Chapter XIV: Exeunt Omnes (3)

"'Let's peck him,' said the gentle nightingale.

"'Yes, yes, hurrah! let's peck him well!' assented the thrush.

"And then they all crowded round me--nightingales, woodpeckers, linnets, thrushes, blackbirds, tomtits, even to the turtle doves and wood pigeons themselves. I felt the strokes of twenty beaks fall upon me. It was like a quarry. 'Alas!' thought I, 'can such cruelty be allied to such genius?' And I struggled wildly, stupefied, panting, powerless amid the furious rattle. At last I succeeded in disengaging myself {268} and flew away in desperation to hide from my persecutors. Now at last I knew what evil was, and I asked myself, with odd simplicity, you will say, if it was not the contrary of good. It was true, then, as I had heard so often, that there were wicked beings in the world! Could it be true? And while such thoughts whirled confusedly through my unlucky brain, I flew to confess my defeat to my old friend.

"'Oh, well!' said he, 'I don't blame you; you yielded to an impulse of youthful confidence and learned a valuable lesson. Do you suppose that I don't see as well as you that spring is fair and this forest beautiful, and the linnet's song enchanting, and that everything bids us be happy? I know it all very well, and yet I stay all alone in my hole while everything outside is singing and rejoicing. You would not believe my words, perhaps you will believe your own experience. You thought there was no wickedness in the world, only innocence and virtue? Well, your ignorance came from a kind heart, and, after all you are happier in being good than your enemies in being victorious.'

"'But--just heaven! why did nature make these wretches so beautiful? or rather, why did she make such beautiful creatures so wicked? Why is not the perverseness of their hearts to be read on their faces?'

"'Ah, my son, that is a vexed question that many persons have agitated before now, and that no one has succeeded in solving. Why has nature made the good ridiculous and the wicked handsome? The best way is to resign ourselves to what we cannot understand.'

"'And then,' said I, 'they said I was ugly enough to scare anybody. But that cannot be true, for I look like my brothers, and my brothers--"

"'No, my son,' answered the hermit, smiling sadly, 'no, you are not ugly; nothing on earth is ugly excepting cruelty and vice. The beautiful goldfinch, with his ash-colored throat and yellow wings, was ugly to-day, and the linnet too, and all the pretty little birds who tormented you so. Yes, they are hideously ugly; their hearts are black as night, lovely though the plumage may be that covers them.

"'Then am I condemned to close my heart to love forever? Must I live alone because there is wickedness around us?'

"'Alone, always alone,' he answered, 'otherwise you will have neither rest nor happiness. But don't fancy that you have any cause for lamentation or complaint on that account. See life, once for all, as it really exist, and accept reality instead of pursuing phantoms. Would you have every one resemble you? is every creature by to be the hero of some dream of yours? Ah! I see that you are not cured even now.'

"He was right; I was not cured, if you choose to say so. Of course I had to confess that the small birds were wicked, that they were as cruel as they were pretty, and that I must distrust and avoid them. But I sought all kinds of plausible explanations of this incongruity. I said that they had received from nature genius instead of virtue, and that I had no more right to complain of their cruelty than they had to ridicule my ugliness (for ugly I certainly must be) or my harsh voice.

"And having persuaded myself of the truth of this, I flew away and hid myself in the gloomiest part of the forest, weeping over my loneliness and in deceived hopes. And now my eyes were opened to another delusion. To the society of my two brothers I had looked for consolation in every trouble, but before long they declared that one hole was too narrow to satisfy their desires, and that they must seek their fortune elsewhere. In vain did I use and elder brother's right in dissuading them from this mad design. In vain I reminded them of the fate of our parents who had perished in spite of every possible precaution, and showed them how much more they would be exposed in thus throwing themselves in the way of danger. Nothing influenced them--not even the memory of our vows of {269} mutual fidelity, not even any entreaties that they would not leave me alone in this dreary solitude. One--the youngest and handsomest, my especial favorite--was possessed by some crazy longing for travel and foreign adventure. He dreamed of some land of promise where all would be good and happy; and on the faith of these dreams he left us one day, bidding good-by to his country, his cradle, and his only friends, to go in search of the Utopia he longed to find. I never saw him again. Did he find the object of his desires? Did he die on the journey? I know not; but one thing we may be sure of--that fate cheated him of his wild and ambitious hopes.

"My other brother left me to follow a scatter-brained young screech-owl who had entangled him in her fascinations. He established himself with her in a neighboring wood, but parted from me with a thousand protestations of eternal friendship and devotion.

"And thus I found myself in that enviable solitude which my sage friend had recommended to me--left to myself and my own sad thoughts. I only went out toward evening to look for food, and then returned to my gloomy hole and left it no more. But isolation, instead of making me courageous, only disgusted me more and more with the life I was leading. From the depths of my retreat, I used to watch with envy the gaiety and animation of other birds. Not that I dreamed of joining in their mirth, for my own experience of their society had taught me to keep at a safe distance; but the sight of their enjoyment led me to believe that I might find companionship quite as agreeable without leaving my own circle. I mingled more and more among the other owls of the forest; I visited them in their own homes, and counted the hours I spent with them and their families as so much gained against grief and dullness. My most intimate friendship was with a highly respectable family who lived not far from my castle, and especially with a young owl, the fourth child of venerable parents who had known and valued my unhappy father. Her sweetness and innocence made her very lovely in my eyes. What was it to me that her beak was too hooked, her eyes too hollow, and her head angular! beauty is the form of the ideal, not a material regularity. While autumn lasted I visited her every day at the hole of her aged parents, and before long we were bound together by ties of indestructible love. In the midst of our happiness winter separated us. What is winter? Why should this spoil-sport intrude on our fairest days? And yet, after all, nature has a right to be cruel and mischievous, since all her children are so! For several months I was parted from her whom I loved; but as soon as spring returned she became my companion, and I brought her home to my bower, which was to serve me now as a nest and as the cradle of my children. There we spent blissful days, the happiest perhaps of my life. Soon the nest was full; two newly hatched little ones raised their bald heads, and filled the air with infantile cries. With what solicitude we watched over them! what care and anxiety we felt for these darling little creatures! At last we had the happiness of seeing them open their eyes and look up at us with that knowing air of intelligence so enchanting to young parents. I thought that happiness was restored to me, and that fate was tired of persecuting me. 'What matters now,' said I, 'the cruelty of the world and its unjust disdain? Do I need any other happiness than this?

"It seemed as if we could see the children grow from day to day, and their good health, noble mien, and cheerful disposition were fast filling our cup of happiness to overflowing. One day their mother went out in search of food, leaving me to watch the nest, for they were as yet too young to be trusted alone. Hour after hour passed on, and yet she did not return. I became very uneasy as I remembered my parents' fate, and at last, telling the children to be very {270} quiet and prudent, I sallied forth in search of her. Soon she appeared, flying toward me at the utmost speed of her rushing wings. 'At last I have come,' she cried, 'let us be grateful for my escape! A falcon has been chasing me for two hours past, and I only eluded his pursuit by hiding in the hollow of a tree. We must get back to the children as quick as possible.' And we hastened back to the nest. As we approached the tower, we heard--oh, horror!--sharp cries of pain, and recognized in those screams the voices of our little ones; on we plunged, distracted with fear; and saw the falcon--it was he--rising up into the air clutching in his horrid claws one of our children, the little creature's blood dropping down about us, while he struggled and cried, 'Mother!--Father!'--and then all was still, and the falcon sailed away out of sight.

"You think that was enough, but not so. When we reached the nest and looked for the other one, there we found his poor little body stretched on the wall, torn open with a frightful wound. What shall I tell you? Wild with grief, we wandered for days about the forest, insensible to rain or wind, to hunger or thirst, even to the mocking sneers of the birds who hunted us, pecking at us and tearing out our feathers. What did we care for that or anything else?

"At last my companion said: 'If you have no objection, let us leave forever this hateful wood, which has brought us such misery and bitterness. Let us give up this odious world and find some other home.' 'But where would you have us go?' I asked. 'If we have not found peace in this retreat, why should we find it anywhere else? We could not be more completely hidden in any other place than we have been here, and yet here we have been discovered. I don't feel like beginning a new life nobody knows where.' 'Let us go among human beings,' answered she. 'There, at least we shall find goodness, generosity, and greatness. Just think how admirable their towns and villages are! To be sure I can only judge them by hearsay, but I have every reason to suppose that we should meet with a cordial reception. The very day the falcon chased me I took refuge in a hollow oak, and I listened to the talk of two men who were sitting at the foot of the tree. You never heard anything so beautiful as their words! Anybody could see that they were the kings of the animal creation. They were complaining of the mice that make such havoc among their bins and granaries. Let us go and deliver them from these pests.' 'You have convinced me,' I replied. 'Yes, we will go to mankind an serve them faithfully. How they will respect us and reward our services.' And so after taking a sad farewell of our old friend and adviser, who saw us depart with many forebodings of evil, we winged our way through the forest. Toward evening we reached its outskirts and saw before us a village. We had reached our new country.

"We chose one of the largest barns in this village for our home, and at once opened a desperate warfare against the rats and mice who were attracted thither in large numbers by the provisions. This novel mode of life brought us so much occupation and distraction, that we had no time to dwell upon our grief. Our courage rose once more, and we used to say to each other: 'What sublime beings men are! How grand are all their actions! They are born ignorant and they know everything! They are born feeble and they conquer nature!' These perfections formed the subject of our morning talks when the night's work was over, their hospitality and goodness, our faithful devotion to them, and the gratitude it could not fail to win.

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"Little by little we became familiarized with our position and enjoyed it. The more we studied human nature the more we admired it's clemency, justice, and rectitude. One evening we ventured cautiously out of our retreat, and looked about the village. Before each window hung cages filled with solitary prisoners. There I recognized the cruel nightingale, the linnet who had caused me so much anguish, and many other birds who had been in the habit of tormenting us in the forest. We returned home enchanted with our expedition. 'Here at last we have found justice,' cried I. 'In this happy land the wicked are punished for their cruelty and prevented from doing further mischief; while the good are left free and happy. Why, there was not an owl to be seen among the prisoners! We have reason to be grateful that at last we have reached a haven of rest and tranquility.'

"We at once decided that I should go in search of our old friend, and induce him to share our happiness. 'Poor soul!' we said, 'at last the destiny which he has so long sought is within his reach. Now, at last, he will see that our hopes of final happiness were not mere dreams.'

"A few nights after I set out on a visit to our friend in his obscure retreat. We parted full of joy in thinking of the good old solitary, whose last days we were to make so peaceful. I flew at full speed, and reached the wood without fatigue. Full of hope, and picturing the pleasant surprise my coming would arouse in him, I entered his dwelling quite suddenly, exclaiming, 'Here I am, father; I have come to take you away from this place, and show you that happiness which you have always treated as a chimera.' 'Is it you, my son?' he said with joyful astonishment, but in a weak, choked voice; and I saw that a great change had come over him. A shutter ran through me. 'Oh, yes, it is I,' replied I cheerfully. 'We have not forgotten you, and we shall not be able to enjoy our happiness unless you are there to share it with us. Come, I will tell you the rest on the way. But what ails you that you do not move?' 'Nothing, my son; it will soon be ended. Before this day closes I shall be cured.' 'Cured!--why, are you ill? you who were so strong and hearty!' 'The illness from which I am suffering has always afflicted me,' he said, 'but the time of cure has come; the physician is at hand.' 'The physician! what physician?' 'Death,' he answered in a hollow voice. 'Death!' cried I, 'what do you mean? would you leave us? we cannot live without you. Oh, come away! come with me! have you no pity on me?' 'Pity! yes, child, I pity you for your youth, and because you do not stand where I stand now. It is you who have no pity in holding me back from my repose. Let me rest, my son, in the eternal peace of nature.'

"His head dropped forward heavily. He was dead. Dead at the moment when I offered him the accomplishment of hopes long since abandoned.

"I flew away horror stricken, as if an enemy were tracking me to destruction; but what I fled from was planted in my heart never to be uprooted. The night fell--one of those dreary autumn evenings when cloud and mist contend for mastery. With a heart oppressed with grief, I returned to the scenes I had passed through so gayly a few hours before. What had I left? Parents, brothers, children, friends, all dead--my opinion alone remained to sustain and comfort me; to be consoled and supported.

"Absorbed in these gloomy ideas, I reached the confines of the village. Afar off I recognized the hospitable roof that had given us shelter, and my heart beat with joy in spite of my affliction. But who were that troop of children gathered before the barn door? What did these cries of joy, and stamping of feet, and clasping of hands portend, and the smiling old folks looking on and encouraging their sports? Of course it must be some pure and virtuous amusement since children joined in it, so I flew on with a sense of kindly interest. As the distance lessened, I thought I saw--I {272} knew I saw a bird banging with outstretched wings on the born-door--nailed there, bleeding, dead. Oh! heaven's justice! my companion murdered! dead! butchered! And that before the eyes of nature, under the light of heaven! And no protesting voice raised from the bosom of the earth! I hung about there, staring at the horrid sight with my heart turned to stone within me. As night deepened the children dispersed, and then I fell upon that inanimate form like a wild beast, and fastened upon the nails with beak and claws to tear their prey from them. My furious struggles only served to lacerate me till I bled; and all the time the dead thing looked at me; its cold, fixed glassy eyes glared at me with a cruel irony that scared me from the place. Yet night and day I wandered about the barn, and night and day watched that dreadful object, until at the end of two weeks madness relieved me of reason and self-consciousness. Then I went away with a heart bubbling over with hatred of humanity. Oh, that I could have clutched the human race in one single body within these claws, to tear out its eyes, devour its heart, and fling the carrion to be the sport of winds and tempests!

"The thread of my life was broken. What more had I to do with the earth, that wicked stepmother who gives us light only to make its glare insufferable. With frantic speed I rushed through the valley, and paused only when fatigue and hunger forced me to rest. I stopped on the margin of a little stream shaded by bushy alders, while the turf along its edge was strewn with wheat. I drew near to eat, but hardly had I touched the earth when I felt myself caught and held fast, 'Well,' thought I, 'man would be unworthy of his name if he did not use all his splendid gifts for the destruction of others. At least I will thank him for ridding me of life.' And then I fell into a gloomy stupor, and became indifferent to everything around me, while in my memory there arose visions of childhood--of the old nest in the tower of my parents, and the pretty little brothers whom I had vowed never to part from; and as my heart swelled with the woeful regrets these images brought up to me, I suddenly caught sight of the fowler running toward me in all haste, and at the same instant I beheld my brother--my brother whom I had never seen since our childhood. A transport of joy came over me; now I was safe, and he it was who would release me. We would fly away somewhere together and begin life over again. Divine hope! it restored strength and courage to me. 'Brother, brother!' I cried anxiously, 'here I am--come this way. Don't you see me?' He turned his eyes toward me. 'Why, is that you? Caught in a trap, aren't you? I really wish I had time to stop and help you, but I am in full chase after a young owl who has given me considerable encouragement. You had better get out of that snare pretty quick, for the keepers coming. Good-by till we meet again.'

"And now anything, everything seemed possible, explicable, credible. All my other miseries faded away in view of this lie against friendship, this insult to humanity, this blasphemy against pity.

"But after all is said and done, the instinct of life is of all feelings the most irresistible. A moment before I had loathed existence; now, when I saw the fowler draw near, I struggled wildly with beak and claws and wings to save myself. In the presence of death the sun looked bright to me once more, and life again seemed good. A few more desperate springs and struggles and I was free--flying whither? to my native forest, where I had first known misery and disappointment, now my only companions. There all would be unchanged, I thought, except myself. I only should be hopeless, I alone gloomy and silent amid the undying joys of serene nature. But--ah me! when I reached the old place disappointment was lying in wait for {273} me there too. The dear old nest was gone; the wall had crumbled away and was strewing the mountain-side. The kindly ivy that sheltered us once was crawling on the earth; the beeches had decayed and scrub bushes choked up the place where they had stood. Everything in me and in nature was dead, and so nothing was left but to bid good b to memory and joy--aye, and to trouble too, for the matter of that.

"This was my last deception. From that day to this I have stagnated here, learning, hoping, fearing nothing' Joy and sorrow are so far away in the past that they seem never to have belonged to me. And this is peace."

There was a long silence, broken only by the sound of my oppressed breathing. At last the owl said, with a weary sigh:

"You wished to know my story. There it is, and you are welcome to the lessons it may give you. In the mean time I can only say that I pity you--pity your innocence, your candor, and your destiny."

And I replied, "You are right. I know life now, and its promises shall never delude me."

He smiled and repeated, "I pity you."

This history impressed me profoundly. I rehearsed the miserable details, and saw in his life my own. I was the credulous being who had trusted implicitly to life. The wretch who had sown kindness among his fellow men and reaped contempt, was again myself. Was I then to clamber the rocky path to the end only to see hope receding in the distance? Society became to me every day more unbearable; I avoided my companions with horror, and their railleries, which up to that time I had borne with indifference, seemed like so many poisoned arrows aimed at my heart. Intercourse with my old friend only increased my contempt for men and existence; yet in tins mute revolt against nature and humanity, I selected him as the sole confidant of my woes, and invariably left him with a heart more bitter and oppressed than before.

One day, toward sunset, I was wandering through the great arches of the forest, going as usual toward the retreat of my bosom friend. A serious silence was creeping slowly down from the tree-tops. The birds were still, the winds asleep; no sound or sign of life to be anywhere discerned, except the crushing of dried leaves beneath my tread. And as I went dreaming on amidst this solitude, I heard in spirit the melody of Nature dropping through the tender evening air, and I tried to give it words in this little song:

When Spring with loft maternal hand
Spreads all the earth with green,
And 'gainst the sun's too ardent gaze
Weaves many a leafy screen,

Build your neats, bright-plumed minstrels,
Forgetting not to praise
The bounty that so lavishly
Sheds gladness on your ways.

Think not, in missing old-time friends,
Some favorite bower or hedge,
That Nature has misused her power,
Or broken a sacred pledge:

This is Spring's immortality;
Youth must replace decay.
Grieve not that your turn too must come:
Less brief than bright your day!

Build your nests then, my chanters sweet:
Bloom flower, vine, and tree:
Let no discordant wail disturb
Spring's song of rapturous glee.

I reached the hermit's cell. He was not there as usual, crouched on the edge of his nest; and I called to him, thinking he had fallen asleep or wandered off, as he sometimes did, into a thicker gloom to meditate. No answer. I stood on tiptoe and looked uneasily into his retreat. There I saw in the confusing obscurity a greyish, motionless mass. I laid my hand upon it, and what was my horror to find my friend, my owl! I turned in upon him the last beams of the sun, hoping to rouse him. Alas! the light did not penetrate his eyeballs; the rays did not warm his frigid form. I lifted him up; the head dropped lifelessly, the wings were rigid, the shrivelled claws were cramped and clenched with the death struggle. He was dead! he suffered no longer.

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I replaced him in his hole and stopped up its mouth with stones and turf, sweeping a great branch of ivy across this improvised tomb. When the wall crumbles, soft verdure will shield those poor remains. Oh! my dear, tired owl! I could only give thee a tomb; sleep well and peacefully therein! And so I turned away, thinking of my old friend and of his reverses, precepts, sufferings, and misanthropy.

"Such is the term of existence," said I "so end our joys and our pains." But higher and higher in my soul swelled the song of the forest, until I cried, "This is the voice of God, and he cannot lie:" and entering into myself I understood at last the merciful and providential law that governs nature, attaching to each suffering a consolation, to each pang a hope. To what was my contempt of life leading me? To the gradual debasement of my being, to a forgetfulness of the duties that God imposes on his creatures. Man is made for struggle, and he who deserts the field is a coward. If his strength fails, can he not draw fresh force from prayer? Does our Heavenly Father ever forget his weary children? Yes, life is a hard, rough road, but it leads straight to a goal where the sanctified soul shall find reward and rest. My poor owl might well feel sour and exasperated, since death meant to him only the peace of nothingness; but man has other destinies, and rebellion is for him unjustifiable revolt. What matter passing trials to him who is to possess eternity? Should we not blush at our cowardice when we remember that the infinite God is our consoler?

And all these grave thoughts anent a poor bird of whom nothing is left but a bunch of feathers! Well! there are days when a slight emotion makes the human heart spill over, like a full vase overflowed by one drop too much.

--------

ORIGINAL.

SONNET.

And thou wouldst live for ever, poet soul
In love of human kind! What must thou do?
Look o'er the past, scan well whose worth is true--
Not those mere forms that with the ages roll--
And say what readst of them on Time's bright scroll:--
"Names faint or fading, save a fadeless few,
Like rare Etruscan colors, ever new."
Yet tell me, seer, how shine the favored whole:--
"Some glitter as the icy mountain peak
Remote, whence flow a thousand generous streams:
Some glow as morn or even, or blushing cheek
Of one beloved, or angels known in dreams;
These touch upon the universal--speak--
Lo! Nature, Love, Religion, are the themes."

------

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From The Month.

THE MUSÉE RETROSPECTIF IN PARIS.

It is probable that there has never been an Exhibition so singular in its contrasted contents, so rich in market value, prepared so abruptly for submission to public inspection, as that which, during the latter half of the year 1865, was to be seen in the Palais de l'Industrie in Paris, under the name of "_Musée Retrospectif_" In a general way, its character may be comprehended in England by a reference to the Kensington Museum Exhibition of 1862, from which its conception was drawn, and which it outstripped. Like that Exhibition, it came into existence in especial connection with an institute the primary object of which is to promote the cultivation of art in connection with manufactures. This was formed in Paris three years ago, under the title of "_L'Union Centrale des Beaux Arts appliqués à l'Industrie_;" and under circumstances not a little curious, and not a little gratifying to those who have led on the great movement of improvement in art for the last quarter of a century in England. They will find that it has come to pass that the best leading spirits among our great rivals have felt and admitted, with no little alarm, the success of that movement, and the formidable competition with which it has threatened their previous preeminence. The simplest and most sincere evidence of this appears in the published Report of M. Prosper Merimée in reference to the London Exhibition of 1862, and the adoption of its sentiments by the conductors of that admirable periodical, _La Gazette des Beaux Arts_. In that Report M. Merimée, who was official reporter for the French section of the International Jury, thus expresses himself:

"Since the Universal Exhibition in 1851, and even since that of
1855, immense progress has taken place in Europe; and although we in
France have not remained stationary, we cannot conceal from
ourselves that our lead has become less sensible, and is ever
tending to its termination. It is our duty to remind our
manufacturers that, however successful they may have been on this
occasion, they may possibly sustain a defeat, and that at no very
distant date, if from the present moment they fail to address all
their energies to the maintenance of a preeminence which can only be
secured by an incessant aim at perfection. English industrial
produce more especially, so markedly behindhand in point of art
previous to the Exhibition of 1851, has made in the course of ten
years _prodigious advancement_; and if it should so continue its
onward movement, we might find ourselves unexpectedly surpassed."

This startling avowal from an authority not to be contravened led, among other consequences, to such reflections as the following: "The contact of England and France, rendered so frequent by the Universal Exhibitions of Paris and London," observes the _Gazette des Beaux Arts_, "will not be without its use in reference to a regenerative movement now in contemplation, to which we wish to draw the attention of our--so contiguous to us in locality, so severed in habits--we have learned how much can be done by a few men of resolute purpose--citizens generously devoted to the public good, and unrestricted in their freedom of action. This lesson was well condensed in the words, often quoted, of a sovereign who has passed a portion of his life in England, {276} and has brought from thence certain English conclusions; namely, 'Individual initiative, urging on its plans with indefatigable ardor, saves Government from monopolizing the management of the vital energy of the nation. . . . Stimulate, then, among individuals an energetic spontaneity for promoting all purposes having in view the beautiful and the useful.'"

The result of the very pregnant views thus unreservedly avowed has been an effort in emulation of that much-commended individual vigor of operation; and accordingly a small band of artistic and literary Frenchmen, led on by a distinguished and very zealous architect, M. Guichard, constituted themselves the nucleus of a society the great aim and object of which is an incessant application of the most effective means for fertilizing the wide domain of native art and manufacture, so as to sustain it in its present rich power of productiveness. They have assumed the name of _L' Union Centrale des Beaux Arts appliqués â l'Industrie_. They have instituted a museum for the collection and exhibition of all manner of objects akin to their undertaking, where lectures are to be systematically delivered to the same end.

In fine, they have developed so rapidly in their proceedings, that they have designed, and we may say founded, a college wherein special education and special distribution of honors are to be dispensed to students of industrial art. Until a suitable structure for this has been erected, within which the Society will establish its centre of action, its headquarters are in that quaint and spacious square in the Marais de St. Antoine Quartier of Paris, the Place Royale; noted for its clever white marble equestrian statue of Louis XIII., and recently deriving a melancholy interest from being the death scene of Rachel.

In addition to these great projects for permanent organization, of which the germs will be found at the Adelphi and South Kensington, that special Exhibition of 1862 in the latter quarter, the success of which was so extraordinary, and we may add the influence of that noble display of mediaeval ecclesiastical art which which was to be seen at Malines in 1864, were the occasions of suggestions which fell most productively upon the zealous minds of our projectors. It was deemed expedient in the councils of the Place Royale, that Paris too should have its "Retrospective" exhibition. The French government, eschewing all jealousy of this independent association, lent its help as soon as application was made: and Marshal Vaillant placed at its disposal abundant space for the proposed undertaking in the large saloons of the Palais de l'Industrie.

It was not, however, without some apprehensions of success in their experiment--without some nervous misgivings as to the realizing of ways and means, and winning the loan of the treasures of antique vertu from their possessors, that they entered upon their work. However, _en avant_ was the word, and full success ensued. The undertaking had the good fortune to win favor in four quarters of immense influence--the Emperor, Prince Czartoriski, the Marquis of Hertford, and the Messrs. Rothschild. When this became known, it acted as an "open sesame" to the masters of lesser stores; and from that time streams of undreamt-of and unhoped-for valuables came pouring in upon the society, until at length an inconvenient overflow seemed imminent, and it became necessary to select and decline. The ultimate result, however, was, that the accommodation of twelve large saloons was absolutely exhausted by the contributions; and it has been estimated that the whole might realize on sale something like a million and a half of pounds sterling.

It was a patent defect of this Exhibition, that works of the same kind were not classed together. This was in consequence, doubtless, of the exactions of contributors. Each proprietor of a collection of treasures, however various and unconnected their contents, required, both for safety's sake and with {277} a pardonable vanity, that his own galaxy should shine apart The spectator, therefore, was for a while bewildered in discerning the various elements of this vast and most miscellaneous collection.

A small, neatly arranged selection of stone-weapons stood as a foundation for the whole. From this we had to pass by a prodigious bound--for the next element was excellence itself, the masterpieces of Greece. The collection of these, if brought into one range and receptacle, would have been sufficient to constitute a most valuable Museum of statuettes, vases, and other objects--some of perfect beauty. We cannot in a brief sketch like this attempt any detailed description, which could but be tantalizingly imperfect. We may make a statuette of Minerva, thus noted as No. 98 of the catalogue: "_Athène Toromachos; reproduction du Xoanon, conservé dans le Temple d'Erechthée. Bronze fondu en plein, du travail le plus archaïque. Un des plus vieux bronzes grecs connus_." With what pardonable veneration might not the lover of the Greek marvels of art bend over this, "one of the oldest Greek bronzes known"!

Another violent leap of transition brought us from the schools of Phidias and Praxiteles to the middle ages and the renaissance period. Here, again, the contributions were profuse. In the former the ivories were of much interest--diptych, poliptych, and single subject--in which the deep sincerity of sentiment of their era struggled through and gave sterling value to imperfect art. All these, as well as the larger portion of other works of the same time, were connected with sacred subjects. Although not equal, upon the whole, the Malines collection, there was here abundant food for deep meditation and admiration. Here, as there also, was a commemoration of the murder of St. Thomas--a reliquary in the form of a rectangular box of silver, gilt and embellished with niello, its cover pyramidal, topped with a large garnet stone, surrounded by a setting of pearls. On either larger side was pictured the slaying or the entombment of the martyr, with inscriptions. Figures of angels completed the ornaments of this choice work, which has been attributed, with some doubt, to a German hand of the twelfth century.

Numerous works in iron, of the twelfth century, many of great beauty --others in brass, silver, and gold, together with specimens of enamel and jewelry, of middle-age handling, were exhibited on this occasion. Few, however, of the curiosities of this period drew more attention than the manuscripts in simple scroll or illuminated. The greater portion of these came from the collections of M. Ambroise Firmin Didot or M. Le Carpentier. The Marquis de Ganay sent one article worth a hundred others, viz., the Books of the Gospels which had belonged to Charlemagne, and which, as tradition tells us, were wrung from the abbey of St. Maurice d'Argaune in the civil wars of the fourteenth century. On one side of its binding was a gold plate, impressed with the figure of Christ Blessing--a work of the ninth century. It was also adorned with a set of uncut precious stones, added in the twelfth century. Near to this were the Gospels, written in the eleventh century at the monastery of Ottenbeuren in Swabia, in characters of gold and silver. A copy of Josephus, from Saint-Tron in the province of Lemberg, Belgium, of the twelfth century, was also extremely fine. An Italian manuscript of the fourteenth century was also there, written on vellum, with ornamental capitals and miniatures--the revelations of St. Bridget Among these precious works not the least singular was a _Livre d'heures_ on vellum, having 330 pages, illustrated and ornamented with as many different subjects. Of these, fifty-six were taken from the Dance of Death. This was a work of the fifteenth century, and, strange to say--whether in melancholy jest or otherwise--had been presented by Louis XV. to his physician Dr. Mead. The works of the renaissance and subsequent period, in this collection, {278} were most numerous in what may be termed miniature objects--light branches and lovely blossoms springing from the great main trunks of painting and sculpture. For them chiefly, so full of winning instructiveness, this _Musée Retrospectif_ would seem to have been especially got up. They appeared in forms of gold, silver, and much more cherished bronze, in ivory, and again the happier vehicle wood, in crystal and in glass, in steel, in gems and miniatures, in enamelled terra cotta, in furniture, in time-pieces, in tapestry, and numberless other ways.

The bronzes, scattered among the collections on every side, were admirable. The miniature model of an equestrian statue--a condottiere leader by Donatello--was universally felt to be a model in that most difficult branch of art. It excited an absolute _furore_ amongst the critics. In contrast to its graceful swing of boldness, there was a _basso relievo_ from an unknown hand, representing the figure of Charity--a draped female figure--clasping a child to her bosom caressingly, while other fondlings of the like age cling round her neck and her knees. Exquisite sweetness of expression is here found united to perfection of form and masterly arrangement of elaborate drapery. Yet the author is wholly unknown. Numerous statuettes sustained the honor of this class. We pass them to note three busts--full size--which could not fail to arrest the attention and command the deep admiration of every amateur or artist who passed through these saloons. The first was that of Beneviani, an Italian noble of the fifteenth century; the second, of Jerome Beneviani, a poet and philosopher of the sixteenth century; the third, of the great Buonarotti. The rigid adherence to nature, full of sincere force of expression, impressed on all three, compelled one to pause and ponder and commune with character so deeply significant. Such busts leave impressions not easily to be effaced, and are most instructive to the sculptor.

The great strength of this Exhibition lay, however, not so much in the subjects to which we have alluded as in its singular profusion of examples in the vast field of pottery and Limoge enamelling. It is probable that never have so many and such various specimens of both these branches of art been hitherto brought together. It is but just to say, that by far the greater part of the voluminous array had attached to it the names of Baron G. Rothschild and M. Alphonso Rothschild. Every variety of pottery or porcelain having any claim to reputation (with the exception of our own English works) seemed to have here, in one quarter or another, its representative.

Here were Moorish and Hispano-moresque vessels, comparatively rude in design and tinting, from which the great susceptibility of Italian art drew its first inspirations. Then came the majolica, in all its progressive modifications; the varnished sculpture of Luca della Robbia; the relievo of Palissy, of which we had here every contrasted variety of subject, and all the different schools of Italy fully and most interestingly illustrated. The value attached to some of the rarer specimens might be thought fabulous were we not familiar with the extravagances into which the long-pursed amateurs are led, in their devotion to the singular, if not the unique. Thus there appeared in the treasury of the Rothschilds a morsel--a small candlestick--of the almost extinct _faience_ of Henry II., to which, it was affirmed, the value of forty thousand francs was attached. If the whole thirty or so subsisting specimens of this rarity were swept away, what, in point of general grace of form, elegance of linear detail, or delicacy of color, would be lost to the world? Something infinitesimally inconsiderable. Around this precious relique there was a wondrous profusion of Limoges enamels, belonging to various persons, and exhibiting in every degree the beauties of that exquisite specialty of {279} art applied either to portraiture or five historic or sacred subject. These, indeed, deserve to be cherished with watchfulness and affection.

Among other contributions to this Exhibition were a large collection of fine Chinese and Japanese curiosities, to which with great truth the title _Retrospectif_ could be affixed. They combined admirably great strength of construction with charming delicacy of embellishment.

In contrast to all these gentler productions of human genius came the special contribution of the emperor, presenting art and ingenuity as handmaidens to war--not as ministering to the amenities or luxuries of peace. In other words, it gave, in review, a complete array of the heaviest heavy armor of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries--some thirty suits, standing cap-à-pie--illustrating the period when almost the entire frame of the man militant was encased in metal plates; when, consequently, to fall in battle was but too much after the fashion of Lucifer--never to rise again, unless as a prisoner, or unless assisted from mid mêlée by the smart hands of some sturdy squire, and thus once more restored to the perpendicular on the back of that singular hippogriff, a horse in armor. In this collection of panoplies the variety of helmets was most striking--some singularly extravagant in their steel contour, and all with as little accommodation as possible for the functions of breathing or seeing. A few offered most ludicrous mockeries of the human face divine, a nose alone projecting in Roman ruggedness: truly an iron joke. Among the rest, a German tournament-casque was conspicuous. It belonged to the second half of the seventeenth century, was wholly of silver, and richly ornamented both in carving and indenture. This gem of the collection was, it appears, a present from the empress to the emperor.

The armor of the central and most conspicuous group in the saloon had the like honor. It presented a knight on horseback--man and horse in full panoply, and an attendant man-at-arms. It seemed intended to unite the aspect of lightness with genuine metallic strength. A tradition is connected with it: that at a period when the progressive development of the fatal use of fire-arms, of cannon, arque-buss, petronel, and pistol, had gradually weakened faith in the utility of the chivalric steel coat, Louis XIII. and his potent minister Cardinal de Richelieu were both staunchly true to the olden creed of the olden time, where

"None of your ancient heroes
Ere heard of cannon-ball.
Or knew the force of powder,
To slay their foes withal;"

and it was thought expedient by both that his majesty should have this splendid model-suit made, in order to use influence of the most potent kind against the new martial heterodoxy. The progress of time has proved how vainly the recalcitrant effort was made. The great explosive agent has prevailed--until at length, in our own time, the management of the _bouches à feu_ is the beginning and end of all scientific strategy; and even the cuirassier--the last of the steel-clads--is surmised to be on his last legs.

While thus on one side of this saloon these numerous examples of armor were ranged--a terrible show--and the helmets occupied, in close muster, an encircling shelf, the _arme blanche_ had its honors sustained by a series of radiating groups attached to the walls, in which blades of Italy, Germany, and France, with matchless Toledo rapiers, showed their quality unsheathed. The thrilling simplicity of the cold gleaming steel in these deadly implements was, in many instances, strangely contrasted with the exquisite artistic elaboration of ornament upon their hilts. This anomaly was completed by the adoption, for this purpose, of subjects taken from Holy Writ, and the most tender illustrations of religious charity, sculptured in gold or silver, or tinted in the most delicate enamel. Thus we found {280} upon one the for phases of the Prodigal Son's career admirably composed in miniature _basso relievo_. One sword of this kind could not fail to hold attention. It had been sent to Henry IV. by the pope on his abjuration. On its pommel two metals were inserted--the one having for its subject the Crucifixion, the other the Resurrection. On other metals, combined with the hilt, were represented the Annunciation, the Visitation, the Nativity, the Adoration of the Magi, and the Circumcision. Finally the portrait of Henry himself was introduced supported by Angels.

Here also was the blade of a different man, and of a different import, once grasped by the strong hand of Charles XII. Of Sweden, vigorous for cut, or subtly tempered for trust [thrust?]. No mincing ornament of delicate tracery embellished its hilt; but it was appropriately wreathed with oak foliage in iron, and it bore an interlaced cipher of C's, surmounted by the words, _Soli Deo gloria_.

This weapon,

"A better never did itself sustain
Upon a soldier's thigh,"

was worn by Charles at Bender, and was given by him to General Mayenfelt. It was presented to the Emperor Louis Napoleon by the present King of Sweden.

Associated with these specimens of the _arme blanche_ were well-preserved examples of the cross-bow and earlier invented fire-arms, with their attendant accoutrements; the whole forming an extremely rich set of illustrations of the centuries to which it more especially referred.

Take it for all in all, this room was pregnant with suggestion. No extraordinary susceptibility of imagination was required for one lingering over its relics to shadow forth fearful episodes without number of tale or history connected with these crowded weapons of slaughter.

Independent of this splendid collection of arms, there were many others among the miscellanea of the Exhibition. By far the finest belong to the Marquis of Hertford, figuring conspicuously in the chamber specially devoted to _chefs-d'-oeuvres_ contributed from that nobleman's collection; and evidencing that it was not alone on masterpieces of painting that it could depend for its well-merited celebrity. The most prominent arms here were Circassian helmets and sabres, all fresh in brilliant preservation, as if they had just come from the anvil or workshop; the former more particularly remarkable for their exquisite inlaid golden tracery, the latter for their gorgeous richness of minute carving. These, with many other specimens of Oriental ornament--creeses, poniards, or scimitars, here enclosed in glass cases--almost compelled one to the conclusion that in the East there is a more delicately inventive genius for ornamentation than can be found in Europe. This we may again see exemplified in the carpets of Persia, the shawls of Cashmere, and in the muslins of Hindostan, gleaming with fire-fly splendor of metallic foliage.

Having dwelt on the specialties of warlike equipment, the footsteps of the visitor were led to the last of the saloons, and found it dedicated, in almost monumental melancholy, to reminiscences of Polish royalty. Members of the Czartoriski family, Prince Ladislaus, and the Princess Iza, had furnished forth almost all the contents of the cases, which lined three sides of the apartment. A very copious miscellany of jewelry and ornaments in gold and silver--some singular for their artistic beauty, and others for their quaint antiquity--was here to be seen. Of special note amongst the former was a charming morceau of jewelry, wherein the letter A, standing for Auguste, was set in diamonds, and supported by two exquisite enamel infant figures, attributed to the hand of Benvenuto Cellini. Also a chain which had belonged to Maria Louisa Gonzaga, enameled and enriched with pearls and precious stones. {281} For purity of taste this could impeach with the best French works of its class of the sixteenth century. It was not, however, with a critic's eye, but with painful historic musing, that one contemplated these objects. Here was the ivory sceptre of King Frederick Augustus; and here also a flagolet, in the like ivory, that had been fingered and blown by the same sovereign. Here a great silver goblet, with portraits inserted in its indentures of two kings, Sobieski and Korybut. Here a fair cross of sapphire and a chain of Anne de Jagellon; and here, not the glass slipper, but the crimson-velvet shoe--thick, as if the Chinese model--of good Queen Hedwige. Here was the most splendid of field-marshal's batons--as long again as those of modern times--of ebony enriched with diamonds, and bearing a kingly cipher. Here were a brace of pistols that once had been clasped by the vigorous hand of Saxe; and here a watch and chain recall to mind the poets tribute--

"And freedom shrieked when Kosciusko fell."

These gems and all this orient pearl and gold once gave brilliancy to scenes such as are long since passed away from the festivities of Poland. These veteran sword-blades vainly remind us of the noble race of warriors by whom the reckless Turk was swept back from the walls of Vienna, and the possible conquest of Europe arrested. They all, however, tell the old and ever-to-be-repeated tale. Like other valuables of Royal Association, with which this _Musée Retrospectif_ was in every quarter redundant--forgetting that pretty, ivory-piped _cornemuse_ or bagpipe, knotted with its still unfaded green ribbons, which once made music to the touch of Marie Antoinette--they express with mute melancholy eloquence the stern old apothegm, _Sic transit gloria mundi_.

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MISCELLANY.

_The Colosseum and St. Peter's_--Now when I recall my impressions of Rome, I find only two that efface or at least predominate over the others: the Colosseum, the work of the Roman people, and St. Peter's, the master-peace of Catholicism. The Colosseum is the gigantic work of an almost superhuman people, who, in a ferocity of pride and pleasure, erected only such buildings as contained an entire nation, rivaling nature, if possible, in massiveness and duration. The Tiber would have drained the mud of its banks, that the Colosseum might command it forever. But St. Peter's is the work of a thought, of a religion, of an entire humanity, at an epoch of the world. Not an edifice simply to contain an ignoble people, but a temple admitting all of philosophy, of prayer, of grandeur--every aspiration of man. The walls themselves seem to rise and grow, not in proportion of a people, but a God.