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hall, and every little antechamber, were filled every one wished to participate in the gala, which concluded with a banquet and a dance, in which Thorwaldsen led a Polonaise. The other entertainment was given in the Students' Club, into which he was received as an honorary member. During the banquet here, the growing Museum was apostrophized in a cantata by H. P. Holst, and the lower part of the Hall opening, the Museum was seen as it would be when completed. Speeches and songs followed each other alternately. However this homage and enthusiasm might gratify him, it became at length oppressive. Admiration was the air he daily breathed, and yet he thought so little of it! When he was drawn to his dwelling by the people, he was unconscious of it, and said, "We are going quickly!" As he was coming one evening from church, at Rothschild, and the streets were illuminated in his honor, he remarked, "There must be a wedding here to-night!"

Near to the bay of Prästo, surrounded by wooded hills, lies Nysö, the estate of the Barony of Stampenburg, a place which Thorwaldsen has rendered famous in Denmark. The open strand-the fine beech forests-even the little country town amongst its orchards, a few hundred yards from the grounds, render the spot worth visiting, for the sake of its genuine Danish aspect. Here Thorwaldsen found his best home in Denmark; to this spot he seemed to cling; here a number of his later bas-reliefs and statues were produced. Baron Stampe possesses one of the noblest natures; his hospitality and the affectionate attention of his wife, made for Thorwaldsen a happier home than any other in the world. The energetic character of the baroness excited his activity; she tended him with a daughter's care, and forestalled every wish. On his first visit to Nysö, she arranged an excursion to the chalk cliffs of Möens; and during the days that were spent there, a little atelier was erected in the Garden at Nysö, close to the canal, which half surrounds the principal building. In this, and in a little corner room of the first floor, looking towards the garden, the greater part of Thorwaldsen's later works have been executed -the March to Golgotha,' the 'Entrance into Jerusalem,' Rebecca at the Well,' his own portrait statue, and the busts of Oelenschlager and Holberg. The Baroness Stampe bore him company, helped him, and read aloud to him from Holberg's works. Excursions were arranged, and in the evenings they played at his favorite game, a lottery; when, with a bag of numbers in his hand, he would become quite excited, and

dersen. The words of the songs performed were by Heiberg, Overskou, Hertz, and Christian Winther; and the address by Claussen.

utter many a jest. He has represented the family in two bas-reliefs; in one of them are the mother, her two daughters, and the youngest son, with the artist himself; in the other, the father and his two eldest sons. Every circle in society sought to draw Thorwaldsen within it; he was to be seen in every large company, at every entertainment, and every evening at the theatre beside Oelenschlager. As a young man, he had scarcely possessed the imposing beauty of his later years; and combined with this dignity there was a gentleness and placidity, which was peculiarly prepossessing to strangers who approached him for the first time. His atelier was daily visited, and he therefore felt himself more at ease at Nysö. The family accompanied him in 1841, when he again visited Italy. The whole journey through Berlin, Dresden, Frankfort, the Rhine country, and Munich, was a continued triumph. An acre of ground might have been covered with the poems addressed to the fêted artist. The winter was spent in Rome with Baron Stampe, and all Danes found there a home to which they might resort. The following year saw Thorwaldsen again in Denmark, and at his beloved Nysö. On Christmas-eve he modelled a beautiful bas-relief- "Christmas Joy in Heaven," which Oelenschlager has consecrated by a poem. The last birth-day which he outlived, was celebrated here by the performance of a vaudeville, written by Heiberg, to which his friends were invited; but the pleasantest hour was in the morning, when the family, and the author of these pages, who had written a comic poem, still wet upon the paper, assembled before the artist's door, and with a fire-tongs, a drum, and a bottle, rubbed with a cork, for accompaniment, sang it as a morning greeting. Thorwaldsen, laughing, opened the door in his dressing-gown, waved his black Raffaele cap, took a fire-tongs himself, and accompanied us, dancing about, and crying out with the others "hurrah!" A beautiful bas-relief, the "Genius of Poetry," was just completed — the same which Thorwaldsen, on the last day of his life, dedicated to Oehlenschlager, saying, "That might be a medal for thee."

ture had commenced. On entering, he shook hands with some friends, took his accustomed seat, rose again to let some one pass, sat down again, bowed his head, and-expired. The music continued. The person next him thought he had fainted; he was carried out, but he was numbered among the dead.

The intelligence ran through the town like an electric flash; his room at Charlottenburg was crowded; the Baroness Stampe was deeply affected. A few days before she had lost a dear sister; the heart of a child lamented the great artist. It was found on examination that his death had been caused by an organic complaint of the heart, which would have occasioned dropsy. Few have been so happily released by sudden death: Thorwaldsen was fortunate even in death. His countenance retained its usual expression like a noble bust the great artist lay, in his long white drapery, with a fresh laurel wreath around his brow. He died at the commencement of Passion week.

He lay in an open coffin in the sculpture hall of the Academy; tapers burned in the candelabras. It was exactly fifty-one years, the previous day, since he had received, on the same spot, the medal of the Academy.

| ors; next came nearly eight hundred students— after these, the Icelanders- then artists of all classes, who changed places alternately -- and then the body; after it, the Crown Prince, with the members of the Academy, the military, persons in office, and citizens.

on

All the windows, walls, trees, and even many roofs were crowded. What a silence! See! all heads are bared, as the bier approaches the flower-decked bier, with palm branches strewn on it with Thorwaldsen's statue resting or Hope. Amongst the many garlands on the pall, two are worthy of note. The queen herself has woven one of the loveliest flowers of the season; the other is of silver- the children of several schools in the town have each contributed a mite from their pocket-money towards it. See! in all the windows, ladies clad in mourning — flowers are showered down-bouquets fall upon the bier-all the church-bells ring. It is a solemn procession; the people accompany the king of artists! Never will that moment be forgotten. As the bier reached the church door, the last of its followers left the chamber of mourning. The choir performed a funeral march (composed by Hurtman), deep and impressive, as though the dead themselves were joining in the ranks, led

"With bitter, bitter tears,

We bear the pride of Denmark to the grave."‡ The Crown Prince, as president of the Academy, followed nearest the bier. It stopped again in the court, and from the atelier resounded a Latin Miserere.§ The procession began. It was a gray day; not a sunbeam shone. The corporation, in civic costume, all with crape round their hats, had formed in ranks, arm in arm; and where the long line ended, came the people-even ragged boys-holding each other by the hand, and making a chain - a chain of peace. Near the church of Notre Dame, the procession of students began. It left the house of mourning at half-past one o'clock, and reached the church at a quarter before three. It was led by two artists, at the head of a number of sail

In his will, dated December 5th, 1838, he desires that all the objects of art in his possession should be given to the place of his birth, Copenhagen; that the Museum should bear his name, and leaves 25,000 rhth towards it. Konferenzrath, Kollin, Justizrath Thiele, the Professors Claussen, Schouw, and Bissen, with a number of the magistracy of Copenhagen, were named executors. The completion of his works was entrusted to the sculptor Bissen, as well as the artistic superintendence of the Museum, the expense to be defrayed from the funds of the Museum.

† It was delivered by Professor Claussen. A poem by H. P. Holst.

It was performed by the Italian opera-singers; the music was composed and arranged by the Capelmeister Perate.

trumpets. The king met the bier, and fell into the file of mourners in the church hung with black, where Christ and his apostles stood in the glimmering light. A cantata echoed from voices and organs; the last chorus sounded.* Then followed an oration by Provost Tryde, and the mourning festival concluded with a "Schlaf wohl," from the students, who had formed a circle round the bier. Thus ended, upon earth, the triumphant course of Bertel Thorwaldsen's glorious life. The life of no artist has been richer in the sunshine of fortune and renown than this. The nobly born were proud to welcome him in their circle-him, decked with orders, courted by princes, world-famous. The citizen knew that he was born in his own sphere - sprung from his strong race; and he raised his head proudly towards him, regarding his honor and good fortune as his own, seeing in him one chosen of God.

Even by his death, he seemed to bring good fortune to the poor. In "Nyboder," where Thorwaldsen was well known, and where they knew that his father had belonged to their class, and worked in the dockyard, they took, as numbers in the lottery, the figures of his age, and the days of his birth and death; and these ac

The queen, the crown princess, and several ladies of the royal household, had placed themselves on one of the lower benches, near the coffin.

A quarter of Copenhagen, built by Christian IV., inhabited by sailors.

is to refute the infidel philosophers:- and he states his expectations of getting personally a sight of the "cities of the plain." A correspondent of the Boston Post gives a text from Châteaubriand which comes fearfully in aid of some of the suggestions of Lieutenant Lynch. That poet speaks of "a dismal sound proceeding from this lake of death like the stifled clamors of the people engulphed in its waters!"- and the same writer adds to the miracles attributed to this silent sea that it bears on its surface the heavier metals. That is a chance in favor of Lieut. Lynch. The correspondent last alluded has no objection to Lieut. Lynch's "having his fling" at private cost- but cannot be made to understand why he should have a national ship to seek discoveries in the Lake Asphaltites. We presume that no such profane intention as that of spoil to be recovered from the ruins of the Vale of Siddim can be entertained by Lieut.

support of his argument, going down to Gomorrah in a diving-bell. The correspondent of the Boston Post has the cruelty to mock at the phantoms with which Lieut. Lynch has peopled "the Sea of the Wilderness." He coolly declares his belief that the expedition is not dangerous-and offers, if Lieut Lynch invite him, to accompany that officer as a slight diversion on his own way to Japan. The correspondent in question is wrong. The spirits of the region are already in motion to daunt Lieut. Lynch. Vesuvius, as we have already said, has got up his fires in the path of the expedition. But Lieut. Lynch has put on the welded armor of superstition and faith; - and would, we believe, not be warned back from his burlesque "Voyage of Discovery" though the Mediterranean burned with fire, and its eastern coast teemed with "windmills" all turning in a tempest.—Athe

næum.

MICHAEL ANGELO TITMARSH AND A BROTHER ARTIST.

"I knew both these gentlemen at Rome, when George wore a velvet doublet and a beard down to his chest, and used to talk about high art at the Café Greco. How it smelled of smoke, that velveteen doublet of his, with which his stringy red beard was likewise perfumed! It was in his studio that I had the honor to be introduced to his sister, the fair Miss Clara; she had a large casque with a red horse-hair plume (I thought it had been a wisp of her brother's beard at first), and held a tin-headed spear in her hand, representing a Roman warrior in the great picture of Caractacus George was painting

a piece sixty-four feet by eighteen. The Roman warrior blushed to be discovered in that attitude: the tin-headed spear trembled in the whitest arm in the world. So she put it down, and taking off the helmet also, went and sat in a far corner of the studio, mending George's stockings; whilst we smoked a couple of pipes, and talked about Raphael being a good deal overrated.

to him at Rome, after the death of their father, the Reverend Miles Rumbold."

66

George while at Rome painted 'Caractacus;' a picture of 'Non Angli sed Angeli,' of course; a picture of' Alfred in the Neat-herd's Cottage,' seventy-two feet by forty-eight; (an idea of the gigantic size and Michael-Angelesque proportions of this picture may be formed, when I state that the mere muffin, of which the outcast king is spoiling the baking, is two feet three in diameter); and the deaths of Socrates, of Remus, and of the Christians under Nero respectively. I shall never forget how lovely Clara looked in white muslin, with her hair down, in this latter picture, giving herself up to a ferocious Carnifex (for which Bob Gaunter the architect sat), and refusing to listen to the mild suggestions of an insinuating Flamen; which character was a gross caricature of myself.

"None of George's pictures sold. He has enough to tapestry Trafalgar Square. He has painted since he came back to England The flaying of Marsyas;' 'The smothering of the little boys in the Tower;' 'A plague scene during the great pestilence;' Ugolino on the seventh day after he was deprived of victuals,' &c. For although these pictures have great merit, and the writhings of Marsyas, the convulsions of the little prince, the look of agony of St. Lawrence on the gridiron, &c., are quite true to nature, yet the subject somehow are not agreea

ble; and if he had not a small patrimony, my friend George would starve.”— Our Street.

LORD ELDON.

Many were the squibs in prose and verse of which the Fabius of Chancellors was the subject. To one by Sir George Rose a happy retort was made by Lord Eldon.

"My most valued and witty friend, Sir George Rose, when at the bar, having the note-book of the regular reporter of Lord Eldon's decisions put into his hand with a request that he would take a note for him of any decision which should be given, entered in it the following lines as a full record of all that was material which had occurred during the day:

Mr. Leach
Made a speech,

Angry, neat, but wrong:

Mr. Hart,

On the other part,

Was heavy, dull, and long:

Mr. Parker

Made the case darker,

Which was dark enough without:

Mr. Cooke

Cited his book,

And the Chancellor said—“I DOUBT."

This jeu d'esprit, flying about Westminster Hall, reached the Chancellor, who was very much amused with it, notwithstanding the allusion to his doubting propensity. Soon after, Mr. Rose having to argue before him a very untenable proposition, he gave his opinion very gravely, and with infinite grace and felicity thus concluded:-'For these reasons the judgment must be against your clients; and here, Mr. Rose, the Chancellor DOES NOT DOUBT.'"

SCHILLER'S USE OF BODILY SUFFERING.

I have often been acquainted with persons, both men and women, in whom this condition (of constant bodily suffering) was habitual, and who had not even a single probable hope of ever getting free from it, unless by death. To this class especially Schiller belonged. He suffered much, suffered constantly, and knew, too, that (as was actually the case) these perpetual pains were gradually drawing him nearer to death. Yet of him it might truly be said that he kept his sickness imprisoned within the limits of his body, for at whatever hour you might visit him, in whatever state you might find him, his mind was always cheerful and tranquil, and ready for friendly intercourse, and for interesting and

even profound conversation. He would even say at times that a man can work better in certain states of bodily ailment - not those, of course, of acute suffering; and I have found him, while actually in this uncomfortable condition, composing poems and prose essays, in which no one, surely, could discover a trace of this circumstance of their birth.-"Letters by W. Von Humboldt."

TITLES.

Whenever we see the prefix of "Honorable" to such names as &c., our deep-rooted aversion to the use of these honorary and unmeaning appellatives is still more firmly fixed. Gen. Charles Lee spoke like a republican, and a man of sense also, when, in a letter to Patrick Henry, then Governor of Virginia, he said: "For my own part, I would as lief they would put ratsbane in my mouth, as the excellency,' with which I am crammed. How much more true dignity was there in the simplicity of address among the Romans:-Marcus Tullius Cicero, Decimo Bruto Imperatori, or Caius Marcello Consuli, than 'to his excellency Major General Noodle,' or to the honorable John Doodle.' My objections are perhaps trivial and whimsical; but, for my soul, I cannot help stating them. If, therefore, I should address a letter to you, without the 'excellency' tacked, you must not esteem it a mark of personal or official disrespect, but the reverse." - Exchange paper.

FANCIFUL TITLES.

A variety of French novel-writers, even the ablest, frequently choose very singular titles for their works, apparently because they think such eccentricity is necessary to secure them attention. At this moment works are in course of publication called 'The Club of the Damned,'

-

The Bloody Shoestrings,' My Father's Shirt,'-' The Blue-faced Knight,' and 'The Nose.' Modern French poets, too, have the funniest ideas and expressions imaginable. Within the last few days the following tit-bits have appeared in "poems" which have the pretension to be serious: "A sound as when the moon sneezes.”—“It looked like a ray of honey!" "The agitated steel," for the ringing of a bell. "Heaven coughed," for it thundered. — "Great man! thou art not a simple ceiling -thou art the sky!". "Heaven -God's blue carpet!"- "Those tender fowls with heavenly wings -- angels."- Edinburgh Register.