ple could stand, but in which two hundred tons of cheese and forty thousand dollars' worth of fresh herrings are annually sold.

An hour's sail from Monnikendam brings us to the little fishing - hamlet of Vollendam, where we stop for a day, and where M. Havard sketched the interior of a fisherman's cottage. There was the inevitable bed in its curtained alcove. A cast-iron stove, instead of the usual one of brick, projected from a gayly-tiled chimney-piece; quaint pottery ornamented the shelves; mossy old chairs, tables, and armoires, as bright as wax and rubbing could make them, were ranged around the walls. By the window, with its small panes, sat the good-wife plying her needle; and in the middle of the floor were two fishermen packing anchovies into a great earthen jar. These all wore their quaint costume; but the men were in their stocking-feet, for here no man retains his sabots in-doors. They are always taken off and left outside, so that one can tell how many men are at home by counting the pairs of wooden shoes by the door.

Only a mile from Vollendam is Edam, once one of the five principal towns of Holland, having one of the largest and finest churches in the kingdom. It is approached by a superb canal bordered by fine trees, and is itself beautifully shaded. The present population is about four thousand. It is surrounded by luxuriant meadows, and has been for more than three centuries noted for its cheese, which connoisseurs pronounce superior even to the famous Parmesan. In the town hall is a picture, painted in 1682, which bears curious testimony to the comparatively modern greatness of this now dead city. It is the portrait of a wealthy ship-owner of that time, who is seated between the portraits of his son and daughter, to whom he points out with his finger ninetytwo ships, all his own property. There are also portraits of three other celebrities of the place. One is Peter Dirksz, "the man with the beard," whose capillary adornment was so long that it swept the ground as he walked. Another is Jan Cornelissen, an innkeeper, who, at the age of forty-two, turned the scale at four hundred and fifty-two pounds. The third is Trintje Cornelissen, a maiden of nineteen, nine feet tall, and of proportionate bulk. By way of partial corroboration of this measurement, her shoes, now two and a half centuries old, and as large as a tolerable violin-case, are carefully treasured up. Edam, if the veracious old chroniclers, Paraval and Van der Aa, are to be credited, once possessed a curiosity such as no other city ever could boast. In 1403, when the whole region was inundated, some fisherwomen descried a strange creature disporting in the shallow waters. They gave chase, and caught it in their nets. Their prize proved to be a veritable siren—not a mere vulgar mermaid with human head and fish-like extremities, but a veritable nymph of the sea, like those who of old sought to allure the wise Ulysses to the ocean-depths. They brought her to their home, dressed her in human attire, taught her to sew and spin; but with all their efforts could never teach her the Dutch language!

If there had been some learned man to address her in Greek, who knows what she could have told? For all that appears, she was the sole survivor of her race, and with her perished the last chance of our learning the mysteries of the ocean-depths. One might suppose that the good people of Edam would have preserved the stuffed skin, or at least the skeleton of so strange a being.

From the famous Edam to the still more famous Hoorn is a short half-day's sail. Entering the fine harbor, we pass through basin after basin bordered by meadows and gardens which occupy the sites of the great ship-yards in which were built the fleets which bore the Dutch flag into every ocean. Here were built the ships with which Van Tromp, bearing a broom at his mast-head, threatened to sweep the English from the North Sea. From Hoorn sailed Abel Tasman, the discoverer of Van Diemen's Land and New Zealand; Jan Koen, who founded the Dutch colony of Batavia, in Java; and Wouter Schontin, who first doubled the stormy cape, which he named Cape Horn, in honor of his native town.

At Hoorn was mainly built and manned the little fleet which in 1573 won the sea-fight of the Zuyder Zee, one of the strangest engagements on record, fought in full view from the walls of the city. The Spanish admiral, Count Bossu, came out from Amsterdam with a fleet of thirty sail, trusting to sweep the Dutch vessels from the Zuyder Zee. The patriots collected twenty-five vessels of smaller size and feebler armament, but they knew every winding of the narrow channels. After a brief engagement the Spanish fleet scattered in all directions, chased by the most of the Dutch vessels. But Bossu, believing that his great flag-ship, the Inquisition, was an overmatch for the whole force of the patriots, held his ground. Four little Dutch vessels grappled to the bows, stern, and sides, of the Inquisition. One was beaten off disabled, but the others clung to her like sucking-fish to a whale. The great vessel drifted upon a sand-bank, where she stuck. The action began in the afternoon, and lasted through the night and far into the next day. It was not so much an ordinary sea-fight as the storming of a strong castle. Artillery could not be used, and Bossu and his menat-arms, clad in bullet-proof armor, repelled every attempt at boarding. The Dutch plied their invulnerable antagonists with fire-balls and discharges of molten lead. Boats were continually putting off from the shore, carrying off the dead and wounded, and bringing fresh men to take their place. Early in the morning the assailants gained brief possession of half of the deck of the Inquisition. A sailor climbed the rigging and hauled down the Spanish colors, but he was shot dead before he regained the deck, and his comrades were hurled back. In these fierce hand-to-hand encounters, three-fourths of the Spaniards were killed or wounded; and at length Bossu, his vessel fast aground, and with no hope of succor or escape, surrendered himself and three hundred others. He was carried prisoner to Hoorn, where he was kept in confinement for three years. He was a Hollander by birth, and was released in

virtue of a pacification agreed upon by the States, who had before taken different sides in the contest; but his massive gold drinking-cup, as has been told,

old gate is the Cowgate, so called from being surmounted by groups of sculptured cows, looking on one side into the green meadows and on the other placidly surveying the town. There is still another, the East Gate, of more modern construction. It was built in 1578, during the agony of the great struggle with Spain, and bearing an inscription to the effect that no prudence or vigilance, no arms or thunder of cannon, could defend the town unless God willed to preserve and rule it.

Passing through the fine harbor-gate one seems in a moment carried back four centuries to the time when the wealth of the world was being poured into the lap of Holland. The streets are broad, and lined with quaint houses built of a warm-colored brick, with massive granite steps and landings, and heavy caps over the doors and windows. The roofs all rise in the favorite Dutch stair-like form, and everywhere is a profusion of carved wood and sculptured stone. Every house is old, but none are dilapidated. It was never among the most populous towns of Holland. In its palmy days the inhabitants numbered about twenty-five thousand, and there are now about ten thousand; but they seem lost in those great, old, antique dwellings and broad, deserted

ENTRANCE TO THE HARBOR OF HOORN.

remained and remains at Hoorn. He afterward went over to the patriot side, rose high in the confidence of William the Silent, and did good service against the Spaniards.

Hoorn was founded about 1315, thirty years after the overflow by which the Zuyder Zee was formed. Possessing the best natural harbor on the sea, it grew rapidly into importance. Municipal privileges were granted to it in 1356; the great church, burned to the ground in 1838, was completed in 1369. It was, says an old chronicler, "of handsome construction, with a fine steeple of wood covered with lead, similar to but a little smaller than that of Haarlem, built by the same architect." It, moreover, rejoiced in the possession of a bit of the true cross. In 1389 a great annual bullock - fair was established here, which drew visitors from every corner of Europe. The walls were built in 1426. Of these there now remain only a few crumbling towers, and two of the ancient gates, the ramparts having been converted into gardens and promenades shaded by fine trees. One of the old gates at the entrance of the harbor is an imposing structure; the side facing the port is of a rounded form; that fronting the town is straight, decorated with sculpture and ornaments. The other

EAST GATE AT HOORN.

streets, which seem fitted only for cavaliers and burghers in plumed hats, trunk-hose, and long rapiers. If not absolutely a dead city, it is a very sleepy one.

bitterest enemies.' Andrea del Sarto and Correggio are said to have painted their Madonnas and angels from their own wives and children. Leonardo da Vinci chose as his model for Judas an ill-favored man in power who was trying to ruin him. The sister of Napoleon I. was a model to Canova. The distinguished poetess and noble princess, Victoria Colonna, it is said, influenced Michael Angelo in his type of female heads. Among the old painters, had I space, I could find pages of similar instances if I chose to consult historical references. Of the modern painters I have room for only two instances, though hundreds could be found if desirable. Our own gifted Trumbull, who went to England during our War of Independence, was thrown into prison as a spy; during his imprisonment he occupied himself in painting a picture representing the sortie of Gibraltar. Among the principal foreground figures was a young English officer, wounded and dying. The artist found it difficult to satisfy himself with the action of this figure. Sir Thomas Lawrence, then commencing his career, came one day to the prison to visit the rising American artist. Trumbull expressed his dissatisfaction in regard to that particular figure, when young Lawrence threw himself into the action of the wounded Briton. The artist, pleased with his pose and form, painted from him the most touching incident in that remarkable picture, thus profiting by Lawrence as his model, and perpetuating a portrait of him at the same time.

When our distinguished sculptor Professor Rogers was modeling "Nydia, the Blind Girl of Pompeii," an accomplished young American lady visited his studio. Her hands were the most lovely types of symmetry and refinement ever seen, and it was easy to suppose and imagine that her feet were equally beautiful and perfect. The sculptor, quick to observe, and just then busy with the feet and hands of Nydia, thought how happy he should be could he have hers as a study. He asked, as a very great favor and condescension, that she would allow him to take casts of her hands. She complied without hesitation, and he was so fortunate also as to get a cast of her charming little feet. Here the daughter of one of our most eminent and cultivated citizens was a model in part for the creation of one of the most popular statues of our time.3

Professional models in Rome may be divided into two classes-those who sit or stand in costume, and those who are models for the nude. The first are mostly employed by the painters, and the last by the sculptors. There are plenty of old sinners who sit for saints and other historical subjects, long-bearded patriarchs, ancient soothsayers, or mod

1 It was in the picture of the "Last Judgment." The cardinal appealed to Leo X. for redress for the insult perpetrated by the painter. Leo asked him if Michael Angelo had really put him in hell. He replied, "Yes, your holiness." "Then you

ern beggars. There are younger models, zealous to represent St. Johns and St. Jameses, or ready to be worked into heroes and satyrs, soldiers, prelates, sailors, sorcerers, or what you like. There are two or three black-bearded, thick-haired, low-browed looking villains who are valued as good types for Judases, brigands, and assassins, or who may answer for wicked monks in cowls. One of these was considered the best devil in the Eternal City, and monopolized almost entirely the business of that department, achieving the startling nickname of "Il Diavolo." There are one or two models popular as types of the Saviour. One of them was known by the name of "Il Cristo." I myself had occasion once to consult his head for a picture of Christ at the well with the woman of Samaria, which I mention more to relate an interesting incident connected with one whose name is loved in literature than for anything else. While engaged upon it I was honored one morning by a visit from ex-President Pierce and our admirable writer of fiction, Hawthorne.

"Where," asked Hawthorne, "did you find your model for the head of Christ?"

I told him that there was a model whose head was very much the type of the Saviour's as represented by most of the old painters, and that he was distinguished by the sobriquet of Il Cristo." "I should like to see him," he said.

"And so should I, too," I replied. "I went to find him the other day, to engage him for more sittings, when his family informed me that he had enlisted as a soldier and left the city."

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It would be difficult to describe the peculiar smile on Hawthorne's face as he said: So Christ has gone to the war! Is it true," he asked, "that there are also models who sit for pictures of the Eternal Father?"

I replied in the affirmative: "Two or three old men, with long white beards, who are generally to be seen sitting on the steps of the Piazza di Spagna." "Let us go," said he to Mr. Pierce, "and see the gods by all means."

There are numbers of young women who may do the model for Madonnas, Magdalens, Judiths, Graces, and Venuses, and one stately, severe-looking matron, familiarly known as "The Roman Matron." There are any number of boys, girls, and children, who help the artists to create Bacchuses, fauns, Cupids, angels, cherubs, or are ready to be worked into juvenile beggars, gleaners, flower-girls, water-carriers (with the eternal concha on the head), shepherdboys, lads playing marbles or doing every kind of mischief in which vagabond boys delight-in short, there is nothing in painting or sculpture, where bones, muscle, color, and costumes are wanted, for which a model may not be found in Rome.

2 Mr. Rogers is the first American made professor of St. Luke's Academy at Rome.

3" Nydia" has been duplicated nearly a hundred times, a circumstance unparalleled in the history of modern sculpture.

of their vocation, but I am persuaded that there is much less dishonesty among them than is supposed by persons not familiar with their calling. Modeldoing is not such easy work as most imagine, espe

cially where constrained actions are to be held for a long time; even keeping still in easy positions for half an hour is thought a great nuisance by people sitting for their portraits-what, then, must it be kneeling on a hard floor for two hours, or standing with the whole weight of the body on one foot, arms extended, the back curved in the act of springing forward, and poses still more fatiguing? Let ahy young lady try a pose plastique of Rogers's "Nydia," and endeavor to sustain it ten minutes. The strongest young woman would find it no easy task. I cannot think that a model demoralized in the way alluded to would pursue an occupation long where there was so much fatigue. The vocation itself subjects her to unjust suspicion, and places a barrier between her and the better-conditioned of her sex, making her resistance to the weakness insinuated still a greater merit. I believe it would be the opinion of the majority of the artists in Rome that their female models, with few exceptions, are very well-behaved. Thirty years ago the most noted model was Grazzia. I remember Gibson making a splendid study of her head (about the same period he made another beautiful study of the head of the daughter of Byron's "Maid of Athens"). Grazzia in type approximated nearer to pure Greek than any living model I have ever seen. She died when very young. Minncuccia was another of the popular models of that epoch. She was one of Canova's models for his Graces. She is still living. Her proportions were admirable, though she was not what might be called beautiful. Gibson used to say that, ugly as she was, her proportions corresponded closer to the best Greek female statues than any other living figure he had ever studied. "She had at least classical bones and muscles."

III.

THE DYING MODEL.

THE boy-model Domenico's father, grandfather, and great-grandfather, had descended every winter from their homes in the Abruzzi heights to sit for pifferari-or shepherds - bandits, and picturesque mountaineers of all sorts. The grandfather of Domenico I remember the first time I visited Rome1837. He was the most patriarchal and finest old fellow, with snowy beard, I ever saw. When his son Raffiello came, bringing his wife and children with him, my industrious pencil went through the whole family, and ended its labors with it by painting the widowed mother, Jacinta, her eldest daughter, the infant (hope of the house of Raffiello), a little girl, and Domenico making his last pose with his last breath. I had painted him before in many characters as a laughing beggar running, half in jest and half in earnest, after carriages, his black hair floating in the air, gourd-shell leaping at his side, his white teeth glittering, his large, dark eyes sparkling, his beautiful face in a glow of sunny carnation; and now, how white and still it was in this his last sitting to me! I painted him whenever I wanted the most beautiful eyes, the greatest vivaci

ty, the most intense expression of life and feeling. I painted him when I wanted the glossiest, dark, curling hair, purest oval face, rosiest young cheeks, brows nobly (not weakly) arched; when I wanted a mouth lovely as ever mouth was made, and teeth prompt at each happy moment to exhibit their snowy whiteness. Had I painted an angel, a Cupid, a seductive, youthful faun, or a Ganymede, Narcissus, or Endymion, Domenico would have been my chosen model for them all. Giacinta, his sister, some three years older than himself, was the best type of a dark, ardent gypsy girl I have ever met with outside the gypsy tribes, and her brother also showed a trace of the same race in his veins. Giacinta was also fine-looking, but the boy was superlatively so. The tempers of the whole family were quick and revengeful, and Domenico had inherited this defect of his race largely, and at twelve years of age had already distinguished himself in the use of the knife by stabbing his sister Giacinta in a moment of passion. For days her life was despaired of. Yet the normal mood of the lad was most pacific and affectionate; in the large, dark eyes, however, one could see there lurked hidden mischief-a smothered fire which, if suffered to break out, would fight in the ranks of the devil with a will.

The boy had intellect enough, had it been properly cultivated, to have made a prime-minister, but all his natural qualities were left to develop themselves into tares, briers, or golden fruit and flowers, as it might chance. The one indisputable endowment which had been bestowed upon the lad was beauty so distinctly pronounced that all the painters sought him for a model. In many a picture painted by the pension - students of the French Academy may be seen his resemblance, and also into the works of other painters who have been here has his image crept, which are now scattered over the world. I often fall in with photographs and engravings, after the pictures of artists who have lived in Rome, and exclaim, "Oh, there is Domenico and there his sister Giacinta!" Rudolph Lehmann, a clever German painter, has made charming pictures from both; so have Otto Brandt, Michelle, and other noted artists, so that the lineaments of our Abruzzi models will be known to as distant a future as linen and paint will endure. I cannot but think it a species of immortality for the models, this having their features and forms handed down to future generations; as real, at least, as the fictitious creations of Scott or Dickens. Domini Sampson, Jenny Dean, Pickwick, and Dick Swiveler, were but portraits drawn from models, their characteristics heightened by the artistic ability of the writers. Greuze has given a similar immortality to the girl with the broken pitcher, whose story is kept alive by the genius of his pencil; and, were it not believed that Beatrice Cenci had sent to Guido for the portrait in the Barberini Palace, her memory now would be but a vague tradition. Had not Raphael's divine hand traced the image of the Fornarina, she would have but an indefinite place in history as his mistress.

Domenico had begun his vocation while a baby