The Press. — London, England, 1858-11-06 00:00:00

Xittraturt. A Summer and Winter in the Two Sicilies. By J ilia Kavanagh. In Two Vols. London : Hdrst and Blsckett. FOR Miss Kavanagh's novels we have no very high admiration. In spite of the beauty of her style, and a certain sort of interest which her stories are seldom without, there is some thing about them which we have never been able to like or approve. Their monotonous cloying sweetness, and their uniform persistence in the delineation of one side only of human nature, seem hostile to all energy and vitality of character, and calculated to inspire in their readers no feelings but those of a morbid sen timentalism. They remind us of so many prose versions of " Evangeline"—variations on the same painful and pathetic air—with a more seductive and therefore more misleading moral. Consciously or unconsciously, Miss Kavanagh is the most persever'ng literary disciple of Rous seau now extant, and if the rush and hurry of English life left time for any book to work upon and sink into the mind, there is no writer against whose influence on the young we should be so much disposed to warn our readers as the authoress of " Nathahe " and "Adele. Holding these views, which we have expressed on a former occasion, and disliking, as we most cordially do, the spirit and tone of most of her writings, we are not by any means blind to the good qualities which Miss Kavanagh undoubtedly possesses. She is certainly a woman of genius and imagination. She has a graceful and some times brilliant pen,—apt, indeed, to run into over-luxuriousness, but even then to be pre ferred to the jejuneness of most contemporary female writers,—much observation of character, and a keen eye for the aspects of nature—for the broad and simple effects of landscape, as well as for the minuter details which help to 'vivify and complete a picture. It was, there fore, with much pleasure that we saw the an nouncement of a work before us which, from the nature of the subject, would give little or no opportunity for the exhibition of her peculiar defects, and at the same time afford ample room and verge enough for the display of her really striking merits. Our expectations have not, on the whole, been disappointed. Readers will find in these volumes the glow and colour of Italian skies, the rich and passionate beauty of Italian scenery, and the fresh simplicity of Southern life in its less sophisticated form, touched by the hand of an artist, and described by the percep tion? of a warmhearted and sympathizing woman. Any objection we may have to make will be based, not on the failure of capacity or of literary skill in the writer, but on the inadequacy of the materials to which these gifts are devoted. Miss Kavanagh takes us in succession to Sor rento and its neighbourhood, including Amalfi, Paestum, and Salerno; to Naples, Baia, and Pozzuoli ; to Palermo, and then back to Naples and Pompeii. The first volume is excellent. She stayed during the winter at Sorrento—a season at which scarcely any . English are to be found there,—and as antiquities were few and the society nil, she was able to give her thoughts to the study of the people, and her eye to uninter rupted feasting on the exquisite natural beauty which everywhere surrounded her. In her pages we seem to feel the full splendour of those un rivalled shores, which, unchanged except by the .onvulsions of nature, still fascinate with the tme charm that dazzled the eyes of Dorian or T o nian colonists, or in a later age roused the greed o f . fiercer Northern spoilers. Parthenope and her s i st , T cities, ever fresh and young, girdled by their e i ne ., sure of groves, and bathed by their sapphire sea, l iave endured the scourge of armed invaders or the ut theaval of the unqui e t eart h, an d repa i re d t h e rsvaga sof both with that eternal verdure which adds a grandeur to desolati on an d a grace f u l ness orange hite blossoms o f t h e hang s ide ide with the r e d f ru i t o f the preceding ) ti ear ddee , bc a ya3s 4 ". the long broken outline of blue moun tain and unny bay shows through the trellis work of le festooned from tree to tree. Burnt into warm, yet subdued, colour by th e l ong h ot summers, j e walls and cliffs throw up on their rich yello w ?Aground the dusky grey of the "Wow, Wire end tbo sombre green of the broad- THE PRESS, NOVEMBER 6, 1858: leaved fig. From the tint of the sky, " less blue than radiant" with its interpenetrated light, and showing no cloud but the lazy vapour that rests on the summit of Vesuvius, to the deep hue of the wine-coloured sea,where the sun sets daily with im perial magnificence, and the dazzling shore backed by the brown and purple hills,—all is glory and splendour. Convents and villas crown the wooded cliffs ; and over the ravines below, dark with mossy foliage, vocal with blackbirds and nightingale; and freshened by mountain mill-streams, hang lofty bridges which carry the road along the precipitous faces of the rocky shore. From the beach beneath conies the low plash of the tideless sea in its windless summer calm, while from the white-sailed boat on its surface rises the soft yet distinct murmur of the Latin hymn, sung by the woman with her distaff, who sits among the fishermen and implores the Virgin to bless her children and her people. Inland, the landscape is still lovely. Above the deep valleys hang perched the small mountain vil lages, each with its white belfry and cluster of red-roofed houses, or with its ruined convent, over whose broken arches cluster ivy and clematis, while delicate fern and wavy maidenhair hang in its silent and damp recesses. In the desolate plain, where, " between the mountains and the sea," stand the three temples, sole relics of a once populous city,—like the masts of some tall ship that remain to mark the wreck that decays below,—the roses of Paestum still bloom on tfie hedges, and the cyclamen and yellow thistle spring from the crevices of the mouldering Cyclo pean wall. At Amalfi, the domed houses, with their thick walls and narrow windows, recall the aspect of some Oriental town, while the lofty site, steep mountain background, winding valleys clothed with wood, and fresh breezes, remind the traveller of spots almost as fair but less luxuriant in colour, beyond the Alps. Nor would it be true to say. as regards the inhabitants of these enviable scenes, that "all but the spirit of man is divine"—at least if man ' includes woman.' Witness the following pleasant picture of Miss Kavanagh's next neighbours : Carmela is twenty-three, motto vecehia, very old, as she says herself with demure gravity. She is neither tall nor short, but slender in figure, light and agile as a deer, and, above all, graceful from the bend of her slim arched neck to the springing step of her bare brown feet. She wears her black hair in the becoming Greek fashion, which, two thousand years ago, her Greek ancestresses brought with them to Sorrento. That is to say, she divides it at the back into two - plaits, with which she braids her head like a Cr )wn ; two ends of bl:ick ribbon and a long silver bodkin, which they call spadella from its swordlike shape, fasten these plaits securely behind. The rest of her attire offers nothing striking ; a cotton handkerchief around her neck, white linen sleeves tucked up to her elbow, a short waisted little boddiee, a long skirt and a wide apron, complete her toilet. Like her father, mother, brothers, and sisters, Carmela wears neither shoes nor stockings. They are comfortable people ; they have cows and pigs, and hens and silkworms, sod a good farm of orange, lemon, and olive trees, bat they would think it a strange luxury to wear shoes and stockings -in week-days er in summer. It is only in winter, or o❑ Sundays and holy days, that the whole family is duly shod. Carmela is not strictly beautiful, but she is better than pretty; delightful is the only word that will describe her. Her features are arched and expressive ; her brown eyes have the look, soft and wild, of a young kid. There is mischief in the very sweetness of her smile, but maiden mischief securely guarded round by maiden innocence. Camels is guarded too by that other good angel of youth —active life. Early as I may get up, I see the tremulous bine smoke rising from her father's chimney amongst the olive and orange trees, and we rarely go to bed but we leave a light burning in Carmela's windows and hear the whole family saying the rosary ; work, and hard work, fills the interval. Except on Sundays and Festas this family, seven in all, are never a moment idle. The father and brethren of Carmela keep cows, pigs, and poultry ; they rear silkworms, and crush olives for oil in rude machines which obstinate prejudice will not allow them to alter. Round their dilapidated farmhouse, once a country-seat, and showing in its defaced frescoes and spacious chambers traces of its former festive destination, spreads an orange orchard, where the trees are large as pear-trees, and the fruit as big as small melons; and an olive-grove, where the germs, if not cankered by the worm in spring, shower on the October walks a copious store of black and teeming fruit. Industry and frugality are the order of the day, and of every day, among these Sorrentine people. They eat little enough, and meat seems an almost unknown luxury. Their life is one of toil, cheered only by the recurrence of the Alta, when they dance, and sing, and make merry, but without quarrelling, fighting, or drwakaatio, The gis &Wixom! toub who iaabi Sorrento do not care for politics clubs, concerts, balls, or promenades. They, are satisfied (like the Northern Italians with whom we have on a former occasion made acquaintance through Signor Grallenga) to meet each other at church, in the street, or in a dirty cid& So c i ety, properly so called, there is none. Of the Italian character, and especially the Sorrentine va riety of it, Miss Kavanagh has much to gay. Its virtues are sobriety and industry, w i t h an inborn politeness and kindly feeling, which de prives them of all vulgarity of mind or affecta tion of manner. Except when ungovernable passion overcomes their habitual self-control, they are deeply reserved, especially to stranger s , and jealous of allowing any approach to real intimacy. At the same time, all of themselv es that they allow to be seen i s genuine, naive, and fresh. To the notions that Italians are slaves to romance, and neglect the actual work . of life f or dreams of poetry and art,—embodied in the lines of Pope,— A land of singing and of dancing slaves, Lovc•whispering words and lute-resauuding wave', in Cowper's " Boadicea," and in Kingsley's " Two Years Ago," a passage from which Miss Kava nagh selects for comment,—she opposes a tho rough denial. Nothing is so matter-of-fact as an Italian ; at the same time no one is so prac tical a philosopher, in a certain way. If there is no work to be had, he does not pretend to do any ; and in such a climate it is not difficult to live somehow. If there is, he does it with all his might. How were all the cities, roads, acque ducts, harbours of Italy, produced, asks Miss Kavanagh, but by hard work ? The Italian o f the middle classes is least of all romantic in the affairs of the heart. With him they are con fessedly affairs of the pocket. The house is the first thing to be thought of, not the husband, as one of the prettiest girls of Sorrento told the authoress. The parents settle the match. "1 want your daughter for my son," says the youth's mother—the youth and his betrothed being the last persons to be consulted. The practice does not seem to answer well, for Italian wives are not very happy. Their hus bands are jealous, mistrustful, and often brutal, and some keep their spouses in a sort of Oriental seclusion.—The matter-of-fact character of the Italian extends to his appreciation of natural beauty. He is still in much the same state of mind as an ancient Greek, according to Mr. Ruskin's eloquent and ingenious description. He likes what is comfortable in landscape; he " blesses the useful light," like the Shepherd in Pope's Homer. His attachment to his coun try is fond and firm, but he loves it, like the lover of Horace's Pyrrha, because it is "all gold,"—the home of warmth and cheerfulness "seas rough with black winds," frowning preci pices and eddying mists, " heiFht and cold, the " splendour of the hills," which inspire in Ten tonic races the ideas of sublimity and grandeur, in him excite only contempt and abhorrence. He cannot understand the taste of foreigners foi aspects of scenery, which violate his sense of harmony and beauty, and are in his mind asso ciated with no ideas but those of discomfort. The naïf and well-known Idyl of Moschus would most nearly express his feelings:— When on the grey and glancing sea the light airs grad, move, My timid spirit restless grows, the land no more T love: Fhe Cslmness draws me to itself, and I would fain berme From trees and fields, to where the sails move slow ILO stately on. Bat when the hoary deep resounds, and drumlin groT: the lee, And the long billows madly race across the heaving sea, When curls the green transparent rhige, and freshens int( foam, - 0 then I look to trees and fields, and wish myself at home , More grateful is the firm-set earth, %hen darkunne a•ooa' lands please, Where softly sings the pine•tree, how strong soc'er thi breeze ; And sweet it is to lie beneath the plane tree's breadth of shade, While streams that lull, but not disturb, through the &ale. Miss Kavanagh follows up her observat ions on this phase of the Italian character by some rather good remarks on the origin of the modern taste for the picturesque, in ,isrhich she will be found to coincide with the views of Mr. Clark in hi, "Peloponnesus." They are too long for extract, but wo recommend them to those of our reader' who desire to tbllow up the I nterott ing literary topic ant mooted, we aink, by Mr, Carlyle, 3P‘i m, for are Whom tance ler at eiety, Dalian va- say. ,h a n h de. eeta- nable atrot, 'gen, real wlves ;and tea to 'e for lines Two tho- et as prac- ere is :o do alt to h all :que- Miss an of a the con- s the d, as d the „ I s the Rhed The , for hus- rutal, ental f the .tural ate of Mr. nion. he .rd in e the tIeSS; wed- , the Ten- deur, ence. s for se of asso- afort. schus gently ? gone w and gross s into home. wood- n. the ith of :Om 4 15 on it her rain: bund I hi , 'der s :rary and