'Seek shelter for the long, cold eve of life, For winter's breath hath silvered o'er thy head, Long years of toil have dulled thy voice,' she said, The voice that dared to brave the tempest's strife.' My furrowed brow is bare, adieu my lute! The north wind groans afar, *'Gone are the days,' she said, 'when, like a lyre, O'er the dim sky shed meteor-beams at will. "Yet bless thy lot :- By thee, a voice of song And music, flying, bore thy words along Adieu, my lute ! the bird is mute! "Thy shafts, that even dared to pierce a throne, From far and near, she bade, in concert thrown, How many charges sent thy muse a-field!' "Bright is thy share in those immortal days, When booty vainly woed thine eyes with gold; That Past, adorning all thy years, shall raise Content, to live and gracefully grow old. To younger ears the noble tale repeat, Direct their bark, the hidden rock display, If France should boast their deeds, some future day, Warm thine old winter at their glories' heat. -My furrowed brow is bare. Adieu, my lute! The north wind groans afar, the bird is mute ' "Kind Fairy, at the needy Poet's door, Benign, in time you warn him to retire ; Will say, with moistened eyelids, when I die, - My furrowed brow is bare. Adieu, my lute! Béranger's personal character exists in his writings. Truly has he said, "Je n'ai flatté que l'infortune"; his generous temper has ever disdained safe or profitable enmities, and attacked injustice or folly in the powerful alone. When asked to compose a diatribe against a distinguished character in disgrace, whose actions had been, in no slight degree, obnoxious to the severest censure: "A la bonne heure," replied the noble-minded bard, + quand il sera ministre." Since the revolution of 1830, the path of emolument and distinction has lain open to him; he has constantly refused to enter it. The independence of his character was too sensitive to contemplate an alliance with any party, who might thus enforce a tacit claim on his suffrage and adherence. To a certain extent, this reluctance may have proceeded from his extreme aversion to any compelled labor, at an age in which political ambition must have lost many of its seductions, especially to one whose fame no dignity of station could enhance. With characteristic modesty, he attributes his backwardness chiefly to this latter cause. "Des médisans ont prétendu que je faisais de la vertu. Fi donc je faisais de la paresse." At the age of fifty-three, Béranger, as a song-writer, at least, has now retired from the public eye. He does not, indeed, profess that he will cease to compose, but he promises to publish no more. "Immédiatement après la révolution de Juillet," he says, 66 ma modeste mission était terminée "; so far, alone, as concerned his political activity. The remaining years of his life he proposes to dedicate to the composition of a sort of Historical Dictionary, comprising the events and characters with which a long and busy life, passed amidst remarkable scenes, has furnished *I have flattered only the unfortunate. In good time, when he shall be minister. It has been scandalously reported that I was setting up for virtue! Nonsense! I was only lazy. § Immediately after the revolution of July, my humble mission was ended. his memory, anticipating the time when, in virtue of this work, he may be cited by future historians as "Le grave, le judicieux Béranger. Pourquoi pas ?" * [The following is a somewhat interesting account of an interview with the celebrated Manzoni. We have not before met with any description of the person, manners, or private character of this distinguished writer. His historical novel, "The Betrothed," has given him a European reputation, and is well known to all lovers of Italian literature in this country. - EDD.] [Translated from the "Blätter für Literarische Unterhaltung," Nos. 331, 332, 26th and 27th November, 1832.] MANZONI. No sooner had I arrived in Milan, toward the end of October last, than I paid a hasty visit to the halls of the Brera. A few scattered pictures bore witness to the late exhibition. They confirmed the melancholy observation which I had already made at Venice and at Florence, that among the many brilliant and imposing specimens which these exhibitions present, there is scarcely any thing which appears even tolerable on a nearer inspection. With the exception of two pictures by Hayer (the departure of the Pargiotes, and the marriage of Paris), there was only one piece which had power to fix my attention. The scene was a deep mountain pass: amid surrounding trees a strong light falls upon a romantic group. In the centre is a wounded warrior, whose equipments show him to be a leader of the highest rank, and whose ornaments are those of a crusader: around him in deep sympathy stand his companions, the foremost of the host who had followed him to the Holy Land. Far down in the depths of the ravine is seen a mountain torrent forded by another apparently routed body of warriors with their wounded, hastening on after the banner of the cross. The whole was clear, brilliant, full of effect, and excited the liveliest interest. This work seemed to me to be an exception to all the productions of the modern Italian artists, in which I had hitherto observed only skill in execution, and that of a limited kind. I was therefore the more astonished at this magnificent specimen of historical landscape painting, since all that I had yet seen in this department by Italian hands was insignificant, not to say paltry; seeming to prove, that in order to have a true feeling of the sublime and The grave, the judicious Béranger. Why not? beautiful in natural scenery, one must not be accustomed to such scenery from childhood. To my great disappointment the wellinformed keeper of the gallery was not to be found, and I was obliged to return without being able to satisfy my curiosity as to the author of this work of art. The next day was spent in delivering letters of introduction and others. One was directed to Manzoni; but much as I desired to know him, I had been so strongly assured, when in Milan five years ago, by friends who would willingly have gratified my wishes, of his dislike to new acquaintances, that I delivered my letter with a feeling of indifference, and with equal indifference learned that Manzoni had been residing for some weeks in the country. One of the next houses at which I stopped on this mission, was that of the young Marchese Massino d'Azeglio, who within a few weeks had become a son-in-law of Manzoni. This fact I had nearly forgotton. I did not, however, forget another circumstance which had been communicated to me by the writer of the letter, namely, that the Marchese was a great friend of landscape-painting, possessing both practical skill and fine taste in that art. The handsome figure, the youthful countenance beaming with benevolence, the modest and prepossessing manners of this new acquaintance soon inspired me with confidence to speak without reserve of what I had seen and felt, and above all to express in warm terms the pleasure I had received from the landscape which I saw on the preceding day. How great was my surprise, when I learned that the author of this beautiful painting, after whom I had inquired yesterday in vain, was the Marchese himself. With difficulty I prevailed upon his modesty, as he had no new works on hand, to procure me opportunities of seeing some of his earlier productions in private houses. Among these I will mention particularly a "Battle of Segnano," a “Čarroccio," and a "Conflict of Six." In all there appeared the same lively and striking conception, the same brilliant effect of light, and the same harmonious cooperation of the landscape and its accessories. So powerful was the impression produced upon me by these pictures, and so great the modesty of the artist, that, lost in delightful contemplation, I should not, but for him, have observed some trifling defects unavoidable in a painter who had not Nature always before his eyes. The intervals between these exhibitions were filled up, in a manner most welcome to me, with cominunications on his part respecting the literary and private life of his excellent father-in-law; and as I had given up all hope of a personal acquaintance with him, I was rejoiced to learn that he was so amiable and so much beloved in his domestic character. But the next morning I was most agreeably surprised by an in vitation from the Marchese to accompany him to Brusano, or Brusu, as the Milanese call it, the country-seat of Manzoni, and toward noon took my seat in an open droschke with a part of his amiable family. Scarcely had the Marchese time to make me acquainted with his beautiful bride and his mother-in-law, before our carriage, having passed the Porta Comasina, was rolling between hedges of fresh acacia toward the snow-covered side of the picturesque Resegone. We had travelled about six or eight miles in this manner, when we met a miniature carriage drawn by two smart donkeys coming out of a side lane. The driver of this team, a boy about twelve years old, greeted with a joyful shout his mother, sister, and brother-in-law, and soon after we drove into an unpretending court, where half a dozen fresh, rosycheeked children sprang forward delighted to welcome us. At the door of the house, in the hall, and in the saloon, I looked for Manzoni; I watched with impatience every door that opened, but still in vain. My companions left me with an aged lady of large stature, whose black and peculiar dress, silvery hair, and expressive countenance, furrowed by every variety of feeling, left me no doubt that I was in the presence of the mother of Manzoni. "You are a public teacher of law?" said she, after a short pause. "Yes," answered I, "and as such am doubly happy in the opportunity of expressing to the daughter of the great Beccaria and to the mother of Manzoni, the veneration which I entertain for her father and her son." Knowing me to be a German, she turned the conversation upon Goethe, and with a mother's joy, moved almost to tears, she told me how the immortal poet of the North had noticed the works of her son, and had rejoiced him more than any other one by his praises. My wandering looks probably informed her that, interesting as her conversation was, its object was more interesting still. She interrupted herself repeatedly with enquiries after Alessandro, her son. Long was I compelled to wait. At last a door opened unnoticed behind me, and a man of middle stature, carelessly dressed in black, with an emaciated figure, pale, sunken cheeks, slightly pitted with the small-pox, dark, curly hair, and a somewhat piercing, though at the same time wandering and dreamy eye, greeted me in a hasty, embarrassed manner, and called upon me to conduct his mother to the dining-room. At table, where I was seated between this lady and my distinguished host, it was some time before the conversation became animated, and from being carried on in single, abrupt sentences, assumed the character of a general discussion. Authors, and particularly poets, are not usually wanting in vanity, and among the numerous inhabitants of Parnassus the Italians are not those most distinguished |