the wise satire of Casti and the acute generalities of Vico than
satisfied with the soft beauties of Petrarch or the luxurious graces of
Boccaccio; the stoical Alfieri, more than the epicurean Metastasio,
breathed music to his soul. "You belong," wrote Pellico to him, "you
belong to those who to a generous disposition unite an intellect to see
things wisely; never can I forget the gifts of genius and of courage
developed in you in the days of misfortune." It was an auspicious sign
of the times when the land which protected such an exile was
represented by him in that of his nativity.

Brief, however, was Foresti's enjoyment of the distinction and resource
thus secured for him through the considerate efforts of his American
friends. "I write to you," says his last letter to one of them, dated
immediately after the reception of his commission, "with my left hand
pressed on a heart overflowing with gratitude for the means thus
honorably afforded to solace the last years of the old prisoner of
Spielberg." Three months after, that noble heart ceased to beat; an
effusion on the chest, which ultimately defied the best medical skill
and the most assiduous friendly devotion, ended fatally on the morning
of the 14th of September, 1858, "By his death," said one of his
eulogists, "is broken one of the links that bind the New World to the
Old"; and as if to evidence the sympathy of mourners in two hemispheres
and attest the varied associations which embalm the example and memory
of Foresti, his funeral was typical of his life, and so illustrative of
his character, that we can imagine no peculiar honor wanting, grateful
to the patriot, the liberal, the martyr, or the man. In that ancient
city of Genoa, of old renowned for commercial glory and maritime valor,
the birthplace of the discoverer of the land of his adoption, now the
refuge of more who had sacrificed all for their country, and the state
where that country's best prospects are centred and her highest