a sound and echo, that centuries after a stranger turns aside
into these mountains to visit his humble dwelling. It is the
verification of the prediction of Boccaccio--"This village,
hardly known even at Padua, will become famous through the
world." I do not presume to offer a eulogy on Petrarch as a
writer, but as a man. In all the relations of son, brother,
father, he is deserving all honour; and I know not another
instance of such long-continued, sincere, and graceful
friendships, through all varieties of fortune, from the
Cardinal of Cabassole, to the poor fisherman at Vaucluse, as
his life offers; including literary friendships, which, after
so many years, passed without one discordant feeling of
rivalry or jealousy, ended so generously and beautifully, with
his bequest to poor Boccaccio of "five hundred florins of the
gold of Florence, to buy him a winter habit for his evening
studies," and this noble testimony of his ability in
addition--"I am ashamed to leave so small a sum to so great a
man."

Petrarch, in my opinion, was one of the most amiable men that
ever lived;--I know nothing about Laura, or her ten children;
I agree with those who believe the whole was a dream or an
allegory; and, I half suspect that Shakspeare thought so too,
and following a fashion, addressed his own sonnets to some
like persons; at any rate, no one knows about either much more
than I do;--certainly Petrarch's _real_ love had more real
consequences. Petrarch was a sincere Christian, without
intolerance--a sound patriot, without austerity; who neither
wasted his feelings in the idle generalities of philosophy,
nor restricted them to the narrow limits of a party or