times more agreeable than as many vain phrases and essence-nay, I thought the muscles were actually in false compliments of reception. play, and that the arms moved as if to welcome me to powered me; I felt bewitched with the folly of Pygmalion, and stood trembling in every limb. "For what lover do you intend this beautiful mis tress?" I demanded of the sculptor. "For the Duke of Devonshire," replied he. I was soon at ease in his presence, and for some time their embrace; a strange magnetic influence overcompletely lost in silent admiration of the beautiful|| statue then bursting into beauty beneath his magic chisel. With difficulty could I banish the illusion but that I was standing in the presence of a young, lovely, and living female. The Bacchante was softly reclining on her left side, with the upper portion of the body falling gracefully back, and in the most delicious abandon. I knew not from whom of the Tuscan ladies he had copied this statue, but certainly she must have been the nonpareil in beauty of feature and symmetrical proportion. of "The Duke is a happy man," I exclaimed, in a tone envy. "Permit me to take my leave. I feel that my visit has already encroached upon your valuable time." "As you wish, Signior," he kindly responded."Come and see me whenever you please. I shall always be happy to receive you.” "I shall not fail," I returned. time, grant me a favor." But, in the mean. "What is it?" asked the sculptor. "The favor to embrace your Bacchante." Bartolini smiled, and extended his right arm with an assenting action. The sculptor, Bartolini, although he admires the antique, adopts it not as his model of execution. He copies nature, which is worth more than the antique. "If I had to make an Apollo," said he in the course of our conversation, "I should look for a man of physical proportions, as Diogenes looked for an honest one. I should not seek to be inspired with the Belvidere at the Vatican, perhaps the most perfect and lovely statue under heaven. No, I would look for a divine form among the human race. I know not how it is, but sublime as the Apollo is, it always imparts to me the feeling as if it would fall to pieces, were it to be endowed that splendid creation-the Sabines of Jean of Bowith life and attempted to walk. But alas! perfect models exist no where." "And pray," I inquired, "from whence do you derive your notions of beauty of the art?" I "From every where," he answered quickly. "I spare no trouble, no research, no money, to procure the best models. Sometimes I am obliged to guess them by instinct; sometimes I find them on the promenade, in the fields, or among the hills, dales, valleys, any where, but generally among the most humble classes. Behold!" he continued, pointing to a very young and beautiful girl, reclining on a couch in a recess. "There!" was so amazed at her appearance I could not reply. He continued: "Her eyes appear to you as dead. They are not so; you shall be convinced. At a motion from the sculptor the young living model assumed the attitude of prayer; kneeling slowly, she laid her head thoughtfully upon her right shoulder, her cheeks were modestly suffused with blushes, her great black eyes seemed as if speaking to heaven-she was at once the personification of prayer, the beau ideal of faith and seraphic fervor. "Nature," continued the artist" nature is always the most necessary study in art. We have many chef d'œuvres among the ancient statues; but I would not copy a toe from one of them for the foot of my Bacchante, as long as there are living models to be found. Among these will I look for my studies." I could not reply, so enraptured was I with the beauty of the child, who, I learned, was the daughter of the sculptor. A remark from Bartolini, however, recalled me to my recollection, and looking upon the Bacchante, around which a soft and mellow haze, thick with innumerable atoms was glowing, so fascinated did I become that I deemed it breathing with spiritual My lips slightly pressed those of the Bacchante, and in a delicious feeling of enthusiasm I quitted the study of the sculptor. As I roamed through Florence, that city of statues, logna-appeared to me cold and spiritless. Niobe moved me not, and the Venus de Medicis chilled me like the frosts of winter. Forgive me, great shade of Praxiteles! Oh! Florence, dear delightful, ever happy Florence, thou may 'st well be termed the City of the Arts; for in no other portion of the globe can be found such a brilliant array of names, comprising painters, poets, sculptors, and musicians. In the streets, on the promenades, the quays, in all public places, yea, in the very churches your mind will be distracted from devotion by some exquisite display of art. With the following dawn I was again on my way to the study of Bartolini. It was an April morning, and all Florence lay bathed in a transparent brightness, soft and beautiful as its own fair name. I passed before the baths of Antony, and traversed the magnificent bridge of Michael Angelo. Beneath it flowed the Arno, like a flood of azure, while its verdant banks, gilded with the rising sun, were gemmed with innumerable domes and palaces. Near, too, is the old bridge, where it is said Hercules slew Nessus the Centaur. At the bottom of the landscape rose the beautiful hill of San Maniato, while opposite stood the villa Strozzi, in the midst of its cypresses and melancholy shades. Early as it was, I found Bartolini, as on the day before I had left him, busily engaged upon his Bacchante. He informed me that every morning, at eight, he began his labor of love, and quitted it not 'till the shadows of night forbade his continuance. "How have you found the Venus de Medicis ?" he inquired of me, smiling. "So bad," I replied. "that I have come to embrace your Bacchante." He smiled like a king at the words of a courtier, and proffered to show me the great hall of his studio. Need I say that I joyfully accepted his offer. Bartolini speaks of his art with enthusiasm, his ideas flow in abundance, he has meditated on all the mysteIt is indeed a glorious sight. In it there are over ries of the school of nature-he repeats no written thesix hundred busts and statues, nearly all of females.ories, but discourses, or rather I may say, improvisatriScarcely an English woman of quality, or the wife or ses like one endowed with divine intelligence, in the most daughter of any opulent voyager, who has visited Flo- beautiful language, with a deep rich Tuscan accent. rence, but has had her bust executed by Bartolini. The p'aster casts of those from the original models, are all in this hall. It is the most curious collection of noble and beautiful heads existing. Here, too, stands the model of his greatest work, the mausoleum of Demidoff, the rich man of a thousand and one nights, who would have purchased another week of life, if millions could have done it. A group of grand and beautiful statues in bas || relief, surround the tomb of the Muscovian Lucullus. This prodigious work has advanced but slowly owing to the difficulty of procuring designs sufficiently correct to satisfy the scrupulousness of the artist. It will take, perhaps, the lifetime of the sculptor, to finish this rich mausoleum of death. The intelligent Roman has adop ted for the motto these two lines Another of his works, deserving of especial notice, is the statue of Napoleon, replete with study and the grandeur of majesty. It has all the heroic position and the poetical attire of Trajan or Antoninus. The school of Florence pretended to find fault with it, but the sculptor cares not for this; he is satisfied in himself, and his taste and judgment are paramount to most living sculptors It is of colossal height, and is said to be strikingly like the Emperor. I am afraid this splendid statue is likely to remain in the study of Bartolini; Ajaccio, for which place it was originally intended, having refused to purchase it, although the price demanded for it is very moderate. For three hundred and sixty pistoles, he is willing to embark with the statue himself, and see it placed on the mole at Ajaccio. But it is more worthy to be placed in the Luxemborg, or why not send it to Toulon, as a remembrance of the youthful conqueror. The Corsicans pretend that the marble is liable to be defaced, but where is the Corsican who would cast a stone at the image of his Empe ror? At Florence, they have no dread about their statues ; in almost every street are exposed the exquisite images of Michael Angelo, Donatello, Jean Bologna, and other illustrious artists, yet they have no cause to regret their confidence in the people. "Nescio qua natale solum dulcedine cunctos Ducit, et immemores non sinit esse sui." Demidoff had planted three tents by the Florentine Tiber, and sought to forget the Kremlin and the Neva, and the Polar city, that the Great Peter had the courage to raise in the deserts of everlasting winter. Here in the warm south, enveloped in the shades of Cashmes, they danced, sang and joyed, from morning 'till evening. It was a true terrestrial paradise, without the tree of evil and the serpent. But how fleeting are all earthly possessions. One night, when nearly the whole city had been invited to one of his magnificent fêtes, a Before leaving Florence, I determined once more to jealous spirit who had not received an invitation, enter-pay my respects to Bartolini and his Bacchante. I did ed without announcement. It was Death! The lustre So. She appeared more lovely than when I last beheld of the moment was dimmed, never again to be relumed, her. "Beautiful child," cried I, to the statue, "and art and Demidoff was called to the tomb of his fathers. thou doomed to shiver in the cold fogs of the grounds The death of the Grand Duke is the subject Bartolini of Devonshire, thou, born, as it were, in the lands of was endeavoring to pourtray upon his mausoleum. love and sunny light? Do you not regret to part from this creation of your genius?" I asked. In the midst of these lugubrious images, a portrait suspended from the wall, attracted my attention. It was neither by Rembrandt, Titian nor Vandyck. It appeared to be the work of a modern artist. I would willingly have attributed it to the first great name of Florence. I could almost have thought that Mazaccio had expressly come from his grave to paint Bartolini in his studio. The portrait bears not the name of the painter, but a portrait of Ingres is never mistaken. Ingres is the friend of the Florentine sculptor, and in travelling through Italy, passed some time in the house of Bartolini, where the two kindred spirits revelled in all the joys of painting and sculpture. Like Titian, who suspended his portrait in the royal library of his Prince and patron, Francis the first, so from a like reverence and regard has the modern Titian suspended his in the studio of his friend, Bartolini, and now that the painter is in his palace of Monte Pincio, where he conducts our grand Italian school, he will, without doubt, bring the Florentine to Paris, where his abilities will be properly appreciated and rewarded. "I do!" he replied, but pointing to the recess in which was reclining his youthful daughter-" there is one I can never part from." The beautiful child came running towards her father; he clasped her in his arms. It was a fitting moment for me to depart. "Adieu!" I cried. "I live in hope that we shall meet again." 'Heaven grant it," responded Bartolini. I fled from his study, and in two hours afterwards, I was on my way to Genoa. The Genoese proudly style their city, Genoa the Proud. This, however, I cannot subscribe to, beautiful as it is, and rich in associations with much that is great in the arts and literature. The situation, however, is truly delightful, and reminds one strongly of Naples. Backed by lofty hills, which shelter it from the north winds, it receives all the benign influence of the south. The temperature seldom varies, and the soil is continually in a state of luxuriant vegetation. In the gardens and fields are ever found in leaf, the orange, the citron, the olive, the mulberry and grape, while the myrtle, aloe, and every flower congenial to these sunny regions, are continually in bloom. The town is in the form of a half circle. On the land side, it is protected by a double rampart, and two forts of considerable strength, command the harbor. One of these has its top formed of glass, and is illuminated at night, which to the voyager, as he approaches from the gulf, causes the city to appear as one mass of majestic edifices. In the day, however, it will be found very different. The streets are narrow and crooked-a few, to be sure, are wide, and contain some handsome buildings, but as a whole, it is not entitled to the conceited appellation of Genoa the Proud. Among the most handsome streets, may be nominated those of Nuova Nuovissima and Balbi. The first, formed of magnificent buildings, is, literally, a street of Marble. The principal edifices in it are the palaces of Doria, Brignole, Durazzo, and Sera, all of the most noble architecture, but so crowded together, that scarcely aught is seen of them save their fronts.2 The principal churches are San Lorenzo, (the cathedral)-the Annonciade, San Ambrogio, and San Syro. The church of Carignan is, in its style, pure and simple. It is reached by a colossal bridge, which connects two hills, and under its arches rise houses to the height of five stories. The church of Carignan, possesses the statue of Saint Sebastian by Puget. The melancholy resignation of the saint is beautifully expressed in this statue, where the chisel of the French artist has won for himself an imperishable glory. It is a masterpiece worthy of entitling him to the fame of a Michael Angelo. The Ducal palace has degenerated from its original grandeur, being, in these modern days, converted into the offices of the judicial judges, and the Government of the Police. In the small hall of council is a beautiful painting by Solimene, representing the discovery of America, by Christopher Columbus.* It is an appropriate honor to this great man in his native country, and no American can witness it without emotion. The Albergo dé Poveri is a vast and magnificent edifice, but which would be more appropriately designated the Palazzo dé Poveri, being devoted to the benefit of the poor. It is in bad taste, however. I am no advocate for the rearing of magnificent temples as the dwellings of poverty and disease; a plain and simple structure is more becoming, and the money lavished in the construction of such superb edifices, might be more beneficially applied to the relief of their unfortunate inmates. At the time I was here, there was a large procession of masqued penitents, parading the streets from morning 'till night, and singing psalms and portions of the litany. Mare senza pesce uomini senza fede donne senza vergagna-which, literally translated, signifies sea without fish, men without faith, women without * Christopher Columbus was born at Savona in 1442, according to some writers, and according to others, at Cuguro, a little town near Genor. The town of Plaisance also claims the honor of having been the birthplace of that great man. modesty"-It is an old sarcastic Italian proverb, uttered on this annual occasion against the Genoese. One thing I must be permitted to say, is, that the Genoese females are generally very beautiful-more so than the ladies of the other continental cities. Montesquieu was not a poet, although he has written verses. Among his various offerings to the muses, we find the following satire against the Genoese. "Adieu, Genes détestable Adieu, sejour de Plutus, Si le ciel, m'est favorable, Je ne vous reverrai plus. Il n' rien de comparable Au plaisir de vous quitter." The truth of these lines we are inclined to question, for it is evident that Montesquien was in a splenetic humor when he penned them. The worst is, that bad as they are in sentiment, they are still worse verse. Original. LAYS OF A LOVER. BY PARK BENJAMIN. TO FLORENCE. FAIR lady, I have never heard Thy voice's music-never caught From thy sweet lips a single word With soul and tender meaning fraught. I can but fancy what thy tongue Would utter, from thy beaming eyes, Which, though their brightness spoke and sung, Could never give more soft replies. Thy life is in its day-spring hour, And mine is near its solemn noon, Thy bud just ripened to a flower, My leaves, alas! may wither soonBut no! for, on them fall the dew And sunlight of my dreams of thee, Which all my youthful hopes renew, And set Imagination free. Once more through fairy realms she flies, She lifts before my longing gaze, Shall glide the current of my days, Ah, fond delusions! ye must fade, And Life's realities return; Blessed with a light and love like thine, Would always shine, as shines the sun, Upon a world so sad as mine. Original. BERTHA, THE SPINNER. BY MRS. E. F. ELLET. THE Emperor, Henry IV., ascended the throne of his father, when, as yet, scarce arrived at the years of manhood. He had been early betrothed to a young Italian princess, whom, though beautiful and virtuous, he did not love, perhaps because it was his duty to love her. The newly wedded Empress soon perceived this, and grieved over it secretly, for she truly loved her lord. He was very fond of the chase, and pursued it daily, accompanied by some of his nobility; and the society of his jovial companions made up for the want of happiness in his domestic life. One day, when the Emperor found himself alone in a wood, he met, riding a white palfrey, a young lady of such transcendent beauty, that he was half convinced it must be Diana herself. Her dark brown ringlets clustered on the whitest forehead in the world, and her large dark eyes gleamed like stars in the view of the fascinated Prince. He rode past her in silence; and presently meeting the Count Paolo, learned from him that the fair stranger was the Lady Irene, niece of the Count Montagna, who lived in the Count's castle, near Padua, and was affianced, as the world said, to his son, Adalbert. The Emperor felt as if he could envy the fortunate Adalbert, and mentally resolved on a speedy visit to the Count Montagna at his ca tle. This resolve he soon put in execution. Montagna felt honored by the. Imperial visit, and Irene, proud of her beauty, and elated by the compliments she received, was all exultation. She appeared to the Prince even more beautiful than when he first saw her; and her lov liness, in his eyes, was enhanced by her reserved and even haughty demeanor. In short, he contrived often to have the pleasure of seeing her; and, at length, appointed her one of the maids of honor to the Empress. Montagna was delighted at this mark of favor, for he looked on Irene as the bride of his son, and never dreamed of her being faithless to him. As to Adalbert, one would have thought that he had reason to be distressed at the loss of much of the lady's society, her duties at court occupying a great portion of her time; but the truth was, he did not regret the separation. Her pride and selfishness prevented his regarding her with affection; and, besides, he was secretly enamored of a young girl, who, though in an humble station, matched, in beauty and merit, the loftiest in the land. In the smallest cottage in Montagna, dwelt Madame Theresina, a respectable, pious widow; and the only comfort of her life, was her grand-daughter, Bertha. A more modest and industrious maiden never existed. With the earliest dawn she was sitting at the wheel; and when every one else had retired, Bertha often pursued her task by lamplight. She never joined the village maidens at the dance, nor encouraged the advances of the village beaux. Yet the fathers, as well as the young men, were fain to confess that poor Bertha would make happy any man she chose to accept, and deserved a wealthy husband, It was at church Bertha first saw young Adalbert, she soon learned to love him, as he did her, yet knowing that his father would never consent to his union with an obscure, undowered country maiden, she lived without hope, and wished only to dedicate her life to her humble duties. When she saw the youth ride past with Irene, she would color deeply, and the tears would rush into her eyes; but she suppressed her grief, and always went, the same evening, to ask forgiveness and peace before the Virgin's shrine. Every week, when it was market day in Padua, she went, carrying her little basket filled with yarn, with the proceeds of which she purchased necessaries for her grandmother. Meanwhile, the Lady Irene shone as the first star at court; and from day to day the Emperor's admiration increased. The Empress was sad at heart. The ru mor had come to her ears that her lord was about to divorce her, and believing misfortune at hand, she schooled herself to bear it with resignation. She determined, at length, to ask the Emperor's permission to immure herself in a cloister, and devote the remainder of her life to religious duties. Believing it certain that she would obtain his consent, she caused every thing to be prepared for her journey. The night before she intended to prefer her request, she retired weary from exhaustion and depression, and having fallen into an uneasy slumber, dreamed she found herself standing on a high rock which overlooked a valley luxuriously beautiful. Then she saw a white dove flying through the clear air, carrying a fine thread in its beak, one end of which fell on the gold ring she had received from the Emperor the day of her espousal. She drew the thread listlessly through the ring, and as by invisible hands, it was instantly woven into a fine net, in which the Emperor was enclosed, and kneeling at her feet, looked up at her with eyes full of affection. She awoke full of wonder, and communicated the dream to her confessor. "Noble lady!" said her ghostly counsellor, "we must not place too much confidence in dreams, yet must we not slight them altogether. Our guardian spirits oft speak to us in visions of the night; moreover, patience and faithfulness ofttimes accomplish what rash zeal could never effect. Remain, illustrious lady, some time yet at court, before you speak of your intention to withdraw to a cloister. Bear with patience what may disquiet you, and hope the best, while you invoke the aid of Heaven with earnest prayer." The Empress followed the advice of her confessor. She did not speak of leaving her husband, but bore all his neglect with patience and silence. While she waited for better days, all the leisure time of the Emperor was devoted to her rival. The artful Irene, who aimed at nothing less than the crown, on her part, sought to make the Emperor suspicious of the faith of his admirable consort; and by way of revenging herself upon Adalbert for his coldness, as well as gratifying her ambition, accused him of having dared to lift his eyes to the Empress. The youth had been some weeks at court, and this circumstance gave a coloring of truth to her representations. Henry, who willingly seized upon an occasion for another-yes-loves the Empress!" As Henry started anger against his unoffending consort, was easily per- at this, she repeated her assertion, and added, "Tosuaded to believe what was told him; and, indeed,|| morrow, at midnight, he has an interview with her, in could not help observing that she apparently showed the gallery leading to her apartments." The Empemore respect to Adalbert than any of the young noble-|| ror, enraged, swore to be a listener, and revenge himman about the court. The truth was, Adalbert was melancholy by reason of his hopeless love for the poor spinner; his silent and dejected mien naturally drew the attention of the Empress, who had also her secret grief. Thus the unhappiness of the two made them friends. self on the wicked pair. Irene besought him to say nothing of her agency in discovering the secret, and then withdrew, exulting in the probable success of her scheme. She next sent for young Montagna, and addressed him with cordiality, informing him she knew of his attachment to another maiden, and releasing him As it often happens in similar cases, it fell out that from his vows to her. She professed also a wish to the Emperor, who, in his selfish caprice, had disregar- serve him, advised him to consult the Empress in reladed his wife, and even ridiculed her love for him, tion to his marriage with the spinner girl, and promised began to feel some interest in her so soon as he susto help him to an interview. "To-morrow, at midpected that she preferred young Montagna to himself. night," concluded the artful lady," you can speak alone The possession he had despised, while he imagined it with her majesty; she usually goes out into the gallery secure, he learned to value when he seemed likely to lose at that hour, to take the cool night air. But say nothit. He even perceived that his consort possessed attrac-ing of your intention previously; as, should your appli tions likely to win the affection of all who should be admitted to her friendship. His jealousy made him keener sighted in this respect; and as it became evident to the noble lady, that she was an object of more attention than formerly to her lord, her increased cheerfulness rendered her still more pleasing in his eyes. Irene's beauty still held the Emperor in bondage; but he began to see how great was her ambition; and once or twice he consulted with his confessor in regard to his future actions. The confessor assured him that the divorcing of his amiable wife would be a henious offence in the eye of Heaven. From day to day the mild charms of the Empress shone in clearer light; still Henry could not divest himself of jealousy, whenever he saw young Adalbert welcomed with a friendly smile. While Irene, alarmed at the unexpected turn Henry's fancy had taken, was employing all her arts to injure her mistress. Bertha remained in seclusion and sorrow. Her grandmother's health began to fail, so that she confined herself almost entirely to the house. She had not seen young Montagna in a long time, for she had not been lately at the market. Every evening she prayed before the Virgin for her grandmother and her lover, and always felt strengthened afterwards for her task. She put fresh flax on her distaff, and determined to excel all the rival spinners in the fineness of the thread she would spin for the next fair in Padua. Her grandmother's health improved; she had more leisure, and devoted herself to her labor, cheered by pleasing anticipations, for on that day she felt certain she would see Adalbert, if only at a distance. The Lady Irene perceived with increasing mortification, that she was no longer distinguished by the Emperor, and also, that her affianced lover was wholly lost to her. She determined on making a last bold effort to accomplish her designs, and the day before the fair in Padua, contrived to be found by Henry alone in the garden, weeping violently. On his asking the cause of her grief, she answered, "How can I fail to be wretched, my gracious lord? Your favor is withdrawn from and the man appointed to be my husband, loves me, cation be in vain, you would wish it kept a secret." Adalbert thanked the Lady Irene for the interest she took in his affairs, and promised to follow her advice; in his heart, however, he distrusted her, and was little inclined to abide by her directions. The fair commenced; cheerful music was heard from every quarter, and the peasantry and citizens, with the aristocracy of the town, crowded the market squares, lined with booths and tents, where the venders were to be seen. Among the spinners with their piles of thread, were a number of dames and damsels from Montagna. Many a look was fixed on the pretty Bertha, as modest and retired she sat among the others; and many came up to examine her work, but pronounced it of too fine a texture for common use: so that it re mained unsold. Her eyes wandered through the crowd "The Virgin sends you! yes-you are the dovethat sings me peace!" cried the Empress. She drew several of the skeins through her ring without difficulty, and handed them to one of her attendants: then taking a gold chain from her neck, she flung it over Bertha's, |