Eminent literary and scientific men of Italy, Spain, and Portugal. Vol. 2 (of 3)

Unfortunately, independence and youthful thoughtlessness led Metastasio into other deviations from Gravina's lessons, less praiseworthy than reading Tasso. The poet was warm-hearted, hospitable, and gay. He was surrounded by companions ready to share the pleasures and luxuries which his money procured; while he believed his future prospects secured by the promises he received from influential protectors. Two years had not passed before he was undeceived. He had squandered the greater part of his fortune; he had made many enemies, and his friends fell off. With a firmness worthy of his education, he stopped short of actual ruin; and, disgusted with the society of Rome, and the treatment he had suffered, he changed, on a sudden, his whole plan of life, following up his new designs with zeal and perseverance.

"There lived at Naples," says his biographer, Venanzio, "a rough incult lawyer, called Castagnola, covered with rust and dust, and an enemy to every thing that was not allied to forensic struggles and turmoils." Wishing to place a barrier between his will and his inclinations, Metastasio went to Naples, and chose this man for his master, believing that his asperity and detestation of poetry would serve to guard him against having again recourse to an art towards which nature impelled him. For nearly two years he submitted to the control of Castagnola, and devoted himself to the severest study. But he was well known at Naples, and his talents were appreciated. He was perpetually solicited to compose epithalamiums, theatrical pieces, and occasional verses. He resisted the temptation as long as he could: at last, commanded by the viceroy, he consented to write a drama, to celebrate the birthday of the empress Elizabeth Christina, wife of Charles VI. He, however, obtained a promise of secrecy, and hoped to conceal his crime from his master. To accomplish this, he was obliged to steal for his work the hours usually devoted to sleep; but his natural vein, checked for some time, flowed with such felicity, that he accomplished his task before the appointed time. The "Orti Esperidi" charmed his august employer, who bestowed on it the highest praise, and presented the author with a purse containing two hundred ducats.

The success of this interlude on the stage confirmed the judgment of the viceroy. It was admirably set to music, and the decorations were most splendid. All Naples flocked to the representation—all Naples resounded with its praises, and every one was eager to thank and applaud the author. But Metastasio, reluctant to quit his legal studies, shrank from the censures of his master, and continued to preserve the concealment he had at first adopted: he even angrily denied the charge when he was accused of being the writer, and put enquiry to fault; till at last the discovery was made by the prima donna, Marianna Bulgarelli, usually called La Romanina, from her native city. She had received the greatest applause in the character of Venus, in this drama; and her gratitude and admiration made her eager to learn to whom she owed her success. Despite all his efforts, she discovered that Metastasio was the author, and she lost no time in spreading the report throughout Naples.

Castagnola was highly indignant. He treated his pupil with severity and disdain; while, on the other hand, the Romanina used every argument to inspire him with self-confidence, and to induce him to follow the career for which he was formed by nature. He consented at last: he quitted the angry lawyer, who refused even to listen to his farewell; and, at the earnest invitation of his new friend, took up his abode at her house. Marianna Bulgarelli had a society around her of distinguished men and accomplished artists, and among these Metastasio found every encouragement to pursue his new career. He studied the science of music under Porpora, the first composer of the day, and acquired a knowledge of the art which greatly assisted the melody of his verses; so that, he tells us, he never wrote any lyrical poetry without imagining an accompaniment at the same time, which regulated its cadences and modulated the sounds. His natural inclination led him to desire to write tragedies; but, on reflection, he found that it was not sufficient that tragedies should be written, if there were no actors to represent them, nor an audience which could take interest in the representation. His association with musical people, and a prima donna, led him to consider the opera as the natural drama of Italy. Operatic dramas owed their origin to Florence, the birthplace of so much that is great and admirable, and were first brought forward in 1594. After that time they fell into disrepute, till Apostolo Zeno, choosing in ancient mythology and history the groundwork of his plots, brought out pieces that acquired great popularity. To this species of composition Metastasio accordingly turned his thoughts. Marianna encouraged him to proceed; and, when he received the commission to furnish the Neapolitan theatre with an opera for the carnival of 1724, she suggested the subject of "Didone Abbandonata," or the desertion of Dido. In this, she filled the part of the unfortunate queen; and her dignity, pathos, and musical powers imparted an attraction to the piece, which filled the audience with enthusiasm, while her heart warmed with gratitude towards the poet, whose admirable conception and execution gave a scope to her talents, before denied to them. The reputation of Dido spread through Italy: during the carnival of the following year, it was acted at Venice, la Romanina being still engaged to fill the principal part. Metastasio accompanied his friend, and wrote, while in that city, another opera, called "Siroe."

This was the last appearance of Marianna on the stage: she was no longer young, and retired from her profession. She took up her residence at Rome, and with some difficulty persuaded her friend to return to his native city. The two families resided under the same roof—Marianna and her husband—Metastasio with his father, elder brother, and two sisters. The relations of the poet were indigent; but he possessed some property, and his friend was comparatively rich. The household was in common; Marianna acting as steward and housekeeper, while she still kept her station beside the poet; encouraging him in moments of despondency; suggesting subjects for his muse; and displaying, at all times, that active and generous affection which so distinguished her.

Metastasio did not, however, meet with the encouragement at Rome which hailed his first exertions. He wrote his drama of "Cato," which was acted in 1727: but it was not attended with his accustomed success. The austere character of the Roman hero—the cold loves—and disastrous ending—displeased the morbid tastes of the spectators, who were unable to appreciate the simplicity of the plot, or the grandeur of the sentiments. Metastasio had a true tragic bias for an unhappy catastrophe; but his audience did not relish it, and, subsequently, he adapted himself better to their tastes, and his operas have usually the happy ending, then supposed more consonant to the inherent lightness of musical dramas, or, probably, to the talents of the singers: as, in our days, the sublime acting of Pasta has induced composers to bring forward tragedies of the deepest dye, "Medea" and "Otello," as the subjects best fitted for their art.

Metastasio was discouraged: he was poor, and he had many enemies at Rome, who prejudiced the pope against him, and rendered his abode very disagreeable. At this moment, fortune came to his aid, and his whole future life became prosperous and stable. In November, 1729, he received a letter from prince Pio of Savoy, director of the imperial theatricals, inviting him to become the court poet of Vienna. Apostolo Zeno was at that time poet laureate to the emperor Charles VI.; but he also, with praiseworthy liberality, seconded the emperor in his wish to invite Metastasio to his court; and the way was opened to him by the absence of envy in one, who might have looked on him as a rival, but who generously preferred regarding him as a fellow-labourer, or rather, successor, to his own exertions. Metastasio at once accepted the offer with many expressions of gratitude. He was allowed to delay his journey to Vienna till the spring of 1730, and to fulfil his engagement of supplying the Roman theatre with two pieces for the carnival. These were "Alexander in India," and "Artaxerxes." The latter was a favourite from the first: the poet considered it the most fortunate of his productions, and was accustomed to say that he owed it more obligations than any other of his dramas; since, even when set to indifferent music, it never failed to meet with success.

Metastasio thus made his appearance at Vienna, surrounded by the halo of a recent triumph. He left Rome with pleasure; but he quitted his family with regret: more than all he must have lamented his separation from his generous and affectionate friend, Marianna, the encourager of his youthful timidity, the chief promoter of his fortunate choice of a profession, and his unwearied comforter during adverse circumstances. He went to new scenes and to a new people, and adapted himself at once to the change. He was kindly received by the emperor, and his heart overflowed with gratitude for his condescension and beneficence.

It is a strange fact, how little we are contented with negative qualities in our fellow-creatures; and, indeed, how amiability, and even generosity, become slight in our eyes, if unaccompanied by energy, independence, and pride. Metastasio was the most amiable of men: his disposition was affectionate and constant; yet he was derided in his own time for his courtier-like qualities, and the gratitude he naturally evinced towards his imperial benefactors; and censured for a coldness of heart of which we can find no trace in his writings or actions. There is one circumstance that renders posterity more just, and, in particular, induces those who write his biography to regard him with a favourable eye: this is the publication of his letters. We possess a series from the age of thirty to that of eighty-four, when he died, which let us into the secrets of his heart, and display his good sense, his friendly disposition, his justice, and the ready sympathy that he afforded to those to whom he was attached, in a more undisguised manner than could be known to his contemporaries. These letters prepossess the reader in his favour; and, while the biographer finds few events to record, and little of misfortune or error to mark his pages with high-wrought interest, he may envy the tranquil career of the fortunate poet, and wish that fate had made him the friend of such a man.

Metastasio entered on his employments at Vienna in the year 1730, at the age of thirty-two. He took up his abode in the house of Niccolo Martinetz, who held a place in the court of the apostolic nuncio, and with whom he remained to the end of his life. The dramas that he brought out during the year succeeding to his arrival were eminently successful. These were "Adriano," and "Demetrio;" and, during the three following, he wrote the "Olimpiade," "Demoofonte," and "Issipile." Each, as it appeared, excited still renewed admiration and applause. After the representation of "Issipile," the emperor broke through his habitual majestic reserve, and expressed his satisfaction to the poet, who was enraptured by the unusual condescension. His imperial master soon after testified his approbation in a more solid manner, by bestowing on him the place of treasurer to the province of Cosenza in Naples, worth annually 350 sequins. Unfortunately, the war of the Spanish succession deprived him of this income, after he had enjoyed it but for a few years.

The poet's heart and soul were in his profession, and his operas were written with that fervent and exalted spirit which marks the compositions of genius; while his modesty engendered doubts concerning their reception, which were delightfully dissipated by the triumph of their success. His feelings are all ingenuously expressed in his letters to Marianna Bulgarelli, who, together with her husband, still remained at Rome with the poet's family. "I did not believe," he writes, "that I should have been able to send you the good news I now give—I was so entirely prepared for the contrary. My Demetrio was brought out last Sunday, and with so great success, that the old people here assure me they never witnessed such universal applause. The audience wept at the Addio—my august master was not unmoved—and, notwithstanding the respect paid to the imperial presence, the public could not restrain themselves from giving marks of applause. My enemies have become my applauders. I cannot express my surprise, for this opera is so delicately touched, without any of that strong colouring that strikes at once, that I feared that it was not adapted to the national taste. I was mistaken—every one seems to understand it, and passages are recited in conversation, as if it were written in German." While composing the "Olimpiade," he thus addresses his friend:—"Here is a moral sonnet which I wrote in the midst of a pathetic scene, that moved me as I wrote it: so that, smiling at myself, when I found my eyes humid from pity at a fictitious disaster, invented by myself, I expressed my feelings in the sonnet I send. The idea does not displease me; and I did not choose to lose it, as it will serve as an incitement for my piety." The thought of the sonnet is, that, while he smiles at himself for weeping over dreams and fables of his own invention, he may remember that every thing that he fears and hopes is equally fictitious,—that all is false, his existence a delirium, and his whole life a dream;—and it ends with a prayer that he may awaken and find repose in the bosom of truth.

Again, he writes, "Will you suggest the subject of an opera? Yes or no? I am in an abyss of doubt. Oh! do not laugh, and say that the disease is incurable; for indeed; the choice of a subject merits all this inquietude and scepticism. It is my lot to be forced to make a choice; and I cannot avoid it; otherwise I should continue to doubt until the day of judgment; and then begin again. Read the third scene of the third act of my 'Adrian;' remark the character which the emperor gives of himself, and you will see my own.[47] From this you may conclude; that I know my faults; but not that I can correct them. This pertinacity in a fault; which torments me without the recompence of any pleasure; and which I clearly perceive; without being able to remedy; makes me often reflect on the tyranny which the body exercises over the mind. If my understanding is convinced, when reasoning calmly, that this excess of indecision is a troublesome, tormenting, and useless vice, and an obstacle to the execution of any design, why do I not get rid of it? Why not abide by a resolution, so often taken, to doubt no more? The answer is clear; that the mechanical constitution of the soul's imperfect habitation gives a false colouring to objects before they reach it, as rays of the sun appear yellow or green or red, according to the hue of the substance which they traverse to meet our eyes. Hence it is clear, that men for the most part do not act from reason, but from mechanical impulse, subsequently adapting, by the force of their understanding, their reason to their actions, so that the cleverest frequently appear the most reasonable. Do not get weary, because I play the philosopher with you; I have none else with whom to play it; and doing it thus by letter, I call to mind conversations of this kind, which made us spend so many happy hours together.—O, how much more matter for such has my experience in the world given me! July 4.
1733. We will again talk on these subjects, if fortune does not, through some caprice, entangle the thread of my honourable but laborious life."

A few months after fortune cut, rather than entangled, the thread of these prospects; Marianna died, and, true to her feelings of friendship[48] to the end, she left the poet heir to her possessions, to the amount of thirty thousand crowns. Metastasio writes thus to his brother, on receiving this sad intelligence:—

"In the agitation I feel from the unexpected death of the poor and generous Marianna, I cannot long dilate. I can only say, that my honour and my conscience have both induced me to renounce her bequest in favour of her husband. I owe it to the world to undeceive it from a great mistake,—that of fancying that my friendship was founded on avarice and interested motives. I have no right to take advantage of the partiality of my poor friend to the injury of her husband, and God will by some other means make up for what I now renounce. I need nothing for myself; I possess sufficient at Rome to maintain my family in decency, and if Providence preserves to me my property in Naples, I will give my relations other marks of my affection, and think seriously of you in particular. Communicate my resolution to my father, as I have not time to write to him. Assure him of my intention always to contribute as heretofore to his comfort, and even to increase my assistance, if my Neapolitan income does not fail me. In short, make him enter into my feelings, so that he shall not imbitter them by disapproving of my honest and Christian determination.

"You will continue to live with signor Bulgarelli, who will, I hope, display towards you that friendly kindness which my conduct with regard to him deserves. All will go on as before; only poor Marianna will never return, nor can I hope for any consolation, and the rest of my life will be insipid and painful."

"I feel," he wrote to another friend on this occasion, "as if I were in the world as in an unpeopled solitude; desolate as a man would feel, if, transported in his sleep among the Chinese or Tartars, he should, on awakening, find himself among a people whose language, manners, and customs are alike unknown to him. In the midst of such fancies, so much reason remains, as permits me to be aware how without foundation they are, and how produced; but reflection has not yet sufficed to dissipate them. You will have heard that I have renounced the bequest. I know not whether this renunciation will be approved of by all, but I know that neither my honour nor my conscience permit me to take advantage of the excessive partiality of a woman to the injury of her relations, and that the want of the riches which I refuse, is more tolerable than the shame which they would produce in me."

Metastasio was, with his accustomed modesty, disturbed by the fear, lest his honourable conduct would be disapproved of by his friends and the world; and he was agreeably surprised when, on the contrary, it met with the general approbation it deserved. "I should be insincere," he writes to the same friend, "if, affecting philosophy, I pretended to be annoyed by the kind approval which my country has universally yielded to my renunciation of Marianna's bequest. It delights me in the first place, and like a vow, confirms me in my opinion of the justice of the act; and in the second, it surprises me, as being the testimony of the affection of so great a mother for the least of her sons."

This, during the space of ten years, from the time of his first arrival in Vienna, was the only event that disturbed Metastasio's life. These ten years are the period during which his poetic powers flourished most vigorously, and during which his best as well as the greater number of his works were produced. The favour they met confirmed his situation at court, while they caused him to labour unintermittingly. It is difficult to give one not versed in the Italian language a correct idea of the peculiar merits of his poetry, and the excellences of his dramas. They are not absolute tragedies: their happy conclusions, the introduction of airs, and their being compressed into three acts, give them a lightness and a brevity unlike the heavier march of tragedy. They are to a great degree ideal, and yet possess the interest which passion and plot, described and developed with masterly skill, necessarily impart. His command of language is singularly great, and he adapted poetic diction to dramatic dialogue with wonderful felicity. A long and profound study of the genius of his native tongue gave him such extreme facility, that the perfection of art takes the guise of the most unadorned nature; and the flow and clearness of his verses so excite our sympathy, as to make us feel as if the thoughts and sentiments which we find in his pages were the spontaneous growth of our own minds. The magic of his style renders sensible and distinct the most delicate and evanescent feelings, so that it has been remarked[49], that many of the movements of the human soul, which the ablest writers have scarcely been able to indicate in prose, and which, from their subtlety, are almost hidden from our consciousness, are brought home to us in his verses with a lucid felicity of expression, that leaves no portion of them either obscure or vague. He thus formed a language peculiarly his own. In his airs the words flow in so unforced a manner and with such extreme propriety, that they appear to place themselves: not one can be changed, not one omitted. There is no pedantry, no affectation; simplicity is his principal charm; it seems as if a child might utter them,—they are so unstudied; and yet no other poet possesses to an equal degree the art of clothing his ideas with the same easy grace.

When we reflect on the singular perfection of his style, we are not surprised that he preserved it with the most jealous watchfulness. He was careful not to accustom his mind to the use of any language except Italian, and never knew more of German than the few words "sufficient," as he forcibly expresses it, "to save his life." Many nobles of Vienna paid him the compliment of learning his language for the sake of conversing with him, and Italian being in common use among the well-educated, he did not lose so much as might be expected: yet he must have felt the privation. He was right, however, in adhering to his resolution. He was settled at Vienna for life, while at the same time his present occupation and his future glory depended on his preserving uninjured that delicacy of taste, and felicity of expression in his native language, which characterises his compositions. But to return to his operas.

He himself has said, that if he were forced to select one of his dramas to be preserved, while all the rest were annihilated, he should fix upon "Attilio Regulo." The principal action of this play, founded on the well-known heroism of Regulus, in dissuading his countrymen from an exchange of prisoners, and his consequent return to servitude and a cruel death in Carthage, is conducted with dignity and pathos. But the interest of the piece is somewhat marred by an underplot, and the airs interspersed are not among his best. Perhaps we are inclined to give the preference among them to "Themistocles:" the dignity of the subject raises it to this pre-eminence; but in pathos, tenderness, and impassioned dialogue, the "Olimpiade" is unequalled. Devoted friendship forms the action; the personages are placed in the most interesting situations, and the language is sustained to the height of those emotions which the clash of heroic feelings would inspire. There are scenes in "Demofoonte" as fine as any to be found in Metastasio, but there is a reduplication of plot which mars the unity of the action; as, after deeply sympathising with the hero in his fears concerning his wife's fate, through nearly four acts, we are somewhat exhausted, and cannot well reawaken other sentiments, to mourn over the relationship that he imagines that he has discovered to exist between them. Voltaire and others have praised the scene between Titus and Sestus in the "Clemenza di Tito," as surpassing the representation of any similar struggle of feeling in any other dramatic poet; and the airs in that piece are among his happiest compositions. It was the poet's aim and pleasure, in all his writings, to make virtue attractive, and to paint patriotism, self-sacrifice and the best affections of the soul, in glowing and alluring colours. This gives a great charm to his dramas. We live among a better race, and yet the sorrows and passions and errors of the personages are represented in a manner to call forth our liveliest sympathy. A heartfelt pathos reigns throughout, and if passages of sublimity are rare (though there are several which merit that name), the elevated moral feeling acts on our minds to prevent the enervating influence of mere tenderness and grief.[50]

Besides his dramas, Metastasio composed at this period two canzonetti, which are among the best of his productions. The "Grazie agli inganni tuoi," or thanks of a lover to his lady for having disenchanted him by her caprices, is written at once with feeling and spirit. The "Partenza" is yet more beautiful. It was founded on the unfortunate attachment of a Viennese nobleman for a public singer, who at last yielded to the entreaties of his friends, in detaching himself from her, on condition that Metastasio should write some verses of adieu. The lover must have been satisfied, and the lady charmed, despite regret, by the passion, tenderness, and beauty of the poem which celebrates their separation.

Metastasio's tranquil and prosperous life was broken in upon in 1740, by the death of the emperor Charles VI., who fell a victim to either poison or indigestion, after eating mushrooms. The poet was unfeignedly attached to his imperial master, whose moral and religious character was congenial to his own; and the disturbed state of Europe, immediately after, added to his regret. This prince had no son, and his daughter, Maria Teresa, succeeded to him as queen of Bohemia and Hungary. Her husband aspired to the imperial crown; but the influence of France caused the duke of Bavaria to be elected, under the title of Charles VII. This disappointment was not the only misfortune of the queen; the king of Prussia invaded Silesia almost immediately after her father's death, and Vienna being threatened with a siege, she was obliged to quit it, and to take refuge in Presburg. After a reign of four years, Charles VII. died, and the husband of Maria Teresa, then grand duke of Tuscany, was elected emperor in the year 1745, under the name of Francis I.: but the war still continued, and its various success, and the disasters, with which it was attended, gave the court little leisure or inclination for amusement, until the peace of Aix-la-Chapelle.

On the death of Charles VI., several of the European sovereigns invited Metastasio to their courts, and made him advantageous and honourable offers; but, as Maria Teresa still continued him in the place he held under her father, the poet felt that fidelity and gratitude alike forbade him to change masters during her adversity. His naturally sensitive mind was strongly agitated by the various success of the empress queen's arms. His susceptibility of disposition did not allow him to regard the course of events with a stoical eye; and to the disquietude he suffered is attributed the bad state of health into which he fell after the year 1745, when he was forty-seven years of age. His malady was chiefly nervous; hysterical affections, and a rush of blood to the head, were brought on by the slightest mental exertion, followed by a total temporary inability to write, or even to think: he was thus obliged entirely to suspend his poetic labours; and when he forced himself to them, they bear the mark of a falling off in his powers. It cannot be doubted that this unfortunate state was brought on in a great degree by climate. He was a native of Rome, and, till the age of thirty-two, had resided constantly in the south of Italy. What a dreary contrast did Vienna present to the enchanting land in which he passed his youth! The clear skies, the perpetual summer, the cheerful feelings produced by the habits of a southern life, were injuriously changed for the gloom of the freezing north. The very precautions which the natives take to protect themselves from cold during the interminable winters, the stoves, closed windows, and consequent want of fresh air and healthy exercise, being in diametrical opposition to the more hardy habits of southern nations, are injurious to the health and spirits of those who are accustomed to regard the "skiey influences" as friendly instead of inimical to their comfort and well-being. Metastasio never left Germany after he first entered it. A part of his occupation, in the sequel, became the teaching the archduchesses, daughters of Maria Teresa, Italian: this was an office he felt that he could not desert, with any grace, even for a limited number of months. The kindness of the empress in yielding to the total suspension of all theatrical composition on his part, forced on him by ill health, bound him yet more devotedly to her. As he grew older, he became a man of habit, and consequently averse to travelling. It is impossible, however, not to believe, that if he had varied his residence in Germany by occasional visits to his native country, the disease under which he laboured, which embittered though it did not shorten existence, would have been dissipated and cured.

Metastasio's life, we are told, is only to be found in his letters, yet these detail no event; one of them contains, indeed, an offer of marriage to a lady, whose name is omitted: it is well written, and with considerable delicacy of sentiment; but, as he had no acquaintance with the object, and aspired to her alliance on account of her character, and his friendship for her father, his feelings could not be very deeply interested. Many of his letters are addressed to his brother, and they display a warm interest for his family. After the death of Marianna, the management of his affairs in Italy devolved on his relatives, and many are taken up with directions and advice. Leopold, and the rest of Metastasio's family, fell into the common error of supposing, that since he was in favour at court, the greatest prosperity would flow in upon him. The poet endeavoured to undeceive him:—"Princes and their satellites," he writes, "have neither the will nor power to confer benefits correspondent to the notions people are pleased to form. I do not know what definition merit bears among them; and I religiously abstain from inquiring, placing it among those mysteries which are beyond, though not contrary to, our understanding. Following these principles, I do all that is enough to prevent my feeling remorse for sins of omission; but I never allow hope to interfere in the guidance of my cautious line of conduct. It is a long time since I have ceased to be the dupe of hope, and it would be shameful to become such at our age. Expect less, therefore, on my account, and you will find the scales more even. This letter speaks more freely than any other, as I write only for you, and among other earthly goods, I desire for you the most useful of all,—a clear perception, if not of all, of the greater part of those innumerable errors, contracted through our lamentable education, and our intercourse with fools."

These sentiments did not float merely on the surface of Metastasio's mind,—he made them the guides of his actions. As he says, gratitude and duty regulated his conduct, but no servile hunting after greater benefits mingled with the deference he manifested towards those in power. He acted on the defensive in his intercourse with courts, with such consistency of purpose, that he refused the honours chiefly valued there, and declined the various orders, and the title of count, which the emperor Charles VI. had offered to bestow on him.

It is from passages such as these, interspersed in his letters, that we can collect the peculiar character of the man—his difference from others—and the mechanism of being that rendered him the individual that he was. Such, Dr. Johnson remarks, is the true end of biography, and he recommends the bringing forward of minute, yet characteristic details, as essential to this style of history; to follow which precept has been the aim and desire of the writer of these pages.

In other letters Metastasio writes concerning his works, and explains his views in the developement of his dramas; but he never makes himself the subject-matter without an apology. "Never in my life," he writes on one occasion, "did I before write so much concerning myself. I perceive this at the end of my letter, and blush, not because I feel myself guilty of too great self-love, but because I shall appear so to you. Remember that few people distrust themselves to a fault, as I do; and in communicating to you the perfection which I desire to attain, I do not fancy that I am exempt from those defects, to which human nature and my own weakness expose me."

All his letters to his brother express the most earnest and affectionate interest. It is the more necessary to mention this, as one of the calumnies propagated against him was, an aversion to render service to his relatives. "You know," he writes to his brother, "that your honour and welfare have always been the objects of my solicitude, and that I never proposed to myself any reward, except the agreeable consciousness that my endeavours to introduce you and sustain you in the career of letters, have not failed of success; if you think that you owe me any gratitude, pay it by increasing my self-satisfaction on this account. You can never show yourself more generous to me than by meriting that esteem which begins to be your due."

On the death of their father he writes with great feeling:—"The loss of our poor father did not surprise, while it filled me with the liveliest grief. I measure your sorrow by my own. I feel that it will require time to render me reasonable. I thank you for your fraternal kindness in the midst of your affliction. Dear brother, you now fill the place of a father in his stead: do it worthily, and if there is any thing that I can do to comfort you, demand it from me without reserve: your consolation will produce mine. My poor sisters!—how lost they will feel themselves! take care of them, dear Leopold: reflect how much fewer supports they have than we against the assaults of passion, especially of that feeling which is derived from the most sacred of nature's laws. Adieu. If I have always loved you, consider how this affection is augmented by the loss of him who possessed before so large a proportion of it. Let yours increase also."

His brother distinguished himself afterwards by some writings in favour of religion; and it appears that he even had the design of writing the poet's Life. Metastasio, while he praised Leopold for occupying himself in a praiseworthy manner, advised him against publishing controversial arguments, which would occasion him to be attacked by the cleverest men of Europe; and which, doubtless, were not stamped with that talent which could insure success. Metastasio, while deprecating the spread of unbelief occasioned by the French philosophers of those days, yet joined with the throng in fearing their attacks, and in flattering Voltaire,—showing in how great awe he stood of the enmity and sarcasm of that wonderful man. It is supposed that Leopold died in 1770, after which date no more letters appear addressed to him.

One of the principal correspondents of Metastasio, and to whom his most agreeable letters are addressed, is Farinelli. The poet and the singer were nearly of the same age; both began their career at Naples at the same time; which causes Metastasio to give his friend the affectionate appellation of his twin. Both met with immediate and complete success; and they formed a friendship, which the letters of the poet prove to have been maintained on his side with sentiments of the warmest affection, and the most active wish to render service. After having met with the greatest applause in the various theatres of Europe, Farinelli was invited to Spain, in 1737; where his voice had the peculiar effect of calming and solacing the accesses of malady to which the king, Philip V., was subject. On this account he was retained at the Spanish court, a large income was settled on him, and he never sang again on the public stage, being, to please the Spanish notions of etiquette, made cavalier of the orders of St. Jago and Calatrava, that he might be considered of rank sufficient to attend the private hours of the monarch. Philip V. died in 1746, but Farinelli continued in equal favour with his successor. His prosperity continued till the accession of Charles III., in 1763, when he was ordered to quit Spain, and, with singular cruelty, not permitted to make choice of an abode. At last, Bologna was prescribed to him as the place that would best please the Spanish monarch,—we are not told for what reason, except that Farinelli was as a foreigner in that city, and cut off from all personal intercourse with his friends.

An interesting volume might be formed out of Metastasio's letters to the singer. They are full of enthusiastic friendship; now dwelling on alterations made to operas for the peculiar benefit of Farinelli,—now on more personal topics. Metastasio's days were clouded by ill health, and his genius impaired through the same cause; but it did not check the overflow of his kind heart, nor injure the happy influence of his contented disposition. It is difficult, however, to select passages, since the interest consists in the openness, friendship, and warmth of the whole, and mere isolated extracts would be devoid of attraction. The whole correspondence is replete with frank exhibitions of the writer's mind, and the style is remarkable for its vivacity as well as elegance.

With the exception of his physical sufferings, which were rather annoying than painful, and that sensibility of character which could not fail to chequer his life with a thousand various emotions, Metastasio's latter years was singularly prosperous, and perfectly monotonous. A few weeks spent each autumn in Moravia was his only change. The empress kindly excused him from forcing his powers to compose new dramas, and his occupation principally consisted in the easy task of instructing the archduchesses in Italian. When the empress Maria Theresa died, the emperor Joseph II. continued to him his protection; and the esteem and even affection in which he was held at the imperial court prevented the death of his benefactress from injuring his fortunes, or disturbing his repose.

He filled, however, a place in the public eye which exposed him to a good deal of trouble. As the first Italian poet of the day, each minor aspirant to the laurel sent their verses for his criticism, or rather approval. He has been accused of lavishing praise without moderation or judgment. It is difficult for one author not to flatter other authors, since severity of criticism will be attributed to envy or ill-humour; and, besides, the Italian genius is singularly inclined to superlative panegyric. But it may be remarked that, though Metastasio gilds the pill, he never fails, particularly to his friends, to point out the weak points of their works, and to bestow sagacious and valuable observations.

When Dr. Burney visited Vienna in 1772, Metastasio was an old man; and his life, uninterrupted by any events, flowed on in one unbroken and quiet stream. "He lives," writes the doctor, "with the most mechanical regularity, which he suffers none to disturb. He has not dined from home these thirty years. He studies from eight o'clock in the morning till noon. Then he is visited by his acquaintance. He dines at two; and at five receives his most intimate friends. At nine, in summer, he goes out in his carriage, pays visits, and sometimes plays at ombre. He returns at ten o'clock, sups, and goes to bed before eleven. In conversation he is constantly cheerful; fanciful, playful, and sometimes poetical; never sarcastic or disputatious; totally devoid of curiosity concerning the public news or private scandal in circulation; the morality of his sentiments resembles that of his life. In confidence with few, but polite to all, his affection to his countrymen is great, and extends to ecclesiastics, painters, musicians, poets, and ministers from the Italian states, who are all sure of his kindness and good offices. I was no less astonished than delighted to find him look so well; he does not seem more than fifty years of age. There is painted on his countenance the genius, goodness, propriety, and benevolence, which characterise his writings. I could not keep my eyes off his face,—it was so pleasing and worthy of contemplation."

He thus spent in ease and peace the last years of his life. It has been said that, like Dr. Johnson, he had a great aversion to any allusion being made to death in conversation, and carefully avoided all lugubrious subjects. He continued to live with his friend Martinetz, whose daughter, Marianne, being educated by Gluck, became a celebrated musician; and in this family he met with that respect, attachment, and attention that rendered old age easy.

His last letter was written to Farinelli. He complains of the "dreadful season," and says, that he "cannot find a friend or acquaintance who does not complain of ill health."—"We are all equally obliged," he writes, "to have recourse to resignation. My neighbour prays for me, and I pray for my neighbour; and we all are wishing better health to our afflicted friends. My complaints obstinately defend their posts, and I my patience."

This letter is dated in March, 1782, and was written but a short time before he died. Though advanced to the age of eighty-four, his death was unexpected, as the vigour of his constitution, and his vivacity and unbroken powers, promised several years more of life; nor did his nervous indispositions threaten dissolution, for they neither interfered with his sleep nor appetite, nor the enjoyment he both conferred and received in his domestic circle. A fever, attended with weakness and loss of speech, and lethargy, carried him off after an illness of only twelve days. He died tranquilly, and without pain, on the 12th of April, 1782. He left the family of Martinetz his heirs to considerable wealth; his property consisting of about 130,000 florins, in addition to many valuables presented to him by sovereign princes. He was sincerely regretted at Vienna; and Martinetz struck a medal in his honour. Nor was he forgotten in his native country; and the various literary academies of Italy vied with each other in offering poetic testimonials of veneration to his worth and genius.

GOLDONI

1707-1792.

The life of Goldoni, written by himself, is, as well as his comedies, a school, not of crabbed philosophy, but of Italian manners, in their gayest, lightest guise. At a time when it is hoped that a change is taking place in the system of society in that country, resulting in a great degree from the concourse of English, it is interesting to observe what they were anterior to the French revolution, and to remark the state of the Italians before they awoke to the sense of their oppression, or, rather, while oppression was in exercise only of the first of its effects—the demoralisation of its victim, before the second stage of its influence, that of producing a noble and impatient disdain of servitude.

Carlo Goldoni was born at Venice, in the year 1707, in a large and good house, situated between the bridge of Nomboli and that of Donna Onesta. The Venetians, who, when on land, spend their lives in running up and down the bridges that cross the canals, make them the chief land-marks of their directions. The family of Goldoni came originally from Modena. His grandfather, while studying at Parma, formed an intimacy with two Venetian nobles, who persuaded him to accompany them to Venice; and the death of his father rendering him soon after independent, he established himself in the native city of his friends. He had an employment under government, and was sufficiently rich, but not at all economical. He loved the drama; comedies were played in his own house; the most celebrated actors and singers were at his orders; and he was for ever surrounded by a concourse of theatrical people. His son had married a lady of the Salvioni family, and resided with his father. Carlo was born in the midst of all the bustle and hilarity attendant on a predilection for actors and acting: his first pleasures were derived from plays; his first recollections were of histrionic gaiety; and his future life retained the colouring imparted by the amusements of his early years.

He was the delight of the family. His mother devoted herself to his education, and his father to his amusement. He made a puppet theatre for him, and, with two or three friends, drew the cords and acted plays to the boy's infinite delight. But a change soon came over this holiday life. His grandfather died, in 1712, from the effects of a cold, caught at an assembly. His extravagance had dissipated his fortune; and, from abundance and luxury, the family fell into the narrowest circumstances. The prospects of the father of Goldoni were dark. He had no employment and no profession, and his inherited property was all sold or mortgaged. In the midst of this distress, his wife gave birth to a son: this added to the solicitude of the father; but, unwilling to be the prey of useless gnawing cares, he set out on a visit to Rome, for the sake of diverting his thoughts. His wife remained at home with her sister, and two sons. The second, never a favourite, was put out to nurse; and she devoted herself to Carlo. He was gentle, obedient, and quiet. At the age of four he could read and write and say his catechism; on which they gave him a tutor. He grew to love books, and made progress in grammar, geography, and arithmetic; but the old instinct survived, and plays were his favourite reading. There were a good many in his father's library: he pored over them at his leisure hours, copied the passages that pleased him most; and, incited by a noble hardihood, at the age of eight, wrote a comedy. Some laughed at it; his mother scolded and kissed him at the same time; while others insisted that it was too clever to have been written by a child of his age, and that his tutor must have helped him.

Meanwhile his father, instead of returning after a short visit, remained four years at Rome. He had a rich friend there, who received him cordially, lodged him in his own house, and introduced him to Lancisi, physician and private attendant to Clement XI. He attached himself warmly to Goldoni, who was clever and agreeable, and sought to advance himself. Lancisi advised him to study medicine. The advice was taken. After attending lectures and hospitals for four years at Rome, he took his doctor's degree; and his patron sent him to Perugia to exercise his profession. He became in vogue in this town: if he were not the best physician in the world, he was an agreeable man, and quickly gained the esteem and friendship of the first families. Thus fortunately situated, he resolved to have his son with him. He does not appear to have thought of inviting his wife also; and the mother and child were separated, to the deep grief of the former. Carlo quitted Venice for the first time, in a felucca. He disembarked at the mouth of the Marecchia, and it was proposed that he should continue his journey on horseback. Carlo had never seen a horse except at a distance: he was frightened when placed on the saddle, confused when told to hold reins and whip; but, as the novelty wore off, he made acquaintance with this new and strange animal, and fed him with his own hands.

On arriving at Perugia he was placed at school. His first trial by the masters, for the purpose of judging what progress he had made in Latin, was infelicitous; he became the ridicule of his companions; his masters conceived a slight opinion of his abilities; his father was in despair, and Carlo fell ill from mortification. The holidays drew near, when it was usual for the scholars to present a Latin composition, as a specimen of their powers, on which their advancement to a higher class was determined upon. Carlo had no hope of any such promotion. The day came: the master gave out the theme; the pupils wrote. The boy summoned all his powers; he thought of his honour, his father, his mother; he saw his companions look at him and laugh; rage and shame animated him to redoubled exertions; he felt his memory clear—his thoughts free: he finished, sealed, and delivered his paper before any of his comrades. Eight days after, the school was assembled—the decision announced: Goldoni had the first place—his translation was without a fault. He now received compliments on all sides, and his father was desirous of rewarding him. He was aware of his love for theatricals, and shared it. He assembled a company of young actors in his own house, and erected a theatre. A play was got up, in which Goldoni took the part of prima donna, and was much applauded; but his father told him that, though not devoid of talent, he would never make a good actor, and after experience proved the justice of his decision.

The signora Goldoni bore her husband's absence very philosophically; but she could not consent to continue separated from her son: she entreated her husband to return; and, on his refusal, removed herself to Perugia. But, accustomed to the soft air of Venice, the climate of that city, placed on the summit of a hill, and surrounded by mountains, disagreed with her: other circumstances tended to disgust her husband with Perugia; and, as soon as Carlo had finished his course of education at the school, they resolved to return to Venice. Passing through Rimini in their way, they were received kindly by a friend, who persuaded them to leave Carlo for the sake of his pursuing his studies under a celebrated professor. His parents embarked for Chiozza. Chiozza is a town twenty-five miles from Venice, built, like that city, upon piles in the midst of the sea; it contains 40,000 inhabitants; the population were divided between rich and poor; the rich wore a wig and a cloak; the poor, a cap and a capote. These last, who were fishermen and sailors, while their wives fabricated lace, had often more money than many individuals of the class named rich. The signora Goldoni took a liking to this place; and her husband was averse to return to Venice till his circumstances should have become more easy. To further this end, he was obliged to make a journey to Modena: he proposed to his wife to establish herself at Chiozza till his return; and she consented.

Carlo, meanwhile, remained at Rimini. He did not like his master, who, bigotted to rules and systems, wearied him to death: he escaped from him, to read Plautus, Terence, Aristophanes, and the fragments of Menander; and soon the incarnate spirit of drama arriving at Rimini, he was wholly turned from his abstruser studies. A company of actors made their appearance, and Goldoni became familiar with them: he went behind the scenes; joined in their parties of pleasure; and they, being all Venetians, were happy to find a countryman. One Friday it was announced that they were leaving Rimini, and that a boat was engaged to carry them to Chiozza. "To Chiozza!" said Carlo, "My mother is at Chiozza!"—"Come with us, then," cried the director. "Yes, come with us," cried the whole company, "come in our boat; you will have a pleasant passage; it will cost you nothing: we shall laugh, dance, and sing, and be as happy as the day is long." A boy of fourteen could scarcely resist so strong a temptation. His master refused leave, and the friends of his family interfered with objections. There was but one resource: Carlo put two shirts in his pocket, and hurried to hide himself in the boat. It made sail, and he was on his way to Chiozza. The light-hearted rambling life of strolling comedians was alluring beyond measure to a mirthful lad, who loved plays better than any thing in the world. The company consisted of twelve, besides scene-shifters, mechanists, and prompters; there were eight men servants, and four women, two nurses, a quantity of children, dogs, cats, apes, parrots, birds, pigeons, and a lamb. The prima donna was ugly, clever, and cross; the suicidical drowning of her cat diversified the time; and, after a prosperous and merry voyage, the whole cargo, with the exception of poor puss, arrived safe at Chiozza.

The signora Goldoni received her son with a mixture of gladness and scolding, which evinced no violent disapprobation of his truant disposition; but he himself began to regret it, and to reflect seriously on the consequences, when he read a letter just received from his father. Business had taken Goldoni from Modena to Pavia. The governor of Pavia was named the marchese di Goldoni-Vidoni. On hearing of the arrival of a namesake in his town, he sent for him, and invited him to dinner. The governor belonged to one of the best families of Cremona; but he considered that Cremona and Modena were not far distant from each other, and he had the whim of finding out and assisting a poor relation: he promised to get a presentation for Carlo to a college of the university of Pavia, and the father gladly consented to accept it. He set out to seek his son with this news, and found him sooner than he expected, and was by no means pleased at a scrape which promised little for his future steadiness; but Carlo was penitent, and Goldoni gloved actors, and was acquainted with several of this very company in question: so, good easy man! he forgave the runaway, and accompanied him to thank the companions of his voyage.

Goldoni's fame as a physician had spread to Chiozza, and he found it worth his while to establish himself, and to enter upon practice there: while waiting for the presentation for the university of Pavia, he resolved to initiate his son in the rudiments of a profession which he intended him hereafter to pursue. He did not put him to the more difficult part of the medical science; but made him accompany him in his visits to his patients, as the easiest mode of giving him a superficial knowledge. Carlo did not like this plan, though he was forced to submit. But passive obedience of will does not conquer the mind: with all his gaiety, the youth was subject to fits of hypochondria and low spirits, and under the paternal discipline he lost his appetite, and grew thin and serious. His mother easily extracted from him the cause of his dejection, and sought to bring a remedy. She represented to her husband, that the patronage of the marchese Goldoni could be of no possible service to their son in a medical career; while, on the contrary, if they brought him up to the bar, a senator of Milan could without difficulty open to him the road of fortune. She advised his going to study under an uncle at Venice, proposing to accompany him herself, and to stay with him till his removal to Pavia. Goldoni resisted for a long time, but at last he became aware that her representations were reasonable: poor Carlo listened to the discussion with tearful eyes and a beating heart; and his indisposition vanished as soon as his father's consent was given. Four days after, he and his mother set out for Venice. They were kindly received by signor Paolo Indric, who had married his father's sister; and Carlo found his home with him perfectly delightful. The study of law was infinitely to be preferred to his father's medical initiation at Chiozza; he fulfilled his duties with exactitude, and his uncle was satisfied with him.

Meanwhile he enjoyed his residence at Venice. "Oh! la triste ville que Vénice!" Madame de Genlis exclaimed, on entering the sea-paved city. Scarcely any but a French person would echo her exclamation; and we, who people the palaces and bridges with the shades of Othello, Desdemona, Pierre, and Belvidera, find a peculiar charm in its strange and beautiful appearance. There is something charming to the imagination in the wide-spread lagunes, in the palaces rising from the waves, the sea that flows through the streets, and the sombre-looking but luxurious gondolas: no picture, no description, can convey an idea of Venice, that is, of the impression made by its singular aspect, and the modes and machinery of daily life—dissimilar to those of every other city in the world. The young Goldoni, as a native, yet returning to it after so long an absence, was enchanted by the novelty of all he saw. His stay, however, was short; the presentation to a College at Pavia arrived: he was forced to quit Venice; and, after a harried visit to Chiozza to join his father, they set out together.

1723.
Ætat.
16.

On arriving at Milan, several obstacles presented themselves to impede his entrance into the university, which, being under clerical jurisdiction, required a number of attestations and documents, with which the travellers were wholly unprovided, and which could only be obtained at Venice. Signora Goldoni hastened thither to get them, while the father and son enjoyed themselves at Milan, hospitably entertained by their kind and noble soi-disant relation; till, the necessary papers having arrived, they pursued their way to Pavia, and Goldoni left his son at his college.

The university of Pavia was on a more expensive and luxurious footing than is usual in Italy, and dissipation and liberty were the order of the day. The students were regarded in the town like officers in garrison: the men hated, and the women welcomed them; while the studies principally followed up were dancing, fencing, music, and games of hazard: the latter were prohibited, and, therefore, the more sought after. Carlo's youth, gaiety, and Venetian dialect pleased generally; and he easily suffered himself to be seduced from study to pleasure.

His success caused him to make many enemies among his fellow-students, augmented by the distinction derived from the kindness of the marchese Goldoni; still he passed two years happily enough, returning to Chiozza during the vacations, and spending his time between unforced studies and pleasant society. But misfortune was at hand to blight his happiness. The time approached when he was to take his degree; and this very moment was seized upon by his college enemies to ensure his disgrace. He had been admitted into the university at sixteen: the legal age was eighteen. He was a boy among men, and an easy prey. A serious quarrel arose between the inhabitants of Pavia and the students: four among the latter, who had conspired to ruin poor Carlo, persuaded him to revenge himself and his comrades by a satire. The verses of which he was the author attacked and insulted many families: his four false friends dispersed them and betrayed him: the outcry was prodigious; and, despite every exertion made by his protectors, Goldoni was expelled. The youth repented very bitterly at once his imprudence and the easiness of his disposition. Shame and regret overwhelmed him, and the idea of his parents' reproaches filled him with terror. To escape these he meditated plans of flight, resolving to seek his fortunes at Rome. It appeared of slight import to him that he should go on foot without money or resources, so that he could fly from those who were justly offended. This idea was frustrated by the vigilance of those about him: he was sent back to his family under the especial care of the master of the boat, who never lost sight of him; and a good monk, who was a passenger with him, comforted him by his pious but kind admonitions. His mother's affection and his father's easiness of nature led them to pardon his fault, from which he had suffered severely enough. A few days after he accompanied his father to Friuli. Goldoni exercised his profession as physician at Udine, and Carlo studied the law under an eminent advocate; after a short time, the former proceeded to Gorizia, to the house of count Landieri, lieutenant-general of the army of the emperor Charles VI. The count was ill, and having heard of the skill of Goldoni, sent for him. Carlo, left behind at Udine, got into several youthful scrapes, very little to his credit: he found himself deceived and betrayed; and, fearing a dangerous termination, he hurried away, and found his father at Vispack, where count Landieri had a mansion. They remained there for some months, till the count was convalescent, hospitably entertained, and very happy. A dramatic puppet-show was got up, which exercised the theatrical talents of Carlo; and afterwards he made a tour to Laubeck, Gratz, and Trieste, with the count's secretary. On his return to Vispack, he and his father set off on their journey home, the latter having happily effected the cure of his patient, who rewarded him handsomely for his trouble. "We arrived at Chiozza," said Goldoni, "and were received as a fond mother receives a son, and a wife a beloved husband, after a long absence. I was delighted to see again a virtuous mother who was tenderly attached to me. After having been deceived and betrayed, I needed the consolation of being loved. This, indeed, was another species of attachment, but, until I felt a virtuous and engrossing passion, my mother's love formed my greatest happiness." Soon after his arrival at Chiozza, his father received a letter from a cousin at Modena, to inform him that the duke of that state had revived an ancient decree, which forbade the possessor of any landed property within it, to absent himself without an express permission from the sovereign, which it was very expensive to obtain. This relation added, that his best course would be to send his son to Modena, which would satisfy the law, and he might there pursue his legal studies. The advice was followed, and the youth sent to Modena.

He went by water; and the master of the boat was a very religious man: each evening he invited the passengers to join him in prayers. When Goldoni arrived at Modena, this man, whose name was Bastia, asked him where he meant to lodge, and, learning that he had his lodgings to seek, asked him to select his house as his place of abode; and, with the assent of his cousin, who had been the cause of his journey, Goldoni agreed to the proposal. He found that the family of Bastia was equally devout with himself; father, sons, and daughters, all were given up to pious exercises. No great amusement could be derived from their society; but, as they were respectable people, and lived in concord, Goldoni was satisfied and happy under their roof. He grew as religiously inclined as themselves, while, as is often the case in youth, this sentiment was accompanied by feelings of despondency and even terror. One day he happened to pass through the public square while an unfortunate churchman was doing public penance for his conduct towards a female penitent. The sight struck him in the most painful manner: he brought it home to his own heart; he thought of his past life, his expulsion from college, his adventures in Friuli: the world seemed beset with multiplied dangers, and there was no refuge from them, except in total retirement. He wrote to his parents to express a part of these feelings, and to declare his resolve of entering the order of Capuchin monks. His parents acted on this occasion with prudence: they were both, especially his mother, pious, but without bigotry. They wrote in answer, that he should do exactly as he pleased, but in the mean time entreated him to return to them without delay. He immediately obeyed: he was received with caresses, and no opposition was made to his project. His father proposed to take him to Venice, and he refused with that boldness which the fancy of acting in immediate obedience to God, alone inspires; but, on being told that he was to be introduced to the guardian of the Capuchins, he consented. They went to Venice, visited their relations and friends, dining with one and supping with another: he was even tricked into going to the theatre. His low spirits and ascetic vocation vanished insensibly, and he returned to Chiozza cured of every wish to shut himself up in a cloister.

It became matter of anxiety to know what to do with him. His brother, an adventurous, gallant youth, had entered the army, and was in garrison. But Carlo was nothing; the plaything of fortune, all the expense gone to on his account had been of no avail; the only resource seemed to be to obtain an employment under government; and, at the moment when it appeared impossible to succeed in so doing, one presented itself to them. The republic of Venice governed the towns under their dominion through an officer called a podestà, who had under him a chancellor, or criminal judge, who was assisted in his duties by a vice-chancellor, or, as he was called, a coadjutor; and where there was much to do, this officer also had an assistant. These places were more or less lucrative, but were always desirable, since they included the privilege of dining at the governor's table, and making one of his society. The father of Goldoni was intimately acquainted with the governor of Chiozza, and with the judge, and through their means Carlo was employed to assist the coadjutor.

Goldoni was not of a noble and enterprising disposition, but he possessed great integrity, and that habit of scrupulously examining his own motives, and those of others, which makes a part of the nature of one whose bent it was to enter into and describe character. On this occasion he was earnest to do his duty, and interested to observe the variety of human action and motive, which presented themselves to his enquiry in the exercise of his office as assistant to the criminal judge. He acquitted himself to the satisfaction of his superiors; and, when the governor of Chiozza was changed, and the chancellor was appointed to go to Feltri, the latter offered Goldoni the place of coadjutor, which was eagerly accepted.

Feltri is at a distance of 180 miles from Venice, high up among the mountains, whose snows besiege it during the winter, and block up the streets and houses. Goldoni found plenty of amusement here, for there was a company of comedians; and he also fell in love. He assures us that this was his first passion, and a sincere one; but the future writer of comedies had not that tenderness and passion of soul which creates a profound and engrossing attachment. He made parties of pleasure for the lovely girl, who returned his affection, and got up a tragedy for her amusement, which did not amuse her at all; for, too bashful to act herself, with all the delicacy of love, she was pained at witnessing her lover's familiar conduct with other women. "Poor girl!" exclaims Goldoni, with naïveté; "she loved me tenderly and sincerely, and I loved her with all my heart; and I may say that she was the first person for whom I felt a sincere attachment. She was desirous of marrying me; and would have become my wife, but for some considerations which prevented my proposing for her." These considerations were a notion he formed that her beauty was of a delicate, evanescent species, and that she would soon fade and become old, while he remained in the pride of youth. Such was the force of his first passion, that it was at once overcome by selfish foresight, and the habit, innate in him, of dissecting the materials of life, despoiling them of their sunny gloss, and handling the most frail, yet precious, among them with a roughness that iron and rock could not have resisted. This dry, analytical spirit is very apparent in his comedies: he dignifies it with the name of morality and honour; but its root is often in coldness and tameness of feeling and fancy.

On his return from Feltri his father had accepted a medical situation at Bagnacavallo, a town of Romagna, near Ravenna. Carlo joined him; but, after a short time, the elder Goldoni fell ill of a malignant fever, and died in the month of March, 1731, when his son was four and twenty years of age. He was sincerely lamented by his wife and son, who wept together over their loss. As soon as the funeral was over, Goldoni accompanied the widow to Venice, and established her with her sister at the house of a relation. She was most anxious to have her son resident with her, and her persuasions, and those of other friends, induced him to yield, and to enter on the profession of barrister at Venice. The profession of advocate at Venice was exceedingly honourable; the first men of the city practised it: but there were 240 registered barristers, and few among them rose to eminence; the rest spent their time in running after briefs. Goldoni, however, was of a sanguine disposition, and did not doubt that he should rank among the most celebrated pleaders at the bar. He calculated how much could be gained, and found that a barrister might make an income of 2000l. a year,—a large fortune at Venice, which at that time, before it fell under the Austrians, whose aim is to ruin it by the imposition of a vexatious taxation, was one of the cheapest places in the world. It is true that the beginning of a forensic career is in all countries trying to the patience; and, while Goldoni indulged in castles in the air with regard to future eminence, he spent his time attending the courts without a brief, or in waiting for clients, who did not appear: still he might hope for better success than the major part of his brethren of the robe, since, during the first six months of his being at the bar, he carried on and won a cause; but his destiny concurred with the genius still unformed and dormant within him to draw him another way.