were yet on the Alps. The wildness, indeed, was a little tamer: but it was not tameness our eyes and our hearts longed for, but softness, and beauty, and richness, and voluptuous luxuriance. A struggle seems to take place between the genius of the mountain and that of the vale. Here we meet fertility-there barrenness; here are cultivated fields-there naked rocks; here, gently swelling hills-there a narrow and rude defile. Are we on the ps? Are we in Italy? The question appears to be decided against the hopes that had unconsciously arisen within us, and we are thrown back in imagination many a weary league. The mountain-rock heaves itself, according to custom, over the road, and plunges into the torrent below. We enter, with something between a shudder and a sigh, the Gallery of Crevola. Midway, we stretch our neck out of the carriage, and look wistfully through a rude window which is bored in the side next the river. Soon we emerge again, after having traversed about a hundred and eighty feet of subterranean passage, and shut our eyes upon the glare of daylight. 6 By and by, we re-open them, as we hear by the sound of the waters, that we are crossing a bridge. A new world bursts at one flash upon our sight... The Val d' Ossola is before us. Yes, we are in Italy.' This vivid and florid style of description would of course soon pall upon the reader, if carried on through an entire volume; but Mr. Ritchie has shewn his tact by only indulging in it occasionally. To beguile the remainder of the route to the shores of the Lake of Locarno, he tells us an excellent romantic story, the scene of which is laid in one of the loveliest of the Alpine valleys, the Val d' Anzasca. He passes rapidly over the lake; defending the Isola Bella from the disparaging witticisms of Mr. Simond and Mr. Brockedon; and only stops at Milan long enough to satisfy himself that Mr. Simond, who styles it a very splendid city, and Mr. Rose, who says there is nothing very striking either within or without it, are both right, --but that little could be made of the city in a picturesque annual. Our Tourist of course visited the Duomo; but he professes to be happily ignorant of the schools of architecture, and contents himself with remarking of the exterior, that there can be nothing in art, more magnificent, more delightful, more odd, 'more fantastic, and more absurd,' than this temple of pastry in marble. But enter the cathedral, and no contrast in the whole range of poetry can be finer or more surprising. The 'alabaster palace has vanished; and we find ourselves suddenly in what seems to be a subterranean temple, in the midst of darkness and mystery, and in the silence and shadow of death."' his contrast, however, cannot be ascribed to design, since in , as in most other ecclesiastical edifices on the Continent, the erior and the interior are the work of different ages, sucsive architects, various and conflicting plans, and without any attempt at either harmony or contrast between the façade and the internal arrangement. Mr. Ritchie is not so much at home in art as in nature. He hurries us through the church, impatient to get into air and daylight, on the roof. Even St. Mark's at Venice has little power to fascinate him; and the vagueness of the description betrays the indefinite and transient impression of gloom and grandeur which it produced. With a sensation of relief' on regaining the open air, he bounded, he says, along the marble pavement of the Piazza. Churches in general seem to have few attractions for our mercurial Tourist: they savour to him, of the memento mori. It is well that he had not Mr. Prout, instead of Mr. Stanfield, to work from; for the artist and he would have infallibly fallen out. Padua itself is dismissed with the equivocal praise of being a rare old city 'where no one needs see the sun who does not choose it.' Venice has a chapter assigned to it, as well it may, in which occur some vivid touches of description, sometimes a little overstrained; as when a gondola is compared to a coffin borne upon a cloud', silent, fleeting, and dim as a shadow.' Upon the whole, however, a man of Mr. Ritchie's talents might have written every word that occurs in his description of these cities, without crossing the Alps. But when, turning his back upon Italy, he again breathes the free mountain air on the Brenner, our Tourist is himself again. The most interesting portion of the volume is that which describes the scenery of the Tyrol; and the Author has carefully drawn his statistical information from German authorities. It is extraordinary, he remarks, that a country and people so interesting should be so little known in England. Mr. Brockedon's "Passes of the Alps" is referred to as the only English book that even professes to give an account of the Tyrol. The English translation of Malte Brun contains, however, an outline of its geography, not entirely free from inaccuracies. Innsbruck, the capital of the Tyrol, is, according to the Geographer, ⚫ small and ill built.' Mr. Ritchie describes it as a handsome town, magnificently situated, and laid out with unusual regularity: the houses, which are built entirely of stone, are of very solid construction, from four to six stories high; and the whitewashed or stuccoed walls, light yellow or pale blue, have a pretty and cleanly effect. The suburbs, which M. Malte Brun represents as the handsomest part, Mr. R. does not describe. The city contains nothing very remarkable. Innsbruck, however, if not very interesting in itself, is the point, or centre, from which every thing that is interesting in the country may be seen. The natives trudge into the city from the most distant valleys, as if for the very purpose of shewing themselves. Here, the odious, round fur wig meets and nods to the white sugar-loaf, and the lofty black cone pulls itself off to both. Some have no covering on the head at all, except the one provided by Providence; which is combed away from the face, and hangs, in twisted chains, down the back. The waists of some ladies describe a right line from arm-pit to armpit; and the whole figure would have the appearance of a well-stuffed sack, were it not for a most magnificent bump which rises midway, and vindicates the picturesque of nature. The petticoat generally covers the knee, if it does nothing more, and is of at least two colours, such as light-blue half way down, and dark-blue the rest. The boddice is as fine as the most profuse colourist could make it, and is often ornamented, over and above, with blue suspenders like those of the men. . . . . . . . Sometimes, a raft is seen floating down the Inn, from the recesses of the Tyrol, some family or tribe of mountaineers with their whole worldly possessions. The raft is adapted, in point of size, to the number of the colony it is meant to transport; and is constructed of nothing more than rough trunks of trees, floored over, and navigated by two persons, fore and aft, each provided with a broad oar to direct their course. The current answers for wind and steam together; and onward glides the vessel, through solitudes where the scream of the eagle is heard above their heads, and where the wild goat looks down upon them in surprise from the cliffs. 'As they draw nearer to the mountain-city, a stir may be seen in the floating village. The adventurers make haste to array themselves in all the bravery of their native valleys; and instructions seem to be given, from one to the other, to comport themselves with the propriety which the importance of the occasion demands. The young women are anxiously assisted by their mothers to arrange their headgear and plait their hair; while their ruddy cheeks grow yet more ruddy, flushed with dreams of conquest, with anticipations of novelty and delight, with the thousand dazzling but indefinite hopes of innocence and youth. 'On arrival, the raft, which, though it descended, cannot ascend the current, is hewn to pieces,' and sold for timber or firewood; and the passengers are dispersed, like its materials, over the country. Few find their way back to the valleys from which the descent was so easy and so pleasant. Alas! what a string of stale moralities might be appended to this history!' pp. 232, 3; 236-8. Here we must take leave of Mr. Ritchie, thanking him for the pleasure we have had in his company: we shall be glad to meet him again this time next year. We must endeavour to despatch somewhat more briefly the more miscellaneous volumes that lie before us. That which seems naturally to come next, although the youngest of this class of periodicals, calls itself the Continental Annual and Romantic Cabinet; its first title denoting the geographical locality of the scenes chosen by Mr. Prout as the subjects of his drawings, and the second indicating the character of the letterpress, which, instead of topographical description, or traveller's journal, or historical notices, presents a series of romantic tales and legends connected with the cities and towns to which the artist's architectural pencil successively transports us. For choosing this road to popularity, Mr. Kennedy, the Editor, assigns the reasons following; which, if they satisfy the public, will have answered their purpose, and justified the plan, whatever we sterner critics might find to say against it, with whom this sort of literary article, this moral alcohol, is contraband. Impressed with the belief, that the taste for the wild and wonderful will endure as long as man retains the faculty of imagination, we have selected from the varied walks of literature the fairy track of Romance. On that enchanted path, we purpose rambling from year to year, hoping to lead the adventurous reader through castles of delightful gloom and forests of never-wearying perplexity; over meads of perennial verdure, and battle-fields as fraught with the elements of excitement as the most devout lover of fiction could desire. In this introductory effort, the wish to give all the effect in our power to the graphic designs of Mr. Prout, has induced us to draw upon the resources of natives of the countries that supply the scenes illustrated. From the productions of German, French, Dutch, Italian, and even Danish genius, materials have been taken, and either partially or wholly remodelled; preserving those characteristics which impart an air of reality to Romantic narrative. A proportion of the tales is entirely original, and was furnished for the work by an accomplished foreigner.' The mysterious air of this announcement will of course be regarded as in character and in keeping with the contents of a Romantic Cabinet. The tales are eleven in number:-' The Fanatic,' a tale of the Netherlands in the sixteenth Century. The Wax Figure:' Scene, Nuremberg. The Cottage of Koswara, a Hungarian legend.' The Black Gate of Treves, a fragment from a Student's Journal.' 'Early Impressions, a tale of a Polish Countess.' 'The Spy, a tale of the Siege of Dresden.' 'The Vintner's Daughter, from the Chronicles of the free city of Frankfort on the Maine.' The Prima Donna, a tale of Music,' in three parts: the scene, Como and Padua. 'The Siege of Prague,' an historical anecdote. The Conscript of Turin.' The Rose of Rouen.' Extracts would not suit our pages, nor can they be necessary in order to give our readers a correct notion of the publication, which we must pronounce abundantly entertaining, and very cleverly edited. Of Mr. Kennedy's talents as a writer of fictitious narrative, an unequivocal specimen lies before us, in a volume which we may notice hereafter. To make up for dismissing for the present his Romantic Cabinet, (reserving what we have to say of the embellishments,) we shall here introduce the beautiful poetical sketch referred to in our last Number, which appears in "Friendship's Offering." THE ARTIST. 'BY WILLIAM KENNEDY. And is he gone! It seems as yesterday Sought the mysterious nest in hedge or tree,- 'As waxed our boyhood, it rejoiced us more, And warm our fancies with achievements bold. Friend of life's spring! The joys I tasted then, Like the pure waters of thy tranquil heart. Untaught, hard-handed, shrewd, Lorenzo's sire The burley wight who fertilized the clod, A worthy priest there was, who marked the youth, |