taining the words, "n'oubliez pas votre promesse." This indication of an Irish arrival, was quite sufficient to elevate my spirits, to animate my whole being, in anticipation of meeting some happier native of the Emerald Isle, and to dispel those pensive thoughts I love in this land of strangers occasionally to cherish. My servant, however, could give me no clue by which to discover to whom I was indebted for the parcel. It was left by a " Facchino," and came from an "Inglese," who, speaking neither French nor Italian, merely pointed to the direction, wisely suspecting, from the intelligent appearance of the porter, it would safely reach its destination. I was sadly perplexed,-I wrote a note to our Ambassador requesting to know whether an English or Irish gentleman lately arrived had paid his respects to his excellency. I then sallied forth to the bankers on the Piazza del gran Duca, to learn some tidings there;-I received no satisfactory information, and proceeded on my usual contemplative perambulations amidst those precious monuments of art, which were every where around me, leaving to time the explanation of the mysterious arrival of the parcel. As I was strolling near the celebrated Loggia, the architecture of which, I have so often ventured to describe to you, with perhaps the pen of an enthusiast,-my attention was suddenly arrested by the sound of a well known voice, to the broad and sonorous tones of which I had been accustomed in the buoyant days of my youth; when time, or a too close contact with the world had not yet dried up the sources of those harmless pleasures that made the years I spent in my native country appear like a dream of delight, which I can never hope will visit me again. I was at the moment contemplating that unrivalled production of the eccentric Cellini, the Perseus, and passing in review before me all the difficulties he encountered, and the vexations he experienced, before he had finished that master piece of art,-when the words "my dear friend, is this you?" reached my ears,-I turned,—judge my surprize-N- was before me,-his fine blue eye and honest manly smile, I instantly recognized, and though his appearance indicated less health than he enjoyed when we pursued our sports over the lands of -though his face was hid in the ample curls of huge black whiskers, which uniting under the lower lip, concealed from my view the peculiar formation of his chin; still his strong features, unaltered either by the circean power of modern fashion, or the more prevailing influence of time and indisposition, removed all doubts I may have entertained as to his identity. I knew the excellent associate of my happier hours; the mystery was explained,-my blood warmed, the next moment found me in his arms, and we embraced with all the affection of early friendship. Oh, how can I describe the pure unmixed delight,—the rapture felt by the sojourner in a foreign clime, when he meets the companion of his youth,—— the native of the same land,---and the harbinger of tidings from that home, where dwells the objects of his fondest affections;-his heart swells with the fullness of the enjoyment,-all passing scenes become lost to his observation, and for the moment he yields himself to the uncontrouled influence of the noblest feelings. Poor N, to him the rencontre was equally gratifying;-we have been together since we met;-I have already shewn him some of the lions of Florence, which, without my assistance, his ignorance of the French and Italian, would prevent his seeing with satisfaction. I am pleased to learn my mother's health is restored-would you could induce her, before winter assumes the ascendant, to change the cold and humid atmosphere of Cork, for the genial and regenerating cli mate of this country;---three months residence on the Chiaja of Naples would insure her existence for years. Maria, if I may judge by those specimens N-brought, has wonderfully improved in landscape painting, those last three years. Her view of Turk lake by moonlight is exceedingly well finished,---it has a vast deal of the rich colouring and romantic wildness of Salvator Rosa, though it wants, to obtain my unmixed approbation, a little more of his softness in the outline. Prince Corsina, who, saw the drawing this morning, says it exhibits great promise in the " young Artist," but thinks the lights and shadows are not sufficiently defined for moonlight scenery.-Will Maria forgive me for parting with her beautiful view of Blackwater Bridge---" I assure her, it is in the possession of a nobleman, whose attention and kindness has been unremitting during a three months lingering confinement to my sombre apartment, owing as usual to a fit of rheuinatism.-He took so great a fancy to it, from its resemblance to a landscape of Claude Lorraine, belonging to his brother, that I requested his acceptance of the painting, and it now occupies a post of distinction on the walls of the Palazza Strozzi.N-informs me that you dread my feelings for my native country are not so warm as they were wont to be that the classic ground of Ausonia has weakened my attachment for the land of my forefathers-that the sun of Italy will seduce me into a constant residence on the shores of the Mediterranian, and that Mola di Gaeta or the enchanting Baia, will be the future sojourn of an Irish absentee. My dear friend, you do me every injustice in supposing that any thing I see around me could produce sucli an effect on so enthusiastic a patriot as I am proud to say I am.→ On the contrary, the distance which divides us serves only to make my heart turn with a more restless anxiety to the country of my birth, and with a more ardent longing for the sweet home of my affections-though in the midst of Italian Scenery, alternately splendid and desolate-in one direction delighting by the verdure of its soft and delicious vales—in another astonishing by the sublimity of its rough and majestic mountain tracts-though surrounded by the mighty monuments of Italian genius, and the mouldering momentos of its former greatness-though occasionally cheered and delighted by the Godlike recollections that still cling,― though the spirit is fled-to this wreck of a country-still I have not forgotten;-I cannot, I will not forget Ireland and the dear friends-the beloved few that fortune has yet spared me. Were you acquainted with Italy you would receive this assurance-My heart sinks with grief and despondency, when I reflect on the fallen fortunes and desolate conditioit of her people, when I feel that imperial incubus which is pressing heavily and fatally on its intellect, and its resources rendered more galling by the recollection that all her plans of regeneration have failed whether animated by the enthusiasm of the sons of Lombardy, or directed by the master genius of Napoleon. With such thoughts within, and such objects around me, often does my memory recur to the happy hours I spent in the society of my family, under a parental roof, and by the cheerful fireside;often does the silent unsocial discomfort of my apartment, with all its sombre grandeur,-its faded frescos,-its heavy misplaced ornaments, remind me of home, and of all the unobtrusive comforts of an Irish dwelling.— Fear not then, my dearest James, that I can ever forget you or Ireland, and though my health may oblige me to reside in Italy this winter, I trust returning summer will find me in the bosom of a family I venerate and love. I am delighted to learn you still prosecute the study of the Italian with unceasing assiduity and attention, and that you have become as enthusiastic an admirer of the literature of this country, as ever were Eustace and Byron.-Apropos, this reminds me of your laconic epistle,-" n'oubliez pas votre promesse," as I suspect it refers to a pledge I had given in a former letter to send you a historical sketch of the progress of illumination in the modern Italy with a short account of its most celebrated writers; I can redeem this pledge now with more facility than I probably then anticipated, as I very fortunately employed the hours of confinement to my room in arranging my ideas on this subject, in order to prepare for so formidable an undertaking, in case you insisted on my performing a promise I had made with something like Quixotic presumption,-I had my common place and fiterary diary before me, and Muratori, Tiraborchi and Lanzi were continually within my reach, the two first to revive my recollection of the early history of Italian literature; and the last to restrain my too warm admiration of some favourite authors; the result of my reading and reflection I shall transmit you whenever a more certain and less expensive conveyance than the courier who takes this, affords me the opportunity; at present you cannot expect much more than a mere introduction to prepare you for the line of observations I mean to pursue in future letters. Indeed I have already taken up so much of this in describing to you my feelings on meeting an old friend whom I had always connected with my earliest and happiest associations, that I fear I shall be forced to check the flow of my ideas, and leave off the subject rather abruptly. Will you give me credit when I assure you I have undertaken this task, not with the vain hope of adding to your stock of information; for your hours of study have been more profitably employed than mine, but with the intention of proving to you how large the room you occupy in my affections, and with the fond desire of removing an impression you appear ( I infer from your laconic epistle) to have received unfavourable to me from my long silence, and I will freely admit my unwarrantable forgetfulness. The space within which I intend to confine my speculations must be limited,---the arrangement I was able to make is necessarily hurried and imperfect,---so much has been already written, and written well, upon Italy, that my ohservations can scarcely aspire to more than the humble merit of furnishing you with an outline more or less accurately drawn, of the prevailing and influential features that have characterised the use and progress of its literary history. I aim merely at giving an abstract and gratifying my friend James by a few occasional reflections as resulting from a superficial acquaintance with Italian literature.---I leave you to acquire from abler writers the rich ample and voluminous details; I trust you will glance kindly over the few sheets I shall forward, in which I will attempt to trace with perhaps feeble and transient pencil, the past literary glories of this fine people, and at the same time that I shall claim your sympathy, while I unavailingly deplore, and would willingly forget their present political degradation. It is, you must know, to the writers and princes of Italy, that we are indebted for the restoration of long neglected literature;---it was they who first effectually burst through the darkness of the middle ages---opened to us the stores of antiquity---displayed to us those intellectual treasures which were so long buried amidst the ruins of Roman greatness, and taught us to appreciate the wonders of ancient lore. To them do we owe some of the noblest productions of modern genius,---from them must we acknow ledge, that some of our greatest poets have borrowed the richest ideas that beautify their works, and on them must we look back with veneration as those whose illumination first dissipated the clouds that concealed from our view the rugged heights of Parnassus. True it is, that long before the Italians had shaken off that mental gloom which hung over their country, the work of partial regeneration was attempted beyond the Alps. Nay, before the present dialect of Italy had received any regular form of graminatical construction, the language of Provence had acquired an elegance and harmony of expression essentially poetic. True it is, the Troubadours were inspired, and sung their rich poetic lyrics to celebrate the prowess of Charles Martel, and the victories of Charlemagne, before Italy, the land of song, could boast of even the meanest versifier. True it is, that whilst the writings of Virgil and Horace were forgotten or neglected in the country where once they had afforded so much delight and interest, the roving poets of transalpine nations had in their enthusiasm opened to admiring Europe those abundant sources of Arabic fiction which afterwards formed so pleasing a portion of modern literature.-True it is the Italian sonnet is supposed to have been taken from the lyrists of Provence, and that the shackles of rhyme are borrowed from the evanescent effusions of its itinerant bards, yet after all, to Italy is our gratitude due, for the blessings which the restoration of letters had shed upon Europe; for the poetry of Provence was ephemeral and uneffective-its language has dwindled into a Patois, with which the honest peasant of Southern France is now alone acquainted, and the most admired productions of her poets have fleeted by like the passing light of a meteor, and are forgotten;-or at best are only to be found. in the stately shelves of the Escurial library or hid I must close my reamidst the parchment lumber of Monkish records. marks, as I anticipated, abruptedly.-Scarcely enough of the sheet remains to convey to you the assurance of my esteem and affection. With kind remembrance to all friends. Ever your's, &c. &c. H. O'D. THE POWERS OF HOT WATER, OR THE NEW KERRY STEAMER. All know Glanflesk-'tis near that lake so famous, No Kerry patriot, I'm sure will blame us, V In Blarney lane, perhaps 'twas in Blackpool, Great friends they were---tho' differing, both were sly ones Peter took Pat along the busy quay That runs from Patrick's bridge down Lee's south side, Now rest on mud, now float upon the tide; After long silence, Pat thus op'd his lips-- "I thought the world had not so many ships." But by and by a Steam Boat hove in view, And now she nears us---bless me what a clatter, |