morals, valor, knowledge, thought, history, civilization. It remains only for the poor Yahoos, naked and unmasked, to reveal us at the last as we really are: mere apes, wild, stupid, evil. Thus ends this marvelous and grievous outburst of as unprejudiced a spirit as ever lived and suffered in this world.

Swift is not only a simple, clear, and clean-cut writer: he is original. Macaulay himself, though he points out a resemblance between a passage in one of Addison's Latin poems and a passage in the voyage to Lilliput, recognizes that Swift owes exceptionally little to his predecessors. There are stories of giants and pygmies in popular mythology, to be sure; but the idea of making use of these differences of stature to proclaim and represent the tragi-comedy of human life was Swift's own. There had been earlier accounts of imaginary voyages to strange lands; but no author had succeeded, as Swift was to do, in fusing intense satire with amusing narrative. Before the time of Swift there had been Utopias wherein more perfect men had framed wise regulations for their common life; but in Gulliver's Travels, after the voyage to Lilliput, there is scarcely a trace of the "cities of the sun." The one perfect society is that of the illiterate horses: a bitter mockery of our pride as literary bipeds.

Yet human vanity, never content, has sought

to turn this book-with all its strangeness, sadness, and profundity-into a humorous work, a book for children. It is not a matter of chance that the very pages that make children laugh are those that may well bring tears of shame to the rest of us.

XVII

CAROLINA INVERNIZIO

I

No: this indefatigable woman shall not disappear from the literary scene without a word of farewell, without an expression of deep gratitude. For once, at least, I will play the cavalier, unworthy though I am. I alone will be mourner, critic, and eulogist. I will sacrifice myself. I shall have no rivals, but my tribute will not be venal or ready-made.

Not one of the all too many archimandrites of that historical, anecdotal, impressionistic, pure, impure, or philosophic criticism who are to be found in the generous breadths of this our Italy will take pen in hand and dispense ink and judgment to glorify the prolific and industrious novelist recently borne off by pneumonia from the affection of her family, the curiosity of movie audiences, and the faithful admiration of the multitude. Such silence is unjust; and I, like Cato the Younger, have a liking for lost causes.

Though the critics hold their peace, I will glorify thee, O Carolina Invernizio, lost forever!

A certain serious periodical, the ne plus ultra of serious periodicals-suffice it to say that it is printed in my sweet city, only a few steps from that fair San Giovanni in which Dante and the undersigned were baptized-this ultra-serious periodical, to which Carducci once contributed, deigns to inform its readers, at the end of the few lines in which the death of the novelist is reported, that "the productivity of Carolina Invernizio was enormous, and brought a fortune to her publishers, but will certainly not suffice to win a lasting fame for the deceased, who was, however, an excellent wife and a woman of simple ways." Oh, the envious certainties of the anonymous! Who gave thee the right, thou scornful prophet, to foretell literary fortunes? Who, save God above, can pledge the memories of the future? If Carolina Invernizio had been merely an excellent wife and a woman of simple ways, wouldst thou have deigned to speak of her, even to commemorate her? There be millions of excellent and simple-hearted women in Italy: thou couldst scarce register all their holy and devout deaths. But how many canst thou find among them that have won the hearts and the imaginations of all Italy and half America? that have created so many angels of glistening

perfection and so many microcosms of black wickedness?

Enough of these questions, to which the poor anonymous necrologist could not possibly reply. Let us mount to better air, to the realm of feeling. No man who has not devoured Accursed Loves, who has not shuddered at Souls of Mire, who has not been stirred by The Miscreant, who has not quivered under The Eternal Chain, who has not sympathized with A Woman's Heart, who has not wept for The Heart of the Laborer, who has not trembled for Dora, the Assassin's Daughter, who has not shivered at the Dramas of Infidelity, who has not turned pale before Thieves of Honor, who has not been absorbed in The Crime of the Countess, who has not been terrified by The Kiss of the Dead, who has not been entranced by The Illegitimate Daughter, who has not followed in suspense the fate of The Accursed Woman-no such man has the right to judge Carolina Invernizio. Nor must we forget the hair-raising Memoirs of a Grave Digger, the pathetic Victims of Love, the supremely piteous Orphan of the Ghetto, the atrocious satire of Faithless Husbands, the spectral synthesis of Paradise and Hell, the sentimental epic of Rina, The Angel of the Alps, the terrible fantasy of Satanella, or The Dead Hand.

J'en passe, et des meilleurs. For our Carolina certainly had at least one of the signs of genius: