The subject of the present paper was chosen some time ago. As to why a preference was shown for this and not for something touching on the better known, more widely appreciated French and German, would lead me to answer with as much justice, but perhaps the same amount of human nature, as that other enlightened citizen of another free country: “I am tired of hearing Aristides called the Just”—weary of learning that in spite of Volapük, the revised English e tutti quanti, French is still the language of the world, Parisian the language of the Gods; worn out by the constant refrain, that German is the “Open-Sesame” to all questions, physical, metaphysical, theological, psychical. This feeling is legitimate not only with me, as Montaigne says, “simply because it is it and I am I” but from a wider point of view, including all who sympathize with struggling humanity, and the above-named title suggests a question replete with interest for its historical importance as well as its literary claims and one that cannot fail to be attractive; for, what was Italy's literary position at the beginning of this century, when England, Germany, France, even Spain and America were sending into the arena champion after champion who recoiled before no question the human brain can propound ? What could be expected of a country overrun by foreign troops, split up into petty states, down-trodden and oppressed, without authority in the councils of Europe, without commerce, without colonies ? Could it ever repeat its superb record, still retain the ancient stamp and not belie Leopardi's proud claim, “Ancor per forza italian si noma, quanto ha più grande la mortal natura?”
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