to abandon his loom. He is like one of those blind horses which are continually turning round and round in a mill, without any thing being able to divert them from their unvarying occupation.

Necessity is the goad of idleness, and the constant patron of industry; the Spaniard (and so with all the sons of the sun), who has no need of stockings, of a neckerchief, nor a coat; who is content with his cigar and his gaspacho; who sleeps on the bare ground, and who feels no curiosity, because he believes himself the favourite child of God, placed in a terrestrial paradise (Quien dice Espana, dice todo), laughs at fashion, at books, at voyages and travels, at luxury, at elegance: he is a Diogenes in his tub, who wants nothing but the sun. The indolence, the natural laziness, of the southern nations (which was once conquered, and may be conquered once again, by education and political institutions), is not a defect for which they ought to be blamed, any more than their sobriety is a virtue for which they ought to be praised: the blame or the merit is all the sun's. The Englishman, on the contrary, receives from his climate a multitude of necessities, all so many spurs to industry and exertion. He has need of more substantial food, of constant firing, of cravats, double cravats, coats, greatcoats; tea, brandy, spirits; a larger wardrobe, on account of the increased consumption caused by the smoke and the wet, &c. &c. &c. Comfort is in the mouth of every Englishman at every moment; it is the half of his life. My own countrymen make every effort, and with reason, to obtain the pleasures of the life to come: the English, with no less reason, to procure the pleasures of the present. The word "comfort" is the source of the riches and the power of England.

That frequent absence of the sun which makes the artisan more laborious, renders man also a more thinking animal. Who would not become a philosopher, if he were shut up in a house for so many hours by the inclemencies of the weather, with a cheerful fire, quiet and obedient servants, a good-humoured wife, and silence within doors and without? The profundity of the English writers is a product of the climate, as much as the iron, the tin, and the coal of the island. The sun disperses families, and scatters them abroad; a good fire blazing up the chimney attracts and draws them together again. "The family," in cold countries, is an equivalent for our society" and our theatres. It is one of the wants of the heart and the intellect. A national song, which is heard every where, from the splendid stage of Covent-garden to the humblest hovel in Scotland, is called " Home, sweet Home," (Oh casa! oh dolce casa!) and home is truly sweet in England. In the southern countries everything gives way to public places and public amusements. The houses, which, for the most part,

*The Writer subsequently declares, with frank sincerity, that, ' when the sun in England shines with all his lustre, and with sufficient power to light up all the objects around' (which, however, he says, rarely happens,) England is not only the most beautiful country in the world, but a day of really fine weather in England, together with its liberty, is worth ten years of life spent under the azure skies of enslaved and enervated countries.'

are only used for sleeping in, are often in bad repair, and oftener very poorly furnished. Where, on the contrary, domestic life is all in all, it is natural to think of rendering it pleasant; hence the reciprocal respect, the docility, the agreement of the members of a family, the punctuality of service, the universal neatness, and the excellence of the furniture,-convenient, self-moving, and obedient, almost as though it were endowed with life, like the ancient manufactures of Vulcan.' pp. 13–21.

'But the most beautiful sun of England,' exclaims the exiled Count, is Liberty: this is its cornucopia !'-Next to the scarcity of sun in England, he was struck, on his entry into London, with the extreme contrast which the British metropolis presents to that of Naples, for instance, in another respect; the comparative silence which reigns among its dense population.

Some people are quite thunderstruck at the silence which prevails among the inhabitants of London. But how could one million four hundred thousand persons live together without silence? The torrent

of men, women, and children, carts, carriages, and horses, from the Strand to the Exchange, is so strong, that it is said that in winter there are two degrees of Fahrenheit difference between the atmosphere of this long line of street, and that of the West End. I have not ascertained the truth of this; but from the many avenues there are to the Strand, it is very likely to be correct. From Charing Cross to the Royal Exchange is an encyclopædia of the world. An apparent anarchy prevails, but without confusion or disorder. The rules which the poet Gay lays down for walking with safety along this tract of about three miles, appear to me unnecessary. The habit of traversing this whirlpool renders the passage easy to every one, without disputes, without accidents, without punctilio, as if there were no obstacle whatever. I suppose it is the same thing at Pekin. The silence then of the passengers is the consequence of the multiplicity of business. I do not say it by way of epigram, but, if Naples should ever have a population of a million and a half, it would be necessary for even Neapolitan windpipes to put themselves under some restraint! It is only in Spain that silence is the companion of idleness. This is perhaps the perfection of idleness; idleness at its ne plus ultra.

In London I have often risen early, in order to be present at the spectacle of the resurrection of a million and a half of people. This great monster of a capital, like an immense giant awaking, shows the first signs of life in the extremities. Motion begins at the circumference, and, by little and little, goes on getting strength, and pushing towards the centre, til at ten o'clock commences the full hubbub, which goes on continually increasing till four o'clock, the 'Change hour. It seems as if the population followed the laws of the tide until this hour; it now continues flowing from the circumference to the Exchange: at half-past four, when the Exchange is shut, the ebb begins; and currents of people, coaches, and horses, rush from the Exchange to the circumference.

Among an industrious nation, incessantly occupied, panting for

VOL. IX.-N.S.

L

riches, man, or physical force, is a valuable commodity. Man is dear, and it is therefore expedient to be very economical of him. It is not as in the countries of indolence, where the man and the earth alike have little or no value. A Turkish Effendi, or gentleman, always walks about with a train of useless servants at his heels. In the same manner a Polish nobleman, or a grandee of Spain, consumes a great quantity of men, who are otherwise unproductive. I was told, that the Duke of Medina Celi has in his pay four hundred servants, and that he goes to the Prado in a carriage worse than a Parisian patache. It was the same in England when there was no foreign commerce, and no home manufactures. Not knowing in what way to consume their surplus revenues, the old English landowner used to maintain a hundred, and, in some cases, even a thousand followers. At the present day, the greatest houses have not more than ten or twelve servants; and, setting aside the wealthy, who are always an exception in every nation, and taking the greatest number, it cannot be denied that in England, and especially in London, there is a very great saving, both of time and of servants. But how can this be reconciled with the loudly-vaunted comfort of the English? Thus: the milk, the bread, the butter, the beer, the fish, the meat, the newspaper, the letters, all are brought to the house every day, at the same hour, without fail, by the shopkeepers and the postmen. It is well known that all the street-doors are kept shut, as is the custom in Florence and the other cities of Tuscany. In order that the neighbourhood should not be disturbed, it has become an understood thing for these messengers to give a single rap on the knocker, or a single pull at the bell, which communicates with the underground kitchen, where the servants are. There is another conventual sign for visits, which consists in a rapid succession of knocks, the more loud and noisy according to the real or assumed consequence or fashion of the visiter. On this system, Parini makes his hero talk in public in a high and discordant voice, that every one may hear him, and pay the same respect to his accents as to those of "the great Thunderer ". Even in London, the magnanimous heroes of fashion announce themselves to the obtuse senses of the vulgar with "echoing blows", like those of the hammer of Bronte.

This custom requires punctuality in servants, and an unfailing attendance at their posts. The price of every thing is fixed, so that there is no room for haggling, dispute, or gossip. All this going and coming of buyers and sellers is noiseless. Many bakers ride about London in vehicles so rapid, elastic, and elegant, that an Italian dandy would not disdain to appear in one of them at the Corso. The butchers may be frequently met with, conveying the meat to their distant customers, mounted on fiery steeds, and dashing along at full gallop. A system like this requires inviolable order, and a scrupulous division of time. For this reason there are clocks and watches everywhere,―on every steeple, and sometimes on all the four sides of a steeple; in the pocket of every one; in the kitchen of the lowest journeyman. is a nation working to the stroke of the clock, like an orchestra playing to the "time" of the leader, or a regiment marching to the sound of the drum.' pp. 35-41.

This

...

One shopman, therefore, in London, supplies the place of forty or fifty servants. By this system, the servants remain at home with nothing to divert them from their occupations. . It follows, also, that an English family has no need of keeping any great store of provisions in the house: there is, in consequence, less occupation of room, and less occasion for capital, less cure, less waste, less smell, and less wear and tear.'

6

Our Count finds the English Sunday, of course, 'supremely 'dull and wearisome'; and in Scotland, where the religion of 'the ferocious Calvin prevails', the Sunday, he was told, is still more silent and gloomy.' Gloomy to an Italian, because silent; and to a Roman Catholic, because unenlivened by spectacle or opera. Yet, had Count Pecchio met with Grahame's "Sabbath", or with Struthers's "Poor Man's Sabbath", his good sense would have led him to infer, that, although a holiday is lost upon the idle, to the industrious, repose is enjoyment; and that Sunday, the dull Protestant Sunday, ranks in England among the wants of 'the heart and the intellect', or rather, ministers to those wants. Would to God that the first sentence in the ensuing extract were quite true!

Sunday is, if possible, observed by the English, wherever they may be. On that day, the silence even board ship is still more gloomy than ever; every one is shaved, every one puts on a clean shirt, every one endeavours to display more neatness than usual in his dress. Some read a few pages in the Bible; religion is a comfort to their minds, rather than a terror. The Englishman has no other intercessor with the Supreme Being than his own prayers. He hopes for no other miracles than those which spring from his own courage, and the discharge of his duty. In a storm, the Spaniard, and even the Greek, although a good sailor, throw themselves on their knees before some image, to which a light is continually burning, and in the meantime the sails and the vessel are under the control of the winds and waves; the sighs and signs of contrition of the devotees only serving to increase the confusion and dismay. The Englishman, on the other hand, fulfils his duty, displays all his firmness of mind and strength of body, struggles with death even to the last moment, and only when he has exhausted in vain all the resources of his skill, and all the energies of his frame, gives himself up to his fate, raises his eyes to heaven, and bows to the will of Providence. They are not indeed so thoroughly devoid of prejudice as a philosopher of the eighteenth century; some believe in ghosts, in hobgoblins, and prophetic voices which rise from the hollow of the deep,-but in the hour of danger they no longer recollect these illusions, and see nothing but the reality before them, and see it without affright." pp. 110-112.

'We reproach the English', remarks this intelligent Observer, 'with being downcast and melancholy; but we ought to add, that they are not querulous. They labour indefatigably to better their condition, without whining and whimpering, and at the

'same time draw from their present condition, all the profits and 'pleasures it can afford.' A few pages further, we meet with some discriminating strictures on the two sides of the picture of society given by Cowper and Crabbe. Both', he remarks, ‘are exaggerators; but poetry is not history. The value set upon time in England, is another circumstance that forcibly strikes a foreigner; and more especially one that has resided in Spain. The contrast between the two countries in this respect, is forcibly described.

Idleness is the luxury of the Spaniards, and a great luxury it is, for it is all waste. It is a universal luxury, which is enjoyed by all, from the highest grandee to the most miserable water-carrier. The luxury, however, consists in the spending of an article of little or no value in Spain. The Castilian, who keeps so religiously to his word when his honour is in question, is never punctual to an appointment; because an hour more or less, in the life of a Spaniard, is only an hour less or more in eternity. If you propose to a Spaniard to set his hand to a thing at once, he answers you, however he may be interested in it, "To-morrow." Fatal to-morrow, which is repeated so often from day to day, till your patience is worn out! Fatal to-morrow, that has reduced the kingdom, once seated on a throne of gold, and crowned with precious stones, to rags and a dunghill! The very mantle in which the Spaniards wrap themselves up, and which impedes every motion but that of sleeping, displays their indolence, and the little value they set on time, as the laziness of the Turks is shown by their wide trowsers and loose slippers. When the Spaniards are better taught, more industrious, and less prejudiced, they will wear the mantle no longer. Superstition is usually the companion of sloth. An active people cannot afford to pray away whole days at church, or throw them away on processions and pilgrimages. An industrious people prefer growing their "daily bread" with their own hands, to asking it thirty or forty times a day as alms from Heaven. When I was first in Spain I was surprised to see, that none of the lower classes, and but few of the more respectable, had watches: yet it is natural that it should be so. What has he who has no occasion for the division of time, to do with the measure of it?' pp. 209-12.

On the contrary, in England, Time is a revenue, a treasure, an estimable commodity. The Englishman is not covetous of money, but he is supremely covetous of time. It is wonderful how exactly the English keep to their appointments. They take out their watch, regulate it by that of their friend, and are punctual at the place and hour. English pronunciation itself seems invented to save time: they eat the letters, and whistle the words. Thus Voltaire had some reason to say, The English gain two hours a day more than we do, by eating their syllables." The English use few compliments, because they are a loss of time, their salute is a nod, or at the most a corrosion of the four monosyllables "How d'ye do?" The ends of their letters always show more simplicity than ceremony: they have not "the honour to repeat the protestations of their distinguished regard and profound consideration" to his "most illustrious lordship," whose