was penetrated with sensations of love and gratitude for that heaven which seemed to smile on him in these glorious beams. He heard the bells of numerous churches ringing, discharges of cannon from various distances, as if announcing some high solemnity. He inquired the cause, and was informed that the most celebrated female was that morning to be crowned at the Capitol Corinne, the poet and improvisatrice, one of the loveliest women of Rome. He asked some questions respecting the ceremony, hallowed by the names of Petrarch and of Tasso; every reply he received warmly excited his curiosity.

Oswald walked the streets of Rome, awaiting the arrival of Corinne; he heard her name every instant; every one relating some new trait, proving that she united all the talents most captivating to the fancy. One asserted that her voice was the most touching in Italy; another, that in tragic acting she had no peer; a third, that she danced like a nymph, and drew with equal grace and invention-all said that no one had ever written or extemporized verses so sweet, and that in daily conversation, she displayed alternately an ease and an eloquence which fascinated all who heard her. A burst of exquisite melody preceded the approach of the triumphal procession. How thrilling is each event that is heralded by music! A great number of Roman nobles, and not a few foreigners, came first. Behold her retinue of admirers !" said one. "Yes," replied another, "she receives the whole world's homage, but accords her preference to none."

แ

At last four spotless steeds appeared in the midst of the crowd, drawing an antiquely shaped car, beside which walked a maiden band in snowy vestments. Wherever Corinne passed, perfumes were thrown upon the air; the windows, decked with flowers and scar let hangings, were peopled by gazers, who shouted, "Long live Corinne! glory to beauty and to genius!"

This emotion was general; but, to partake it, one must lay aside English reserve and French raillery. Nevil could not yield to the spirit of the scene, till he beheld Corinne attired like Domenichino's Sibyl; an Indian shawl was twined among her lustrous black curls, a blue drapery fell over her robe of virgin white, and her whole costume was picturesque, without sufficiently varying from modern usage to appear tainted by affectation. Her attitude was noble

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and modest; it might, indeed, be perceived that she was content to be admired; yet a timid air blended with her joy, and seemed to ask pardon for her triumph. The expression of her features, her eyes, her smile, created a solicitude in her favor, and made Lord Nevil [Oswald] her friend even before any ardent sentiment subdued him. Her arms were transcendently beautiful; her figure tall, and, as we frequently see among the Grecian statues, rather robust-energetically characteristic of youth and happiness. There was something inspired in her air; yet the very manner in which she bowed her thanks for the applause she received, betrayed a natural disposition sweetly contrasting the pomp of her extraordinary situation. She gave you at the same instant the idea of a priestess of Apollo advancing towards his temple, and of a woman born to fulfil the usual duties of life with perfect simplicity-in truth, her every gesture elicited not more wondering conjecture than it conciliated sympathy and affection.

...

At the foot of the steps leading to the Capitol, the car stopped, and all her friends rushed to offer their hands; she took that of Prince Castel Forte, the nobleman most esteemed in Rome for his talents and character. Every one approved her choice. She ascended to the Capitol, whose imposing majesty seemed graciously to welcome the light footsteps of woman. The instruments sounded with fresh vigor, the cannon shook the air, and the all-conquering Sybil entered the palace prepared for her reception.

In the centre of the hall stood the senator who was to crown Corinne, surrounded by his brothers in office; on one side all the Cardinals and most distinguished ladies of Rome; on the other the members of the Academy; whilst the opposite extremity was filled by some portion of the multitude who had followed Corinne. The chair destined for her was placed a step lower than that of the senator. Ere seating herself in presence of that august assembly, she complied with the custom of bending one knee to the earth. The gentle dignity of this action filled Oswald's eyes with tears, to his own surprise. But in the midst of all this success, it seemed as if the looks of Corinne implored the protection of a friend, with which no woman, however superior, can dispense; and he thought how delicious it were to be the stay of her whose sensitiveness alone could render such a prop necessary. As soon as Corinne was seated, the

Roman poets recited the odes and sonnets composed for this occasion; all praised her to the highest; but in styles that described her no more than they would have done any other woman of genius. The same mythological images and allusions must have been addressed to such beings from the days of Sappho to our own. Already Nevil disliked this kind of incense for her; he fancied that he could that moment have drawn a truer, a more finished portrait; such, indeed as could have belonged to no one but Corinne.

...

DEATH OF THE NIGHTINGALE.

[LUDWIG HEINRICH CHRISTOPH HÖLTY. Born Dec. 21, 1748, at Mariensee, Hanover; died Sept. 1, 1776. He obtained considerable popularity by his odes, songs and idyls.]

She is no more, who bade the May-month hail;
Alas! no more!

The songstress who enlivened all the vale,-
Her songs are o'er;

She, whose sweet tones, in golden evening hours,

Rang through my breast,

When, by the brook that murmured 'mong the flowers I lay at rest.

How richly gurgled from her deep, full throat The silvery lay,

Till in her caves sweet Echo caught the note, Far, far away!

Then was the hour when village pipe and song
Sent up their sound,

And dancing maidens lightly tripped along
The moonlit ground.

A youth lay listening on the green hill-side,
Far down the grove,

While on his rapt face hung a youthful bride
In speechless love.

Their hands were locked oft as thy silvery strain
Rang through the vale;

They heeded not the merry dancing train,
Sweet nightingale!

They listened thee till village bells from far
Chimed on the ear,

And, like a golden fleece, the evening star
Beamed bright and clear.

Then, in the cool and fanning breeze of May,

Homeward they stole,

Full of sweet thoughts, breathed by thy tender lay, Through the deep soul.

THE FOREHEAD IN GREEK ART.

[JOHANN JOACHIM WINCKELMANN, the illustrious archælogist and art critic, was born at Stendhal, Prussia, December 9, 1717. His numerous works on antique painting, sculpture and engraved gems exerted a marked influence, and still are standards. He was killed at Trieste, June 8, 1768, by a thief who attempted to rob him of some rare gold coins.]

A low forehead is so peculiar to the ideas which the ancient artists had of a beautiful head, that it is a characteristic by which an antique can frequently be distinguished from a modern work. Many heads which I could not approach sufficiently near to examine, I have either recognized to be modern, solely by the high forehead, or else this conformation first excited doubts as to their age, which were afterwards verified by further investigation.

To complete the beauty of a youthful head, the frontal hair should grow in a curve down over the temples, in order to give the face an oval shape. Such a forehead is to be found in all beautiful women; and this form of it is so peculiar to all ideal and other youthful heads of the ancients, that we do not see on any figures, not even those of mature manhood, the receding, bare corners of the temples, which usually enlarge as life advances beyond that age when the forehead is naturally high. Few modern sculptors have noticed this peculiarity; and wherever new youthful ́male heads are placed upon antique statues, the hair is carried obliquely over the forehead, and strikingly displays the faulty concep tion of modern days in regard to the natural beauty of its disposition. Some of our own artists have made portrait figures of young persons of both sexes, with whom I am acquainted, and who have low foreheads; yet they have given so little attention to the beauty of which I now speak, that they have added to the height of their foreheads, and made the growth of hair commence farther back, with the presumed intention of forming an open forehead. Bernini be longs to this class; but in this particular, as in many others, he has mistaken the reverse of beauty for beauty's self.

MARCO BOZZARIS.1

At midnight, in his guarded tent,

The Turk was dreaming of the hour When Greece, her knee in suppliance bent, Should tremble at his power;

In dreams, through camp and court, he bore The trophies of a conqueror;

In dreams his song of triumph heard. Then wore his monarch's signet ring, Then pressed that monarch's throne-a King; As wild his thoughts, and gay of wing, As Eden's garden bird.

At midnight, in the forest shades,
Bozzaris ranged his Suliote band,
True as the steel of their tried blades,
Heroes in heart and hand.

There had the Persian's thousands stood,
There had the glad earth drunk their blood
On old Platea's day;

And now there breathed that haunted air
The sons of sires who conquer'd there,
With arm to strike, and soul to dare,
As quick, as far as they.

An hour passed on-the Turk awoke;
That bright dream was his last;

He woke to hear his sentries shriek,
"To arms! they come! the Greek! the Greek!"
He woke to die, 'midst flame, and smoke,
And shout, and groan, and sabre-stroke,
And death-shots falling thick and fast
Like forest pines before the blast,
Or lightnings from the mountain cloud;
And heard with voice as trumpet loud,
Bozzaris cheer his band;
"Strike-till the last armed foe expires,
Strike-for your altars and your fires,
Strike-for the green graves of your sires,
God-and your native land!"

They fought, like brave men, long and well, They piled that ground with Moslem slain, They conquered-but Bozzaris fell,

Bleeding at every vein.

His few surviving comrades saw
His smile when rang their proud hurrah,
And the red field was won;

Then saw in death his eyelids close
Calmly, as to a night's repose,

Like flowers at set of sun.

1 The Epaminondas of Modern Greece. He fell in a night attack upon the Turkish camp at Laspi, the site of the ancient Platea, August 20, 1823, and expired in the moment of victory. His last words were, "To die for liberty is a pleasure, and not a pain."

Come to the bridal chamber, Death!

Come to the mother's, when she feels For the first time her first-born's breath; Come when the blessed seals Which close the pestilence are broke And crowded cities wail its stroke; Come in consumption's ghastly form, The earthquake's shock, the ocean storm; Come when the heart beats high and warm, With banquet-song, and dance, and wine; And thou art terrible; the tear, The groan, the knell, the pall, the bier, And all we know, or dream, or fear

Of agony, are thine.

But to the hero, when his sword
Has won the battle for the free,
Thy voice sounds like a prophet's word,
And in its hollow tones are heard

The thanks of millions yet to be.
Come, when his task of Fame is wrought;
Come, with her laurel-leaf, blood-bought;
Come in her crowning hour; and then
Thy sunken eyes' unearthly light
To him is welcome as the sight

Of sky and stars to prison'd men;
Thy grasp is welcome as the hand
Of brother in a foreign land;

Thy summons welcome as the cry
Which told the Indian isles were nigh
To the world-seeking Genoese,
When the land wind, from woods of palm,
And orange-groves, and fields of balm,
Blew o'er the Haytien seas.

Bozzaris! with the storied brave

Greece nurtured in her glory's time, Rest thee: there is no prouder grave, Even in her own proud clime,

She wore no funeral weeds for thee,

Nor bade the dark hearse wave its plume, Like torn branch from death's leafless tree, In sorrow's pomp, and pageantry,

The heartless luxury of the tomb; But she remembers thee as one Long loved, and for a season gone. For thee her poet's lyre is wreathed, Her marble wrought, her music breathed; For thee she rings the birth-day bells; Of thee her babe's first lisping tells; For thine her evening prayer is said At palace couch and cottage bed. Her soldier, closing with the foe, Gives for thy sake a deadlier blow; His plighted maiden, when she fears For him, the joy of her young years, Thinks of thy fate, and checks her tears; And she, the mother of thy boys, Though in her eye and faded cheek Is read the grief she will not speak,

The memory of her buried joys;

And even she who gave thee birth
Will, by their pilgrim-circled hearth,
Talk of thy doom without a sigh;
For thou art Freedom's now, and Fame's;
One of the few, the immortal names,
That were not born to die.

FITZ-GREENE HALLECK.

A FORGOTTEN HERO. 1

[James Anthony Froude, M. A., born at Dartington, Devonshire, 23d April, 1818; educated at Westminster and Oxford. He obtained the chancellor's prize for the "English Essay" in 1842, and was elected fellow of Exeter College. In 1856 appeared the first two volumes of his History of England from the Fall of Wolsey to the Defeat of the Spanish Armada. The work, completed in twelve volumes, distinguishes its author as one of the best of England's historians. In 1871-74 he published The English in Ireland in the Eighteenth Century, 3 vols.; in 1879, a life of Julius Cæsar. He is also widely known by his miscellaneous contributions to literature, a valuable collection of which has been

issued under the title of Short Studies on Great Subjects.]

Some two miles above the port of Dartmouth, once among the most important harbours in England, on a projecting angle of land which runs out into the river at the head of one of its most beautiful reaches, there has stood for some centuries the manor-house of Greenaway. The water runs deep all the way to it from the sea, and the largest vessels may ride with safety within a stone's throw of the windows. In the latter half of the sixteenth century there must have met, in the hall of this mansion, a party as remarkable as could have been found anywhere in England. Humfrey and Adrian Gilbert, with their half-brother Walter Raleigh, here, when little boys, played at sailors in the reaches of Long Stream; in the summer evenings doubtless rowing down with the tide to the port, and wondering at the quaint figure-heads and carved prows of the ships which thronged it; or climbing on board, and listening, with hearts beating, to the mariners' tales of the new earth beyond the sunset. And here, in later life, matured men, whose boyish dreams had become heroic action, they used again to meet in the intervals of quiet, and the rock is shown underneath the house where Raleigh smoked the first tobacco. Another remarkable man could not fail to have made a fourth at these meetings. A sailor boy of Sandwich, the adjoining parish, John Davis,

1 From Short Studies on Great Subjects, by James A. Froude, M.A. London: Longmans.

showed early a genius which could not have escaped the eye of such neighbours, and in the atmosphere of Greenaway he learned to be as noble as the Gilberts, and as tender and delicate as Raleigh. Of this party, for the present, we confine ourselves to the host and owner, Humfrey Gilbert, knighted afterwards by Elizabeth. Led by the scenes of his childhood to the sea and to sea adventures, and afterwards, as his mind unfolded, to study his profession scien tifically, we find him, as soon as he was old enough to think for himself, or make others listen to him, "amending the great errors of naval sea-cards, whose common fault is to make the degree of longitude in every latitude of one common bigness;" inventing instruments for taking observations, studying the form of the earth, and convincing himself that there was a north-west passage, and studying the necessities of his country, and discovering the remedies for them in colonization and extended markets for home manufactures. Gilbert was examined before the queen's majesty and the privy-council, and the record of his examination he has himself left to us in a paper which he afterwards drew up, and strange enough reading it is. The most admirable conclusions stand side by side with the wildest conjectures.

Homer and Aristotle are pressed into service to prove that the ocean runs round the three old continents, and that America therefore is necessarily an island. The Gulf-stream, which he had carefully observed, eked out by a theory of the primum mobile, is made to demonstrate a channel to the north, corresponding to Magellan's Straits in the south, Gilbert believing, in common with almost everyone of his day, that these straits were the only opening into the Pacific, and the land to the south was unbroken to the pole. He prophesies a market in the East for our manufactured linen and

calicoes:

"The Easterns greatly prizing the same, as appeareth in Hester, where the pomp is expressed of the great King of India, Ahasuerus, who matched the coloured clothes wherewith his houses and tents were apparelled, with gold and silver, as part of his greatest treasure."

These and other such arguments were the best analysis which Sir Humfrey had to offer of the spirit which he felt to be working in him. We may think what we please of them; but we can have but one thought of the great grand words with which the memorial concludes, and they alone would explain the love which Elizabeth bore him:

"Never, therefore, mislike with me for

"Give me leave, therefore, without offence, always to live and die in this mind: that he is not worthy to live at all that, for fear or danger of death, shunneth his country's service and his own honour, seeing that death is inevitable and the fame of virtue immortal, wherefore in this behalf mutare vel timere sperno."

Two voyages which he undertook at his own cost, which shattered his fortune, and failed, as they naturally might, since inefficient help or mutiny of subordinates, or other disorders, are inevitable conditions under which, more or less, great men must be content to see their great thoughts mutilated by the feebleness of their instruments, did not dishearten him, and in June, 1583, a last fleet of five ships sailed from the port of Dartmouth, with commission from the queen to discover and take possession from latitude 45° to 50° north-a voyage not a little noteworthy, there being planted in the course of it the first English colony west of the Atlantic. Elizabeth had a foreboding that she would never see him again. She sent him a jewel as a last token of her favour, and she desired Raleigh to have his picture taken before he went.

The history of the voyage was written by a Mr. Edward Hayes, of Dartmouth, one of the principal actors in it, and as a composition, it is more remarkable for fine writing than any very commendable thought in the author. But Sir Humfrey's nature shines through the infirmity of his chronicler; and in the end, indeed, Mr. Hayes himself is subdued into a better mind. He had lost money by the voyage, and we will hope his higher nature was only under a temporary eclipse. The fleet consisted (it is well to observe the ships and the size of them) of the Delight, 120 tons; the barque Raleigh, 200 tons (this ship deserted off the Land's End); the Golden Hinde and the Swallow, 40 tons each; and the Squirrel, which was called the frigate, 10 tons. For the uninitiated in such matters we may add, that in a vessel the size of the last, a member of the Yacht Club would consider that he had earned a club-room immortality if he had ventured a run in the depth of summer from Cowes to the Channel Islands.

"We were in all," says Mr. Hayes, "260 men, among whom we had of every faculty good choice. Besides, for solace of our own people, and allurement of the savages, we were provided of music in good variety, not omitting

The expedition reached Newfoundland without accident. St. John's was taken possession of, and a colony left there; and Sir Humfrey then set out exploring along the American coast to the south, he himself doing all the work in his little ten-ton cutter, the service being too dangerous for the larger vessels to venture on. One of these had remained at St. John's. He was now accompanied only by the Delight and the Golden Hinde, and these two keeping as near the shore as they dared, he spent what remained of the summer examining every creek and bay, marking the soundings, taking the bearings of the possible harbours, and risking his life, as every hour he was obliged to risk it in such a service, in thus leading, as it were, the forlorn hope in the conquest of the New World. How dangerous it was we shall presently see. It was towards the end of August—

The evening was fair and pleasant, yet not without token of storm to ensue, and most part of this Wednesday night, like the swan that singeth before her death, they in the Delight continued in sounding of drums and trumpets and fifes, also winding the cornets and hautboys, and in the end of their jollity left with the battell and ringing of doleful knells."

Two days after came the storm; the Delight struck upon a bank, and went down in sight of the other vessels, which were unable to render her any help. Sir Humfrey's papers, among other things, were all lost in her-at the time considered by him an irreparable misfortune. But it was little matter, he was never to need them. The Golden Hinde and the Squirrel were now left alone of the five ships. The provisions were running short, and the summer season was closing. Both crews were on short allowance; and with much difficulty Sir Humfrey was prevailed upon to be satisfied for the present with what he had done, and to lay off for England.

"So upon Saturday, in the afternoon, the 31st of August, we changed our course, and returned back for England, at which very instant, even in winding about, there passed along between us and the land, which we now forsook, a very lion, to our seeming, in shape, hair, and colour; not swimming after the manner of a beast by moving of his feet, but. rather sliding upon the water with his whole body, except his legs, in sight, neither yet diving under and again rising as the manner is of whales, porpoises, and other fish, but