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sculptor who moulds the figure of the conventional angel with the superadded pinions forfeits his claim to stand in the front rank of his art;, and must be enrolled among the image makers. And not only wings, but all additions to the human form are errors in art. The imagination of man can devise no improvement on the human shape.

As throughout Christendom the highest order of sculpture, the nude-beautiful and the nude-heroic, is no longer under the patronage of the State or the Church, the inducements held out to sculptors to exercise their genius in such masterpieces as we owe to the great artists of ancient Greece is concentrated within narrow limits. It is only the very wealthy who can bestow adequate reward on the production of such works, and comparatively few even among them who possess alike the taste to order, and the house-room to lodge with adequate and appropriate surroundings, such triumphs of art. Unable, except in rare instances, to indulge his sense of beauty by the creation of works of this order, the sculptor who would live by the exereise of his genius, must betake himself to those more remunerative branches of his profession which modern civilisation now allows. These are three; first, the design and execution of statues sometimes, though very rarely, undertaken at the national cost, and more commonly by public or private subscription, to be set up in walhallas, pantheons, cathedrals, or in the highways, to honour the memory of the great and good men illustrious in arms, in science, or in literature; second, the mortuary monuments erected in churches and burial places, by private affection to the memory of the departed; and third, the portrait busts of living men and women, who desire by themselves, or through the intervention of their friends and admirers, to perpetuate their likenesses in this fashion. It cannot be admitted that modern sculpture, either in the British Isles or the European Continent, or in the United States, excels in either of these three departments. The taste of the public at home and abroad is low and uneducated, and too commonly expects from the statue or the bust that which it expects from the portrait and the photograph-literal truth to nature; which in poetic sculpture (and if sculpture be not poetical it is mere image-manufacturing) is undesirable.

In treating seriatim all the branches of sculpture, ancient and modern, which we

have attempted to classify, we shall commence with

THE NUDE.

The nude is divisible into the nudebeautiful and the nude - heroic. The modern sculptor, as already stated, is prohibited from meddling with either of these highest developments of his art, unless he goes back to classical antiquity for his subjects. There have, however, been some beautiful exceptions to this otherwise hard and fast rule, and we proceed to enumerate them. The graceful statues by E. H. Bailey, Eve at the Fountain, a masterpiece of art, which ancient sculptors may have equalled, but never can have excelled, and Eve Listening to the Voice, which would have been as much and as deservedly admired if it had been given to the world before its companion-are the first that suggest themselves to the memory. Here the subject has the advantage of being religious, and the nudity, pure as the mother of mankind in the days of her innocence, when she knew no shame, is as appropriate as it is lovely.

Another example by Mr. E. D. Palmer, an American sculptor, of Albany, in the State of New York, is equally striking. The figure represents a nobly formed Puritan girl, the daughter of one of the 'pilgrim fathers," stripped and tied to the stake, preparatory to her cremation by the Indians. In this figure innocence, modesty, beauty, supplication, and terror are inextricably blended, all apparent, but not one overmastering the other in the composition. The whole figure haunts the memory of all who are competent to criticise it as a joy and a sorrow for ever. Here, too, it is the religious element which gives dignity to the work, as may be seen by comparison with the well-known statue of the Greek Slave by Hiram Powers. This last, which was made familiar to the British public by the Great Exhibition of 1851, is nothing more than the image of a girl, who might as well, or better, have been draped, and does not even appeal to the sense of the beautiful, and only appeals to it to compel the verdict of the on-looker that the beauty is not of the highest order, and does not represent that of perfect, healthy, and unsurpassable womanhood, like Palmer's Puritan Girl, or Bailey's incomparable Eve.

The same reasoning applies to the use of the nude heroic, and forbids the modern sculptor to seek his subjects among the heroes of modern times, and compels him to go back to the mythological period. The

late Patrick Park modelled in Edinburgh a gigantic undraped statue, eighteen feet high, of the great Scottish patriot and hero, Sir William Wallace. A friendly critic remonstrated against the nudity. The sculptor defended it. "Wallace," he said, "though he was once a man, has become a myth, and as a myth he does not require drapery." The reasoning would have been correct if the fact had been true. Wallace is a great historical character and not a myth; but if the sculptor had called him Hercules the plea would have been allowed,

So entranced is the poet with the lovely vision that he will not tolerate either the praise or the blame of professional or other critics.

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I would not their vile breath should crisp the stream Wherein that image shall for ever dwell, The unruffled mirror of the loveliest dream That ever left the sky on the deep soul to beam. bitter deprecation of adverse opinion, and Yet in spite of this glowing eulogy and in spite also of the all-prevailing chorus of praise that has been lifted for ages in reference to this work, it cannot be accepted as a true representation of the and the nudity would have excited no unfavourable comment. In consequence divine Aphrodite of the Greeks, the Godof the mistake in which the sculptor persisted, highest ideal of a woman. dess of Love and Beauty, or even as the The form is he could induce no one to support him in sensual as well as sensuous, which dethe design of erecting it in Scotland. It tracts from its perfect beauty; and the attiexcited the laughter of many, and the tude of the goddess, which is that of a reprobation of more, until in a gust of woman surprised in her nudity by propassionate disappointment he seized a hammer and dashed his work to pieces. rather than divinity, the sense of imfane or prying eyes, suggests humanity On a smaller scale, and as the representa-pudicity, rather than the bold, fearless, and tive of a personage in Greek mythology, the work would have excited universal admiration. In like manner, the sculptor who executed a nude statue of the Great Napoleon, which long stood, and perhaps still stands, at the foot of the staircase in the Duke of Wellington's London residence, committed a grave error. The naked portrait of a man who lived so recently is an offence not only against the principles of high art, but against decency, as perhaps the great Duke of Wellington would have himself admitted, if any sculptor had been daring enough to model a nude statue of Arthur Wellesley.

The nude statues executed by the Greek sculptors, that have come down to our time, are comparatively few in number, but are nearly all excellent, and in accordance with the purest and highest principles of art. There is, however, one, and that perhaps the most celebrated, which if critically considered, in reference to the great rule that nudity to be graceful as well as inoffensive must of necessity be pure and modest, does not merit all the praise that for many centuries has been lavished upon

it. The statue is known as the Venus di
Medici, and is familiar to most people from
the many casts which have been made of
it, and exhibited in all the museums and
public galleries of the capitals of Europe.
Byron says of it in Childe Harold:

We gaze and turn away, and know not where,
Dazzled and drunk with beauty, till the heart
Reels with its fulness; there-for ever there-
Chained to the chariot of triumphal Art,
We stand as captives.

unsuspecting innocence of one who knows not wrong, and who never wore drapery or clothes, and cannot therefore feel shame

in being without them. Bailey's Eve is in this respect far superior to the Venus di

Medici.

plete, and highly spiritualised, exists in the The sensuous beauty, full, com

modern work without the shadow of a flaw.

The ancient statue suggests Aspasia rather than Aphrodite, and the action of the two hands is such, that the divinity disappears in the mere mortal.

The heroic form of the Apollo Belvidere is so nearly nude that it may be included under this category, and contrasted with the perfectly nude form of the Venus di Medici. The praise bestowed upon it is universal and unanimous, and all concentrated and crystallised in the splendid lines of Lord Byron :

The Lord of the unerring bow,
The God of life and poesy and light,
The sun in human limbs arrayed; and brow
All radiant for his triumph in the fight.

But in this delicate form a dream of Love,
Shaped by some solitary nymph, whose breast
Longed for a deathless lover from above,
And maddened in that vision—are expressed
All that ideal beauty ever blessed

The mind with.

The form is strictly and in every respect human, yet the look, the gesture, the attitude, all portray the divinity which the artist intended to represent. Nothing is added to the perfect humanity of the shape. Nothing suggests the unhuman, and everything the superhuman, but in no respect is anything so superhuman as to place it

beyond the sympathetic admiration of the men and women for whose eyes it was intended.

There is another nude or all but nude statue, less celebrated than the Apollo Belvidere, and known as the Mercury or Antinous of the Vatican. This work is esteemed by most critics as not inferior even to the Apollo as a perfect model of human symmetry. The creation-for it is such-is dignified and exalted. It represents man at his very best, his beauty unimpaired in its perfect development by excess, neglect, age, and original or inherited malformation; the admirable progeny of long lines of ancestors, who lived nobly and simply according to the dictates of nature; when the good, the beautiful, and the healthful only mated with the good, the beautiful, and the healthful, and showed by the result what all men might become, if their forefathers and foremothers through countless ages had been exalted in their loves and wise in their selection.

PLAYING UPON NAMES.

PUNNING, says a hater of word-twisting, punning is execrable enough, but to pun upon names is worse still. Execrable or no, great wits have not thought it beneath them. Shakespeare, who dearly loved a pun, frequently indulges himself in playing upon a name. Methodically-mad Petruchio calls his termagant lady his

Super dainty Kate,
For dainties are all cates:

and furthermore declares:

I am he, am born to tame you, Kate,
And bring you from a wild cat to a Kate,
Conformable, as other household Kates.

Falstaff is ever playing upon his swaggering ancient's name, telling him he will double charge him with dignities, charge him with sack, or dismissing him with, "No more, Pistol; I would not have you go off here; discharge yourself of our company, Pistol." When Bardolph announces that Master Brook has sent the knight a morning draught, Sir John exclaims

he says:

:

"Call him in; such Brooks are welcome to me, that overflow such liquor! And after his misadventure at Datchet Mead "Mistress Ford! I have had ford enough; I was thrown into the ford!" So, examining his pressed men, the fat rogue tells Mouldy it is the more time he was used; Shadow, that he is likely to make a cold soldier, but will serve for summer; Wart, that he is a ragged wart; and finishes by crying, "Prick me Bullcalf till he roar

again!" But, like other jokers, honest Jack did not enjoy such humour when he was the butt, for it angered him to the heart when Prince Hal, setting a dish of apple-johns on the table, took off his hat, saying, "I will now take my leave of these six dry, round, old, withered knights!" When Jack Cade harangues his followers with "We, Jack Cade, so termed of our supposed father," Dick, the butcher, puts in the words, "Rather of stealing a cade of herrings ;" and upon his leader's asserting his wife was a descendant of the Laceys, interpolates, "She was, indeed, a pedlar's daughter, and sold many laces."

Sometimes our great dramatist plays upon a name in most sober sadness, making Northumberland receive the fatal news from Shrewsbury field with the inquiry:

Said he, young Harry Percy's spur was cold?
Of Hotspur, cold-spur?

and the dying old soldier, John o' Gaunt, plays nicely with his name, to the wonderment of his unworthy nephew, as he gasps

out:

Old Gaunt, indeed; and Gaunt in being old;
Within me grief hath kept a tedious fast;
And who abstains from meat that is not gaunt?
For sleeping England long time have I watch'd;
Watching breeds leanness, leanness is all gaunt.
The pleasure that some fathers feed upon
Is my strict fast-I mean my children's looks;
And therein fasting, has thou made me gaunt.
Gaunt am I for the grave, gaunt as a grave,
Whose hollow womb inherits nought but bones.

In his Sonnets, we find Shakespeare twisting his own name about to soften the heart of an obdurate fair one:

Whoever hath her wish, thou hast thy Will,
And Will to boot, and Will in overplus.

If thy soul check thee that I come so near,
Swear to thy blind soul that I was thy Will,
And Will, thy soul knows, is admitted there.
Thus far you love, my love suit, love, fulfil.
Will will fulfil the treasure of thy love
Ay, fill it full with wills, and my will one.

Make but my name thy love, and love that still,

And then thou lov'st me-for my name is Will. Whether certain lines inscribed to Ann husband in his courting days or not, they Hathaway were written by her famous afford too excellent a specimen of the art of rhythmical punning on names to be passed over. In its way the following stanza stands unsurpassed:

When Envy's breath and rancorous tooth
Do soil and bite fair worth and truth,
And merit to distress betray,
To soothe the heart Ann hath a way.
She hath a way to chase despair,
To heal all grief, to cure all care,
Turn foulest night to fairest day,
Thou know'st, good heart, Ann hath a way;
She hath a way,

Ann Hathaway,

To make grief bliss, Ann hath a way.

As modern burlesque writers hold themselves licensed to distort words out of all recognition in order to produce what they call a pun, so, when complimentary playing upon names was in vogue, literary flatterers allowed themselves strange liberties. Capgrave, the chronicler, did not hesitate at antedating the death of Henry the Fifth to make it fall upon the feast of St. Felix, as most appropriate to a person who was felicitous in all things. Nicholls, the writer of a poem entitled Virtue's Encomium, puzzled how to deal with Sir Robert Wroth's name, got over the difficulty in this ingenious fashion:

Worth's chief is dead, since worthy He is gone,
Who of that name most worthy was alone.
Ye poor and hungry, all his grave go find,
That holds the body of so pure a mind.
There sit ye down and sigh for bounty dead,
Bounty with that brave knight, to heaven is fled;
Where since he came, Heaven, as it doth appear,
Wanting a star to set by bounteous Clare,
In Wroth did place the o before the r,
And made it Worth, which since is made a star.
Love is a much better versifier than
expectant gratitude. An admirer of a
pretty girl named Rain thus gave expres-
sion to his feelings :

Whilst shivering beaux at weather rail,
Of frost, and snow, and wind and hail,
And heat, and cold complain;
My steadier mind is always bent
On one sole object of content-

I ever wish for Rain!

Hymen, thy votary's prayer attend,
His anxious hope and suit befriend,
Let him not ask in vain;

His thirsty soul, his parched estate,
His glowing breast commiserate-

In pity give him Rain!

are as old as Eve." When a middle-aged
coquette settled down in wedlock with a
Mr. Wake, Miss Austen wrote:

Maria, good-humoured, and handsome, and tall,
For a husband was at her last stake;
And having in vain danced at many a ball,

Is now happy to jump at a Wake.
Miss Holmes, the lady president of an
American Total Abstinence Society, gave
her hand to a Mr. Andrew Horn, thereby
provoking the marriage lines:

Fair Julia lived a temperance maid,

And preached its beauties night and morn; But still her wicked neighbours said,

"She broke the pledge and took A. Horn." When a Miss Snowdon became Mrs. White, a rhyming punster wrote of her as a lady :

Who always was Snowdon by night and by day,
Yet never turned white, did not even look grey;
But Hymen has touched her, and wonderful sight,
Though no longer Snowdon, she always is White.
This is pretty fair, but not so smart as the
lines commemorating the union of Mr. Job
Wall and Miss Mary Best:

Job, wanting a partner, thought he'd be blest,
If, of all womankind, he selected the Best ;

For, said he, of all evils that compass the globe,

A bad wife would most try the patience of Job.
The Best, then, he chose, and made bone of his bone;
Though 'twas clear to his friends, she'd be Best left
alone;

For, though Best of her sex, she's the weakest of all,
If 'tis true that the weakest must go to the Wall.

Matrimonial cases apart, your punster rarely has an opportunity of playing upon two names at the same time. In the student days of Campbell the poet, he had such a chance given him, and could not resist the temptation. In the Trongate, Glasgow,

Equally happy are the lines on a young Drum, a spirit dealer, and Fife, an apothelady named Careless:

Oh! how I could love thee, thou dear Careless thing! (Oh, happy, thrice happy! I'd envy no king.) Were you Careful for once to return me my love, I'd care not how Careless to others you'd prove. I then should be Careless how Careless you were; And the more Careless you, still the less I should care. When Mrs. Little earned the Queen's guineas, and a friend remarked, "Every little helps!" the reminder was doubtless consoling to the happy father, who otherwise might have thought three times a little rather too much of a good thing. Brougham perpetrated a fair joke in accounting for Campbell's absence from his accustomed place in court, by telling Judge Abbott the missing barrister was suffering from an attack of scarlet fever, when he was really doing the honeymoon with his bride, née Scarlett. Still better was Bishop Philpott's defence of Lord Courtney's marriage with Miss Clack upon a lady objecting to the bride's want of family. "Want of family? Why, the Courtneys may date from the Conquest, but the Clacks

cary, were next-door neighbours, the latter
displaying over his window the inscription,
"Ears pierced by A. Fife." One night,
Campbell and a couple of chums fixed a
long fir board from the window of one
shop to that of the other, bearing in flam-
ing capitals the Shakespearian line, "the
spirit-stirring Drum, the ear-piercing Fife."
A conjunction of names may be disagree-
ably suggestive; the proprietor of an
Illinois newspaper felt obliged to decline
an otherwise desirable partnership proposal,
from the impossibility of arranging the
names satisfactorily, since the title of the
firm must read either Steel and Doolittle,
or Doolittle and Steel, so he wrote: "We
can't join, one partner would soon be in the
workhouse, and the other in the peniten-
tiary." When Manners, Earl of Rutland,
said to Sir Thomas Stow, "Honores mutant
Mores," the chancellor retorted, "It stands
better in English-Honours change Man-
ners."
names were brought

The same

together rather cleverly, when Archbishop the convict question, the following lines More was succeeded by Doctor Manners appeared: Sutton, in some lines complimentary to both dignitaries :

What say you? The archbishop's dead?
A loss indeed. Oh, on his head,

May Heaven its blessings pour,
But if, with such a heart and mind,
In Manners we his equal find,

Why should we wish for More. Epitaph writers have so often punned, sadly or saucily, upon the dead, that the selection of a few examples is a puzzling matter. An epitaph in Waltham Abbey informs us that Sir James Fullerton, sometime first gentleman of the bedchamber to King Charles the First, "died Fuller of faith than of fears, Fuller of resolution than of pains, Fuller of honour than of days." The connubial virtues of Daniel Tears are recorded in the couplet:

Though strange yet true, full seventy years Was his wife happy in her Tears. Much more dubious in expression are the last lines of the inscription to the memory of Dean Cole, of Lincoln :

When the latter trump of Heaven shall blow
Cole, now raked up in ashes, then shalt glow.
Of jocular performances of this kind, two
odd specimens will suffice:

Here lies Thomas Huddlestone. Reader, don't smile,
But reflect as this tombstone you view;
That Death, who killed him, in a very short while,
Will huddle a stone upon you!

And this upon an organist:

Here lies one, blown out of breath,

Who lived a merry life, and died a Merideth,

Vicar Chest turned the bones of Martin, the regicide, out of the chancel of Chepstow Church, an act the vicar's son-in-law resented by inditing the following epitaph for him when he required one:

Here lies at rest, I do protest,

One Chest within another.
The chest of wood was very good,
Who says so of the other?

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General Worsley, the officer to whose charge "that bauble" was given by Cromwell, was buried in Henry the Seventh's Chapel with great ceremony. The next morning the stone above his grave bore the words "Where never Worse Lay,' words written upon it by the dead man's own brother-in-law, Roger Kenyon, member for Clitheroe, who had returned to the abbey after the funeral party (of which he was one) departed, that he might vent his hatred of the Protector by abusing his favourite officer. Party feeling is apt to find savage expression even in our own times; when Governor Grey and the colonists of the Cape took different views on

Mankind have long disputed at the Cape
About the devil's colour and his shape.
The Hottentots declared that he was white,
The Dutchman swore that he was black as night.
But now all sink their difference, and say,
They feel quite certain that the devil's-Grey.

A comical instance of a man playing upon his own name sprang out of absent-mindedness. Sir Thomas Strange, calling at a friend's house, was desired to leave his name. "Why," said he, "to tell "That's the truth, I have forgotten it!" strange, sir," exclaimed the servant. it is, my man, you've hit it," replied the judge, as he walked away, leaving the servant as ignorant as before.

"So

Swift's friend, Doctor Ash, would have relished Strange's joke infinitely. Soon after the passing of an Act for the protection of growing timber, the doctor turning into an inn for shelter, asked the waiter to help him off with his coat; the man refused on the plea that it was felony to strip an Ash, an answer so much to the doctor's taste, that he declared he would have given fifty pounds to have made the pun himself.

A gentleman who never had been known to make a pun in his life, achieved one under very peculiar circumstances. Captain Creed and Major Pack were fighting a double duel with Mr. Mathews and Mr. Macnamara. The first named falling before his opponent's sword, Pack exclaimed, What, have you gone, poor Creed ?" "Yes," cried Mathews, and you shall quickly pack after him," and with the words he brought the major to the ground by a thrust through the body.

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In justice to our readers we must not trifle longer with their patience; but we cannot resist quoting the lines with which a poetess added grace to her contribution to the fund raised for the widow of Hood: To cheer the widow's heart in her distress, To make provision for the fatherless,

Is but a Christian's duty—and none should, Resist the heart-appeal of Widow-Hood! quatrain worthy of the great poet-punster himself.

a

MY CHILD LOVE.

How we played among the meadows,
My child-love and I.
Chasing summer gleams and shadows,
My child-love and I.

Wandering in the bowery lanes,
Making rose-tipped daisy-chains.
Storing fairy treasure trove,
Tender chestnuts from the grove,
Juicy berries, sweet and red,
Violets in their leafy bed,
Peeping 'neath the old oak tree,
All for my child-love and me.

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