Ravenna, upon the shores of the Adriatic, whither he was driven into exile by the persecutions of his countrymen, who are proud of his reputation, and have in vain sought to reclaim his ashes. He died in 1321. A cenotaph monument to his memory is now in the hands of Ricci, a celebrated Florentine artist, and will soon be erected in the church of St. Croce, among the other illustrious names, which consecrate its aisles. It is to be of white marble, presenting a group of statues, which will comprise a figure of Italy, pointing to her favourite poet, together with his own likeness and suitable illustrations of his works. 'The whole expense is estimated at $40,000—a greater sum than Dante ever saw during his life. It is some gratification to see the posterity of his fellow-citizens, attempting by these acts of liberality to obliterate the ingratitude of their fathers, and to appease the manes of persecuted genius.

But let us turn to a less poetical subject: In front of the Cathedral and at the distance of a few yards, stands the Baptistry, an octagonal edifice, encrusted with black and white marble, and finished in the same style as the primary structure to which it belongs. The interior is extremely rich, the pavement consisting of beautiful mosaics, and the shrines glittering with precious stones. On the whole, however, it is less splendid than its Pisan rival, dedicated to the same purposes. The three bronze doors are reckoned masterpieces of art, and old Michael Angelo, in the enthusiasm of his admiration, and in his characteristic liberality towards the works of others, used to call them "the Gates of Paradise." They are enriched with bas-relief of exquisite workmanship, and appropriately representing the principal events in the life of St. John the Baptist.

What shall we say of two massive iron chains, suspended by rings from the antique pillars on each side of the principal portal, all taken from captive Pisa, and still displayed as trophies of conquest? Coming as I recently had from the wreck of that interesting little Republic, these spoils from a port now in utter ruin, thus ostentatiously exhibited, awakened in my breast a tide of mingled emotions. The Florentines attempt to soften the features of the picture by sta

(the Divina Camedia) of Dante. Without a prototype in any existing language, equally novel in its various parts, and in the combination of the whole, it stands alone, as the first monument of modern genius, the first great work which appeared in the reviving literature of Europe."

ting, that the chains were presented to them by the Pisans for guarding their territory, while they were engaged in foreign wars. Notwithstanding this explanation, the traveller regards the manacles in no other light than as an emblem of the subjugation of Pisa. If either state had been benefitted by the conquest, such a boastful display of the trophies of war would admit of some palliation; but both were ruined and depopulated by civil dissensions. Let the citizens of the United States mark the picture, and see what must be the fate of our country, if any of the flourishing and happy little Republics, which like the planetary world now form parts of the great system, and are mutually supported by one another, should yield to the impulses of ambition, wander from their orbits, and strive for the mastery over their neighbours.

The Campanile or Belfry in this group of buildings, like that of Pisa, is an insulated tower, standing a fer paces from the corner of the Cathedral, and rising to the height of 288 feet. It is perhaps twenty feet square, constructed of the most solid materials, and faced on the outside with variegated marbles, among which the white prevails, beautifully clouded with other colours. The workmanship is as finished as the smallest and nicest piece of mechanism; and for five centuries, it has stood the admiration of all travellers, from Charles the Vth, down to less imperial visitants. It was built by Giotto, who by dint of genius became, from a peasant boy, one of the most renowned architects of the age.

Arduous as was the ascent by means of spiral flights of steps in the interior, the word as usual was upward! and we climbed to the very top, even to the tiled roof, which rises above the open balustrade. The view of Florence and its antique

towers; of the Vale of the Arno both above and below the town; of the river itself, at this height divested of its minor defects, and flowing through its bright and luxuriant borders; of the hilly environs, infinitely varied, and crowned with castles, palaces, villas, gardens, churches, and convents --such a landscape, glittering beneath an Italian sky, and blooming in all the freshness of Spring, may be conceived, but cannot be adequately described. Eastward the prospect reaches to the woody heights of Vallombrosa, and the peaks of mountains overhanging it, still enveloped in snow. Three or four miles towards the north, the dilapidated walls and nodding towers of old Fiesolé, seated upon one of the

loftiest swells of the Apennines, imperfectly show themselves through the intervening foliage. The seven gates of Florence, and all the great avenues by which it is approached, were distinctly traced. Of these the Porta St. Gallo, leading across the mountains to Bologna, St. Croce, the Roman, and Pisan are the principal. The walls, of an elliptical form, are seven miles in circuit, and enclose a population of about 70,000. Crowded faubourgs, extending on all sides, considerably augment the amount; but what is this handful of inhabitants, compared with the 400,000, whom the city alone contained in the prosperous times of the Republic! Can any person ask a more palpable demonstration than this of the superiority of one form of government over another? Yet the Florentines, slumbering in ignoble ease, enslaved by ecclesiastics, and bound hand and foot by the despotism of the Holy Alliance, are suffering the glorious inheritance of their fathers to waste away, without one generous effort to regain their long-lost liberties.

While we stood leaning over the balustrades of the Campanile, surveying the dusky battlements of the city, the bells tolled and the chants of numerous processions of priests in - their robes, followed by a multitude, ascended in murmurs from below. As they moved through the deep and dark windings of the streets, they alternately vanished and re-appeared, and the sound of their voices by turns faded and revived upon the ear. There was something absolutely melancholy and painful in the picture. What a different scene did the activity and bustle of the town present in the early days of the Medicean family, when commerce and the arts flourished; when the citizens assembled on the public squares to discuss the interests of the state; when every high-minded Florentine was ready to rally at a moment's warning under the banners of the Republic, and the enthusiastic shouts of freemen rang along the banks of the Arno!

The Piazza del Duomo is spacious, and surrounded on all sides by blocks of stately buildings, some of which have an air of venerable antiquity. On the western side stands a monument, to commemorate the miracle of St. Zenobi, whose coffin coming in contact with a withered oak, is said to have caused it to put forth its foilage afresh. This square

has from time immemorial been the rendezvous of all loungers, literary, political, and fashionable. It is a sort of Exchange, whither the Florentines resort at evening, to converse

and gather the news of the day. Here are several of the principal coffee-houses in town; and the very benches are shown, on which Machiavelli and his contemporaries used to lounge.

LETTER LIII.

FLORENCE

CONTINUED-CHURCHES-SANTA

CROCE--SAINT

LORENZO-TOMBS OF THE MEDICI-LAURENTIAN LIBRARYSANTA MARIA NOVELLA--ANNUNZIATA-MUSEUM-BOTANIC GARDEN-PITTI PALACE-BOBOLI GARDEN-CASCINE.

April, 1826.-To the church of Santa Croce we paid several visits, chiefly on account of its interesting associations. It stands on a large square of the same name, surrounded with antique and grotesque buildings, some of which have been the cradles of distinguished men. The church itself, elevated by half a dozen steps above the piazza, presents a rude exterior. It was built in the same age with the cathedral, but the outside has never been, and probably never will be finished. The colossal proportions of its interior, its long-drawn aisles, its ranges of massive columns, its Gothic wooden roof, and the sombre aspect of its chapels and altars, impress the mind with a solemnity of feeling. An inattention to the lesser ornaments, such as embellish most of the Florentine churches, comports with the dignity of a sanctuary, which enshrines much of the holiest dust of Italy.

On entering the front door, the eye of the visitant is at once arrested by the tomb of Michael Angelo, erected against the wall to the right. It is enough to know, that the ashes of such a man, equally distinguished for his genius, his skill, his patriotism, and noble attachment to liberty, sleep beneath the pavement. But the monument itself is worthy of his memory, and furnishes another proof that his countrymen are much more fond of heaping honours upon the dead, than of doing justice to the living. It consists of a pyramidal pile of marble, which rises above a splendid sarcophagus.

*On the downfal of republican liberty, Michael Angelo, who had manfully struggled for its support, became a self-exile from his country, indignantly retiring to Rome, whence he refused to return, till his remains were restored to his native earth by his enslaved and degraded countrymen.

Among its ornaments are figures of Architecture, Sculpture, and Painting, with their appropriate insignia, designed to be emblematic of the three great departments of the fine arts, in which this astonishing man attained an almost equal degree of eminence. A little medallion of his own painting also forms one of its most interesting embellishments.

Next in order, and on the same side of the church, is the tomb of Alfieri, the great dramatic poet, and one of the master spirits of modern Italy; though the eccentricities of his character detract somewhat from the veneration which the traveller is ready to pay to his talents. He was the personal friend of Canova, who has done not less credit to his feelings than to his taste in the design of this monument. The same marble will indissolubly connect two illustrious names; and they who were so intimate in life, will not be wholly separated even in death. A work with which the artist evidently took great pains has not been considered as one of his happiest efforts; for what reason I know not to me it appeared both appropriate and beautiful. The sarcophagus is extremely rich. A draped figure of Italy, crowned like Cybele with triple towers, is in the attitude of pointing to a medallion of the poet in bas-relief, and weeping for the loss of a favourite son. Is it possible for a design to express more simplicity or greater pathos? There is however one defect so glaring as to strike every spectator, but which was not the fault of Canova. The name of the Countess of Albany, widow of the last of the Stuarts, at whose expense the monument was erected, is even more conspicuous than that of Alfieri himself. It is emblazoned in large letters in front, and a special record is made of an act of munificence-perhaps a tribute of genuine affection. This titled personage was in plain terms the mistress of the poet, and whatever was the strength of her attachment, taste and refinement surely might have dictated a less ostentatious and a more delicate mode of expressing her sorrow.

A few feet farther on in the same aisle, the visitant finds the sepulchral urn of Machiavelli, with a figure of History holding his medallion. In the minds of most of my readers, a prejudice is probably associated with his name, which has become a generic term in our language, to express a sort of jesuitical, refined, wily, and cunning policy. Such a stigma, it is believed, has arisen rather from the calumnies of his enemies, than from a fair construction of his writings.