. He at once, therefore, retraced his steps westwards, and immediately afterwards made his way back to England. SYMBOLS OF VICTORY. [The subjoined verses by the late Mr. W. C. Roscoe occur in a modern authors. The Spectator, in introducing the poem to the volume entitled "Poems of the Inner Life," selected chiefly from reader, says: "Here is one little known to the English public, and with a dash of mysticism in it, but which has always struck us as YELLOW leaves on the ash-tree, Soft glory in the air, And the streaming radiance of sunshine, And the sudden opening skies. A dying man on his pillow Whose white soul fled to his face, VOL. I.] A Journal of Choice Reading, SELECTED FROM FOREIGN CURRENT LITERATURE. SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 17, 1866. A SHAKESPEARE ANNUAL IN GERMANY. [Translated for EVERY SATURDAY from the Blätter für literarische Unterhaltung.] ON the three hundredth anniversary of the birth of Shakespeare there was founded at Weimar an association in commemoration of the British dramatist, for the purpose of fostering the study of his works by every literary and artistic means. The society had two objects in immediate view: one, to establish a library of books illustrating the poet, and the other, to publish annually a volume to be made up of contributions from the German Shakespearians. The library has already made considerable advances, and the initial volume of the Jahrbuch is now before us, published at Berlin, and edited by Friedrich Bodenstedt, who opens the book with a dedication to the Grand Duchess of Saxony. The first paper is a discourse by Kobenstein upon "Shakespeare in Germany," which is a general treatment of the subject, with sharp outlines, based upon Lessing's declaration, so well carried out by Herder in his articles on Shakespeare, that the English dramatist evinces as much mastery of the dramatic art as the greatest of the Greek tragedians; and that no dramatic poet can attain to the highest conditions of his art without commensurate power and durability in his countrymen, himself being but the outgrowth of his time and nation. This is a position often maintained in this journal, and now opportunely fortified by distinguished authority, and illustrated by the examples of Shakespeare and Sopho cles. [No. 7. They picture to us the love, jealousy, friendship, repentance, and all the emotions of their manly heart, in their directest truth, but not the love, jealousy, and so forth, of the particular William Shakespeare. As for ourselves, we take sides unreservedly in this controversy with Delius. He The third section," Upon Christopher Marlowe, and his Relation to Shakespeare," is by Ulrici, in which that writer decides that it was Shakespeare's pen, and not Marlowe's, that produced the older plays than those ordinarily ascribed to Shakespeare upon the subjects treated in the second and third parts of Henry VI. He thinks them Shakespeare's initial attempt at the historical drama,- wholly his work, and not "in considerable part," as has been usually thought. He happily adduces proofs that Marlowe could not have written them, and takes occasion to institute a very interesting comparison of the dramatic art of those two contemporary facts. charges Marlowe with an entire want of humor, while in those old plays this faculty manifests itself not infrequently in some of the scenes. For us, however, it is not enough that Ulrici would make it evident, for sufficient chronological reasons, that if they were the work of Marlowe, the writing of them must have been coincident with his "Massacre at Paris"; and that for the same poet at the same period, and in the same sphere of dramatic development, to have brought forth so similar productions, were something strange in the history of literature. We cannot certainly agree with him, when we remember how many similar pieces must Sophocles and Euripides, and even Lope de Vega, have written in one and the same year, as would be evident from the chronological ordering of their plays. So in the last years of Schiller's productivity, his historical tragedies have close resemblances; and although he may never have completed two in one year, he not unusually began one and ended another. The second paper is by Delius, upon the "Sonnets of Shakespeare," and it is well adapted to set their æsthetical value before us in a clear light. He concerns himself only with such-giving the proper analyses of themas seem to have an autobiographical import, and which many commentators have been led to interpret often boldly and sometimes Carl Elze's interesting paper on "Hamlet in oddly, the scope of the whole article being, in fact, France" shows us how doggedly the French chara further elucidation of the position taken in the acter has resisted the influence of the greatest of same writer's earlier volume, "The Myth of William Britons. Voltaire, shrugging his shoulders, is the Shakespeare." Here as there he certainly recognizes very spirit of Gallic sympathy for Shakespeare. Shakespeare and his times in his lyrical products; Lamartine, whose Shakespearian contributions our but fails to see any contribution to his biography, or author has failed to mention, has been the representconsistent confession of his own passions, whether of ative of it at a later period. Chateaubriand did love or friendship, but simply scattered leaves show-not put a much better face upon the matter in his ing merely the poetic aspect of his inner being. The same ability to delve into all passions, and comprehend all situations, and to lose self in his work, which raises our wonder in his plays, is very clear in his sonnets; and in this respect, despite their lyrical form, they exhibit a spirit essentially dramatic. day. Even so warm an admirer of the Briton as Duport (who places the genius of Shakespeare next to that of Homer) is of the opinion that even bookish people can hardly endure the tediousness of Shakespeare's plays, so completely does a crowd of words in them bear down the elevating essence. |