Still however, on the other hand, it is perhaps equally extraordinary, that we should meet with no traces of this colloquial patois in the writings of the ancients. Some allusion indeed is made by Quintilian, to the sermo militaris-a dialect in use among the soldiery;-but if the language of the common people was so distinct as it is supposed, it is strange that we do not find more direct mention of it; especially in the plays of Plautus, who with his love of broad humour, might naturally have been expected, after the example of Aristophanes, to have availed himself of such a source of the ridiculous. And when one reads in modern Italian such lines as the following, the parent language seems to stand confessed in the identity of the resemblance: In mare irato, in subita procella Or, again, Vivo in acerba pena, in mesto orrore, Purissima Maria, et in sincero Te non adoro, et in divino ardore. These lines however were probably studiously composed in this indiscriminate character;-and they might be counterbalanced by examples of early Roman inscriptions, which certainly bear more affinity to the modern Italian than to the Latin; and this would seem to show that the two languages might have existed and gone on progressively together. After considering therefore all that is urged by opposite writers on this subject, one is reduced to the conclusion of Sir Roger de Coverley, of happy memory;—that much may be said on both sides. Thus much is certain; that at least the guttural accent of Tuscany is as old as Catullus, who has ridiculed it in one of his epigrams: Chommoda dicebat, si quando commoda vellet Dicere, et hinsidias, Arrius insidias. 19th. An evening at Fiesole-which is situated on a commanding eminence, about three miles distant from Florence. The country is now in the highest beauty. Spring is the season for Italy. We have little Spring or Summer in England— except in Thomson's Seasons. Climate, if it do not constitute the happiness, is a very important ingredient in the comfort, of life. An evening or night, in an Italian villa, at this season of nightingales and moonlight, is a most delicious treat. How could Shakspeare write as he has done, without having been in Italy? Some of his garden scenes breathe the very life of reality. And yet if he had been here, I think he would not have omitted all allusion to the fire-fly, a little flitting insect, that adds much to the charm of the scene. The whole garden is illuminated by myriads of these sparkling lights, sprinkled about with as much profusion as spangles on a lady's gown. There is something delightfully pleasant in the voluptuous languor which the soft air of an Italian evening occasions;-and then the splendour of an Italian sun-set! I shall never forget the impression made upon me by a particular evening. The sun had just gone down, leaving the whole sky dyed with the richest tints of crimson-while the virgin snows of the distant mountains were suffused with blushes of "celestial rosy red;" when, from an opposite quarter of the heavens, there seemed to rise another sun, as large, as bright, and as glowing, as that which had just departed. It was the moon at the full;-and the illusion was so complete, that it required some few moments to convince me that I was not in Fairy Land. But one season is wanting;-there is no in terval between day and night; and the "sober livery" of gray twilight is here unknown. Night however, of which we know little in England, but as it is connected with fire and candle, is now the most charming period of the whole twentyfour hours; and there are no unwholesome dews, no sore-throat bringing damps, to disturb your enjoyment with fears of to-morrow's consequences. 20th. Left Florence at day-break, travelling as before in a voiturier's carriage; indeed, little would be gained in point of speed by travelling post, between this place and Bologna: for the road is so hilly, that you must necessarily be limited to a foot-pace. I was stopped at the custom-house on re-entering the Papal dominions, where they obliged me to pay the full value of a parcel of Italian books, which I had with me, giving me an order to receive the same again at the frontier custom-house, when I should quit the Pope's dominions. It was explained to me that this was merely intended as a necessary precaution; for it might be that I was a bookmerchant, and wished to sell these books in the Pope's territories, without paying the entrance duties. As there seemed no help for it, I was obliged to comply with the demand; and take the officer's word that the scrap of paper he gave me would reproduce my money at the opposite extremity of his Holiness's territories. We slept at the half-way house between Florence and Bologna. 21st. Wild romantic road over the Apennines; -recalling the descriptions of Mrs. Radcliffe in her Romance of Udolpho. Reached Bologna early in the morning. Grand fête of Corpus Christi. All the streets were hung with satin, and covered in with splendid awnings, which on this occasion were of more use against the rain than the sun. One of the most striking ornaments of the town is John of Bologna's bronze Neptune, who presides over a fountain in the great square; but there is a poverty of water, and Neptune seems here-out of his element. 22d. The more you travel, the less you will rely upon the descriptions of guides and itineraries. There are no degrees in their descriptions, and all you collect from them, in general, is the ignorance of the compilers. One of these compares the leaning lump of brick at Bologna, which looks like the chimney of a steam engine blown a little out of the perpendicular, to the |