she remembers now was working and moving at their feet, an animated cloud, which they did not feel, and do not miss.  That region of life never reached up their flanks, and has left them no memorials of its being; they have no associations, no monuments, no memories; we look on them as we would on other hills; things of abstract and natural magnificence, which the presence of man could not increase, nor his departure sadden.  They are, in consequence, destitute of all that renders the name of Ausonia thrilling, or her champaigns beautiful, beyond the mere splendor of climate; and even that splendor is unshared by the mountain; its cold atmosphere being undistinguished by any of that rich, purple, ethereal transparency which gives the air of the plains its depth of feeling,—­we can find no better expression.

Secondly.  In all hill scenery, though there is increase of size, there is want of distance.  We are not speaking of views from summits, but of the average aspect of valleys.  Suppose the mountains be 10,000 feet high, their summit will not be more than six miles distant in a direct line:  and there is a general sense of confinement, induced by their wall-like boundaries, which is painful, contrasted with the wide expatiation of spirit induced by a distant view over plains.  In ordinary countries, however, where the plain is an uninteresting mass of cultivation, the sublimity of distance is not to be compared to that of size:  but, where every yard of the cultivated country has its tale to tell; where it is perpetually intersected by rivers whose names are meaning music, and glancing with cities and villages every one of which has its own halo round its head; and where the eye is carried by the clearness of the air over the blue of the farthest horizon, without finding one wreath of mist, or one shadowy cloud, to check the distinctness of the impression; the mental emotions excited are richer, and deeper, and swifter than could be awakened by the noblest hills of the earth, unconnected with the deeds of men.

Lastly.  The plain country of Italy has not even to choose between the glory of distance and of size, for it has both.  I do not think there is a spot, from Venice to Messina, where two ranges of mountain, at the least, are not in sight at the same time.  In Lombardy, the Alps are on one side, the Apennines on the other; in the Venetian territory, the Alps, Apennines and Euganean hills; going southward, the Apennines always, their outworks running far towards the sea, and the coast itself frequently mountainous.  Now, the aspect of a noble range of hills, at a considerable distance, is, in our opinion, far more imposing (considered in the abstract) than they are, seen near:  their height is better told, their outlines softer and more melodious, their majesty more mysterious.  But, in Italy, they gain more by distance than majesty:  they gain life.  They cease to be the cold forgetful things they were; they hold the noble plains in their lap, and become venerable, as having looked down upon them, and watched over them forever, unchanging; they become part of the picture of associations:  we endow them with memory, and then feel them to be possessed of all that is glorious on earth.