cruelty. His body worn down by pain and suffering, he at last found a resting-place at Montpelier, and solaced himself again with the literature he so dearly loved. And yet his cup of affliction was not full; his daughter's apostacy, quickly followed by her death, plunged him again into a sea of sorrow, and he was persuaded to change the scene to Moulins. As his days became numbered, his desire either to return to his native land, or to be near it in death, urged him to remove to Rouen, and he endeavoured to soften the obdurate heart of the King by another petition, that he might be permitted to die among his children. Seven years '— so ran his supplication-Seven years was a time prescribed and limited by God himself for the expiation of some of his greatest judgments; and it is full that time since I have, with all possible humility, sustained the insupportable weight of the King's displeasure. Since it will be in nobody's power long to prevent me from dying, methinks the desiring a place to die in should not be thought a great presumption.' Charles never answered this letter; let us hope that-bad and heartless as he was-he never received it.

Clarendon died at Rouen on the 9th of the last month of the year 1674. The insensible clay was interred on the north side of Henry VII.'s chapel, in Westminster Abbey-an honour (we had written it a mockery) bestowed doubtless because of his alliance with the Royal Family; but neither of his descendants-Queens of England-honoured him with a monument, nor by any inscription enabled posterity to ascertain the precise spot where repose the ashes of their grandfather Clarendon !-the great and wise Lord High Chancellor of England!

FLAXMAN'S MONUMENT.

MONG the greatest treats a lover of Art can enjoy is a visit to the Autumnal Exhibition of the British Institution, to renew acquaintance (the word is far too cold a one) with pictures it is a privilege to look upon-old friends you have glanced at in days "lang-syne" in some private collection, where you had not, or were not allowed, time to linger, but whose countenances you have never forgotten. It is a noble banquetpermitting us to revel among the glories of the dead, yet ever-living masters. Many years have passed since at one of these exhibitions our attention was directed to a fine painting of a gloriously intellectual head: we could not fail to note that the compressed mouth was full of the silence, imposed, not by secresy or churlishness, but by great and excursive thought; that the pallid cheek and unrefreshed tone of the whole face, bore evidence of hard labour, and the workings of a mind-none higher or holier to be found in broad, triumphant England. Yet the lower portion of the face has a pained, an anguished look-a look of discontent-which could never have belonged to JOHN FLAXMAN. We have written the name with a feeling closely allied to reverence-such as we cannot describe. It is a privilege to possess his published works, and frequently to recal the sensations they create, filling the mind as well as the imagination. We do not venture even a thought of compressing into this brief Pilgrimage aught approaching a biography, or a regular numbering of his wonderful

productions; all we dare hope is, that some may be induced to contemplate with us the beautiful and harmonious combination in this eminent man's unsullied character-of the most elevated Christian principles, and the noblest range of highest Art. Every day adds to his disciples; although it took a very long time to convince our foreign-loving country of the mighty genius of that great good man-a long, long time before we acknowledged that a pale weakly boy, a boy so sickly that his childish days were spent on crutches, and his studio was a little padded chair at the back of his father's counter-it took, indeed, a long and a weary time to convince us of that which a large portion of Europe had previously proclaimed loudly-that the delicate fragile child had grown into the IMMORTAL MAN.

While his father was wandering from town to town in the provinces, his wife-his first wife-gave birth, in the good city of York, to the after illustrator of Homer. Two or three years subsequent to this event the elder Flaxman was located in New Street, Covent Garden. But though Flaxman's father was obliged to keep a small shop to sell casts of his own manufacture, his forefathers bore brave arms, and shed brave blood on the field of Naseby! It is strange to feel a pleasure in writing this, when John Flaxman, by the power of his own genius, has achieved more real honour by its exercise than any of his name; but, despite our philosophic reasoning, there is no man who has had brave ancestors who is not proud thereof; although glory may be but the hatchment' that 'hangs over the dull and mouldering tomb' still a hatchment is a token of ancestry, and is valued accordingly. We have no right to speak lightly of the greatness of those who led in the path of honour or the field of triumph ; and we doubt not the memory of those Puritan struggles had somewhat to do with the elevated and severely true character of many of the Miltonic conceptions of the sculptor.

A clergyman of the name of Mathew, a gentleman who fostered Art, and loved what he fostered, relates his first interview with the already inspired child: his words must be quoted—they could not be improved :— I went to Flaxman's shop to have a figure repaired, and whilst I was standing there I heard a child cough, behind the counter; I looked over, and there I saw a little boy, seated on a small chair, with a large chair

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before him, on which lay the book he was reading. His fine eyes and beautiful forehead interested me, and I said, "What book is that?" raised himself on his crutches, bowed, and said, "Sir, it is a Latin book, and I am trying to learn it." "Ay, indeed," I answered, "you are a fine boy, but this is not the proper book; I'll bring you a right one to-morrow." I did as I promised; and the acquaintance thus gradually begun ripened into one of the best friendships of my life.' Theodore Hook had a favourite proverb-which he loved to quote and write-and, alas! sadly could he testify to its truth :—it was- Wrong never comes right.' May we not say that Right never comes wrong?' The feeling which obliged the clergyman to look over the counter when the child coughed, was right; the bringing the book, when promised, was right; the beautiful friendship which ensued, was not that right? Was it not greatly right when Mr. Mathew took the young Flaxman frequently to his house, and when Mrs. Mathew read aloud and commented on the pictorial beauty of Homer, while the boy, warmed by such kindness into strength, sat by her side embodying the most striking passages, or those that most vividly awoke an imagination as deep and pure as that which flowed in the ancient verse. He was no more than eleven years old when Mr. Mathew first brought him to his house, where he first saw Mrs. Chapone, Mrs. Barbauld, Mrs. Montague, and others, who impressed him with ideas of the value and dignity of Literature; and there was far more prestige about the literature of those days than in our own unstarched times; female literature-sailing about in feathers and powder, and large fans must have seemed very extraordinary to the boy, just emerged from behind the counter of his father's shop. The child, even then, doubtless distinguished the real from the unreal, and could separate the talent from the fashion. Bee-like, he seemed to have had the power of extracting honey from all things, for his works (holy manifestations of his genius!) are altogether free from every species of what may be termed the mode.' Struck by the quiet grace and beauty of these boyish sketches, the youth rejoiced over a commission before he entered the Royal Academy as a pupil, which he did when in his fifteenth year. In 1770 he exhibited a figure of Neptune, in wax; in 1827, his statue of John Kemble, in marble, was exhibited. Fifty-seven years between these periods-fifty-seven years !-how long an age to look forward

to! how short a time upon which to look back! In the early part of his career, when a sudden burst of health invigorated his feeble limbs, and enabled him to joy in all the independent vigour of successful INDUSTRYthe healthiest and happiest tonic that genius ever quaffed-he laboured during the day with mallet and chisel, or in more pliant plaster, and designed for the Wedgwoods all the beautiful things that rendered their manufacture so renowned. His relaxation was the accomplished society we have named, where his pencil translated into our vernacular the poetry of the mighty ones of old.

It is delightful to observe how equally the elements were mixed in the mind of this truly great man. If annoyed in one way, he found consolation in another; he laboured without murmuring through the day, and enjoyed his evenings with an enlarged heart; and when he married Miss Anne Denman, it has been said that in their union the church performed a miracle, blending them really into one flesh and blood. It was a very peevish, ill-tempered thing of Sir Joshua, to tell the sculptor that, because he was married he was spoiled for an artist.' He little knew-old bachelor that he was how much it is in a woman's power to strengthen her husband's exertions-by words of encouragement in those moments of despondency, when the very activity of the mind causes it to faint ; by turning a deaf ear to a hasty word, but opening both ears and heart to every word of kindness; by strict not yet mean economy; by learning enough of whatever art he lives by, to value his exertions, and teaching herself an interest in his pursuits, even if she do not at first understand them; by remembering her vow of obedience, which, if she love, as did Anne Denman, she will feel a privilege and not a yoke; by setting the house of genius in order, without disturbing arrangements which, even if she do not comprehend, she must take for granted are necessary; by rendering duties privileges; by a tender and confiding up-looking, first to her God and then to her husband; by living in, and for, his love; by offices of care and kindness, coming like the perfume of the rose from the whole, rather than from any particular thought or premeditated act. Such a wife was Anne Denman to John Flaxman; and no wonder was it that his small household in Wardour-street, enriched by such a presence, became noted for its serene elegance, as well as its abundant MIND.