THEY alone who are unacquainted with the Italian language need to be informed that the term Campagna, though generally used with reference only to the country round about the city of Rome, is also applied to other localities in Italy-as the Campagna of Florence, the Campagna Felice, in the kingdom of Naples. The Campagna di Roma includes a vast territory of some sixty miles in length, by nearly fifty in breadth, which contains several towns of good repute, besides the former capital of the western world.

If there be one part of Europe which offers to the traveller whose thoughts are with the past, and whose mind is stored with the spoils of time, stronger inducement to visit it than another, it assuredly is this portion of the Papal States, which, under its ancient title of Latium, once occupied so prominent a position in the history of mankind. Every step his foot takes is on classic ground, hallowed in his recollection by the events which have transpired within its limits; but the portion which more especially would attract his attention is that lying immediately about the city of Rome, to the south and east of the Capitol, and along the Palatine, Quirinal, and Aventine hills, on each side of the Tiber

"Everywhere

Some trace of valour or heroic toil!
Here is the sacred field of the Horatii,
There the Quintian meadows. Here the hill,
How holy, where a generous people, twice,
Twice going forth, in terrible anger sate
Armed; and, their wrongs redressed, at once gave
way;

Helmet and shield, and sword and spear, thrown down,

And every hand uplifted, every heart
Poured out in thanks to heaven."

Now, let us suppose the traveller, after a long day's wandering through this locality, flings himself wearily on one of those lofty eminences, and, as the evening sun lights up the whole scene around him, he falls into a deep reverie, haunted with "visions of the dead," passing in review before his eyes, from the hour

"when he from Troy Went up the Tiber,"

till Generic, the Vandal, covered the land with his barbaric armies. What a dream of glory to the imagination! How the memory recals the deeds of brave renown in the warriors of ancient Rome

"Her demi-gods, in senate met,
All head to counsel, and all heart to act;-
Her festive games, the school of heroes, see,
Her circus ardent with contending youth;
Her streets, her temples, palaces, and baths,
Full of fair forms, of beauty's eldest born,
And of a people cast in virtue's mould."

This is the dream of her greatness and her triumph, her magnificence and her patriotism; but it is followed by another, in which tyranny and sensuality, passion and lawlessness, usurped the places of more noble feelings :

"Hark! a yell, a shriek,

A barbarous outcry, loud, and louder yet,
That echoes from the mountain to the sea!
And mark, *
like a bursting cloud,
The battle moving onward! Had they slain
All, that the earth should from her womb bring
forth

New nations to destroy them? From the depth
Of forests, from what none had dared explore,
Regions of thrilling ice, as though in ice
Engendered, multiplied, they pour along,
Shaggy and huge! Host after host they come;
The Goth, the Vandal, and again the Goth!"

But, amid the impending desolation of a mighty heathen nation, there arises another power, which Rome, through the cross of Constantine, wields over the civilized world, and brings it into subjugation: the tiara of the priest has pushed aside the iron crown of the soldier; the incense of the Christian's offering smokes upon the ruined altars of pagan sacrifice; and now, at the expiration of fifteen hundred years, we find—

"Groves, temples, palaces,
Swept from the sight; and nothing visible
Amid the sulphurous vapours that exhale,
As from a land accurst, save here and there
An empty tomb, a fragment like the limb
Of some dismembered giant. In the midst,
A city stands, her domes and turrets crowned
With many a cross; but they that issue forth,
Wander like strangers who had built among
The mighty ruins, silent, spiritless;

And on the road where once we might have met
Cæsar, and Cato, and men more than kings,
We meet, none else, the pilgrim and the beggar."

Well, it is thus; but, nevertheless, a pilgrimage to the Campagna di Roma is worth the undertaking, even if one cares not to worship at the shrine of St. Peter; and prefers rather to sit, like Marius, among the ruins of Carthage, beneath one of the time-worn fragments of ancient Rome, or under the majestic tree that throws its deep shadow on the waters that run at the base of some modern temple in Mr. Crouch's classic picture.

You ask me if the country is much changed: and, now that we have journeyed from the "black north" to the sweet south, what we "think" of it?

I have never had time to "think" while in Ireland; seeing and feeling so much and so rapidly prepares one far too little for thought; thought must be the produce of hereafter; but I can tell you a few of my "impressions.” The old friends that remain greet us with their old affection; but more than one, or two, or three high-born families-whom we knew and loved-have been swept, as it were, completely away; and, though we were aware that such was the case, and that their homes had passed into the hands of the stranger, the realization of the fact certainly cast a shadow over our footsteps during our brief sojourn in Dublin. You must not smile when I say the streets of the city look lonely "without the beggars." I pray you to understand that I do not wish them back; those whom the pestilence spared are better off in the workhouse, and the inhabitants and tourists do better without them -no question about that. Their misery is both alleviated and concealed, and Dublin is almost as free from mendicants as London; but yet their bright change of wit was a good exchange for the copper coin, or the silver fourpence, which gained you the ready-made blessing and made you smile. However, as far as Dublin is concerned, "street beggars" are matters of history.'

*Some of the Irish gentry depict all Irish mendicants (who are still in considerable force at the tourist stations) as "impostors," and set down those who relieve or sympathize with them as fools. If the Irish mendicants are all impostors, then are the tales of Irish distress all untruths; for one is the consequence of the other. There are impostors in Ireland, as well as in England; but to say, as I read it this morning, in a very intelligent and pleasing little guide-book, by " An Old Traveller," and published by the Dublin Murray, McGlashan, that" tourists have created this abomination," isto speak of it very politely-A GREAT MISTAKE. Beggars and begging were rife in Ireland before a dozen tourists had crossed "the herring-pond"those who repeated their wit and repartee, chronicled what might have been said to a dozen others, but was no less clever on that account. The Irish beggars are not the only wits who rehearse their good things, and repeat them frequently. "You've crammed your wit to cram me," said one of those "hard" gentlemen to a witty beggar. "Why, thin, if I did," was the reply. "it was all I had to cram, and you're too crammed to take it."

66

The "season" (for Dublin has its season) is over, and the inhabitants are either luxuriating in the beauty of the bays and breezes, the rivers and mountains, of their native country, or touring it," abroad or at home; still there is a great pulsation going on in the very heart of "the city," which, by next May, will burst forth, not into outrage, but into a peace-offering-a "great Exhibition" of industrial artproving still more largely what Irish resources are, and at the same time inviting competition from other lands. The plans are all prepared —the site decided upon-subscriptions paid, or promised-the great stronghold being the energy and liberality of the same gentleman who gave confidence to the projectors of the Cork Exhibition, by his liberal donation at its commencement. I do trust and believe that the undertaking will prosper as it deserves. Cork planted its first step firmly, it kept its promise, and more than paid its way; it burst forth with true Celtic spirit-the Dublin committee for the proposed Exhibition has more time to organize its proceedings; and, judging from the present zeal and industry of its various members, the undertaking will not only receive, but command support, and draw thousands of visitors, next summer, to the banks of the Liffy.

There was something singularly strange to us in the great steam "movement," which has, since our last visit to Ireland, altogether | changed the character of Irish travelling. We could hardly believe we were skirting the bay of Dublin on a railroad, and then darting off to the "north," freighted with the wisdom of the "British Association," and the brilliant cortége of the popular lord-lieutenant, who were to assemble, on business and pleasure, in Belfast. The line from Dublin to Belfast is not yet completed, so the passengers-first, second, and third class-with their luggage, were turned, in a most miscellaneous manner, into cars and omnibuses, to cross the "Boyne Water," and meet, as one of the drivers expressed it, "the tail of the other tay-kettle," at the opposite side.

You would have been exceedingly amused by the confusion and chaos which occurred during this singular transit, upon which the sun shone with unclouded brilliancy. Every vehicle was crowded-every unfortunate quadruped overweighted: in one corner of a "two-horse car" was seated an archbishop, balanced at the opposite side by the great

oracle surgeon of the age-whose wit is as bright as his knowledge is profound—and who enjoyed the mêlée with a true sense of the ridiculous; the pallid Napoleon-like face of Prince Bonaparte contrasted with the restless expression of a Russian prince, whose moustachios extracted some not very original wit from the multitude of ragged boys, who screamed and tumbled along the road-" Will I, sur—will I, my lady, stand on my head? just one ha'penny. Sure I'll stand on my head for a ha'penny; I'll stand as straight as a rush on my head for a ha'penny, sur." Even in that I saw a changeit was not the kneeling, screaming, downright do-nothing begging of the olden days; the ragged urchins wanted to earn the " "ha'penny" by standing on their heads; it was a step or a toss with the times-it was (laugh if you please) an improvement-it was more than something; and they did stand on their heads, and scream and jump "Jim Crow," and escape in the most miraculous manner from under the very feet of the horses, until we believed in the opinion expressed by a grim old Scotchman-a philosopher, doubtless-who observed, that "the right way to get boys into danger was to take care of them." And while we rattled and "tore" over the bridge, the beautiful Boyne rolled beneath, freighted with memories of very different import to the still divided" factions" of Ireland. If I journeyed frequently to Belfast, I think I should be sorry when the railway is quite finished, and properly and discreetly managed; a little variety enhances the pleasure of travelling, and Ireland is becoming so very like England in its iron highways, that, but for the guard's plaintive and repeated entreaties at the different stations, of— "Oh! then now, gentlemen, for God's sake take yer seats, will you, if you pleese? sure the train can't keep time this way, no how! Oh, then, go in, and good luck to ye! Oh, do!"—and the flying peep at a dilapidated cabin, or an exquisite bit of mountain scenery, or a magnificent ruin, or a rushing, foaming river, and the one want, the dreary want, of trees-we might fancy ourselves in "the sister country;" but the "Dublin and Belfast line" is not well managed yet, as the lamentation of a goodnatured, bewildered young Englishman testified. He expected considerable sympathy for the loss of "twenty-two pair of boots and a sword," which "his rascal" had put up in a great hurry, and which could be found nowhere! There was something irresistibly droll in his lamentations, and the often-repeated determination to make the railway company pay for them; but, in the meantime, what

could he do without his sword and his boots, and his boots and his sword? Still the wonder was, (considering the bustle occasioned by the transit of the British Association and the lordlieutenant,) not that this half-innocent, halfknowing youth had lost so material a part of his wardrobe, but that anybody recovered theirs. And when at last we found each other, and were all seated "at the tail of the other tay-kettle," we were still more astonished that we all fell into right places, considering how small and ill-organized a staff was appointed to attend to the wants and wishes of such a numerous assembly.

When we arrived at Belfast, we found the population of that highly prosperous and increasing town literally "out of the windows," for every window was open, and filled with ladies waving handkerchiefs, while the crowd beneath screamed and scrambled; and triumphal arches were crowned with flags and flowers, bands playing, and cannon firing; and the mayor met the lord-lieutenant, and the lord-lieutenant met the mayor, as if they had been friends from the days of Fin ma Cowl. The wise, and grave, and learned members of the British Association were quite forgotten in this first burst of loyalty; and, so great was the turmoil, that we were but too happy to escape to the other terminus, where we again steamed away, and in little more than an hour arrived at the noble and hospitable castle, within sight of the inland sea of Loch Neagh, where we were to spend some happy days.

Of all the "four quarters," "the north" progresses the most steadily; not only in one branch, but in art, commerce, and manufacture. In Belfast commenced those extraordinary efforts to give profitable means of employment to the female peasants of the surrounding country, and the blessing of industry has increased the small "comforts" of the people in various ways: the cottages look more prosperous, though they are not so numerous as they were ten years ago; and wherever we turned in Belfast, we heard the sound of the mason's trowel and the carpenter's saw. Buildings are progressing as rapidly in and about this northern town as they are in the neighbourhood of London; the "Linen Hall" is in itself, and for its suggestions, and the beauty of order in its arrangements, worthy a pilgrimage; the "School of Design" is filled with anxious and earnest pupils; the "Botanic Garden," we were told, was greatly improved; and we should have been pleased to inspect the College, but it had been taken possession of by the sections of "THE BRITISH ASSOCIATION.',

Men with placards, signifying their office of watch-keepers over the doors of Section A. or B., permitted us to peep in, and hear the "hum of wisdom," to which young and old listened with very enviable attention. "PROFESSORS (the Irish never abate a dignity, and are as fond of a title as our Germanic neighbours) hurried here and there; bishops, princes, philosophers, a stray poet or two, historians, geologists, rhetoricians, a fair sprinkling of indefatigable Americans, mingled with the worthy people, whose "northern manners," warmed to southern heat, and whose hospitality spread "luncheons," which were perpetually replenished from three until five; then there were "evening meetings," and "excursions," and "investigations" of "round towers" and all other "towers;" and visits to "the Causeway" and Loch Neagh;" and "breakfasts" and "dinners," at the residences of the "nobility and gentry"-“friends” houses overflowing with "friends" and intelligence; and little children in the streets, playing as big children sometimes do-at "philosophy," and investigating oyster-shells with great gravity.

It was very delightful to hear how much the members of the BRITISH ASSOCIATION enjoyed their visit to THE NORTH, and to feel that then, as ever, the English who visit Ireland are certain to forget, in the enjoyment of the present, the prejudice of the past.

We visited the damask manufactory of ARDOYNE, and there, after the lapse of ten years, again saw the interesting progress of a

manufacture which has established a worldwide fame.

Around ANTRIM were spread the bleachgreens of Mr. Chayne, the exquisite linen forming a filmy covering on the bright, green grass, like the first fall of early snow. William Spencer says that

"Noiseless falls the foot of time,

Which only treads on flowers,"

but it falls, nevertheless; and we returned to Dublin by the same route, though with less confusion than we experienced on our journey to the north; and then, by the Dublin and Cork railway, we came on our road to the south. I cannot say too much for the arrangement and good order of the line, which is as yet only completed as far as Mallow; the stations are really picturesque and substantial buildings; but the loneliness of the beautiful country through which we passed, realized still more fully the accounts of the double desolation that has so altered the aspect of the country-indeed, I could not have believed in such a total change, had we not seen it; and when we left the train at Charleville, en route for Springfield Castle, and after spending a couple of days with our friends there, posted on to Killarney, the lonely ruins of the peasants' cottages, by hill-side and way-side, impressed me so painfully, that I was only consoled by repeating over and over again in my own mind the miserable truth-"better in another land-better in their graves-than here." * A. M. HALL.

UNCLE TOM'S CABIN: BY HARRIET BEECHER STOWE. HINTS ON DRESS AND BEAUTY:† BY MRS. E. OAKES SMITH.

WE have placed these books together, not because of any semblance existing between them, but simply because they are types of the extraordinary differences which exist between two distinct classes of intellectual American

women.

Mrs. Stowe is earnest, intense, faithful, fervent, a very woman in gentleness and love, yet of heroic determination, and inspired in

*Uncle Tom's Cabin; or, Negro Life in the States of America. By Harriet Beecher Stowe. Routledge and Co., Farringdon-street.

+ Hints on Dress and Beauty. By Mrs. E. Oakes Smith. Fowler and Wells, New York.

impulse and in action, by the strongest and purest spiritual religion. She is the grand and prominent type of the "Marys" who have "chosen the better part."

Mrs. Oakes Smith is smart, sharp, and intelligent; superficial-more, perhaps, from habit than deficiency-hitting with considerable clearness upon a "fact or two," and making

the most of them. Much troubled about the long dresses and externals of womanhood; and yet, with the blackest and bitterest examples of slavery around her on every side, making the welkin ring with republican tirades, winding her periods with praise of the "regal pride of democratic simplicity," and “leading the van of nations in the great

*To be continued.

sentiment of human freedom." The unblushing manner in which she boasts of "freedom," while so large a proportion of her country's population are crouching in their fetters beneath the slave-lash, is a proof rather of her superficiality than of her want of feeling. Her whole mind is set upon trousers and gipsy hats; she is one of the wide world's "Marthas," "troubled about much serving."

With us, such distinctive classification is rarely to be met with; we are outwardly more alike, and even in our books and domestic habits more closely resemble each other; so that a Mrs. Stowe or a Mrs. Oakes Smith are here seldom encountered. Indeed, the author of Uncle Tom's Cabin stands pre-eminent among women; in the whole range of European and American literature there is no such book; the author has been happy in a subject of all-engrossing interest; her "facts" are as interesting, as full of the wildest adventure, the truest pathos, the blandest humour, as the imaginations of our best novelists could supply. Consequently, we cannot speak of her as an imaginative writer; she has simply and forcibly recorded what she has seen and known; and she has done this as fearlessly, and with as high an object, as ever stirred the heart of woman into action. Wherever this precious book is read, the deepest contempt for the upholders of slavery must follow. Until the America we desire to love, and to which we look as the country of the future-until she is thoroughly purged from the sin of slavery-until the fetter and the scourge are altogether abandoned-it is in vain to claim for the United States a large share of political or intellectual progress. She may continue to achieve commercial greatness-she may be rich and powerful-she may rival Birmingham in locks and pistols, and skim the waters more fleetly than the parent bird who taught her how to spread her wings and trim her plumage-she may talk (as, in fact, she does) more loudly about liberty than all the nations of Europe put together-but as long as a single negro is enslaved within her broad dominions, she remains a polluted and blood-stained object of contempt to every nation under heaven.

Oh! what a bitter thing to be branded as the "Slave State!" "Tell me not of rights," said Lord Brougham, in the unforgotten days of his stirring eloquence; "talk not of the property of the planter in his slaves; I deny the right, I acknowledge not the principle; the feelings of our common nature rise in rebellion against it; be the appeal made to the understanding or the heart, the sentence is the same

that rejects it. In vain you tell me of laws which sanction such a claim: there is a law above all the enactments of human codes, the same throughout the world, the same in all times, such as it was before the daring genius of Columbus pierced the night of ages, and opened to one world the sources of power, wealth, and knowledge; to another, all unutterable woes, such as it is at this day—it is the law written by the finger of God upon the heart of man; and by that law, unchanged and eternal, while men despise fraud, and loathe rapine, and abhor blood, they will reject with indignation the wild and guilty phantasy, that man can hold property in man."

It is marvellous how the gentle and pleading tone of this fearless, yet womanly book, sets forth the terrible and gigantic iniquity of American slavery; the faults, and follies, and vices of the negroes, are not glossed over by a single effort to make them better than they are; "Tom" himself is simply a faithful, affectionate creature, sanctified to endure, as only a Christian can, by a firm belief in the truths of revelation. We are so carried away by the holiness of the mission Mrs. Stowe has undertaken, that it is not until after the book is closed we do justice to its literary merits. It is composed of events arising out of slavery, and of characters, for many of which we have no parallels in England. The author excels in her descriptions of natural, as well as spiritual strength; such as, for instance, the escape of Eliza, the quadroon girl, with her child, when she discovered that her master had sold him to a slave-dealer, though she herself was to have remained with a mistress who treated her kindly, and to whom she was much attached.

"It is impossible to conceive a human creature more wholly desolate and forlorn than Eliza, when she turned her footsteps from Uncle Tom's Cabin.

"Her husband's suffering and dangers, and the danger of her child, all blended in her mind, with a confused and stunning sense of the risk she was running, in leaving the only home she had ever known, and cutting loose from the protection of a friend she ever loved and revered. Then there was the parting from every familiar object-the place where she had grown up, the trees under which she had played, the groves where she had walked many an evening in happier days, by the side of her young husband-everything, as it lay in the clear, frosty starlight, seemed to speak reproachfully to her, and ask her whither could she go from

a home like that?

"But stronger than all was maternal love, wrought into a paroxysm of frenzy by the near approach of a fearful danger. Her boy was old enough to have walked by her side, and, in an indifferent case, she would only have led him by the hand; but now the bare thought of putting him out