THE ITALIAN NOVEL.
In Germany there was once a period, when every manly sentiment had so entirely disappeared, that the only conversation heard was concerning albums and opera-dancers, state-papers and prayer books, or about fresh oysters and old pictures. Now, as poets may be considered the quicksilver in the barometer of social life, it happened during that period, that even a person born with the mind of a giant, would perform amongst them the actions of a delicate little dwarf. Then, did poetry sink down to the freezing point of novel literature.
During this effeminate period a few friends were sitting together joyfully splashing about in their quagmire. After staring at each other by turns, Robert, the younger of them, said to his neighbour, who was sitting with his face resting upon his arms, stretched over the back of his chair, "Now, you are just returned from Italy, the country of
