LETTER XV.
Tuscany.
Nothing is more difficult than for a foreigner to give a correct account of the state of a country—its laws, manners, and customs;—the first often so different in their operation from what outwardly appears; the latter, never fully understood, Proteus-like, assume a thousand contradictory appearances, and elude investigation. A stranger can only glance at the surface of things—often deceptive—and put down the results of conversations, which, after all, if carefully examined, by no means convey the whole truth, even if they are free from some bias, however imperceptible, either in speaker or hearer, the result of which is a false impression—a false view.
An English person, accustomed to the gigantic fortunes and well-ordered luxury,—to the squalid penury, hard labour and famine,—which mark the opposite orders of society in his own country, is struck by the appearance of ease and equality that
