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indefinitely, the more modestly and truly) say, "It is the vine, the Father is the husbandman." How much of the influences that have reared it are of heaven, how much of earth, we may not be enabled, as certainly we are not called upon, to decide. How much of its nutrition it owes to the soil in which it stands: how much to the air that blows around it: how much to the rains that descend upon it from heaven,-we cannot say. But when we look at the heavenly fruit, so full of nourishment and power, we believe that all good men, when not too closely fettered by the terms and the definitions of the schools, will gratefully aver, that our Father is the husbandman, and that to Him, however reared, however cultured it may have been, to Him should be thanksgiving for the gift.

C. W.

ART. IV.-LETTERS FROM ITALY TO A YOUNGER SISTER. BY CATHARINE TAYLOR. 2 vols. John Murray, Albemarle Street, London.

We are almost tempted to ask with the author in her modest preface to the work before us, "Can anything new be said of Italy," that ground we have so often been invited to tread with the poet, the antiquary, the enthusiast of every description? and perhaps nothing strictly new is said in Miss Taylor's book regarding Italy. "I at once confess that in writing, my object has not been novelty but utility, for amongst the various works on Italy, I have not found one which brings this country, with all its interesting associations, within the reach of young people." "As it has been my chief wish to awaken an interest in subjects of importance, to stimulate rather than to satisfy the young mind, I have endeavoured to give such brief historical sketches as might lead to a further and deeper study of the events in which Italy has acted so great a part; in literature, to advert to the treasures which the Italian language contains; and in art, to furnish such information as might assist in the formation of a pure and correct taste.”

Such is Miss Taylor's object, and most admirably has she accomplished it. There is a freshness and individuality in her impressions, a reality in her descriptions, which convinces the reader that they are the faithful transcript of a journal really kept at the time. The historical sketches are well fitted for their purpose, though it is impossible in so short a space to give anything but a sort of frame-work, which, connected as it is with the scenes of action, cannot fail, we think, to engage the young reader to fill up the picture. There is just enough given of the history of the men who throw such lustre over the middle ages, and whose names are sacred to our ears even in childhood, Petrarca, Michael Angelo, Dante, Palestrina, &c., to make you feel they were living acting men, mingling with the crowd around, gradually rising from their obscurity, struggling with neglect and poverty, till by the force of genius alone they bowed even kings and prelates in admiration before their works, and forced princes to solicit their presence, as shedding the brightest splendour around their thrones.

With a very happy power Miss Taylor has blended the instructive and the interesting, and offers no temptation to the young student to leave the one and read the other. While she speaks of the beautiful picture or the gorgeous magnificence of VOL. IV. No. 15.-New Series.

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the palace or cathedral, your interest is insensibly engaged, in an account of the artist, the school he founded, or sprang from, or the history of the princes who once walked those now silent courts, or of the architect, who, in forming a temple for the deity, raised an imperishable monument of himself. And while we are tempted to sigh for a return of those days of splendour, the tale of the dark crimes which have stained those marble halls overshadows the picture, and mingles gloomily with the dim grandeur around.

With a mind well stored with the histories of its men and countries, and a taste for the beautiful in nature and art, she cannot fail to be a most interesting companion through this classic land. There is a very interesting account of her journey to Rome a sketch of Genoa and its history-of Florence, whose very name recalls a thousand associations of beauty and fame, where, after the art had slumbered under the dominion of barbarians, painting again revived, and Florence, about the thirteenth century, gave birth to the first artist of any eminence, Cimabue : and where, educated in the great school of literature and art at that period, the palace of Lorenzo de Medici, lived Michael Angelo, the painter, the sculptor, the architect and the poet; here also flourished Dante, the friend he so loved and admired. But though our author pauses by the way, Rome is the land of promise, the shrine she longs to reach. She speaks thus of the approach to it :

"The sun rose gloriously, revealing the wide Campagna of Rome, which stretched around us as far as the eye could reach-a vast desert. Surely nothing on earth can be more imposing than the approach to Rome: for many miles in every direction, the city is encompassed by barren tracts of country scattered with ruins; the far-spreading waste lies in death-like silence, and the few human beings whom you meet are like spectres mourning over the destruction around. It is as if the curse of Heaven was on the country-as if in sinking, the mighty empress of the world had drawn into the vortex that engulfed her, the whole surrounding country, leaving it, like herself, a vast and desolate ruin."-Vol. i. p. 95.

There is an interesting outline of the principal features of Roman history, down to the time of the last struggle for liberty instigated by Rienzi. The outlines of that dying effort of Roman freedom cannot be filled up, we believe, with greater interest and truth, perhaps, than in the pages of a most able author of our own day; we refer to Bulwer's Rienzi.

Like all other travellers, if they would acknowledge it, the first feeling was that of disappointment at the magnitude of St. Peter's :

In gradually examining the details of this noble edifice, astonishment takes the place of disappointment; the mind begins to comprehend its vastness, as a whole, and an indefinable sensation of wonder steals over it.

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We walked slowly up the centre aisle, until we stood beneath the dome; then sitting down on the steps of a confessional, we quietly gazed on its immensity. It is at this moment that the mind acknowledges all the power of Michael Angelo. The statues in the sacristy at Florence were forgotten, and I felt that here his greatness truly merits the praise of Ariosto:Michele più mortale, Angelo divino!"

-Vol. i. p. 126.

We quote part of a description of the Vatican, as giving some idea of the rich profusion of beauty and grandeur in those galleries and palaces:

"On our second visit we penetrated further, and entered a magnificent hall, in the floor of which is inserted a beautiful Mosaic from Adrian's villa at Tivoli. Stairs of pure white marble lead to the galleries above: ascending these, with somewhat of the feeling with which one might wander through a fairy palace, we found on our right a small but exquisite room, which increased the illusion. It is called La Stanza della Biga,' from a chariot drawn by two horses of white marble, which occupies the centre of the room.

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It was like enchantment to me, the marble walls, the Mosaic floors, the magnificent vases, the glorious creations of genius which stood around me there seemed no end to the treasures of the place. Another long gallery succeeded, filled with smaller vases of oriental alabaster, candelabra, and lamps of exquisite form: and, more charming than all, statues of beautiful little children, one struggling with a swan as large as himself, another caressing a bird. This corridor leads to the picture gallery, which contains some of the choicest paintings in the world. The collection is not a large one, but every picture is a treasure of inestimable price; the last and finest work of Rafael, his Transfiguration,' is amongst them."*-Vol. i. p. 142.

There must be an ever fresh delight to those who visit Rome, in the sacred names which every where greet your ear; to wander through the city and to find yourself on the Capitol, in the Forum, gazing on the arch of Septimius Severus, or the beautiful portico of the Pantheon, or standing amid the ruins of the Coliseum. There is a spell in the very words to rouse all the enthusiasm and poetry of our souls, and our spirit's dwelling

* I knew nothing of Rafael as a painter until I came to Rome, but in his works I find all that I had conceived of the beautiful in art.

place is for a time not amidst the departed glories of the past, but with the living Rome of our youthful studies:

"The view from the highest point of the Coliseum is very striking; we looked down on the grass-grown arena, and then on its circling arches, as they stood out against the clear blue sky, while streams of golden light fell through them on the crumbling walls and broken columns. The mighty city lay before us in its silent desolation ; on one side the arches of Nero's 'Golden House;' behind them, the dark ruins of the Baths of Titus, the palace of the Cæsars, with its long line of tottering walls, and the arches of Titus and Constantine."

We must be pardoned for quoting that inimitable description of the Coliseum by Lord Byron, which has, perhaps, never been surpassed in beauty, and which rises so forcibly to the mind we cannot stop the pen.

"Arches on arches! as it were that Rome,
Collecting the chief trophies of her line,
Would build up all her triumphs in one dome,
Her Coliseum stands; the moonbeams shine
As 'twere its natural torches, for divine
Should be the light which streams here, to illume
This long explored but still exhaustless mine
Of contemplation; and the azure gloom

Of an Italian night, where the deep skies assume

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Hues which have words, and speak to ye of heaven,
Floats o'er this vast and wondrous monument,
And shadows forth its glory. There is given
Unto the things of earth, which Time hath bent,
A spirit's feeling, and where he hath leant
His hand, but broke his scythe, there is a power
And magic in the ruined battlement,

For which the palace of the present hour

Must yield its pomp, and wait till ages are its dower."

Childe Harold, Canto IV.

But it is time we should speak of the spiritual as well as temporal grandeur of Rome, that seat of papal glory and tyranny; with its strange mingling of earthly splendour and humiliation, its beauties and deformities. Wandering through these magnificent edifices reared by man for the worship of his Creator, we feel it was a worthy homage to devote his heaven-sent powers to such works, and many are the spirits which have burned with higher rapture, or bowed in deeper humility, beneath the influence of those mighty works. But this is only one side of the picture, and most painful is it to turn to the other. Hear what

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