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did monument brought him 2,5001., and added much to his reputation. Campbell, the poet, writing of him, at this epoch, speaks thus of his powers as a poetic sculptor :—He has an expansion of fancy, elevation of thought, and a holy beauty of feeling. His female forms may want finished luxuriance, but they have a charm, more expressive and inexpressible, from the vestal purity of his sentiment, than finish could have given them.'

Flaxman was now re-established in London, and famous.

Banks, Stothard, Nollekens, were his associates in art, and recognising his genius, declared that “the little man beat them all.'

Sir Joshua was still living, to see that Flaxman had falsified his sweeping prediction, that he was ruined for life, as an artist, by having married, while the academy were eager to enroll in their list the name of that genius to whom they had refused the gold medal. Flaxman became an R. A., and from that time to his death in 1825, he continued, by a series of immortal works, to increase the reputation he had acquired by hard work. Some years before his death he lost his loved wife, but he never forgot her, and, to his dying day, spoke of one who had been such a solace to him in his early struggles. He was very small and slight in stature, and destitute (except in the beautiful expression of his eyes and forehead, betokening the kindliness of his heart and soul) of any of that external beauty that he had worshipped all his life. He was plain in dress, manners, and character, and so much and widely beloved, as to have received, with a few exceptions,

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the highest praise of almost every one of his contemporaries. In this sketch, we have said more of his character than of his works; as it was the result of that character that, in spite of the drawbacks of poverty and obscurity, John Flaxman rose to be one of our most eminent English sculptors. born with Genius; but, by doing his utmost to study and improve himself, he won Renown.

He was so perfectly and unaffectedly religious, that his favourite subjects were from the Bible, and in illustration of the New Testament. When in Paris, after the peace of Amiens, he refused to be introduced to David the painter, nor would he shake hands with a man who had professed to be an avowed atheist. Sir T. Lawrence addressing the academy students, after his death, thus eulogised his sweet and gentle disposition :- 'You remember,'

said Sir Thomas, 'the feebleness of his frame, and its evident though gradual decay? Yet, it was but lately that you saw him with you, sedulous and active as the youngest member, directing your studies with the affection of a parent, addressing you with the courtesy of an equal, and conferring the benefit of his knowledge and his genius as though he himself were receiving obligation.'

In better words than our own, and to quote again from Sir Thomas Lawrence :

The elements of Flaxman's style were founded on Grecian art, on its noblest principles, on its deeper intellectual power, and not on the mere surface of its skill. Though master of its purest lines, he was still more the sculptor of' sentiment than of form; and, while the philosopher, the statesman, and

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the hero were treated by him with appropriate dignity, not even in Raphael have the gentler feelings and sorrows of human nature been treated with more touching pathos than in the various designs and models of this inestimable man. Like the greatest of modern painters, he delighted to trace from the actions of familiar life, the hues of sentiment and passion, and from the populous haunts and momentary peacefulness of poverty and want, to form his inestimable groups of childhood and maternal tenderness, with those nobler compositions from holy writ, as beneficent in their motive as they were novel in design. In piety, the minds of Michael Angelo and Flaxman were the same.'

High praise! but true. Recall the sickly lad, reading the Latin book ' he was trying to learn;' go back in fancy and see him striving for knowledge, and embodying the beautiful imageries of his poetic mind with his pencil, as he reads at Mrs. Mathews' side, and hears of classic heroes, whose warlike deeds were not so great as his own self-sacrificing triumph, when, to do his duty, he helped his father to face poverty and want!

Slowly he toiled up the ladder, but he gained its summit; and lived to enjoy all the honours won by doing his best.' As long as a love of art exists in England, the meek, pious, persevering, elevated, and sublime-minded Flaxman will be remembered as one of its greatest ornaments, and his works be admired as the productions of the highest genius.

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162

FRANCIS HÜBER, AND HIS WIFE;

OR

TIIE STORY OF A BLIND NATURALIST.

WH

HO has not known, on a hot July morning, the luxury of lying, full length, on the grass, under

, the cool shade of a tree, and doing nothing ? As long as one can gaze undisturbed up into the azure heaven-listen, without effort, to the warbling overhead, and be occasionally fanned by the gentle summer breeze, bearing the sweet breath of flowers on its wing, the very existence itself (its past and future strifes forgotten) seems all we can desire in this world.

Alas! what “trifles,' light as air, will upset this happy peace. A great big blue-bottle fly settles on one's nose; a leaf or blossom drops into one's eye; both are brushed impatiently away, in vain. The inclination to doze is gone; the train of reflection broken. One must find something to do, at last ; even if it be only to disturb the neighbouring ant-hill, or pluck the very grass up by the root, each blade of which it has required a whole spring time to perfect. “Satan finds mischief still, for idle hands to do,' suggests the bee as he buzzes past to dive into the next

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cabbage rose. Very true; the words of an old writer recur to one's mind, Wise in their government, diligent and active in their employment, devoted to their young and to their queen, the bees read a lecture to mankind, that exemplifies their oriental name-Deburah, she that speaketh.' Perhaps some such thoughts as these flitted across the mind of young Francis Hüber, as he turned his head to follow the flight of the honey bee, which had roused his attention, as he lay extended one hot summer day on the green sward which skirted his father's house on the Lake of Geneva. The son of a scientific naturalist, he had early imbibed a taste for studying the history and habits of all animals, and especially insects. Unfortunately, his physical strength was“ not proportionate to the activity of his mind; and often did his enthusiasm in the pursuit of natural science, while still a boy, receive a check, in consequence of ill-health. His idleness at this moment itself was compulsory; and, therefore, the sigh with which he turned away from gazing after the bee, arose from no self-reproach. He was never voluntarily idle; he knew that. But, from the active little insect, his thoughts had flown to the absent friend and instructor, Bonnet, who, he knew, was climbing hill and dale to pursue his investigations into the nature which had such interesting tales to tell.

How willingly would he have been by his side, listening to his poetical illustrations of the Great Designer's wisdom, in the formation of the little worm, or busy emmet; how dull it seemed to be lying on the grass all alone, even with that noble hill

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