wildly at the young man, whose form seemed to have dilated, and whose eyes blazed with the fierce energy that had suddenly inspired him. It had kindled him into a man; it had developed within him an intelligence which was no native characteristic of the Donatello whom we have heretofore known. that simple and joyous creature was gone forever.

'What have you done?' said Miriam, in a horror-stricken whisper.

But

The glow of rage was still lurid on Donatello's face, and now flashed out again from his eyes.

'I did what ought to be done to a traitor,' he replied. I did what your eyes bade me do, when I asked them with mine, as I held the wretch over the precipice.'

'Did you not mean that he should die?' sternly asked Donatello, still in the glow of that intelligence which passion had developed in him. There was short time to weigh the matter, but he had his trial in that breath or two while I held him over the cliff, and his sentence in that one glance when your eyes responded to mine! Say that I have slain him against your will-say that he died without your whole consent-and in another breath you shall see me lying beside him.' 'Oh, never,' cried Miriam, 'my one own friend. Never! never! never!'" Vol. I, pp. 216–218.

This part of the story is worked up by our author with wonderful power, and in vigor of description and pathos is not surpassed by anything in Mr. Hawthorne's preceding volumes.

The usual effect of the commission of crime, is next shown, in the mutual wretchedness of its perpetrators, more, however, in the case of Donatello than of Miriam, whose pride enables her to keep up the semblance of a mind at ease, while Donatello is completely overcome by the terrible consciousness of the deed. The result of this is a separation, resolved on between the two, at the instance of the latter, since they can no longer live together, so repulsive has become their dreadful bond of union. This is succeeded by a similar estrangement and divorce between Miriam and her friend Hilda, who is involuntarily an eye-witness of the tragedy, and who can no longer regard Miriam with the feelings which she has been wont to entertain towards her, leaving her to struggle alone, in utter hopelessness of companionship or relief. She is burdened with a dreadful secret, which she is either unable or unwilling to reveal, the effect of which, on her highly sensitive and

pure nature, is to make her, physically and mentally, almost as miserable as Miriam herself.

The scene next changes to a tower in the Apennines, whither we are transported by the wand of the (Salem) magician, where the sculptor, Kenyon, makes a visit to the proprietor, who turns out to be our old acquaintance, Donatello, or, to give him his real title, "The Count of Monte Beni." Here he is received and entertained for some time as a guest, and partakes of the good cheer which his host has provided, in the shape of a particular and choice wine made from the vineyards of Monte Beni, from its peculiar exhilirating qualities called "Sunshine," and which is delineated in the chapter entitled "Sunshine." In the course of his visit he learns that the Count and his domestics are not the only occupants of the castle, but that a female, unknown to the Count, inhabits an apartment of the building, inclosed in its gloomy precincts, whom the reader at once understands to be our old friend-Miriam.

Vol. II opens with an account of the pedigree of Monte Beni, which is only a reproduction of the traditionary legend respecting the house traced back to the time of its first ancestor, who is represented as having formed a union with one of the fair divinities inhabiting in the earliest times the Arcadian forests, whence the origin of the Faun-Donatello. This part of the book is very interesting, and is in Hawthorne's best vein, showing a highly poetic and imaginative genius on the part of the writer. At the suggestion of Kenyon, with whom Miriam contrives to have an interview, a reconciliation is planned between the estranged though not divorced lovers, which is consummated at length by the reunion of the pair, by appointment, in the great square of Perugia, where they receive the benediction of the Bronze Pontiff, (the Statue of Pope Julius III.) Here again we are forcibly reminded of the thrilling scene in "The Scarlet Letter," where Hester Prynne and Arthur Dimmesdale with little Pearl, the offspring of their guilty intercourse, stand together in the open moonlight in the public square to make public acknowledgment and do penance for their mutual offense. Hilda, who still carries locked up in her

breast the murderous secret, weighed down with the sense of a burden which becoines too heavy to be borne, at last finds relief at the Confessional at St. Peter's-the World's Cathedral. In this connection we have incidentally from our author some valuable art-criticism, which, as well as his observations on the Coliseum, will be recognized by all who have ever visited Rome. An interview next takes place between Hilda and Kenyon, which leads to the planning of an appointment which fails to be realized, owing to the sudden and mysterious flight of Hilda the Dove from her Dove-cote, announced by the extinction of the lamp before the virgin's shrine.

The next chapter (XIX) is taken up with a description of the sculptor's search for Hilda, during which, after some mishaps, he encounters in an assumed disguise a peasant and contadina, (our old acquaintances Donatello and Miriam,) who give him. a clue which eventually conducts him out of the labyrinth. At length Hilda re-appears in the midst of the celebration of the Carnival, the scenes in which are depicted with as much force as vivacity, and form an agreeable relief to the gloom. and suspense of the preceding chapter. The book closes with an attempt to explain some phases of Miriam's past history, particularly her connection with the mysterious model, who turns out to be a Capuchin friar; as also the probable cause of Hilda's mysterious disappearance, supposed to have been brought about by religious interference; her union with the sculptor Kenyon, who has long since won the heart of the pure maiden; while in regard to the ultimate fate of Miriam and Donatello, he is left in a state of mind which may be described as not despairing if not hopeful.

Such, briefly analyzed in detail, is the "Romance of Monte Beni." It has no regular plot-indeed, it is not so much a romance as a "poem in prose," or to speak more accurately, an "Art-Novel." The two most interesting characters in the work are Donatello and Hilda--the Faun and the Dove, for we do not think the writer has succeeded in making Miriam or Kenyon in an intellectual point of view very attractive to the reader. We agree with a critic who says that "the character of Donatello alone is one of the subtlest conceptions of modern genius."

Hilda is also a pure creation of the author, and the almost ethereal nature and spotless soul of the sweet heretic, as exhibited in the severe conflict going on in her mind, after having come into possession of the dreadful secret, suffering for the sins of another, pointing the moral that the consequences of crime are not confined to the one who commits it, will long make her image linger in the reader's imagination. The Specter of the Catacomb, as we have seen, turns out, to be a mortal man. Yet no particular interest attaches to the dead Capuchin, but that connected with his awful fate, and though an attempt is inade to account for his singular conduct on the plea of insanity, he continues to be a specter, and naught beside. The story is nothing but a reproduction of "The Scarlet Letter," save that the scene is transferred from New England to Italy; at the same time, as a romance, the work exceeds the latter, while the reading public is a gainer by the transportation.

In a dramatic point of view we think the book to be imperfect, not so, however, in an artistic point of view. Were the art-criticisms with which it abounds the only thing in the volume, it would still be intrinsically valuable. "The whole work is steeped in Italian atmosphere," and could only have been written by one whom long residence in Italy had made familiar with the master-pieces of modern and antique art. We have alady retransferred to our pages one of these unique criticisms having reference to the productions of our American artists. One chapter, entitled "The Emptiness of Art Galleries," contains thoughts worthy to be pondered by our aspirants to artistic fame, and particularly by those would-be connoisseurs who often throw away a reputation for common sense, as well as coin, through inability to judge accurately of the value of a true work of Art.

Though the web of the Romance of Monte Beni is slightly woven, yet underneath is solemn truth. It is an attempt to discuss the problem, old and yet ever new, which has baffled so many minds in respect to the permission of evil and its relation to the Divine providence. The reader, we think, will hardly be satisfied with Mr. Hawthorne's solution of the question. By one who has attentively perused the story, some

idea of it may be guessed at, though the dim religious light in which it appears scarcely makes it manifest. In one instance he does, indeed, hint at the infinite evil of sin as needing an infinite atonement, but the sentiments which he puts into the mouths of his principal characters, as in the case of his liberal views of the catholic creed of the confessional, evince the entertaining of thoughts which a healthy intellect as well as a healthy conscience could never for a moment permit itself to entertain.

Thus speak Miriam and Kenyon on this point:

"You stir up deep and perilous matter, Miriam,' replied Kenyon, 'I dare not follow you into the unfathomable abysses whither you are tending.' 'Yet there is a pleasure in them! I delight to brood on the verge of this great mystery,' returned she. The story of the fall of man! Is it not repeated in our 'Romance of Monte Beni!' And may we follow the analogy yet farther? Was that very sin, into which Adam precipitated himself and all his race-was it the destined means by which, over a long pathway of toil and sorrow, we are to attain a higher, brighter, and profounder happiness than our last birthright gave? Will not this idea account for the permitted existence of sin, as no other theory can?' 'It is too dangerous, Miriam ! I cannot follow you,' repeated the sculptor. 'Mortal man has no right to tread on the ground where you now set your feet."" Vol. II, p. 250.

The same peculiarities of style which characterized Mr. Hawthorne's former works are even more apparent in the Romance of Monte Beni. This is distinguished by simplicity, purity, and beauty. "Melancholy-a quiet pensiveness like the faint light of an autumn afternoon is the atmosphere of Hawthorne's writings." He has been called "The Tennyson of Prose." "There is an indescribable grace about his sentences and a particular rhythm in their construction, which falls on the ear like the voice of some one who is dear to us." His writings are characterized by a remoteness and picturesqueness of idea, which is equally striking in the delineation. "Every word tells, and there is no word that does not tell." Such perfection of style can only be the result of a felicitous gift of nature, combined with great and laborious practice, and according to an irreversible decree in the world of letters, is the precious amber which must embalm his thoughts and preserve them to posterity.