The next subject was “La Morte di Beatrice Cenci;”—­and this, I think, was a failure.  The frightful story of Cenci is too well known in England since the publication of Shelley’s Tragedy.  Here it is familiar to all classes; and though two centuries have since elapsed, it seems as fresh in the memory, or rather in the imagination of these people, as if it had happened but yesterday.  The subject was not well chosen for a public and mixed assembly; and Sestini, without adverting to the previous details of horror, confined himself most scrupulously, with propriety, to the subject proposed.  He described Beatrice led to execution,—­“con baldanza casta e generosa”—­and the effect produced on the multitude by her youth:—­not forgetting to celebrate “those tresses like threads of gold whose wavy splendour dazzled all beholders,” as they are described by a contemporary writer.  He put into her mouth a long and pious dying speech, in which she expressed her trust in the blessed Virgin, and her hopes of pardon from eternal justice and mercy.  To my surprise, he also made her in one stanza confess and repent the murder, or rather sacrifice,[T] which she had perpetrated; which is contrary to the known fact, that Beatrice never confessed to the last moment of existence, nor gave any reason to suppose that she repented.  The whole was drawn out to too great a length, and, with the exception of a few happy touches, and pathetic sentiments, went off flatly.  It was very little applauded.

The next subject was the “Immortality of the Soul,” on which the poet displayed amazing pomp and power of words, and a wonderful affluence of ideas.  He showed, too, an intimate acquaintance with all that had ever been said, or sung, upon the same subject, from Plato to Thomas Aquinas.  I confess I derived little benefit from all this display of poetry and erudition; for, after the first few stanzas, finding himself irretrievably perplexed by the united difficulties of the language and the subject, I withdrew my attention, and amused myself with the paintings on the walls, and with reveries on the past and present, till I was roused by the acclamations that followed the conclusion of the poem; which excited very general admiration and applause.

The company then furnished the bouts-rimes for another sonnet:  the subject was “L’Amor della Patria.”  The title, even before he began, was hailed by a round of plaudits; and the sonnet itself was excellent and spirited. Excellent I mean in its general effect, as an improvvisazione:—­how it would stand the test of cool criticism I cannot tell; nor is that any thing to the purpose:  these extemporaneous effusions ought to be judged merely as what they are,—­not as finished or correct poems, but as wonderful exercises of tenacious memory, ready wit, and that quickness of imagination which can soar

    ——­“al bel cimento
    Sulle ali dell’ momento.”