and most harmonious versification of the Sweet South; which, without being overloaded with historical facts, is both instructive and full of the most brilliant poetical images. You may have some curiosity to know why this manuscript was found at Montpellier. I was myself no less astonished; and, upon inquiry from the Dean of the University, M. Dubreuil, I learned that it was sent by the minister, Chaptal, who had been raised by Napoleon, from a professorship in that university to the station of a minister. You know that Napoleon, in his various invasions of his mother country, had carried away the most valuable, and, at the same time, interesting manuscripts, from the Italian libraries. This was one of those stolen, at that time, from that ever prolific mother of genius—farfamed Italy. If she were only free, thousands of her sons would arise to illustrate and immortalise her once more; and, for ages yet to come, the new barbarians might plunder again the masterpieces of her sons, to enlighten and civilise the Goths and Vandals yet uncreated. While at Montpellier, I learnt another singular circumstance concerning Italian literature, which I never saw mentioned. It is this. You must be aware that the Countess of Albany, during her residence in Italy, became Alfieri's mistress, as the Countess Guiccioli was Byron's. Alfieri, dying, left to his widow, who was also the relict of the last unworthy Stuart, (for it is known that they were, soon after their first acquaintance, secretly married, to quiet the conscience of her ladyship,) his library, which was very select, and contained a great many valuable books, especially all the editions ever made of Alfieri's works, as well as all his manuscripts. After the death of Alfieri, the Countess took a fancy, so fame relates, to a French painter from Montpellier, called Fabre, a man of some talent as an artist, and a friend of the poet. Her ladyship, contrary, no doubt, to the wishes of the great Italian bard, left, at her death, Alfieri's library, manuscripts, and all her own books to M. Fabre, who, proud of such rich spoils, left Italy, his adopted country, where he had learned to hold the crayon, and to wield the brush, whose very sky, and the air he breathed, had inspired him with the feelings of a painter, to return to Montpellier, to the authorities of which city he presented his booty, books, manuscripts, pictures, and all, as well as a valuable collection of pictures, collected by himself, and works of his own pencil. So exasperated am I at the Countess of Albany, for thus disposing of the library of the Italian bard, who is the very type of the present age, that, were she alive, I could travel a thousand leagues to unfold my mind, and display the utmost degradation of a degraded dynasty. May she meet forever, hereafter, the just punishment of this black and treacherous deed, the piercing and reproachful looks of the disembodied spirit, who, had he thought for a moment that his books, which he so dearly loved, would ultimately have this Gallic destination, would, certainly, have ordered them to be burnt; to such a degree did he detest the French, as a nation, although Fabre, a renegado, was united to him in friendship. Among other things in the Musée Fabre, as it is called, there is an excellent bust in marble of Alfieri, and a portrait, by Fabre himself, of the same poet, both very good. The portrait is the original, copied to make that fine engraving, which we see at the head of the finest Florentine edition of his works. There is also a very good portrait of Antonio Canova, the sculptor, by Fabre. In conclusion, there is, at Montpellier, in the university, another interesting production of the arts, stolen from Italy; I mean the antique bust, in bronze, of the old and renowned Hippocrates. CAPE MAY. BY W. B. TAPPAN. NEW JERSEY! thy blue hills are fair to the vision, How pleasant to wander where nought but old ocean Or gaily to mingle where pleasure in motion Sweet innocence, beauty and fashion uniting, How tranquil the scene, when Atlantic's proud billow Sleeps calm 'neath the moon-ray! When tempests deform; How truly majestic, as roused from his pillow, The god of the waters careers on the storm: When deep calls to deep and the surge mocks the mountain, Soon the gale dies in whispers, the billows are bounding, Though thy blue hills, NEW JERSEY! are fair to the vision, Unnumbered the beauties thy valleys display; Though thy streams are romantic, thy gardens elysian, Yet lovelier, I reckon, thy sea-beat CAPE MAY. AMERICAN CRITICISM. BY B. H. COATES. I CONFESS I am disgusted with the ferocious and malignant style in which much of the criticism of the day deals with those unfortunate individuals who attempt to amuse the public with their efforts at poetry. In handling the works of those whose reputation is already established, we observe something like attention to the rules of ancient criticism and modern politeness; but when the reviewer gets hold of an obscure writer or one whom he chooses to consider as a dunce, those principles of conduct by which we are taught as a duty to avoid unnecessarily wounding the feelings of our neighbour, seem to be entirely dismissed from the mind, and the unfortunate author is handed over to bull dogs to be baited, with as little remorse, as if, instead of being a harmless proser, he were a high offender against the peace and welfare of the community. He seems to be, habitually and as a thing of course, regarded as a criminal. "Judex damnatur cum nocens absolvitur," is a motto which has not adorned the front of a celebrated journal without a clear application and a steady, unsparing enforcement. The unlucky wretch who is guilty of dulness, or, what is the same thing, who belongs to a different political party, or has given private offence to one of the leading reviewers, is not even held entitled to the refinements of modern penal jurisprudence. Unlike the murderer, the offend |