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advancement of the literary intelligence and repute of their coun

try.

An American liberally educated, and happily gifted, is, perhaps, the only person competent to produce a book on Italy, or any of the primary nations of Europe, which would have, in fact, the merit of novelty in the composition and seasoning. We would not wish him to write ambitiously; or to play the virtuoso in elaborate delineations of scenery and monuments on which a host of cognoscenti and artists have already exhausted their sagacity and vocabularies: we would ask him merely to digest from his tablets the impressions, in their original vivacity, which he had received abroad; to state his own peculiar views of institutions, morals, manners, characters and events. If he connected with such an exposition those personal anecdotes of dramatic effect which can never be wanting to an active tourist; statistical details throwing light on the principles of political economy in general, or of useful application to that of his own country, and the embellishments of unaffected, pertinent scholarship, he would, besides furnishing to his countrymen points of view, veins of sentiment, judgments of criticism, and even forms of expression, at once novel, just, and captivating, fix ere long the attention of the readers of Europe, and do more towards establishing a literary reputation for us there, than could be done at present by any effort of the American pen in another department.

The volume of Rambles' of the gentleman of Baltimore, of which we shall now proceed to speak particularly, does not fulfil our wishes, nor could we reasonably expect so much from it, on weighing the circumstances ingenuously stated in his preface. He professes to give only a series of loose sketches, and occasional remarks on the political condition of Italy. He does not aspire to the praise of considerable novelty in his matter, or curious refinement in his manner. As we consider the precedent of mere publication as of no little value, we should, on this score alone, heartily thank his friends for having overcome his reluctance to appear, though we had found much more to condemn, and less to applaud in his work.

While we bear at once emphatic testimony to the tone of lofty and amiable feeling which pervades it; to the elegant studies and tastes which it implics; to the classical complexion which it wears in almost every page; to the accuracy and acuteness of many of the political remarks; to the opulence and elevation of the style; we must be permitted to take some exceptions both to the plan and the execution. In restricting himself to so narrow a field of topics, the author has, we think, done injustice to his means of observation and the resources of his memory. He has incautiously suffered the greater part of his volume to be occupied by descriptions of the monuments of architecture, painting and sculpture, which Eustace and Forsyth, and indeed all their numerous predecessors,

have minutely described and analized. In Europe he will fall under the suspicion of having merely adapted their tissue to his loom, or translated from some Guida de' Forestieri, or repeated what he heard from those fluent commentators, the Italian Ciceroni. We are ourselves far from believing or meaning to insinuate that any thing of this is the case; but, on the contrary, are disposed to allow him great credit for the interest he has contrived to impart to his representations of objects already so familiar in description. We only complain that they fill an extra space which should have been devoted to the moral phenomena of Italy-such as must have presented themselves to the notice of so intelligent a wanderer even on his passage from city to city, and temple to temple. We would rather that he were more personal, and had less the air of writing set-dissertations-that he proceeded more in the true spirit of the communicative traveller, expressed in the lines of Tasso,

Mi giovera narrar altrui

Le novita vedute, e dir, io fui.

We can make due allowance, and have no disrelish, for the intumescence of youthful and classical enthusiasm; but it is too frequent with our author and betrays him, from time to time, into a vague and hyperbolical sentimentality. Under the same influence his diction is too uniformly poetical; his tone too romantic; his digressions too wide. He moralizes and muses in common places which it may be very natural to indulge, but which it would be always much safer to avoid. Some of the faults of manner which we here venture to reprove, are, probably, the result not only of an overflowing sensibility, but of too close a familiarity with the warm visions of the Corinne, and the sparkling rhapsodies of Dupaty:-geminæ pestes where the aim is to present realities to the understanding.

We wish sincerely that he had studied more, one of the works which we have coupled with his own at the head of this article. Forsyth is not so circumstantial, methodical, comprehensive, elegant or imposing as Eustace; he is, to a certain degree, cold and cynical-a temper of mind which none of us like in a guide through Italy. But he makes amends by the variety of the nutritive information which he compresses into a small compass; the vivacity of his brief descriptions; the acuteness and independence of his criticisms. He is entirely free of ostentation in exercising his discriminating taste and profound learning, of which a sturdy common sense, and a quick moral sense are the inseparable companions. There is a resolute scepticism about him-the offspring of superior knowledge and penetration-which is sometimes distressing from the havoc it makes of the false, but endearing colours and attributes with which antiquarian ingenuity, and poetic fancy had invested certain objects. If we were compelled to choose between his 'Remarks' and the Classical Tour,' we should be in

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elined to fix upon the former as the work most suitable, in point of utility, for general circulation. We congratulate our countrymen upon having both within their reach. When the volume of Rambles' does not afford us what we may wish to submit to them with respect to Italy, we shall quote from Forsyth, and avail ourselves also, of the 'Rome, Naples, and Florence, in 1817' of the Count de Stendhall. This is, indeed, a flippant and desultory traveller, but he is more acute and entertaining than the Scottish critics would allow him to be. His passion is music, and he pursues it amore perditissimo. The actual state and eminent professors of this art in Italy have a large share of his book.

The first section of the Rambles' is devoted to the general physical aspect of Italy contrasted with that of North America. The author is at pains to account for what might seem scarcely possible, the indifference and even dislike with which an American may at first survey the Italian scenery. The following are parts of the glowing picture which he takes occason to draw of that scenery.

Every where it exhibits scars of human violence; every object announces, how long it has been the theatre of man's restless passions: -every thing bears evidence of its complete subjection to his power.'

The land of Sicily and Calabria, composed as it is for the greater part of lava, wears, at a distance, an appearance of sterility. But this illusion is corrected upon examining more narrowly the properties of the soil, and the rich variety of plants and flowers it spontaneously produces. A drapery more luxuriant would be prejudicial to its beauty; extensive forests would obstruct the view of the outline of the distant mountains, or conceal the surface of a country, gracefully diversified by hills and vallies, and dressed by the hand of cultivation.'

In this land, where the works of art and human policy are bowed beneath the weight of years, nature is still as youthful as in the golden age, and, as if she delighted to display her creative energy, and her imperishable dominion on the very spot where time has levelled the structures of art; the ruins of palaces and temples are dressed in the choicest offerings of Flora, and the twice blooming rose of Pæstum* glows with undiminished beauty, in the midst of scenes of decayed magnificence, and smiles on the brow of desolation.'

The dark luxuriant foliage of the orange, intermixed with the pale verdure of the olive, and the large flowering aloe, which displays its broad leaves upon the summits of the nearest hills, form the principal features of the Sicilian shores, while opposite, Calabria stretches to the foot of the snowy Appenines, its rich fields and vineyards, gay with country houses and villages. Contrasted with these scenes of delicious repose, is the busy city of Messina, its port crowded with Levant ships, and its mixed population diversified with Moorish and Asiatick costumes, collected in groups on the quay, or basking in the sun.'

'I have heard Italians say that the beauty of the Sun and Moon in Italy was alone worth the attractions of all other countries put together. Making due allowance for a portion of national enthusiasm in this re

*Biferique rosaria Pæsti.

mark, it is far from being wholly destitute of foundation. Nature has not only moulded the features of Italy with peculiar delicacy and grace, but has taken pains to exhibit her favourite work in the happiest and most alluring lights. Italy derives additional charms from its sun, its moon, and atmosphere. The air of its mountains is blue, and the rays of the sun glowing through a mass of transparent vapour, gild all objects with tints that almost realize the visionary light with which the imagination of Virgil has illuminated the ideal scenery of his Elysium

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Even while kindling with rapture in the midst of these beauties, his patriotism predominates, and he rests it upon that solid foundation from which we wish never to see it transferred.

'The young American, under the bright skies of Italy, and encompassed by the dazzling achievements of art, often sickens at the depravity and misery of man, and languishes for his native home. His imagination presents to him, its untrodden wilds,-its waste fertility, as an image of man unsophisticated by artificial society. He contrasts the youthful governments of America, which have grown up unfashioned by the hand of hoary-headed prejudice, with those of Italy, fabricated by despotism and superstition. If America can boast no stately palaces, no monuments of ancient grandeur, she is exempt from the miseries which follow in the train of arbitrary power. If no ancient fortresses, no ruined convents, crown the tops of its hills, or frown upon the summits of its mountains, it is because the peaceful vales beneath have never owned the sway of feudal or monastick tyrants.'

'Italy, vain of the lustre of her acquired fame, timorous and slothful, in a state of inglorious indolence, contemplates her fading splendour. While America, active and daring, emulous of solid greatness, is vigorously employing all her resources, moral and physical, in the construction of such a fabrick of power and of social refinement, as shall surpass every masterpiece of political skill, that has hitherto existed.,

The second section is taken up with general speculations and opinions, which are, we think, open to contravention. Montesquieu's theory of the influence of climate which the writer adopts without qualification, has been strenuously combated, and is pretty generally admitted to be too broad. It is hazarding much to assert, as our author does, that, in warm countries the penal code ought to be more sanguinary than in those situated under colder latitudes. The wisest economists and most practised administrators have doubted whether a sanguinary code was ever expedient in any climate, and whether it did not become every where, in proportion to its severity, the less conducive to the desired end.The spectacle of the rack was, until very lately, common throughout Italy; capital punishments were exceedingly frequent, and viewed by the people with the same feelings as they witnessed the bull-baitings at the tomb of Augustus.-At no period in the history of that country, had the effusion of human blood any terrors for its inhabitants, or has it served any other purpose

than to gratify their avidity for strong emotions. 'Here' says Forsyth, speaking of the Coliseum, sat the conquerors of the world, to enjoy the tortures and death of men who had never offended them. Two aqueducts were scarcely sufficient to wash off the blood of the gladiators which a few hours sport shed in the imperial shambles. Twice in one day came the senators and matrons of Rome to the butchery, and when glutted with bloodshed the ladies sat down in the wet and streaming avenue to a luxurious supper.'

Our traveller follows out the moral character of the Italians, exemplifying with it-somewhat arbitrarily and fancifully-the diversities produced by climate in the dispositions and productions of the human mind. We are, ourselves, sensible of the operation of this great agent upon the general happiness of human life, and are satisfied that our philanthropists suffer for the most part gratuitously, when they lament over the condition of the lower classes of Southern Europe, compared with that of our independent and wellfed labourers.They do not bear in mind the quantum of positive enjoyment secured in the one case by the climate and state of society, and the positive suffering and wearisome monotony necessarily undergone in the other. Under the refulgent skies and balmy atmosphere of Italy,' says our author, bare existence amounts to positive enjoyment, and life glides away in a succession of voluptuous impressions. The rustics of Calabria march to the labours of the field with a musician at their head, and stop occasionally on their way to dance, &c.'' Here in Naples,' remarks Forsyth, even the lowest class enjoy every blessing that can make the animal happy-a delicious climate, high spirits, a facility of satisfying every appetite, a conscience which gives no pain. Here tatters are not misery, for the climate requires little covering; filth is not misery to them who are born to it, and a few fingerings of Maccaroni can wind up the rattling machine for the day.'

The American traveller is anxious to put his readers on their guard against confounding the Italian and French character. His predilection for the former leads him to deduct too much from the opposite scale. If he refers to the mass of the French nation, we cannot concur with him as to the heartlessness of their gayety; nor can we admit that "there is no country in which so little moral sensibility exists as in France." The opinion will, we are sure, be immediately rejected by every one who has mixed with the agricultural and provincial population of that country, and with particular circles of her metropolis. If vanity be predominant in the French character, we cannot easily believe that it is without sway in the Italian, looking merely to the excessive fondness for titles, which has prevailed in Italy. Thirty years ago, says Sismondi,* you could not write to your shoemaker without addressing him very illustrious, (molto illustre) and there was no small

* Histoire des Républiques Italiennes du moyen age. Vol. xvi. Paris, 1818.

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