The Romans esteemed this vegetable as a clearer of the senses. They were anciently eaten at the conclusion of their supper; but in the time of Domitian, they changed this order, and served them with the first entries at their feasts.

Martial notices this change in his

verse.

Claudere quæ cœnas Lactuca solebat avorum,
Die mihi, cur nostras inchoat illa dapes ?”

The wild lettuce as well as the cultivated, was used medicinally by the Romans; and Palladius, a Greek physician, notices their culture in his treatise on fevers.

We find no attempt made to cultivate the lettuce in this country, until the fourth year of Queen Elizabeth's reign, 1562; but in 1597, Gerard gives us an account of eight kinds of lettuce, that were then cultivated in England. He says, "Lettuce maketh a pleasant sallade, being eaten rawe with vinegar, oil, and a little salt: but if it be boiled, it is sooner digested, and nourisheth more." He adds, "It is served in these daies, and in these countries, at the beginning of supper, and eaten first before any other meat; but notwithstanding, it may now and then be eaten at both those times to the health of the bodie: for being taken before meate, it doth many times stir vp appetite and eaten after supper, it keepeth away drunkenness which cometh by the wine; and that is by reason that it staieth the vapours from rising vp into the head." He says, "Lettuce cooleth a hot stomake, called the heart-burning," &c. &c.

We now cultivate, in the neighbourhood of London, thirty varieties of this plant, all of which are esteemed in salads. Some of them are natives of Egypt; others have been procured from Aleppo, Cos, Holland, Marseilles, Silesia, Savoy, South America, Sweden, Italy, Hungary, Germany, and the East Indies; the latter can only be grown in

a hot-house.

It should be remarked, that none are so good to boil or stew, or to thicken soup, hodge podge, &c., as the Roman or cabbage lettuce,

The young leaves of garden lettuce are emollient, cooling, and in some small degree laxative and aperient, easy of digestion but of little nourishment; salubrious in hot bilious indispositions, but less proper in cold phlegmatic temperaments. In some cases they tend to promote sleep by virtue of their refrigerating and demulcient quality.* Galen "In the decline of age, which is naturally wakeful, I suffered very much by want of sleep; for which disorder, I used in the evening to eat a lettuce, which was my sovereign and only remedy. Many boil this tender herb in water, before it produces stalks; as I myself now do, since my teeth begin to fail me."

says,

Dr. Aston tells us, that the milk of the common garden lettuce is hypnotic, while the root of the plant is cooling, diluent, and nourishing.

This plant is cooling, and causes an inclination to sleep, upon which account it procures ease in pains, both taken inwardly, and externally applied.

Schröder was of opinion, that it afforded considerable nourishment, and much increases milk when eaten by nurses.

The Historia Plantarum states that no herb more powerfully resolves, and brings away the black bile.

Lettuces are said to render the chyle easily condited; and are recommended to young people on account of their cooling nature.

M. Bourgeois observes, that the different kinds of lettuce, although very good for persons of strong stomach and good digestion, are very injurious to cold weak stomachs, as they pass undigested; they disagree very much with hypochondriac persons, and females who are troubled with hysterics.

Turned lettuce, when dried and put on the fire or on hot coals, sparkles like nitre.

Young lettuce may be raised in fortyeight hours, by first steeping the seed in brandy, and then sowing it in a hothouse.

The seeds of this plant are of an emmollient nature.

+Lewis.

THE

ITALY.

HE name of the author of Italy is carefully guarded, but we think there can be but little hesitation in ascribing it to Southey. One note alone excites a doubt in our breasts; and, at a period so fertile in imitative genius, it would perhaps be too much to say positively that the verse is the Laureate's; but it bears strong resemblance to his earlier poetry, and its theme accords so entirely with his visit to the scenes here described, that the identity, if suspected at all, can be but very slightly questioned.

66

Italy" is a series of sketches, entitled, the Lake of Geneva, the Great St. Bernard, the Descent, Jorasse, Margaret de Tours, The Alps, Como, Bergamo, Italy, Venice, Luigi, St. Mark's Place, the Brides of Venice, Foscari, Aqua, Ginevra, Florence, and Don Garzia.

The versification, it will appear from our examples, is generally of that character which the lovers of simplicity have adopted, though it frequently rises into a vigour more agreeable to our taste. We never can fancy that to be minute is equivalent to being poetical; and thus, what many admire as beauties, are in our eyes imperfections, in the writings of this amiable class of poets. The familiar in their compositions is to us merely prose in measured lines, and we read on, longing for the fine bursts of nature and inspiration which at intervals rush upon us, and prove that the divine mind is in truth there, however it may delight to repose its energies on the level path and trivial things. But we will not dilate on our opinions;-whether they are well founded or otherwise, the following selections may enable our readers more clearly to determine.

Part of the account of the Great Saint Bernard strikes us as possessing exquisite feeling, combined with a delightful force of delineation.

A POEM.*

On the same rock beside it stood the church,

Reft of its cross, not of its sanctity;
Duly proclaiming thro' the wilderness,

The vesper-bell, for 'twas the vesper-hour,

"All ye who hear, whatever be your work,
Stop for an instant-move your lips in prayer!"
And, just beneath it, in that dreary dale,

If dale it might be called, so near to Heaven,
A little lake, where never fish leaped up,

Lay like a spot of ink amid the snow;
A star, the only one in that small sky,
On its dead surface glimmering. 'Twas a scene

Resembling nothing I had left behind,
And, to incline the mind still more to thought,
As the' all worldly ties were now dissolv'd;-
To thought and sadness on the eastern shore
Under a beetling cliff stood half in shadow
A lonely chapel destined for the dead,

For such as having wandered from their way,
Within they lie, a mournful company,
Had perished miserably. Side by side,
All in their shrouds, no earth to cover them;
Their features fuli of life yet motionless
In the broad day, nor soon to suffer change,

Tho' the barred windows, barred against the wolf,
Are always open!

The author then describes the Monks; and the fourth paper contains a touching episode of the guide, Jorasse, who attended him on his De

scent. We transcribe it :

Graceful and active as a stag just roused;

Jorasse was in his three-and-twentieth year;

Gentle withal, and pleasant in his speech,

Yet seldom seen to smile. He had grown up
Among the Hunters of the Higher Alps ;

Had caught their starts and fits of thoughtfulness,
Their baggard looks, and strange soliloquies,
Said to arise by those who dwell below,

From frequent dealings with the Mountain-Spirits.
But other ways had taught him better things;
And now he numbered. marching by my side,

The Savans, Princes, who with him had crossed
The icy tract, with him familiarly
Through the rough day and rougher night conversed
In many a chalet round the Peak of Terror,

Round 1 acul, Tour, Well-horn and Rosenlau:

Save when an Avalanche, at distance rolling

But with what transport he recalled the hour

Its long, long thunders, held them mute with fear.

When to deserve, to win his blooming bride,
Madelaine of Annecy, to his feet he bound
The iron crampons, and, ascending, trod

The Upper Realms of Frost; then, by a cord

Let half way down, entered a Grot star-bright,
And gathered from above, below, around,
The pointed crystals!

Once, nor long before, (Thus did his tongue run on, fast as his feet,

And with an eloquence that nature gives To all her children-breaking off by starts Into the harsh and rude, oft as the Mule Drew his displeasure,) once, nor long before Alone at daş-break on the Mettenberg,

He sipped, he fell; and, through a fearful cleft
Gliding from ledge to ledge, from deep to deeper,
Went to the Under-world! Long-while he lay
Upon his rugged bed-then waked like one
Wishing to sleep again and sleep for ever!
For looking round he saw or thought he saw
Innumerable branches of a Cavern,
Winding beneath that solid Crust of Ice;
With here and there a rent that shewed the stars!
What then, alas, was left him but to die?
What else in those immeasurable chambers,
Strewn with the bones of miserable men
Lost like himself? Yet must he wander on,
Till cold and hunger set his spirit free!
And, rising, he began his dreary round:
When hark, the noise as of some mighty River
Working its way to light! Back he withdrew,
But soon returned, and, fearless from despair,
Dashed down the dismal Channel; and all day,
If day could be where utter darkness was,
Travelled incessantly, the craggy roof
Just overhead, and the impetuous waves,
Nor broad nor deep, yet with a giant's strength
Lashing him on. At last the water slept
In a dead lake-at the third step he took
Unfathomable-and the roof, that long
Had threatened, suddenly descending, lay
Flat on the surface. Statue-like he stood,
His journey ended; when a ray divine

Shot through his soul. Breathing a prayer to Her
Whose ears are never shut, the Blessed Virgin,
He plunged, he swam-and in an instant rose,
The barrier past, in light, in sunshine! Thro'
A smiling valley, full of cottages,
Glittering the river ran; and on the bank
The Young were dancing ('twas a festival-day)
Al in their best attire. There first he saw
His Madelaine. In the crowd she stood to hear,
When all drew round, inquiring; and her face,
Seen behind all, and, varying, as he spoke,
With hope, and fear, and generous sympathy,
Subdued him. From that very hour he loved.

The tale was long, but coming to a close,
When his dark eye flashed fire, and, stopping short,
He listened and looked up. I looked up too;
And twice there came a hiss that thro' me thrilled!
'Twas heard no more. A Chamois on the cliff
Had roused his fellows with that cry of fear
And all were gone.

But now the thread was broken; Love and its joys had vanished from his mind; And he recounted his hair-bread th escapes, When with his friend Hubert of Bionnay (His ancient carbine from his shoulder slung

His axe to hew a stair-case in the ice)

He tracked their footsteps. By a cloud surprised,

Upon a crag among the precipices...

Oh 'twas a sport he loved dearer than And only would with life relinquish ! 'My sire, my grandsire died among these w My brother too! As for myself,' he cried, And he held out his wallet in his hand, • This do I call my winding sheet, so sure Am I to have no other!'

And his words

Were soon fulfilled. Within a little month
Jorasse slept soundly half-way up the Jung-frau.
Long did his wife, suckling her babe, look out
The way he went at parting, he came not!
Long fear to el se her eyes, lest in her sleep
(Such their belief) he should appear before her,
Frozen and ghastly pale, or crushed and bleeding,
To tell her were he lay, and supplicate
For the last rite! At length the dismal news
Came to her ears, and to her eyes his corse.

The entry upon Italy pleases us much; and indeed we have to state that all the pictures which the Poet has drawn are as accurate and full of truth as if they had been from the pencil of the ablest artist, or the pen of the most correct tourist.

O Italy, how beautiful thou art!

Yet I could weep-for thou art lying, alas,
Low in the dust; and they, who come, admire thee
As we admire the beautiful in death.

Thine was a dangerous gift, the gift of Beauty.
Would thou hadst less, or wert as once thou wast,
Inspiring awe in those who now enslave thee!
-But why despair! Twice hast thou lived already;
Twice shone among the nations of the world,
As the sun shines among the lesser lights
Of heaven; and shalt again.

And he proceeds to Venice, in a manner replete with character.

No track of men, no footsteps to and fro,
Led to her gates. The path lay o'er the sea,
Invisible; and from the land we went
As to a floating City-steering in,
And gliding up her streets as in a dream,
So smoothly, silently-by many a dome
Mosque-like, and many a stately portico,
The statues ranged along an azure sky;
By many a pile in more than Eastern splendour,
Of old the residence of merchant kings;
The fronts of some, though time had shattered them,
Still glowing with the richest hues of art,
As though the wealth within them had run o'er.

The panorama of Saint Mark's Place, and reflections upon it, are also extremely interesting; and the writer

Oft have they stood, locked in each other's arms,
All the long night under a freezing sky...
Each guarding each the while from sleeping,falling.
ATHENEUM VOL. 11.

10

ditions, with peculiar complacency, going a good deal into subjects which have already formed themes for Lord