are a little less friendly in tone, and the words "do me the honour" occur not unfrequently. Very shortly, however, the old style is resumed, and again Goethe is addressed as "Mein Lieber" and "Mein Alter," and by other terms of endearment. In the same way the morbid melancholy which marks Goethe's letters of this date disappears; but the correspondence on his side never regains its earlier freedom. The reappearance of the old placid cheerfulness coincides, we regret to say, very closely with the period of Frau von Goethe's death, and probably the coincidence is not altogether accidental.

In the last years of the duke's life the correspondence runs chiefly upon the books that they were to read together, and the additions to be made to the state libraries.

"Ah" (writes the duke a few months before his death), "if I could only eat all the wisdom contained in the books you have sent me, then I should be good for something; for I fear mightily that, by the aid of my eyes alone, I shall never get it inside my head. I must, however, try and read something of Paulus' thick work on the Life of Christ, for it is interesting to know how a man can dare to select so abstruse a subject for investigation.

Thank all the persons who have sent me books most warmly in my name."

The last letter, too, of the correspondence addressed by Goethe to the duke contains, curiously enough, a proposal for establishing circulating book - clubs in Weimar. The series closes appropriately with a characteristic letter of the Geheimrath, in reply to a kind message of condolence sent him by Carl August's son on his father's death. The letter commences thus: "Gaudeat ingrediens, lætetur et æde recedens:

His, qui prætereunt, det bona magna Deus.' As it is certain that your highness will, in your grace and goodness, pardon me if I dare to describe my condition truly and openly; if I quietly omit things which are understood without utterance, and convey to you confidentially the reflections which have been excited within my mind,-I take the liberty of commencing my present letter Iwith the above two lines. I found them inscribed over the chief entrance of your newly purchased castle of Dornburg, where, by the kindest consideration, I have been allowed to find a refuge in these most melancholy days."

The letter is too long for quotation, but the purport of it is, that the writer has found consolation in the thought, how the regular order of the universe goes on for ever, irrespective of private loss and sorrow. Looking down upon the fruitful valley which lay at the castle's foot, the thought comes to him:

"All this beauty shows itself to me as it did half a century ago, and even in fuller development, although the neighbourhood has been

visited frequently, and in many ways, with the direst calamities. No trace of destruction is to be seen now, though the world-history has trampled with its cruel tread over these valleys. On the contrary, every thing indicates the active, consequent, and wisely developed culture of a people that has been ruled gently and considerately, and has kept itself throughout within bounds.

Such an orderly wise rule goes on from prince to prince. The institutions are firmly established, the reforms are appropriate to the time. So it was before us, so it will be after us; and thus shall be fulfilled the words of a wise man, who wrote: The intelligent world must be considered as a great immortal being, which without ceasing works out that which is needful, and thus raises itself above chance to its Lord and Master.""

Wise and profound as this letter is, it reads strained perhaps to English ears. We cannot help thinking of Mr. Shandy's reflection on the death of his son Robert, and his quotations from Cicero's Epistles, which puzzled poor Uncle Toby's brain. Possibly Carl August himself would have preferred that Goethe should for once have written of him as his "lieber alter Freund," than have philosophised on the order of God's universe. It was not in Goethe's nature, perhaps, to have so written. Like that of Shakespeare, his character must remain a mystery; and probably, after half a century's friendship, Carl August himself could only have explained it by saying that it was Goethe's.

ART. II.-WHAT ANNEXATION HAS DONE FOR ITALY. What has Annexation done for Italy? By Frances Power Cobbe. MORE than a thousand years have elapsed since the seven kingdoms of the Saxons united to form our thenceforth undivided England. In our own time we have beheld the spectacle of seven other states coalescing into one, which we trust may be of equal duratica-the kingdom of Italy.* Could we return to the age of Egbert, and study the process of consolidation then carried on throughout the land, from Northumbria to Cornwall, it is probable that we might trace some analogy between that early coalition and the changes now in progress from Piedmont to Sicily. The unification of a nation must ever be a compromise between gains and losses; a balance, not only between the inherent benefits and disadvantages of centralisation

Divided officially into seven provinces: Piedmont, Lombardy, Tuscany, Umbria, Emilia, and the Two Sicilies.

and local government, but also of the special interests of each of the united states. If there existed previous to the union seven capital cities, then inevitably six must thenceforth descend to the rank of provincial towns. On the other hand, if traffic and public justice have been impeded by the vexatious barriers of petty kingdoms, a new impetus will be given to civilisation by their removal. If one state have hitherto possessed valuable commercial monopolies, or a specially perfect code of laws, the introduction of a rival trade, or an inferior jurisprudence, will be to its detriment. On the other hand, if a different state have groaned under restrictions and oppressions, its union with the better-regulated provinces will be purely advantageous. Viewing the case thus calmly à priori, it becomes evident that in every event of the kind in history there must be a dark as well as a bright side to the picture. Even if the general result of the change be an unquestionable preponderance of good, it is inevitable that there will be some amount of counterbalancing evil. Nor can we, in any transaction in which human agents are concerned, presume to expect that such inevitable and inherent evils of the case will always be reduced to their minimum, and that no needless loss or injustice will follow from personal interest or unrighteous partiality. To fasten upon these inherent imperfections, these individual maladministrations, and thence deduce the conclusion that the whole great revolution has been a failure, is the part both of those whose interests and prejudices have been engaged in the old order of things, and also of those whose enthusiastic hopes have demanded of the new order such a millennium of justice and prosperity as no mere change of government can ever introduce. To hold the balance fairly between past and present, and to bear in mind the truth that the unity (and consequent independence and influence) of a great nation is a benefit of that larger and more abstract kind which does not often take the shape of isolated and cognisable facts, while, on the contrary, the evils attendant on centralisation are local, definite, and salient to observation,this is the part of the philosophic patriot, who will rest contented even should there appear an equal balance of gain and loss in the temporary results of unification, being assured that its permanent consequences cannot be otherwise than greatly

beneficial.

In the following pages we do not contemplate any such achievement as a worthy review of the condition of Italy under Victor Emmanuel. For such a purpose, not a single article, but many volumes, would be needed, and stores of statistical information, of which Italian statesmen collect but little and publish less. Our design is merely to point out some of the more inter

esting changes which have taken place in the country, and in a certain rough manner to "take stock" of its gains and losses at the close of this its third year of independence. After many periods of residence in different parts of Italy, the annual changes strike the eye of the visitor like the growth of some nobly-born youth from the dullness and constraint of boyhood to the energy and freedom of early manhood; and as a friend might record for another equally interested in the youth's welfare such signs of progress as he might perceive, so we design briefly to convey to English readers the impressions made on us by Italy this winter of 1863.

We have said that a certain analogy might be traceable between the unification of the Heptarchy and that of the kingdom of Italy; that probably not a few of the same balanced advantages and disadvantages have marked every similar event in history. An important feature, however, in the condition of Italy complicates the difficulties of the case in a way probably unparalleled. Among the chief benefits derivable from national union is well-used and moderate centralisation. But centralisation, according to the modern system, imperatively demands a capital where it may be seated with universal consent, and to the general convenience. Government, courts of civil and criminal law, the intricate systems of railways, and postal and telegraphic communications, commerce, arts, science, social life,—all need a capital city. Let any one conceive what it would be to France that Paris should be held by a foreign power, or, even to far less centralised England, that London should become alienated, and that henceforth French government should need to be carried on at Chambéry or Amiens, and English government at Newcastle or Exeter,—and an idea may be formed of the condition of a great nation of modern times obliged to dispense with a great capital. We say advisedly of modern times, because in earlier ages nations (like some creatures of low organisation, who can put forth a new head on the loss of an old one) were far less dependent upon their capital cities. The ganglia of many lesser towns supplied the place of brain-centres of life and conscious activity. But in our day and stage of existence, every country must have its capital; and any country compelled to forego the use of its natural chief city, and make the seat of government some inferior and ill-placed town, labours under incalculable disadvantages. Such is the fate of the kingdom of Italy; and it is still further aggravated by the fact that it is a hostile power which holds Rome, and sends forth thence not only brigands openly to disturb one great province, but ecclesiastic emissaries to fill every parish in the land with fanaticism and disaf

fection. Had it been foreseen generally that this would have occurred, that the wave of revolution, which swelled with such high promise at Magenta and Solferino, and again at Palermo and Naples, should have broken at the foot of the "Giant Stairs" of the Vatican, and that at the end of 1863 the possession of Rome should be as far as ever from Victor Emmanuel, it may perhaps be doubted whether any of the patriotic states of Italy would have been sanguine enough to offer him their crown. Venice, the left arm of the nation, might, with many a regret, be left bound in Austrian fetters. But Rome, the very heart of the land, can it possibly remain crushed under the double bonds of civil and religious tyranny, and yet the rest of the body live in health? The experiment has been one whose failure could entail no shame; whose success, if achieved, will confer endless honour on the people whose patriotism will have rendered it possible.

To convey any just idea to an Englishman of the progress of Italy during the last three years, it is obviously needful that he should first possess some true notions concerning the country and the people, and the progress to be accomplished in the one and by the other. But whenever we come to discuss Italian affairs with Englishmen, we are struck by the fact that, excepting the large number who have travelled in Italy, and the small number who, without having done so, have really acquainted themselves with the politics of the country, the great body of our nation entertain the most curiously-perverted ideas concerning both the people of Italy and all their concerns. They have, indeed, ample knowledge of the country geographically speaking. The canals of Venice, the palaces of Genoa, the tower of Pisa, and the bay of Naples, are as familiar to their lips as the Serpentine and Hampton Court, Westminster Abbey and Brighton Pier. That the Venus de' Medici stands in the Tribune at Florence, and the Laocoon in the Vatican at Rome; that Titian's "Assumption" is in Venice, and Leonardo da Vinci's "Last Supper" in Milan,—all this they know perfectly well, and they would think it a gross piece of ignorance not to know it. Also they have heard (and are in their hearts very tired of hearing) that Italian skies are blue, and Italian nights enlivened by fire-flies; that oranges and olives flourish; that the wine is indifferent, and fleas are numerous. This repertory of information concerning Italian matters is, we say, common to all tolerably-educated English gentlemen. But here their knowledge of Italy stops. Of all that concerns the people, their character and habits, we are even more than usually left to "wholesome" British prejudice and misconception. The conventional Italian of the English