With us, where the heavens do not altogether leave us in the lurch, altitude is sublimity. But in Italy, one Campanile is worth another;-even the highest, that of Venice, to look at, seems nothing. The great difference between the distant view of an English and of an Italian town, besides the essential one of clearness of sky, is, that from the latter lofty square towers are seen to rise, in place of our subtle steeples. I was astonished, on visiting the Last Supper of Leonardo da Vinci, to find it so much injured by time, and so little by any other hand. The door for the monks' supper, so much abused, and so happy a theme of vituperation, can have done not the least harm to the picture. The lad, however, who shows the refectory where it is, seems to have caught up the cant of each indignant traveller, and talked of those peste di frati that bored their door through the precious fresco. The Ambrosian library possesses many valuable relics of Leonardo; among the rest, a portrait of himself. Like most of the institutions of Italy, it complains of not having received back all the treasures taken by the French. I strained my eyes to read Petrarch's autograph note, concerning Laura, written in his Virgil, but in vain ;-a beautiful little text-hand he wrote. The margins of the volume are covered with his notes on the Æneid. The Scala was not open; we, however, It is about as gained admittance. large as the London opera, broader perhaps, but neither so long nor so lofty. Behind the scenes it contains much more room, the want of which is the great defect of ours. The colonnade of St Lorenzo is a true foretaste of Roman ruins. It consists of sixteen Corinthian columns, the portico either of a bath or a temple; the two uses to which antiquaries always assign doubtful fabrics. It may, however, be safely referred to the times when the Roman emperors made Mediolanum their place of residence, and when its splendour was celebrated by Ausonius. If the greater part of this have faded, Milan still at least pre- Saw the author of "Fazio" at Milan, returning from his tour;—a broiling time for travel this university vacation. I regretted the impossibility of seeing Monti, who has been at Pesaro since the death of his son-in-law, Count Perticari. From Monti's last poetical effusion, Un Solliero nella Malinconia, I was led at first to suppose him blind. It was dictated during a privation of sight, since removed, I was informed, by couching: "Vele un pensier mi dice: Ecco bel frutto Del tuo cercar le dotte carte; ir privo Si della luce, che il valor visivo Già piega l'ale alla sua sera addutto." But the poetical spirit of Monti has long since evaporated, either from age, or from employing his talents in grammatical controversy. He is at the head of the anti-Tuscan party, whose very laudable aim is to shake off the dictatorship of Florence over the rest of Italy as to elegance and propriety of language. The present quarrel commenced by the Institute at Milan, under the sanction of its government, inviting the Cruscans to join them in a reformation of the dictionary, &c. The Cruscans took the proposal in dudgeon, and refused to take any steps in an undertaking which did not originate with them. Upon this, Monti took up the business singly; and, with the aid of Perticari, has in a great measure succeeded in shaking the Tuscan pre-eminence. His opinion, which seems by no means arrogant or unreasonable, is, that the classic dialect of Italy cannot be concentred in any one town, nor regulated by reference to the particular idiom of one province; but that it should be considered the same with that spoken by the men of letters and cultivated society throughout Italy. Indeed, the able dedicatory letter to the Marquis Trivulzio, with which the "Proposta" commences, is sufficient to settle the point, with It is a shame that our great Reviews have not yet noticed the "Proposta." The third volume contains a comparison between Johnson's dictionary and the Cruscan. How can such a work, by such a man, be regarded by our literati in silence? They have long since lost every attraction, except the possession of dry learning;-are they losing, even that? VOL. XII. 3 X out entering deeper into the contro versy. Count Perticari of Pesaro, who married the beautiful daughter of Monti, died in June last. It is surprising, that the death of a man, here so celebrated, should not have been noticed in the least degree by our numerous journals. "He was the first prose writer of Italy," observed to me a man of great literary eminence here, (Mustoxidi). "What is it he has written?" asked the English ignoramus. What a shrug, well merited, followed the query!" Sur la langue," was the reply. "On the language!"-" Ah! cette maudite langue! Toujours la langue, rien que la langue?-You are a long time settling the preliminaries of writing; when do you intend to begin?"What a lamentable sight is it, to see a nation divided on such topics; each party clothing the petty sentiments of municipal rivalry in the language of fishwomen, to prove that its speech is classic!-The elegant Perticari, Kowever, cannot be numbered amongst these. The cry with many people is, "Separate literature from politics; they have nothing in common," &c. &c. But let any one consider the squabbles on topics of pure literature,-on words, on incriptions, on nothings, and he will find all the venom of political contention, joined with all the contemptibility of anger and excitement, when called forth by insignificant causes. The abuse of Dennis is mere Billingsgate; but that of Cicero-all as bitter, all as personal, all as vulgar -is accounted sublime, and justly. Passions will come forth; literary men will have their quarrels; and politics afford a grave, a dignified, at least a respectable point of difference, which was wanting to the schools of the middle ages, and is to the grammarians of modern Italy. Among persons that are continually interfering with each other's views or vanities, as literary men are for ever, party spirit is the The view, descending to it, is beautifal. We were contented with viewing the promontory of Catullus from Decensano;-took no boat to Sirmium, nor made any voyage upon the lake. In truth, Catullus is no acquaintance or favourite of mine. With feelings not so Gothic, I looked southward towards Mantua, along Virgil's own Mincius. The country that inspired the poet of the Georgics may be fertile, but is far from beautiful. Still many an object recalls the reading of our school-boy days; the peculiarlytrained vine, and the white oxen, classically though awkwardly yoked, met at every turn of the road, awoke some dormant hexameter of the Mantuan bard. At Peschiera, seemingly a fortress of strength and importance, we left the Benacus, crossing the Mincius, into which the lake pours.* Dante has left a description of this classic part of Italy in his Inferno, more accurate, however, than poetical: "Suso in Italia bella giace un laco Appiè dell' Alpe, che serra Lamagna, Serra Tiralli, ed ha nome Benaco," &c. "Tosto che l'acqua a correr mette cà, Non più Benaco, ma Mincio si chiama Fino a Governo, dove cade in Pò.” Canto 20. Verona is beautifully stretched along the declivity of a mountain, the last of the Tyrolese chain. On entering, we thought more of Shakspeare than any thing else; so demanded a sight of Juliet's tomb. We proceeded to the outskirts of the town, and in a retired garden, once belonging to the Franciscan convent, were shown la tomba di Gibbon has the following sentence:-" The Roman ambassadors were introduced to the tent of Attila, as he lay encamped at the place where the slow-winding Mincius is lost in the foaming Benacus, and trampled with his Scythian cavalry the farms of Catullus and Virgil.' Upon which Mr Hobhouse exclaims, " Extraordinary! The Mincius flows from the Benacus at Peschiera, not into it." Mr Gibbon seems to say neither one nor the other. The poetical expression of one being lost in the other, as they are traced on a map, may be construed into either meaning. Romeo e di Giulietta-a pig trough precisely, neither more nor less; and it has even been bored at bottom for the purpose. Nevertheless, I failed not to demand a piece of the said pig trough for some blues of my acquaintance; but was informed, that the government had forbidden the breaking off of any more fragments. The amphitheatre speaks more the grandeur of Rome than even a decade of Livy. Every guide-book will tell you its dimensions, but of its grandeur none can give an idea. The inside is quite perfect at least as far as the second story, which good fortune it owes to having had originally no boxes or recesses for princely spectators, similar to the Coliseum. It consisted then, as now, of a circular row of plain marble benches, to the number of fortyfive, capable, it is said, of containing upwards of 20,000 spectators. In the arena, at present, stands a modern theatre, of handsome dimensions, in which representations were going on It is astonishing, that no Latin writer has made mention of this stupendous work. A letter of Pliny, that records great amphitheatrical exhibitions at Verona, makes it likely, that it was built before or early in the reign of Trajan. But this is no proof. The conjecture best supported assigns it to the reign of Gallienus, and Maffei seems inclined to this opinion. Though better preserved in the interior than the Coliseum, its exterior has suffered much more; there being only the breadth of three arches standing of the outward wall of the amphitheatre, while that at Rome is still perfect in half of its circumference.For the present, ADDIO. • The circumference of the amphitheatre is 1290 Veronan feet; that of the Coliseum is 1566. THE SWORD SONG OF KÖrner. Translated closely from the German.* THOU sword upon my belted vest, Raising a flame ?-Hurrah! "A horseman brave supports my blade, Yes, my good sword, I still am free, My first dear bride-Hurrah! "Soldier of Freedom, then I'm thine! Soon shall our bridal morn arise! "O sacred union! Haste away, Then why cling to the scabbard-why!. Why cling'st thou there?-Hurrah! Then still in narrow compass rest- "O let me not too long await! Where death's rich roses grow elate This wild song, written but a few hours before the author's death, and probably not corrected by him, is so completely German, as almost to be untranslateable into English. It may serve to shew the noble spirit of the author, in the cause in which he embarked and fell, but will be read with the deepest interest, by those who are acquainted with his other works, and his short yet glorious history. Then forth! quick from thy scabbard fly, "O glorious thus in nuptial tie Forth then, thou messenger of strife! While in thy scabbard at my side, Thee glowing to my lips I'll press, Let joy sit in thy polish'd eyes, U. U. ON THE POLITICS OF DE STAËL. THE existence of such a being as Madame de Staël, was long wanting to the female sex; it has for ever laid at rest the question, whether the highest order of genius is compatible with the delicate frame and temper of woman. One might imagine her indeed to have been sent into the world for the express purpose of answering this impertinent doubt, of which her life and writings have left a most complete and practical refutation. Nor are we, lords of the creation, permitted to support our ascendancy, by alleging the masculine character of the lady's mind, since Madame de Staël does not seem to have purchased her mighty and uni, versal genius by the sacrifice of a single feminine quality-the personal one of beauty being perhaps excepted. Endowed with the highest powers of intellect, as well as the strongest susceptibilities of passion, she appears equally at home in the exercise of either; and we scarce know whether to admire her most in the love-scene of romance, or in the abstruseness of inetaphysical discussion. The great and characteristic beauty of her writings, is the link between the head and heart manifested throughout them; the writings of most people betray an equality, an unpleasant struggle between these two ruling powers; there is in general either an ungoverned and puerile warmth, an ostentatious callousness, contented and glorifying in itself, or a capricious balancing from one to the other, which, according to our tempers, leads us to contemn, to dislike, or to distrust the writer. But no such feelings can be excited by the perusal of Madame de Staël; every quality is duly tempered; all are so agree ably blended into a oneness of character, abounding in sympathy as well as in wisdom, and altogether uniting into such a glowing and generous philanthropy, that to read without almost idolizing is impossible. No creature ever crossed her path in life, without exciting in her the deepest interest. She was warmed by the most confined as well as the most extended affections. Parental love became a religion to her; friendship, little less; and, contrary to the usual feelings of men, in whom warm affections towards individuals tend to abate those towards the human race, collectively, no breast ever beat more strongly with true and genuine philanthropy. She carried her heart with her into politics, and loved even nations with a woman's love. She has spoken of almost all the countries of Europe-France, Switzerland, Italy, Germany, Russia, England-and with difficulty could she find a harsh word for any. They are all paradises in her descriptions; where the people will not permit the comparison, the skies and rural beauty supply it; and where the climate will not permit, she finds something to praise in the frozen inhabitants. England was peculiarly the object of her culte; and were not the extravagance of the rites in no small degree calculated to render the worship ridiculous, the " ocean-girt isle" could never have found a more glorious monument than in the pages of De Staël. When Rousseau cast his eyes around the nations to choose the heroic model of a man according to his ideas, he fixed upon England, and drew my Lord Bomston. But Madame de Staël was not contented with human heroes. Na tions, as well as individuals, figured in her airy castles; and in spite of the heavy acres of old England, and the matterof-factedness of John Bull, she elevated this worthy island of ours on the stilts of romance. She set us upon a steed, clad us with her own fanciful fingers in the armour of knighthood, and sent us forth, like another St George, to kill dragons and deliver captives, in honour of some fair chivalrous theme. All this was mighty well as long as we remained fighting; but when we had killed the dragons, and demolished the sorcerer and his castle, then our knight-errantry was at an end; and the fairy dreams of the Baroness and her votaries vanished like Armida's garden. Then were these politicians from the school of the Arabian Nights disagreeably undeceived, and, to their great surprise and disappointment, they discovered-that the war, which England had sustained for a series of years against the power of Bonaparte and the continent, was no fairy tale, or legend of romance, but an actual bodily combat for life-that it was carried on with the expence of red blood and hard money-and that the fine theories for the enlightenment and freedom of mankind, which the Baroness was drawing up in her closet, could never have entered into the views of nations struggling for their very existence. Then did the fair ideologist grow angry, and address sundry anathemas and recantations of praise to our island, accusing it for not forcibly liberating all the other degraded nations, who were and are contented to remain slaves, and reproaching us that we did not once more "run a muck" against Europe, in defence of those descendants of the old Romans, who have not courage to strike a stroke for themselves. Madame de Staël, in the latter years of her life, ought to have recalled to her mind the sentiments which she put of old into the mouth of Lord Melville, expressive of the noble ideal of English character; "I am severe towards nations; they always deserve their fate, be that fate what it will." Madame de Staël, though not perhaps the foundress, was certainly the high priestess of that political sect, whom Bonaparte used to mock under the name of Ideologists. As, like her follower, Benjamin Constant, she unfortunately divided her time between novel-writing and politics, she endeavoured to swell the laws of private heroism into rules and motives for public life. This is the complete key to her political principle-her censure and her praise. She was utterly ignorant of that truth, so fully established by history and experience, that the heroism of bodies of men, collectively, has ever been just what it should be-selfishness and interestedness. Generosity is an individual virtue, so is honour in its romantic acceptation; and the consequence of imposing such laws on nations would be but to render them more disgustingly Machiavellian, by the addition of unnecessary hypocrisy. But these prosaic principles were deemed by her unworthy of public men; she would have a poetry of politics, and was for converting the cabinets of Europe into so many courts of chivalry, merely substituting a republican code of laws for their old aristocratic ones. As theory is nothing without example,― and as the continent of Europe seemed not at all inclined to illustrate the political dreams of the sect, England was pitched upon as the preux chevalier of the occasion. They be-lauded, be-praised her, and at length came to fancy, that by these gratuitous encomiums, they had imposed on her an obligation to fulfil for all the world the idle projects of a few spouters and scribblers. Hinc ille lachryma-we have refused to be Quixotes; and they who were kind enough to promise and prophesy for us, are wroth, being convicted of reckoning without their host. It was disgust at the cant of this sect that drove Bonaparte into the open profession of Machiavellianism. He was naturally above such feelings, and if they left him alone and unpreached at, he would have remained all his life a reader of Ossian, and an admirer of romance. But in this case he felt that he should play but a subordinate part, that he should be but second to De Staël, and no poet ever possessed jealousy of intellectual superiority to a greater degree than Napoleon. "Quand on proférait devant Napoleon quelque chose de neuf, ou de frappant, il lui arriva quelquefois de dire avec une espèce d'émotion chagrinè: Où avez-vous pris cela? Qui vous a dit cela? Il semblait que |