THE SCULPTOR OF VENICE. ANTONIO CANOVA. From out of that glorious galaxy of names which adorns the commencement of this century none shines forth more conspicuously than that of Antonio Canova. The world witnessed and admired the astute political wisdom of Pitt, it listened in wonder to the eloquence of Burke, the patriotism and death of Nelson drew a tear from every eye. Wellington, the nation's hope, steadied the tottering kingdom, and hurled from his proud summit Napoleon, who lightninglike conceived and executed most dazzling projects. But the fame of Canova burned with a steady flame, unmoved by the great events which shook empires to their base. It was no freak of fortune that raised the peasant-boy, no daring deed or chivalrous enterprize which placed him among the immortals in renown; but steady persevering industry which developed and kept in play his great talents, a constant feeling that he had not done enough, and a continual striving after some imaginary perfection which he was never able to realize these were the moving powers which urged him to rank himself in the muster-roll of fame. From his earliest childhood he was conspicuous for the attention and application he displayed. In his grandfather's workshop never a day nor hour passed which he did not devote, in some measure, to improvement. That he had genius-aye, and a mighty genius too-there is no doubt; but had he not possessed the strength of will to persevere unremittingly, in all probability he would have remained a stone-cutter all his life, undistinguished from the ordinary workman. His is, indeed, a name "To point a moral or adorn a tale." And well it is that such men do now and then cross the stage of life. They are the commencement of the new families which step into the place of old decayed houses when they become completely shattered by the vicissitudes of fortune. The fall of the Nevilles, the Buckinghams, the Stuarts, and the Albanys is sufficient evidence of the uncertainty of position. The founders of such families were, in by-gone centuries, men conspicuous for their military powers or political wisdom, who fought their way to eminence; and so now men make for themselves names and become the originators of families, the scions of which will, in lapse of time, rank among the patricians of the land. And a proud boast it is, to be the first great man of one's race. In a low mud cabin in the Venetian village of Possagno, the wife of a poor stone-cutter, named Pietro, was brought to bed of a boy, on the 1st of November, 1757. This infant, which was a poor sickly thing, was called Antonio, and early began to display signs of an inclination for drawing and sculpture. Pietro, the child's father, was a man of no great powers of mind or strength of character, inasmuch as he followed his occupation as assistant or partner of his father, having never been able to obtain an establishment of his own. However, soon after his son's birth he died, and, as his wife thought fit to enter again into the holy state of matrimony, the tender infant was left in charge of its paternal grandfather and his spouse. The old couple readily undertook the responsibility, and the dame did everything in her power to ensure the well-being of the child. She nursed it through the tender age of infancy with anxious solicitude, and endeavoured to train its mind for its intended occupation. She used also to entertain the boy with long legends, to hear which he would leave the clay on which he was employed, and catching hold of his grandmother's gown with his soiled fingers, would listen with breathless attention. We are afraid the only part to which the old lady objected were the spots of clay left by the young urchin on her best dress. Pasino Canova, the grandfather, was clever at his trade and a sort of genius in his way. There is little doubt that, had he possessed the advantages of education in his youth, he would have attained a respectable position among sculptors. As it was, he executed his work in the best manner, and was also capable of carving and designing for the great families which resided in his neighbourhood. He bestowed much care upon his young grandson, teaching him the rudiments of drawing, encouraging him in his earlier endeavours, and initiating him into the mysteries of his trade. Antonio passed many years as his grandfather's pupil. The Venetian nobles are in the habit of leaving their stately palaces in Venice, and passing the summer at some rural retreat. During the fine months of the year the family of Faliero used to take up their residence near Possagno, for the purpose of enjoying the pure air and delightful scenery with which the locality abounds. The elder Canova was often employed in adorning their villa, and was held in great esteem by Signor Giovanni Faliero, whom her egarded in the light of a patron, and the young Antonio was accustomed to assist his father in these labours. His slight graceful figure, finely chiselled features, and intelligently expressive countenance, united with a modest diffidence and innate wish to please, won for him the notice and well-wishes of all. With him young Faliero, the son of the proprietor, formed an acquaintance which, while they were yet boys, ripened into sincere friendship, and which continued throughout life. The manner in which the latent talents of Canova were first brought into notice is somewhat curious, and has been oft-times told. urged him on, and he went up to Venice a hopeful, daring, and aspiring boy. On his arrival at this city of palaces his reception was hospitable in the extreme. His kind patron placed at his disposal every requisite of life. But Antonio, who considered his mechanical skill sufficiently good to be worthy of recompence, could not bear the thought of being altogether dependent on a stranger. Accordingly, while he gave the fore-part of the day to study in the higher branches of his art, he devoted the afternoon to serving under a master, from whom he received a small sum in payment. The amount we know was very small; for, says the artist himself, afterwards, in a letter: "I laboured for a mere pittance, but it was sufficient. It was the fruit of my own resolution, and, as I then flattered myself, the foretaste of more honourable rewards, for I never thought of wealth." Signor Faliero gave a grand feast to the Venetian nobility. The servants had neglected to provide a suitable dessert ornament, and did not, till too late, perceive the omission. In this emergency they applied to Pasino Canova, who, however, could suggest no remedy. The domestics were in despair. At last Antonio desired some butter to be brought, and speedily, from the shapeless mass, modelled a lion, which was placed in the centre of the table. The guests admired this masterpiece of culinary art: the master wondered whence it came. Enquiries were made, the truth came out, and the blushing Antonio was loaded with applause. Soon after this event a slight change took place | in the young Canova's life. There resided not far from Passagno an artist, by name Guisseppe Bernardi, more commonly known by the surname of Toretto. To him Signor Faliero intro- The man who could utter such noble thoughts duced Antonio, now in his twelfth year, and as these, and not only utter them, but feel them, settled him as his pupil. Here, in Bernardi's was pretty sure to push his way. From his first studio, he exhibited the most unceasing indus-entrance into Venice, Canova divided his time try, every thought and every wish being di-methodically as a man of business would. rected to his furtherance in his profession." He The mornings were passed in study at the directed his attention to gaining a complete mas- Academy of Fine Arts, and the afternoon as tery over the handicraft of his art, and does not before-mentioned. In Venice a fine and extenappear to have given any proof of the high genius sive range of observation was opened to him, which was latent within him; indeed, his studies and he did not fail to take advantage of everywere confined to the mechanical part of the pro- thing calculated to be of use in his profession. fession, the sole intention being to make him an It was his custom to visit the theatres, and other expert and ingenious stone-cutter; consequently places of public assemblage, for the purpose of it was only after the usual hours of the work- studying character. He delighted to look upon shop, after a day of severe toil and manual the multitude of faces, note the various expreslabour, that he could give any attention to the sions, the diversified attitudes, and fix in his higher branches of sculpture. However, he did mind any countenance that pleased his fancy. his best: he never flinched. He was not one of Another source of pleasure was sauntering along those wayward fitful geniuses who work only the quays, and observing the porters as they when necessity compels; but he possessed the passed along, their colossal frames and fine musorgan of application, and where industry is com- cular limbs presenting models to the artist which bined with brilliant talents, the most tremendous he never permitted himself to forget: indeed, obstacles present but small hindrance to the ad- whenever he was particularly struck with any vancement of their possessor. turn of the limb or play of the muscles, he would hurry home, and, while the subject was fresh in his memory, reproduce it on paper. By such means as these did the greatest modern sculptor lay the foundations of his future excellence. After remaining two years with Toretto, that artist died, and Antonio was on the point of again returning to his grandfather's workshop. He, however, possessed a good friend in young Faliero, who entreated his father to allow Canova to come to Venice, and pointed out to him the many indications of genius which he thought he had observed. The son prevailed, Signor Falier complied, and Antonio received an invitation to the City of the Sea, with an intimation that his expenses would be paid by his generous patron, and rooms prepared for him in his palace. We can imagine better than pourtray with what joy the young aspirant for honour received this letter, and how his heart beat high with the prospect of renown which opened to his gaze. He was but a boy of fifteen-self-confident and self-dependent-but still a boy, pale, slight, and intellectual. He had only his ingenuous modesty and his untiring perseverance with which to retain the favour of the great; but the inward feeling that one day his talents would repay all obligations As Canova, in his youth, was essentially a moral man, a sober every-day liver, nothing adventurous, nothing foolhardy is left wherewith his chroniclers may enliven their pages. Yet his was no common life. An ordinary man would soon have sunk under the difficulties which he surmounted. His heroism was not the heroism which startles by its brilliancy; but it was the heroism which, after overcoming one obstacle, is ready to cope with and overcome the next, throughout the whole battle-field of life. It was the desire to know everything which made him eager not only after the pursuit of art-knowledge, but also caused him to become well-versed in the general acquirements of the age. He applied himself to the study of Spanish and French, and became well acquainted with the literature of his own and other countries. Thus for seven long years the student read and worked and copied nature, for a work, the subject being left to himself. during which time he astonished and delighted His patron also offered to provide him the marthe Venetians by his statue of Orpheus. This, ble necessary for the undertaking. Canova, the first work of any great merit executed by pleased beyond measure with the generous proCanova, was exhibited in 1776. He had long posal, ardently commenced his task, choosing panted for fame; but so great was his innate for his subject Theseus vanquishing the Minomodesty, that he could only be persuaded by the taur. On this work he laboured with unceasing utmost entreaties of his friends to present it to attention and assiduity. He worked in secret, public view. The result was unbounded ap- being desirous that no one save the ambassador plause. The most prejudiced critics were forced should be aware of what he had in hand until it to admire, and admit the excellence of the work. was finished. His apartments in the Venetian From this time the success of the artist con- palace he kept closed against all comers-partly tinued to improve. He executed several works, because he was aware his style of sculpture among which we may mention the bust of the differed from that then in vogue-partly because Doge of Venice; copy of the Orpheus; statues he did not wish to be subjected to the envious of Esculapius, Apollo, and Daphne; till, in his criticism of minor intellects-and partly because 22nd year, he gave forth to the world his when a work was seen during its progress the greatest Venetian effort the group of Dædalus effect at completion was lessened, and the artist and Icarus, in Carrara marble. The figures are was liable to have his own industry relaxed. the natural size, and a close imitation of Nature. Canova knew that his fault was a deficiency There is no attempt at idealism. Nature was in exalted grandeur, so he viewed and contemCanova's mistress: indeed, art had so degene-plated and studied the works of ancient masters; rated before his time, that it was necessary he went home, thought over what he had seen, should go straight to the fountain-head, if he worked incessantly, and finally produced the wished to cleanse the stream of vitiated taste. crowning effort of his noviciate. The Theseus The statuary represents the father and son pre- and Minotaur established his reputation at paring for the journey. Dædalus is in the act of Rome. Everyone admired it. The similitude fitting to his son's shoulders the wings with which to nature was justly estimated, and the young he himself should wend his way far from Cretan artist felt he had achieved a triumph. The head bondage. Icarus holds in his hand part of the of Theseus is quite a masterpiece. In it are exmaterials, as if to assist his father, but seems pressed, as he bends over the fallen Minotaur chiefly engaged in watching with careless indif- on which he sits, those high and noble feelings ference the efforts of his sire. The attitudes are which can only arise from the consciousness of good, and when viewed as a whole the effect is having accomplished a mighty and glorious pleasing. There is, however, a great want of deed. The figure is in the antique, and is elevation in the work. The figure of Dædalus is finely chiselled about the head and shoulders, such as may be seen at any moment: indeed, while the bend of the back is a model of elethere is a touch of vulgarity in it. However, gance and strength. the simplicity and faithfulness to nature displayed throughout fully compensate for the other defects. So true is the representation that many artists suspected the group had been chiselled from models formed from casts taken upon the human body in soft material. The reputation of Čanova having been by this work established at Venice, it was deemed expedient for him to repair to Rome to a more extended field of labour. Accordingly, at the entrance to manhood, at the budding of his renown, he packed up his chisels and tools, and turning his back upon the scene of his early struggles, wended his way to Rome. Here he met with a cordial reception from Cavaliere Zuliani, to whom he had letters of introduction. Rooms were accorded him in his palace, and he found at once a friend and patron in the ambassador. At Rome the enthusiasm of Canova became, if possible, more excited. It had long been his earnest wish to produce some work from heroic subjects. The contemplation of the beauties of the statuary at Rome aroused within him a wish to do likewise. But the chains of poverty confined the aspirations of his genius; for without a commission he could not afford to purchase the marble from which to embody the noble forms of his heroes. At length he disclosed his views to Zuliani, and received from him an order From this time fortune smiled upon the persevering student. Commissions poured in upon him: his acquaintance was eagerly sought by artists, men of letters, and by nobles. There were many, indeed, who, envious of his success, sneered, and ridiculed, and wrote against him. These he answered with silent contempt, seeking quiet in his workshop, and never deigning to answer their attacks. But still the iron entered into his soul, and his modest and kindly heart was pained, that he who wished for nothing but the advancement of his art, should be exposed to the merciless jibes of ill-natured and ignorant critics. But his courage never faltered: he kept on his course, and that course soon carried him to a pinnacle at which not even the most pointed arrow of malignant envy could harm him. In a sketch like this we cannot enter into details of all Canova's works, and must necessarily pass cursorily over a great part of his life. From the time when he executed the tombs of the Popes (Ganganelli and Pessonico), his life continued to be one unvaried course of success and hard work. It never changed: every day brought the same drudgery in the studio, even though he had workmen to execute the coarser parts. In this way he passed the next twentyfive years, honoured by nobles, princes, and all celebrities. He was Napoleon's guest; George | bed. His stomach refused the slightest nourish ment; and, though his pulse beat regularly, his danger was imminent. But so quiet and calm did he lay, so serene was the expression of his countenance, that his friends thought death far from his chamber. Crowds besieged the entrance to his house, all eager to inquire after him, so deeply was the city affected by the illness of Italy's greatest sculptor. However, despite all the skill and learning, all the care and attention bestowed upon him, he continued to grow worse, and, after having received the last ordinances of religion, sunk calmly to rest with the Third presented him with a diamond snuffbox, and the Romans created him Marquis of Ischia, with a pension of three thousand crowns. We thus behold the poor peasant-boy raised to the highest rank by the force of his genius, in unison with assiduous application and unswerving integrity. But the industry which distinguished the earlier part of his career had undermined his health, and in the winter of 1821, his stomach being out of order, and his whole frame greatly debilitated, he determined to try the air of his native place-Possagno. But, alas! though he roamed through the well-out a struggle, almost without a sigh. Thus, on known spots of his infancy, and drank in the breeze which fanned his childhood's cheek, no health came to the over-wrought invalid. Despite, however, his precarious condition, he determined to retire to Venice before setting out for Rome. Here his illness could no longer be withstood, and he was obliged to take to his the 13th Oct., 1821, the great master-mind of sculpture left its frail body, and, as says Zannini, "The angelic heart of Canova palpitated for the last time, and his celestial mind was closed for ever on its lofty conceptions." He lies buried at Possagno, the scene of his early labours. HARRINGTON GRANGE. CHAP. VII. What gave Philip Vere the right to hang so lovingly over the chair in the dim corner, where Amy sat with her friend beside her? What gave him the right to whisper, as he did now and then? to place a footstool? to hope she was not suffering? Above all, what gave him the right to whisper-as he did once, when he was leaving her, at Eleanor's command-" Mine own"? This: In the morning, with the sun shining upon her cheeringly, Amy, leaning on the robust arm of Sir Thomas Harding, her host, took her first walk, since the memorable day of the picnic, in the pleasure-grounds. The party at Wilmore was thinning gradually; Miss Goddard was gone; and Mr. Mello the poet still lingered, to woo his coy Muse amongst the coming tints of autumn; to throw himself in rheumatic spots by gurgling streams, and struggle with the tough rhymes that would not adapt themselves. Miss Hartt-with a parting injunction to Amy to study the classics, and a promise to send a copy of her next work, "The Diluvian Traditions: how far they are reconcileable with the theory of the Universal Deluge" had also bidden adieu to the shades and lawns of Wilmore; and though a few of the lesser stars still remained to shine feebly, hoping for more distinction now that their foils were set, no one troubled Amy, or came near to watch the progress of her first essay of the wounded foot. But what marvel that the portly Sir Thomas, active and strong, should weary a little of his tender charge, and a good deal of her pace? What wonder that he should resign her willingly to Philip, when they met him casually at the door of a little summer-house where Amy had begged to rest? And the meeting was casual. Philip had gone there without any design or aim. Having made up his mind to venture all, he had been wandering about in a desultory manner, restless and excited, not knowing what to do with himself, when Sir Thomas seated Amy in the very summer-house to which his unquiet mind and restless steps had led him. 66 ‘Ah, Philip, this is fortunate. Then, if Miss Harrington will excuse me, I promised to see Harrel, the keeper, to-day; and I had forgotten it. Take care of her, Philip: no more ruinseh? Upon my word, though," said the poor baronet, ruefully, " Lady Harding told me not to lose sight of her!" "I daresay my aunt will accept me as proxy," said Philip, gravely. "I will be very careful!" Opportunity thus suddenly thrust upon him, of course he tried first to congratulate Amy on being out of doors again, and of course failed, signally. There is no doubt that, for a sensible man and a genius, Philip Vere looked excessively foolish. More than that, the precious minutes were passing unflinchingly, and he knew it; and yet his heart was beating so fast, that he could not steady his voice for the words he meant to utter. And little Amy, tired as she was, and with the weak ankle aching, got up to go; but he stopped her then, imploringly. "One word he must speak to her: would she not hear him? Ah, if she could know how he had longed for this opportunity-how he had been hoping and fearing, and how miserable he had been, when he thought, at times, that the hopes were all false, she would listen to him, would she not?" There is no need for repetition. What could little Amy do but hear him? What could she say but tell him tremulously, to his repeated entreaties that she would answer him if it were only one word, how happy she was? What could she do, finally, but walk back with her hand on his arm, his promised wife, never feeling the pain in that stubborn foot, but thinking, poor little dreamer, that there never had been in all the world, and never would be, anyone so happy as she was? Then Eleanor came to meet them, took her away from him, and led her into her own room, making her lie down, and telling her to keep quite quiet. But there was no resisting little Amy's wistful look. "I know how it is, my darling, I know it all!" "Oh, Eleanor," said Amy, clinging to her, passionately, "it never can be intended that anyone should be so happy on earth. They call it a world of trouble!" "The trouble will come time enough, little one. If happiness is sent to you, it must be right, you know." "And you will love me-you are not vexed?" "Vexed at gaining a little sister !" "Ab, I never thought of that." Eleanor bent her head for one moment till her face was hidden. In this new happiness she had been utterly forgotten! "How foolish! how selfish!" thought Eleanor, to expect anything else!" "And now," said Amy, "I want to go home to papa: and no one must know—" 66 Suppose my aunt knew already? No, don't look frightened! she only guesses, and no one will speak to you about it." "But I must go home- to-morrow. It is right." Yes, said Eleanor, "it is right. Philip to go with you?" "No, no. Not Philip at first-you." CHAP. VIII. HOPES AND FEARS. And is And so little Amy was at home again. Was that the same figure that peeped curiously behind the window-curtain at the sketchers? As she thought of that her face changed, and the shadow of the new life came over it. More old-fashioned and queer than ever the rooms looked, and yet dearer to her; the same yet changed. Even Meg's old eyes could discern a difference in her, without being able to define it. Formerly her cheerfulness was but the sunshine of an unclouded spirit, "Oh, off out somewhere now; but he'll be in directly." "And why should I be sent for on his account?" was on Amy's lips, but she did not speak it. She remembered Robert as a great ungainly schoolboy; and she remembered, and had a salutary dread of his sister, Janet, who used to come with him and stay such an unconscionable time; and who was always calling her a romp, and finding fault with her. But all was so different now, it would be hardly possible to dread or dislike anyone. Floss was on her lap as usual, and her hand stroked his silky coat; but she had forgotten to ask about his behaviour during her absence, and Meg, as she went back to her kitchen, thoughtfully muttered that she "couldn't make it out." 'Maybe," thought Meg, "all the grandpeople, and the fine rooms, the liveried servants to wait on her, and all the grand things have put her out of conceit of the old place: and who can wonder at it? I'm sure it's dull enough for her, if the master would only think of it." But Meg had seldom been further from the truth in her conjectures. In the great wealth of her new happiness, little Amy was thinking more tenderly than ever of the old Grange and its inmates, and all belonging to it: particularly of Walter Harrington in his solitary den. And if sometimes, looking round suddenly upon the well-known room, she could scarcely believe that the last few weeks were not a dream from which she had just waked, it needed but a glance at a certain glittering ornament on her finger to dispel the thought. But she hid that ring, jealously. No one must see it yet-till tomorrow. To-morrow! What a time it seemed! She was uneasy 'till her father knew all; 'till be should see Philip, and wonder that he, with his genius and his good gifts, had chosen poor stupid little Amy Harrington. Her reverie was broken abruptly. "Ah, my fair Cousin-at last!" A A |