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tinued the doctor, with true professional detail, "he died hard, for he was a powerful man. He was full six feet high, with broad chest and shoulders, and strong-limbed." I knew all this before, for I felt it. There was no mistaking the manner of that man's death. I could tell every step of the process. Doubtless there was originally some hanging, or church furniture in this part of the church, to conceal the displacement of the wall. In a dark night the unfortunate man was entrapped, bound and brought into this temple, where he first could be tortured to death, and then the crime concealed. Men of rank were engaged in it, for none other could have got the control of a church, and none but a distinguished victim would have caused such great precaution in the murderers. By the dim light of lamps, whose rays scarcely reached the lofty ceiling, the stones were removed before the eyes of the doomed man, and measurement after measurement taken, to see if the aperture was sufficiently large. A bound and helpless victim, he lay on the cold pavement, with the high altar and cross before him, but no priest to shrive him. Stifling in pride his emotions, checking his very sighs, he strung every nerve for the slow death he must meet. At length the opening was declared large enough, and he was lifted into it. The workman began at the feet, and with his mortar and trowel built up with the same carelessness he would exhibit in filling any broken wall. The successful enemy stood leaning on his sword—a smile of scorn and revenge on his features-and watched the face of the man he hated, but no longer feared. Ah, it was a wild effort that undertook to return glance for glance and scorn for scorn, when one was the conquered and helpless victim, and the other the proud and victorious foe! It was slow work fitting the pieces nicely, so as to close up the aperture with precision. The tinkling of the trowel on the edges of the stones, as it broke off here and there a particle to make them match, was like the blow of a hammer on the excited nerves of the half buried wretch. At length the solid wall rose over his chest, repressing its effort to lift with the breath, when a stifled groan for the first time escaped the sufferer's lips, and a shudder ran through his frame that threatened to shake the solid mass which enclosed it to pieces. Yet up went the mason work till it reached the mouth, and the

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rough fragment was jammed into the teeth, and fastened there with the mortar-and still rose, till nothing but the pale white forehead was visible in the opening. With care and precision the last stone was fitted in the narrow space-the trowel passed smoothly over it—a stifled groan, as if from the cer.tre of a rock, broke the stillness-one strong shiver, and all was over. The agony had passed-revenge was satisfied, and a secret locked up for the great revelation day. Years rolled by; one after another of the murderers dropped into his grave, and the memory of the missing man passed from the earth. Years will still roil by, till this strong frame shall step out from its narrow enclosure upon the marble pavement, a living man.

Absorbed in the reflections such a sight naturally awakens, I rode on, for a long time unconscious of the scenery around me, and of the murmur of the Arno on its way through the valley. But other objects at length crowded off the shadow that was on the spirit; the day wore away, and at last, after ascending a long and weary mountain, Florence, with its glorious dome, and the whole vale of the Arno, rich as a garden, lay below us. Past smiling peasants and vine-covered wall we trotted down into the valley and entered the city.

Truly yours.

LETTER XL.

American Artists in Florence.

FLORENCE, May.

DEAR E.-We have long been accused of wanting taste and genius, especially in the fine arts; and an Englishman always smiles at any pretension to them on our part. In his criticism, our poetry is imitation of the great bards of England; while our knowledge of music is confined to Yankee Doodle and Hail Columbia; and our skill in architecture, to the putting up of steeples, school-houses, and liberty poles. It may be so, but we will cheerfully enter the field with him in that department of the fine arts, calling for the loftiest efforts of genius, and the purest incarnation of the sentiment of beauty in man-I mean painting and sculpture, especially the latter.

There are two American artists in Florence, by the name of Brown; one a painter, and the other a sculptor. Mr. Brown the painter is one of the best copyists of the age. Under his hand, the great masters reappear in undiminished beauty. But his merits do not stop here he is also a fine composer; and when the mood is on him, flings off most spirited designs. In his house I have seen pieces that indicate merit of the highest order.

I first saw Mr. Brown in the Pitti Gallery. Wandering through it one day with a quondam attaché, to one of the continental embassies, my friend paused before a magnificent picture, and introduced me to the artist as Mr. Brown of America. It was a copy of one of Salvator Rosa's finest pieces, and had already been contracted for, by a member of the English Parliament, for three hundred dollars. Walking one day through the gallery, the Englishman was struck with the remarkable beauty of the copy, and immediately purchased it, though in an unfinished state. Thus we lose them; and though we possess fine artists, our wealthy men refuse to buy their works, and they

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go to embellish the drawing-rooms and galleries of England. Mr. Powers stands undoubtedly at the head of American sculptors. His two great works are Eve and the Greek Slave. Critics are divided on the merits of these two figures. As the mere embodiment of beauty and loveliness, the Slave undoubtedly has the pre-eminence. The perfect moulding of the limbs, the exquisite proportion and harmony of all the parts, the melancholy, yet surpassingly lovely face, combine to render it more like a beautiful vision assuming the aspect of marble, than a solid form hewn out of a rock. There she stands, leaning on her arm and musing on her inevitable destiny. There is no paroxysm of grief, no overwhelming anguish, depicted on the countenance. It is a calm and hopeless sorrow-the quiet submission of a heart too pure and gentle for any stormy passion. That heart has broken it is true, but broken in silence-without a murmur or complaint. The first feeling her look and attitude inspire, is not so much a wish yourself to rescue her, as a prayer that Heaven would do it. It is beautiful-spiritually beautiful-the very incarnation of sentiment and loveliness. In its mechanical execution, it reminds one of the Appolino in the Tribune of the Royal Gallery.*

The Eve exhibits less sentiment, but more character. She is not only beautiful, but great-bearing in her aspect the consciousness she is the mother of a mighty race. In all the paintings of Eve, she is simply a beautiful woman, and indeed I do not believe that any one but an American or an Englishman could conceive a proper idea of Eve. Passion and beauty a Frenchman and an Italian can paint, but moral character, the high purpose

* We have been told a ludicrous anecdote of this Greek slave and an ignorant but wealthy American, for the truth of which we cannot personally vouch. An American, who had suddenly acquired great wealth by speculation, took it into his head to travel, and finding himself at length in Florence, made a visit to Mr. Powers' Studio. Looking over the different statues, his eye rested on the Greek Slave. "What may you call that are boy?" said he. "The Greek Slave," replied Mr. Powers. "And what may be the price of it?" continued our Yankee. "Three thousand dollars" was the answer, as the artist gazed a moment at the odd specimen of humanity before him. "Three thousand dollars!" he exclaimed," you don't say so, now. Why, I thought of buying something on you, but that's a notch above me. Why, statiary is riz, ain't it?"

of calm thought and conscious greatness, they have not the most dim conception of. There is a noble Lucretia in the gallery of Naples a fine Portia in Genoa, and Cleopatras by great painters in abundance everywhere, but not one figure that even dimly shadows forth what the mother of mankind ought to be. Stern purpose and invincible daring are often seen in female heads and figures by the great masters, but the simple greatness of intellect seldom.

Powers' Eve is a woman with a soul as well as heart, and as she stands with the apple in her hand, musing on the fate it involves, and striving to look down the dim and silent future it promises to reveal, her countenance indicates the great, yet silent struggle within. Wholly absorbed in her own reflections, her countenance unconsciously brings you into the same state of deep and painful thought. She is a noble woman—too noble to be lost. We wonder this subject has not been more successfully treated before. There is full scope for the imagination in it; and not a permission, but a demand, for all that is beautiful and noble in a created being. It has the advantage also of fact, instead of fiction, while at the same time the fact is greater than any fiction.

In composing this work, Mr. Powers evidently threw all the Venuses and goddesses overboard, and fell back on his own creative genius, and the result is a perfect triumph. Some, even good critics, have gone so far as to give this the preference to the Venus di Medici. The head and face, taken separately, are doubtless superior. The first impression of the Venus is unfavorable. The head and face are too small, and inexpressive. But after a few visits this impression is removed, and that form, wrought with such exquisite grace, and so full of sentiment, grows on one's love, and mingles in his thoughts, and forms forever after the image of beauty in the soul. My first exclamation on beholding it was one of disappointment, and I unhesita tingly gave Mr. Powers' Eve the preference. But memory is more faithful to the Venus than to the Eve. There is something more than the form of a goddess in that figure-there is an atmosphere of beauty beyond and around it—a something intangible yet real-making the very marble sacred. One may forget. other statues, and the particular impression they made grows dim

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