on condition that the letter should be prepared in advance. On the same evening Madame de Fleury made her appearance at court; the queen rose from the table, and submitted to the humiliation of gratifying her petty vanity; and the letter was dispatched. The denouement of this momentous affair was worthy of the whole proceeding the queen's pride had been wounded that the Comte de Laval should have appeared to triumph over her protegé; the delay of eight days enabled her to secure a similar appointment for the latter, for which purpose a vacancy was expressly created; and her majesty and his other friends were satisfied with having detained Laval until the rivals could set out at the same moment in perfect equality to join their regiments.-This whole story, trifling as are the details, is very consistent with the character of Marie Antoinette, and curiously illustrates her temper. Innocent and virtuous as we are persuaded she was, and elevated not less by her station than by a thousand graces above the common lot of her sex, the poor queen was after all in heart"

a very woman." But it is almost time to have done with M. le Prince. He tells us that the result of this affair confirmed his favour with both the royal consorts; and he continued to hold his office of minister of war undisturbed to the period at which this Premiere Livraison of his memoirs breaks off-about the close of the year 1779. The last circumstance of his domestic history which he here records is the marriage of his daughter with the hereditary prince of Nassau Saarbruck. This too, as his own had been, was a precious marriage de convenance; and for the mean ambition of being allied to a petty sovereign house, he sacrificed his only daughter, a fine young woman of eighteen, to a nominal union with a child of ten years old. The marriage ceremony was duly performed, and the lady returned to her parents to await the manhood of her boy-husband. The publication of the sequel of these memoirs will doubtless present us with a continued picture of the state of the French court until the Revolution; and the narrative, without adding any thing to our knowledge of the transactions of that remarkable period, will, we presume, like the former portion of the author's work, possess the degree of interest which a lively account by an eye-witness of such scenes can scarcely fail of exciting. The Prince de Montbarey was compelled to resign his place in the ministry in 1780; but he continued his attachment to the court and the person of Louis XVI., for that unfortunate monarch appears to have loaded him with favours. He emigrated at the revolution, and lived in retirement in Switzerland, (where these memoirs were written), until the period of his death in 1796. some fatality which must appear unaccountable, considering his own devotion to the court, his only son, the Prince de St. Mauris, colonel of the regiment of Monsieur, had, in the commencement of the revolution, imbibed the levelling principles of the day, and was of the number of the noblesse of Franche Comté who, in the

By

states of that province, voted in 1788 for the suppression of the privileges of their order. Being afterwards, in the progress of events, obliged to emigrate, he repaired to Coblentz to offer his services to the French princes; but the indifferent reception which he there experienced from some of his companions in misfortune, determined him to return to France at all hazards. He fixed his

residence at Paris, and succeeded in concealing himself and preserving an obscure existence in the capital until the year 1794, when he was arrested as an accomplice in one of the conspiracies against Robespierre, and dragged to the scaffold.

ART. II. Lettere su Rome e Napoli. 1 Vol. 16mo. pp. 206.

Treuttel and Wurtz. London. 1826.

Milano.

ITALY at the present day may in her literary capacity not unaptly be compared to a man who has been active and industrious in his youth, has by his exertions succeeded in amassing a considerable fortune, and has, as years came on, gradually been withdrawing himself from business, still, however, dabbling a little from old habit, and the wish to keep his hand in as we say ; but chiefly delighting, alone, or in the society of his friends, in going over and reviewing the more active scenes of his life. She has, both in the days of her youth and of her maturity, done gloriously. She has formed for herself the noblest language in the world; she has produced poets that have not only gone far beyond those of ancient Rome, but who make those of Greece and England tremble for their laurels. Her historians need not dread comparison with either ancients or moderns; in philosophical inventions and discoveries she is behind our own country and France; but the higher walks of architecture, painting, and music, are her own.

With such a noble and various stock already acquired, and with what has descended to her from her Roman sires, who can wonder that the Italy of the present times should have relaxed in her exertions, and that the chief produce of her presses should be numerous and well executed editions of the works of her literary heroes? Scarce, however, as new works of merit are in the Italian language, they do occasionally appear, and some of a magnitude that would appal publishers in this country. The historical work of Bossi forms nineteen volumes in octavo. Pignotti has done much both in prose and verse (besides many others of considerable merit), and altogether she has within the last forty or fifty years put forth more intellectual vigour than she had done for nearly two centuries before. She has also done much in translation. Heretofore all her efforts in that way were confined to the works of the ancients, chiefly the Latins, (in which by the way she has better specimens than perhaps any other nation), but now the chef d'œuvres of the Teutonic languages are beginning to be invested

in the brilliant garb of the south. Cesarotti's Ossian is well known. There is more than one Italian Milton; and even Shakspeare, long hardly known beyond the Alps by name, may now be read in the language of Dante and Tasso.

There is no country in Europe, with the exception perhaps of Spain, that has a firmer hold on the imagination than Italy. The charm of Spain is the romance and chivalry attached to the contests between the Moors and the Christians, for, with the fall of the former power, almost all our interest subsides; and though the bold spirit of enterprise which guided the first discoverers of the New Continent, in spite of their quenchless avarice and brutal ferocity, demands our sympathy, yet from the time that Spanish liberty sank beneath the blows and the arts of Ferdinand and his successors, our interest in Spain and her concerns gradually wanes and fades until, under her present king and government, we turn with aversion from her and every thing connected with her. But not so with Italy; bad as her political state may be, she is still the land of the Romans, still the favourite of nature; still the Apennines tower in majesty, the forest clothes their sides, and teeming plains stretch from their feet. Each spot still retains, and ever will retain, its classic associations; monuments of ancient art continually meet the eye, and hope still whispers that Italy may once again be great.

With these feelings on the subject of Italy, we shall keep a steady eye directed on her literature, and though the regret which we expressed in our last Appendix at the paucity of her literary productions still continues, we will not let pass any, even the slightest, opportunity of giving an account of what she is doing. Our noticing the present little volume is a strong proof of our inclination in this respect, for the most that we can venture to say in its praise is, that it is a pretty little book, written in good Italian, in a pleasing strain of rather pensive expression, and that we would undertake to recommend it to young ladies and gentlemen who are commencing their Italian studies, since it will not only tend to improve them in the language, but it will impress upon their minds some agreeable moral reflections, and give them some very tolerable lessons in the art of meditating among tombs and ruins.

Of tours and journals of tours in Italy we have, since the peace, had plenty, yea more than plenty, even usque ad nauseam. Indeed, now most of us, that are of a reading cast, may say with the poets,

Nota magis nulli domus est sua, quam mihi lucus
Martis, et Æoliis vicinum rupibus antrum

Vulcani.

Still there is some satisfaction in knowing what an Italian would say about his own country. The work consists of a series of letters written, or purporting to be written, to a lady, by a gentleman, whom, though he speaks of himself as being in retirement, as it

were in an Inveni portum, spes et fortuna valete-mood, we should be apt to suspect of not having made any considerable progress in the vale of years. They contain chiefly the reflections excited by the aspect of the different objects in Rome and Naples and their environs, during the time which in early youth he spent in these places under the guidance of a tutor. He very judiciously does not indulge much in the description of churches and palaces, and from the jargon of connoisseurship he is luckily quite free. The pensive tone of several of his meditations is not without interest.

The first letter is of course introductory. It is addressed to Erminia, the friend of his youth, who has requested from him an account of his travels and adventures, and

"Of the moving, accidents by flood and field"

which he may have chanced to encounter: and in them he congratulates himself on the repose and tranquillity which he now enjoys in his native air, and beneath the paternal roof, and declares his resolution to taste with transport the delights of a studious, tranquil, and retired life, expressing how much the idea of spending his days in the country, far from bustle and tumult, with his books and his recollections, cheers and consoles him. All this is very pleasing and sentimental, and it gives us no small pleasure to find, though indeed we never doubted of it, that there are people of such pure and virtuous inclinations still existing in Italy.

The Forum Romanum now-proh pudor!-the Campo Vaccino, naturally excited very vivid sensations in the mind of a youth, who, with his Titus Livius in his hand, stood on one of the broken Corinthian capitals of the temple of Jupiter Tonans, and saw around him innumerable ruins of temples, of arches, and of columns. Alas! exclaimed I, is this then the Forum that was the centre of Rome, of the world-the Forum, the memorable theatre of such great events, and of such tragic deeds! It seemed to me as if among these ruins the iniquitous tribunal arose, from which Appius pronounced the sentence that cost the virgin her life, and restored to Rome her liberty'. And in this strain he goes on conjuring up to his mortal vision the various fair or foul deeds of which the Forum Romanum had been the theatre.-Silly romance, a political economist may exclaim. But why should not the Forum excite profound and invigorating thoughts in the soul of an Italian, or Runimede in that of a Briton?

I sepolchri di Roma, particularly the Catacombs, excite, as they should, a train of pious, solemn, and humble reflections. The following account of the author's visit to the tomb of Cecilia Metella is characterized by a beautiful simplicity.

On the Appian way I beheld a solitary marble tower; its top was battlemented, for in the middle ages it had served as a fortress. The Latin inscription indicates this to be the magnificent tomb that Crassus

the Triumvir raised for his wife Cecilia Metella. I entered the tower, and sat down on a stone. Parasitical plants clothed the interior of the monument with their tortuous wreaths, the roof disclosed to my view the sky, whose lively azure, beautifully contrasted with the small white clouds which, driven by the sea breeze, flew rapidly towards the horizon, and successively disappeared, forming to my view an image of mortal affairs. The aspect of the sepulchre, the silence only broken by the whisper of the wind, or the buzzing of an insect, and the memory of Metella, who was beautiful and unhappy, all contributed to fill my soul in that spot with a voluptuous melancholy.'-pp. 19, 20.

From the Catacombs one day the author directed his steps to the valley of Egeria, which he describes in his usual simple and pleasing manner. Returning full of agreeable impressions, these are dissipated by the view of the Thermæ of Caracalla, and as he enters the city, his steps are attracted to the church of St. Nereus and St. Achilleus, where a beautiful young girl was, with melancholy looks and tearful eyes, about to pronounce, compelled as it seemed to him by her parents, the solemn vow, which was to separate her from the world for ever. His feelings were strongly affected, and surely it was a sight to affect a sterner nature than his. Let it not be supposed that our young traveller was enlightened, and had learned to sneer at religion in all its forms; his visit to Subbiaco, and the sentiments he there expresses, with his just eulogium on the character of St. Benedict, will dispel all such suspicions.

We meet occasionally in these letters with well told stories of ancient and modern times, and some which had lately happened, such as the affecting tale of Caroline the fair Guide at Agnano, and of Elisa Riccardi of Salerno, who died for love. As a specimen of his mode of narration, we will give the story of Orsino, which, though belonging to the middle ages, is probably unknown to most of our readers.

The wood of Riccia, two miles distant from Marino, is greatly celebrated for the age and beauty of its trees, so much so, that the landscape painters come thither from Rome to copy nature in her beauty. Beyond the wood we meet Genzano, when our strength, exhausted by walking, is restored by most exquisite wine. On our return, we take another road, which passes through Grottaferrata, an abbey that presents the appearance of a fortress, and whose embattled towers formed the retreat of a baron celebrated for his ferocity, whose tragic and well deserved end I will now narrate to you.

Nepomaceno Orsino was in the middle ages an atrocious tyrant. He fell in love with Eliza, a young lady of noble birth, who was affianced to an amiable youth of the family of the Massimi. Orsino suddenly carried her off, and dragged her to his castle, there by force to make her yield to his desires, and shut her up in a frightful dungeon. One day he entered her prison, determined to have recourse to the most violent extremes, and drawing a dagger, gave her her choice, either to yield, or to die.

'Eliza shuddered, and though she felt an involuntary chill at the sight of a speedy and inevitable death, she yet hesitated not an instant to