I envy Arqua the happiness it enjoys, in receiving into its bosom the ashes of a man, whose heart was the residence of the muses, the sanctuary of philosophy, of eloquence, and the fine arts. This village, hardly known even at Padua, will become famous through the world: it will be respected as we respect Mount Pausilippo, because it contains the cinders of Virgil; Ternas, and the banks of the Euxine, for the tomb of Ovid; and Smyrna, because Homer died and was buried there. The sailor who returns from the ocean, and who, charged with riches, sails along the Adriatic sea, shall fall prostrate, when he discovers the hills of Euganee! "They inclose," he will cry out, "that great poet who was the glory of the world!" Ah! unhappy country! thou didst not merit such an honour! Thou hast neglected to cherish the most illustrious of thy children! Thou wouldst have caressed him, if he had been capable of treason, avarice, envy, and ingratitude: so truly is that old proverb verified," No one is a prophet in his own country."

You propose, you say, to erect him a mausoleum: I approve your design; but permit me to hint to you one reflection; it is, that the tombs of great men ought never to be raised at all, or answer in magnificence, to the renown of their heroes! This was what fortune did for Pompey: she thought it not proper to inclose his ashes in

an urn, or to cover his body with the finest marble; but she gave him, for a sepulchre, all that region which is watered by the sea from Pelusium to Canope, and the heavens for his monument, that the passing traveller might tread lightly, and dread to trample under foot the body of that great man, who had marched over the heads of those kings he had subdued by his arms. If he had died with glory in Rome, I doubt whether the mausoleum of Artemisia had been equal to his desert.

My master has given me, at his death, a new proof of his friendship and generosity, of which I have received so many proofs during his life: I accept it with gratitude; I wish I was not in a situation to receive it. I beg of you to inform me, what is become of the precious library of this illustrious man. They say, there are persons commissioned to examine his works, and decide their fate: I dread, lest this office should be given to lawyers, who think they know all things, when they have confused their heads with the chicaneries of law. God preserve the works of my master from falling into such hands as these! Science has no enemies so powerful as ignorant persons; they are always envious, hide the best parts of an author, condemn what they do not understand, and corrupt the whole of his works. Be upon your guard; for, if things were to go

thus, how irreparable would the loss be to letters in Italy! I heard he had written me a long letter, with a translation he made of the last novel of my Decameron, as a compliance with my advice, that he would save himself as much as possible from the fatigue of writing: I have not received these kind marks of his attention. I am concerned for the trouble I give you, and beg of you, my dear brother, to consider me as a friend, and intirely yours.

'My weakness is so great, that I have been three whole days in writing this letter.'

Boccace did not long survive his master; he died the twenty-first of December, 1375. Colluccio Salutati wrote to acquaint Francis Brossano with this mournful event, and, after giving the greatest praise to Boccace, begs Petrarch's poem, called Africa. I will,' says he, defray all the charges of copying it. I know I do not deserve this honour; but I will venture to say, your putting it into my hands shall not tarnish the glory of Petrarch.' Francis sent it him, desiring him to correct, and not to publish it. Salutati's design was to have made several well corrected copies of it, to send to Bologna, Paris, and England; and to place one in a celebrated house in Florence, for the use of the public. He was prevented by this prohibition, and by finding a chasm in the poem, either placed apart acci

dentally by Petrarch, or omitted by the copiers. It seems extraordinary, that Petrarch should never have shown Boccace a poem he had spent so much time in composing, and that he should have been so long ignorant of the Decameron, undoubtedly the best work of Boccace, and an admirable satire on the monks. The latter was, probably, owing to the reverence of Boccace for Petrarch, who could not think of presenting him with a work, which, being meant to expose vice, might probably, in some parts, offend the delicacy and sublimity of his sentiments; and Petrarch would not read his poem to Boccace, because he was not satisfied with it himself.

CONCLUSION.

WE have now finished the account of Petrarch: and when a life (if I may so speak) paints itself, it would be a reproach to the reflection of the writer, and a very ill compliment to the penetra tion of the reader, to attempt to draw it over again, by a summary of insipid assertions. I shall, therefore, only remark one particular, which, with all feeling hearts, will apologize for that unfixed and variable temper so justly ascribed to Petrarch, and this was his tender and ardent passion for Laura, which intirely unsettled him for twenty years, and produced a restlessness in his mind (not formed, perhaps, by nature in the calmest mold) through every succeeding period of life. Had his profession, and happy lot, permitted him to have filled up the sacred and delightful relations of a husband and father; could he have brought up, with tender and virtuous care, the pledges of an honourable affection, (as, from the principles of humanity and justice, he did the innocent offspring of a dishonourable one,) and thus given a public example of parental