76 Notes on a Tour in France, Italy, and Elba. 
ble, is used to the best advantage ; not a yard, not a foot is lost. 
The sides of even the most precipitous mountains are terraced high 
up; exhibiting the appearance of a vast escalier, each step of which 
is set with the vine, then sending forth copious, verdant foliage, in- 
terspersed with fair promises of an abundant harvest. 
The Rhone is wonderfully tortuous in its course, and filled with 
islands, which materially embarrass its navigation. The water is 
shallow, and the current rapid, but not broad. In size and impor- 
tance it is surpassed by many of our New England rivers; at Avig- 
non, it is perhaps half as wide as the Delaware at Philadelphia. 
*< Does the country resemble ours ?”’ No, sir, not much ; it is more 
rocky than Maryland, or Vermont, or Massachusetts. ‘ What is 
the nature of the rocks?” They are principally calcareous. ‘“ How 
do the mountains differ from the Blue Ridge of Virginia, or from 
the Green Mountains of New England?” They are more angular, 
more irregular in their forms—have a much greater number of peaks. 
These peaks are more acuminated, run higher above the body of 
the mountain, stand nearer to each other, and seem to have been 
produced, as I have no doubt they were, by the ejection of earthy 
matter, partially fused, from a thousand little volcanic craters. 
‘Is the country more interesting to the traveller than ours?” I 
think it is. Not that it is wilder, or naturally more romantic, or pic- 
turesque ; nature has done more, far more, for America. But art, 
and old age, and superstition, and feudal customs, and volcanic fires, 
have done every thing here. The ruins of ancient castles, and “de- 
serted chateaux and convents, placed on the pinnacles of craggy 
rocks,’’ present themselves to you at every turn of the river, as you 
move down the Rhone. The falling tower, the crumbling statue, 
the moss-clad mouldering arch, the antique, costly tomb, all tell you, 
in language that cannot be misunderstood, that hundreds of genera- 
tions of men have been born here, have toiled and died ; that genius, 
and wealth, and power have dwelt liere, and left monuments of their 
achievements for the admiration of allafter ages. Yes, sir, it is the 
old age of the land—the antiqueness, the gloomy remembrancers of 
the deeds of days long ago past; it is the granite column, which is 
uninjured by the wear and tear of a thousand winters—it is the 
sculptured marble chiselled by hands, centuries since, turned to dust. 
These, and a host of kindred objects, give the charm, the thrilling 
charm, to the countries 1 have passed through, and this charm the 
new world does not possess. 
