has not happened--on the contrary, my most
sanguine expectations have been surpassed. Rome is greater, and her
remains are more awful, than my imagination had conceived. It is not
matter of wonder that she acquired universal dominion. I am only
surprised that it was so late before she came to it."

In the midst of his meditations among the relics of Rome, Petrarch was
struck by the ignorance about their forefathers, with which the natives
looked on those monuments. The veneration which they had for them was
vague and uninformed. "It is lamentable," he says, "that nowhere in the
world is Rome less known than at Rome."

It is not exactly known in what month Petrarch left the Roman capital;
but, between his departure from that city, and his return to the banks
of the Rhone, he took an extensive tour over Europe. He made a voyage
along its southern coasts, passed the straits of Gibraltar, and sailed
as far northward as the British shores. During his wanderings, he wrote
a letter to Tommaso da Messina, containing a long geographical
dissertation on the island of Thule.

Petrarch approached the British shores; why were they not fated to have
the honour of receiving him? Ah! but who was there, then, in England
that was capable of receiving him? Chaucer was but a child. We had the
names of some learned men, but our language had no literature. Time
works wonders in a few centuries; and England, _now_ proud of her
Shakespeare and her Verulam, looks not with envy on the glory of any
earthly nation. During his excitement by these travels, a singular
change took place in our poet's habitual feelings. He recovered his
health and spirits; he could bear to think of Laura with equanimity, and
his countenance resumed the cheerfulness that was natural to a man in
the strength of his age. Nay, he became so sanguine in his belief that
he had overcome his passion as to jest at his past sufferings; and, in
this gay state of mind, he came back to Avignon. This was the crowning
misfortune of his life. He saw Laura once more; he was enthralled anew;
and he might now laugh in agony at his late self-congratulations on his
delivery from her enchantment. With all the pity that we bestow on
unfortunate love, and with all the respect that we owe to its constancy,
still we cannot look but with a regret amounting to impatience on a man
returning to the spot that was to rekindle his passion as recklessly as
a moth to the candle, and binding himself ov