my vettura was slowly toiling up one of the mountains of the Abruzzo, I had thrown myself back in the carriage, to enjoy one of those mental illusions which the resemblance between past and present objects is wont to call forth. Italy seemed for the time forgotten; I was journeying homeward, and a vision of beaming, affectionate faces passed before me; I crossed the threshold, and heard-oh, how touching is that soundless voice of welcoming in a day-dream of home-I heard the joyful cry of recognition, and a painful fullness in my throat made me struggle for words -when, at a sudden turn of the road, my carriage was brought to the ground.”

This is not an imitation, but a condensation, and reproduction, of the tone and coloring of an old novel-we say old, in the sense that the stories read, and the

impressions produced in childhood, bear an air of antiquity-we mean that it takes hold of the fancy like a story read in youth; while, at the same time, the mature artist is apparent in the delicate purity of the style, and in the beauty of the sentiment. We may be misled by the impression of the whole work, yet it seems that this single paragraph exhibits very plainly these characteristics. It recalls the feelings of boyhood, while, at the same time, it gives promise that we are about to enter on no meagre child-tale, but one of character, thought and pas

sion.

The breaking of the carriage, and the manner of the driver, induce the traveller to suspect him of being leagued with banditti presently a whistle is heard below which confirms the suspicion, and he compels the fellow to go before him up the mountain. After some time they come to a small plain, or heath, where there is a hovel, before which sits a wretched object, a miserable maniac, worn almost to death; an old woman then comes from the hovel, who directs the traveller to a convent hard by, where he is received and hospitably entertained by a venerable prior. Next morning, the prior shows him the pictures in the chapel, and is about to show him one, which he says is worth all the rest, when he is called out, and the traveller, opening a wrong door, comes unawares into the apartment where it is placed.

-the fearful vision is even now before me-I seemed to be standing before an abyss in space, boundless and black. In the midst of this permeable pitch stood a colossal mass of gold, in shape like an altar, and girdled about by a huge serpent, gorgeous and terrible; his body flecked with diamonds, and his head, an enormous carbuncle, floating like a meteor in the air above. Such was the throne. But no words can describe the gigantic being that sat thereon-the grace, the majesty, its transcendent form; and yet I shuddered as I looked, for its superhuman countenance seemed, as it were, to radiate falsehood; every feature was in contradiction-the eye, the mouth, even to the nostril-whilst the expression of the whole was of that unnatural softness which can only be conceived of malignant blandishment. It was the appalling beauty of the King of Hell. The frightful discord vibrated through my whole frame, and I turned for relief to the figure below; for at his feet knelt one who ap peared to belong to our race of earth. But I had turned from the first only to witness in this second object its withering fascination. It was a man apparently in the prime of life, but pale and emaciated, as if prematurely with outstretched hands, and eyes upraised to wasted by his unholy devotion, yet still devoted, their idol, fixed with a vehemence that seemed almost to start them from their sockets. The agony of his eye, contrasting with the prostrate, reckless worship of his attitude, but too well told his tale: I beheld the mortal conflict between the conscience and the will-the visible look no longer." struggle of a soul in the toils of sin. I could

He naturally wishes to know the history of this extraordinary picture, and its author; and the prior accordingly gives him a manuscript which, he says, will gratify his curiosity. This is the story.

The opening chapter then introduces two principal personages of the tale, Monaldi and Maldura, young students and intimate friends at a seminary at Bologna. We wish a few sentences could give an idea of the depth of reflection, the philosophy, the exquisite discrimination in the drawing of character, and the pure, simple elegance of the style. There is a greatness of thought and an elevation in tone which takes the imagination far into the poetic region, and yet the art is so thoroughly hidden that superficial readers, who are accustomed to see the artist through a coarser veil or not at all, must of course skim it over easily and fancy it

"The character of Maldura, the eldest, was bold, grasping, and ostentatious; while that of Monaldi, timid and gentle, seemed to shrink from observation. The one, proud and impatient, was ever laboring for distinction; the world, palpable, visible, audible, was his idol; he lived only in externals, and could neither act nor feel but for effect; even his secret reveries having an outward direction, as if he could not think without a view to praise, and anxiously referring to the opinion of others; in short, his nightly and daily dreams had but one subject-the talk and eye of the crowd. The other, silent and meditative, seldom looked out of himself, either for applause or enjoyment; if he ever did so, it was only that he might add to, or sympathize in the triumph of another: this done, he retired again, as it were, to a world of his own, where thoughts and feelings, filling the place of men and things, could always supply him with occupation and amuse

ment.

"But the honors of a school are for things and purposes far different from those demanded and looked for by the world. Maldura unfortunately did not make the distinction. His various knowledge, though ingeniously brought together, and skilfully set anew, was still the

knowledge of other men; it did not come forth as in a new birth, from the modifying influence of his own nature. His mind was hence like a thing of many parts, yet wanting a whole-that realizing quality which the world must feel before it will reverence.

"The powers of Monaldi, however, were yet to be called forth. And it was not surprising that to his youthful companions, he should then have appeared inefficient, there being a singular kind of passiveness about him easily mistaken for vacancy. But his was like the passiveness of some uncultured spot lying unnoticed within its nook of rocks, and silently drinking in the light, and the heat, and the showers of heaven, that nourish the seeds of a thousand nameless flowers, destined one day

feeling and lofty imagination which characterized Monaldi. The composition consisted of the patriarch and his family, at the altar, which occupied the foreground; a distant view of Mount Ararat, with the ark resting on its peak; and the intermediate vale. These were scanty materials for a picture; but the fullness with which they seemed to distend the spectator's mind, left no room for this thought. There was no dramatic variety in the kneeling father and his kneeling children; they expressed but one sentiment-adoration; and it seemed to go up as with a single voice. This gave the soul which the spectator felt; but it was one that could not have gone forth under common daylight, nor ever have pervaded with such emphatic life, other than the shadowy valley, the misty mountain, the mysterious ark, again floating, as it were, on a sea of clouds, and the lurid, deep-toned sky, dark yet bright, which spoke to the imagination of a lost and recovered world-once dead, now alive, and pouring out her first song of praise even from under the pall of death."

Monaldi was fortunate, on the first exhibition of this picture, in having for his leading critic the cavalier S, a philosopher and a poet, "though he had never written a line as either."

"I want no surer evidence of genius than this," said he, addressing Monaldi : "you are master of the chiar' oscuro and color, two of the most powerful instruments, I will not say of Art, but of Nature, for they were hers from birth, though few of our painters since the time of the Caracci appear to have known it. If I do not place your form and expression first, 'tis not that I undervalue them; they are both true and elevated; yet with all their grandeur and power, I should still

breath of nature."

These two friends, the one taking a generous pride in the successes of the other, and the other proud to be admired by him, leave the seminary and pass into the world. Monaldi chooses painting for his profession, and after a few years of persevering study is universally acknowledged to be the first painter in Italy. One of his pictures is thus described at length:

"The subject of the picture was the first sacrifice of Noah after the subsiding of the waters; a subject of little promise from an ordinary hand, but of all others, perhaps, the

best suited to exhibit that rare union of intense

not thus infused the human emotion into the surrounding elements. This is the poetry of the art; the highest nature. There are hours when Nature may be said to hold intercourse with man, modifying his thoughts and feelings: when man re-acts, and in his turn bends her to his will, whether by words or colors, he becomes a poet. A vulgar painter may perhaps think your work unnatural; and it must be so to him who sees only with his eyes. But another kind of critic is required to understand our rapt Correggio, or even, in spite of his abortive forms, the Dutch Rembrant."

The cavalier assists Monaldi with that

sort of aid which is no less necessary than criticism to success in art; he thus soon gains fortune and distinction, and is finally honored with a commission from the Pope. Maldura, on leaving the seminary, goes to Florence, and, his patrimony being sufficient for his subsistence, he determines to win fame as a poet. Unlike his friend, however, he does not love his art for its own sake, but only for the sake of applause. He is well received among the literati, and elected very early a member of the Della Crusca Academy. All goes smoothly with him, till the production of his first long poem, to which he has devoted all his skill, and of the entire success of which he entertains no doubt. At last it is published; he waits, day after day, expecting to hear it praised, till at length, the Count Piccini, "a kind of talking gazette," details to him the manner of its reception at the conversazione. All had ridiculed it except Alfieri; he had said "nothing." Stung to the quick, but full of self-confidence, Maldura determines to have vengeance; and for that purpose he is now bent on gaining not only fame but literary power. He accordingly goes to Rome, and sets to work at a satire and a tragedy. The satire he sends to Florence under a feigned name; it is completely successful, and he regards its triumph as an earnest of the success of his tragedy. He now again mixes in society, which he had for a while abandoned. His manners and reputation for learning, procure him easy admittance to the best circles. Among other friendships, he acquires that of a distinguished advocate, Landi, with whose beautiful daughter, Rosalia, he falls in love. She rejects him, and soon after comes a death-blow to his ambition, from the manager at Florence, to whom he had sent his tragedy.

These double disappointments quench all his hopes and leave only his pride; he turns world-hater, retires to an unfrequented part of the city, and is soon forgotten. About two years afterwards, Monaldi, being in Rome, accidentally meets his old friend, who reluctantly recognizes him, and, it being near his house, invites him in. Sitting at an upper window, overlooking the Campo Vaccino, they have a long conversation, from which Monaldi at length retires with the melancholy impression that

time

"The air was hot and close, and there was a thin yellow haze over the distance like that which precedes the sirocco; but the nearer objects were clear and distinct, and so bright that the eye could hardly rest on them without with their huge sweep of whited walls, and quivering, especially on the modern buildings, their red-tiled roofs, that lay burning in the sun, while the sharp, black shadows, which here and there seemed to indent the dazzling masses, might almost have been fancied the cindertracks of his fire. The streets of Rome, at no able than, during the summer months, for their very noisy, are for nothing more remarknoontide stillness, the meridian heat being frequently so intense as to stop all business, driving everything within doors, with the proverbial exception of dogs and strangers. But even these might scarcely have withstood the present scorching atmosphere. It was now high noon, and the few straggling vine-dressers that were wont to stir in this secluded quarter, had already been driven under shelter; not a vestige of life was to be seen, not a bird on the wing, and so deep was the stillness that a solitary foot-fall might have filled the whole air. Neither was this stillness lessened by the presence of the two friends-for nothing so deepens silence as man at rest; they had both sat mutely gazing from the window, and apparently unconscious of the lapse of time, till the bell of a neighboring church warned them of it."

Monaldi had come to Rome to fulfil a commission from the Pope, who had ordered of him a companion picture to a Madonna of Rafaelle. He goes to see the Madonna, which is in a splendid private gallery of the best works of Roman and Venetian art. Here, although almost bewildered with delight, yet in passing a door at the end of the gallery, his eyes fall on an object to which every other immediately gives place.

"It was the form of a young female who was leaning, or rather bending, over the back of a chair, and reading. At first he saw only its general loveliness, and he gazed on it as on a more beautiful picture, till a slight movement quickening grace that gives life to symmetry. suddenly gave it a new character-it was the There is a charm in life which no pencil can reach-it thrilled him. But when he caught a glimpse of the half-averted face, the pearly

it.

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'If one may judge from his works,' said Rosalia, Rafaelle must have been a very amiable man.'

This is the same Rosalia Landi who had refused the addresses of Maldura. Her father, who is the owner of the collection, comes in just in time to relieve his daughter and the young artist from embarrassment. The conversation which ensues must not be wholly omitted.

666

Nay,' said Monaldi, Rafaelle is one whom criticism can affect but little either way. He speaks to the heart, a part of us that never mistakes a meaning; and they who have one to understand should ask nothing in liking him but the pleasure of sympathy.'

"And yet there are many technical beauties,' said the Advocate, which an unpracticed eye needs to have pointed out.'

"Yes-and faults, too,' answered Monaldi; 'but his execution makes only a small part of that by which he affects us. But had he even the color of Titian, or the magic chiar' oscuro of Correggio, they would scarcely add to that sentient spirit with which our own communes. I have certainly seen more beautiful faces; we sometimes meet them in nature-faces to look at, and with pleasure-but not to think of like this. Besides, Rafaelle does more than make us think of him; he makes us forget his deficiencies-or, rather, supply them.'

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6

"I think I understand you: when the heart is touched, but a hint is enough,' said Rosalia. 'Aye,' said the Advocate, smiling, 'tis with pictures as with life; only bribe that invisible finisher, and we are sure to reach perfection. However, since there is no other human way to perfection of any kind, I do not see that it is unwise to allow the illusion which certainly elevates us while it lasts; for we cannot have a sense of the perfect, though imaginary, while we admit ignoble thoughts.' "This is a great admission for you, sir,' said Rosalia; ''tis the best apology for romance I have heard.'

"Is it? Well, child, then I have been romantic myself without knowing it. But the picture before us-

"We have no reason to think otherwise,' answered Monaldi. 'He at least knew how to be so; if he was not, his self-reproach must have been no small punishment, if at all proportioned to his exquisite perception of moral beauty. But he was all you believe, according he appears to have been as much beloved as to the testimony of his cotemporaries, by whom admired.'

"I could wish,' said Rosalia, 'that tradition had spared us either more or less of the great author of that Prophet ;'-they had turned to a cartoon by Michael Angelo. They say he was morose; and many affect to find in that the reason why he does not touch their hearts. Yet, I know not how it is, whether he stirs the heart or not, there is a something in his works that so lifts one above our present world, or at least, which so raises one above all ordinary emotions, that I never quit the Sistine Chapel without feeling it impossible to believe any charge to his discredit.'

"Never believe it!' said Monaldi, with energy. He had too great a soul—too rapt for an unkind feeling. If he did not often sympathize with those about him, it was because he had but little in common with them. Not that he had less of passion, but more of the intellectual. His heart seems to have been so sublimated by his imagination that his too refined affections-I can almost believe-sought a higher sphere-even that in which the forms of his pencil seem to have had their birth; for they are neither men nor women--at least like us that walk the earth-but rather of a race which minds of a high order might call up when they think of the inhabitants of the planet Saturn. To some, perhaps, this may be jargon-but not here, I venture to hope.' Rosalia bowed. 'Nay, the eloquent confession I have just heard could not have been made had not the spell of Michael Angelo been understood as well as felt.'

"You have assisted me to understand him

better,' said Rosalia, and if I do, perhaps I might say, that he makes me think instead of feel. In other words, the effect is not mere sensation.'

"As he spoke, his eyes unconsciously wandered to Rosalia. The charm was there; and his art was now as much indebted to the living

"Upon my word, Rosalia,' said her father, I did not know you were so much of a connoisseur; 'tis quite new to me, I assure you.'

"Rosalia now blushed, for the compliment made her sensible of her enthusiasm, which now surprised herself: she could not recol

lect that she had ever before felt so much excited.

not say

"Nay, my dear, I am serious-and I need how pleased. How you have escaped the cant of the day I can't guess. 'Tis now the fashion to talk of Michael Angelo's extravagance, of his want of truth, and what not -as if truth were only in what we have seen! This matter-of-fact philosophy has infected the age. Let the artists look to it! They have already begun to quarrel with the Apollo-because the skin wants suppleness! But what is that? A mere technical defect. Then they cavil at the form-those exquisite proportions; and where would be his celestial lightness, his preternatural majesty without them? Signor Monaldi will forgive this strain: perhaps I should not hold it before an artist.'

Monaldi presently retires, leaving the Advocate delighted with his visitor.

I can almost fancy that we have been talking with Rafaelle. He has not disappointed you, I am sure.'

"No,' replied Rosalia, 'on the contrary She felt provoked with herself that she could say nothing more.

After this interview, and a few subsequent visits at Landi's house, Monaldi thinks of nothing but Rosalia. He becomes nervous in her presence, and she is no less so in his. One evening they attempt to play a duet before the old upright piano, which has a mirror in the back; he lets fall his violin, and, with a stammered apology, something about indisposition, rushes out of the house. When he is gone, Landi asks for his favorite air, but Rosalia is unable to play aught that he recognizes. The next interview leads to a declaration, and, in short, it is not long before Monaldi and Rosalia are man and wife; and he now only desires to find his friend, as he feels assured that no melancholy could long withstand Rosalia's sympathy.

Maldura has gone to Sienna, to take possession of a large estate, left him by a rich relative; but this sudden accession of fortune works no change in his embittered heart. One evening, in a coffee-house, he overhears some one tell of the marriage of Monaldi, the great painter, to Rosalia Landi, daughter of the rich advocate.

From that moment his only purpose is revenge to think that one whom he had always looked down upon, should be rich, honored, and above all, the husband of

her who had rejected himself, is inspiration to him. He rushes from the coffee

house, and though it is almost dark, mounts his horse and sets off, unattended, for Rome. Somewhat after nightfall, going up the mountains beyond Radicofani, he is stopped by a robber, in whom he recognizes the famous Count Fialto, the most notorious outlaw and libertine in Italyinfamous particularly for his power over This man was sometimes tolerated by the the sex, and his numberless seductions. gay cavaliers at Rome for his brilliant conversation and it was there Maldura had seen him. The story was, that he had even seduced a nun.

Maldura now tells him that he has need of his services, and money to pay for them. Fialto leads the way to a concealed cavern among the rocks, where they are met and waited on by a haggard and wasted woman whom the robber calls Marcellina, and who obeys him like a slave. Here Maldura unfolds his unholy scheme, which is to employ Fialto to make Monaldi jealous of his beautiful wife. But to secure himself, he ascertains, by suddenly mentioning the Inquisition, that Marcellina is the stolen nun: the life of each thus becomes the pledge of good faith.

They travel together towards Rome, always separating when they come to

towns.

At Viterbo Fialto sees Monaldi in the inn yard, and learns that he is on his way to Florence to attend to the putting up of a picture in some church; he will be away from home a fortnight at least, and his wife is not with him. That will give them time, and they therefore push on eagerly to take advantage of it.

Arrived in Rome, Maldura takes lodgings in a distant part of the city, while Fialto establishes himself near the painter's house, which he begins to seem to haunt-passing slowly up and down a dozen times a day, stealing glances at the windows, caracoling before it on a restiff horse, affecting to throw something from his pocket into the court-yard, and the like; all to excite the suspicions of the neighbors, so that when Monaldi returns, his arrival is noted among them with shrugs and winks, and one, Romero, a poor mosaic worker, whose shop is opposite, and who dislikes Monaldi, for not, as he thought, praising him enough, now vents