fore or since his time, but he was a true writer of the best Italian quality.
Even in his novels his eloquence now and then got the better of him. Some problem suggested a page of reflection, some name led to an essay in criticism, some story turned into a literary or philosophic discussion—just as some of his biographical portraits began like stories. But throughout his work the life pulsed strongly.
For the eloquence of Oriani was not the empty eloquence of the professional man of letters, nor the sophistical eloquence of the lawyer. It was an eloquence warm with passion, nourished with facts, sustained by ideas, rich in intuitions and in discoveries, an eloquence that sought to persuade both intellect and heart. It transported you, with the freshness of its allusions and the rapidity of its evocations, to the summit of one of those mountains from which—if you have the breath to reach the top—you may perceive all the kingdoms of the earth, all the activities of mankind. It was the eloquence of a historian deeply interested in the past, of a thinker passionately concerned with his problems, of an Italian enamored of Italy. It had nothing in common with that eloquence which is too often the tiny voice of mediocrity transmitted through the megaphone of literature.
When it comes to poetry, I agree with Verlaine’s dictum: “Prend l’éloquence et tord-lui le
