she yet endeavoured constantly to cultivate her mind, regulate her conduct by good sense, and find, in the exercise of Christian duties, consolation and delight. In consequence, Harriet and Sophia .were, each in their own circle, much more talked of and thought of than Emma, but she was more approved of than either, and therefore had a quiet influence for good in the hearts of all who knew her. This influence had perhaps been less felt by her father previous to his voyage than might have been expected; for though he loved Emma as a dear and most unoffending child, he was not conscious how much her constant but unobtrusive cares had soothed his corrosive grief, diverted his melancholy, and led him to the due contemplation of his duty to God and man. He now found that the relief which he had imputed to all his children by a sweeping conclusion, belonged to Emma, for she supplied all to him; and he therefore willingly agreed to her suggestion and admitted of her management, gladly listened to her excuses for one child, her comforts in another, and in doing so, gave himself the best chance for recovery, and his daughter the greatest satisfaction his state admitted.

"But the "still small shaft" of death was sped. the quiet, insinuating disease, which baffles skill whilst it nurses hope, was calmly feeding on the springs of life; and at the very time when Emma trusted that every breeze" brought healing on its wings," slowly but surely was confirmed consumption securing its unresisting victim.'

ART. XIV. Observations on Italy. By the late John Bell, Fellow of the Royal College of Surgeons, Edinburgh, &c. 4to. pp. 356. Edinburgh, Blackwood; and London, T. Cadell. 1825.

R

EMEMBERING the numerous volumes on Italy which, for the last twenty years, have vexed the world in every shape and size, from the neat duodecimo to the exuberant quarto, we candidly confess that we took up this work with feelings bordering on despair. The subject, we imagined, had been thoroughly exhausted; and eminent as were the talents which distinguished the professional career of Mr. Bell, we were prepared to expect little from his pen beyond a few critical remarks on the anatomical perfections and defects, which he might have discovered in the statues and paintings that, in the course of his journey, presented themselves to his notice. On turning over the preface our anticipations were not at all improved, when we found that these Observations' consisted of the notes of a valetudinarian, who travelled in Italy under the pressure of a malady, which terminated in his death before he could reduce them to order. Written, too, so long ago as the year 1817, how was novelty or interest to be expected from such fragments? What energy of thought

or diction was to be looked for in the work of a traveller, who said of himself, shortly before he left Paris, I have seen much of the disappointments of life: I shall not feel them long. Sickness, in an awful and sudden form; loss of blood, in which I lay sinking for many hours, with the feeling of death long protracted, when I felt how painful it was not to come quite to life, yet not to die, a clamorous dream! tell that in no long time that must happen, which was lately so

near.'

We know not how it was, but this preface, so modestly, so touchingly written by his editor, his widow, drew us insensibly on. The ill health, the unhappy circumstances, the melancholic disposition of the author, excited more than an ordinary degree of curiosity, and we were anxious to see how he commenced his tour.

'We began our journey into Italy in the beginning of June, 1817, and left Paris on our way to Fontainebleau. It was a beautiful morning. The air had been rendered peculiarly mellow and refreshing by a severe storm the preceding evening; and a bright sunshine cheered us on our way, shedding its pleasing influence on the mind, and dispelling that undefined dejection of spirit which, with such powerful influence, affects us at the outset of a long journey. Even in the brilliant hour of youthful hope and gay an ticipation, such a moment is not unclouded by some mixture of pain: the mind insensibly revolves the days that are past, and looks forward, with a feeling of anxiety, to those which are yet to come: but the spirit soon finds relief in the pleasing images and the new stores of knowledge presented in travelling.'

The justness of thought, the sensibility, and the philosophic spirit of this exordium, promised an itinerary of no mediocre description. The first requisite in a traveller who would interest our feelings, is a vigilant attention, not alone to the character of the inns and villages through which he hastens, but to the scenery which surrounds him, and to every hue of the heavens above him. We can at once place ourselves beside the tourist, who paints the varying landscape as he moves along, who watches the rising and descending day, and faithfully delineates the feelings which every new prospect kindles in his bosom. We rejoice with him in the sunshine, we listen with him to the music of those rural sounds, which emanate from woods and mountains and rushing waters, and keenly feel all the vicissitudes of pleasure or disappointment by which he is affected. Something of this sympathy attaches a reader at once to the fragments before us, and though the route which they describe, from Paris to Rome, be as common as any other that could be mentioned, yet it is impossible

not

not to feel that they impart to it an extraordinary degree of freshness and beauty. In many passages they remind one of the fascinating pencil of Mrs. Radcliffe, which invested every scene it touched with the splendor and the mystery of romance. The descent from Mount Cenis is painted exactly in her style.

Having reached the summit of the mountain, and paused a moment in contemplation, we began our descent, which was every way delightful. We rolled down a smooth gravelly road, passing through a narrow gorge, or gully, resembling a quarry, backed on the left by enormous mountains, towering high and perpendicular, and terminating in many forms of fantastic grandeur; while at the angles of the road we sometimes caught glimpses of dells far beneath, with their villages and churches, presenting, in perspective, the beautiful scenery we were soon to approach. As the road expands, the slopes of the mountains are covered with green and flourishing brushwood, interspersed with trees, and enlivened by the domestic aspect of cottages: the children of each hamlet tending their little flocks of goats, sheep, or caws, formed a picturesque and rustic scene, which contrasted pleasingly with the dreary grandeur of the country we had left. The descent of this rapid precipice, in which the most faint-hearted lady feels no insecurity, gives great delight. The interest still increases as you advance; for, although equally smooth and safe, it is more perpendicular, and at each turning you see, at a vast distance below, the little villages, churches, and spires. As you descend from the mountain, the prospect becomes comparatively bounded. Hills, with sweet valleys between; streams, with their indented banks; tufted trees, raised into groupes by the shape of the ground, form a pleasing landscape; while the mountains rising behind in boundless majesty, and the light passing clouds coursing along the horizon, or streaming from the lesser hills, add greatly to the picturesque effect. From hence we looked up to the singular pass above Suza, a gully, whence the waters of the Doria Riparia pour with the impetuous fury of a vast cataract into the stream below.'

Those who have travelled over the same route will recognize the features of the following picture. They will also find, in the comparison of the Italian with the French sky, ideas which will appear familiar to them, although, perhaps, they never took the trouble to analyze them like Mr. Bell.

Rivoli, which we reached early in the afternoon, is finely situated on a hill, at the opening of the great valley of the Po, commanding a most beautiful and magnificent prospect. The eye runs along the vast range of Alps, forming a long blue line in the distance; and the gigantic mountains you have just passed, where Mont Cenis presides, are seen towering, dark and massive, against the light. From the gully above Suza you see the Doria bursting forth, and trace its resplendent waters, pursuing their course through the arches of the long and slender bridges which span its tide; while the evening sun flames over the mountains, shooting down through the narrow valley, and

touching

No

touching with vivid tints the great monastery of St. Michael, which stands solitary and majestic on its lofty hill. Leaving these sublime objects, and looking in the opposite direction, we distinguished the highest points of the numerous steeples and spires of Turin, tipped with the reddening rays of the setting sun. smoke ascends, as in northern countries, indicating the spot on which the city stands; but a light transparent haze seemed to hang over it in the pure still air, while magnificent and lofty trees. marked its boundaries with a dusky line. The whole of this fine scenery receives an added charm in the softening features of the rich fields, and woody plains, which, reaching far to the west, spread out below, enlivened by innumerable white dwellings, giving life and animation to the picture. While thus, after a sultry day, inhaling the refreshing breeze of the evening, and contemplating the varied beauty of the surrounding landscape, we were naturally led to compare it with the climate and aspect of the country we had left; and could not hesitate to prefer Italy, with its splendid sun, its'soft, balmy, and clear atmosphere, vast mountains, and noble rivers.

France is like a maritime country, broad, flat, and unprotected; the soil is comparatively barren, the sky cloudless, and there are no mountains to have effect on the landscape, or influence on the air. Susceptible as I have ever been of tranquil or perturbed landscape, of the beauties of opening or declining day, I never remember, during my residence in France, to have been charmed with the morning or evening sun; I never recollect any difference of light but in intensity; the sky is ever uniform, like that of Coleridge, in his enchanted ship, the sun rises in the east, mounts to noontide, and descends in the west, without producing any other variation than that of length of shadow. That which has been praised by the ignorant, a sky ever clear and transparent, distinctly marking the outline of every building, is to the painter's eye destructive of all richness and grandeur.'

There is no sort of writing more dangerous for the mind of an enthusiast, than that which is employed in describing superb scenery. It is exceedingly difficult to be distinct, and still preserve the picturesque; to convey the shade and aspect of the mountain, the windings of the river, and the undulating beauties of the valley to the eye of the reader. The very sense of admiration which kindles the fancy of the observer, is apt to lead him into confusion, to give a vagueness, and often a false splendor, to his language, which is intended to embellish the scene, but which in truth deforms or altogether destroys it. There is nothing of this bad taste in Mr. Bell's descriptions. His language is vigorous, terse, and pure; his lights and shadows are disposed with a masterly hand; his page, like a mirror, reflects the scene in its natural order and colors. He looked around him with the eye of a poet, and seemed to forget all his infirmities, when revelling in those

romantic

romantic dreams, which, when duly chastened, and touched with a spirit of devotion, shed such a charm over existence. Take, as an instance, his first evening-visit to the cathedral of Milan :

Acquainted with its site only from the general impression received on approaching the city, I passed on hastily, without knowing exactly how to direct my steps: when, entering from a narrow street into a great square, I suddenly and unexpectedly turned upon this noble edifice, which, in this my first view, I beheld, not in the usual form, standing flat and monotonous, with a broad and wide-spread front, but presenting itself obliquely, its pure white marble, its dazzling spiry fret-work, rising high and bright in light, elegant, and indistinct forms.

In the shade of night the effect was superb, and for a moment I was indeed astonished. The vivid and powerful sensations, arising from first impressions, on beholding a building so beautiful and singular, cannot return a second time. There are moments when recollections of past ages crowd upon the mind-Gothic structures forcibly bring to memory images of holy rites, recalling the period when crusades and pilgrimages animated the spirit, and filled the souls of kings, warriors, and priests-when to offer relics at the sacred shrine, to adorn altars with the gorgeous spoil taken in war, was at once the means to make peace with Heaven, and obtain power over mán. I stood long gazing on this splendid edifice, which, as night closed in, I distinguished only by the lustre of its own white marble.'

In

There is a bridge at Pavia, which is used as a public walk. It is roofed over as a protection against the heat of noon. itself, the structure is an unpicturesque object, but the arches which support the roof, open upon scenery whose aspect is peculiarly delicious in the evening of a summer-day. The impression which it produces at night is like that of a dream.

• In entering Pavia, I had observed a ruined, although modern gate, situated close to a castle of great extent, with four vast brick towers, once guarding the ramparts. I had marked the solitude and melancholy aspect of the spot, and wishing to view it more nearly, proceeded now, in the decline of day, through the dusky and dismal streets of the city, in pursuit of this object. It was growing dark, the shops were shut, no light appeared in any quarter, nor was any footstep heard save that of the sentinel. I perceived that I had missed my way to the old castle, but I found myself opposite to a structure, which (at least when seen in this dim light) seemed worthy of examination. The effect presented was that of the entrance into a deep cave; on proceeding a few steps, however, into the interior, I perceived, from the rushing sound of water underneath, that I was traversing a covered bridgeway, the canopy overhead being supported by low pillars, placed at distant intervals. Through these arches I paused to view a prospect