pliance joined to unbending love of truth and honor; which make up the admirable woman in real life; this portraiture is, we are inclined to think, the rarest and most difficult achievement of the writer's art. But rare and difficult as it is, Mr. Allston has achieved the task in his Rosalia Landi. From the dawning conception to the last touches of execution, all is beautiful, attractive, and harmonious in this most lovely creation; and we feel at the close, that the author's pencil would be fitly employed to illustrate this triumph of his pen.

We have often before pored over Allston's pages to admire the grace and delicacy of his English poetical style. This book is equally remarkable for its rich and harmonious prose. The nice selection of epithets, the faultless arrangement of the members of the sentences, and the rhythmical cadence to which thought and expression seem to move united, combine to make it one of the most finished works in American literature. We fall here and there upon a most delicately wrought picture of some natural scene, which betrays the artist's eye and hand; then a deep moral reflection, speaking a varied experience and observation of life, arrests our attention and awakens a train of solemn thought; then a maxim of art, worthy to be laid up among the treasures of memory, is modestly put forth, but bears under its simple expression the wisdom of studious and thoughtful years. Such, in our judg ment, is the character of this little volume by our great artist; it is a work of high genius, of rare beauty, and of a moral purity and religious elevation, which distinguish it from most literary works of the age. We shall now illustrate our remarks by a few short extracts. We begin with the following sketch of Monaldi.

"The profession which Monaldi had chosen for the future occupation of his life was that of a painter; to which, however, he could not be said to have come wholly unprepared. The slight sketch just given of him will show that the most important part, the mind of a painter, he already possessed; the nature of his amusements (in which, some one has well observed, men are generally most in earnest,) having unconsciously disciplined his mind for this pursuit. He had looked at Nature with the eye of a lover; none of her minutest beauties had escaped him, and all that were stirring to a sensitive heart and a romantic imagination were treasured up in his memory, as themes of delightful musing in her absence and they came to him in those moments with that never-failing

freshness and life which love can best give to the absent. But the skill and the hand of an artist were still to be acquired.

"But perseverance, if not a mark of genius, is at least one of its practical adjuncts; and Monaldi possessed it. Indeed, there is but one mode of making endurable the perpetual craving of any master-passion, the continually laboring to satisfy it. And, so it be innocent, how sweet the reward! giving health to the mind without the sense of toil. This Monaldi enjoyed; for he never felt that he had been toiling, even when the dawn, as it often happened, broke in upon his labors.

"Without going more into detail, in a very few years Monaldi was universally acknowledged to be the first painter in Italy. His merit, however, was not merely comparative. He differed from his contemporaries no less in kind than in degree. If he held any thing in common with others, it was with those of ages past, with the mighty dead of the fifteenth century; from them he had learned the language of his art, but his thoughts, and their turn of expression, were his own. His originality, therefore, was felt by all; and his country hailed him as one coming, in the spirit of Raffaelle, to revive by his genius her ancient glory.

"It is not, however, to be supposed, that the claims of the new style were allowed at once, since it required not only the acquisition of a new taste, but the abandoning an old one. In what is called a critical age, which is generally that which follows the age of production, it is rarely that an original author is well received at once. There are two classes of opponents, which he is almost sure to encounter: the one consists of those who, without feeling or imagination, are yet ambitious of the reputation of critics; who set out with some theory, either ready made to their hands and purely traditional, or else reasoned out by themselves from some plausible dogma, which they dignify with the name of philosophy. As these criticize for distinction, every work of art becomes to them, of course, a personal affair, which they accordingly approach either as patrons or enemies; and woe to the poor artist who shall have had the hardihood to think for himself. In the other class is comprised the well-meaning multitude, who, having no pretensions of their own, are easily awed by authority; and, afraid to give way to their natural feeling, receive without distrust the more confident dicta of these self-created arbiters. Perhaps at no time was the effect of this peculiar usurpation more sadly illustrated than in the prescriptive commonplace which distinguished the period of which we speak. The first appearance of Monaldi was consequently met by an opposition proportioned to the degree of his departure from the current opin

ions. But as his good sense had restrained him from venturing before the public until by long and patient study he had felt himself entitled to take the rank of a master, he bore the attacks of his assailants with the equanimity of one who well knew that the ground he stood upon was not the quicksand of self-love. Besides, he had no vanity to be wounded, and the folly of their criticisms he disdained to notice, leaving it to time to establish his claims. Nor was this wise forbearance long unrewarded, for it is the nature of truth, sooner or later, to command recognition; some kindred mind will at last respond to it; and there is no true response that is not given in love; hence the lover-like enthusiasm with which it is hailed, and dwelt upon, until the echo of like minds spreads it abroad, to be finally received by the many as a matter of faith. It was so with Monaldi."— pp. 24-27.

By way of contrast to the preceding, we give the description of the effect upon Maldura of his first literary disappoint

ment.

"Maldura's heart stiffened within him, but his pride controlled him, and he masked his thoughts with something like composure. Yet he dared not trust himself to speak, but stood looking at Piccini, as if waiting for him to go on. 'I believe that 's all,' said the Count, carelessly twirling his hat, and rising to take leave.

"Maldura roused himself, and, making an effort, said, 'No, Sir, there is one person whom you have only named, — Alfieri ! what did he say ?'

"Nothing! Piccini pronounced this word with a graver tone than usual; it was his fiercest bolt, and he knew that a show of feeling would send it home. Then, after pausing a moment, he hurried out of the room.

"Maldura sunk back in his chair, and groaned in the bitterness of his spirit. As for the wretches who make a trade of sarcasm, and whose petty self-interest would fatten on the misfortunes of a rival, I can despise them; but Alfieri, — the manly, just Alfieri, to see me thus mangled, torn piece-meal before his eyes, and say nothing! Am I then beneath his praise? Could he not find one little spark of genius in me to kindle up his own, and consume my base assassins? No, he saw them pounce upon and embowel me, and yet said nothing.'

"Maldura closed his eyes to shut out the light of day; but neither their lids, nor the darkness of night could shut out from his mind the hateful forms of his revilers. He saw them in their assemblies, on the Corso, in the coffee-houses, knotted VOL. LIV.No. 115. 52

together like fiends, and making infernal mirth with the shreds and scraps of his verses, while the vulgar rabble, quitting their games of domino, and grinning around, showed themselves but too happy to have chanced there at the sport. In fine, there are no visions of mortified ambition which did not rise up before him. But they did not subdue his pride. Yet it was near a week before he could collect sufficient courage to stir abroad; nor did he then venture till he had well settled the course he meant to pursue, namely, to treat all his acquaintance still with civility; to appear as little concerned about his failure as possible, well knowing that in proportion to his dejection would be the triumph of his enemies; but to accept no favor, and especially to have no friend; a resolution which showed the true character of the man, who could not endure even kindness, unless offered as incense to his pride. "This artificial carriage had the desired effect. It silenced the flippant, and almost disarmed the malignant; while those of kinder natures saw in it only additional motives for respect; indeed there were some even generous enough to think better of his genius for the good temper with which he seemed to bear his disappointment. In short, so quietly did he pass it off, that after a few months no one thought, or appeared to think, of Maldura as an unsuccessful author." pp. 37-39.

Maldura, after this disappointment, publishes a satire which is successful; but, not content with this, he tries his hand at a tragedy, the cold reception of which puts the finishing touch to his character.

"This was an unlooked-for blow; and he sat for near an hour gazing upon the manager's letter, as if endeavouring to recall, he knew not what; for its purport was gone ere hardly known. But his recollection soon returned. Better had it not, than so to make visible the utter desolation within him, — to show him a mind without home or object; for he could look neither back nor forward. If he looked to the future, in place of the splendid visions that once rose like a mirage, he beheld a desert; if he turned to the past, his laborious realities, once seeming so gorgeous, now left without purpose, only cumbered the ground with their heavy ruins.

"In this hopeless state, however, there was one comforter which never deserted him, his indomitable pride; it was this sustained him. Had a shadow of self-distrust but crossed Maldura for a moment, it might have darkened to insanity; but no doubts of his genius had ever entered his mind; he was therefore an ill-used man, and he hated the world which had thus withheld his just rights. His only solace now, was in the wretched resource of the misanthrope, in that childish

revenge, which, in the folly of his anger, he imagines himself taking on the world, by foregoing its kindnesses; for there is small difference between a thorough misanthrope and a sullen child; indeed their illogical wrath generally takes the same course in both, namely, to retort an injury by spiting themselves. For the full indulgence of this miserable temper, he retired to an unfrequented part of the city, and, rarely venturing out except at night, it was generally concluded that he had quitted Rome, - where he was soon forgotten."—pp. 54, 55.

The following paragraph is one of those passages in which there is no mistaking the artist's hand.

"It was after a morning of more than usual depression and concern on his account, that Monaldi one day called on his unhappy friend. Maldura's apathy seemed for the moment overcome; and he could not help expressing surprise at such an unwonted visit; for it was scarcely past mid-day, and he knew that nothing short of necessity could tempt the devoted artist to leave his studio at that hour. Monaldi simply replied, that he had felt indisposed to work; and he drew a chair to a window. The apartment, being in an upper story, and the house somewhat elevated, commanded an extensive view of the southern portion of the city, overlooking the Campo Vaccino, once the ancient Forum, with its surrounding ruins, and taking in a part of the Coliseum. The air was hot and close, and there was a thin, yellow haze over the distance like that which precedes the scirocco, but the nearer objects were clear and distinct, and so bright that the eye could hardly rest on them without quivering, especially on the modern buildings, with their huge sweep of whited walls, and their red-tiled roofs, that lay burning in the sun, while the sharp, black shadows, which here and there seemed to indent the dazzling masses, might almost have been fancied the cinder-tracks of his fire. The streets of Rome, at no time very noisy, are for nothing more remarkable than, during the summer months, for their noontide stillness, the meridian heat being frequently so intense as to stop all business, driving every thing within doors, with the proverbial exception of dogs and strangers. But even these might scarcely have withstood the present scorching atmosphere. It was now high noon, and the few straggling vinedressers that were wont to stir in this secluded quarter had already been driven under shelter; not a vestige of life was to be seen, not a bird on the wing, and so deep was the stillness that a solitary foot-fall might have filled the whole air; neither was this stillness lessened by the presence of the two friends, for nothing so deepens silence as man at rest; they