_The Old World and the New; or, a Journal of Reflections and
Observations made on a Tour in Europe. By the Reverend Orville Dewey.
New York: Harper & Brothers._
Mr. Dewey assures us, in the beginning of his _Preface_, that his
volumes are not offered to the public as an itinerary—but it is
difficult to say in what other light they should be regarded. To us
they appear as strictly entitled to the appellation as any book of
travels we have perused. They are indeed an itinerary of the most
inartificial character—a journal in which unconnected remarks follow
one upon another—object upon object—day upon day—and all with a
scrupulous accuracy in regard to dates. Not that we have much
objection to this methodical procedure, but that we cannot understand
Mr. Dewey in declaring his book not to be what it most certainly is,
if it is any thing at all. His subsequent remark, that every American
traveller to the old world enjoys a vantage ground for surveying the
institutions, customs, and character of his own country is what we can
readily appreciate. We think, also, that in many respects our author
has made excellent use of this advantage. But we would be doing our
conscience a great wrong in recommending the work before us _as a
whole_. Here is some amusement—great liberality—much excellent sense—a
high spirit of sound morality and genuine philanthropy; but indeed
very little, so we think, of either novelty or profundity. These two
latter qualities are, however, of a nature so strictly relative, and
liable to so many modifications from the acquirements or character of
the reader, that we feel some hesitation in what we say—and would
prefer leaving a decision where it _must_ finally be left—to the voice
of the public opinion.
One remarkable feature in the _Old World and the New_, is its amusing
_naiveté_ of manner—a feature which will immediately arrest the
attention of every reader. We cannot do better than give a few
specimens.
What a pity it is [says Mr. D., and so it is undoubtedly] that cities,
or at least streets in cities, could not, like single edifices, be
built upon some regular and well considered plan! Not that the result
should be such regularity as is seen in Philadelphia or Dublin; the
plan indeed would embrace irregularity. But there might be an
arrangement, by which a block of buildings, a street, or indeed a
whole city, might stand before us as one grand piece of architecture.
If single specimens of architecture have the effect to improve,
humanize, and elevate the ideas of a people; if they are a language,
and answer a purpose kindred to that of literature, poetry and
painting, why may not a whole city have this effect? To secure this
result, there must, I am afraid, be a power like that of the autocrat
of Russia, who, I am told, when a house is built in his royal city of
St. Petersburg which does not conform to his general plan, sends word
to the owner that he must remove that building and put up another of a
certain description.