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Those hero-gods, whose mighty sway would fain have kindly feeling and religious sentiment, too,

chained the waves,

Who fleshed their blades with tiger zeal, to make a world of slaves-

Who, though their kindred barred the path, still fiercely waded on

Oh, where shall be their glory,' by the side of Washington ?"

"England, my heart is truly thine-my loved, my native earth!

The land that holds a mother's grave, and gave that

mother birth!

running through her poetry, that seems to sanctify it even more than the thought which is sometimes induced while reading it, that it is the emanation of gentle woman; and we cannot but feel that she possesses a heart which, as she expresses it, is

"A true and bounteous thing, As kindly warm, as nobly free, As eagle's nestling wing;"

Oh, keenly sad would be the fate that thrust me from and which,

thy shore,

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And faltering my breath that sighed, Farewell for ever more!'

But did I meet such adverse lot, I would not seek to dwell

Where olden heroes wrought the deeds for Homer's song to tell;

Away! then gallant ship,' I'd cry, and bear me swiftly on;

But bear me from my own fair land to that of Washington!"

Yet with all this fervor and spirit of both thought and language, there is something feminine and graceful about her writings, which sooths and tranquilizes. There is a deep vein of

"Is never all its own;

No ray of glory lights her breast, That shines for self alone."

We might further extend this brief review, but the merits of Miss Cook as a true poetess of nature, have made her too well known to our readers to render this necessary. She has taken her rank amongst the first of female writers, but modestly and unassumingly; and though the star of her genius shines with a mild and placid beam, it is still conspicuous amongst the noblest planets that studd the literary galaxy of the nineteenth century.

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For Arthur's Magazine.

SKETCHES OF ITALY.

NAPLES-FLORENCE-A CONTRAST-THE STUDIO OF POWERS-HIS EVE, AND

GREEK SLAVE.

high or low, deep toned or shrill, just as his voice will admit. These street shop-keepers are countless, and the vociferations of each blend into a medley of sounds, such as you must go to Naples to hear. Add to these elements of uproar the clatter of a squadron of cavalry-the heavy tramp of regiment after regiment of infantry-the scolding voice of a Punch-the discord of a hand-organ-the screech of a street singer, and the eternal "Carita, carita, per l'amore di Dio," of the ubiquitous beggar; and you can form some slight idea of the Bedlam in which you will find yourself, as you step out into the Toledo, after having enjoyed your midday ice in the Café d'Europe.

EDI Napoli e poi mori!" See Naples, and then die, is the enthusiastic exclamation of the Neapolitans, when they would convey to a stranger their idea of the beauty of the fair city that sits in the shadow of Vesuvius. "Vedi Firenze e poi vivi!" See Florence, and then live, might with equal propriety be uttered by those whose rare happiness it is to dwell in the delicious capital of Tuscany. The two cities are wholly dissimilar in situation, in appearance, in the habits of the people. The one rises from the margin of the loveliest bay in the world, an amphithe-citement the whole time. atre of temples, palaces, and towers. Its streets are thronged with every variety of people and costume. The current of life rolls through the Toledo with the rapidity and the roar of a tor-lipo-an excursion to Vesuvius-something to rent. The stranger is utterly bewildered, when his eye takes in, for the first time, the long stretch of this crowded thoroughfare, and he almost shrinks from trusting himself in such a mass of mingled carriages and people.

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The absence of side walks adds greatly to the confused appearance of an Italian street; and I much question if any man ever found himself in the Toledo for the first time, without a nervous apprehension that the verdict of the inquest in his case might be, "squeezed to death by the crowd," or, "run over by a carriage." The roar of the vehicles, and the vociferations of the people, render the noise absolutely deafening. Regent street, or Broadway, are quiet in comparison with the narrowest street in Naples.

Each itinerant vender of fish and fruit, lava and pictures, dry goods and stationery, that are carried about upon barrows which they push before them, or upon trays, nicely balanced on their heads, has a cry peculiar to his trade; and

Every thing about Naples is active and bustling. You are in a state of hurry and ex

You cannot settle

down quietly to your book or your segar. You want to go somewhere-to do some thing-a stroll through the Villa Reale-a drive to Pasil

keep up the excitement-and thus during your whole residence in the city, you live fast-body and mind on the stretch the whole time--and as your carriage rolls out of the gateway, and your last look is given to the mountain and the bay, the islands and the city, you long for some place where you can rest; and away you speed on your northward route, and when the postillion cracks his whip upon the last swell of the Appenines, and you see stretched out beneath you the beautiful valley of the Arno, and in the midst the Duomo and the Campanile, the palaces and villas of Florence, you sink back on the cushions and {exclaim, "Eureka!"-"I have found it!"

For a long sojourn, or a continued residence, Florence bears the palm from all the cities of Italy. No English adjective suits it so well as "delicious"-it is a delicious city; an atmosphere of quiet beauty surrounds it; the soft haze hangs over it like a veil of golden tissue. The sky above it is intense in its depth of azure.

The mountains which encircle it, rise upon all sides like the walls of some gigantic collasséo ; and like a beautiful pearl in a setting of emeralds, its white walls sleep amid the green fields and groves which embrace them. If at Naples, the current of life flows torrent-like, at Florence it glides on as calmly as the stream of the Arno, which steals through its midst. Here is no constant bustle-no crowded thoroughfare-no scolding Punch-and stranger and better than all, no clamorous beggar.

The great characteristic of the city, is quiet gentility. The most striking feature of the people, a happy and contented look.

The popu

lation is essentially a singing population. The business of life goes on to an air from the last opera. The flower girl of the Piazza della Trinita, with her neat dress, her graceful carriage, and her large flat, worn with a coquetry which goes at once to the heart, and who meets you daily, and slips a bouquet in your hand, or pins a rose in your button-hole, trips off with a snatch of song upon her ruddy lips. The pretty sewing girls, who sit out in the open air, grouped around the matron of the establishment, and intent upon robes and head-dresses, lighten their labors with "Casta diva," or de tante palpiti." The tailor sits cross-legged at his door, alternately stitching and singing. The shoemaker waxes his thread and hammers his sole leather to an accompaniment from "Norma" or "Lucia di Lammermuir" and at night, when the opera is over, the streets are vocal, with music such as we in this country would pay to hear. Every body goes home humming the favourite airs of the evening opera; and here and there, at the corners of the streets, or beneath the balcon of some Florentine belle, a group of young men will gather, and in a language whose every sound is music, blend their full rich voices in some passionate Italian strain.

garden spots in all Tuscany. For a distance of three miles, skirting the placid Arno, stretch the green fields and broad avenues of the "Cascino;" and when the declining sunlight is purpling the solitudes of Vallambrosa, and the wooded heights of Fiesole; the scene which is there presented is in the highest degree exciting and beautiful. Thither repair the fashion and loveliness of the city. The shaded drives are crowded with splendid equipages, their rich hammercloths blazing with heraldic devices, and the wide foot-board, bearing the attendant chasseur, proud of his altitude of six feet-his uniform of green and gold-his snow-white plume and velvet-hilted sword. The young nobles dash along the winding avenues upon their blooded steeds. The pedestrians recline upon the rustic seats or stroll through the green fields. The helmet of the cuirassier gleams out from among the trees, and the wail of a solitary trumpet, or the crash of a full military band, adds the charm of music to the other enchantments of the spot. Oh! but these public gardens are luxuries!-luxuries to the fashionable dame, who wants to drive where she can shew her latest liveries and newest bonnet—and lying languidly upon the cushions, smile recognition on the acquaintances who pass. Luxuries to the fop who, decked out in the choice of his attire, saunters along in the consciousness that his tight coat and varnished boots make him the cynosure of all eyes. But more than all are they luxuries to the people-the people, who loll in no carriages-bestride no horses-boast no varnished boots-but who come cleanly and neat, from the labors of the day or the toils of the week, to breathe fresh air, and see green woods, and hear birds sing: and with husband or lover, parent or child, to spend a happy hour in innocent amusement and healthful exercise.

If I were offered my choice between the two, as a gift for my native city, I would unhesi

In the fair city of the Lilly," the ministering angels, unto all, are Music and Poetry,tatingly reject the Dardan Shepherd's prize," Painting and Sculpture. To hear the finest opera in the world, costs the poor man but ten cents to see the finest paintings and statues, costs him nothing.

Ever open are the doors of the galleries of Florence, and the Madonna della Seggiola" brightens with her divine beauty the walls of thePitti"-and the Medician Venus glorifies the Tribune," for all alike. The worshiper of art, when his foot has lingered long enough in the marble halls of the " Ufitya," and his soul is full of the beauty which breathes from the canvass, or radiates from the marble, may, in a few moments, inhale the scented air, and tread the enameled sward of one of the loveliest

and, leaving the god-like creation of Cleomenes to the immortality of the Tribune, I should take in preference the "Cascina"-nature before art-a splendid public walk before an incomparable statue.

Such is life in Florence. It is impossible to be in the city and not love it. I could fill pages with the details of its attractions. The Museo D'Istoria-the Pitti Palace-the Boboli Gardens-the operas—the clubs-the cafés- the walks-the drives;-but I have already kept you long enough from one of the places of resort in Florence, in which, as Americans, we should feel a peculiar interest; and I propose that we pay, at once, a visit to the studio of Hiram Powers.

An American sculptor! A sculptor, of all things, from a land where there are no models to fill the eye or educate the taste-from a land where art is nothing, business everything! The divinity that stirred within" was the teacher of Hiram Powers, and I look back to the time when, a boy in the streets of Cincinnati, he moulded his humble figures in wax for an itinerant museum, as the dawn of a better era in the land's history—an era which will add a new word to our list of occupations-which will give us a race of American artists, whose mission it shall be, to elevate the feelings and purify the tastes of the people. But let us go to the studio. Leaving your hotel in the piazza, you cross the Arno by the beautiful Ponteé della Trinita, and taking the second street above you keep out some six or seven squares, when on your left hand you will find the residence of Mr. Powers. The ante-room is crowded with huge blocks of unhewn marble. The studio itself presents a singular collection of lay figures, busts and full length in plaster and stone. Here a workman in a long white apron and paper cap, is busily engaged in educing from the rough marble the outline of a statue. There another with delicate chisel is giving the finishing touches to a figure which seems only to need the stolen fire of Prometheus to start from the pedestal in life and beauty. In the centre of the apartment, bending over a magnificent head which he is modeling in clay, is the artist himself. His figure is tall and well proportioned. His long black hair falls over a face, which, although not strikingly handsome, is full of expression. The forehead is fair and high. The eye kindles and flashes, as the yielding material grows beneath his plastic hand into the embodiment of the Sculptor's thought, and his whole expression indicates a man of energy and genius.

tion, as he listens to the sounds which echo from the convolutions of the smooth-lipped shell."

In subdued tones they recall to the ear the moan of the ocean wave, as it breaks upon the beach, where from its nest of olives, his mother's cot looks out upon the blue Levant. His slight figure, just swelling into earliest manhood, tells rather the delicate care of a sister, than of contact with the rude comrades of the boat, and the hard life of the fisherman: and yet there is something in the expression of face and figure which, despite the deep repose of the attitude, bespeaks a latent energy and strength. Near the centre of the room is a perfectly finished statue, which has added greatly to the reputation of the artist. It is his Eve. Beside the half trunk of a tree, around which the Tempter is twining his serpent folds, stands this beautiful creation. The attitude is one of perfect ease. One hand falls carelessly before her. other clasps with tapering fingers the fatal apple, which the serpent has just induced her to gather from the forbidden tree. With eyes full of longing and apprehension, she gazes upon the fruit. Her face expresses her anxiety to solve the mystery which is connected with it. The specious argument of Satan, had already induced her to exclaim,

The

"Here grows the cure of all-this fruit divine,
Fair to the eye, inviting to the taste,

Of virtue to make wise: what hinders then
To reach and feed at once: :""

But the air of doubt with which she regards it, shews that the stern warning," in the day that thou eatest thereof thou shalt die," is still ringing in her ears. The face is one of great loveliness. The figure rounded out to the exquisite proportions of perfect womanhood. The idea of beauty which dwelt in the mind of Milton, when he essayed to paint the great mother of us all, was scarcely more perfect than the conception of our artist.

Upon broad shelves which run around the room, are ranged a number of busts which evince the wonderful skill of the artist in this department of his profession. The commanding But if so much can be said in praise of the brow, the full, frank face of Preston of South Eve, how shall I describe the crowning glory of Carolina-the small head, the keen eye, the the Studio; the seal set to the genius of the shrewdly intellectual countenance of John C. Sculptor-the Greek Slave! If I could but Calhoun, the rounded forehead, the smooth face, mould language as Powers moulds clay, and the flexible mouth of Martin Van Buren-and the shapes marble; then might I set before you a massive head, the overhanging brow, the brist-perfect image of this lovely work. A slight ling hair, and the stern lip, of Andrew Jackson, { and girlish form, blending in itself those attriare all there; wonderful in the perfection of their finish, and truthful as Daguerreotypes. the corner, leaning against the helm of his boat, in an attitude of graceful ease, stands a young Fisher Boy. With one hand he is holding to his ear a conch, and his face is full of curious atten

In

butes of rare etherial beauty, which fancy blesses the mind with in its most unearthly mood, rests in an attitude which is all grace, beside a broken column, over which are flung her jewelled cap, and Grecian robe with its rich bordering of fringe. Upon these reposes

one fairy hand, the other falls, with graceful, striking out for itself a new path, and working curve, before her, and from wrist to wrist, in a new field. Mr. Powers is undoubtedly hangs a chain so delicately sculptured, that it destined to achieve a brilliant reputation. The would seem as if a Zephyr's breath would break works which I have sketched, are the first full its slender links. The features are purely clas-lengths which have grown into beauty beneath sic in their Grecian beauty.

"The deeply pensive eye has caught

Its lustre from the spirit's gem;
And o'er her brow the light of thought
Shines like an angel's diadem."

But that thought is evidently painful. Around her are gathered the dealers of the slave market. The cold eye of the unfeeling Turk scans her fair proportions, and weighs her beauty against the sequins which are demanded as its price. In the Bazaar, as on the pedestal, she stands a statue; for her heart has flown to the home of her childhood, and her memory is busy amid the fairy bowers of some fair isle that,

with eternal summer crowned, sleeps on the Ægean wave. In beauty of conception, and perfect finish of execution, this lovely work compares favorably with many of the masterpieces in Italy. I do not hesitate to say that I have found in the galleries of Rome, Naples and

Florence, but few female figures in marble,

his chisel; and already he ranks above Bartolini and Persico, and most of the other native artists. He is a man whose strength of character will carry him over all obstacles, and those which he has already surmounted during his residence Ambiin Florence, are neither few nor small. tious, hopeful, and energetic, with a fancy prolific of beautiful conceptions, and a chisel prompt to embody them in the enduring marble, it cannot be, but his future labors will give to the world works which taste and appreciation will not Thus far the men of taste in willingly let die. England have been his chief supporters-they throng his studio and purchase his works.

It

is time that his skill should be called into the service of his country; that he should have an opportunity afforded him of executing some great work for the nation at large. Such a commission would fulfill one of the warmest desires of his heart-it would call into play all the faculties of his nature, and the result would

be a work worthy of the artist and worthy of the people!

Baltimore, Dec. 1844.

J. M. H.

which, when divested of the associations which surround them, and the hallowing influences of antiquity, have more warmly excited my admi[The conclusion of this interesting article will ration. In place of these adventitious incentives appear in our next number. We feel indebted to the to admiration, this work of art has the charm accomplished author for choosing our work as the vehiof being an evidence of American genius,cle of his impressions of things in Italy. Ed.]

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