letters, that Pius VII. promised two hundred days absolution, to all such as should kiss the Madonna's foot, and pray with the whole heart, Ave Maria. A priest was seated near the altar, at a writing-table, ready to write out pardons for the dead, for whose souls prayers were desired and payment made. O Luther!
December 17th.—Dined with Herr von Kolb. I had here the great pleasure of making the acquaintance of Cavaliere Visconti, an archaeologist—rather, it is asserted, a clever man of letters, than a reliable antiquarian. But it would be difficult to find a more captivating person in conversation.
It was an actual delight to me, to hear him speak of the Italian language, “which,” said he, “has at once the dagger which kills and the balsam which heals the wound, as it were, with caresses. Alfieri and Metastasio, represent the strong and the sweet in the Italian tongue, in tragedy and canzonet. Everything is expressed in Italian literature, which lives in the human soul, the most independent, the most indomitable thought (see Vico), the richest fancy, the most glowing sentiment, the most free, the most joyous lyric. In all these, the genius of Italy takes the lead. It seems not to set great store by other nations, because it is itself inspired, and speaks from its own impulse. It is a born improvisatore; does not produce a great deal, but comprehends the true, the beautiful, with incredible rapidity, and the expression of this is as easy as a natural growth in its native soil.”
Visconti gave us some recitations, partly from Alfieri, partly from Metastasio, as well as portions of the
