A YEAR OF CONSOLATION. By MRS. BUTLER, late FANNY KEMBLE. 2 Vols. TRAVELS IN THE EAST. BY CONSTANTINE TISCHENDROFF. Translated from VIEWS A-FOOT; OR, EUROPE SEEN WITH KNAPSACK AND STAFF. By J. BAYARD TAYLOR. Two Parts, 16mo. New York and London: Wiley and Putnam. Or all the advantages that wealth and leisure afford, perhaps the power of travelling is the most envied. The soberest minds are stimulated by the succession of novelties which it affords; and the senses never hold so justifiable a sway over the intellect, as when they are indulged with all the stimuli of perpetual change, and are regaled in every way under the plea of obtaining intellectual advantages. The formal, the conventional, the dull, equally with the man of the world, the man of intellect or learning, find delight in this reasonable idleness, this indolent activity. It is the nearest approach to individual freedom that can be attained by civilised man; and, perhaps, the spirit is never so light, the feelings so disengaged, as, when about to start on travelling expeditions, we prepare for adventure of a most gentle kind, and bid adieu to the formalities and the routine of every-day existence. It has, in some men, merged into a passion which the greatest dangers could not moderate, nor the most painful endurances subdue. Ledyard perished in the pursuit of a taste in which, he confessed, he endured so much that he would neither write nor tell what he had suffered in passing through Norway in the winter. Hundreds of others could make the same confession; and the ardour for travel, and the passion for adventure, no doubt crowded the ranks of the crusaders with men who mistook much restlessness for much religion. The inclination is no way abated, but rather increased, by the restrictions of modern society; and of this we have proof by the volumes at the head of this notice, as well by numerous others on our table. In this Brummagem age, however, every luxury has its cheap substitute, and not only the gent for the gentleman, but electro-gold and electro-gems, and a complete gradation from King Hudson's house to the ten-pounder. Literature, too, supplies the universal craving excited by the universal imitation, and the press daily yields travels for all those who cannot shake off "the chain on their shins", and are bound to the purlieus of the law courts and the hospitals, or by the dominion of the counting-house. Those who cannot have sensations themselves participate in those of others more fortunate, and enjoy, second-hand, the glow of enthusiasm created by the contact of the wonders of nature and the beauties of art. They have the advantage, too, of choosing their companions, and can make a choice, as a conducteur, of the impulsive, ardent, downright, and observant Mrs. Butler; precise Mr. Williams; the persevering and intelligent Taylor, a pedestrian tourist; the learned and religious Tischendorff; or the controversial and Calvinistic Cheever. For our own parts, we must give the preference to the lady; in nowise because she is of the better sex, but because there is in her book a greater amount of genuine impression recorded, and a greater amount of experience gathered than in the journals of the gentlemen. Mrs. Butler is wilful: she dares much, but often succeeds. She sets down an impression as forcibly as it occurred, and dashes off a description without any sorting of terms or niceness of phrase. If she is not always delicate, she is always true; and she is so pure of spirit, that she can afford to dispense with particularity of expression. As she is also of a very impulsive nature, (judging entirely by her writings,) she sees and endures double that of phlegmatic travellers, whether pilgrims or philosophers. Together with a catalogue raisonnée of the museums and wonders she visits, she gives us dramatic expositions of the other visitors, and the showmen. Her page is ever stirring with life, and we have the reflex of a very lively spirit shedding the influence of intelligence and activity, if not of gaiety, on all it comes in contact with. It is true the lady is very egotistic; somewhat even exacting; chides roughly bankers' clerks who ask requisite questions, and anathematises custom-house officers, who pursue the cold routine of official duties, unsubdued by the magic of name or manner. Still, she has quick eyes, and a happy expression for all that is odd, or outré, or novel; large sympathies with the grand and the beautiful; is bold in heart as well as utterance; and the memories of so much genius of her own, and her fine family, cling around her, that, in spite of a tinge of arrogance and self-assertion, she becomes the involuntary heroine of her own work, and the book is closed with the feeling that we have made a friend, though we have lost the individual. "A Year of Consolation" is not only a record of travels, but of feelings and these are as frequently expressed in verse as in prose in little tablets of poetry, or bright sentences, with pretty images and strong feelings. It is not a grand heroic picture, but a mosaic work, made up of bright and shining bits. There is occasionally a vein of sorrow and melancholy, and a Byronic strain is often apparent, but these come so closely in contact with a sly humorous observation, and a never-ceasing vigilance as to money matters, that the keenness of one's sympathy is assuaged by the extreme care that is exemplified. By the way, it might occur to some readers, that it is not only vintners, and hatters, and postmasters, that set an exorbitant price on their services or their merchandise. The consolations of religion are also so prominently expressed, and seem to be so fervently felt, that the lachrymose verse may be taken to be a verbal utterance of a passing sentiment. We can only give a slight sample from these varying volumes, as we must pass on to our other travellers. Here is one of her landscapes :— "We passed close along the lake of Albano, whose melancholy, cheerlesslooking water goes deep down from the very banks-drowning, dismal-looking water, like a smooth polished floor of solid dark-green marble-it made me shudder. The water has taken the place of the fires of a volcano; and the gloomy stillness that broods over the whole resembles the repose of exhausted convulsion, and filled me with a sort of awe in spite of its smiling walls of vivid chestnut, and moonlight-looking patches of silvery olive trees, and green garlands of the vineyards on its banks. How much less beautiful I thought it, because so much less friendly and humane, than the lovely little lake between Lenox and Stockbridge, with its shallow sunny shores, where the transparent water plays over broad slabs of glittering granite-its middle depths of darkest sapphire, and the mysterious bower of pine trees whence the springs that feed it come, under which the white fragrant water-lilies, like a company of nymphs, float and rock in the shade. At mid-day we rested and eat our lunch under a noble tree, high above the lake; thence passing along the upper gallery, as it is called, a winding road with splendid single trees leaning over it, producing the most enchanting effect of light and shade. At Albano we resumed our carriage, and returned home through Castel Gandolfo, and along the side of the lake, where the great Roman emissary was made, when, in the twilight times of the conquest of Veii, it overflowed its banks. The whole drive was admirably beautiful: on one side of us the deep-lying, verd antique lake—the campagna, bounded by the glittering Mediterranean, on the other. There are no words for the splendour and beauty of the scene. Behind Marino we passed a beautiful glen, a fine wood, and the grey buildings of the village hemming it in on either side; while in the deep rocky ravine, a large stone fountain, a rushing brook, and an ivy-mantled ruined tower, formed a perfect and most romantic picture." And here, a specimen of her passionate poetry, feeling struggling with intellect for an intelligible utterance: ON A SYMPHONY OF BEETHOVEN. "Terrible music, whose strange utterance Seem'd like the spell of some dread conscious trance; With far-off visions of things dear and fair; Dim faces growing pale in distant lands; This curse that music seem'd to speak to me." The rest of our travellers are much simpler persons to deal with. If they have less of genius they are also less wayward and more on a level with every-day life. Their enthusiasm never rises into passion, nor their emotions into poetry. Mr. Penry Williams, junior, has flitted through Malta, Sicily, Italy, and Switzerland, with utilitarian motives-to revive the health of his family, gratify his own tastes, and, we must add, we think, to write a book. He appears (as he manifests himself in print) to be on remarkably good terms with himself, and not too easily swayed by the judgment of others. The dissertations of the learned-the highest productions of art-the most celebrated scenes in nature are despatched with a brief sentence of approbation or disapprobation; and too frequently with the latter. He too, like his fellow travellers, writes as if no work had preceded him on the subject, and as if Italy was a virgin land to the tourist, and her magnificent show-places unknown to reader or traveller. He, however, rather takes to the comic or lively style of narration— an increasing fashion since friend Titmarsh was facetious all the way from the Chops of the Channel to Grand Cairo; but notwithstanding, this strain is preferable to the dolorous. It is to be regretted that the staple of all modern travelling narration is intense egotism. It would be a great improvement in this style of composition if, emulating the first great tourist, Julius Cæsar, it could be composed in the third person. Mr. Williams's book is not however without its uses; we do not sympathise with his taste, nor defer to his judgment; but it contains, in a brief space, a good deal of information which must be serviceable to those desirous of pursuing the same route. It is not rhapsodical; and there is some of the colouring of a romantic mind. Italy seems no more to him than Wales or Scotland, as regards association-a power of mind, by the way, not so frequent with publishing travellers as it ought to be. However, if we have not any poetry, we have a good many facts. Though travellers strangely disagree. Mrs. Butler tells us the women of Rome are very handsome; Mr. Williams the contrary. But as the sexes have never agreed on the subject of female beauty, Mr. Williams is probably right; and moreover is confirmed by the thousand and one other writers of tours through Italy. The following is a strange announcement as to Thorwaldsen : "Nothing can be more courteous and polite than the reception given by the artists to those who visit their studios, though these visits must occasionally be most cruel interruptions. A sculptor, however, suffers less than a painter from the infliction: his model once completed, the chief part of the labour which falls to his share is nearly at an end. The principal portion of the marble work is a matter of rule and compass, and is done by deputy, so that he probably is occasionally able to afford a few hours for idleness. Í was rather surprised at hearing it stated as a notorious fact, with regard to Thorwaldsen, that he rarely touched the marble in any of his later works, some of which he had never even seen after their completion. Of this the Swiss lion at Lucerne may be quoted as an instance. But to the painter, frequent interruptions are a serious evil. He has little assistance to depend upon from the hands of others. His colours may be placed upon his palette, and his brushes washed; but few like intrusting the smallest part of the design to any hands but their own." On relooking over Mr. Williams's book, we cannot but admit that he has crammed a very great number of facts into his little volume, and that it is a useful guide-book, with a greater liveliness of style than usually belongs to that very dull class of literature. The following note may be instructive to country cousins : "Colosseum. This word is written Coliseum, Coliseum, and Colosseum. I have adopted the latter, as being the nearest to Colossus, from whence all three are derived, from the well-known fact of a colossal statue of Nero having been discovered in the immediate vicinity of the Amphitheatre." We have now to turn to a more solemn traveller, and a more sublime region. Constantine Tischendorff pursued his way through the Holy Land, not as an idle tourist, but a fervent pilgrim. He solicits attention to his "Biblico-critical " labours, and expresses a hope that amid the mighty struggle of ecclesiastical interests, a salutation will be welcome to many from that land of palms, whence the imperishable Word of Peace has resounded to every one that has a heart fitted to be its receptacle." We turn over the leaf of his preface, and plunge into his book, respectful of his sincere and ardent devotion. Nor will it any way deceive the reader. It is worthy of the name of a book of travels; and, in the more luxurious times of book-making, would have been published in a goodly quarto, and would have been read with profound respect by rich scholars, and probably reviewed at large in one of the two Quarterlies. It abounds with interesting information and learning, pleasingly expressed. It is a book worthy to be put beside "Purchas his Pilgrimmes," Clarke, and those travellers truly worthy of the name, who travel, not only to record every dinner they miss, or their squabbles with postmasters and couriers, but to convey a knowledge of mankind, and the earth in its wondrous variety. Such know and feel the power of association, and their egotism vanishes in their veneration and appreciation of the places they visit. We have no room to say more, and can only give the following sample of his style. The first portion of the sentence might have been uttered by "The Modern Tancred" himself. |