But in all the great and useful arts that minister to the improvement of society and the power of man, in every branch of science and literature, in poetry and eloquence, in the noblest of the fine arts themselves, and in all that is the best proof of their influence, is not England at this moment confessedly unrivalled? And without freedom, would she ever have been their seat? Have they ever visited any land, however congenial in climate or situation, which has not been blessed with freedom? Spain, Portugal, Turkey, and the whole void extent of the eastern world, where unbounded wealth was lavished in gorgeous magnificence, undirected by taste, unbrightened by genius, and undignified by knowledge, are striking exemplifications of this truth; and we may observe, that Naples and Sicily, though on the same soil, and beneath the same sun, that produced, in the modern Republics of Italy, a degree of excellence in science, literature, poetry, painting, and sculpture, that almost surpassed her ancient greatness, as they have known no gleam of liberty, have seen no school of art or literature. Modern Rome, which never hailed the reign of freedom, has produced no celebrated poets, philosophers, or artists. It has been well observed, that almost all the great names which she can boast, both in past and present

and the present Mr W. Playfair, of Edinburgh, in architecture; Sir Joshua Reynolds, Hogarth, West, Wilkie, Allan, Wilson, Williams of Edinburgh, and Turner, in painting; and Flaxman and Chantry, in sculpture.

times, have been transplanted thither from other

states.

I will not stop to enquire whether commerce, wealth, and prosperity, which are the inseparable attendants of freedom, may not at least equally contribute to foster the arts. It is sufficient that freedom is the primary cause of all. The fine arts may, therefore, with truth, be called the daughters of freedom. Some of them, indeed, have been enslaved. Music, "heavenly maid!" corrupted from those youthful days "when first in early Greece she sung;" and Dancing, if indeed the nymph be of legitimate birth, have enlisted themselves in the service of Despotism; and Architecture, we know, has been the slave of princes. But those nobler arts, which demand the higher energies of mind, and the force of original genius, can live only in the atmosphere of freedom. It would not perhaps be difficult to trace the cause of this, and to shew that, beneath her influence, the mind becomes more active and vigorous, learns to trust to its own powers, and to exert them with more energy and success. But I know you are laughing at me all this time for laying down grave truths to you with so much wisdom and self-complacency. At the same time, let me tell you that they are truths, however you may laugh, and, however little dignified by years or knowledge may be the person by whom they are propounded; they are truths, moreover, that would lead to a thousand others equally just and evident; and, therefore, for my own sake as much as yours,

I shall forego any further discussion of them at present, especially as I am very sleepy, which may possibly be your case also.

LETTER II.

FROM the Tower of the Palazzo Vecchio, this morning, we gave a farewell look to the white villas, gay gardens, and hanging vineyards, that cover the beautiful slope of Fiesole, gracefully rising immediately from the city.

We gazed with no common interest at the Convent on its utmost summit, where our own Milton spent many weeks in retirement, and where he loved to meditate, amidst the Etruscan ruins of its ancient city,

"At evening, on the top of Fiesole."

The long range of the snowy Appenines rose behind it, the glittering points of which seemed to pierce the bright blue sky; and the eye, pursuing in imagination the upward course of the Arno through the wanderings of its beautiful vale, seemed to penetrate into the deep secluded recesses of Vallombrosa, amidst whose ancient woods, and haunted stream, the muse once visited Milton in dreams of Paradise. The deep wintry snows of the Appenines at present barred all approach to

the now-deserted Convent, and we lamented that we were too late to see the autumnal beauty of "the falling leaf in Vallombrosa." No spot of his native land recalls our greatest poet so strongly to mind as the scenes in the vicinity of Florence, which he has consecrated in immortal verse; and the remembrance that Milton, in the days of his youthful enthusiasm, while yet the fair face of Nature was open to his undarkened eye, had wandered in these delightful vales, felt all their enchantment, and drank inspiration from their beauty, gave them redoubled charms to our eyes. Short as was my visit to the banks of the Arno, I shall remember it with feelings of delight, even if it be my lot to see them no more. But we left Florence with the

hope, that when the voice of Spring wakes again in the vallies, and the sunshine of Summer restores them to fertility and beauty, we shall revisit the shades of Tuscany.

It was difficult to remember that December was far advanced, as, beneath the brilliant beams of an Italian sun, we pursued our journey to Siena. The hedges on either side were covered with the luxuriant laurustinus, just bursting into full bloom, the creeping clematis, and the dark-green foliage of the sweet-scented bay.

The pale saddened hue of the olive, in full leaf, and covered with its blackening fruit, contrasted well with the deep rich tints of the majestic oaktrees, whose foliage, though brown and withered, still clung to their ancient ivy-covered branches,