have a community of laws, of government, of every thing in fact, which might tend to erase the Florentine nation from among the potentates of Europe, and to place the Italian instead. Alas, for Italy! As we cannot suppose Niccolini capable of having recourse to unfair means for propping his system, we must consider it simply as an oversight,-rather a strange one to be sure-that he has quoted Macchiavelli's pretended dialogue on Dante's language as genuine, whilst every fricti ciceris emptor knows it to be a most impudent forgery. He treats with contempt those who hold, as the most rational opinion concerning the origin of the Italian language, that it was not a corruption from the Latin, but a language formed from the old vernacular dialects of Italy. We should advise him to be more cautious in speaking lightly of opinions supported by such men as Maffei, not to mention any other. That there was a language different from the noble Latin, called vulgaris, quotidianus, plebeus, rusticus, militans, castrensis, &c., in the times of Cicero and before, is as fully proved as any historical fact can be. After this, what importance shall we attach to Cicero's avowal of having learned from a boatman that inhibere remos was not the same as sustinere remos; to which Mr. Niccolini appeals, to show that the language of the people and that of the chosen few of the community were the same. A Bolton weaver will know more about the implements used in a cotton-mill, and designate them by more appropriate terms than Mr. Pitt or Mr. Fox would have been able to doyet shall this prove that there is no dialect spoken at Bolton, or that a weaver of that place speaks as good English as either Pitt or Fox? In Ariosto (36, 7) the word schelmo is employed. Many learned commentators have affirmed it to signify a kind of boat, and the academicians have not inserted it in the dictionary, perhaps because they knew not what it meant. Any boatman from Venice to Pavia would laugh at the ignorance of all these sages, and tell them that schelmo means a board, which runs all along the side of a boat. Yet this does not prove that the boatmen on the Po do not speak a dialect, or that they know good Italian more than the commentators and academicians, who were puzzled to find out the meaning of the word.* It is remarkable that Niccolini speaks in one manner and acts in another, with regard to his literary creed. He abuses those who prefer Eschylus to Sophocles, and then translates one of Eschylus' plays; deprecates disputes on languages as childish, and then enters the field as an avowed partisan and *Sir J. Harrington translated this word correctly. the the champion of the insulted honour (risum teneatis?) of his country; meaning that microscopical spot of the terra parva in which a nurse from Camaldoli had the fortune to teach him to speak the only true Italian which can be spoken; finally he condemns foreign epic poets, because they introduced moral beings in their poems, and then he, in his own person, kindly yielding to the wish of his friends, publishes a sort of poem (not epic to be sure) called Cantica, and entitled " LA PIETA," in which only moral beings are introduced. It is strange, passing strange, indeed! -but no matter. This Cantica was written on the occasion of a contagious fever which ravaged Leghorn in 1804. It is divided into three short cantos in terza rima, Dante's metre. But nothing, save the metre, is there in it common with Dante. The poet, to state shortly the subject of this composition, imagines that 'La Pietá' (Pity, Compassion, or Mercy) has abandoned this world to supplicate the Almighty for the cessation of that dreadful scourge, the fever. In this poem there figure Terror, Humility, Faith, Hope, Innocence, &c. Niccolini, who so indiscriminately condemns foreign poets for being over-bold, or rather bombastic, (fastosi) and exaggerated, will perhaps avow that such expressions as the following are anything but dignified, and in good taste. An angel is seen flourishing the revengeful sword of God with one hand, E nell' altra agitar l' urna infelice Del furore di Dio colma e fumante. (pag. 146). Then the answer which the Almighty gives to the prayers of Pity was heard, resembling Per alta notte a mormorio di fiume. He who blames the introduction of moral beings in their poems 'because our fancy can scarcely imagine them, and no painter can represent them,' presents us with passages like these, which we have not boldness enough to translate, because they would appear more like ludicrous and impious jests than specimens of learned and religious poetry. Towards the end of the third canto of this poem, there is what we think an elegant and pathetic episode, which makes us regret that Niccolini has not written more in this way, leaving the supernatural regions for poets endowed with a more powerful mind. His verses will not certainly strike us like those of Monti, nor draw tears like those of Varano (whose Tremuoto di Lisboua' Niccolini had certainly before his eyes); but a poet may be above mediocrity and good, although inferior to either Sponti or Varono. 6 ART. IX. ART. IX.-Essais de Michel de Montaigne. Nouvelle Edition. Lefevre, Paris, 1818. OUR occupation has been, for the most part, with the modern writers in foreign literature. We now take up one nearly 300 years old. If by our plan we had professed to limit our regards to the moderns only, we might yet, without any violation of it, and without any extravagance of fiction, have brought under our review such an author as Montaigne. Notwithstanding his venerable years he is a modern still. As a writer, he is in the full enjoyment of life, and exerts an influence upon the living greater than that of many a wit incarnate whom we have unscrupulously recognised. If his voice be yet heard amongst us, on what principle shall we abstain from speaking of him? for is not the vitality of his works the sole vitality of an author which criticism cares to acknowledge? We have a right to Montaigne, not only as his own writers are read extensively throughout Europe, but as other writings of a recent date have been fashioned after him, and have kindled at his light. His influence at this day is great as proceeding from himself; and great by reflection. Without further apology, we offer these remarks upon his genius and character. He was born in 1533, at Perigord in Gascony, where his family had long maintained a high rank among the noblesse of the country. The solution of his character commences with his earliest education. From the cradle he was taught to converse with the learned in a dead language, while the mothertongue was prohibited in his presence. Father, mother, nurse, and footman had all been trained, for his instruction, to prattle in the speech of Rome: for it was the father's hope that something of the Roman spirit might thus be infused into the nature of his son. But the plan was not consistent throughout: for in other respects the breeding of the young Montaigne was of the most delicate description; and the utmost refinements of the nursery were lavished проп his childhood. The manner of his being put to sleep is not recorded; but the shock of his awakening was relieved by the sound of musical instruments stationed in his chamber against the moment of his revival. Something analogous to this duplicity in the treatment of his childhood was afterwards apparent in his character as a man. The best teachers whom the age could afford were called to instruct him in the branches in which they respectively excelled; and amongst these our countryman George Buchanan, to whom Montaigne owed his early attachment to the poets. At thirteen years years of age he commenced the study of the civil law. Not long after, he was appointed Counsellor in the Parliament of Bourdeau; and there contracted that friondship with a fellow Counsellor, Stephen de la Boetia, which is so memorably recorded in his writings. It furnished the pattern from which he drew the exalted ideas expressed in his Essay on that subject. Twenty years after Boetia's death, while travelling in Italy, Je tumbe en un pansement si pénible de M. de la Boetie, et y fus si longtemps sans me raviser, que cela me fit grand mal.' The office of Counsellor he soon resigned, as its duties were not agreeable to his humour; yet his merits had transpired, and reaching the royal ear procured for him the highest mark of distinction among the noblesse of France, the order of St. Michael. His Essays were published in the 47th year of his age. He afterwards travelled in Italy,-from a desire, chiefly, to behold and to converse with the remains of antiquity. A Journal of his travels, written by himself, was published 180 years after his death; but it relates to nothing so much, as to the mineral waters that occurred to him in the course of the journey. On his return to France he was elected Mayor of Bourdeau and having held that honourable office during four years, he retired to his family residence in Gascony, where he resigned himself to philosophy and ease, and died in his 60th year. From these few incidents one may form a conception of his character, such as it appeared to the common eye of his contemporaries. From infancy he is biassed to the study of philosophy by a singular course of education under the best preceptors of the time; he is rocked and swaddled and dandled ' into a philosopher. The more fashionable accomplishments proper to the rank of a Cavalier are not neglected, that the dignity of his family may be conspicuous in the manner of the age he is taught to reverence, with the simplicity of a scholar, the greatness of times past; and, as a man of the world, to understand and to protect himself against the present. He has at once the air of à Litterateur and of a Cavalier; in the latter character seeking admission into Parliament; in the other impatient to be out of it. He resorts to the Court, where he is gratified by the notice of his prince, and even seems to dally with an ambition for employment in the offices of the State; confesses that he has no more aversion than a monk to an intrigue; and would have fought, if occasion had served, like another Herbert of Cherbury. We behold him next in the groves curantem quidquid dignum sapiente bonoque.' There his philosophy is not so engrossing that it does not readily give place place when the Royal Family, with its retinue, comes to honour the mansion of Montaigne. He is almost ashamed, like that lesser spirit of Italy, Guarini, to be ranked as a man of letters; and for that reason professes to limit himself to the study of a few favourite authors; disclaims all pretensions to the pedant faculty of memory; and declares that the language of the taverns is far more agreeable to him than the babble of the schools. All this is to preserve a proper balance betwixt the ornamental duties of his rank and the longings of an original and cultivated intellect. In the tenor of his life one may read the easy and peaceful disposition,-which preserved him secure both in property and person in the midst of the transactions of the Reformation. With the enthusiasm of genius, but at a ripe age, and not without bodily infirmities, he sojourns in a foreign land to realize the fancies which had been the entertainment of his life, the amiable pilgrim dividing his attentions in a manner almost pathetic betwixt the waters and the monuments of Italy. Finally he retires: his character becomes more consistent; and looking back on the insignificance of his life, he finds himself less allied to those who had figured with grandeur on the theatre of the world, than to Plutarch their intelligent spectator and historian-Plutarch the author. A contemporary might thus have interpreted the character of Montaigne from the circumstances of his life. Something more, however, has been revealed of it. I cannot give any account of my life by my actions, fortune has placed them too low for that I must do it by my fancies.' We are thus referred from his history to his books, not only for the matter which they contribute to literature, but also for a full exposition of the character of the author. The great object of his Essays, which are his only remains that interest posterity, he announces in the Preface, is to paint himself, that an image of his mind may be preserved for his family. Is this a just explanation of the whole object? we think not, for in what manner does he, for the most part, paint himself, but by describing his sentiment and opinions on every thing of interest that came under his notice? In that sense, every author might be said to paint himself; though the interest should rest not upon the writer, but upon the matter of the work. In this, however, we perceive the shyness of the Gascon gentleman to descend, with a singleness of aim, into the field of authorship. His work, it seems, is not intended for the common use of all the world, but to be an ornament in the escutcheon of his own family: placed in the hall of his own chateau, this monument of a noble ancestor is to collect for his descendants |