the history of Italian literature. His poetry comported well with the character of his age. This we may learn by observing what principles lie at the basis of Italian character at the present day, or the architectural peculiarities of that age-now a gloomy castle frowning from some mountain height upon the plain below, and then an edifice reared on a rock in the wide basin of a charming lake, the walls of its successive terraces covered with foliage, concealing from view the rough stone beneath; the whole looking more like the enchanted castle of Fairy tenants, than the abode of human beings; as, for example, the Palace of the Borromean Islands. Especially may we learn this from the paintings by the old masters, which have come down to us. Petrarch might have written differently in another land and for another age. Instead of addressing sonnets to "Laura," he might have essayed some loftier theme and failed. The last of this illustrious triumvirate, who had done much to purify and refine their native tongue, had passed away. Their efforts to revive the study of the ancient classics had failed, and their remains repose upon a foreign soil. But though the "mighty dust" of "the all-Etruscan Three," as Lord Byron calls that noble triumvirate, reposes in other lands, yet

"In Santa Croce's holy precincts lie

Ashes which make it holier :"

the ashes of Machiaveli, Michael Angelo Buonarotti, and Galileo! It was under such circumstances that the munificent patronage of Lorenzo de Medici was exerted, to revive the study of philosophy and literature. To the advocates of regal government, Florence presented at that time a political beau-ideal. At the court, genius and learning prevailed, while riches were made subservient to these nobler gratifications. Throughout the city, wealth was poured out like water, to aid the natural beauties of Florence. Every thing contributed to render more applicable the name of "Firenze,” or fair and flourishing; and even now, the traveler cannot gaze, without emotion, on the noble dome of the cathedral, or the numerous spires which rise from every quarter of the city.

He who passes by the tomb of either of the great Italian artists, cannot but pause a moment out of respect to the distinguished dead. In delicacy of coloring and familiar acquaintance with the effect of light and shade, they were unsurpassed. But he who seeks for supernatural greatness in the expression, may find it in the frescos of Michael Angelo. His taste was formed on no model, and he could have no imitator. His characters exhibit great passion and energy. The moral philosopher may go and derive new lessons of truth respecting the passions incident to our nature. The anatomist, who is seeking for the nicest developments of the human frame, will find them here. Architect, painter, and sculptor, almost without a rival, he died at an advanced age, with the exclamation on his lips, "I have much yet to learn." The great rival of Michael Angelo, Raphael, was born a few years after him, in 1483. He caught the delicacy and finish of ancient art. He painted, not the bold, stirring passions in which his ri

val delighted, but the milder virtues of resignation and piety; as a Madonna, a female of unequaled beauty of form and feature, bending over her babe, or a saint, whose countenance ever wears the expression of love and humility. It was amid scenes of real life that the greatest of painters sought their models; and forms lovely enough to equal their highest conceptions were not wanting.

In this connection we would not forget one of the greatest artists which Florence or Italy has produced. The name of Leonardo da Vinci will be known to the world as long as it is associated with the piece entitled "The Last Supper." It was on the walls of the old church of the Madonna delle Grazie, at Milan, that this great artist painted this scene. He has selected the moment when the anxious inquiry was heard from every quarter, "Lord, is it I?" Had Leonardo da Vinci done nothing more to immortalize his name, this would have been sufficient. To him the world is indebted for the most admirable conception of that impressive scene; and copies taken from this picture have been circulated through every land, so that the traveler may recognize in it the original of the engraving of the Lord's Supper, which first met his eyes in infancy.

In the beginning of the sixteenth century, a man arose to eminence in Florence, of whose character and principles, when estimated by his writings, posterity have obtained the most contradictory opinions. A statesman, accustomed to all the chicanery of the court and of diplomacy, a minister familiar with all the artifices of tyranny, and a political writer describing with all the coolness of scientific investigation the processes by which despotism maintained its subjects in debasement or itself in security, all these were blended in the character of Machiavel. Whether the "Prince" was written to expose the schemes of tyranny that he might the sooner secure its downfall, or to lend to tyrants the weight of his experience and great political foresight in riveting new fetters upon their subjects, posterity will probably never determine. If the former was his design in composing that work, and also the "History of Florence," he has been the subject of great injustice; for whenever posterity have needed a word to characterize schemes of a consummately selfish character, deep laid, and aiming at the aggrandizement of individuals at the expense of the state, they have denominated them "Machiavelian." However, if his name has not had justice done to it, his fate would not be unlike that of thousands who have devoted themselves ardently and disinterestedly for the good of their kind.

But the most illustrious name in the history of Florence, which the world will ever revere more and more as it becomes the better acquainted with the noble science he was so instrumental in introducing, is that of Galileo Galilei-the inventor of the telescope and discoverer of the proofs which confirm the Copernican theory. As if nature had determined to keep up the connection of greatness, and show in what different callings it might be developed, Galileo was born on the day that Michael Angelo died. Though the insane malice of his enemies did for once lead him to dishonor his gray hairs by a denial of the

truth, and association of his name with error, yet the truth finally prevailed. With his latest breath he affirmed that the earth did revolve about the sun, and died, leaving to posterity more valuable astronomical observations, and more reasonable speculations grounded upon them, than any philosopher who preceded him.

But we have lingered too long upon the more glorious periods in the history of Italy. What is she now? Leaving out of the question Rome and southern Italy, where are those glorious little republics which awoke to new life and vigor the learning of antiquity, and which have been the legislators in the arts for all subsequent time? The days of decline have come over all-Venice, Florence, Pisa, and Genoa. Let us not regard them, in their decay, with contempt, but ask ourselves what would have been our condition, had we been subjected, during so long a period, to a policy so debasing as that under which Italy has groaned. On the one hand is the Pope, in his capacity of vice-gerent of God on earth, assigning portions of her territory to the Emperor of Germany; while on the other, the latter, as successor of the Cæsars, confirms the dominion of the haughty Pontiff over the states of the Church, by the armies at his command. A religion, too, was forced upon them, which withheld the light of truth and encouraged the exercise of passion. Surely, human virtue cannot long resist influences like these. But, as if nature herself was at war with Italy, the malaria annually visits some of the fairest portions of her territory, rendering them uninhabitable.

In the recent partition of Italy, man has capped the climax of wrong. Whence did the allies derive their right to subject Genoa to the dominion of the King of Sardinia? And England, too, the bulwark of Protestantism in Europe, why did she withdraw her troops, which had been admitted to the city under the special promise of protection, and thus leave the king of Sardinia possessed of all the works of military defense? Because policy dictated that the demands of the Holy Alliance should be complied with, though at the sacrifice of national faith. In consequence of this act, Genoa is now obliged to maintain more than twenty thousand Sardinian troops. Indolent ecclesiastics, pampered on the contributions which ignorance and superstition have wrung from the hard earnings of the people, throng all her public places. The Catholic religion is established by law, and imprisonment is denounced against the man who dares to proselyte Italians to a more enlightened faith. Her commerce, too, is fettered with ruinous restrictions. These are the causes why her streets are so lifeless, why every public avenue is thronged with beggars, and why a population of eighty thousand citizens, and a noble harbor, can do nothing to resuscitate the trade of their fathers.

The Italian character is not deficient in native energy. Even downtrodden Savoy produced some of Napoleon's best generals. A spirit has been aroused, which, even in the midst of oppression, struggles to regain the light. Schools of sculpture are yet to be found in some of the cities of Italy; and Canova, the head of modern art, has been the glory of our age. In science, too, the Italians are no contemptible ri

vals of other nations. But still, the glory of their country lies in the past; and there will it remain, until superstition shall have fled before the light of truth, and constitutional governments have taken the place of systems of despotism.

Austria, too, came in for her share, and Venice must be sacrificed to appease her. She wanted a seaport for her possessions in Lombardy, a country once included, during the days of Venitian glory, in the continental possessions of the republic. The Lombardo-Venitian kingdom was established as a viceroyalty of Austria. Milan was made the capital, and Venice compelled to take a humble place among cities which she had once hardly deigned to honor as country seats of her nobility.

In such a country, it is not strange that enormous wealth is uncommon. The people have been plundered by the government for the support of troops who had no love of country to attach them to her interests, and whose support was derived from the hand of government. Dislike on the part of the people has occasioned jealousy and distrust on the part of the government, and crime, the offspring of such a state of society, has been rife in some parts of Italy. Travelers have reported the plundering of the diligence within one day's journey of Milan.

But the eye is relieved, as it turns away from these blemishes in the moral landscape, to contemplate external nature. The skies are not less bright than when Claude Lorraine transferred their glowing hues to the canvas. And abroad, art and nature have combined to produce the impression of beauty. He who travels from city to city, is charmed with the never-ceasing succession of cultivated fields, and of estates where trees are grouped in charming groves; while here and there, a glimpse caught of a marble statue, adds to the picturesque beauty of the scene. The traveler, as he descends by one of the Alpine roads into the fertile plains of Italy, may sympathize with the feelings of the Carthagenian invader. No longer does he see the vines confined to short poles, but suffered to grow in all their luxuriance. Fine roads intersect the country, while no rude wooden fences mar the beauty of the landscape. And then the Italian lakes! He who gazes upon these sheets of water, is struck with a beauty in the reflected tints of the olives on their banks, or the delicate shades upon the distant hills, the impression of which no language can adequately convey. Italy has been deservedly called the garden of continental Europe, if a clear sky, well cultivated fields, and an infinite variety of scenery, can merit the appellation.

THE THREE STUDENTS OF MILAN.

CHAPTER 1.

"The evil, that men do, lives after them,

The good is often interred with their bones."-SHAK., JULIUS CÆSAR.

In an obscure villa in the city of Milan, removed from the din of the thoroughfare, and sheltered only by the graceful entanglements of the vine that overshadowed its humble roof, there dwelt a poor and laborious student, Olgiato by name. Whence he came, how he employed his time, or who were his companions, were questions, that if ever asked, were sure to go unanswered. Like a spectre he came and went, seemingly ever intent on some business or other, yet only rendered more mysterious by any inquisitiveness on the part of others. The inmates of his dwelling knew him to be a lover of music, as he had been frequently heard in his apartment thrumming his light guitar and running over some plaintive ditties none understood so well as himself. So retiring and unobtrusive were his habits, that he was frequently not seen for days together by his neighbors; and an entire ignorance of any reason for such a mode of life made it a subject of general remark and wonder

For two days already, at the time our story begins, he had not seen a human face, the solitude of his walls affording him his only company. He slept late one afternoon in the latter part of December, even later than was usual with him, so that the last lingering rays of the declining sun had long since left his little room; the mellow hues of a glorious sunset in Italy had faded from the western sky, and the shadows of evening came glimmering o'er the landscape' ere he showed any signs of awaking. Sleep sat heavily on his eyelids, for he had not counted any rest already for two days. But, though it came at last, it came only to torture his uneasy mind to a tenfold degree. He dreamed. It was alternately pleasing and frightful to watch the subdued calmness or strange violence of emotions that swept across his spirits like the winds over the Æolian harp. Now he dreamed of success, of bravery, and of crowning fortune-now the unsheathed dagger dripped with the blood it had drunk before his eyes, and prison, the rack, the scaffold, were the succeeding torments that sent a convulsive shudder through his frame.

Suddenly he sprung from his couch without exhibiting so much as the introductory symptoms of waking, seized his cap, armed himself with his stiletto, and neglecting his usual cautious habit of fastening his door, rushed from his room. Onward he pushed his way almost in a state of frenzy; he seemed not to know whither he was going, but to be led on only by the way he had trod so many times before. The vintner was returning late from his daily labor, and the sweet melody of the village damsel's song, which he had so often lingered to catch even to the last strain, he heeded not now. Onward he kept his