however natural, opposition to the public funeral with which the Florentines desired to honor their anti-German poet. The opposition, however, on second thoughts, was withdrawn, and on April, 1850, crowds accompanied to the grave, on the hill of San Niniato, the remains of the last and not the least illustrious of the many great men who have added an accumulated glory to the city of Dante.

We have already, to the best of our ability, characterized the peculiar style and manner, both of thought and of expression, if these two can ever be distinguished in a poet, of this emphatically original writer. We have also pointcd out how close a relation his short carcer bore to the circumstances of his time, and how he sought to modify those circumstances; and we know, on the authority of his compatriots, how potent an influence his writings exercised. Of the man himself we could have wished to give a more living picture, but the materials before us are scarcely sufficient for the purpose. It is always pleasant, however, to feel towards those whose writings have delighted or instructed us, that we could have wished to have known them. The biographer has enabled us, with the aid of the poet himself, to feel this towards Giuste. Here is a description of a man worthy to be remembered:

All loved him who knew him. Leaving apart his genius, and the admirable sagacity and steadiness of his politics, he was, in the converse of domestic life, of manners so gentle, and of temper so sweet and open, that it was impossible not to love him after having been even but once brought together with him. Sad, both by nature and habit, but serene and tranquil in his sadness, he had a spirit open to every noble and elevated feeling. Generally he was rather silent; but when, in a rare moment of gladness, he gave free course to his laughter, he enchanted you with delight. He was a worshipper of beauty and goodness; he adored virtue, and abhorred the vices which polluted the society in which he was born, to such a degree that in this horror it was that he found the will and the strength to become a poet. Constant in his friendships, careless of inquiries which affected only himself, kindly helpful, modest, devoid of envy or jealous ambition, without false glitter or polish, he would have been a model of a citizen for his private merits, even if his genius had not raised him to the height which he attained as a poet.

Such was Giuseppe Giusti, a poet, a thoughtful patriot, a man worthy to be added to the long roll of great Italian names. Much of what he might have done has been lost by his comparatively early death; yet he can scarcely be counted among the inheritors of unfulfilled renown. There is nothing incomplete in what he has left, nothing in which however imperfect in itself, you recognize a

promise which may or may not be verified. He had perfected the style of composition which he may be almost said to have introduced as a novelty into Italy; he has a distinct place of his own as a poet. He felt most deeply and bitterly the social evils and political degradation of his country; he did what one man could do to expose them, with a view to their removal. His verses will illustrate the history of this time, while they preserve his own name and character in the memory of men. He was not vain, but he claimed for himself, with truth, the rarest of praises for a satirist, when he said, as he more than once did "Credo di non aver mai derisa la virtù, ne burlati gl' affetti gentili."-"I believe that I have never scoffed at virtue, or cast ridicule on the gentle affections." A thorough reformer, and alive, as few others have been, to the extent of evil operated on the national character by base and oppressive institutions, he yet felt that it was little to change the institutions unless you could reform the men also. With this end he aimed at the vices of a corrupt and trifling society his bitter ridicule interfused with so deep a seriousness.

Shaming some and stirring others, he who began as "Vox clamantis in deserto," lived to hear one responsive cry in answer to his words, and among the names of those to whom Italy will yet owe the renewal and recognition of her bound and sleeping life, she will place few, if any, above that of the author of the "Terra dei Morti."

Cheat her not with the old comfort,
"Soon she will forget".
Bitter truth, alas, but matter
Rather for regret ;

Bid her not "Seek other pleasures,
Turn to other things ;".
Rather nurse her cagéd sorrow
"Till the captive sings.

Rather bid her go forth bravely,

And the stranger greet;

Not as foe, with shield and buckler, But as dear friends meet;

Bid her with a strong clasp hold her, By her dusky wings;

And she 'll whisper low and gently Blessings that she brings.

of eighteen had already rather whipped the froth off my little pony. As I came to the spot, I saw a steep and stony path slanting away to the right up a great hill. This, it struck me, by my ideas gathered from the map, might lead to Craig Inn, and so, by inquiry, I found it did.

I now resolved to throw up the mail and the yacht at one double-barreled vomit, and trust to my legs and stick to terra firma; for, in confidence, I was very sick in the yacht. Some porridge and cream fortified me against the hunger and fatigue of a dozen mountain miles, and away I trudged in a heavy shower: for I was afraid to wait, for fear the dog-cart should overtake me with an ungetoverable reinforcement of good advice as to the really prudent thing to do.

However, I had now made up my mind to do the really imprudent thing for once- - to leave the beaten track of convenience for the rough scrambles of romance. Warm in the fresh sublimity of this idea, I plodded through the rain, wrapped in my streaming plaid. I had unluckily taken the hill about two miles before the path began to slope up from the valley, and being too obstinate to come down easy, I persevered, crossing an inconvenient number of mountain-spurs with ravines between them. In one of these, where I stopped to take breath and drink, it occurred to me that it might be an advantage to know how time was going in these wild places, that I might see when it was necessary to be in a hurry for fear of being benighted, and to measure my pace. I had an old watch with me, which I carried more for the sake of the luck-money attached to it, than anything else, as I had forgot to bring the effective key. But, though the working-key was left at home, there was a superannuated, worn-out partner who had lost his teeth in the service (so that he could not bite the winch of the key-hole), but who was retained on the bunch of supernumerary hangers-on in consideration of his being a specimen of my own goldsmithery. But now I took him off his gold ring, and with a stout pebble for my hammer, and a great rock for my anvil, bruised his mouth smaller till he would bite-wound up the watch, and set it to the time of day I conjectured it might be.

At last I reached the path, toiled over the hill and down into the valley on the other side, having then come about eight miles. In the valley there was a bothy, and in the bothy a woman who had no English. I said "Craig Inn ?-Craig?" pointing about.

No English," shaking her head. Craig!-Craig!-Craig!" very loud. "Oh!" said she brightening up," hhhrééé

to mean road, for she pointed to a distant track up the broad sloping valley.

On I journeyed-over the slippery steppingstones of the burn along the grassy valley very tired, and dragged in my weary shoulders by the weight of the damp plaid. By-and-by I took it off, and, spreading it on the sward, laid my head on a little mound, and actually went to sleep for a few minutes near another cottage, where I had intended to ask for a drink of milk, but found it silent and deserted. However, I knew that would n't do. "Rheumatism, you know!" whispered I to myself, to encourage my weary bones tc move on.

I topped at last the long slope of the valley, and saw below me, on the other side, a lake at a great depth down a very steep hill. I scrambled down it in a very severe shower found a few cottages, but nothing like an inn -tried two or three of them, and at last found a man who had some English - entered his house, and sat by the fire, asking him questions.

"Had he ever been across the hills into the Glengary country?"

He had, but went with other shepherds who knew the way, and it was hard to find, and easy to lose, and only here and there a bothy for shelter at nights.

"How far would it be to Glengary - forty or fifty miles?"

"Oh! more than that," and then he also recommended Kylaken and the mail; but the mail had gone by half-an-hour ago, and would not go again till Wednesday (the day after to-morrow). The inn was a mile back the other way. Here I almost repented of not riding on my other ten miles and taking the mail. But I said to myself, in the pride and obstinacy of my heart, "Come, now, don't be beat! don't own you were wrong to go against the good advice of older heads! take to these wild hills and steer southward by the sun."

66

Ay, but perhaps I shall find nothing to eat, and starve by the way. There is a prevalent notion that these mountains are dangerous."

"Then carry some barley-scons with you; that and the water of the burns will keep you alive at the worst."

"But where shall I sleep at night?"

"In a bothy if you can find one; if not, in the heather, and think yourself lucky if it does not rain all night like this."

It was and had been raining violently. My plaid was dripping wet, and the whole of me more than damp.

peat fire in my garret bed-room, and gave me a dry plaid to wrap myself in while I dried my wet clothes before the flame. She baked me some broad, thick scons, and gave me some good tea and good cream and a fresh egg, so that I was deliciously comfortable. She seemed anxious to know where I had dropped from, and where I was going; I told her with some hesitation, fearing she would take me for an escaped maniac, as I rather think she did at first, though I took pains to talk as coherently as possible.

I asked her to send up her husband to give me what information he could about the way. He seemed a respectable, intelligent man, and gave me a much more satisfactory account than the man in the bothy. He says it is six miles to Glen Tag, and six more to Monnar, where there is a shepherd who will set me in the very step of the way to Cluny. He was not very sure how far Cluny would be, perhaps a dozen miles, or the like of that, and then he actually mentioned a place called Tomadour, which sounded almost like being at home, for it is the nearest place and a household word to the dwellers in the happy valley of Glen Q

Loch Cluny too I have been at some years ago on an expedition to drive the deer; so I am fairly getting into a pays de connaissance. This sounds much less awful than taking to the hills by myself with nothing but the sun for a guide, for the landlord will himself set me to Glen Tag the first six miles on his pony, and then I shall have only eighteen to walk to Cluny. I have got half-a-dozen stout scons and as many hard-boiled eggs and a little paper of salt for the road. So hip, hip, hurrah! for short-cuts and romance.

This I have written sitting in my borrowed plaid by the fire, and now I will to bed, for I am to be called at half-past five.

Tuesday, 10th.

And so my mountains, after I had made up my mind with a great struggle to face them, were to turn out molehills, mere bugbears which had frightened foolish tourists with an empty rumor of difficulty and danger. Perhaps, after all, in writing the beginning of a formal account overnight, I had invested my expedition with an undeserved solemnity of literary importance. And to-day would be the ridiculus mus of a melancholy lack of adventures and easy travelling. Never mind. Les aventures viennent en voyageant.

"What was the name of this great mountain up whose knees we were climbing?" "Skurnachanigan- that 's the mearchant's hill. It was just two pack-men, that went wrong in the hill-they were dead when they got them; but I'm sure that's three hundred years ago two hundred whatever. And it's no a very canny thing to find a road the like of this when it is dark; and mist is a curious thing. A man will think he knows the road and he will be ten miles; and many die for thinking that they know the road. But if it comes dark you will better just sit down for a few hours. A man cannot find his way on a road the like of this when it is dark, but a horse can. One night I was coming down from the gentlemen on the hill with games, and it came on to rain and as black as petch. So I took hold of the mare's tail and she drew me in the recht way, and she drew me through the burn that was so full that nobody could pass it that night whatever.

After climbing about two miles we turned and descended into an oval, flat-bottomed valley, from which Skurnachanigan rose like a wall; and indeed it was enclosed all round, somewhat like a theatre.

"What's the name of this place?" said I. "Oh! it's just called by a Gaelic name Neatoch. I'll no be thinking there's any English for it."

Presuming that it was only that he did not happen to know the English word, I pressed him to explain.

"Oo! it's jast suppose a doog will baark, it will give a sound."

Having thus discovered that Neatoch meant Echo, I shouted lustily, and a beautiful prolonged answer, clear and musical, rang the rocky walls of the glen and seemed to die away among the toppling heights. An echo gives back only the good elements in a sound, neglecting all the hoarse, discordant mixture which drops on the way, as the sand falls short when you throw a handful of gravel. Here is a simile for something-not clear what. Shall we say the works of an author and the response he awakes in an enlightened public? Does the enlightened public select the true and clear notes in an author's mind to echo and to dwell upon? Not perhaps at first, but let us hope it is so in the end.

not go.