their salutations. I was not exactly pleased with his position as he sat on the horse; still it was merely because I had been accustomed to the statues of knights mounted on the high saddles with stirrups. This one had neither; a simple housing, spread upon the back of the horse, is all the harness. The emperor is clothed in the armor of the time; the legs bare, with sandals on the feet; his head and arms are also uncovered. The whole was originally gilded. It is a most interesting work, the first antique equestrian statue I had ever seen, and gave me a better idea of the Roman cavalry than I ever had before. We entered, first, the gallery of statues on the right hand. Near the door, is a colossal statue of Minerva, armed. It is full of dignity, and the countenance is proud and threatening; it accords with my schoolboy ideas of this goddess-proud, revengeful, unapproachable; but still more, perhaps, because there is a picture in Horne Tooke's Pantheon something like the statue. Near this, is the statue of Diana, hunting with her dog. She is crowned with the crescent. The piece is full of lightness, life and beauty; and as I gazed on her chaste features, animated with exertion, I thought the lines of Shakspeare, in the Midsummer Night's Dream, might be better applied to her than to the detestable old woman for whom they were written. After this, we roamed through numerous apartments filled with interesting objects, among which I noticed the celebrated mosaic of the doves drinking, from Adrian's villa. There were several beautiful statues, also; one was a Cupid, bending his bow an exquisite piece, and I suppose celebrated, as I have seen many casts of it. It is represented not in the usual manner, as a chubby infant; yet you would, without hesitation, say this was the statue of a young child. The form has the proportions of a grown man, but the softness and delicacy of a child. The face, too, is not that of a common child; the proportions are perfectly developed and of great beauty. In reality, it is a monster, as are the children in the famous group of Laocoon; yet the form and face are well suited to the Deity, who knows too much to be represented as a common baby. One room contains busts of the ancient philosophers and poets an interesting study, but requiring too much time for one visit. Among these, I could not, however, help noticing a bust of Michelangelo, by himself, made in dark-colored marble. The head is very fine, and the countenance full of dignity and even majesty, notwithstanding the flatness of his nose, occasioned by its having been broken. Three more remarkable countenances I have never seen than those of Michelangelo, Dante and Petrarch. Once seen, they are indelibly fixed in the mind. The stern, mournful and hard features of one, the classic and beautiful face of the other, and the majestic mien of the third, are be

coming to men who were to rouse a slumbering world from the lethargy which the night of ignorance had brought upon it. We came, finally, to that masterpiece of art, the Dying Gladiator.' The effect it produces upon the feelings, is entirely different from that occasioned by the Venus, and others of the same character; yet the marble is so wonderfully wrought, that you cease to regard it as a work of art; these thoughts are lost in the emotions of pity and distress. The wounded man rests on one arm, the blood trickles from the deep-wound in the side, his head droops, and his hair, clotted with perspiration, still shows, by its wild, disheveled state, the violence of the conflict which he has sustained. Agony seems struggling with courage and despair in his manly face. There is no thought of those who are about him; perhaps some would say that nothing of the intellectual is in his countenance. I think Byron has well represented his mind as wandering to his home, his young barbarians and their Dacian mother. It is a wonderful piece. I think its character may be best expressed as the representation of suppressed and conquered agony. The deep impression it makes upon the minds of all spectators, is a proof of its excellence.

Passing to the gallery on the opposite side of the square, we observed on the stairway leading to the paintings, and in the court, several ancient works in marble, some of which I thought very good, particularly a group of a lion tearing a horse. Among the paintings, was one which I was so much pleased with, that I turned from the works of Titian, Guido, Guercino and Domenichino, to gaze upon it. It represents an eastern caravan at the rising of the sun; and though small, is a most sublime piece. The god of Day is rising in all the splendor of a tropical climate; and the gorgeous clouds, which hang upon his pathway, have that peculiar richness and magnificence which I have only seen in Cuba. The prostrate travelers are offering up their prayers at this impressive moment, and their devotion is not misplaced. I thought of Scott's beautiful description of an eastern morning, in the Talisman,' for it seemed to be realized in this piece.

One of the most interesting objects in this part of the gallery, was the wolf of Romulus and Remus, in bronze. It is supposed to be the one which Cicero speaks of, as having been struck with lightning. A part of one of the hind legs has evidently been melted, and appears to have been struck by lightning. At any rate, it is, without any doubt, of great antiquity, and I was quite ready to take the word of the antiquarians for it, in this case. Near this, is a statue, in bronze, of the young shepherd, who, running to tell the Senate of the approach of the Gauls, was wounded in the foot by a thorn, which he did not attempt to extract till he had conveyed the news. He is here represented as

taking out the thorn. I was interested in the piece, because engravings of it are common at home, and because it is a beautiful work of very remote antiquity.

เ

The middle building on the Capitoline hill, is called the Senator's palace. This Senator is the fittest emblem I can imagine of the present condition of Rome. When I think of the dignity, the venerable majesty of ancient Roman Senators, of the men who, sitting in their state in the forum, could meet death, but not brook an insult, of the men who became more and more haughty and unyielding the nearer Hannibal came to the city, and who finally passed the terrible decree, Delenda est Carthago ;' of the men whom the ambassador of Pyrrhus called an assembly of kings, and who came to rule the world—and then see the poor, insignificant, powerless creature, the shadow of a Senator, and not even a Roman by birth,* who now represents that once mighty body, and bears that once majestic name, it seems, indeed, that Rome has fallen and her virtue and worth have passed away, and she submits to be marked with a degrading pageant, which only speaks of her degeneracy.

ter.

October 25. I went, for the scond time, to the Vatican. The first time I went there, I had merely time to walk leisurely through the labyrinth of rooms filled with sculpture, and to give a glance at the paintings. I now paused to look more closely at those which I had before fixed upon as the finest, passing by the others. In the first room, a statue of Fortune (found, I believe, at Ostia) afforded me more pleasure than any one, saving the three or four finest in the world. The goddess is represented standing, with the cornucopia in one hand, while the other holds a rudder, which rests upon a ball. Her face is full of dignity and beauty, and is interesting as the model of all modern statues of a similar characI have seen many of equal beauty, especially by Canova ; but it seems as if this one were the original of all. But I hurried on to the temple of the Apollo Belvidere; for, after all, the interest of the Vatican centres there. The statue stands in a small circular apartment, and is very favorably placed for the light, which comes from above. Time has spared the marble, which looks as white and fresh as if just from the hand of the sculptor. The statue has always been supposed to represent the Deity at the moment he has slain the Python. Antiquaries know better about this than myself; but I always thought his contest with the serpent took place when he was yet a child; and the flush of anger, (if I may use the expression) the proud disdain, and the marks of revenge, traced in that wonderful countenance, make me more inclined to believe that he is here portrayed as destroying

There is but one man who bears the sinecure of Roman Senator; and it is provided by law, that he shall always be a foreigner by birth.

the Cyclopes, who had caused the death of his son Esculapius. But this is of no consequence. This is the noblest work of art I have ever seen in any shape, or ever expect to see. It is the embodying of genius itself in the human form. The countenance expresses the passions, powers, pride and majesty of a being inore than mortal. He hardly deigns to watch the flight of his arrow, and the flush of victory spreads over his face even before the foe is destroyed; his light and graceful form hardly appears to touch the ground, nor the grass to bend under his feet. But it is useless to attempt describing it. One could almost worship this wondrous representation of genius and beauty.

REMNANTS.

In looking over, at this close of our literary autumn, the remanent portions of the year's harvest, we have gleaned no scraps but these, which are worthy to be hoarded up and preserved. And why, as they lie before us on our table, do we regard the characters, in which they seem to have been hastily penned, with so mournful an interest? Alas! the hand of the writer has lost its cunning. The mind which conceived these thoughts dwells with the inconceivable and the spiritual alone. SILAS P. HOLBROOK was a man of genius; he was a true-hearted and an honest man; he was a philosopher, in the noblest sense of the term; he was a Christian—his actions declared it to the world, though his voice uttered it only to God in the temple of his soul. His step fell noiselessly on the beaten path of life; but it was the tread of a strong man, and, had he chosen, might have been heard among the loudest in that crowd through which he was unobservedly walking. When that step was arrested by death, few, except his near friends, noted it; yet how deep a void has he left in the space of action which he so honorably filled! When we look back upon the noiseless tenor of his way, we are tempted to exclaim, in the language of the philosopher of poets and the poet of philosophers

'How seldom, friend! a good, great man inherits

Honor or wealth with all his worth or pains!

It sounds like stories from the land of spirits,

If any man obtain that which he merits,

Or any merit that which he obtains.*

* Coleridge.

Yet, with such men as Holbrook,

'Goodness and greatness are not means, but ends.'

Truth and honor and the power of genius were not prized by him, inasmuch as they would lead to favor or worldly distinction; but they were to him in themselves their own exceeding great vard. He possessed not wealth-he boasted no troops of friends; but he had his treasures, his friends—

Three treasures, Love and LIGHT

And CALM THOUGHTS, regular as infant's breath:
And three firm friends, more true than day and night,
HIMSELF, his MAKER, and the angel DEATH.'

Yet, he has left not a few, whose eyes are dim when they look for his coming, and behold him not. The domestic circle,ah, let that most sacred sorrow be shrouded! His intimates-his associates; even the latter, among whom we had the pleasure to be numbered, deeply mourn his loss.

As we first lighted on these papers in his hand-writing-which, with others, were communicated to us by himself for publication in this Magazine - we were solernnly affected. And how could we be otherwise than affected by whatever reminded us of the hours we had passed in his society? Were he at this moment sitting near us how perfectly we remember his smile! - we doubt whether he would consent that the following morceaux should be known as his; yet, we could not give them publicity without indulging our emotions in this slight tribute to the memory of their lamented author.

As a motto to the thoughts, entitled Men and Boys,'this, from the exquisite ode of Wordsworth, might have been chosen :

The thought of our past years in me doth breed
Perpetual benedictions';

Or, this beautiful translation from Faust:

Give me, oh, give me back the days

When I, too-I, too, was young,

And felt as they now feel, each coming hour,

New consciousness of power.

Oh, happy, happy time, above all praise !

Then, thoughts on thoughts and crowding fancies sprung,

And found a language in unbidden lays

Unintermitted streams from fountains ever flowing.

Then, as I wandered free,

In every field, for me

Its thousand flowers were blowing

A veil through which I did not see,

A thin veil o'er the world was thrown,

In every bud a mystery,

VOL. IX.

Magic in everything unknown.

58