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 first 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 these 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, and shed the lingering beauties of autumn over the stern features of winter.

After all, vineyards and olive groves may make a better figure on paper or in poetry, but in reality, no tree is comparable in beauty to the oak. Its ramifications are so fine, its form so gigantic, its character so grand and venerable! To us, indeed, it has a beauty greater even than these-for it recalls to us, in every distant land, the image of our native country. And of it we cannot think without a sensation of pride as well as pleasure; for however blest others may be in natural advantages and riches, how comparatively wretched is the condition of man in all! The North of Italy, however, presents a most favourable contrast in all respects to the South of France, which we have so lately quitted; for never was it my lot to traverse so dull and un

interesting a country.

In that land of romance and fable, neither fields nor forest trees, nor houses nor inclosures, nor men nor beasts, meet the view; but a white arid soil is covered with stunted olives that might be mistaken for pollard willows; and with vineyards so dwarfish and so cut-short, that currant bushes might disdain a comparison with them.

The slovenly neglected appearance of the country; the total want of wood, of corn, and of pasture, of animals, and even of birds; its general desertion both by the proprietor and the peasant, and the absence of all marks of life and human habitation, have a most melancholy effect, and accord but too well with the heartless and discontented appearance of the people, who herd together in villages composed of long narrow streets of miserable

hovels, the filth and wretchedness of which I shall never forget. Not a single neat cottage by the way-side, or rural hamlet, or snug farm-house, is to be seen; even the chateau is rare, and when it appears, it is in a state of dilapidation and decay, and the very abode of gloom; not surrounded with pleasure-grounds, or woods, or parks, or gardens, but with a filthy village appended to its formal court-yard. How often did the cheerful cottages, and happy country-seats of our smiling country, recur to my mind, as I journeyed through the bepraised, but dreary scenes of Languedoc and Provence! It was during the season of the vintage, too, and I can truly say, I saw no signs of mirth or festivity; a Scotch shearing is infinitely more jocund. Even at that lovely time of the year, in sailing down between the bare treeless rocky banks of the Rhone, and running aground continually in the shallow currents that intersect its broad shingly bed, I could not help recalling Oliver Cromwell's pithy observation on a very dif ferent country," that it had not wood enough to hang a man, water enough to drown him, or earth enough to bury him."

The North is certainly far superior to the south of France. Normandy is infinitely prettier than Provence; but throughout, it is the most unpicturesque country in Europe. France is, indeed, everywhere bounded by beauty. The Alps, the Pyrenees, the Estrelle mountains, and the Jura, contain within

* On the road between Antibes and Nice.

their recesses some of the sublimest scenery in the world. But the country these grand boundaries enclose, is remarkably devoid of beauty and interest; it is a dull picture set in a magnificent frame.

In Italy, on the contrary, though the middle of winter, every thing looks comparatively gay. The peasants live on their little farms, and their scattered cottages cover the face of the country, presenting the pleasing images of rural life and agricultural labour. The olive trees are of loftier size, and more luxuriant growth, than in France; and their pale hue is beautifully contrasted here with the dark spiral form of the columbar cypress, and the brown foliage of the aged oak. The fields are enclosed with rows of poplars, connected by intermingling garlands of vines, twined from tree to tree, and hanging from the branches in such gay festoons, that they look as if the whole country had been dressed out for some festive occasion.

This mode of managing the vines, however, though greatly more picturesque and poetic, renders the wine made from them of far inferior quality to that produced by the scrubby little vineyards of France; and this is the case wherever the practice is pursued. A curious exemplification of this occurs in Madeira. On the north side of the island, where the vine is still "married to the elm," and taught to cling to it in gay clusters, the wine is of a thin, poor, sour quality; but on the other parts of the island, the vine that produce its staple wine are trained about four feet from the ground, on low sloping trellises, which cover the steep side