indeed, on the other hand, do the foreigners who write about us,—the lovers and commenders of Italy,—say? a Goethe, a De Staël, a Byron, Lamartine, and others similar,—what do they say? Do they not praise Italy as the soil of the olive and the orange? and for that beautiful sky, those handsome women, those pleasant airs! It is for these alone that they love her, that they praise her. Oh shame! when they, wearied with their grave thoughts, come to sun themselves there, as in a garden, a public square, open to whosoever will. They praise, also, our genius—our lively, flexible, manifold genius—and in this they are right. But of our virtues—who speaks of them? Who is not silent regarding them? Even these, our admirers! But to maintain silence on the virtue, whilst they exalt the intelligence, that is the most treacherous of praise, and the most biting accusation!”
How severe soever this noble friend of his country may be against that very country which he loves so much, yet he is equally hopeful for its future.
Italy has lived long on unsuccessful attempts at revolution, on outward spectacle and petty love-intrigues, and an infinity of gossip which these have furnished, for want of nobler subjects. But a better time is coming, nay, is already come. Family life—that innermost sanctuary of the life of the state—has purified itself—Cicisbeism is becoming, more and more, a rare and strongly-censured phenomenon. The Italian women have awakened to a sense of their duties toward their families, and even toward society. The cultivated begin to take an active part in the education of their indigent sisters, in giving them instruction and
