Angelo. His honest and homely nature shuns every approach to sentiment or fine writing.

The question whether Shakspere ever visited Italy has of late years formed a curious subject of literary discussion. Mr. Hillard is of opinion that he understood the Italian language, and that in the preparation of his Italian plays he read every book illustrative of the subject within his reach ; but that his visit to Italy stands upon the same footing in point of evidence as that of the Northmen to New-England before Columbus.

It is certainly possible-perhaps probable-but it remains to be proved. "It is pleasant," says Mr. Hillard, "to think of Shakspere's swimming in a gondola, and to believe that the beautiful pictures in The Merchant of Venice and Othello were recollections and not imaginations; that Belmont was a palazzo whose blazing windows he himself had seen, and that when he wrote Lorenzo's lovely description of a summer's night, his thoughts went back to the brighter moons and larger stars of an Italian heaven, and to the myrtle walls and flowery banks of an Italian garden."

Mr. Hillard does not attach any extraordinary value to Goethe's account of his Italian journey, commenced in 1786. It is written in that exquisite prose of which, if Goethe had never lived, we should have supposed the German language to be incapable. It is also of great interest as a picture of the writer's mind, but as a guide-book or companion to a tour in Italy, is of little importance. While it is eminently personal, it is cool, passionless, and rigid. He looks at every thing with the calm, stern eyes of the Olympian Jove, which do not soften even when they rest upon Semele or Europa. Still, there is much to commend and admire in his narrative. We meet in it many profound and striking remarks on nature and art, shrewd reflections on life and manners, rapid but accurate sketches of scenery, and over all a serene atmosphere of genial enjoyment, like the violet haze which hangs over an Italian landscape. His book is entirely free from cant and affectation. His admirable senses bring him faithful records of outward nature, and he sets them down with wonderful exactness. He never assumes a rapture which he does not feel; whatever he likes or dislikes is chronicled without a scruple or apology; and we feel that in reading his book we are listening to the testimony of a witness who is speaking the truth.

The views presented by Mr. Hillard, in the conclusion of his work, with regard to the actual condition of Italy, and the attractions which it affords to the American traveller, are marked by a tone of elevated reflection, and are expressed in

very felicitous language. Italy is rich in those elements which are most powerful in drawing a cultivated American to Europe. It awakens a peculiar interest by the strong contrasts which it offers to what is most familiar to us. When we go to Italy, we are brought face to face with the solemn past, which makes up so large a portion of the student's ideal world. The Tiber, which so long flowed through our dreams, now flows at our feet; the Capitol, the Forum, the Alban, stand before us in the light of day; while the imagination supplies the forms which are appropriate to the scene, the shadowy Æneas, the legendary Romulus, the living Cicero.

We have not hesitated to pronounce these volumes, as a whole, superior to any work on Italy with which we are acquainted in English literature. Proceeding from the pen of an elegant scholar, and, at the same time, of a man with a varied experience of actual life, they exhibit a rare completeness of execution, an elevation and propriety of thought, a pervading element of strong common sense, an exquisite susceptibility to æsthetic impressions, and a graceful and forcible command of language, which assure to them a permanent place among our standard books of travel.

The mischief-loving reader will find a plenty of amusement in this gossipping volume. It is a transparent revelation of the kindly, honest, impulsive, confiding, unsophisticated nature of the good Fredrika. Her Scandinavian frankness and simplicity shine out on every page. But she The Homes of the New has little sense of the ludicrous, not a parWorld. By FREDRIKA BREMER. Trans- ticle of secretiveness, and her judgment perlated from the Swed- petually waits on her affections. Hence the ish, by MARY HOWITT. singularly naïve details concerning the perHarper & Brothers. sons with whom she came in contact, the odd exposures of private life, and the free confessions in regard to her own experiences, which make up the staple of the volume. Her ingenuous record will no doubt be laughed at; many of her acquaintances will be chagrined at finding the mysteries of their tea-tables and bed-chambers staring them in print; surprised at finding themselves the happy possessors of virtues to which they laid no claim; and by no means edified with the proclamation from the house-top of what they had whispered in the ear of the all-sympathizing Fredrika, in the confidence of summer rambles or cosy firesides. Still, our enthusiastic Swede pours out her effusions with so much heart, such evident truthfulness, such unsuspecting simplicity, that we are bound to forgive a great deal of what in most writers we should only ridicule as sentimental twaddle. We are even

ready to excuse the rose-colored hallucinations which lead her to exalt into heroes and heroines, of whom the world will never hear again, so many worthy Isaacs and Rebeccas, Davids and Mariannes, Jepthals and Jemimas, who in her magic mirror are transformed from excellent, and modest, and meritorious members of society into saints and angels of the first water. We cannot but forgive her, for she certainly loves much—“not wisely, but too well."

The public characters of America are of course fair game for her net. Upon some of these she dwells with never-ending, still-beginning fondness, presenting us with their portraits in every variety of light, and often hitting off their features with a union of naturalness and exaggeration that has a quite comic effect.

Among her most fervent "enthusiasms" was the celebrated sage of Concord, Ralph Waldo Emerson, who at first freezes her gushing soul by the impassive kindliness of his manner, but to whom she at length "freezes" herself, as they say in the West, with a strength of admiration that in plain Anglo-Saxon has the name of idolatry.

Her first acquaintance with Emerson was through his poems, which had been pointed out to her notice by her friend Mr. Downing. He struck her as a philosopher rather than a poet, but a new and peculiar character, who by his own powerful nature would transform the world, seeking for law and inspiration merely within his own breast. She meets the philosopher, for the first time, in a regular New-England snow-storm. Ominous coincidence! She finds him at his home in Concord, having made a pilgrimage to that antique village for the purpose of seeing him. Upon the approach of the party he came to meet them, walking down the little avenue of spruce-firs which leads from his house, bareheaded in the snow. He seemed to her a younger man, but not so handsome as she had imagined him-his exterior less fascinating, but more significant. He was too cold and hypercritical to please her entirely; a clear, strong eye, always looking out for an ideal, which he never finds realized on earth; discovering wants, short-comings, imperfections, and too strong and healthy himself to understand other people's weaknesses and sufferings, for he even despises suffering as a weakness unworthy of higher natures. He interested her, without warming her. She admits that his critical, crystalline and cold nature may be very estimable, quite healthy, and in its way beneficial for those who possess it, and also for others who allow themselves to be measured and criticised by it, but for herself she craves David's heart with David's songs.

Upon a second visit to the shrine of the Concord Sphinx, she found a real enjoyment in the study of his strong, noble, eagle-like nature. The secret antagonism which she felt towards him would at times awake in spite of her admiration, and this easily called forth his icy-alp nature, repulsive and chilling. But he gladly throws off this frigid condition, and is much happier in a mild and sunny atmosphere. She enjoyed the contemplation of him in his demeanor, his expression, his mode of talking, and his every-day life, as she would enjoy the calm flow of a river bearing along between flowery shores large and small vessels. Pantheistic as Emerson is in his philosophy, in the moral view with which he regards the world and life, he is in a high degree pure, noble, and severe, demanding as much from himself as he demands from others. His words are severe, his judgment often keen and merciless, but his demeanor is alike noble and pleasing, and his voice beautiful.

On her last visit to Emerson, during a drive, they came to a spring famous for its excellent water. The philosopher presented the fair enthusiast with a glass of it, clear as crystal, which at once suggests her true relation with the inexorable thinker. "I have silently," she tells us, "within myself, combated with Emerson from the first time that I became acquainted with him. I have questioned within myself in what consisted this power of the spirit over me, when there was so much in him that was unsatisfactory to me; in what consisted his mysterious, magical power, that invigorating, refreshing influence which I always experience in his writings, or in intercourse with him? This cordial draught of clear water from this spring, given by his hand, I understood it. It is precisely this crystal, pure, fresh, cold water, in his individual character as in his writings, which has refreshed, and will again and yet again refresh me. When I am far from here, in my own native land, and when I am old and gray, yes, always, always will moments recur when I shall yearn towards Waldo Emerson, and long to receive from his hand that glass of fresh water. For wine-warmth-infusing, life-renovating wine-1 would go to another. Emerson baptizes in water; another there is who baptizes with the Spirit and fire."

But we must have done with this transcendental gossip, and give our time and pages to less tempting claims. We assure our readers that they will no where find a more unreserved display of American homes, or a more flattering picture of American society.

Law.

A slight and sketchy narrative is given in this agreeable volume of personal experiences in the south of Europe, with a variety of descriptions of scenes in Spain and a portion of Italy. Forced, by the advance of the Austrian troops upon Traces of the Roman Venice, to make tracks from that city, our and Moor. By A tourist commences his story with an account BACHELOR. Lam of his flight to Milan. Thence he makes port, Blakeman & the best of his way to Spain, paying a rapid visit meantime to Turin, Genoa, Nice, and Marseilles. Arriving at Madrid, he is surprised to find that famous old town with no cathedral, no bishop, while the churches, which are mere whited sepulchres, show an insatiable greediness for tinsel. His impressions of the capital of Spain are decidedly unfavorable. It has no hospitality. Dinnerparties are an almost fabulous institution. Few foreigners enjoy much health of mind or body in such an unsocial, insalubrious place. The character of the mixed population is detestable. It is marked by affectation, haughtiness, aping of foreign manners, and the most heartless frivolity. The females do not compare in attractions with those of Valencia or Andalusia. They are prodigies of deceit,-wholly destitute of the frank artlessness which forms the peculiar charm of the Spanish women. Leaving Madrid in disgust, though not before making a pretty thorough exploration of its picturegalleries, the Bachelor" retreats into the country, and selects La Grange, a favorite resort of the Spanish nobility, for his temporary rustication. This famous regal residence nestles under the brows of the Peñarde, and with its quaint old tower rises over the forests at its feet. Situated about three thousand feet above the level of the sea, its climate is always cool; its delightful promenades are overhung with shade and forest trees, forming a pleasant abode for the lover of retirement in the bosom of exquisite natural scenery. This spot of enchantment, however, did not long detain our friend from Madrid. Returning to that city, he diligently examines its various lions, whose natural history he describes with a nimble pen. He afterwards visits the other principal cities of Spain, which, for the most part, give him more agreeable impressions than the capital. Malaga, in some respects, seems to have proved his favorite. He finds the climate superior to any place in Italy or Spain. Winter is quite unknown, and in summer, the heat is almost tropical, though softened and relieved by breezes from the mountains and the sea.

In the composition of his work, the author has made free use of the labors of previous travellers who have gone over