“You forget,” interrupted Corinne sharply; “first, Macchiavelli and Boccacio; next Gravina, Filangieri, and in our days, Cesarotti, Verri, Bettinelli, and so many others, in short, who know how to write and to think[22].  But I agree with you that in the latter ages, unfortunate circumstances having deprived Italy of its independence, its people have lost all interest in truth and often even the possibility of speaking it:  from this has resulted the habit of sporting with words without daring to approach a single idea.  As they were certain of not being able to obtain any influence over things by their writings, they were only employed to display their wit, which is a sure way to end in having no wit at all; for it is only in directing the mind towards some noble object that ideas are acquired.  When prose writers can no longer in any way influence the happiness of a nation—­when they only write to dazzle—­when, in fact, the road itself is the object of their journey, they indulge in a thousand windings without advancing a step.  The Italians, it is true, fear new thoughts; but that is an effect of indolence, and not of literary baseness.  In their character, their gaiety, and their imagination, there is much originality; and nevertheless, as they take no pains to reflect, their general ideas do not soar above mediocrity; their eloquence even, so animated when they speak, has no character when they write; one would say that labour of any kind freezes their faculties; it may also be added, that the nations of the South are fettered by prose, and that poetry alone can express their real sentiments.  It is not thus in French literature,” said Corinne, addressing herself to the Count d’Erfeuil—­“your prose writers are often more eloquent, and even more poetic, than your poets.”—­“It is true,” answered the Count, “your assertion can be verified by truly classical authorities:—­Bossuet, La Bruyere, Montesquieu, and Buffon, cannot be excelled; more particularly the first two, who are of the age of Louis the Fourteenth, in whose praise too much cannot be said, for they are perfect models for imitation.  They are models that foreigners ought to be as eager to imitate as the French themselves.”—­“I can hardly think it desirable,” answered Corinne, “for the whole world entirely to lose their national colouring, as well as all originality of sentiment and genius; and I am bold enough to tell you Count, that even in your country, this literary orthodoxy, if I may so express myself, which is opposed to every innovation, will in time render your literature extremely barren.  Genius is essentially creative; it bears the character of the individual that possesses it.  Nature, who has not formed two leaves alike, has infused a still greater variety into the human soul; imitation is therefore a species of death, since it robs each one of his natural existence.”