THE TORSO OF THE BELVEDERE. (ROME, VATICAN.)

nus of the Capitol." The collection of por- | peddler's trait-busts of the Roman Emperors, with the other collection, called the Philosophers, is the most interesting in the world, only the arrangement is too crowded to admit of isolating each head sufficiently while studying it. In turning the leaves of memory, we remember most distinctly-if one could forget Hadrian, whose damnable iteration gets to be wearisome after the thousandth portraitthe so-called Marcellus, the nephew of Augustus, and the Julia, daughter of Titus. The poet in us easily accepts the Marcellus; the Julia, in the grace and refinement of her head, and the esprit that betrays itself in her face, throws a new light upon the Roman woman. This lady would have been at home in a French salon of the end of the last century.

The famous statues of the Capitoline are so famous that we need not dwell upon them; only we must not leave the museum without calling the reader's attention to a sarcophagus in the last of the three rooms on the lower floor devoted to inscriptions, fragments, and sarcophagi. The subjects carved in high relief on the sides and ends of this sarcophagus are connected with Achilles and the Trojan War. On the left end is the parting with Deidamia, on the right the arming of Achilles. On the front is the finding of the hero hid among the daughters of Lycomedes, and at the back is Priam begging for the body of Hector. These scenes, especially the discovering of Achilles, are favorite subjects, often found carved on these funeral chests, and painted on the walls of Pompeii, but the sarcophagus of the Capitol is not, like the most of them, journey-work. This is romantic, not classical treatment; one wonders why it did not catch Hawthorne's sympathetic eye. Achilles has been living among these girls, dressed as a girl, sharing their games, partaking their tasks, behaving so modestly and discreetly that no breath of suspicion has ever disturbed the lazy air of the women's apartment. But, when Autolycus-Ulysses enters with his peddler's pack and song,

"Will you buy any tape

Any lace for your cape,"

was subtle expression caught in the marble with such truthfulness. 'Tis as if Shakespeare had turned statuary. If, after the fashion of the Middle-Age painters, this girl had been made with an interpreting scroll rolling out of her mouth, upon it must have been written, "Oh! you handsome mischief!"

The Lateran Museum is more interesting archæologically than artistically. One noble statue called "Sophocles" is its chief treasure we are told that the museum owes its origin mainly to the desire to make a fitting home for this companion to the "schines" of Naples. It may sound profane to an Italian of "taste," but would not Canova's vulgar statues of the Belvedere give place with propriety to this majestic impersonation of moral and mental repose?

The collection of marble sculpture in the museum at Naples is not too extensive to be easily mastered; but there are the bronzes, large and small, the terra-cottas, and the vases, which, in a way, belong to the family these departments make an almost inexhaustible field of study. Bronzes like these the student will find nowhere else, and they may well be suffered to hold him long. The "Archytas," the female head with its applied ringlets of wrought bronze, called by the misnomer, Tolomeo Apiione; the Berenice; the so-called Seneca (misnamed, perhaps, but a portrait of somebody, as we may know by the repetitions); the bearded or Indian Bacchus, called Plato, and pleasing us with that name-these, with another bust or two, give us a new notion of the capabilities of bronze. They have more strength and individuality than any bronzes we know, except certain Italian masterpieces of the sixteenth century. Of equal interest are the fulllength figures,-"The Dancing Faun," "The Drunken Faun," "The Sitting Mercury," "The Racers," and, though small, a statuette for the table, the so-called Narcissus. forgot to name among the busts a head of Diana in which, as in several of the bronzes, the eye-sockets are left empty for the insertion of silver and jeweled orbs which could no doubt wink, on occasion, like good Catholic virgins. This Diana evidently had the gift of prophecy as well as of winking, for, if you step behind her, you find the remains of the metal tube which, with one end in her mouth, and the other in that of the attendant priest, made the goddess discourse most excellent music, by the governing of a few ventages and stops.

We

Passing from the rooms of the bronzes to the halls and corridors that hold the worldVOL. IV.-36

famous marbles, we see the colossal sitting Apollo ("Apollo Musagetes," Apollo in the dress of a Muse), a gracious figure, in spite of the somewhat barbarous mixture of materials

the body, draped from the throat to the feet, is of porphyry, the head, feet, and hands, delicately carved, are of white marble. Another figure, more curious than beautiful, is the Ephesian Diana, a singular mixture of archaic and artistic treatment. The figure is evidently modeled upon the most ancient representations of the goddess, and resembles a mummy in the rigidity of its attitude. The head, however, is exquisitely refined and full of animation, while the hands and feet are most beautifully shaped, and sculptured with great delicacy. All but the head, hands, and feet is of yellow marble--these are of a fine-grained black marble, hard to tell from bronze. But how to speak of the works reckoned great, the objects of every visitor's immediate curiosity. The glorious "Hercules," out of whose body stream strength and abundant life! well might such a hero lift up the weary world on his broad shoulders, and rock it to rest there, with all its weight of care and woe. Before this god the soul, perhaps, is not lifted up, but the tired body forgets that it is tired, and feels that it could go to sleep at his feet as under the shadow of a mighty oak. By the side of this simple grandeur the Farnese Bull at the other end of the gallery looks a toy. In other rooms are the Eschines," once called "Aristides," of which it is hard to say whether it be, or be not, equal to the Sophocles of the Lateran; the serene, majestic "Minerva ;" the "Flora," which makes one think of Titian's picture, though it is doubtful if it. were not meant originally for a Venus; the "Antinous," too fat, but fair; the charming Faun with the little Bacchus on his shoulder; the "Venus of Capua," the rival of the Venus of Milo, less injured than the Paris goddess, though without the arms, which have been supplied, and a Cupid added, to make a group which, being avowedly a makeup, is extremely unsatisfactory. Here, too, are the sitting statue of Agrippina, a mate for the one in the Capitoline Museum; the "Psyche of Capua," beautiful even in mutilation; the "Esculapius," the good physician; the bust of Homer; the bust of Socrates; then, some bas-reliefs, as fine and full of interest as can be found anywhere. When one goes day after day to this stately museum and studies the fresco-paintings from Pompeii, the bronzes, the marbles, the almost wearying collection of painted vases,

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the terra-cottas, the glass-what a surprise is the beauty of this glass in form and color!when he perceives the artistic feeling running over into kitchen pots and pans, decorating lanterns, steelyards, lamps, armor, he learns under one roof how splendid was the gift with which these ancients were dowered, he feels that in their passing away the world is poorer; we cannot do with our hands, for all our steam and machinery, what they did with their hands alone.

Here ends, abruptly enough, our sketch, too vaporous and flimsy, of what is left us of classic sculpture. Poor as we are, we are yet too rich to know our treasures well, except at the price of years of patient study. Yet, what we have, scattered as it is over Europe, is not the thousandth part of what once existed, perhaps of what still remains buried under the Italian soil. Every day something new is found. Any day a priceless treasure may be unearthed. Although

the Italian government keeps jealous watch over all diggers and delvers, and forbids the exportation of works of art, yet, by proper approaches, and with the good-will of the Italians for Americans, we might make a worthy collection of antiques for our Metropolitan Museum-though it is hardly to be hoped we can at this late day, and with such rich competitors in the field, procure any masterpiece. We wish it were in our power to make them for ourselves.

We had hoped to give a little space to the Gothic sculpture of France and Germany and England, to the early Italian sculpture, and to that of the Renaissance. The subject is a persuading one, but the land is far too rich to be represented by any bunch of grapes brought Caleb-fashion out of its overflowing abundance. At some future day we may be permitted to offer our readers a few scattered

notes.

WE'RE a seafaring people-we Ellesport folks. Most of us drift away at some time in our lives, and those who stay at home just hold to the shore with half a hand, ready to be swept off by a wave of chance or sore need. Some of us own ships, some build them; but the most by far only pull at the ropes when they are done, and so go sailing away to the ends of the earth. Others still --and these are mostly women, of whom I am one-bide at home to keep the fires warm and the lights burning against our ships come in; to watch and wait and pray. For twice we women pray, if never again: once when the sails fade out from against the sky as we strain our eyes after them; and once with a great rejoicing when the ships come rolling in with every man aboard crowding the bows and we not able to tell one from another for the glad blinding tears. Then the thanksgiving swells and beats in our hearts like a mighty sea, and God knows it all, though never a word drops from our lips.

I think sometimes that the hardest lot of all has fallen to us who bide at home. I've crept out of the house many a night, and crouched under the great rocks which overhang the bay-the wind and rain beating my face like flapping wings, the roar of the surf deafening me to every other sound, though it came from across the Point three miles away -I've crouched there and held my breath

when Nontauk light died down and disappeared, lest it should never shine again-and who could tell but that the Sea-Bird was staggering up the channel at that moment in the awful darkness and racking gale? O Lord! who could tell? But it always came again-the tiny trembling star for which I watched. It rose and blazed into a sun, then died, to blaze again. And long afterwards, months perhaps, I knew that in some quiet harbor or on a summer sea long leagues away, the Sea-Bird rode that night when I was wild with fears. So it always is with us. And then some day when a great calm broods over the water, save where the rippling lines point to the shallows; when the sedge along the marshes is all unbent by wind or sweeping tide; when the sea-gulls dip and soar away, fearing no storm, and through the still air is borne the sound of the noon-bell from Kedge Harbor with its to-oll toll, to-oll toll, and the black cross upon Nontauk Point which marks where the Firefly went down with all on board ten years ago, may be seen with the naked eye; when we women sit and sing over our work and count the weary months for less than they are, and forget to reckon our cares

then, swooped upon by sudden tempest, drawn in by treacherous whirlpool, crushed by sweeping ice or broken upon hidden rocks, our far-off ships go down. Yes, it is hard for us who bide at home. But life is

hard at best. At least it is to us, and it may be to finer folks. There's disappointment and cruel pain for all; and there's always death ahead and sometimes worse, God knows. But He puts us in our places, and some must be women and bide at home, and I'd not change my lot, though the disappointment and the pain fall heaviest on us women. There's a content and blessedness comes with it which lightens the load and lifts the heart. "It's the ill-clad to windward," says old Alsie Gast, when we women stand down on the shore and wait in the stinging sleet or beating rain for the ships which never come; but to my mind it's the strong heart which carries the heavy burden, and we who cannot do, can yet bear, and wait, and suffer, if need be.

It was not the Sea-Bird at all that I cared for, though, now I think of it, every plank and spar was dear to me as a human life; it was not the rich cargo, nor yet a man among the crew, from Sandy Blane, the first mate, down. Not one of them would I have beckoned from the depths of the sea. It was Tom Gilfilian himself, master and owner, who filled all my thoughts and prayers. I have no need to be ashamed to tell it now, though once taut ropes and wheels and strong chains could not have dragged the truth from out my lips. His father had owned half the ships and more which were built in the yard and launched in the bay, and, dying, he left all he had to Tom, even to the great gambrel-roofed house at the top of the cliffs behind the village, sheltered on three sides by the rocks which rose from the water, and with a garden in front all mignonette, pansies, and queer foreign plants in summer. But he did not leave him his handsome face-that came of Tom's mother, they said-nor his strong arm, nor yet his true heart. These were Tom's own. Rich man's son though he was, he took to the sea like the poorest among us, entering the ship by the forecastle, too, and not by the cabin windows. And rich though he was himself after old Captain Gilfilian died, he still held to his place on the Sea-Birdat first for the love of it, but later, when a bad year wrecked half his ships, and the rest brought nothing in, when the men he had trusted deceived him-for Tom knew little of shore ways, and took a man's promise for his written word-when his whole fortune seemed to ground and break and float away before his eyes, and nothing was left but the old house upon the cliffs, then he held to the Sea-Bird as a drowning man holds to a plank, for that was to bring him in to fortune again.

Half-way down the sloping side of the cliff, towards the village, we lived. Father was a boat-builder and had modelled the house, they said, after a ship in a gale. I only know it was low and straggling and not oversteady on its beams, with little, dark rooms within, wainscoted like a ship's cabin, and with a great flapping sail outside which was to have turned the well-wheel-and which perhaps gave to the house its name. It never turned anything that I could see-save every passing head-and was only one of the many inventions which came to nought, instead of making our fortune as father fondly hoped. Over the door was nailed the figurehead of some nameless ship which had gone ashore on Kedge rocks years before-a woman's head and bust, with great staring eyes under the wide forehead. An "eerie" thing Old Alsie called it, and I'm sure it brought no luck to us. Ranged below this, but above the door, were shells and branching coral picked up among the sailors, and I trained a hop-vine, hoping it would hide the woman's face, which stared boldly out upon the town as though it were the open sea. But though the leaves grew thick and green below, above the door they dropped away or the fresh shoots turned aside, and still the eyes stared down.

Mother had been years dead, and father and I lived quite alone. My head and hands were full of cares, but cares are light as feathers when one is young and strong. There was always something to look forward to and reach out after, which made the days go quickly by. I never thought to number, much less weigh them then, and I never thought of life-I only lived it out; and, looking back, I know 'twas very sweet.

From the time Tom made his first voyage he brought something home to me always to hoard and treasure till he came again. Once it was a fan with ivory sticks, which shamed my brown hands and could never lie in the lap of my faded gown; but what did I care for that? Once it was a necklace of India beads, which scented the drawer where I laid them, like spices; and again it was an India muslin shawl, heavy with needlework. Sometimes there drifted home to me letters, stained and crumpled and torn, that had been tossed for months in a sailor's chest or lain unclaimed in a cask lashed to the rock upon some desolate island where passing ships touched at long intervals; and sometimeswith years between-he came, himself; and that was best of all.

But though this will drip from a heart that

is overfull, it is not the story of Tom and Nan and me as it should be told. That would begin a dozen or fifteen years back, the night I was just eighteen. Tom was first mate of the Sea-Bird then, and home from a three years' cruise; and never an evening passed that he did not sit for an hour before our fire, and never a morning or noon that he did not stand in the door. But he had grown to be a man since he last went away, and I was shy in meeting him, and hid when I heard his step, or busied myself out of sight, or kept close by father, if he came of an evening, until this night, the very last before he was to sail again. Outside, the rain dashed in heavy waves against the window-pane as the wind rose or fell, howling and groaning in the wide chimney in a way that must have given a heart-ache to many a woman down in the village. Within, the fire blazed into a quivering flame, beaten back yet rising again. It lit up the dark, smoke-stained wainscoting of the low room, it brightened the brass mounting of the spyglass hanging against the wall, it deepened the color of the bitter-sweet berries which I had gathered and fastened in a knot above it, and cast long, trembling shadows, like ghostly fingers pointing across the bare floor.

I had gathered my work in my lap and turned away my face, as I sat in one corner beyond the fire, pretending to be overbusy, because I felt that, though Tom's words were to father, his eyes were on me, and they tangled my skein, and mazed my fingers, and brought the tingling blood to my cheeks. Sometimes I paused with the threads of the net I was tying held loose in my hand when the house reeled and staggered as under a heavy blow. God forgive me! I laughed when the wind rushed down upon the panting flame and scattered the ashes far and wide. How could I cry, how could I even keep the gladness out of my face as I knelt to brush them back, thinking of the Sea-Bird anchored in the bay and Tom Gilfilian safe before the fire. Ah, the wind would have sung a different song a month aback!

"It's a fearful night," father said, and when the gale rose higher still he took down his heavy jacket and made as though he would go out. "I'll try for the pier-head," he said, when another blow from the angry blast shook the house. "I can't feel easy in my mind till I'm sure there's nothing out."

"But what should there be?" I asked, listlessly. To me, there was but one ship afloat, and that lay in the bay.

"Why there's the Saucy Sal not yet in, I'm thinking," he answered. "I told Robin Gast there was a storm abrewin', but young folks won't heed to their elders," he muttered, working himself into his jacket and tying his hat down under his chin. He touched the door. It flew back with a crash against the wall. The rain blew in like spray and wet my face. "I'll soon be back," he said, drawing the door together with all his strength and leaving Tom and me alone. Then above the gale which rattled every shingle upon the roof, above the roaring in the chimney, I could hear the beating of my heart. I had a mind to speak and break the silence which bound us, but not a word came at my bidding, save that it was a fearful night, and that father had already said; so I sat quite still with the work fastened to my knee, and drew the threads of the net over the needle; and tied the knots with fingers that were heavier than lead. Once I started when Tom rose from his seat, but it was only to pace the floor and peer out of the window into the darkness. I had taken up my work again, when suddenly as he came near he caught it from my hands.

"It'll keep till I'm gone again,” he said. "Do give me a sight of your eyes, Hester. I'm off to-morrow, you know."

He pulled a scarf from his pocket-a gay bit of silk, all scarlet and gold, brought from some foreign port. He twisted it about my head and threw it over my shoulder, laughing the while.

"That is because you are pretty," he said, when I struggled to get free. Then his face grew tender and grave. "But this is because you are dear," and leaning over my chair he kissed me, while I-I could only hide the face which flamed like the silken scarf.

"When I come home again," he began, but the door flew open and the whole house shook and reeled as the storm rushed in, and with it came father's voice, though his form was hidden by the darkness.

"There's a ship in the channel," he cried. "It's driving straight on to Kedge rocks."

Tom rushed out to meet his voice, and I followed. "Hark!" he said, and above the roar of the surf which sounded from over the Point, above the shriek of the gale, we could hear the boom of a gun, though whether it came from below or beyond the water, of from the thick darkness overhead, no one could have told in the dreadful noise of se and storm.

Tom caught me up and set me within the