New mode of Travelling.—Route from Venice to Vicenza.—Theatre on a new plan by Palladio.—Verona: The Amphitheatre, and the Tomb of Juliet.—Observations on Italians and Italian Society.—Banditti and Assassins.—Lower classes of Italians.—Nobles and Gentlemen.—Italy by nature a single country.—Its divisions into States.—Obstacles to its consolidation.—Napoleon.—A confederated Republic predicted.—Line of the Tyrol.—New mode of Travelling the most expensive.—The Inn at Trent.—Picturesque Valley.—Tower at Botzen.—Brixen.—Pass of the Brenner.—Innspruck.—The Cathedral, and the Castle of the Counts of the Tyrol.

A novel mode of travelling was suggested to me, and I determined to try it, merely to compare it with the others. In most of the countries of the Continent, the governments control the diligences, or public coaches, which are drawn by post-horses. In the Austrian States one can travel in the diligences at his own hours, provided a certain number of places are paid for. The size of my family admitting of this, I have come up from Venice to Innspruck in that mode; the advantages being those of paying once for all at Venice, of travelling entirely under the authority of the government, and of not being under the necessity of wrangling with the postillions. The disadvantage, as I have since discovered, was that of paying considerably more than I should have done, after quitting Italy, had we come post in the old way. In Lombardy we had no difficulty, postmasters and postillions conducting themselves admirably; but in the Tyrol it was a constant scene of wrangling about hours and horses. I shall not repeat the experiment, after we have fairly crossed the Alps.

We left Venice quite early, in a public boat, being now fairly in the hands of government. At Mestre we found our own carriage, and, entering it, we were soon furnished with four horses and two postillions. The latter cut a strange figure, in yellow coats and cocked hats. They were perfectly civil, however, and we soon found ourselves in Padua.

Changing horses, we now diverged from our old route, taking the road to Vicenza, where we dined. The country was not so tame as Lombardy is in general, and we were rapidly approaching the advanced hills of the Alps. Still, the road, a good one in every sense, ran along a very even surface.

Vicenza is the city of Palladio, and a house he built for himself, a small but tasteful edifice, and a theatre of his own on a new plan, were shown us. This theatre, instead of the ordinary painted scenery, had a real perspective, and houses and streets, en petit, as one sees them in a town. This invention was founded in hypercriticism. A play is, at the best, but a conventional and poetical representation of life, like a romance, a statue, or a picture; and while it is properly subject to laws that are founded in nature, this nature may, in all, be respected to absurdities. Who but a bungler would put eyes in a statue, give a real perspective to a picture, rigid nature instead of its beau idéal to a romance, or real streets to a theatre? The common scenery is sufficient to the illusion we require; for, like the unities, after all, a theatrical street, which of necessity must be contained in a single house, is but a conventional street. The thing, as a matter of course, was a failure.

After quitting Vicenza, the country became even prettier, and we passed a few small towns. It was still early when we came in sight of a town lying in part against the side of a hill, with ancient walls and other objects of a picturesque appearance. The environs were particularly verdant, and altogether the place had a more lively and flourishing air than any city we had seen since quitting Bologna. This was Verona, the end of our journey for the day. We had done near a hundred miles since morning, with great ease to ourselves, having almost crossed the whole of the ancient Venetian-Italian States.

Although this town stands on the great plain of Lombardy, it is at its commencement, and at the point where the Adige issues from among the Alps, to incline eastward before it throws its waters into the Adriatic. We found a genteel and good inn, as well as neatness and perfect civility. After giving our orders, we sallied forth to see the only two things of which our time would allow,—the amphitheatre, and the tomb or sarcophagus of Juliet, for you will remember we were now in the country of the Montagues and the Capulets.

The amphitheatre stands on an area in a corner of the town, where it is seen to great advantage. Unlike the Coliseum, it is perfect, or nearly so, on the exterior, so that one can get an accurate notion of its general effect. The interior, also, is almost as perfect as that at Pompeii; and as the building is much larger, it may be included among the greatest of the works of the kind that have descended to our own times. There is a portion of it set apart for theatrical representations, by the erection of a stage and enclosing a few of the seats; and, truly, the difference between the scale of a Roman arena and that of one of our own modern edifices is here made sufficiently manifest. I do not wish to be understood that this temporary little theatre is of extraordinary dimensions; but still it is large enough to contain an ordinary audience. It struck me as being more intended for spectacles than for the regular drama. It had no roof, though I was told the climate admits of representations at night in it. We see the same thing in New York during the summer months.

Perhaps the dimensions of the amphitheatre of Verona are not much more than half of those of the Coliseum, (in cubic contents, I mean,) and yet it is a stupendous edifice. It is relatively low,—or, it might be safer to say, it struck me so, after dwelling five months so near the Coliseum; but, standing on its summit, it is a fearful fall to look at. It is said that the amphitheatres of Rome, Verona, and Nismes contain among them all that is wanting to give us the most accurate notions of the details of this sort of structure. Certainly, as a whole, this is the most perfect of any I have seen. There is no visible reason why this immense building should not still stand, until destroyed by some natural convulsion.

The sarcophagus is no great matter. It stands in a garden, and is merely a plain marble chest, without its lid. Shakspeare is known to have taken the story of Romeo and Juliet from a tale of the misfortunes of two young lovers of this place; and it is certainly possible that this may have been the very tomb of the lady. The names are anglicised in the play, but not materially varied. The guide showed us a house which, he affirmed, belonged to one of the warring families—the Montagues, I believe; but there are so many English travellers, just now, that the temptation to embellish is exceedingly strong. One looks at these things with an easy credulity, for it is the wisest way, when there is no serious historical or antiquarian question dependant on the truth. What matters it now, whether a young lady named Guilietta died of love, and was buried in this tomb? The name of Montague came from the Continent, and is still met with in France: among the connexions of General Lafayette is a Marquis de Montaigu, whom I have seen in his company, and who is his neighbour, at La Grange. I dare say there were Capuletti, also, in scores. These people must have had houses, and they must have had tombs; and it is as well for us travellers to believe we see them here at Verona, as to believe any thing else. For the laquais de place and the keeper of the garden, it is even much better.

We breakfasted at Verona, which struck us as a bustling and pleasing town, with a singular air of bon ton about it; and then we went our way. The enceinte of this city, like that of Genoa, embraces a large side-hill that is mostly in villas and gardens; but the defences are of no great account.

Shortly after quitting the walls, we turned into the valley of the Adige, and reached a point where one may be said to take his last look at Italy. A—— laughed at me, for this was the only country, as she affirmed, that she had ever known me to quit looking over a shoulder. Certainly, the tendency in common is to look ahead, and I confess to the truth of the charge of having looked behind me on this occasion. I have never yet quitted any country with one half the regret that I quitted Italy. Its nature, its climate, its recollections, its people even, had been gradually gaining on my affections for near two years, and I felt that reluctance to separate, that one is apt to experience on quitting his own house.

I have told you little in these letters of the Italians themselves, and nothing of what may be called their society. I have seen much of the former, of necessity, and a little, though not much, of the latter. A diffidence of my own knowledge lies at the bottom of this forbearance; for I am fully sensible that he who would describe beyond the surface, must have had better means of information than mine have been. Still, I will not quit this charming region without giving you, in a very few words, a summary of my opinions, such as they are.

I came to Italy with too many of the prejudices that had got abroad concerning the Italian character. The whole country is virtually a conquered country—and men are seldom wronged without being abused. In the first place, the marvels about banditti and assassins are enormously exaggerated. Banditti there have been, and robbers there still are. The country is peculiarly adapted to invite their presence. With unfrequented mountains nearly always in sight, roads crowded with travellers, great poverty, and polices of no great energy, it could hardly be otherwise; and yet, a man of ordinary prudence may go from one extremity of the country to the other with very little risk. Assassinations I believe to be no more frequent than murders in France or England. If the quasi duels or irregular combats of the south-west be enumerated, I believe, in proportion to population, that three men lose their lives by violence in that portion of the republic, to one in Italy.

The lower classes of Italy, with the exception of those who live on travellers, appear to me to be unsophisticated, kind, and well-principled. There is a native activity of mind about them that renders their rogues great rogues; but I question if the mass here be not quite as honest as the mass in any country under the same social pressure. An American should always remember the exemption from temptation that exists in his own country. Common crimes are certainly not so general with us as in most of Europe, and precisely for the reason named; but uncommon meannesses abound in a large circle of our population. The vices of an American origin are necessarily influenced by the condition of American society; and, as a principle, the same is true here. It may be questioned if examination, taking into view all the circumstances, would give a result so much on our favour as some pretend. Once removed from the towns and the other haunts of travellers, I have found the Italians of the lower classes endued with quite as many good qualities as most of their neighbours, and with more than some of them. They are more gracious than the English, and more sincere than the French, and infinitely more refined than the Germans; or, it might be better to say, less obtuse and coarse. Certainly, they are quick-witted; and, physically, they are altogether a finer race, though short, than I had expected to see.

Shades of difference exist in Italian character, as between the different States, the preference being usually given to the inhabitants of Upper Italy. I have not found this difference so manifestly clear against the South; though I do believe that the Piedmontese, in a physical sense, are the finest race of the entire country.

Foreigners would better appreciate the Italian character if they better understood the usages of the country. A nation divided like this, conquered as this has been, and lying, as it now does, notoriously at the mercy of any powerful invader, loses the estimation that is due to numbers. The stranger regards the people as unworthy of possessing distinctive traits, and obtrudes his own habits on them, coarsely and, too often, insolently. This, in part, is submitted to, from necessity; but mutual ill-will and distrust are the consequences. The vulgar-minded Englishman talks of the “damned Italians,” and the vulgar-minded American, quite in rule, imitates his great model, though neither has, probably, any knowledge of the people beyond that which he has obtained in inns, and in the carriages of the vetturini.

In grace of mind, in a love, and even in a knowledge of the arts, a large portion of the common Italians are as much superior to the Anglo-Saxon race as civilization is superior to barbarism. We deride their religious superstitions; but we overlook the exaggerations, uncharitableness, and ferocity of our own fanaticism. Of the two, I firmly believe a Divine Omniscience finds less to condemn in the former. I do not know any peasantry in which there is more ingenuousness, with less of rusticity and vulgarity than that of Tuscany.

The society of Italy, which is but another word for the nobles of the country, so far as I have seen it, has the general European character, modified a little by position. They have a general acquaintance with literature, without being often learned; and there is a grace about their minds, derived from the constant practice of contemplating the miracles of art, that is rather peculiar to them. An Italian gentleman is more gracious than an Englishman, and less artificial than a Frenchman. Indeed, I have often thought that in these particulars he is the nearest a true standard of any gentleman of Europe. There is a sincerity in this class, also, that took me by surprise; a simplicity of mind rather than of manner, that is not common on the other side of the Alps. Notwithstanding what has been said and written about les esprits fins, I question if the trait can be properly imputed to the general Italian character. After all this, however, I freely admit the limited nature of my own observation, and you will not attach to these opinions more value than they deserve; still, they merit more attention than the loose notions on the same subject that have been thrown before the world, unreflectingly and ignorantly, by most of our travellers.

Nature appears to have intended Italy for a single country. With a people speaking the same language—a territory almost surrounded by water, or separated from the rest of Europe by a barrier of grand mountains—its extent, ancient history, relative position, and interests, would all seem to have a direct tendency towards bringing about this great end. The —— of —— assured me that such was the intention of Napoleon, who looked forward to the time when he might convert the whole of the peninsula into a single state. Had he continued to reign, and had he been the father of two or more sons, it is quite probable that he would have distributed his kingdoms among them at his death; but, while he lived, no man would have got any thing back from Napoleon Bonaparte with his own consent.

Italy, instead of being the consolidated country that one could wish it were, is now divided into ten states, excluding little Monaco. These countries are, Piedmont or Sardinia, Lombardy, Modena, Parma, Massa, Lucca, Tuscany, the Papal territories, San Marino, and the two Sicilies. This is an approach towards consolidation; the Venetian States, the duchy of Genoa, and a great many smaller countries being swallowed up by their more important neighbours, as has been the case in Germany. Massa will soon be joined to Modena,^[10] and Lucca to Tuscany, which will reduce the number of independent governments to eight,—or, deducting San Marino, a community of no account, to seven. The entire population is thought to be from eighteen to nineteen millions.

The study of Italy is profitable to an American. One of the greatest, indeed the only serious obstacle, to consolidation of all the Italian States, arises from the hereditary hatreds and distrusts of the people of one country to those of another. Such is it to separate the family tie, and such would soon be our own condition were the bond of union that now unites us severed. By playing off one portion of the country against the others, the common enemy would plunder all.

The Italians, while they are sensible that Napoleon did them good by introducing the vigour and improvements of France, do not extol his reign. They justly deem him a selfish conqueror, and, I make no doubt, joyfully threw off his yoke. The conscription appears to have been the most oppressive of his measures; and well it might be, for, even admitting that his ultimate ends were to be beneficial, the means were next to intolerable. He improved the roads, invigorated the police, reformed many abuses, and gave new impulses to society, it is true; but in the place of the old grievances, he substituted King Stork for King Log.

The laws and customs of the Italian countries have so many minute points of difference, that the wishes of some of the patriots of this region point towards a Confederated Republic, something like that of Switzerland. Sooner or later, Italy will inevitably become a single State: this is a result that I hold to be inevitable, though the means by which it is to be effected are still hidden. Italy, as one nation, would command the Mediterranean and the Adriatic, and the jealousies of France and England are likely to oppose more obstacles to the consolidation, than the power of Austria. The Confederation would be played on by both these powers; and it appears to me that it is just the worst mode of attempting a change, that could be adapted. In the absence of great political events, to weaken the authority of the present governments, education is the surest process, though a slow one. In no case, the people of a country should confide in foreigners for the attainment of their political ends. All history has shown that communities are not to be trusted in such matters; and if I were an Italian bent on consolidation, I would not turn my eyes beyond the Alps for relief. After all, there is so much room for meliorations more immediately serviceable, that perhaps the wisest way is, to direct the present energies to reforms, rather than to revolutions; though many here will tell you the former are to be obtained only through the latter.

Our road soon led us into a great valley, the Alps gradually closing on us as we advanced, until we again found ourselves in their gigantic embraces. The Adige, a swift but brawling stream, flowed on our left, and the country gradually lost the breadth and softness of Italy in the peculiarities of a mountain district. About two o’clock, we passed a village called Avio, where we changed horses. Here we got but one postillion, short traces for the leaders, a long whip, and a new livery,—the certain signs that we were in Germany: in fact, we had crossed the line of the Tyrol, about a league to the southward. Roveredo was a town of some importance, and here we began to see some of the independence of the Tyrolese, who paid very little attention to the printed regulations of the road. I had been furnished with a carte de route, with instructions to enter any complaints about speed, delays, or other failure to comply with the law; and this I did at one post-house in the presence of the post-master, who had not only made a false entry as to the time of our arrival and departure, but who was impudent and dilatory. This complaint he endeavoured to defeat by correcting his own entry. To effect this, he had asked me for the way-bill; and when I found out the object, he refused to give it back again.—Thereupon, I seized him by the collar, and wrested the paper out of his hands. For a moment there were symptoms of blows; but, distrusting the result, the rogue yielded. He menaced me loudly, notwithstanding; and when I carried off the prize to the carriage, we were surrounded by the rascal with a dozen other blackguards to back him. He refused to give us horses, and I noted the time, on the way-bill, again, before his face. This frightened him, and I believe he was glad to get rid of us.

It would seem I had adopted a mode of travelling peculiarly disagreeable to the postmasters; for, while it cost me more than the ordinary posting, they were paid less, the government pocketing the difference. This I did not know, or certainly I would have saved my money; but being in the scrape, as a pis aller, I was determined to fight my way out of it. I do think there is enough of Jack in me yet to have threshed the fellow, had we got to facers,—a termination of the affair that the short struggle gave the rascal reason to anticipate.

It was dark before we drove into a small city that stands between lofty mountains, one of which rose like a dark wall above it, quite à la Suisse. The Adige flowed through this town, which was Trent, so celebrated for its religious council.

The inn here was semi-Swiss, semi-German. When I put the usual question as to the price of the rooms, the landlord, a hearty Boniface-sort of a person, laughed, and said, “You are now in Germany; give yourself no trouble on that score.” I took him at his word, and found him honest. There was a sort of great sala in the centre of the house, that communicated with the different apartments. Something like a dozen escutcheons ornamented its walls; and, on examining them, I found inscriptions to show that they had been placed there to commemorate the visits of sundry kings and princes to the larder of mine host. Among others, the Emperor, the late and the present Grand Dukes of Tuscany, and the King of Bavaria, were of the number. The latter sovereign is a great traveller, running down into Italy every year or two. The Marquis of Hertford was also honoured with a blazonry,—probably on account of his expenses. I have seen this usage, once or twice, in other parts of Europe.

The next day, our road, an even, good carriageway, led up the valley of the Adige, along a valley that might have passed for one of Switzerland, a little softened in features. There were ruined towers on the spurs of the mountains, and here and there was a hold that was still kept up. One in particular, near Botzen, struck us as singularly picturesque, for it was not easy to see how its inhabitants reached it. The costumes, too, were singular; prettier, I thought, than any of Switzerland. The men wore cock’s feathers, stuck obliquely with a smart air in their high conical hats: some carried guns, and all had a freedom of manner about them that denoted the habits of mountaineers. At Botzen we left the Adige, following a branch, however, that was not smaller than the stream which retains the name. The country now became more romantic and more wild. The châteaux were of a simpler kind, though always picturesque. The road continued good, and the horses were excellent: they reminded us strongly of American horses. We did not arrive at Brixen until after dark; but we found German neatness, German civility, German honesty, and German family portraits. Every man has ancestors of some sort or other, but one sees no necessity for lampooning them with a pencil after they are dead.

Brixen stands in a mountain-basin, a town of a German-Swiss character. Soon after quitting it, next morning, we began to ascend the celebrated Pass of the Brenner, which offered nothing more than a long and winding road among forests and common mountain scenery. We had been too recently in Switzerland to be in ecstasies, and yet we were pleased. It began to be stormy; and by the time we reached the post-house, the road had several inches of snow in it. Two days before, we had been eating cherries and strawberries at Verona!

One gets to be sophisticated in time. On landing in England, I refused a beggar a sixpence, because he asked for it, my American habits revolting at the meanness of begging. To-day A—— had a good laugh at me for a change of character. By the arrangement at Venice, I was not obliged to give any thing to the postillions; but I usually added a franc to their regular receipts from the government. On this occasion the postillion very properly abstained from asking for that which he knew he could not properly claim. The money, however, was in my hand; but seeing that he kept aloof, I put it up, unconsciously saying, “Hang the fellow! if he will not ask for it, let him go without it.” This is the way we get to be the creatures of habit, judging of nations and men by standards that depend on accidents. Four years earlier, I should certainly have refused the postillion, had he asked for the money; and now I denied him because he did not! I hope to reach the philosophical and just medium in due time, in this as well as in some other matters.

We went a post on the mountain, a wild, without being absolutely a savage district, before we turned the summit. This point was discovered by the runs of water at the roadside, one of which was a tributary of the Adige, sending its contributions to the Adriatic, while the other flows into the Inn, which communicates with the Danube. The descent, however, soon spoke for itself, and we went down a mountain on a scale commensurate with that by which we had ascended.

At a turn in the road, a beautiful fairy-like scene suddenly presented itself. There was a wide and fertile plain, through which meandered a respectable river. Our own mountain melted away to its margin on one side, and a noble wall of rock, some two or three thousand feet high, bounded it on the other. Directly before us lay a town, with the usual peculiarities of a mountain-city, though it had a cathedral, and even a palace. This was Innspruck, the capital of the Tyrol, and the immediate object of our journey. We drove into it at an early hour, and in time to enjoy the play of mists, and the brilliancy of the snows that still rendered the adjacent cliffs hoary.

We had glimpses of glaciers to-day, and saw an abbey or two in poetical situations. Innspruck reminded us a good deal of Berne. The palace is respectable, though not large, and the cathedral is quaint and venerable. In the latter there is a row of knights in their ancient armour, or, rather, a row of armour which is so placed as to resemble knights ranged in order. I believe the armour is that of the former sovereigns of the Tyrol.

There is also a little castle, a mile or two from the town, that now belongs to the Emperor, and was once the hold, or palace, of the Counts of the Tyrol. We had the curiosity to visit it. Certes, a small prince a few centuries since lived in a very simple style. There were the knights’ hall, a picture-gallery, and other sounding names; but a more unsophisticated abode can hardly be imagined for a gentleman. To compare any of these mountain-castles to a modern country-house, even in America, is out of the question, for nothing can be plainer than most of their accommodations. This was a little better than a common Yankee palace, I allow, for that is the ne plus ultra of discomfort and pretension; but, after all, you might fancy yourself in a barn that had been converted into a dwelling.

The gallery was awful—almost as bad as that one occasionally meets in an American tavern, or that we actually enjoyed last night at Brixen. Still, the place was quaint, and of great interest from its associations. It even had its armour.

We are now at a stand. Vienna is on our right, Switzerland on our left, and the last pass of the Alps is before us. Examining the map, I see the “Iser rolling rapidly,” Munich, and a wide field of Germany in the latter direction, and it has just been decided to push forward as far as Saxony and Dresden before we make another serious halt.

LIFE OF SIR WALTER SCOTT, Bart. By J. G. Lockhart, Esq., his Literary Executor. This work is now completed, and may be had in two volumes, royal octavo, or seven volumes, duodecimo.

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“We recommend this work to a careful perusal. It abounds in curious anecdotes of the most distinguished authors and politicians of the day.”—London Sun.

Lately published new editions of the following works by Mr.

THE SPY: a Tale of the Neutral Ground.

THE PIONEERS, or the Sources of the Susquehanna: a descriptive Tale.

THE PILOT: a Tale of the Sea.

LAST OF THE MOHICANS: a Narrative of 1757.

THE PRAIRIE: a Tale.

THE RED ROVER: a Tale.

THE WEPT OF WISH-TON-WISH: a Tale.

THE WATER WITCH: or the Skimmer of the Seas.

THE BRAVO: a Tale.

NOTIONS OF THE AMERICANS: Picked up by a Travelling Bachelor.

THE HEIDENMAUER; or the Benedictines. A Legend of the Rhine.

THE HEADSMAN; or the Abbaye des Vignerons: a Tale.

THE MONIKINS; a Novel by the Author of “The Spy.”

PRECAUTION: Edited, revised and corrected. (In the press.)