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 EDMONDO DE AMICIS

T fares with books as with persons: some we like without admiring, and some we perforce admire yet dislike. De Amicis and his books are eminently distinguished by that subtle charm—the Italian simpatia—which silences our critical sense, and awakens kindly feelings. As we see the author through his writings, we are attracted by his hopefulness, his vivacity, his simplicity; we recall the clever passages, the pleasing ensemble; yet are we conscious that something is wanting—something which only the great writer is able to impart. An examination of the work of De Amicis will reveal why we like it so well, and why, nevertheless, it does not satisfy.

In the year 1848 every Italian heart was beating with hope. Milan had broken her chains, Carlo Alberto had drawn his royal sword against the oppressor, a democratic Pope sat in Peter’s chair. A buoyant confidence in the virtue of men and in the destiny of the nation flamed through the peninsula and shone on the cradle of De Amicis. It entered his infant soul; there it rooted, blossomed in boyhood, and ripened into the perennial youthfulness which is characteristic of