We are acquainted with a chapter of this history. In the spring of 1796 Thorwaldsen was to set out on his wanderings through the world, over the Alps, to Rome; but he was taken ill, and after the illness was very depressed. There was war in Germany, and his friends advised him to go in the royal frigate "Thetis," which was to sail directly for the Mediterranean. He was in love at the time, and bade the beloved one farewell, honorably and frankly saying, "Thou shalt not hold thyself bound to me, now that I am going to travel. If thou remainest constant to me and I to thee, until we meet again, in some years, all is settled!" And thus they parted, and only met after many, many years- a short time before his death-she as a widow, he as Europe's ever youthful artist. When Thorwaldsen's body was borne in royal state through the streets, an old woman of the lower class wept at an open window - it was she. The first farewell was recalled to her memory by the last. The first farewell! yes! that was a festal day. The cannons thundered "farewell" from the frigate " Thetis." See how the sails swell in the breeze-the water foams at the prow the ship passes the wooded coast -Copenhagen's towers disappear; Bertel stands on the bow the waves sprinkle the image of Thetis, whose features he has carved. But at home, in the little chamber in " Aabenraa," sits the inconsolable mother, mourning over the loss of her son, whom she will never see again never again press to her heart. One of Bertel's dearest friends is there also. He brings her a little purse of ducats from the traveller; but she shakes her head, exclaiming, "I want nothing but my child, who will perish in the raging sea!" And she takes from the chest his old black silk waistcoat, and imprints a thousand kisses on it, weeping bitter tears for her beloved Bertel.

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What avails it that the sun shines without so clear and warm-there is no sunshine within ; his heart is sore, and depressed with home-sickness. And thus Bertel Thorwaldsen treads at last the soil of Italy, towards which, Ulysseslike, he has hastened. The "Thetis" had first made a cruise in the North Sea, in order to guard the northern coast against the English privateers. It was not until September that the ship passed the channel, and it arrived, in October, at Algiers, where the plague had broken out. Then followed a long quarantine at Malta; then a voyage to Tripoli, in order to negociate a cessation of hostilities against the Danish ships there. Whilst the captain was on shore, the ship loosed from her anchorage, drifted forth, and kept a new quarantine at Malta, in such a condition that it was necessary to keel-hale her. At Malta, therefore, Thorwaldsen quitted his countrymen, and went in an open boat to Palermo, whence the packet-boat brought him to Naples. He met none of his countrymen, and did not understand the language. Downcast and restless, the very next day he sought in the harbour, to see if amongst the many foreign flags, the white cross on a red ground was waving. Had it been there, he would have returned to Denmark. Sick at heart, he burst into tears. The old Neapolitan woman with whom he was lodging, saw him weep, and thought, "It is certainly love which afflicts him-love for some one in his cold barbarous country." And she wept with him, thinking, perhaps, of her own first love; for the rose-tree may still live, though it be harvest-time, and it stands leafless with its berries upon it. "What has been the end of his journey? why does the coward return?" Such were the words with which he would have been greeted at home. This he felt in these moments of conflict, and shame overcame his gentle spirit. In this mood he hastily engaged a place with a vetturino to Rome, where he arrived on the 8th of March, 1797, a day which was celebrated by his friends in Copenhagen as his birth-day, before they knew the real date. The 8th of March was the day on which Thorwaldsen was born to Art in Rome.

and says

with which one can be content; and he is not

where spaces were left on the walls for basreliefs. No one thought of Thorwaldsen's assist ance he was returning home to the north. Time pressed, and the work must be completed. The architect, Stern, who directed the whole, happened accidentally to sit next Thorwaldsen at the academy of St. Luca, and proposed to him to execute a frieze in plaster, twenty-nine Danish ells in length, which must be completed in three months. Thorwaldsen promised, and kept his word: he completed a chef d'œuvre, “the Triumph of Alexander."* Its fame reached all countries; Denmark was excited to enthusiasm. Sums were collected to obtain it in marble, and the Danish government gave an order for it.

Thorwaldsen remained in Rome, and new works were executed. We will pause to consider two of the year 1815.

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Weeks and months had elapsed without Thorwaldsen's having produced any thing. He wandered about, sunk in inexplicable sadness. Early one summer's morning, after a sleepless night, he placed himself before the moist clay, and in a moment formed his celebrated bas-relief, Night;" and as he worked, the dark cloud vanished from his soul-it was day, clear, sunny day; he gained a cheerful peace which ever after did him homage as the self-conqueror. A Danish friend found him before the finished basrelief, sporting gaily with a great cat and his dog Teverino. The modeller came the same day to bring it to be moulded, and Thorwaldsen had already "Day" in hands, and said, "Wait a little, and we can have this cast at the same time." In one day were two immortal works completed.

On the 14th of July, 1819, at four o'clock in the morning, he commenced his journey homewards, in company with Count Rantzau zu Breitenburg, and the historical painter, Lund. He reached Copenhagen on the third of October, by Schleswig, Als, and Fünen. Twenty-three years had elapsed since he was last here. It was destined that his parents should not see himhis mother should never press her beloved Bertel to her heart, nor hear the homage paid him, nor see the rejoicings which greeted his return; they had long since departed— but from heaven they looked upon him—from heaven they followed

him on his path of earthly triumph. The tears of a mother upon earth, her prayers in heaven, are blessings. In all the Italian and German towns, both rich and poor approached him with tokens of reverence; and many a young and enthusiastic artist hastened to the town, which he knew Thorwaldsen would pass through. At one of the last stages towards Stutgard, a traveller stopped the carriage in which Thorwaldsen was, and requested permission to go on in it; it was granted, and he told how he had come a long way, in order to see the great artist, Thorwaldsen, in the town where he was expected. Thorwaldsen made himself known - it was one of the most delightful moments in the stranger's life. Love and homage had made his journey home a triumphal procession; his arrival was not less so. See how old and young press around him! A hearty shake of the hand- -8 kiss-is Thorwaldsen's "good day." All this worldly exaltation and honor did not spoil his upright mind, and simple manners. A dwelling is allotted him at Charlottenburg; his eye seeks, amongst the crowd who surround him, one old friend. The old porter stands modestly at the door in his red coat the old man of his youthful days. Thorwaldsen throws himself into his arms, and kisses him heartily.

He soon craved employment. The atelier was arranged, and every one flocked to it to see him at his work; to most of the people of Copenhagen, it was a new art. A beautiful woman asked him naïvely, when she saw him modelling the soft clay with his fingers

"You do not do this work yourself, when you are in Rome?"

"I assure you,” replied he, good humoredly, "this is the most important part."

About a year afterwards, he left Copenhagen. It is pitch-dark night- a dead calm - and an open boat lay quietly some miles beyond Laaland. The seals howled on the banks; the sailors sat listening doubtfully in the stern, and knew not what to do; the mirror of water is ruffled already-a storm is gathering-it comes with whistling wings; the waves rock the light boat - there is death in the fearful abyss, but death mows with his scythe only the foam from the high waves. Thorwaldsen is on board; his

mission in the kingdom of art on earth is not yet fulfilled. At dawn, the Sootse comes to their help, and they reach Rostock. Through Berlin, Dresden, Warsaw,* and Vienna, he journeyed to Rome, his second home-in every town homage and admiration meeting him. The Emperor Alexander and the Emperor Francis received the artist with distinction; the journey added to the triumph of his life. Here again he stood, in his creative power, in his airy, Roman atelier. Roses clustered in at the open windows; the yellow oranges shone in the warm sun; immortal works sprung up beneath his chisel. "Christ and the Twelve Apostles" were modelled; "Copernicus" sat there in strength and greatness.

It was the last day of Lent, 1823; bells were ringing, and fire-arms resounding. Thorwaldsen's landlady had a little son. After the meal on Good Friday, the boy begged him to lend him his pistols. He went into his bed-room, where they hung as they were left after the journey, to fetch them. Thorwaldsen took one down, and tried it at the open window. The boy, meanwhile, had seized the other-it went off, and Thorwaldsen fell to the ground. The boy sees blood, and utters a shriek; but the ball had flattened within his clothing. The loading was not sufficient to develop its murderous power, and the blood flowed only from two wounded fingers; his preservation filled the Roman people with the belief, that he was under the especial protection of the Madonna.

Yes! here, as ever, Heaven watched over him. Behold! it is dark night—stillness in the streets of Rome-stillness in Thorwaldsen's dwelling. Two well-armed fellows glide in open the door with false keys― place themselves within on the stone stairs, and await him; for they know that he is gone out, and will return late and alone. No one dwells in the house but the landlady and her little son at the top, and a young foreign artist. The murderers sit quietly; the key turns in the door-they listenho! it is not Thorwaldsen-it is the younger artist who returns. He springs lightly up stairs, and his hand has touched the hair of one of them in his passage. He knows that some one sits there knows they await Thorwaldsen; he is astonished to see light through the key-hole, and opens the door. Thorwaldsen is at home; the house has an entrance from the other street, and Thorwaldsen has been obliged to come through it this evening, because he has lost the key of the accustomed door, and he is saved!

"Heaven watches over him!" repeat the Romans. They saw the Holy Father himself visit him; they saw him extend his hand to him, that he might not kneel at parting. The execution of the monument to Pius the Seventh was entrusted to the Lutheran Thorwaldsen.

Foremost in the ranks of eloquence stands the daughter of inspiration-the improvisatrice, Rosa Taddei. The assembled multitude hang upon her burning words, and applaud enthusiastically. Her task is, "I Progressi della Scultura;" her eye glances over the audience, and discovers Alberto, him to whom Denmark has given birth; in the soaring of her song she described him, and so forgot the things of earth, as to call Alberto, in the city of the pope, “Figlio di Dio."

"The king and the poet shall wander together," says the ballad; "the harp of David and the crown of the king accompany one-another." In the streets of Rome, king Louis of Bavaria, and the poet of sculpture, Bertel Thorwaldsen, walk arm in arm; a tie of friendship was formed between them. Thorwaldsen ever expressed himself warmly towards the King of Bavaria.

He had been now forty years in Rome; rich and independent, he lived and worked in the hope of returning at some time to Denmark, and closing his days in peace. Unaccustomed to great luxury, like many rich artists he lived a bachelor's life in Rome. Although his heart, after the first farewell in Copenhagen, opened no more to love, a thousand beautiful loves in marble tell us how warmly this heart beat. Love belongs to the mysteries of life. We know that Thorwaldsen left a daughter in Rome, whose birth he has acknowledged;* we know, too, that more than one lady would willingly have bestowed her hand upon the great artist. As he lay sick at Naples, the year before his first journey to Denmark, he was nursed by an English woman, who conceived the most ardent affection for him, and avowed it, and in an instant of awakened gratitude he plighted to her his troth. Afterwards, when he recovered, and came to Rome, this promise distressed him; he felt himself unsuited to married life-perceived that gratitude was not love—and, after an inward struggle, he announced to her his determination. Thorwaldsen was never married.

The following trait is characteristic of his heart, as well as of his whole bearing. There came to him one day, in Rome, a poor countryman, an artisan, who had been for a long

*She married, in 1832, the Danish Chamberlain Poulson. In the following year a son was born, who received in baptism the name of Albert Thorwaldsen Ludwig. In 1842, she visited Thorwaldsen, at Copenhagen, with her husband and child; here she became a widow. She now resides in Rome.