the custom of that age, he journeyed to Italy to be crowned by the Pope.' Robert was never crowned by the Pope: he never penetrated beyond the confines of Lombardy; and in the only event of his reign, which is here incorrectly recorded, Miss Benger has made rather an unfortunate selection for his honour. The story of his defeat and disgrace in that expedition, which may be seen in Scipione Ammirato, (Storia Fiorentina, b. xvi.) certainly redounds so far to the credit neither of his valour nor his prudence.

If these errors are not very grievous, the lapses of the pen in the succeeding narrative are scarcely more material. In vol. i. p. 24. Miss Benger speaks of the royal table of the Prince of Orange. She cannot need to be reminded that neither the hereditary dignity of William of Nassau, nor his office as the General of a republic, render the epithets of royalty appropriate to his state. So also there is a slight contradiction in the second volume, in the account of Prince Rupert, who, in p. 328., is stated to have commenced his military career at the siege of Rhinberg, and yet, ten pages farther, is declared to have been taken prisoner at the affair near Minden (in the Thirty Years' War) four years later, the first action in which he had ever been engaged.' And, lastly, among these minute points of observation, we must doubt the authority upon which the patriotic Count Thurm, the mover of the original Bohemian insurrection which preceded the Thirty Years' War, is stated (p. 394.) to have outlived the peace of Westphalia, and to have 'died in his own castle in Prague.' For the last twelve years of the war, history scarcely notices the name of that once prominent actor in the revolutions of his country. No German writer, within our knowledge, has recorded any of the closing circumstances of his life; and Miss Benger has omitted to refer to her source of information on this particular.

These little blemishes in the accuracy of Miss Benger's work are not matters for any serious censure; and the careful criticism which has enabled us to detect them, will probably serve only to show that we have found no graver errors to condemn. In proportion as our scrutiny has been rigid, our conclusions will be sure; and criticism is not misplaced on a work which may be justly pronounced to combine the easy charm and affecting interest of private biography with the severer dignity of political history.

ART. XI. The English in Italy. 3 Vols.

TH

8vo. London. Saunders and Otley. 17. 10s, 1825.

HIS work is a sort of "Highways and Bye-ways" in Italy, without, however, the slightest pretensions to be compared with Mr. Grattan's sketches, either for imaginative embellishment, energy of diction, or variety of character. It is announced as the production of a distinguished resident' abroad, an epithet to which the author may have some title for aught we know, since there are many descriptions of distinction that may be very easily acquired on the Continent. But as to that degree of elevation which may be attributable to high birth, refined society, or intellectual attainments, we apprehend that very little evidence of it will be discovered in these volumes. They are written in a style not always English, and never elegant; interspersed with Italian phrases and pieces of poetry, which, besides being most industriously misprinted, are seldom introduced with propriety. The work consists of several tales, intended to exhibit the conduct of our countrymen in Italy, on whom the author is pleased to confer the general name of I Zingari, or the Gypsies, both tribes being equally wanderers' in his estimation. Those of our travelled gentry who have crossed the Alps, will doubtless feel honoured by the appellation, and grateful for the fidelity with which their demeanour abroad is represented by this distinguished' writer.

6

It seems strange, however, that all the English' who came under the author's notice in Italy, were, without exception, fools or impostors, gamblers and vagabonds. It is evident that he knew no others, or at least if he did he has not done them justice. We can easily believe that the conduct of many of our countrymen in foreign society, has been marked occasionally by arrogance, or rather indeed by that deplorable species of ignorance which was the result of our long confinement within our island. It is but too true that they have often looked down upon Frenchmen and Italians as of a race inferior to themselves, and fit only to minister to their wants and their luxuries. The great diffusion of wealth in our community has permitted almost every class of it, but particularly the most self-sufficient and indomitable of all, the little rentiers, to visit the Continent; and many of these certainly have contributed, by the unmeasured rudeness of their behaviour, to render the very name of England ridiculous, if not odious, wherever they have appeared. But the vulgar English are now well known abroad, and a strong line of distinction, which they cannot efface, is drawn between

them

them and those of our educated classes, who find, and deserve, admission into the circles of good society. The writer who would now confound them must, it is to be presumed, know othing of the advantages which the distinction bestows.

We object to a great deal that we read in books of travels, and feel that our literature has been extensively inundated with them for the last ten years. But we object much more to a presumptuous monitor who would attempt, like the author of these volumes, to scout the notion that Englishmen derive any improvement from their foreign excursions. However erroneous may be their estimate of themselves when they first set out, they generally return, not only with a stronger attachment to home, but with their minds greatly enlarged, their principles liberalised, and their manners improved. Books of tours also, though they have multiplied beyond all former bounds, have given an impetus to our literature which has essentially aided the progress of improvement and invention in every branch of the sciences and arts.

From the opinion which we have expressed of the merits of this work, it will not be expected that we shall analyse it in detail. The stories are all affectedly placed under Italian titles. The first, which is called L'Amoroso, consists of a threadbare narrative of plighted youthful love violated by the lady's preference of a foreigner; a duel between the rivals; some theatrical sudden appearances; the rapid decay of the deserted swain under the effects of consumption, and the remorse of the faithless fair one. Il Politico, if it were well written, would have been a just satire upon those political Quixotes of our country, who so ridiculously mingled in the abortive efforts which, within the last few years, have been made in Spain, Piedmont, and Naples for free constitutions. The sketches under the title of I Zingari, are short, and, for the most part, exceedingly dull: they contain little more than the relation of some trifling incidents, which are neither characteristic of the English nor of Italy. The only one of these sketches deserving of notice is that which describes an eruption of Mount Vesuvius. While writing it the author, we suspect, either remembered, or had before his eye, a picture of that scene which is to be met with in every print-shop.

If the eye was turned with averted glance, through horror, from the burning mountain, it fell upon a mass of upturned faces extended citywards from the mole, and along the shore and harbour, the terror of each visage conspicuous in the bronze glare that rested upon them all. Behind them the city reared itself, its white palaces and castellated height, clothed in the same dreadful

crimson,

crimson, that seemed the devoted flame-coloured garment of a victim to the Inquisition. Although a Neapolitan rabble, it was utterly silenced by the first rush and conflagration sent forth by the volcano; and their breathing and rustling together was alone heard for a time. Their presence of mind was recovered; from muttering vows and prayers, which at first whispered, were at length shouted forth, as the confidence of devotion rose upon the suppressed terrors of a probable catastrophe. After a time, the crowd, as at an execution, began to grow hardened, to utter exclamations little decent, to mark coolly the progress and acts of the mountain, and even to pass jokes upon the torrent of flame which it was up-pouring, and the probable causes of such a phenomenon.

• Our Britons even became loud in their questions, and amongst them might be heard the delicate voice, and seen the delicate form of the young English girl, in whom curiosity to view so wondrous a sight had overcome timidity. It was a position of no little danger, not only from the fearful accompaniments or consequences of the volcano's eruption, but from the crowd which pressed towards the mole, and threatened to push before it into the sea the present occupiers of so advantageous a position.

In a little time, however, the splendid sight became too terrific for curiosity: the stream of fire that the volcano had vomited forth formed over it an immense cloud of sombre vapour, ignited and charged with lightning, which the still ascending stream of fire caused to explode. This fearful cloud that hovered over the volcano but extended itself far and wide, even over Naples and all its Bay, kept within it a continual rattle of thunder-claps and peals, whilst from its dark depths issued forth in every part and at every instant, forked lightnings of most appalling vividness, changing the crimson glow that rested on all the scene, and on the visages of beholders, to a bright and dazzling light. From these horrors the crowd quickly dispersed, some to cellars and recesses far from the unceasing thunder and the piercing lightning, while the Lazzaroni sought the shelter of his tub, committed himself to the care of his saint, and without any of his proverbial timidity slept. In the breasts of foreigners curiosity was utterly stifled by awe, whilst they passed a wakeful and anxious night. Those who still dared to look forth could mark the glowing torrents of lava, coming down the dark mountain's side leisurely, winding through the unevenness of the descent like a fiery serpent, giving in their course due warning to the inhabitants of the volcano's foot to retreat before them, but advancing with an irresistible tide upon their towns and tenements, oft thus destroyed before, and as oft audaciously rebuilt.

The sun rose the next morning, but could not penetrate with its bright ray the sombre cloud that still hung over Naples. The eruption had not abated: but daylight, at least what appeared of daylight, had stripped the phenomenon of much of its terrors. The Neapolitans still gazed in anxiety, whilst in the breast of the English fear had subsided, and a curious and scientific sort of ar

dour

dour seemed to impel them all towards the very centre of devastation. The ashes fell thick, like a fine and dun-coloured snow, and filled the atmosphere with their dreary shower.'

The title of Sbarbuto (if the author were acquainted with Italian he would have written it Sbarbato) or The Beardless' is given to a vague, inconsistent, improbable tale, of which an English gentleman of fortune is the hero. This person is represented as an exile from his country, in consequence of some calumnies that were whispered against his character. After purchasing princely titles and possessions in Italy, he uses all his influence and wealth for the purpose of corrupting such of his countrymen and their wives and daughters as visit his palace; he next exercises his malignity against them as a captain of a band of robbers in the Appenines, to whose ferocity he in his turn becomes a victim! This, truly, is a proper specimen of the English in Italy.'

Under the head of Il Critico are given some eight or ten letters, which being, for the most part, connected with literary subjects, would not be destitute of interest, if they did not betray at every step a want of that authority which alone can produce confidence in discussions of this nature. The following anecdote of Murat is asserted to be authentic. We confess the Berkely-Square constitution' is to us a profound mystery.

The murmurs of his beloved subjects happened once upon a time to reach the ear of King Joachim. The monarch demanded the cause, looking at the same time in an opposite mirror, to observe if aught was wrong in his apparel, such neglect of his august person being ample cause in his idea for a people to murmur. Nothing was amiss, however, the royal hair was royally frizzed, and the purple velvet boots wrinkled secundum artem. Two courtiers undertook at the same time, as often happens, to answer the monarch's question. One replied, that the cause of these murmurs was the lustre of St. Carlos, the thickness of the rope by which it was suspended impeding the view of his subjects in the gallery. Another urged modestly but briefly, it was a ticklish subject, and one that required brevity, that his beloved and faithful subjects wanted a constitution.-"A constitution, and a slender rope of sufficient strength to support the lustre of St. Carlos. My people demand but two things. Parbleu! let us make them happy. Dispatch a courier to Paris for them instantly." The courtiers informed His Majesty, that neither of these commodities were manufactured in France. Joachim thought this both absurd and treasonable, but acquiesced. "Where then are these things to be had?""In England, please Your Majesty.""I never encourage contraband," exclaimed the mo

narch;