"I know but one romance, the 'Fiammetta' of Boccaccio, in which the passion is attired in its truly national colors. Italian love is a deep and rapid impression, more frequently betrayed by the silent ardor of our deeds, than by ingenious and highly wrought language. Our literature, in general, bears but a faint stamp of our manners. We are too humbly modest to found tragedies on our own history, or fill them with our own emotions.[1] Alfieri, by a singular chance, was transplanted from antiquity into modern times. He was born for action; yet permitted but to write: his style resented this restraint. He wished by a literary road to reach a political goal; a noble one, but such as spoils all works of fancy. He was impatient of living among learned writers and enlightened readers, who, nevertheless, cared for nothing serious; but amused themselves with madrigals and nouvellettes. Alfieri sought to give his tragedies a more austere character. He retrenched everything that could interfere with the interest of his dialogue; as if determined to make his countrymen do penance for their natural vivacity. Yet he was much admired: because he was truly great, and because the inhabitants of Rome applaud all praise bestowed on the ancient Romans, as if it belonged to themselves. They are amateurs of virtue, as of the pictures their galleries possess; but Alfieri has not created anything that may be called the Italian drama; that is, a school of tragedy, in which a merit peculiar to Italy may be found. He has not even characterized the manners of the times and countries he selected. His 'Pazzi,' 'Virginia,' and 'Philip II.' are replete with powerful and elevated thought; but you everywhere find the impress of Alfieri, not that of the scene nor of the period assumed. Widely as he differs from all French authors in most respects, he resembles them in the habit of painting every subject he touches with the hues of his own mind." At this allusion, d'Erfeuil observed: "It would be impossible for _us_ to brook on _our_ stage either the insignificance of the Grecians, or the monstrosities of Shakspeare. The French have too much taste. Our drama stands alone for elegance and delicacy: to introduce anything foreign, were to plunge us into barbarism."--"You would as soon think of surrounding France with the great wall of China!" said Corinne, smiling: "yet the rare beauties of your tragic authors would be better developed, if you would sometimes permit others besides Frenchmen to appear in their scenes. But we, poor Italians, would lose much, by confining ourselves to rules that must confer on us less honor than constraint. The national character ought to form the national theatre. We love the fine arts, music, scenery, even pantomime; all, in fact, that strikes our senses, how, then, can a drama, of which eloquence is the best charm, content us? In vain did Alfieri strive to reduce us to this; he himself felt that