there appeared a man capable of appreciating and imitating the
father of Tuscan literature--Vittorio Alfieri. Like the prince
in the nursery tale, he sought and found the sleeping beauty
within the recesses which had so long concealed her from mankind.
The portal was indeed rusted by time;--the dust of ages had
accumulated on the hangings;--the furniture was of antique
fashion;--and the gorgeous colour of the embroidery had faded.
But the living charms which were well worth all the rest remained
in the bloom of eternal youth, and well rewarded the bold
adventurer who roused them from their long slumber. In every
line of the Philip and the Saul, the greatest poems, I think, of
the eighteenth century, we may trace the influence of that mighty
genius which has immortalised the ill-starred love of Francesca,
and the paternal agonies of Ugolino. Alfieri bequeathed the
sovereignty of Italian literature to the author of the
Aristodemus--a man of genius scarcely inferior to his own, and a
still more devoted disciple of the great Florentine. It must be
acknowledged that this eminent writer has sometimes pushed too
far his idolatry of Dante. To borrow a sprightly illustration
from Sir John Denham, he has not only imitated his garb, but
borrowed his clothes. He often quotes his phrases; and he has,
not very judiciously as it appears to me, imitated his
versification. Nevertheless, he has displayed many of the higher
excellencies of his master; and his works may justly inspire us
with a hope that the Italian language will long flourish under a
new literary dynasty, or rather under the legitimate line, which
has at length been restored to a throne long occupied by specious
usurpers.

The man to whom the literature of his country owes its origin and