GRENOUGH; THE SCULPtor. On one of the last afternoons preceding my embarkation, I had sat a long hour opposite a striking, though by no means faithful, portrait of Greenough, while one of the fairest of his kindred spoke fondly of him, and charged me with many a message of love for the gifted absentee. On a table beneath the picture stood one of the earliest products of his chisel. I glanced from the countenance of the young sculptor, to the evidence of his dawning genius; I listened to the story of his exile; and thenceforth he was enshrined high and brightly among the ideals of my heart. With rapid steps, therefore, the morning after my arrival in Florence, I threaded the narrow thoroughfare, passed the gigantic cathedral, nor turned aside till, from the top of a long and quiet street, I discerned the archway which led to the domicile of my countryman. Associations arose within me, such as the time-hallowed and novel objects around failed to inspire. There was something intensely interesting in the idea of visiting the isolated sanctum of a votary of sculpture to one who was fresh from the stirring atmosphere of his native metropolis. Traversing the court and stairway, I could but scan the huge fragments of marble that lined them, ere entering a side door, I found myself in the presence of the artist. He was seated beside a platform, contemplating an unfinished model, which bore the impress of recent moulding. In an adjoining apartment was the group of the Guardian Angel and Child — the countenances already radiant with distinctive and touching loveliness, and the limbs exhibiting their perfect contour, although the more graceful and delicate lines were as yet undeveloped. One by one I recognized the various plaster casts about the room mementos of his former labors. My eye fell on a bust which awakened sea-pictures -the spars of an elegant craft, the lofty figure of a boatswain, the dignified bearing of a mysterious pilot. It was the physiognomy of Cooper. And yon original, arch looking gentleman? Ah! that can be no other than Francis Alexander. Surely those Adonis-like ringlets, so daintily carved, belong to one whom it is most pleasing to remember as the writer of some exquisite verses under the signature of Roy. No one can mistake the benevolent features of Lafayette, or the expressive image of the noble pilgrim-bard; or fail to linger in the corridor, over the embodiment of one of his fairest creations—the figure of the dead Medora. In other studios of the land I beheld a more numerous and imposing array; but in none could I discover more of that individuality of design and execution which characterizes native intellectual results. Coleridge's favorite prescription for youthful atheism was love; on the same principle would we commend to the admiration of the scoffer at a spiritual philosophy, the unwavering and martyr-like progress of genius toward its legitimate end. In this characteristic, the course of all gifted beings agree. They have a mission to fulfil; and lured betimes, as they may be, by the flowers of the way side, and baffled awhile, as is the destiny of man, by vicissitude - from first to last the native impulse, the true direction, is every where discernible. In the case of Greenough, this definiteness of aim, this solemnity of determination, if we may so call it, is beautifully evident. The wagon carriages he wrought in the intervals of school discipline, the wooden cimiters he carved for his playfellows, and his chalk statue of William Penn - the first absolute development of his taste these efforts will serve as the "early indications" to which biographers are so partial. Often did he pay the penalty of tardiness, by lingering to gaze at a wooden eagle which surmounted the gateway of an old edifice he daily passed-thinking, as he told me, how beautiful it must be to carve such an one. But it was not until boyhood was merged in youth, that the deep purpose of heart distinctly presented itself. Happy was it that, at this critical moment, an intellectual benefactor stood by to encourage and direct the youthful aspirant. Thrice happy for Greenough, that one equal to the appreciation of his mind, and able auspiciously to sway its energies, proved his friend. Such a mentor he found in Washington Allston. And, in this connection, we cannot forbear hazarding the inquiry- Why has not the liberal discernment of our community, ere this, given this distinguished artist the power of dispensing similar benefits to others who might equally reward and honor the obligation? Will it not, at some future day, be considered one of the anomalies of the times, that a highly gifted proficient in the philosophy of art was suffered to live, in comparative obscurity, within hail of our richly endowed University, without that institution being favored with the results of his mind on this ennobling subject? When Greenough arrived in Genoa he was yet in his minority. He entered a church. A statue, more perfect than he had ever beheld, met his eye. With wonder he saw hundreds pass it by, without bestowing even a glance. He gazed in admiration on the work of art, and marked the careless crowd, till a new and painful train of thoughts was suggested. "What!" he soliloquised, "are the multitude so accustomed to beautiful statues that even this fails to excite their passing notice? How presumptuous, then, in me, to hope to accomplish aught worthy of the art!" He was deeply moved, as the distance between him and the goal he had fondly hoped to reach, widened to his view; and concealing himself among the rubbish of a palace-yard, the young and ardent exile sought relief in tears. "O, genius!" I musingly exclaimed, as I went forth with this anecdote fresh from his lips, "how mysterious thou art! And yet how identical are the characteristics of thy children! Susceptible and self-distrusting, and yet vividly conscious of high endowments mighty to execute and quick to feel pressing on amid the winning voices of human allurements, or the wailing cry of human weakness and want as pilgrims bent on an errand of more than earthly import-ever pilgrims through a night of dimness and trial, and yet ever beholding the star, hearing the angel-choir, and hastening on to worship!" On one of the most delicious evenings of my sojourn, I accompanied Greenough to the studio where he proposed to erect his statue of Washington. It was a pretty edifice, which had formerly been used as a chapel; and from its commodious size and retired situation, seemed admirably adapted to his purpose. The softened effulgence of an Italian twilight glimmered through the high windows, and the quiet of the house was invaded only by distant rural sounds and the rustling of the nearest foliage in the new-born breeze. There was that in the scene and its suggestions, which gratified my imagination. I thought of the long and soothing days of approaching summer, which my companion would devote, in this solitary and beautiful retreat, to his noble enterprise. I silently rejoiced that the blessed ministry of nature would be around him, to solace, cheer, and inspire, when his energies were bending to their glorious task; that when weariness fell upon his spirit, he could step at once into the luxurious air, and look up to the deep green cypresses of Fiesole, or bare his brow to the mountain breeze, and find refreshment; — that when doubt and perplexity baffled his zeal, he might turn his gaze toward the palace roofs and church domes of Florence, and recall the trophies of art wrought out by travail, misgivings, and care, that are garnered beneath them; that when his hope of success should grow faint, he might suspend the chisel's movement, raise his eye to the western horizon, and remember the land for which he toiled. Thus musing, I perused the thoughtful countenance of the sculptor, and fancied the tenor of his reflections as he stood thus on the appointed scene of his labors. Men conscious merely of ordinary, or selfish motives can enter upon any undertaking with thoughtless alacrity; but when a human being is about to put forth his strength for posterity -to embody an idea, sentiment, or theory, dear to man - whether it be in the flexible frame-work of language, or the glowing delineation of the pencil, or whether he "fix thought, heart, soul, mind, To burn, to shine through the pale marble veins," he must be conscious, if in anywise worthy of his vocation, of profound solicitude as well as high and hopeful aspirations. Such contending emotions I imagined were then at work in the generous bosom of my friend, and ardently did I hope for the triumph of the latter. May sculpture smile upon her devotee of the new world! may the benignant countenance of Washington beam with life-like vividness in the visions of the artist, and his image emerge nobly from its marble sleep, unspotted by any envious stain! firm be the hand, and clear the spirit of the sculptor, till his great work be completed; and long may it stand, a proud monument to his genius. H. T. T. The ocean stood like crystal. The soft air A holy stillness came, while in the ray Of heaven's soft light, a delicate foam-wreath lay R. C. W. HORE GERMANICE. A TALE OF DIABLERIE, BY WILLIAM HAUFF. POEM BY FREDERIC KIND. UNDER this head it is our intention to present occasional specimens of German literature, both in prose and poetry. In so doing, we shall have to pay a little regard to the chronological order, or the rank of the authors from whom we make our extracts; as our object is not at present to enter on a history of German literature, but merely to introduce to our readers the names and works of some writers who are wholly unknown to the great mass of the American public. Of Goethe, Schiller, Kotzebue, and Wieland, a partial, though imperfect idea may be formed from the translations already made from their most celebrated works. These we shall consequently leave in the hands of their present translators. But there are a thousand tales, sketches, stories, songs, and ballads, which to our knowledge at least, have never appeared in an English dress, and yet have novelty enough, if no other merit, to render them worth listening to. These it shall be our care to preserve, as they are met with in the course of our reading, and transplant into our pages. The author whose name first appears at the head of this article, William Hauff, has not attained, nor does he deserve, the wide-spread reputation which the leading classics of Germany enjoy. Still he merits notice, as one of the most popular of her modern writers, and as one whom an early death alone prevented from reaching a much higher rank than he at present occupies. His writings are mostly of that light and temporary character to which our modern taste is too exclusively addicted, such as novels, tales, &c. The best of these are satirical imitations of the German Rosa Matilda and Della Crusca school of Romance. His best work, however, is "Selections from Satan's Memoirs;" a tale full of stirring incident and keen satire on the vices and follies of the day. The scene we now translate is only a short episode. The distinguished personage whose adventures form the subject of the work, does not figure in it under his own name; nor does he appear in the gala suit of tail, horns, and cloven foot with which he graces the revels on the Blocksberg, thinking with Shakspeare, that "The Prince of Darkness is a gentleman." He borrows for the nonce a tall, shapely, gentlemanly figure, surmount VOL. VIL |