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thoughtful judgment that is demanded; and that, upon insufficient evidence, they utter hasty fiats, to recall which would be to prejudice the supposed dignity of their standing; and, finally, that they so completely lose their once lofty estimate of their holy calling that they bear themselves as critics and antagonists to those who, humbled by diseases, approach them for advice and assistance.

These accusations are not made against those of the lower orders of practitioners, but against those of the upper-against those who, by the exercise of skill and real industry, have risen high in the estimation of the community, but who have forgotten to practise in the good ways that they knew when younger. It is in the work of these aged and all-powerful men that the fault seems most hateful.

That great experience should have brought them belief in themselves; that dealings with thousands should have taught them to be arrogant; that intimacy with all the sentiments of life and death should not have kept them charitable and kindly in their bearing to their fellow-men; that the traditions of their calling should not have prevented them from being hasty, half-sighted, and obstinate-are lamentations that go up every hour from many a forlorn sick-chamber; and no one stands by to record them, and make them bear the fruit they teem with.

To cite instances in support of the accusations that have been briefly made would be a useless task. The writer must content himself with the reflection that what he has charged will find support in the experience of nine invalids in every ten in the country, and that no physician can be found who will not only admit the truth of what has been said, in so far as it applies to his contemporaries, but will be able and willing to add a little testimony out of his own memory.

Still it may not come amiss to refer to examples of each of the shortcomings described, in order that the points may be illustrated.

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Take the first count, for instance. A man in the last stages of consumption, whom the writer met in Aiken, had become alarmed about his condition some eighteen months before. He had gone to a prominent physician in Boston entirely unannounced, and had submitted his case to him. The physician asked in quick succession these questions: "Any consumptives among your immediate ancestors?" "Is your life sedentary?" "What have you been doing for yourself? "Do you cough much?" The patient was then ordered to divest himself of his coat and waistcoat. The physician applied his ear to the bared chest, and ordered that "one, two, three," should be counted. The enunciating was repeated half a dozen times. Then the patient's lungs were sounded by a series of taps made by the finger-tips of the doctor's right hand. With this operation the examination was brought to a close. Scarcely four minutes had been consumed in the task. The patient was then told to put his clothing on again. The physician wrote a prescription, calling for cod-liver oil and a mild tonic, and said to

the young man, "There is nothing the matter, but perhaps you had better live in another city next winter. Give me your address." He wrote it in a pass-book, and the young man went away. The address' was wanted for the use of the bill-collector.

When the patient got out of the austere presence and found himself in the street, he reflected that he had not been called upon to describe his symptoms; that he now knew nothing more about the character of his trouble than he had known before; that he had received no explanations, no encouragement, no warnings; and that he was entirely distrustful of the doctor's statement that "there was nothing the matter." He knew something was the matter. He was too pale, too weak, he coughed too much, and he had too many pains, to be put at rest by an impatient assertion made after an impatient glance at his condition.

Still the doctor was a great man.

The patient hesitated and dilly - dallied until spring came, when he went to another physician, who held up his hands in amazement, and ordered him off to Florida.

He became frightened, and he went to Florida by the first boat, and found out, after staying there two months, that it was in all probability the worst place on the surface of the earth for a person with his ailment.

The weather was exceedingly bad, and the air was heavy with moisture almost continually. Besides this, he found very little if any blood-food, such as it was positively necessary that he should have, and also that the druggists were ill supplied with fresh goods of the better sort. He was subjected to all the inconveniences of overcrowded towns, and when he fled from these he found that he had also fled from the few sorry comforts that he had been able to purchase.

The result was, that he went to Aiken with consumption fastened upon him, and I have no doubt that he is now dead.

The second physician committed as great a wrong as the first did. The weather in Florida that spring was relatively quite as bad as it was elsewhere, and the physician should have known it. Had he prescribed a drug whose quality was notoriously bad, he would have committed a misdeed similar to this one. The law does not admit the plea of ignorance of a statute to enter into the defense of a culprit. How would the law frown, then, upon the blunder of a person who sends another into danger because he failed to know what it was incumbent upon him in a positive sense that he should know. In case of the felon, knowledge, or rather a strong impression, regarding the law should be instinctive; but, in the case of a physician, the knowledge of climate and collateral matters should be as much a part of his stock of valuable information as his knowledge of medicine itself, and if he does not have it, even to the most minute particular, and if he acts in his ignorance, then he is, in the harshest meaning of the term, a wicked

mischievous falsehood, and, what is more, he proved that he spoke falsely in the same

breath.

He had before him a debilitated man, whom he examined in the customary way, and to whom he said, "There is nothing the matter;" but he added, "Perhaps you'd better live in another city next winter."

Why "in another city next winter," if there was "nothing the matter?" Why did he not say, as he should have said:

"You are in danger. Your lungs are liable to become diseased, and you should not stay in the climate that produced this condition in your system a day longer than you can help."

That would have been plain and honest, and it would have produced an alarm in the breast of the sick man that would have armed him against death with some effect. The claim that reticence on a doctor's part is frequently to be desired, does not admit of denial; but it is contended that he should always talk plainly when the question of the expediency of plain talk is even doubtful, and that it is imperatively demanded by honesty and humanity that he should speak plainly when he knows the patient has stamina enough to bear the truth. It is to be safely believed that the physicians whose methods are under criticism refrain from detailing what they know or suspect of a new patient's case from sheer antipathy to embroil themselves in fresh affairs-affairs whose turns and complications might bring discredit upon themselves. They show only too plainly by their manner that they would that the invalid had gone elsewhere. They regard the stranger as an interloper in the fair circle of selected clients, and they dispatch him in one, two, three order, and send him packing about his sorry business quite as ignorant as he was before, and twice as bewildered.

It is to be said that, although the remedies for consumption are simple, it is in the application of them that the trouble lies. The physician has upon his lips a few stock pieces of advice, but if he does not comprehend the condition and physical needs of the patient (and every patient is sui generis), be had much better hold his tongue.

All doctors can give the staple advice to consumptives, but it is only the best taught among them that can find out what patients require modifications or elaborations of these items of advice, and what these modifications or elaborations should be. It is very nice work to make these discoveries; it requires consummate skill, great experience, and sound judgment; but it is all wholly within the duty of a good physician to perform it. Believing this, how monstrous, then, does it seem when a patient is hurried into the street with the commands, "Live in a dry atmosphere; eat nourishing food; avoid changeable climates," ringing in his ears, hearing after all but repetitions of the advice he was once accustomed to hear in the nursery! What is a dry atmosphere? Where This same case may be made to explain is he to find it? How shall he take adanother point.

man.

The physician did not tell the truth to his patient. In fact, he told him a deliberate and

vantage of it when he has found it? What

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ical changes that are to be wrought? and so on, not ad infinitum, but to the extent perhaps of forty or fifty queries, all to be answered within five minutes, each being absolutely necessary to enable the patient to conduct his case with intelligence.

And if these questions be not asked, and if the physician does not satisfy himself of the true and exact wants of the system that needs treatment, then creep in those errors, those dreadful mistakes, the details of which make the listener wonder if sense and humanity have any offices to perform between doctor and invalid.

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If one but turn to listen, he may learn from the lips of the sufferers themselves that they have "by advice" hastened to warmer lands only to find them enveloped in fogs; that they have found places of "refuge" to be so utterly destitute of comforts that life was jeopardized within their limits; that the pains of travel have wrought evils that can never be repaired; that from lack of specific instructions they have wasted valuable time and strength in experimenting with various sorts of food; that they have discovered that their ills have been misnamed-that "debility" was consumption, that a slight irritation of the bronchial tubes" was degeneration of the lungs, that a nervous cough" was an unerring indicator of the approach of death. While taking fully into account the blindness and stupidity of many patients, there yet remain indictments enough against the physicians of "good repute" to cause universal distrust. One hears of delays, confused orders, inconsistencies and contradictions in diagnosis; blindness to clear indications; obstinate adherence to old methods when their worthlessness has been proved, and so on and on until the very compliment, "our first physician," becomes an abomination to the ears of a lay

man.

Could the offenses that doctors daily, nay, hourly, commit upon the helpless and trusting folk that appeal to them for aid be defined by any method analogous to the methods by which sins against the statutes are defined and punished, it is to be believed that the crimes would present as awful an aspect as the crimes do that the courts are called upon to judge; and, moreover, that, were the doctors placed at the same bar to answer, there are not prisons enough in this country to contain the culprits that would be sent to inhabit them.

ALBERT F. WEBSTER.

MY SOUVENIRS.

BUCHANAN READ-RINEHART-POWERS.

the for we

since it has become unfashionable and grown unpopular, Tupper's "Proverbial Philosophy" is remarkable, we find the following:

"Policy counseleth a gift, given wisely and in

season.

And policy afterward approveth it, for great is the influence of gifts."

But more sagaciously, because finding a realizing echo in a greater number of human

hearts, than in the selfish expression quoted, Jonson, in his "Underwood," says of gifts:

"They are the noblest benefits, and sink
Deepest in man; of which when he doth think,
The memory delights him more, from whom
Than what he hath received."

Yes, cold and emotionless indeed must be the heart in which remembrance is not wreathed and perfumed with gratitude when the eyes fall upon a token, however simple or insignificant, evidencing in some manner the thoughtfulness of the giver-whether it be a tribute to our own personal vanity, some little outcropping of taste or fancy, or some well-understood need. Gifts are rarely of fered without a feeling that they will be acceptable, and still more rarely without the hope that they will make the recipient happier; while we have the authority of the Holy Scriptures for saying that "they who give are more blessed than they who receive." And this reminds: Of treasures which have come to me in this way, I find in my jewel-box three small shells; and in memory I am carried back to my first journey by steamboat, on the Rappahannock River; and, among the passengers, to a fairhaired, bright-eyed little girl, a stranger to me, who hung around me, asked my name, told me hers, and where she was going. Finally, drawing from her pocket a small portemonnaie, from which she abstracted the shells:

"I am going to give these to you," she said, "because I like you. Uncle brought them, with a whole heap of pretty things, from-from-from-oh, where! Mamma?" she cried. "Ah! yes; the West Indies. No, no; you must keep them!" she continued, as I demurred, and her mother, more a stranger, smiled and bowed, "because I like you. Yes, I do!" Whereupon the little fay drew my head down, and imprinted an earnest kiss upon my lips. And I have kept them; the journey was a lonely one, undertaken under circumstances sad dening to reflect upon, but brightened and beautified by this little episode.

But it was not of my precious little shells that I intended to tell, but other mementoes recalling scenes, personages, and incidents, individually delightful to ruminate upon, and not devoid of general interest. They serve to recall one of the most charming and useful periods of my life-months in the “Old World," and a winter in Italy-in Rome, with its history, its ruins, its churches, and its art; Rome, with its solemn and imposing Christian festivals, its gay, rollicking carnival, its long Lenten penance broken by petits déjeuners, fox-chases, and other tolerated amusements for its pleasure-loving population; and May, the month of flowers in that climate, in Florence on the rippling, musical Arno; and in Venice Venice, the beautiful, on her seventy-two islands, rising like mole-hills out of the great sea.

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Here on the table beside me is a small paper-weight, from Rome, made up in the neat manner of the Roman workers in marble, of red porphyry, Egyptian alabaster, vert-antico, and white Carrara marble, to imitate a book; and in recalling the donor to memory, a man undersized, as small men are usually distinguished, with a thin vis

age, a tall, broad, expansive forehead, a very full suit of chestnut - brown hair thickly threaded with gray, a heavy brown mustache, a nose with the droop which indicates determination of will and energy of purpose, and a pair of clear blue eyes, full of kindness and full of poetry. It recalls a pleasant passage des armes; a little bantering upon some unimportant and now not-remembered subject; and the slipping of the paper-weight in my muff, with-" And this, if you please, in remembrance."

From my description, with the locality in view, need I say my generous friend was Thomas Buchanan Read, the sculptor, the painter, and the poet?

My first acquaintance with Mr. Read was through a short and very pleasant correspondence, paving the way for a still more pleasant personal acquaintance, which grew into a friendship that developed to me many of his peculiarities and idiosyncrasies. Mr. Read was undoubtedly possessed of genius, and of a high order, though of a nature too diffuse to make him willing to work for that excellence in any one pursuit which is almost invariably the result of great labor. My introduction to him occurred in his studio on the Via Margutta, on a morning round of visits by the party to which I belonged, to the studios of several American artists then in the "Eternal City." At once he extended his hand, in the manner of an old friend, with a congratulation to himself that much flattered his visitor.

Before us were the principal works in painting of his later life "The Star of Bethlehem," "The Lost Pleiad," "The Portrait of the ex-Queen of Naples," "Undine before Kühleborn." He was at work upon his "Abou Ben Adhem," and hanging up in a conspicuous place was his masterpiece, "Sheridan's Ride."

"What do you think of that for a horse?" said he to me, complacently regarding his work.

"For a horse?" said I, in a tone that might have been somewhat dubious, for I recognized a slight change in the expres sion of his countenance. "I think you have brought that horse up in remarkably fine order after that wonderful ride."

"Keep that to yourself," he said, in an undertone, and with a slight smile. "No one but a rebel could see what you see. Keep it to yourself, I beg you."

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And truly the story, brilliant as it may be, is exaggerated in the picture. The steed, as black as night," with the valorous rider, is represented as just coming into the Federal camp at Winchester; the dust rolling up in clouds around him, and the white froth flying from his thin, pink, quivering, distended nostrils; while, hat in hand, and the glow of inspiration upon his face, the rider, slightly lifting himself from the saddle, acknowledges the cheers by which he is greeted by the doubtful and discomfited men of his army. One would naturally think the horse, after such a ride, must have shown some symptoms of weariness, and that all the force and vigor of the incident must have belonged to the rider. Would such a representation, and especially after Mr. Read's poem descrip

tive of the ride and glorifying the rider, be | satisfying to the public, who, through the verses, have been taught to regard General Phil Sheridan as another Boanerges, if not a Castor or a Pollux?

And framed and hung upon the wall of his studio was also the original version of the poem which furnished the study for his picture. Buchanan Read was not, indeed, a vain man, as has been said by some, but he liked well-timed applause, and accepted compliments with no boastful modesty, but as his due. At heart he was generous and noble, recognizing bravery, generosity, and nobility, in others, and unwilling to wound or harm by word or deed; and after more than one visit from me to his studio, and my carefully reading the original version of his celebrated poem-more than onceupon one occasion at a dinner, he declared he "had never written a line that in dying he would wish to blot."

"Indeed!" cried I, in a tone more serious than mock resentment, and I quoted:

On the trail of a comet, sweeping faster and
faster,

Foreboding to traitors the doom of disaster,
The heart of the steed and the heart of the
master

Were beating like prisoners assaulting their
walls.'"

"I beg your pardon!" he exclaimed, earnestly, as I said, slowly, "How dare you charge me with being a traitor?" "After the very first publication of my poem I changed the word traitor to foeman, and thus you will find it rendered generally in the school-books into which it has been admitted." And thus have I found it rendered; though there are few, nevertheless, who, even after this declaration, would begin to regard Mr. Read's loyalty in the least questionable. Mr. Read thoroughly appreciated the assistance of his poem toward Sheridan's fame, if he did not, indeed, think that the hero of the poem was more indebted to this coup de grace of a poem for the most of the fame which attached to him. But that he was a genuine friend and an ardent admirer of General Sheridan, there was no doubt; ret did he not refuse a generous meed of praise to some in the traitor category, understood in his stirring poem, even to speaking with pride of his descent from rebel stock in Maryland, and other evidences to prove that he could recognize nobility and bravery in his political enemies.

Above my toilet mirror hangs a small oilpainting, fifteen inches broad by seven deep. Connoisseurs say it is a gem. And truly in drawing, coloring, and the poetry with which it is invested, it is a gem. It represents a view in Ischia, and with its companion, a view in Capri, was painted, at Mr. Read's request, by De Moontstant, an artist from Norfolk, Virginia, to illustrate the following stanza in the poet's "Drifting:

"Here Ischia smiles

O'er liquid miles;

And yonder, bluest of the isles, Calm Capri waits, Her hundred gates Beguiling to her bright estates." These two pictures were brought up by Mr. Read one morning to one of those de

lightful Lenten petits déjeuners to which allu- | Read, who produced from her portfolio the sion has been made, and "Capri " presented to our accomplished hostess, Mrs. H—, and "Ischia" to myself. And at this moment it is before me, looking down cheerfully, and bringing up in vivid portraiture the goodly company which surrounded that genial breakfast-board, over the graves of two of whom, our hostess and the sculptor, painter, and poet, the tall grass now waves.

But of that breakfast. It was at our Roman home, in the Palazzo Ristori, and in the small and unpretending dining-parlor in which the great tragédienne was in the habit of taking her meals when residing there. Of those present I now recall Mr. Randolph Rogers, and J. Henry Haseltine, American sculptors; Captain Young, of her Britannic Majesty's service, formerly painter; the young Duke Braschi, and several ladies, who must be nameless. As we proceeded from the grand salon of the palace to the breakfast-room, Mr. Read whispered to me:

"If you will ask for it between the courses, I will recite 'Drifting' for you;" and, taking the cue, and seemingly in an unpremeditated manner, I did.

"Drifting," which was recited with an expression and enthusiasm in the author that added much to its beauty, was followed by his "Singer," "Sheridan's Ride," "Watching," and a splendid tribute to the great American triumvirate-Clay, Calhoun, and Webster, the title of which is not now remembered, but beginning with this line

"The great are falling from us, one by one;" besides several striking poems by other authors.

The last time I saw Mr. Read was at the Astor House, in New York, a few days previous to his death. I had heard from a friend, who was a passenger from Liverpool on the same ship, of his illness; and, calling to inquire of Mrs. Read of the condition of his health, by his request I was invited in to see him. Already had death placed its signet upon him; but yet he was hopeful, and spoke confidently of life for years to come in his cottage in the suburbs of Cincinnati. His thoughts were full of what he had done, and his mind of what he wished to do. He spoke of pictures that in imagination he had projected, and of poems he would write.

"I have made a sketch of you," I said, in the course of the interview.

He smiled feebly.

"And what did you say of me?"

"I said you had four specialties, viz., poetry, painting, sculpture, and the compounding of terrapin-stew."

"Let it stand!” cried he "let it stand just so. I made terrapin-stew for Mr. Longfellow when he was in Rome, and I made terrapin-stew for you-did I not?"

He had not made a terrapin-stew for me, but promised one when I should be a guest in his Cincinnati cottage, some time.

With a glinting of the enthusiasm, which in some moods characterized him, as I sat by his bedside, "The best of my poems," he said, "I am inclined to think, you have never seen. It is entitled 'The Golden Now.'Get it, will you, Hattie ?" turning to Mrs.

printed slip of a poem written in the same measure as his "Watching "-a poem pronounced by a critic in the Westminster Review to be the finest ever written by an American author. The slip he gave me, after a futile attempt to read it himself; and I left, promising in a few days to see him again. But it was not so to be; and now, as my eyes run over the smooth and beautiful lines of which the opportunity and the improvement of the moment are the theme, and in which man is represented as holding within himself his own destiny for good or evil, I cannot help thinking, though his life was a busy and far from being a profitless one, there must have been many times when Buchanan Read was forced to weep

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Of all his accomplishments, his poetry came, perhaps, nearest excellence. His efforts at sculpture were mainly in early life, and given up as a pursuit for painting; and in painting he was too much of a poet to give such attention to details as characterizes the work of all the most celebrated in the profession. His pictures, indeed, were poems transferred to canvas. He liked light, intangible effects, the painting of angels emitting phosphorescent rays, and shadowy, indefinite figures, which told a story of worlds more sinless than our own. He delighted in investing his female portraits in gauzy, diaphanous drapery, and looping it with soft, translucent pearls" making us look," as said a lady, "as we shall look when we get to

heaven." Some of his pictures betrayed careful study of the old masters. This was especially noticeable in his "Lost Pleiad," the drawing of the figures in which could not fail to suggest to the beholder the celebrated "Iris " of the Gallery of St. Luke, while the drapery, ethereal and clinging, and the mystical twilight shadow that enveloped the creation were essentially of himself, or rather of his style, poetical and intangible. His "Sheridan's Ride" was a singular departure from this style, and the spirit which pervaded it; and, though the horse has been pronounced by connoisseurs an exaggeration, he considered the painting, as it assuredly was, bis chefd'œuvre. Of his portraits, of which he painted many, that of the ex-Queen of Naples was his pet and pride. It is a full-length figure, clad in white gauze, with a profusion of gauze about the shoulders and arms, and strings of pearls around the neck, and looping up heavy masses of dark hair. It only needed wings to be the picture of an angel, if gauze is the fabric in which angels dress.

And now I open a portfolio of photographs, all of statuary, and the most of them the work of modern artists; and, as one by one I pass them through my hands, I am carried back in memory to climbing the steep triple flights of steps of the Trinità di Monti, and a large, commodious studio on the Via Gistina, in Rome: upon a site which might

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which the head and shoulders of the daugh-
ter of Oceanus are represented as rising out
of the sunflower- the broad petals of the
yellow blossom curving off from her beautiful
bust. Rinehart's "Clytie" is a nude, full-
length, standing figure, holding in her right
hand a fully-expanded sunflower, upon which
she gazes with bent head-her eyes fastened
upon it with an earnestness which might
have sent her soul through them, and vital-
ized the blossom into which she was turned
when despised by Apollo. She pined away,
and was transformed by the more merciful
gods. This Rinehart regarded as his chef-
d'œuvre. For its perfection no less than
twelve models were employed, and those se-
lected from the most celebrated for face and
figure then in Rome-one furnishing one, and
another another portion of the body or some
superior grace, that tended to the creation
of beauty which had birth in the artist's
soul.

across the Ponte Vecchio, around the Boboli Gardens, and under the shadows of the Pitti Palace, out to a suburban settlement on the western side of the Arno, which, from the order of its architecture, the light drab, salmon and cream color of the cottages, and the neat gardens about, under a sky less clearly, deeply blue, and in air less soft and balmy, might have been taken for the suburb of some thriving New England village. We halted in front of a modern gate, alighted, and, passing through a small and flourishing garden, entered the open door of a wooden building, painted a pale salmon color, and found ourselves within a finely-lighted, commodious suite of rooms, used as a sculptor's studio. Around us were evidences innumerable of his craft. And full soon the sculptor entered-a man, seen once, to be forever afterward remembered: past middle life, tall, loose-jointed, but not ungainly in physique, with a dark complexion, tending to floridness, long, iron-gray hair and beard, massive but drooping features, and large, grayishbrown eyes, that spoke volumes of kindness and poetry, yet energy and determination. And we were in the presence of Hiram Powers, world-known and world-famed! I know not why it should have been, but his presence was overpowering, and it required some moments of listening to his voluble and instructive conversation for me to regain sufficient self-possession to join in a talk that interested me beyond measure. Nor in this do I think I should have succeeded at all, had he not produced the little hand in marble, of which Hawthorne speaks in his travel-notes -the hand of one of his children when an infant-the great artist's peculiar pet work— the hand which Hawthorne thinks should be "I could make it suit me!" he replied, copied again at sixty years of age, when it with enthusiasm.

have been one of the terraces of the Pincian "Clytie," though essentially Greek, is a de-
Hill-overlooking in the distance the Capito-parture from the "Clytie we all know, in
line, the Palatine, Monte Cavallo, the Jani-
cule, and the Piazza and Cathedral of St.
Peter. This studio was richly impregnated
with the aroma of art, having been for many
years occupied by one and another who wor-
shiped at the shrine. But the genius which
then presided would scarcely have been sin-
gled out in a crowd as one about whose brow
in infancy the lambent flame of fortune, glory,
and greatness, had played. He was a man
of medium size, thin and angular, with a
pale, fair complexion, light-brown hair and
beard, clearly cut but by no means distinc-
tive nose and mouth, a forehead neither very
high, very broad, nor massive, but a pair of
kindly, thoughtful blue eyes, which redeemed
his face from absolute plainness. Such was
William B. Rinehart, whom one in passing
would simply pronounce an indifferent-look-
ing man, but who was acknowledged in Rome
to be a diligent student, and the most suc-
cessful revivalist living of the old Greek
school of sculpture. Of all the artists that it
was my happy fortune to meet in the Eternal
City (and I can count them by dozens), I do
but simple justice to the memory of Rinehart
by saying there was about him the least of a
merchant, the least assumption of originality
or extraordinary attainment in his profession,
and the most modesty of any I met; while
not one of his brother artists.spoke ill of
him, and none seemed to envy him. He pur-
sued the even tenor of his way, without in-
terfering with or obtruding upon others—an
artist and a gentleman - one of Nature's
moulding, without fear and without reproach.
Among his works, of which he did me the
honor of sending photographs before I left
Rome, I find "The Woman of Samaria,"
"Leander," "Hero," "Clytie," and a pair
of reclining twin babes intended for a tomb.
In all of these there is no mistaking the
Greek feeling, the conscientious adherence
to the strict rules of art which developed a
Phidias and a Praxiteles. "The Woman of
Samaria," of life-size, and perhaps beroic, is
one of the noblest figures of modern creation
in marble. It is represented at the moment
when, after meeting the Saviour at the well,
she declares, " He told me all the things that
ever I did "-her water-pot poised gracefully
on her right hip, her left hand holding up the
many folds of her loose robe, and a glad,
pleased, surprised, and incomprehending ex-
pression upon her countenance. Her face is
that of a Jewess, but idealized to the most
extreme beauty ever seen in the daughters
of Israel.

His "Leander" is nude, bold, brawny, muscular, the limbs strong and supple, as if altogether able to cleave the waves of the Hellespont, and the face of the purest Greek type. His "Hero" is the anxious, timid Greek maiden, standing upon the sea-shore, with a lighted lamp in hand, looking out over the dark waters-the wind ruffling in many graceful and easy curves the loose, light folds of her drapery. These two companion pieces seem rather as if they might naturally have sprung out of the marble than have been manipulated by human hands, so perfectly do they agree the one with the other. His

Rinehart lived and died a poor man. He never aspired to riches, but he had longings for appreciation that were ill-gratified; because, perhaps, his modesty was too great, and the dignity of a true artist is inwrought with too much delicacy to allow him to thrust forward his claims to notice, to the gaping crowds. He was a Baltimorean by birth, and with an intense admiration for the character of Stonewall Jackson, the artist ardently wished for an order for an equestrian statue of the great Southern soldier.

"But would it suit you?" said I. "He was the most quiet of men; and history records quite as little action of the proverbial 'old sorrel horse,' as the rider."

"Then you would be compelled to expend much idealization upon it, and thus the work would lose likeness to the originals."

"That could be managed," he said, laughingly, "and yet no one would fail to recognize the rebel hero, or his characteristic warhorse."

It seems, indeed, a pity, when his expressed wishes were so few, that he could not have had this commission; and yet, when his fame as a sculptor is regarded, those who most sincerely admired and valued his genius, may be glad they were never gratified. We can very well understand his success in classic studies, but cannot forbear a feeling of excessive doubtfulness when we think of him as manipulating Stonewall Jackson, and bis equally unimpressionable war-steed. Within the last few months Rinehart, too, has passed away, leaving the remembrance of his exalted genius, his skill in his profession, and his many virtues, to gather in a halo of brightness over a name and a fame comparatively unknown.

Now I open the lids of a "Hand-book of Central Italy," and between the leaves I find two pressed sprays of small yellow roses, and a spray of a diminutive red rose, called here "the picayune." And, seeing these, there recurs to memory the brightest of bright May mornings in Florence, a seat in a rickety, hired carriage, a drive at a furious pace

shall have performed the greater part of life's duties allotted it, and the bones and sinews and veins shall have each made for them a character. The display of this little, beautiful thing in marble had in it so much that was human, so much that was simple, so much that was akin to mortals less highly gifted, that I soon found my tongue unloosed, my dumbness leave me, and, ere long, with a confidence which now surprises me, I was exchanging opinions with him in regard to his "Proserpine; "his matchlessly-beautiful "Greek Slave; his dignified, womanly 'Eve;" this, that, and the other around us, as compared with the ancient "Venuses " and other celebrated pieces of Greek statuary; and, besides, his process for modeling plaster, which obviates the necessity of taking a clay model of the subject.

Of one thing I was almost immediately convinced, and that was that Mr. Powers was an admirable talker-communicative and instructive-the talk embellished with flashes of thought and quaint expressions, which could have emanated from no mind but one instinct with genius, and one that delighted in the true and the beautiful. I wish I could remember all he said; all the nice points brought forward, all the nice distinctions made.

The day before we had visited the Ufizzi Gallery, and this being discovered, it gave him opportunity for a short disquisition on

the "Venus de Medici," the good and the bad points in the statue, according to his opinion-the perfectness of the figure, the misplacement of the ears, and other departures from correctness, undiscovered by any save a practised artist. From what Mr. Hawthorne and others say of him, this must have been a favorite subject of conversation with Mr. Powers. And who, better than he, could venture to criticise any school, or any single work of art ?

He has been represented as ungenerous to other artists, and hypocritical, when a chance was given him to render an estimate. But this, from my own short acquaintance, I am much inclined to doubt; and equally as mach inclined to accept his opinion of another artist and his works, as founded on merit. In the course of the conversation, I well remember, the name of Rinehart came up.

"He seems to me to be a very conscientious sculptor," I ventured timidly to say.

"Yes," he replied, quickly, and with much earnestness, "the most conscientious sculptor living. Not one has so high an ap preciation of sculpture as an art, and not one gives so exclusive study to the highest schools and the most rigid rules of the art."

Of his own works, aside from the babyhand, I found it impossible to decide upon the artist's favoritism. From his "Eve" he went to his "Greek Slave;" from this, to his "Il Penseroso;" and then to his "Proserpine," his "Fisher-Boy," his "California; " and from bust to bust, turning each on its pedestal, drawing distinctions and descanting briefly upon all, in a cluster of gems of thought, each radiant with that of himself, which contributed so decidedly to his wonderful magnetism, and yet made him feared and respected more than loved and confided in.

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"That rises upward always higher

And onward drags a laboring breast,
And topples round the dreary west,
A looming bastion fringed with fire ”—

it is plain that the writer is painting an actual cloud which he saw-that he really had gazed at this piled-up, looming mass against the red sunset which bursts forth only at the ragged edges, "fringing" them with flaming crimson. It is the happy privilege of poets to take note of these grand or exquisitely delicate effects of the fairy fingers of light, to store them in memory, and to reproduce them in verse as the painter sees and reproduces them on canvas. I am neither a poet nor a painter, and can reproduce what I have seen in neither fashion; but I can describe in plainer prose, and I think I have witnessed in my life some wondrous " effects." I shall make the attempt to note down a few of these beautiful memories. A reader here or there with a taste for such things may possibly find my notes interesting.

This is my first memory. Nearly thirty years ago I was in the Capitol at Washington, in what month of the year I cannot now recall, but I know that the day was overclouded, and the general aspect of the great Rotunda gloomy. A dull light only filtrated through the glass above, in which the large, "historical" pictures upon the walls were only half visible. Pocahontas was only a blurred figure, and the combatants at Monmouth fought in a sort of cloud. There was no one in the Rotunda, all was singularly quiet, and I rambled around in an idle way, thinking, and scarcely looking at any object, when all at once the space was lit up, as it were, by a sudden golden blaze; a long, brilliant stream of light fell from a rift in the lowering clouds, and this sudden glory rested on a single spot in a single picture—the golden head of sweet Rose Standish in "The Landing of the Pilgrim Fathers." I shall never forget the de

We were more than loath to leave his presence and the attractions gathered around him; but etiquette prompted, even when we tarned to go out of the studio, that the length of our stay might have been a trespass on his time and good-nature, though he depreeated our haste, and seemed inclined to say much more. In his sculptor's coat and cap he followed us out to the carriage, as he passed along, breaking from a climbing yelbow rose, which overhung one of the front windows of his studio, the two sprays now before me; and, from a low hedge on a flower-light I experienced—the tender sweetness of border, the little red one. Their perfume is gone, but their colors are still bright, serving most marvelously to freshen and vivify memty's wholly ineradicable picture, of that bright May morning in Florence, the gurgle and ripple of the Arno, to whose murmur the Casa Guido windows were opened, adding to the natural inspiration of the resident the drive across the Ponte Vecchio and its consequences.

Yes; here before me are my little, simDe souvenirs—my paper-weight, my picture, | ay photographs, and my pressed roseswhile they who gave them me now lie low in the dust, with the winds whispering above, of their aims, their efforts, and their accomplishments. T. Buchanan Read was the first to go; then, Hiram Powers; and last Rinehart. Peace to their ashes!

the poetical head of the young girl. All the rest of the picture was in gloom, and rendered even gloomier by the partial illumination. Stern Puritans and fighting-men, lights and shadows of the painting alike, all were dark, and but one thing was visible—the girl's golden hair in the golden ray.

My next memory takes me to the city of New York and old Trinity Church. I had gone thither to attend worship one Sunday in the autumn of 1867. The large building was filled, the clergyman had preached his sermon, the sweet young choristers had charmed me with their touching voices, and the mo

As the reader may imagine that this article was suggested by the one in the last number of the JOURNAL, entitled "Seven Brilliant Sunsets," we think it only justice to Mr. Cooke to say that his MS. was sent to us before that article appeared.

SALLIE A. BROCK. -ED. JOURNAL

ment had arrived when the sacrament of the holy communion was to be administered. As on that day at Washington, the sky had been overcast. A dim religious light only filled the church; all was hushed, and the clergyman approached that part of the chancel where the vessels were arranged on the altar for the communion. As he did so, the stained window on the southern side of the chancel suddenly blazed, and a dazzling flood of light fell upon the burnished silver, turning the vessels to gold. And there the light continued to rest, as though to give all who looked an opportunity to enjoy the spectacle. Did all appreciate the solemn beauty of it? I know not. A few did, I am certain. As I was coming out of the church I passed two men, apparently foreigners.

"Did you see?" said one, in a low voice. "You mean-"

"Yes, that effect of light on the altar and the vessels."

"Yes; wonderful!-wonderful!"

Let us leave cities now, and come to a much more tranquil locality-an old countryhouse sleeping in the midst of green fields and oak-forests, in the neighborhood of the Blue Ridge Mountains, in Virginia. This country-house has a long portico in front-a convenient old haunt in summer evenings, where you may lounge in an easy-chair, or walk to and fro, passing the tranquil hour of twilight in that wise and profitable idleness which freshens all the faculties: and in front is a green circle with a square white trellis in the middle holding up a tall "Kentucky rose," and a white-and-salmon honeysuckle, which I am informed is very rare. I only know that it is very attractive seen from the upper windows on dewy mornings against the fresh greensward, and that the mingled bloom of rose and honeysuckle form a great bouquet, with which the most exacting might be pleased. Around the circle are some cedar-trees, growing, after their habit, in the shape of cones; and near them rises a weather-worn pole, like the mast of a ship-once surmounted by a weather-cock-which the Bishop of New York set up nearly half a century ago. To end my catalogue of objects in this quiet haunt, you may see, across fields and woods toward the east, the Blue Ridge, clothed with forest; in the west the North Mountain sleeps like a long, blue wave on the horizon, and toward the south the Massinutton, with its tall headland above Strasburg, and its peaks called "The Three Sisters," rises suddenly from the level valley, a deeper blue against the blue of the sky.

I have often witnessed in this tranquil country landscape very beautiful effects of light and shade, for the sinking sun throws the shadow of the western Massinutton headland on the Three Sisters, and heightens their attractions. Sometimes a tall pine-tree on the mountain wears the evening-star upon its summit as a monarch wears a jeweled crown; and I once observed the red disk of the setting sun just poised on the summit of the range with a long, snow-white cloud sweeping upward from it like a swan's feather, the whole resembling to the eye of fancy a blue cap with a snowy plume, secured by some blazing carbuncle.

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