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Sundays he went regularly at a certain hour to meet his master coming from church, calculating the time with such nicety that the farmer always met the dog when about one-third of the distance between the church and his home.

We may conclude by repeating that things worth reading are to be found in dry scientific journals.

FRUITS AND POETS.

YOUNG AND AKENSIDE.-Olives; relished by the discerning few.

SIR WALTER SCOTT.-An orange; a rich and popular fruit, agreeable to all palates, and often taken to the theatre.

MOORE. A greengage; sweet and luscious, but somewhat palling when taken to excess.

BYRON.-The grape; the most picturesque of all fruits, but often concocted by fermentation into a deleterious and intoxicating liquor.

DARWIN. A melon; a pompous-looking fruit, imposing to the eye but insipid to the taste. CHAUCER. A quince; only used by moderns to give a flavour to other ingredients.

SPENSER. A nut; an excellent kernel when you have cracked the shell of the allegory.

SHAKSPERE.-A pine-apple; somewhat rough to the touch from the rust of antiquity, but the most exquisite of all fruits at the core.

MILTON.-An apple of his own paradise.

THOMSON.-A walnut; ripening in Autumn, but keeping good through all "The Seasons."

GRAY.-A peach; an excellent fruit, but soon over. GOLDSMITH. A gooseberry; a fruit universally liked, and found ever in Deserted Villages."

CAN INSECTS TALK?

This may indeed seem a strange question to those who would limit the meaning of the word to the capability of expressing ideas by means of articulate sounds; nevertheless, a little reflection will convince any one who is conversant with the habits of those creatures, that though they may have no tongues, they can express themselves in some way or other "with most miraculous organ." Any one who find's himself in the vicinity of an ant's nest, may soon be convinced that these industrious little labourers are by no means destitute of the power of communicating information to each other relative to the affairs of their commonwealth. Let him, for example, place a heap of food in the neighbourhood of the ant-hill, and watch the proceedings of its inmates. A short time will probably elapse before the discovery of the treasure, but at length some wanderer, in his morning's ramble, has the good fortune to stumble upon it. What does he do? He does not, like an isolated individual incapable of asking for assistance, begin at once the task of removing the heap, but on the contrary, off he scampers with the glad intelligence, and running his head against that of every ant he meets, manages, in some mysterious way, not only to intimate the fact of the discovery, but also to give information relative to the locality where the provisions may be found, for speedily it will be seen that troops of porters, summoned at the call of the first finder, hasten to the spot, and all is activity and bustle until the store is safely warehoused in the ant-hill. Another still more striking instance of the possession of a capability of spreading intelligence, and that of a somewhat abstruse character, is furnished by experiments that

have been made by Huber and others upon bees. Every one is aware that the queen-bee is an object of the greatest solicitude and attention to all the workers of the hive, and yet, among so many thousands, all busily employed in different and distant parts of the colony, it would appear impossible for them to ascertain, at least before the lapse of a considerable time, whether she was absent from among them or not. In order to see whether bees had any power of conveying news of this kind, the queen-bee has been stealthily and quietly abstracted from the hive; but here, as elsewhere, ill news was found to fly apace. For some half-hour or so, the loss seemed not to have been ascertained, but the progressively increasing buzz of agitation gradually announced the growing alarm, until shortly the whole hive was in an uproar, and all its busy occupants were seen pouring forth their legions in search of their lost monarch, or eager to avenge with their stings the insult offered to their sovereign. On restoring the captured queen to her subjects, with equal secrecy, the tumult speedily subsided, and the ordinary business of the community was resumed, as before the occurrence.-T. Rymer Jones.

HYMN FOR NIGHT.

FATHER in heaven! we thank thee
For the calm and holy night,
Dearer to earth's o'erwearied ones
Than day's warm golden light.
For her clear resplendent beauty-
The silence that she brings;
For the dove-like hushed tranquillity
On her starry purple wings.

We thank thee for the time of rest,
The sacred gift of sleep:

Now may the world-worn cease to strive,
The desolate to weep.
And Memory-triumphant now-

May glance serenely back
To many a fair and lovely scene

On life's dim chequered track.

Father in heaven! around thy throne
Seraphic harp-strains swell;
While hierarchy on hierarchy

Thy wondrous powers tell.
From lowly earth's sin-clouded bowers
Ascends our earnest song;
May it commingle with the tones
Of that adoring throng!

Father in heaven! with anthem-strains,
With deep and solemn prayer,
We offer up our hymns of praise
Upon the midnight air:
Be thou our guide in joy and grief,

Through life's brief changeful way; Our guardian in the night's still hours, And through the golden day.

LUCINDA ELLIOTT.

Printed by Cox (Brothers) & WYMAN, 74-75, Great Queen Street, London; and published by CHARLES Cook, at the Office of the Journal, 3, Raquet Court, Fleet Street.

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No. 206.]

SATURDAY, APRIL 9, 1853.

THE MEMORY OF MISCHIEF.

O, the happy days of youth
Are fast gaun by.-GILFILLAN.

HE must be either a very bad or very wretched man who does not look back with fond pleasure to the days of his boyhood," the days when hope and life were young," -and bring back from that garden of green memories some fruits so refreshing that now and then a tear shall fall on them like a joy-token, which the heart is willing to drop as the price of its new gladness. Boyhood! Ah, how racy is the very word,-how suggestive of impulsive generosity, of hearty abandonment,-of wild, hilarious joy,-so brimful and excessive, that it scruples at no mischief so its mood be served, and will dare anything to gratify its individuality. How unlike girlhood, too,-how contrasted with the quiet refinement which marks the woman even in the bud. Noise, confusion, nonsense, and unbounded laughter, with an innate love of mischief, which no philosophy can account for, form the elementary traits of boy life: but the girl steals away to her beads, her doll, and her skipping-rope,dreading to be thought "a romp," and looking suspiciously on any manifestations of boisterousness in any of her fellows.

Boys are boys, and not little men. They are all alike, except as to the colour of the hair and pinafore. They all inherit the same pride,-the same "devil-may-care" ambition, the same spirit of mischief, and the same freemasonry of mutual confidence in all affairs relating to the government of the boy world. Where is the boy who is willing to be outdone by a playmate? Where is the boy who will acknowledge to being beaten in a fight with one of another school? Wherever such an one is to be found, guard him well, for fear he should grow up silly. It is positively astonishing what hair-breadth ventures boys will engage in merely to gratify some pride of rivalry, or satisfy the eternal longing of a boy "to do something." In fact, there is nothing within the range of possibility which a boy will not do, let the consequence be what it may, provided there is no unmistakeable criminality; and then you learn what an honest nature lurks beneath that Puck's grinning countenance, resting on its own self-trust, and to be neither bought nor sold.

With what pleasure did we prepare our little sailingboats and our packthread fishing-tackle, dreaming all

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the while of Robinson Crusoe and the desolate island, and entertaining, much to our parents' sorrow, serious thoughts of "going to sea"-a threat that every boy indulges in when he has read that most seductive of books, and gained sufficient knowledge of navigation to send his sailing-boat safely across a river. There was one out-door sport of ours for which we can never forgive ourself-it was so thoroughly mischievous, and that was, throwing a bench-ball at the church clock-a feat which we then considered as of the first order, so much strength of arm and skill in aiming did it require. Whenever we now make a sojourn to our native suburban district of Stepney (it was a green village with meadows and windmills when we were young), we look up sorrowfully at the clock of the old church, and regret that we could ever have committed such a sacrilege as to join in a party to pelt it.

But the crowning joys of all were "buttercupping" and "blackberrying." As soon as the spring warmth brought forth the golden dandelions, and gave a new greenness to the grass in Stepney churchyard, away we went, inspired by the sunshine and rich greenness everywhere, in parties of six or eight, to gather buttercups and daisies in Bow-common fields. Alas! that spot is now a busy town, covered with houses, factories, and railway stations. It was then divided by hedgerows and gravel paths, and stile after stile led the way from "Cut-throat Lane" to "Old Ford" and "Twig Folly." There we rolled and gambolled in the meadows, and sometimes lay on our backs and shaded our eyes with our hands while we watched the lark in his ascending flight far into the blue, and almost melted into the embracing spring air under the influence of his joyous carol. There our arms were filled with the long stems of the buttercups; or we sat on the grass eating "cocksorrel" to satiety, and got home at dusk so tired with happiness that sleep was a real relief. Orchard-robbing we never indulged in but once, for the good reason that "our village" had few orchards. We remember old "Captain King," as he was called, who kept a house and garden at the corner of "Ben Jonson's Field." He was a retired sea captain, and spent his whole time in the culture of his garden. As we passed his garden wall every day to and from school, we were always attracted by a large pear-tree which loomed above the wall, and which, in autumn, was always loaded with large baking-pears. On the occasion of our expedition we had formed a con

spiracy to attack this pear-tree: and although the pears were yet far from ripe, and hence as hard as bullets, the enterprise was considered one of the finest we had ever engaged in, for, to tell the truth, our pride had been wounded by the boastings of a country lad who came into our class, and whose whole conversation consisted of recitals of former orchard robbings. We planned to play

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Nickey Night strike a light" in the adjoining field at dusk; and while one party kept up the noise of the game to lull suspicion, a small detachment was to scale the wall and secure the booty. The evening came, and at last the hour. Ourself and a dark determined boy were chosen to scale the wall,--three others, who had promised to aid us, having lost their courage and bolted. Choosing a spot where the bricks were loose, we at last gained the top of the wall, and looked down in the moonlight on the old gentleman's garden. We paused a moment, and then down we both dropped. We stole along the garden, treading on strawberry-beds and breaking the flower-laden branches of the rose-bushes. There were grapes in one place, nectarines in another: the walls all round were hung with unripe fruit, and presented stronger temptations than the chosen pear-tree. We were treading in the thick of a strawberry-bed, in order to get at some green peaches, when there was a noise at the garden door, and we saw the servant busy scouring a tub. By this time several of our playmates had mounted the wall and were occupying themselves in bawling out directions and exhortations to us, thereby increasing our danger of detection. The noise of our companions attracted her attention, and she understood in a moment the meaning of their exhortations. She ran towards us: we dropped our fruit and ran also, but knew not whither. The dark boy made for a buttress of the wall and began to ascend; we shot straight across a bed of celery, tripped over a frame, and fell sprawling, and the next moment the broom was belabouring our shoulders. Our companion escaped and regained his fellows, but we were dragged like poachers to the county justice,-into the presence of the grey-headed captain, who sat, in his velvet cap and slippers, smoking in the parlour. The old man looked at us through his spectacles, read us a lecture on the wickedness of theft, and then ordered our liberation. It was a loud "pit-pat my heart made against my waistcoat, when, shy, pale, and trembling from head to foot, I sought my companions, and found they had taken the alarm and decamped, leaving me to my fate with the injured captain.

But the supreme joy was blackberrying. Long before August had tipped the trees with red,-before indeed there was a single gauze frill unfolded on the bramble, we began to arrange our blackberry-parties. Topographical debates took place every day, much to the detriment of school studies. Very soon the whole school was absorbed in warm discussion on the relative merits of Hornsey, Finchley, Wanstead, Epping, and Woodford, as suitable places of resort for blackberry gathering. At last September came, and the first jaunt took place. We took our dinners with us in our bags, though many went without dinners, as they did without parental permission; and sometimes a whole class "played the wag," and started direct for the forest instead of going to school. Many canings and boxings of ears followed these expeditions. Many a red mark on hands or face betrayed how this or that boy had become a martyr to his love for blackberries, though his pride never suffered him to acknowledge it. Lips bore their black stains for days afterwards; scars and thorn-marks were to be seen; and the unusual oscillation of hands from mouth to pocket and from pocket to mouth told plainly enough of the store of blackberries which had been brought under cover to the school, and which, half-cooked in the trowsers pocket, were eaten with indescribable relish.

One striking trait of boys is their extraordinary appetite. Did you ever know a boy who had had enough to eat? Fill him tight as a blown bladder at the dinnertable, and he will go to school with his pockets filled with grey peas, or sweetmeats, or cocoa-nut. We can vividly remember how, when we were "flush with money, we

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ate no end of luxuries; but when the money had dwindled down to a last halfpenny, we contented ourselves with a halfpenny carrot, which was gnawed by a dozen different boys, until it came back to its owner a wretched remnant of its former edibility. There is scarcely anything that boys will not eat; their test of the worth of a thing is, can it be eaten?" We always made it a point to get home soon at dinner-time on washing-day, in order to fill the ashpit of the copper fire with potatoes and onions for roasting, the cooking of which occupied our whole thought during the afternoon, and kept us in an excited state until school broke up, and we returned home to batten on our luxuries. Then there were the roast apples, which, like joints, were suspended by a string from the stalk, and swung from the brass crane to hiss and spurt before the heat. That they were taken up half done, and the mouth burnt by eating them too hot, were conditions as essential to such a treat as the apples themselves. Spanish liquorice-water and orangepeel-water, were each luxuries in their way, though we soon came to regard them as treats more adapted for girls or very young boys-certainly not for such as called each other "fellows." The putting of milk into bottles, and churning it into butter, was an amusement which we never tired of, though many a scolding for stealing the milk, and many a threat to "take away that nasty bottle," made us wary how we were detected in that class of experiments. We were very young indeed when we made coffee "on the sly" in a tablespoon; but we never entirely got rid of one dream, which was that of having nothing but toasted currant-buns for breakfast-a fancy which haunts us even now occasionally, and which, strange to say, we have never realized.

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Pocket-money was always an important matter. The boy who could afford to buy a whole cocoa-nut-and a Jew always stood near the school to tantalize us with a bag-full, while he held several open ones in his hand, and offered half a nut for twopence; a 'ole un for fourpence," -a boy who could do that was accounted very rich, and was looked at many times in the course of a morning's conning; the younger lads especially eyeing him as if to ascertain whether he exhibited any unusual traits in his features. The amount of money which a boy had very much determined his rank in the world. The more money he had, the older he was regarded, and hence the better entitled to smoke pieces of cane, or even to chew tobacco if he thought proper. If either of these operations made him sick, not a word was said about it; but if a poor boy, or one who seldom spent money, ventured on so bold a step, he became a target for ridicule, and was so jeered by his comrades, that life, for at least another year, must be a burthen to him.

Then there is the strange hope which possesses boyhood-the strange hope in the future. They talk about what they intend to be; and how they like this trade or that trade, or this or that profession. Life is all mystery to them; yet they are not wholly dead to a sense of what its reality may be; and as their years grow towards youth, and give hints of coming adolescence, this thought of the future grows into an excitement which, for a time, eats up the whole of life, and bears them along into all manner of strange dreams, and schemes, and wayward imaginings, the reality all the while lying beyond them, but revealing itself in shreds and patches till they grow into the full consciousness of its serious import, and feel the first pressure of responsibility.

So life passes through phase after phase, and manhood comes by a slow growth, and continues to ripen until we

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have so grown out of the boyskin that we can look down upon it, almost doubting that it was ever ours; until a flood of these sweet boyish memories encircles us, and we are once more assured of our beginning in the world and rejoice that once we were boys indeed.

For ourselves, we would be boys ever; not in orchardrobbing, milk-churning, or pelting at the church clock; but in freshness of feeling,-in freedom from conventional rules and the coldness of polished hypocrisy,in hearty fellowship with all we meet, and in the strong hope in the future;-the forward-looking, earnest-striving, hopeful ambition to tear aside the cobwebs of prejudice and falsity, and enter with pride and hilarity into the life that lies before us. Off with your kid gloves, man, and pluck the blackberries!

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"It happened," he replied, "in the church; and Ann Denham has done it! I met Sir Joshua Reynolds just now, and he told me, point-blank, that marriage had ruined me in my profession."

"Nonsense, John; it is only one of Sir Joshua's theories. He is a bachelor himself, and cannot understand nor judge of the quiet satisfaction and happiness of married life."

"Oh! he firmly believes it, I can assure you. Sir Joshua thinks no man can be a great artist, unless he visits Rome, and educates his taste by a contemplation of the great models of antiquity. He is constantly telling the students at the Academy that if they would excel, they must bring the whole powers of their mind to bear upon their art, from the moment they rise until they go to bed."

66

What! and leave no room, no corner, for the affections? Don't believe him, John; don't be cast down. You are a true artist, and you will be a great one."

"But he says no man can be a great artist, unless he studies the grand style of art in the magnificent works of Michael Angelo and Rafaele, in the Vatican. Now, I," drawing up his small figure to its full height,-" I would be a great artist."

And you shall be! You, too, if that be necessary, shall study at Rome, in the Vatican. I will never have it said that Ann Denham ruined you for an artist."

"But how ?" asked Flaxman,-"how to get to Rome?" "I will tell you how. Work and economize. If you will leave the latter to me, we shall soon be able to spare the means for a visit to Rome,--and together, mind! Ann Denham must go and look after her ruined artist."

And she shook her curls, and gave one of her bright, hearty laughs.

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Ann," said he-and Flaxman took his wife's hand in his "what Reynolds has said to-day, and what you have said now, have determined me. I will go to Rome, and show the president that wedlock is for a man's good rather than his harm, and you shall accompany me."

She was a noble, true-hearted woman, this wife of Flaxman's. The artist was, in the course of his life, fortunate beyond most men in the friendships which he formed with estimable women; but his wife stood higher than them all in his estimation; for she was friend,

fellow-student, companion, comforter, and wife, all in one Like him, Ann Flaxman had a fine taste for art; she also knew something of Greek, and was well skilled in French and Italian. Withal, she was a frugal, wellmanaging wife; and could keep her own kitchen and parlour as tidy as she did her husband's studio. She could knit and mend as well as draw, and could cook a Yorkshire pudding as deftly as she could read a passage from Racine or Anastasio. Her household was a model of neatness and taste, and there always seemed to reign within it a devout quiet and perfect tranquillity.

Patiently and happily this loving couple plodded on during five years in that humble little home in Wardour Street; always with the long journey to Rome before them. It was never lost sight of for a moment, and not a penny was uselessly spent that could be saved towards the expenses of the visit. They said no word to any one about their project; solicited no aid from the Academy; but trusted only to their own patient labour and love to pursue and achieve their object. During this time, Flaxman exhibited but few works. He could not afford marble to experiment on original works; but he obtained occasional commissions for monuments, by the profits of which he maintained himself. One of his first works of this kind was the monument in memory of Collins the poet, now placed in Chichester Cathedral. His monument to Mrs. Morley, for Gloucester Cathedral, was greatly admired, and tended to increase his reputation and extend his business. He also continued to supply the Messrs. Wedgwood, of Etruria, with designs for potteryware, many of which have since been revived, and a considerable number of them were exhibited at the Great Exhibition in 1851. About this time, Flaxman executed for the same gentlemen a set of designs of chessmen, of exquisite beauty, which are worthy of being more extensively known.

Five years passed, and Flaxman set out, in company of his wife, for the Eternal City. Like all other artists who visit Rome, he was astonished by the splendour of the Vatican and the Sistine Chapel, and the surpassing beauty and grandeur of the works which they contained. He could not fail greatly to profit by his visit. He applied himself eagerly to study, labouring meanwhile, like most other poor artists who visit Rome, to maintain himself by his daily labour. It was at this time that he composed his beautiful designs illustrative of Homer, Eschylus, and Dante, for English purchasers; and we rejoice to see that the illustrations of Homer have recently been made accossible to all classes of purchasers.* He was, doubtless, greatly aided in the composition of these designs by the numerous antique bas-reliefs on Greek and Etruscan vases and sarcophagi, which he had now an opportunity of studying. But though he thus satiated his fancy with the spirit of the days of old, he threw his own inventive genius into his works. He created, and did not copy. The one was to him far easier and infinitely more delightful than the other.

What does the reader think were Flaxman's terms for executing these rare and beautiful illustrations of Homer? Fifteen shillings apiece! This was the price paid for them by Mrs. Hare Nayler. But Flaxman needed the money, and he worked for art's sake as well. The money earned by the sale of his designs enabled him meanwhile to find bread and raiment for himself and wife, and to go onward in the prosecution of his darling studies. But the Homeric designs brought him more than money. They brought him fame and éclat, and friends and patrons began to flock to his studio. The munificent Thomas Hope commissioned him to execute the group of Cephalus and Aurora, which now adorns the fine collec

In the National Illustrated Library. Ingram, Cooke, and Co.

tion of his son in Piccadilly. About the same time the bishop of Derry (earl of Bristol) ordered of him a group from Ovid's Metamorphoses, representing the fury of Athamos; but the price paid for it was such as to leave the artist a loser. The Countess Spencer commissioned the set of designs after Eschylus, at a guinea each, and Mr. Hope took the set illustrative of Dante at the same price. These works brought more fame than money; still Flaxman could live, his loving wife ever by his side.

Some years thus passed, when Flaxman resolved to return to England, to show that wedlock had not "ruined him for an artist." Buonaparte had struck one or two of his terrible blows on the further side of the Alps, and the English were all erowding home. But before he left Italy the academies of Florence and Carrara recognised Flaxman's merits by electing him a member.

Soon after his return to England, and almost before he had settled down into full employment as a sculptor, he paid one of the most tender and delicate tributes to his wife that artist ever paid. It was his own way of acknowledging the love and the admirable qualities of his wife, and proud indeed she must have been with the gift as of the giver. He got a quarto book made, containing some score of leaves, and on the first page he drew the design of a dove with an olive-branch in her mouth, guardian angels on either side, with the words written underneath," To Ann Flaxman." Beneath this was the representation of two hands clasped as at an altar, and a garland borne by two cherubs carried the following inscription:-"The anniversary of your birthday calls on me to be grateful for fourteen happy years passed in your society. Accept the tribute of these sketches, which, under the allegory of a knight-errant's adventures, indicate the trials of virtue and the conquest of vice, preparatory to a happier state of existence. John Flaxman, Oct. 2, 1796." The designs in the book were forty in number, two on each page. They are still preserved, and are so full of grace and beauty,-they tell the story of trial, endurance, faith, hope, and courage, so well, that we wish some adventurous publisher would undertake now to give them to the world. We are of opinion that Flaxman's remarkable genius-his imaginative and artistic qualities are more vividly exhibited in these and others of his designs than even in his most elaborate sculptured works.

Flaxman often used to say in jest before his friends,"Well, Sir Joshua was wrong in his prophecy, after all. You see wedlock did not ruin me for an artist. Ann ?" Ann's reply may easily be imagined.

IV. SUCCESS!

Did it,

The sculptor, on his return from Rome, took up his abode at No. 7, Fitzroy Square, Buckingham Street, and he remained there until his death, thirty years after. His small studio, in which so many noble works were elaborated, still exists. His fame had preceded him to England, and he found no want of lucrative employment now. While at Rome, he had been commissioned to execute his famous monument in memory of Lord Mansfield, and it was erected in the north transept of Westminster Abbey shortly after his return. It stands there in majestic grandeur, a monument to the genius of Flaxman himself -calm, simple, and severe. No wonder that Banks, the sculptor, then in the heyday of his fame, exclaimed when he saw it," This little man cuts us all out!"

When the bigwigs of the Royal Academy heard of Flaxman's return, and especially when they had an opportunity of seeing and admiring his noble portrait-statue of Mansfield, they were eager to have him enrolled among their number. The Royal Academy has always had the art of "running to the help of the strongest," and when an artist has proved that he can achieve a

reputation without the Academy, then is the Academy most anxious to " 'patronize" him. The Academy, it will be remembered, had given its gold medal to his unworthy competitor, Engleheart, passing by his own far superior work. He had then felt bitterly vexed, but determined that the next time he modelled for the Academy it should be as a master, he would deserve and he would command their applause. Perhaps, too, he had not forgotten the president's cruel cut when Flaxman told him he had married,-" You are ruined for life as an artist." Well! he had got over both these slights. The wounds had healed kindly, and he had no desire to keep alive the grievance. He allowed his name to be proposed in the candidates' list of associates, and was immediately elected. In the course of the same year (1797) he exhibited his monument of Sir William Jones, and several bas-reliefs from the New Testament, which were greatly admired.

His progress was now rapid, and he was constantly employed. Perseverance and study had made him great, and he went on from triumph to triumph.

In the heyday of his fame, some years after his return to England, Flaxman conceived the design of a colossal statue to the naval power of Britain, which he proposed should be erected, two hundred feet in height, on Greenwich Hill. The idea was a grand one,-that of a majestic landmark for mariners, overlooking the tide of British commerce, on which the wealth of all lands was borne upon the busy Thames into the lap of England, and standing, as it were, sentinel over the last retreat of British naval heroes. But the design was too grand for his age, and though a committec deliberated upon it, they treated it as the dream of a poet, and dismissed it as unworthy of further notice. Some future generation may, however, yet embody Flaxman's noble idea of a colossal Britannia on Greenwich Hill. Surely the power of Britain might as well be exhibited in some such enduring national work of art, as that of the kingdom of Bavaria in the now world-famous statue at Munich!

Flaxman's monuments are known nearly all over England. Their mute poetry beautifies most of our cathedrals and many of our rural churches. Whatever work of this kind he executed, he threw a soul and meaning into it, embodying some high Christian idea of charity, of love, of resignation, of affection, or of kindness. In monuments such as these his peculiar genius pre-eminently shone. There is a tenderness and grace about them which no other artist has been able to surpass or even to equal. His rapid sketches illustrative of the Lord's Prayer, published in lithograph some years ago, exhibit this peculiar quality of his genius in a striking light. In historical monuments, again, he was less successful, though his monuments to Reynolds and Nelson, in St. Paul's Cathedral, are noble works, which will always be admired.

At the Peace of Amiens, Flaxman formed one of the crowd of Englishmen who flocked over to Paris to admire the treasures of the Louvre, which had been plundered from nearly all European countries. Flaxman entertained a hearty English dislike to Napoleon. When at Rome, some young French officers showed him a medal of Buonaparte, then only a general officer. Flaxman looked at the head, and said: "This citizen Buonaparte of yours is the very image of Augustus Cæsar!" The sculptor never got over his dislike to the man; and though, when at Paris, the First Consul wished to be introduced to him, Flaxman refused. Still greater was his repugnance to the French Republican painter and sculptor David, in whom Flaxman saw an atrocious Jacobin and a declared atheist ; and he turned from his proffered civilities with only halfconcealed disgust. Flaxman was himself so pure of heart, so simple and so gentle, that the very idea of such a man set him a-loathing.

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