She does see it,—­she does feel it.  A spirit is silently and gradually working its way beneath the surface of society, which must, erelong, break forth either for good or for evil.  Between a profligate and servile nobility, and a degraded and enslaved populace, a middle class has lately sprung up; the men of letters, the artists, the professors in the sciences, who have obtained property, or distinction at least, in the commotions which have agitated their country, and those who have served at home or abroad in the revolutionary wars.  These all seem impelled by one and the same spirit; and make up for their want of numbers by their activity, talents, enthusiasm, and the secret but increasing influence which they exert over the other classes of society.  But on subjects like these, however interesting, I have no means of obtaining information at once general and accurate:  and I would rather not think, nor speak, nor write, upon “matters which are too high for me.”  Let the modern Italians be what they may,—­what I hear them styled six times a day at least—­a dirty, demoralized, degraded, unprincipled race,—­centuries behind our thrice-blessed, prosperous, and comfort-loving nation in civilization and morals; if I were come among them as a resident, this picture might alarm me; situated as I am, a nameless sort of person, a mere bird of passage, it concerns me not.  I am not come to spy out the nakedness of the land, but to implore from her healing airs and lucid skies the health and peace I have lost, and to worship as a pilgrim at the tomb of her departed glories.—­I have not many opportunities of studying the national character; I have no dealings with the lower classes, little intercourse with the higher.  No tradesmen cheat me, no hired menials irritate me, no innkeepers fleece me, no postmasters abuse me.  I love these rich delicious skies; I love this genial sunshine, which, even in December, sends the spirits dancing through the veins; this pure elastic atmosphere, which not only brings the distant landscape, but almost heaven itself nearer to the eye; and all the treasures of art and nature which are poured forth around me; and over which my own mind, teeming with images, recollections, and associations, can fling a beauty even beyond their own.  I willingly turn from all that excites the spleen and disgust of others; from all that may so easily be despised, derided—­reviled, and abandon my heart to that state of calm benevolence towards all around me, which leaves me undisturbed, to enjoy, admire, observe, reflect, remember, with pleasure, if not with profit, and enables me to look upon the glorious scenes with which I am surrounded, not with the impertinent inquisition of a book-maker, nor the gloomy calculations of a politician, nor the sneering selfism of a Smelfungus—­but with the eye of the painter, and the feeling of the poet.