V. "Do you mean the Abbé Lazzarini, the author of the tragedy Ulisse il Giovane? You must have been then very young. I wish I had known him. But I knew the Abbé Coeli, the friend of Newton, and author of the four tragedies which comprise the whole of the Roman History."

C. 66

I knew him, and admired him; and when I found myself in the company of these great men, I esteemed myself happy that I was young. In your company it seems to me as if it was but yesterday; but I am not humbled on this account: I wish I was the last-born of the human race."

V. "You then would certainly be more happy than the first-born. What branch of literature are you pursuing?"

C. "None. But I may hereafter. At present I read as much as I can, and study mankind by travelling."

V. "

The road is good, but the book extremely large. The end is more casily attained by reading history."

C."

History lies. The facts related are uncertain, and the occupation tedious. To study the world, while wandering through it, amuses me. Horace, whom I know by heart, is my companion; I find him everywhere."

V. "

poetry."

Algarotti too is never without him. I am sure you are a friend to

C." It is my ruling passion."

V. "Have you composed many sonnets?"

C. "From ten to fifteen, which I value; and from two to three thousand, which I never read a second time."

V." In Italy the love for sonnets is a kind of mania."

C. 66

Yes. If the desire to embellish a thought by harmonious words may be called mania. The art of writing sonnets, Monsieur de Voltaire, is not easy. The sentiment must not, for the sake of fourteen verses, be either extended or abridged, and the sentiment must not only be good, it is necessary that it be sublime."

V. "It is the bed of the tyrant Procrustes, and for that reason you have few good ones. We have not one, and the fault is in our language."

C." Perhaps also in the French taste. Your nation conceive that a sentiment, which exceeds the length of an Alexandrine, loses all strength and brilliancy."

V." And do not you think so?"

C. " By no means. But let us first agree as to the meaning of the term

sentiment. A flash of wit, for instance, will not be suitable for a sonnet.V." Which Italian poet do you prefer?"

C. "Ariosto. I cannot, however, with propriety say, that I prefer him. In my opinion he is the only poet, and yet I know them all. When I read your censure on Ariosto about fifteen years ago, I was persuaded you would retract your judgment, when you had read his works."

V. "I thank you for believing I had not read Ariosto. I had read him, but I was young, and but imperfectly acquainted with your language. At the same time I was influenced by those of the Italian literati who were admirers of Tasso. Thus I unfortunately suffered an opinion on Ariosto to go abroad, which I considered as my own. It was not my own opinion; I admire your Ariosto."

C. I now breathe again. Do, I beseech you, excommunicate the book, in which you have ridiculed Ariosto."

V. "All my books are excommunicated already. But you shall witness in what manner I have retracted my judgment of Ariosto."

Voltaire now astonished me. He recited by heart the two long passages of the 34th and 35th cantos of Orlando, where the divine poet makes Astolfo converse with the apostle John,-without missing one verse, or in a single instance violating the rules of prosody. He afterwards extolled the beauties of the poet by such observations as

became a truly great man: more sublime remarks could not have been expected even from an Italian commentator. I listened to him with the utmost attention, and watched, but in vain, to discover an error. Turning to the company, I declared, that my admiration was boundless, and that it should be made known throughout Italy. Voltaire now said :

"The whole of Europe shall be informed by myself of the ample reparation, which is due to the greatest genius she ever produced."

He hardly knew how or when to put an end to his encomiums; and the next day he presented me with his own translation of a stanza: Quindi avvien che tra principi e signori Patti e convenzion' sono si frali. Tan lega oggi rè, papi e imperatori, Doman saran nimici capitali: Perchè, qual l'apparenze esteriori Non anno i cor' non an gli animi tali: Che non mirando al torto, più ch' al dritto Attendon solamente al lor profitto.

This was his translation :-
:-

Les papes, les Césars appaisant leur querelle,
Jurent sur l'évangile une paix éternelle;
Vous les voyez demain l'un de l'autre ennemis;
C'était pour se tromper qu'ils s'étaient réunis ;
Nul serment est gardé, nul accord n'est sincère,
Quand la bouche a parlé, le cœur dit le contraire.
Du ciel qu'ils attestaient ils bravaient le courroux,
L'intérêt est le Dieu, qui les gouverne tous.

Though none of the company, except myself, understood the Italian language, yet Voltaire's recitation on the preceding day procured him the applause of all present. After these applauses had subsided, Madame Denis, his niece, asked me, whether I considered the long passage recited by her uncle as one of the finest of that great poet. I replied, Certainly, Madam, it is one of the finest, but not the finest." She inquired farther, "Has it been decided, then, which is the finest ?" I replied, "This was absolutely necessary; for otherwise, the apotheosis of the poet could not have taken place. "He has been canonized

66

then?" (continued she) "I did not know that."

A general burst of laughter ensued, and all of them, Voltaire being foremost, declared themselves in favour of Madame Denis. I observed the utmost gravity. Voltaire, seemingly offended, said, "I know why you do not laugh. You mean to indicate that the part for which Ariosto has been called the Divine, must have been inspired." C. " Most certainly."

V." And which is the passage?"

C. "The last thirty-six stanzas of the twenty-third canto. They describe the madness of Orlando with so much truth, that they may be called technically correct. No one, except Ariosto, ever knew how madness comes upon us. He alone has been able to describe it. You, too, have doubtless shuddered while reading those stanzas. They stir up all the sensibilities of the soul."

V. "I remember them. All the frightfulness of love is there displayed ; and I am impatient to read them again."

Perhaps," said Madame Denis, " you will be so kind as to recite the passage," at the same time turning herself to her uncle as if to ask his consent.

C. "Why should I not?" I replied; "if you will have the goodness to listen to me."

Madame D. "What! have you taken the trouble to commit it to

memory!

C. "From the age of fifteen I have read Ariosto twice or three times annually he must, therefore, have necessarily impressed my memory without any effort on my part-I might say almost involuntarily. His genealogies and historical episodes, however, are an exception: they fatigue the mind, and leave the heart unaffected. Horace is the only author whom I have wholly committed to memory; yet he too has some verses, in his epistles, that are too prosaic."

V. "I conceive it possible to learn Horace by heart; but to succeed with Ariosto, is no trifle. There are forty-six long cantos."

C. Say, rather, fifty-one."

Voltaire was silent, but Madam Denis immediately resumed, and said,

Quick, quick let us have the thirty-six stanzas of which you say that they excite horror, and which have obtained for the poet the appellation of Divine."

I immediately recited them, avoiding the usual declamation of the Italians. Ariosto needs not the artificial aid of a declaimer, which, after all, produces monotony. I perfectly agree with the French, that a singing delivery is intolerable. I repeated the stanzas just as if they had been prose, except as to tone, look, and change of voice. They perceived and felt the effort I made to repress my tears, without being able to suppress theirs. But when I came to the stanza,

Poichè, allargare il freno al dolor puote

Che resta solo senza altrui rispetto,
Giù dagli occhi rigando per le gote,
Sparge un fiume di lagrime sul petto.-

my tears flowed so copiously, that the whole company were affected, and they all wept. Madame Denis began to tremble, and Voltaire - hastened towards me to embrace me; but I did not suffer myself to be interrupted: for Orlando, to be entirely overcome by madness, was yet to discover, that he reposed in the very bed in which the happy Medor had once clasped in his arms the charms of Angelica. This is in the succeeding stanza. My voice had hitherto been plaintive and hollow; I now assumed a tone appropriate to the horror excited by the madness of Orlando, which gave him such extraordinary power, that he effected destructions similar to those produced by an earthquake, or a flash of lightning. When I had finished the recital, the countenances of the company sufficiently expressed their approbation. Voltaire exclaimed, "I have always said, if you wish to make others weep, you must weep yourself. But to weep, one must feel; and to feel, one must have a soul." He then embraced me, and thanked me; he moreover promised to recite the same stanzas on the following day. He kept his word.

We resumed our conversation about Ariosto, and Madame Denis expressed her surprise, that the Roman Pontiff had not included his works in the list of prohibited books. Voltaire told her, the contrary had been done. Leo X. had excommunicated, by a particular bull, all those who should dare to condemn Ariosto. The two great houses of Este and Medici would not allow the poet to be injured; otherwise, he

added, the only verse where Constantine is stated as giving Rome to Silvester, would have been sufficient, on account of the words puzza forte, to prohibit the poem.

Here I could not help begging Voltaire to allow me to remark, that greater objection had been made to the verses in which Ariosto expresses his doubts as to the resurrection of the human race at the end of the world. Speaking of the hermit, who wishes to prevent Rodomont making himself master of Isabella, the widow of Zerbin, he represents the African, tired of his remonstrances, laying hold of the hermit, and hurling him away with such violence, that, dashed against a rock, he remains in so profound a sleep—

"Che al novissimo dì forse sia desto."*

The word forse, which the poet used merely as a rhetorical ornament, caused a general clamour, which would probably have made Ariosto laugh.

"It is a great pity," exclaimed Madame Denis, "that Ariosto did not avoid exaggerations."

"You are mistaken, my dear niece," replied Voltaire, “ even his exaggerations are well conceived and extremely beautiful."

We now conversed on other subjects, all relating to literature; and at last his piece entitled " L'Ecossaise," which had then been acted at Solothurn, became the topic of conversation. Voltaire remarked, that if it would afford me any pleasure to personate a character at his house, he would request Monsieur de Chavigny to prevail on his lady to play the part of Lindanet, and he himself would act the part of Monrose. I politely thanked him for his kindness, but declined the proposition, adding, that Madame de Chavigny was at Basil, and that I was obliged to continue my journey on the following day. Upon this he raised a loud cry, and put the whole company in an uproar, alleging that my visit would be an insult to him, unless I remained with him at least a week.

I told him I had come to Geneva expressly to see him, and having accomplished this, I had nothing else to detain me here.

V. "Have you come to speak with me," he asked, I should speak with you?"

or do

you wish that

C. "I came here, above all things, for the sake of your conversation." V. "You must then stay at least three days longer. Dine with me every day, and we will converse together."

I accepted the offer, but returned to my inn, having much writing to do.

* That the last day only will perhaps awake him.

Alluding to an adventure of Casanova in Solothurn, with which Voltaire had been made acquainted.

MILK AND HONEY, OR THE LAND OF PROMISE.

LETTER V.

Sir BALAAM BARROW to Mr. JEREMIAH DAWSON,

CONTENTS.

Journey to Brighton and Journey in America contrasted.-Landladies. Beggars. Apples at Coach-door. Barmaid at Cuckfield. Ladder from Coach Top.-An American Vehicle, "Open to all Parties," viz. at all sides.-No Trustees of Roads.— Divers Queries on the American Language.-Sir Balaam as puzzled as Pizarro.— Cobbett's Grammar.-Questions to one who proposes to emigrate.

WHOEVER has taken, his loose nerves to tighten,

A journey from Blossoms' Inn, Cheapside, to Brighton,
And finds himself pleasantly rattled to Shoreham,
At, including stoppages, nine miles per horam,

Must own the whole matter, from basement to attic,
From forehorse to hind-wheel, is aristocratic.
If landladies handle "the worm of the still,"
If urchins, for halfpennies, tumble up hill;
If apples are proferr'd, the slighted outriders
Are always postponed to the four fat insiders.
To them the lame beggar first takes off his hat,
To them the spruce landlady loiters to chat.
The barmaid at Cuckfield, apparell'd in white,
To them first exclaims, "Won't you please to alight?"
While, from the coach-top, by the ladder, each man
Gets down as he pleases, that is, as he can.

Ah! Jerry! how nobler a prospect engages
The wight who ascends our American stages!
The coachman (I should say "the driver") takes care
To sit, as he ought, cheek by jowl with the fare.
No springs prop the body; the sides of the coach
Are open to let any trade-wind approach.
The roof is supported by six wooden shanks,
The passengers sit upon plain wooden planks,

And the horses, quite civilly, kept down their jumps,
To let me in, clambering over their rumps.
Your bowling-green roads, water'd well by trustees,
Are merely constructed for safety and ease;
You" run on the nail," so decidedly dry,
You are puzzled to know if you ride, swim, or fly.
How different our practice! here Nature displays
Her steepest of stiles, and her roughest of ways.
O'er pebbles like rocks, and o'er Brobdignag logs,
The up-and-down vehicle swings, dives, and jogs.
This saves introductions, a mere waste of labour,
It brings every man tête-à-tête with his neighbour,
And makes him, however at starting unwilling,
As smooth, ere he parts, as a George the Third shilling.
We dined on the road upon junks of boil'd yam,
Beef, apple-pie, cabbage, potatoes, and ham.

A man in a corner ate beef and horse-radish;

I told him I reckon'd his roads rather baddish.

"Roads?" answer'd the sage, 'twixt a croak and a squall,
"I guess we had rather have no roads at all.

"When first they were dug, we were mightily roil'd,
"The President's sport, I remember, we spoil'd :
"We bore off his faggots, hand-barrow, and clay,
"And took off by night what he laid on by day.