will be mentioned afterwards. The Faun of Praxitiles is thus described:

....

"The Faun is the marble image of a young man, leaning his right arm on the trunk or stump of a tree; one hand hangs carelessly by his side; in the other he holds the fragment of a pipe or some such sylvan instrument of music. . . . The form, thus displayed, is marvelously graceful, but has a fuller and more rounded outline, more flesh, and less of heroic muscle than the old sculptors were wont to assign to their types of masculine beauty. . . . . The mouth, with its full yet delicate lips, seems so nearly to smile outright, that it calls forth a responsive smile. The whole statue-unlike anything else that was ever wrought in the severe material of marble-conveys the idea of an amiable and sensual creature, easy, mirthful, apt for jollity, yet not incapable of being touched by pathos." Vol. I, pp. 19, 20.

Again,

"Praxitiles has subtly diffused throughout his work that mute mystery which so hopelessly perplexes us whenever we attempt to gain an intellectual or sympathetic knowledge of the lower orders of creation. The riddle is indicated, however, only by two definite signs; these are the two ears of the Faun, which are leaf-shaped, terminating in little peaks, like those of some species of animals." Vol. I, p. 21.

The following is a description of Donatello, and refers to the particular point of resemblance between himself and the Faun:

"Donatello,' playfully cried Miriam, 'do not leave us in this perplexity! Shake aside those brown curls, my friend, and let us see whether this marvelous resemblance extends to the very tips of the ears. If so, we shall like you all the better!'"

No, no, dearest Signorina,' answered Donatello, laughing, but with a certain earnestness, I entreat you take the tips of my ears for granted.' As he spoke the young Italian made a skip and jump light enough for a veritable faun; so as to place himself quite beyond the reach of the fair hand that was outstretched as if to settle the matter by actual examination.'. . .

"Donatello's refractoriness as regarded his ears had evidently cost him something, and he now came close to Miriam's side, gazing at her with an appealing air, as if to solicit forgiveness. . It was difficult to make out the character of this young man. So full of animal life as he was, so joyous in his deportment, so handsome, so physically well developed, he made no impression of incompleteness, of maimed or stinted nature. . . . . . . There was an indefinable characteristic about Donatello that set him outside of rules." Vol. I, pp. 25, 26.

In the course of the narrative, an incident occurs in a visit of the party to one of the subterranean catacombs of Rome, which lends a thrilling interest to the story, at the same time

that it has much to do with the catastrophe to which we have already alluded. This is nothing less than the appearance of the Specter of the Catacomb to Miriam, (spoken of before in the story as having something strange in her character, hightened by the mystery which was thrown round her origin,) who is lost in the vaults, which occasions the solicitude of her companions, till her sudden reappearance in the circle. Between the two individuals there seemed to be some singular bond of union, painful in its nature, not fully explained. Donatello, who, with the brute instincts of the animal, has some gleams of human intelligence, has already formed a strong attachment to the maiden on account of her extraordinary beauty, which she, on her part, is inclined to reciprocate, but a nameless terror arising from her connection with the mysterious stranger, prevents her for a time from yielding to his solicitations. Miriam-but the author shall describe her as forming the original of her own portraits

"She was very youthful, and had what was usually thought to be a Jewish aspect; a complexion in which there was no roseate bloom, yet neither was it pale; dark eyes, into which you might look as deeply as your glance would go, and still be conscious of a depth that you had not sounded, though it lay open to the day. She had black, abundant hair, with none of the vulgar glossiness of other women's sable locks; if she were really of Jewish blood, then this was Jewish hair, and a dark glory such as crowns no Christian maiden's head. Gazing at this portrait you saw what Rachel might have been when Jacob deemed her worth the wooing seven years, and seven more; or perchance she might ripen to be what Judith was, when she vanquished Holofernes with her beauty, and slew him for too much adoring it.

'So beautiful! so beautiful!'

'Then you like the picture, Donatello?' she asked.
'Oh. beyond what I can tell!' he answered.
'And do you recognize the likeness?'

'Signora,' exclaimed Donatello, turning from the picture to the artist, in astonishment that she should ask the question, the resemblance is as little to be mistaken as if you had bent over the smooth surface of a fountain and possessed the witchcraft to call forth the image that you made there! It is yourself,'" Vol. I, pp. 65, 66.

Hilda is a New England girl of a very different constitution, physically and mentally, from Miriam, and an artist in a widely different sphere of art. She is thus delineated:

"Sometimes, a young artist instead of going on with a copy of the picture before which he had placed his easel, would enrich his canvas with an original portrait of Hilda at her work. . . . . She was pretty at all times in our native New England style, with her light brown ringlets, her delicately tinged but healthful cheek, her sensitive, intelligent, yet most feminine and kindly face. But every few moments this pretty and girlish face grew beautiful and striking, as some inward thought and feeling brightened, rose to the surface, and then, as it were, passed out of sight again; so that, taking into view this constantly recurring change, it really seemed as if Hilda were only visible by the sunshine of her soul." Vol. I, p. 83.

Hilda, like Miriam, had come to Rome with a view to improve a native talent for pictorial art; but, like many others, after a brief residence in the Eternal City had been contented to acquire a more substantial fame, by becoming an accurate and self-sacrificing copyist of immortal antiques, in some cases surpassing the original. Hilda had taken up her residence in a ruined tower, in which was an image of the Vir gin, her aerial habitation being called the Dove Cote, from the tribe of those birds who inhabited it, whence or from the purity of her nature she had derived her appellation of the Dove, and though a Puritan maiden, had devoted herself to the labor of keeping the lamp perpetually burning before the Virgin's shrine.

To return to the course of the story. Availing himself of a careless appointment of the former, Miriam and Donatello meet in a suburban villa, where Donatello again pressing his suit, Miriam at length reluctantly yields, and the happy pair indulge in a brief period of innocent hilarity and enjoyment. The chapter describing this scene, for gracefulness of narration and felicity of expression is one of the best in the book.

·

"What are you, my friend?' she exclaimed, always keeping in mind his singular resemblance to the Faun of the Capitol. If you are in good truth that wild and pleasant creature whose face you wear, pray make me known to your kindred. They will be found hereabouts, if anywhere. Knock at the rough rind of this ilex tree and summon forth the Dryad! Ask the water-nymph to rise dripping from yonder fountain, and exchange a moist pressure of the hand with me!'

"Donatello smiled; he laughed heartily, indeed, in sympathy with the mirth

that gleamed out of Miriam's deep, dark eyes. But he did not seem quite to understand her mirthful talk, nor to be disposed to explain what kind of creature he was, or to inquire with what divine or poetic kindred his companion feigned to link him.

'Why should you love me, foolish boy?' said she. 'We have no points of sympathy, at all. There are no two creatures more unlike, in this wide world, than you and I.'

'You are yourself, and I am Donatello,' replied he. Therefore, I love you! There needs no other reason.'

have you not, Donatello ?'

'You have had a happy life, hitherto
'Oh, yes,' answered the young man.
'In these delightful groves?' she asked.
'Here, and with you,' answered Donatello.

'But never so happy as now.'

Just as we are now.'

'What a fullness of content in him! How silly, and how delightful!' said Miriam, to herself. Then, addressing him again, But, Donatello, how long will this happiness last?'

'How long!' he exclaimed, for it perplexed him even more to think of the future than to remember the past. Why should it have any end? How long!

Forever! forever! forever!" Vol. I, pp. 101-105.

Kenyon is a young American artist, who, like the others. named above, has set up his studio in Rome, and has hitherto been successful in the department of art to which he has devoted himself, that is, sculpture. The author introduces us to his work-shop, and in the course of the narrative, in the list of statuary which the sculptor has in hand, or has already completed, takes occasion to pay a handsome compliment (which must be as gratifying to the individuals as it is justly deserved) to the works of two well known American artists, viz, "The Pearl Diver," by Paul Akers, and the magnificent bust of "Cleopatra," by W. W. Story. The former, to the merits of which we can heartily subscribe, is delineated in the following passage:

“Miriam admired the statue of a beautiful youth—a pearl-fisher-who had got entangled in the weeds at the bottom of the sea, and lay dead among the pearloysters, the rich shells and the sea-weeds all of like value to him now.

The poor young man has perished among the prizes that he sought,' remarked she. But what a strange efficacy there is in death! If we cannot win pearls, it causes an empty shell to satisfy us just as well! I like this statue, though it is too cold and stern in its moral lesson; and physically, the form has not settled itself into sufficient repose.'" Vol. I, p. 150.

Again, referring to some painful reminiscences of her former history—

"As he [the sculptor] attended her through the ante-chamber, she pointed to the statue of the pearl-diver.

'My secret is not a pearl,' said she, yet many a man might drown himself in plunging after it.'" Vol. I, p. 165.

We regret that our limits will not permit us to transcribe the passages relating to "Cleopatra," for a description of which the reader is referred to the volume.

Between Hilda and Kenyon an attachment subsists like that between Miriam and Donatello, which forms a sort of minor episode in the narrative.

But we may not linger in this part of the work, fascinating as it may be, but hasten on to Chapter XVIII, entitled "On the Edge of a Precipice,"-the catastrophe to which we have before alluded, and which occurs in this wise. Donatello, enamored as he is of Miriam, has an equal hatred of her model the personage mentioned as the Specter of the Catacomb, whose reappearance she has learned to dread, and whom she regards with positive aversion. Understanding from her the real state of the case, and the impossibility of ever severing the painful tie that binds Miriam and this man together, and instigated by her, in the first place, to commit the crime, he suddenly hurls his victim headlong from the Tarpeian rock, who becomes a mangled corse in the valley below. Chapter XIX is entitled "The Faun's Transformation," and portrays graphically the effect produced by the committal of the murderous deed, on the character of the Faun, raising him, through the influence of remorse on its account, from an individual neither man nor animal to an intelligent human being. In this part of the work the reader is forcibly reminded of the scene in "The Scarlet Letter," between Hester Prynne and Arthur Dimmesdale, which is rendered still more striking in a subsequent part of the book. We transcribe the opening passage:

"The door of the court-yard swung slowly and closed itself of its own accord. Miriam and Donatello were now alone there. She clasped her hands and looked