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exclaim, ' strange, that a people having such abundance of cattle and vegetable productions should be tempted to devour each other!'

Now, what is the real state of the case with regard to these singular people—a people not only industrious at home, but accustomed to carry their industry into districts inhabited by a different race of men, who are, compared with the Malays, in a state of affluence, who have a written language, and a regular code of laws? Why the fact is, that they do eat human flesh; but they eat it legally—are cannibals by law. Mr. Marsden has been sufficiently explicit on this subject, his account has since been confirmed by Sir Stamford Raffles, and it is this:- That they do not eat human flesh as the means of satisfying the cravings of nature, nor do they seek after it as a gluttonous delicacy; that they eat it as a species of ceremony; as a mode of showing their detestation of certain crimes, by an ignominious punishment; and occasionally, but very rarely, as a savage display of revenge and insult to their unfortunate enemies; that the objects of this barbarous repast are prisoners taken in war, mostly those wounded, and offenders condemned for certain capital crimes, especially for adultery. In these last cases the unhappy victim, after a trial in the publie market-place, is delivered into the hands of the injured party, by whom he is tied to a stake; lances are thrown at him by the offended husband, his relations and friends; and when mortally wounded, they run up to him, cut pieces from the body with their knives, dip them in salt, lemonjuice and red pepper, (which are sent by the Rajah, who must confirm the sentence,) slightly broil them over a fire prepared for the purpose, and swallow the morsels with a degree of savage enthusiasm.

* All that can be said,' observes Mr. Marsden, in extenuation of the horror of this diabolical ceremony, is, that no view appears to be entertained of torturing the sufferers, of increasing or lengthening out the pangs of death; the whole fury is directed against the corpse, warm indeed with the remains of life, but past the sensation of pain.'

In truth, had we not the recent instance so near home, of the

We have frequently had occasion to combat the absurd nonsense of travellers, talking about cannibals, and their delighting in human flesh; but the following fact, so stated by a Mr. Somebody, at one of those ghostly meetings where such things are got up for the edification of the lady-subscribers, outdoes every thing that Mr. Anderson has set down, even that grizzled beards do not sprout from gristly fesh. A party of missionaries, with their attendants, were attacked by a whole army of cannibals, who, after putting the whole of them to death, made a feast of their bodies, every one of which hey devoured, except one, and in this one the wellknown cannibal chief, Chingoo, cut a large circular hole in the centre, through which he put his own head, and thus carrying the dead body on his shoulders, marched triumphanty at the head of his devouring army. This happened in New Zealand ; but as they were all killed—and eaten, except him who was converted into an antropophagistic necklace-we must ask who brought the story to London ?

savage and brutal conduct of the Poissardes of Paris, devouring the flesh, and the raw flesh too, of the unhappy victims of revolutionary frenzy, we should almost be inclined to doubt the existence of the practice among the Battas, even to the limited extent described by Mr. Marsden.

Art. VI.--Memoirs of Antonio Canova, with a critical Ana

lysis of his Works, and an Historical View of Modern Sculpture. By S. Memes, A. M., Member of the Astronomical Society of London, &c. 1825. THIS

is a book of some merit, and more pretension; it contains

much useful information concerning art, many just remarks on sculpture, is written with an anxious regard for truth, and displays abundance of enthusiasm about the person and productions of its hero. But the learning and the good taste in sculpture which the author possesses, ought to have been united with a style less ornate and laborious. To communicate useful information in a simple and concise way is not the excellence of Mr. Memes. The polished graces of Canova's marbles have seduced his pen ioto a cumbrous and glossy style of composition; and it requires some caution in perusal, to follow out the story of the artist's busy career among his biographer's crowded images and grand circumlocutions. All indeed that is worth knowing of the life of the distinguished sculptor can soon be told—it was a period of solitary thought and secluded labour, and his existence was only marked by the works of genius wbich the world received so willingly from his hand.

Antonio Canova, the only child of Pietro Canova a stonecutter, was born in a mud walled cottage in the little village of Possagno, among the Venetian bills, on the first day of November in the year 1757. His father died when he was three years old; his mother iparried again in a few months, and left her son to the charity of his paternal grandfather Pasino Canova. Antonio was weak in person, and feeble in constitution : this but evdeared him the more to his grandmother Catterina Cecatto, who nursed him with the tenderest care, and sung him ballads of his native hills, infusing a love of poetry into bis heart, of which he ever afterwards acknowledged the value. Io his tenth year he began to cut stone, and it was his grandfather's wish that he should succeed him as hereditary mason of the village. The weakness of his body and his extreme youth were ill suited for a laborious trade. Old Pasino, who was a man above the common mark, indulged him in modelling of towers, and in drawing of animals, and such was his success that, in his twelfth year, he obtained the notice of the noble family of the Falieri who had a palace in the neighbourhood. As the notice of the great can rarely be purchased but by something like a miracle—something like a miracle is told to account for the good fortune and fame of Canova. A great feast was given by the Falieri, the dinner was set forth and the guests assembled, when the domestics discovered that a cro

rowning ornament was wanting to complete the beauty of the dessert, and old Pasino tried in vain to invent something suitable. Young Antonio called for butter, and instantly modelled a lion with such skill and effect as excited the astonishinent of the guests—the artist was called in, and he came blushing to receive the caresses of the company and the tirst applauses of that kind and opulent family. Its head had the sense to see Canova's genius, and the generosity to encourage him. He carried Antonio to Venice in his fifteenth year, in troduced him to the Academy of Arts, and opened his own palace doors to him, both as a residence and a study. The youth's diligence was unwearied-he studied early and late-be drew, he painted, he modelled and he carved. His ambition expanded with his years, his skill kept pace with his ambition, and he was distinguished among the artists of Venice, by a laborious diligence of hand, a restless activity of fancy, and an enthusiastic longing for fame. When he imagined that he could conceive with truth, and execute with facility, he modelled the group of Orpheus and Eurydice as large as life, and carved it in soft Venetian stone. It obtained such applause that the artist exclaimed, this praise has made me a sculptor.' A statue of Esculapius was his next work; he carved it in marble, and it is still to be seen in a villa near Venice. It is chiefly remarkable for the circumstance of having received a visit from the artist, a few months before his death when the just conception of the figure, and the skill with which it was executed, seemed to fili him with surprize and sorrow. He looked at it for some time, and said, “ for these forty years my progress has not corresponded with the indications of excellence in this work of my youth. He studied diligently amongst the remains of ancient art. He also sought for beauty in the safe school of nature, and stored his mind and his sketchbook with images of loveliness, to be used when fortune smiled and the riper judgment of age had sobered down the vehemence of youth.

The people of Venice felt the beauty of Canova's works, and stimulated his genius and rewarded his merit with a small pension. Soon after his twenty-third birthday,' says the member of the Astronomical Society of London, our artist for the first time beheld the shores of the Adriatic disappear as he directed his course to the more classic banks of the Tiber, Which means

that solemn

that he left Venice and went to Rome. Here he found a kind and active friend in Gavin Hamilton the painter, and as the sculptors of the capital had conceived no dread of his talents, they welcomed him warmly. He was soou admitted to the society of the learned and the noble, for Zuliana, the Venetian ambassador, introduced his young countryman to the judges and patrons of art-and, what was wiser and better, gave hiin an order for a group of Theseus and the Minotaur in inarble. This enabled him to display his talents, and work without fear of wanting bread. The commission--we use the language of the profession -was kept a secret; the sculptor laboured incessantly, and in the summer of 1782 at a banquet given on purpose by Zuliana, the marble group was shown by torch-light to the first men in Rome. They stood for some time looking at the hero as he rested bimself on the body of the monster which he had slain, and then with one voice pronounced it to be one of the most perfect works which Rome had beheld for ages.' From this fortunate hour to the end of his life, he produced a rapid succession of statues and groups, which carried his fame far and wide over the world—noblemen from all countries and more particularly from Britain, purchased his works at any price; and the Pope, whilst he conferred a coronet and a pension on his friend, refused to allow some of his favourite works to go beyond the walls of Rome. His most zealous and also his most judicious patrons were Napoleon and the present king of England. Nor should the late amiable and excellent Lord Cawdor be forgotten, who discovered the merit of the sculptor long before bis wide spread fame inspired the great vulgar, with the desire to be numbered among hus patrons. The story of Canova is told: he died in the fullness of fame at Venice, in the sixty-fifth year of his age.

Canova imagined that he had realized the boast of Lysippus, by commencing art where ant itself began-in the study of nature. But nature was not used so wisely by the Venetian as by the Greek. He looked on it with an eye less simple and poetic, and brooded over it with a mind less vigorous and manly. An operastage taint infects all his earlier works; his most careful studies are full of extravagance; his figures are forced into painful'action, and his dancing ladies labour hard to press all their beauties upon the curiosity of mankind. He gradually learned to feel the superiority of simplicity over affectation; and advanced from violent motion towards tranquil grace, from the sentiment of action towards that of repose. But he never wholly freed his conceptions from the opera malady; the rudiments of his youthful productions are still visible in the soberest efforts of his ripest years; that imhappy spirit would not be conjured away when

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solemn thought was most wanted. Even in the statue of the Kneeling Magdalen there is enough of affectation to poison the charms of the most exquisite workmanship and the loveliest shape.

In the progress of Canova's taste, however, the student in sculpture may read a salutary lesson. He will see that nature must be looked upon with modest eyes; that her charms, as she sometimes chuses to display them, are not always suitable for his art; and that genius alone may hope to seize the grace of that composure which gives vigour to sentiment in proportion as it chastens action. He will see too bow an artist may gradually emancipate himself from affectation and return to sobriety of conception, simplicity, and strength. But whilst he observes all this and lays up the lesson in his heart, he will likewise feel that there is hardly any entire escape to be made from early and long cherished impurity of style; that it still follows thought where thought should be most severe, and glides uninvited into the brightest dreams of the imagination. So was it with Canova. No man ever missed the true feeling of sculpture so far, and returned towards it with such signal success. It is indeed no easy thing to sober down the darling style of our youth, to dismiss notions of excellence endeared by time, to give up some neat conceit, some sparkling absurdity long cherished and hallowed. The revolution which

Canova accomplished was the labour of many years. In his youth, violence was vigour, affectation was grace, and the spirit of the startling and the staring was the novelty which he desired to infuse into sculpture. To work in this way was only to record in marble the fruitless throes of Nature, her artificial gestures and actions without soul. Look at his early Dancers, his Market of Love, his designs for Homer: no damsels of the ballet. ever leaped so high, or exposed their charms so lavishly, or cut such painful capers as the first; no melo-dramatic heroines. ever ran so madly after the little god, showed such ridiculous affection, and such absurd sorrow as the second; and for the third, take up Homer himself, or Flaxman, and then say how poor were Canova's notions compared to the poet's verse and the Englishman's sketches. From such productions turn at once to his latter works, his Pauline, his Mother of Buonaparte, his Endymion, bis Magdalen-we mean his Recumbent, not his Kneeling Magdalen-and there can be no need to say another word concerning the affectation of his early, and the comparative simplicity of bis concluding works. .

Canova's genius, when he had gone so far in weaning it from its unnatural singularities, gave a new impulse to Italian sculpture, Italy had long contented herself with vulgar transcripts of nature, and with a sordid adherence to the mere shapes of the antique. VOL. XXXIV. NO. LXVII.

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