a very different sort of writer from the Author of 'Italy as it is.' We are, possibly, perverse and capricious in our preference; but we really do, and that very decidedly, prefer a plain and sensible description of characteristic scenes and circumstances, to a collection of trumpery details about lodgings and their expense, custom-houses and their exactions, vetturini and their extortions, children and their jokes, with a whole 'balaam-box' of memoranda equally worthless. This, however, is a matter hardly worth the slight reference we have made. It may be of more interest to our readers, that we can recommend the present volume as a reasonable corrective of the exaggerations of Eustace. That distinguished Traveller still supplies to many a reader the materials of the estimate which he may form of Italy, and of the anticipations which prompt him to visit that fine but faded country. His glowing descriptions of the 'pomp, pride, ⚫ and circumstance' of papal worship, if they do not create a partiality for the thing itself, tend, at least, to kindle a strong inclination to witness the splendid spectacle, that glittering combination of pantomime, puppet-show, and legerdemain, that transfer of the Grande Opera to the halls of the Vatican and the vaults of St. Peter. We shall shew, before we close this article, how differently the same exhibitions may appear under a varying management of lights and shades; and how opposite will be the judgement formed, respecting similar circumstances, by interested and by impartial spectators.

There is no existing state of society, or aspect of country, that affords such ample opportunity for mistake or perversion, as may be found in Italy; and, accordingly, few countries have been the subject of such systematic misrepresentation. The lofty and romantic associations which connect themselves with these regions, are, whether recent or remote, of infinite variety; and their history may be read, on contemporary monuments, from ages earlier than the Roman name, down to the galling signatures of the Austrian yoke. The massive masonry of what is commonly distinguished as Cyclopean' structure, belongs to a period antecedent to specific record: the splendid remains of Rome itself illustrate all the successive periods of Roman story. The decline and fall' of that mighty state; the fierce struggles with barbarian invaders; the vicissitudes of the Italian Republics; the annals of the hierarchy;-all these, with innumerable circumstances of local or general interest, may be read, without reference to print or manuscript, in the monumental and natural scenery of present Italy. Yet, the reading will bear a varying interpretation, as the prepossessions of the investigator may incline him to admiring or unfavourable conclusions; to say nothing of the different processes of inquiry, or of the sometimes opposite results derivable from profound or from superfi

VOL. II.-N.S.

F

cial examination. Let, for instance, a Protestant and a Papist set forth on a journey through these regions, and, with every disposition on their parts to give the truth simple and entire, it cannot be that their verdict should agree: their medium of sight and criticism, their criterion of taste and feeling, must be so strongly affected by their respective partialities, as to exhibit the very same objects of contemplation under relative, not to say positive variations of outline, shade, and colour.

We touch on this point, although without submitting it to formal discussion, because the Romanists are taking it upon themselves to maintain, that none but those of their own sect are qualified for a correct appreciation of Italian superiority. To make this childish boast the ground of formal disputation, would be to accept a challenge to a combat of hobby-horses, a duello of squirts and popguns. It is quite in character for the children of infallibility to ape the airs of their mighty mother'; and it is but after their common, fashion, to rail at their opponents because the assumption is rejected. But we should hold it a very indefensible waste of time, to argue against a bold and blustering assertion; and till it assume a more questionable shape, we shall take permission to pass it by. We never had much relish for fencing with wooden Soldans, nor for tilting at the Quintaine; and as we grow older, our dislike grows more and more definite.

It is not in the nature of things, that a partizan and a foe should contemplate the gorgeous ritual of the Vatican with the same feelings, or even with the same eye. To the one, it will be all fuss and feathers, smoke, spangle, and gesticulation: to the other, it will be decent solemnity, appropriate magnificence, impressive ceremony. And this difference, not only of opinion, but of sentiment, will not be confined to these particular circumstances; it will influence the eye and the judgement in their excursions over the whole field of observation. Take up Eustace, and he will be found to contemplate the entire scene with the gaze of an enthusiast. With him, whatever is, is best; and every thing that meets his glance, bears testimony to the excellence of the system which he has accustomed himself to idolize. His pictures, with no intention to misrepresent, have all the effect of misrepresentation. Whoever may adopt his theories, will look on the hierarchy as the guardian genius of Italy, ever watchful for its good, warding off evil to the utmost of its power, kindling and cherishing the flame of genius, and extending over all the arm of beneficence. His very criticisms are under the influence of this feeling, and he struggles through difficulties of every kind to maintain the glory of the popedom, not only in essentials, but in all its circumstances and accidents. Turn from Eustace to Simond-the whole scene assumes a

different aspect; the bright hues have disappeared, the shadows are deepened, and though the outline and distribution remain with slight deviation, yet, the colouring is different; its richness is lowered to a soberer tone, a fainter and more faded tint prevails, and the general effect becomes of a character almost opposite. It is impossible, in reading Eustace, to escape from a feeling of distrust;-not that you suspect him of conscious error, but because his imagination and feelings betray their workings in all that he says and does. With Simond, we feel ourselves safe; every suspicion of exaggeration is put aside by the simplicity of his narrative; and although we may sometimes regret the absence of classical illustration, and an evident want of science touching matters of art, we are content to miss these desirable adjuncts, in the presence of the higher qualities of good sense, sound knowledge, and keen observation. He describes well, has a good eye for natural beauty, and exhibits much discrimination in his estimates of personal, national, and political character. His very first paragraph gives promise of an excellent book, and bespeaks confidence in the traveller who takes in so much at a glance, and starts with such spirit and vigour. He dates from Lago Maggiore, Oct. 8, 1817.

It is difficult to find a greater contrast in landscape, climate, language, and manners, than that which occurs upon crossing the Simplon. From the depth of the Valais, its narrow territory and narrow skies, for such they appear as you proceed between the two parallel screens of lofty Alps,-you emerge at once into light and boundless space in Italy. From the banks of the Rhone, often frozen in Óctober, you find yourself on the sunny side of the mountains, where winter is rarely felt; instead of dingy and poor villages, a boorish population and dirty inns, you alight at Duomo d'Ossola, a clean little town, the streets of which are strewn with fragments of white marble chipped off by the chisel of sculptors, whose hammers resounding on all sides remind you that you are arrived in the country of the fine The inn is comparatively a palace, and its accommodations perfect. Travellers should, however, beware of hasty judgements; for this is the finest part of Italy, contrasted with the worst part of Switzerland, or at all events the least agreeable. The vast meadows extending in front of Duomo d'Ossola were grazed by innumerable cattle, in fine order, ranging at large, after the third crop of hay. It seemed to be Holland, without its marshes, transported to the side of the Alps. The rugged rampart, apparently inaccessible, yet so commodiously traversed, was already softening in the blue haze of distance. On the tufted sides of gentle hills, we saw, peeping through trees, the flat-roofed country-houses of rich Milanese, resembling castles with battlements, and the square towers of village churches.'

arts.

The Borromaan Isles of the Lago Maggiore are well depicted; and a minute description is given of the singularly interesting and impressive monument erected by the people of

Milan, in memory of Charles Borromeo, their Cardinal-archbishop in the sixteenth century. The statue of that admirable prelate is 66 feet high, and it is raised on a granite pedestal, 46 feet from the ground, giving altogether an altitude of 112 feet. The extremities, head, hands, and feet, are cast, and the drapery is of hammered copper. The execution is excellent, but it may be questioned whether the general effect is adequate to the colossal proportions. The interior is accessible, and the frame-work which supports the gigantic figure, supplies an irregular ladder, by which those who have a fancy for such feats, may reach the head, and look forth from its eyes on the surrounding scenery. Milan itself obtains high praise for its neatness and architectural beauty; but the more interesting details of this section, relate to the celebrated painting of the Last Supper. It may be recollected, that Eustace, who lost no opportunity of abusing the French, charges them with making the hall in which was Leonardo's master-piece, a 'store-room ' of artillery', and with using the picture itself as a target for the soldiers to fire at'; affirming, moreover, that the heads were their favourite marks, and that of our Saviour in preference to others.' Much of this accusation is gratuitous, and the whole has received a fair portion of that high colouring which characterizes Mr. E.'s style and manner. With express reference to these allegations, M. Simond examined the pic' ture closely', and, to give his own language,

'certainly discovered a number of round holes like balls, plugged up with something like putty, and likewise dents in the wall, apparently the effect of brickbats thrown against it, fragments of which still remained in some of the holes. As to when and by whom the mischief was done, a woman who has lived next door for the last seventeen years, told me, that she had heard of soldiers firing at the picture before her time; that a soldier of the sixth regiment of French hussars had told her that he himself with others had done so, not knowing what it was, when guarding prisoners confined in the hall; and that these prisoners, men of all nations, threw stones and brickbats against it by way of amusement. When Bonaparte came to Milan, he called to see the picture, and finding the place still used as a place of confinement, "shrugged his shoulders and stamped with his foot," the woman said; and ordering the prisoners away, had a door, which she shewed me near the picture, walled up, and a balustrade, or low wooden partition, drawn across the room before it for protection.'

This splendid achievement of genius and skill was in a state of wretched decay. With all his ability, Da Vinci was not less whimsical than ingenious; and, among his various essays and experiments, he chose to try, in the instance of this production, the effect of oil, in preference to the more durable process of fresco. The consequence has been lamentable. A great portion

has scaled off from the wall, and that which still adheres, has become of a blackened hue. As, however, we may have occasion to enter more particularly on this subject at some future time, we shall only state further, that every precaution has been taken against increased injury, and that an admirable copy in Mosaic was in advanced progress at the time of our Author's visit. The Cathedral of Milan remained in much the same state as at the departure of the French, who, if they were severe in their exactions, at least spent the money to the advantage of those among whom it was levied; while the Austrians, though contented with a lighter tribute, are parsimonious in their local expenditure.

Accustomed as we have been to the arts, affectations, and pedantries of book-making, we feel it quite refreshing to handle a book distinguished by nothing more decidedly, than by the absence of all such annoyances. M. Simond does not think it necessary to give the history, past, present, and to come, of every city at which he may find it convenient to halt: he describes only what he has seen, and he made good use of his eyes. If he passed rapidly along a country, he describes it cursorily; if he paused upon any remarkable locality, he is more distinct and detailed in his observation. Verona, Vicenza, Padua, supply only a few indications, while he is on his way to Venice; but his description of the fallen queen of the Adriatic is altogether the best we have seen. The Brenta, the favourite stream of Lord Byron, who was then occupying a villa on its banks, is designated as a muddy stream, winding through a low, alluvial, unhealthy level. Along the dike which restrains the overflow of its waters, the travellers hastened, without any disposition to stop, until they reached Fusina, where they hired a gondola, and launched forth on the lagune.

Not a breath of wind ruffled the surface of this shallow sea; and gliding on swiftly, we reached the celebrated city of Venice, but unfortunately not the best side of it, in less than one hour. A confused heap of very old buildings, shabbily fine, with pointed windows, half Gothic, half Grecian, out of which dirty beds were thrust for the benefit of air, and once or twice dirtier utensils emptied of their contents. Half-rotten piles supported blocks of marble, richly carved, serving as landing-places to these miserable hovels, the walls of which, out of the perpendicular, seemed nodding to each other across the narrow canals. Through one of these we pushed on rapidly, turning several sharp corners in succession, from canal to canal, which resembled narrow lanes under water, with scarcely any dry communications from house to house. A few gondolas, generally smaller than ours, passed us. No noisy trade was heard, no cries, no rattling of carriages of course; not so much as the sound of a footstep disturbed the universal stillness. We might have fancied ourselves in the cata