and leg, beneath whose fragmentary
portrait is inscribed that Mars left him only a heart.

It is with singular interest that we look upon the authentic resemblance
of persons with whose minds and career literature has made us familiar,
and compare what we have imagined of their appearance with the reality. Of
such characters as Gluck, Klopstock and Madame Le Brun, whose ministry of
art has excited a vague delight, we may have formed no very distinct
image; but associated as is the name of Madame Roland with courage,
suffering and affliction, we naturally expect a more dignified and less
vivacious expression than here meets us, until we remember the earlier
development of her rare and sympathetic intelligence. Count Mirabeau has a
look of mildness and _sang froid_ instead of the earnestness we fancied.
Who would have supposed the fair assassin of Marat such a thin, delicate
and spirituelle blonde? The sensuous face of George IV. and the tragic one
of Charles I., in the ever recurring Vandyke, with Sheridan's confident,
handsome and genial physiognomy, seem grouped to make more elevated, by
comparison, the noble abstraction of Flaxman. Talleyrand resembles a keen,
selfish, humorous and gentlemanly man of the world, in an unexceptionable
white wig. Richelieu is piquant and Madame de Stael impassioned and
Amazonian. What decadence even in the warlike notabilities is hinted by
glancing from Soult to Oudinot! I thought of the French fleet in the
memorable storm off Newport, as I recognized the portrait of the Count
d'Estaing; and realized anew the military instinct of the nation in the
preponderance of battle-scenes and heroes, and marked the interest with
which groups of soldiers lingered and talked before them.

THE RETURN OF THE GODDESS.

BY BAYARD TAYLOR.

Not as in youth, with steps outspeeding morn,
And cheeks all bright from rapture of the way,
But in strange mood, half cheerful, half forlorn,
She comes to me to-day.

Does she forget the trysts we used to keep,
When dead leaves rustled on autumnal ground?
Or the lone garret, whence she banished sleep
With threats of silver sound?

Does she forget how shone the happy eyes
When they beheld her?--how the eager tongue
Plied its swift oar through wave-like harmonies,
To reach her where she sung?

How at her sacred feet I cast me down?
How she upraised me to her