take root, it is either stunted in its growth, or spreads with corrupt rapidity to an unfruitful luxuriance. Moderation,' like the former productions of this lady, is a pleasing little artifice, fabricated by no mean power of ingenuity, with a view to infer and strongly enforce a precept in morals of great practical utility. The advantages of moderation in the indulgence of even the most harmless, nay, indeed, virtuous inclinations, are strikingly illustrated, not only by the exhibition of an example of the happiness which it produces to one, but by instances of the embarrassments, and even calamities, which the want of it entails upon others. Religion is shewn to be moderation; fanaticism, its extreme, is impressively displayed as the source of a train of evils. Sophia, one of the sisters of this tale, is depicted as a pious enthusiast, whose excessive charity and spiritual activity render her at once unprofitable to those whom she should serve, and a nuisance to every body else. She degenerates into the partizan of a villagesect, and in the heat of a factious spirit, she suppresses the voice of nature speaking to her heart, as well as the dictates of duty addressing itself to her understanding. But our author, with characteristic tenderness, inspires her at last with compunction, and Sophia, before the end of the volume, is restored to reason, and the long suspended confidence of her friends. Harriet, another sister, the uncontrollable follower of fashion, is exhibited with the usual quantity of folly and selfishness which signalize her caste. All her movements, the least significant as well as the most solemn, are controlled by the spurious ambition which is gratified by producing what is called an effect. It is this ruling principle that guides her with equal caution to the choice of a habit or a husband; and to attain such an end she is prepared to witness the wreck of fortune, friends, and the dearest ties of kindred. Emma, the third daughter, shewn by nature to be tractable and sensible, acquires, by repeated trials, the regulation of her own heart, so far that, in whatever relation she is called on to act or to suffer, she is entire mistress over her feelings. She is the positive instance, as her sisters were given as the negative examples, of the benefits of moderation in life. She is therefore a useful member of society. She is a model of filial piety, and answers the various claims of duty, as well as of affection, with scrupulous care. And when love at last assails her bosom, she admits the intruder only upon a just calculation of his merits, and a well founded expectation of a prosperous and extended relation. Indeed the philosophic maxim of Horace, "Virtus est medium vitiorum, et utrimque reductum," is expounded in this volume with

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a force

a force and a simplicity of illustration, which render irresistible the impressions of its justness. In the mean time this is not a dull monitory allegory. It is an interesting and occasionally pathetic tale, diversified with a variety of characters, scenes, and incidents. If we were to find fault, we might complain perhaps of the unmerciful multiplication of the personages of the drama, and we might express our disappointment that Frank Wilmington had been transferred to Harriet from Emma. We might also avow, that his successor in her affections, Charles Melville, is not much to our taste. But it would be uncandid to urge these objections against such a mass of talent, good sense, and virtuous instruction, as 'Moderation' contains. We must afford room for a short specicimen of the general style in which this tale is written.

The disposition of the father was well known to both his daughters, indeed, it might be said to be known to every person, almost every child, in his parish, for if he had tried he would not have had the faculty of concealing his joys, sorrows, perplexities, or reliefs. There was a sunshine of countenance in his general aspect, an overflowing of connubial love in his common mode of speech, when he answered the most homely enquirer about Madam, which told his general felicity, and by the same rule, if sickness visited his little ones, if the beloved mother was in a state of suffering, or himself in one of apprehension on her account, there was a shade on his brow, a character of despondency on his expressive features, that could not be mistaken," he walked softly as one that mourneth for his mother," and there were times also, when a threadbare coat, an anxious attention to some petty saving, and a magnanimous resolution not to look at a print or a catalogue, took place. These the Baronet called "the Rector's silver threepenny days;" and observed truly," that they were points soon played with him."

'To Harriet, whose residence with her aunt had nurtured pride and the love of show, this disposition presented temptation to encroach upon her father; to Emma, whose mind had been better informed, it offered a sense of increased duty, a species of guardianship, which, without impairing reverence, actually increased her love for her father. Such was the nature of this affection, that if her mind had not been from principle, as well as habit and good humour, gentle and moderate, she must have spent her life in perpetual bickerings with her sisters, for she regarded Harriet's impositions on her father's yielding temper as almost cruel and wicked; and the opposition of Sophia to so liberal and conciliating a spirit as ridiculous and rebellious.

But moderating her resentments, her desires, her sorrows, and her affections, Emma from day to day sought to render her father happy, and every branch of her family, amiable and respectable, to become resigned to the past and prepared for the future; without affecting either extraordinary knowledge, wisdom, or piety,

she

she yet endeavoured constantly to cultivate her mind, regulate her conduct by good sense, and find, in the exercise of Christian duties, consolation and delight. In consequence, Harriet and Sophia were, each in their own circle, much more talked of and thought of than Emma, but she was more approved of than either, and therefore had a quiet influence for good in the hearts of all who knew her. This influence had perhaps been less felt by her father previous to his voyage than might have been expected; for though he loved Emma as a dear and most unoffending child, he was not conscious how much her constant but unobtrusive cares had soothed his corrosive grief, diverted his melancholy, and led him to the due contemplation of his duty to God and man. He now found that the relief which he had imputed to all his children by a sweeping conclusion, belonged to Emma, for she supplied all to him; and he therefore willingly agreed to her suggestion and admitted of her management, gladly listened to her excuses for one child, her comforts in another, and in doing so, gave himself the best chance for recovery, and his daughter the greatest satisfaction his state admitted.

But the "still small shaft" of death was sped the quiet, insinuating disease, which baffles skill whilst it nurses hope, was calmly feeding on the springs of life; and at the very time when Emma trusted that every breeze" brought healing on its wings," slowly but surely was confirmed consumption securing its unresisting victim.'

ART. XIV. Observations on Italy. By the late John Bell, Fellow of the Royal College of Surgeons, Edinburgh, &c. 4to. pp. 356. Edinburgh, Blackwood; and London, T. Cadell. 1825. REMEMBERING the numerous volumes on Italy which, for

the last twenty years, have vexed the world in every shape and size, from the neat duodecimo to the exuberant quarto, we candidly confess that we took up this work with feelings bordering on despair. The subject, we imagined, had been thoroughly exhausted; and eminent as were the talents which distinguished the professional career of Mr. Bell, we were prepared to expect little from his pen beyond a few critical remarks on the anatomical perfections and defects, which he might have discovered in the statues and paintings that, in the course of his journey, presented themselves to his notice. On turning over the preface our anticipations were not at all improved, when we found that these Observations' consisted of the notes of a valetudinarian, who travelled in Italy under the pressure of a malady, which terminated in his death before he could reduce them to order, Written, too, so long ago as the year 1817, how was novelty or interest to be expected from such fragments? What energy of thought

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or diction was to be looked for in the work of a traveller, who said of himself, shortly before he left Paris, I have seen much of the disappointments of life: I shall not feel them long. Sickness, in an awful and sudden form; loss of blood, in which I lay sinking for many hours, with the feeling of death long protracted, when I felt how painful it was not to come quite to life, yet not to die, a clamorous dream! tell that in no long time that must happen, which was lately so near.'

We know not how it was, but this preface, so modestly, so touchingly written by his editor, his widow, drew us insensibly on. The ill health, the unhappy circumstances, the melancholic disposition of the author, excited more than an ordinary degree of curiosity, and we were anxious to see how he commenced his tour.

'We began our journey into Italy in the beginning of June, 1817, and left Paris on our way to Fontainebleau. It was a beautiful morning. The air had been rendered peculiarly mellow and refreshing by a severe storm the preceding evening; and a bright sunshine cheered us on our way, shedding its pleasing influence on the mind, and dispelling that undefined dejection of spirit which, with such powerful influence, affects us at the outset of a long journey. Even in the brilliant hour of youthful hope and gay anticipation, such a moment is not unclouded by some mixture of pain: the mind insensibly revolves the days that are past, and looks forward, with a feeling of anxiety, to those which are yet to come but the spirit soon finds relief in the pleasing images and the new stores of knowledge presented in travelling."

The justness of thought, the sensibility, and the philosophic spirit of this exordium, promised an itinerary of no mediocre description. The first requisite in a traveller who would interest our feelings, is a vigilant attention, not alone to the character of the inns and villages through which he hastens, but to the scenery which surrounds him, and to every hue of the heavens above him. We can at once place ourselves beside the tourist, who paints the varying landscape as he moves along, who watches the rising and descending day, and faithfully delineates the feelings which every new prospect kindles in his bosom. We rejoice with him in the sun

shine, we listen with him to the music of those rural sounds, which emanate from woods and mountains and rushing waters, and keenly feel all the vicissitudes of pleasure or disappointment by which he is affected. Something of this sympathy attaches a reader at once to the fragments before us, and though the route which they describe, from Paris to Rome, be as common as any other that could be mentioned, yet it is impossible

not

not to feel that they impart to it an extraordinary degree of freshness and beauty. In many passages they remind one of the fascinating pencil of Mrs. Radcliffe, which invested every scene it touched with the splendor and the mystery of romance. The descent from Mount Cenis is painted exactly in her style.

Having reached the summit of the mountain, and paused a moment in contemplation, we began our descent, which was every way delightful. We rolled down a smooth gravelly road, passing through a narrow gorge, or gully, resembling a quarry, backed on the left by enormous mountains, towering high and perpendicular, and terminating in many forms of fantastic grandeur; while at the angles of the road we sometimes caught glimpses of dells far beneath, with their villages and churches, presenting, in perspective, the beautiful scenery we were soon to approach. As the road expands, the slopes of the mountains are covered with and green flourishing brushwood, interspersed with trees, and enlivened by the domestic aspect of cottages: the children of each hamlet tending their little flocks of goats, sheep, or cows, formed a picturesque and rustic scene, which contrasted pleasingly with the dreary grandeur of the country we had left. The descent of this rapid precipice, in which the most faint-hearted lady feels no insecurity, gives great delight. The interest still increases as you advance; for, although equally smooth and safe, it is more perpendicular, and at each turning you see, at a vast distance below, the little villages, churches, and spires. As you descend from the mountain, the prospect becomes comparatively bounded. Hills, with sweet valleys between; streams, with their indented banks; tufted trees, raised into groupes by the shape of the ground, form a pleasing landscape; while the mountains rising behind in boundless majesty, and the light passing clouds coursing along the horizon, or streaming from the lesser hills, add greatly to the picturesque effect. From hence we looked up to the singular pass above Suza, a gully, whence the waters of the Doria Riparia pour with the impetuous fury of a vast cataract into the stream below.'

Those who have travelled over the same route will recognize the features of the following picture. They will also find, in the comparison of the Italian with the French sky, ideas which will appear familiar to them, although, perhaps, they never took the trouble to analyze them like Mr. Bell.

Rivoli, which we reached early in the afternoon, is finely situated on a hill, at the opening of the great valley of the Po, commanding a most beautiful and magnificent prospect. The eye runs along the vast range of Alps, forming a long blue line in the distance; and the gigantic mountains you have just passed, where Mont Cenis presides, are seen towering, dark and massive, against the light. From the gully above Suza you see the Doria bursting forth, and trace its resplendent waters, pursuing their course through the arches of the long and slender bridges which span its tide; while the evening sun flames over the mountains, shooting down through the narrow valley, and

touching