The production of such a woman, in that age, in which there is so much learning combined with eloquence, and elevation of sentiment with acute observation, and the graces of style with the spirit of philosophy,—­candid, yet eulogistic; discriminating, yet enthusiastic,—­made a great impression on the mind of cultivated Europe.  Napoleon however, with inexcusable but characteristic meanness, would not allow its publication.  The police seized the whole edition—­ten thousand—­and destroyed every copy.  They even tried to get possession of the original copy, which required the greatest tact on the part of the author to preserve, and which she carried with her on all her travels, for six years, until it was finally printed in London.

Long before this great work was completed,—­for she worked upon it six years,—­Madame de Stael visited, with Sismondi, that country which above all others is dear to the poet, the artist, and the antiquarian.  She entered that classic and hallowed land amid the glories of a southern spring, when the balmy air, the beautiful sky, the fresh verdure of the fields, and the singing of the birds added fascination to scenes which without them would have been enchantment.  Chateaubriand, the only French writer of her day with whom she stood in proud equality, also visited Italy, but sang another song; she, bright and radiant, with hope and cheerfulness, an admirer of the people and the country as they were; he, mournful and desponding, yet not less poetic, with visions of departed glory which the vast debris of the ancient magnificence suggested to his pensive soul, O Italy, Italy! land of associations, whose history never tires; whose antiquities are perpetual studies; whose works of art provoke to hopeless imitation; whose struggles until recently were equally chivalric and unfortunate; whose aspirations have ever been with liberty, yet whose destiny has been successive slaveries; whose hills and plains and vales are verdant with perennial loveliness, though covered with broken monuments and deserted cities; where monks and beggars are more numerous than even scholars and artists,—­glory in debasement, and debasement in glory, reminding us of the greatness and misery of man; alike the paradise and the prison of the world; the Minerva and the Niobe of nations,—­never shall thy wonders be exhausted or thy sorrows be forgotten!

     “E’en in thy desert what is like to thee? 
     Thy very weeds are beautiful; thy wastes
     More rich than other lands’ fertility;
     Thy wreck a glory, and thy ruin grand.”