these he proposes to present himself before the Pope, then at Viterbo, and offer him the services of himself and his little band. But neither in this scheme does fortune smile on him; for an accidental fire at Foligno destroyed his arms, clothing, horses-everything, in short, that should have been the foundation of his future great ness. always had on hand a variety of duchies, principalities, and counties, which they were ready to bestow in return for the many little services they were continually in need of from the "secular arm," on those whose strong hand could make the gift available; and thus many of these worthies were pro and Perugia, being in the agonies of a lifeand-death struggle with its own tyrants, and finding matters going hard with it, sends to the prosperous Braccio to offer him the lordship of their town, if only he will drive from their walls the Marquis of Fermo. The fortunate condottiero does not wait to be asked a second time. Such acquisition of some fixed and permanent lordOnce more utterly destitute, he obtains ship, some "local habitation" and settlefrom the charity of the good people of ment, was ever the first grand step toFoligno who were probably not particu-wards ulterior greatness in the lives of larly anxious for his further stay among these soldiers of fortune. Those generous them--a horse and arms, and thus equipped and bountiful old gentlemen, the Popes, once more joins his old captain Barbiano. The constable, not forgetful of his former opinion of his prowess, receives him well, and gives him the command of twelve horsemen. These are soon increased to five-and-twenty. Opportunities occur, on which he manifests much military skill and fertility of resource. He rises in favor;vided for. and when Barbiano sends a portion of his band to the assistance of Francesco Car- of Rocca Contratta, was unquestionably a rara, lord of Padua,, who is at war with comparatively legitimate one. And the Venice, he gives the command of it to our position of his new principality was pecufriend Braccio, conjointly with the other liarly convenient to him, as it was situated captains. Of course, they soon quarrel.at no great distance from his native PeruBraccio's colleagues calumniate him to the gia-Perugia which had driven him an exile general, and obtained from him an order from its walls. Of course, the first and for his death. This is about to be execut-great wish of all "fuorusciti" was always ed the following night by surprising him in to return to their "country," as every his tent; but Barbiano's wife, who has heard the order for his death given, and who thinks it a thousand pities that so proper a man "should die a dog's death by the hand of assassins, herself contrives to warn him of his danger, just in time for him to be up and off with his immediate followers before the arrival of his executioners at his tent. Braccio's title, however, to the lordship Italian in those days called their native city-to recover the position they had lost. Love for their city, and hatred for the opposition party who had thrust them forth, alike stimulated them to constant attempts to regain by force that which force had deprived them of. But when the exile found himself in the position which Braccio now held-lord of a neighboring town, and at He then takes service with the Pope in the head of a powerful troop of disciplined the Romagna, and shortly afterwards we soldiers-his ambition was likely to aspire find him exacting 4000 florins from the to something more than this. And the town of Imola, as the price of not burn-grand object of Braccio henceforward was ing their harvests and besieging their to become lord of Perugia. walls. With this money he collects a And he succeeded in doing so, but not larger band, and begins-so brave and easily-not at the first or at the second glorious is he to be a terror and a scourge attempt--not till after torrents of blood to all around him. His "holy father" had been shed, and infinite suffering enthe Pope sets him on to worry the re-dured by the besieged citizens. Nor did volted city of Bologna, which does not like the "Condottiero" accomplish his purpose the holy father's government. He takes without loss. The citizens fought with the Pope's cash, and flies at the throat of desperate bravery; and once even after the rebels to such good purpose, that the getting within the walls, the soldiers were city give him 80,000 florins to let them driven back with considerable slaughter. alone, which also he pouches and retires. At last, however, the troopers got possession And now the little city of Rocca Contratta, of the town, and the citizens were finally situated about half-way between Ancona | mastered, all opposition was put down, and the vagrant "condottiero" found himself despotic ruler of his native city. Yet though all the circumstances which had first made Braccio a vagabond "free lance" and soldier of fortune, had now ceased, he did not by any means feel inclined to quit the vocation. Adventure, license, and plunder once tasted, had become too palatable to be abandoned. delighted to hear of his death. For indeed those Free Captains, though the Popes constantly made use of them, were perpetually vexing their holy hearts out. How could a poor Pope, with all his paraphernalia of cursing tools, manage fellows who believed in nothing but cold steel, and cared not a rush for bell, book, or candle? Our dear Braccio, especially, had for a long Fresh offers came on the part of princes time been a thorn in Pope Martin's side. and potentates. High biddings are made Among other offences, he had on more than for the efficacious assistance of the cele- one occasion sworn that he would make the brated Braccio, and his well-trained army Pope say a hundred masses for a penny!of brother-adventurers. Unhappy Naples a depreciation of himself and his wares is being disputed by two rival powers. A never to be forgotten or forgiven. So that, Frenchman and a Spaniard are fighting for as has been said, Martin was overjoyed at their right () to the throne of Southern the news of his death. By dying he came Italy. Fine times and rare doings for within Martin's power and jurisdiction; Braccio, and such as he! So he makes the and it made the old man feel so piously best terms he can, higgles a while, drives a grateful to Heaven that he gave thanks, hard bargain with king Ladislaus, and and did all he could, in the way of procesmarches off for cash and glory-and gathers sions and so forth, for three whole days. abundance of both. Then, for the sake Then he got his body and flung it into a of variety, and in order that his value may ditch outside the walls of Rome. And afbe duly appreciated, he changes sides oc- ter that he slept more peaceably and was casionally fights against his former mas- more happy in his mind-we hope. ters, and gets more cash and more glory. Sforza, of whom we have spoken, has grown to be his principal rival and opponent. He is hired on the other side in these Neapolitan wars, and much good fighting takes place without either of the deliring" potentates being much the worse, however much "plectuntur Achivi." At last Sforza gets drowned one day in trying to ford the river Pescara, at the siege of Aquilla. But he leaves a young Sforza, a chip of the tough old block, to keep up the game. Which he does nothing loath; till one day our friend Braccio, being elated by success into forgetfulness of his usual prudence, risks a battle under unfavorable circumstances, and gets, in the mêlée of defeat, a knock on his hard head, which brings him down. Carried into the enemies' tents, he survives three days, during which he constantly refuses either to speak or take food. Nor will he suffer the surgeons to tend his wound. Such were in their lives and in their deaths these "Venturieri"-adventurers "Condottieri"-hirelings or "Free Lances" as they were called in England; who may be said to have had Italy entirely in their hands for more than a century. This fact alone is sufficient to justify the appearance of such a work as that of Signor Ricotti; which, in conclusion, we recommend not only to such of our readers as may take an interest in tales of military adventure and vicissitude, but also to those who would understand the history of warfare, and comprehend the steps by which the modern system of armies has grown up, and the circumstances which led to its gradual formation and adoption. THE ARCTIC EXPEDITION.-The month of OctoThus died Braccio Fortebracci da Mon-ber, 1847, is near at hand, the period named by tone, lord of Perugia, the most celebrated Captain Sir John Franklin when the intelligence slaughterer and destroyer of his day. We might be expected relative to the officers and crews of do not find that the death of Braccio made the Erebus and Terror, steam screw-propeller vessels, employed in the Arctic Expedition; and capmuch difference in the condition of Italy. tains of vessels may now expect to meet with some For, indeed, as long as mankind were of the hermetically sealed tin tubes, containing acwilling to allow such deeds to lead to such counts of the vessels, written in six different lanresults, it was likely that the race of guages, which were to be thrown overboard at certain periods, in the hope that some of them might "heroes" should be abundant. Old Mar- be picked up by vessels navigating the North Seas. tin the Pope, however, was exceedingly-Liverpool Albion. From Bentley's Miscellany. THORWALDSEN, THE SCULPTOR. BY H. C. ANDERSEN.-TRANSLATED BY C. BECKWITH. A RICH Scroll in the history of art is un-moved; she looked out, and thought of the folded and read: Thorwaldsen has lived; brownie, or another little spectral being. his life was a triumphal procession; fortune Have mercy on us!' said she, and in her and victory accompanied him; men have in fear she struck her husband in the side; he him acknowledged and paid homage to art. opened his eyes, rubbed them with his It was in Copenhagen, on the 19th of hands, and looked at the busy little fellow. November, 1770, that a carver of figures It is Bertel, woman,' said he.” for ships' heads, by name Gottskalk Thorwaldsen, was presented by his wife, Karen Grönlund, the daughter of a clergyman in Jutland, with a son, who at his baptism received the name of Bertel Albert. The father had come from Iceland, and lived in poor circumstances. They dwelt in Lille Gronnegade (Little Green Street), not far from the academy of arts. The moon has often peeped into their poor room she has told us about it in "A Picture-book without Pictures." "The father and mother slept, but their little son did not sleep; where the flowered cotton bed-curtains moved I saw the child peep out. I thought at first that he looked at the Bornholm clock, for it was finely painted with red and green, and there was a cuckoo on the top; it had heavy leaden weights, and the pendulum with its shining brass plate went to and fro with a tick! tick! But it was not that he looked at; no, it was his mother's spinning-wheel, which stood directly under the clock; this was the dearest piece of furniture in the whole house for the boy; but he dared not touch it, for if he did he got a rap over the fingers. Whilst his mother spun, he would sit for hours together looking at the burring spindle and the revolving wheel, and then he had his own thoughts. Oh! if he only durst spin that wheel! His father and mother slept; he looked at them, he looked at the wheel, and then by degrees a little naked foot was stuck out of the bed, and then another naked foot; then there came two small legs, and, with a jump, he stood on the floor. He turned round once more, to see if his parents slept; yes, they did; and so he went softly, quite softly, only in his little shirt, up to the wheel, and began to spin. The cord flew off, and the wheel then ran much quicker. His mother awoke at the same moment; the curtains What the moon relates we see here as the first picture in Thorwaldsen's life's-gallery; for it is a reflection of the reality. Thorwaldsen has himself, when in familiar conversation at Nosoe, told the author almost word for word what he in his "Picture-book" lets the moon say. It was one of his earliest remembrances, how he, in his little short shirt, sat in the moonlight and spun his mother's wheel, whilst she, dear soul, took him for a little spectre. A few years ago, there still lived an old ship-carpenter, who remembered the little, light haired, blue-eyed boy, that came to his father in the carving-house at the dockyard; he was to learn his father's trade; and, as the latter felt how bad it was not to be able to draw, the boy, then eleven years of age, was sent to the drawing school at the academy of arts, where he made rapid progress. Two years afterwards, Bertel, or Albert, as we shall in future call him, was of great assistance to his father; nay, he even improved his work. See the hovering ships on the wharfs! The Dannebrog waves, the workmen sit in a circle under the shade at their frugal breakfasts; but foremost stands the principal figure in this picture: it is a boy who cuts with a bold hand the life-like features in the wooden image for the beak-head of the vessel. It is the ship's guardian-spirit; and, as the first image from the hand of Albert Thorwaldsen, it shall wander out into the wide world. The eternally swelling sea should baptize it with its waters, and hang its wreaths of wet plants around it. Our next picture advances a step forward. Unobserved amongst the other boys, he has now frequented the academy's school for six years already, where, always taciturn and silent, he stood by his drawing-board. The Danish national flag. His answer was (6 own name at the head of a subscription We will now fix our eyes on an object "It is myself," said Albert; and the cler- which at that time was dear to him: we gyman looked kindly on him, placed him find it at his feet in those lively evening first among all the boys, and from that time scenes, where he, in merry company with always called him Monsieur Thorwaldsen. such men as Rahbeck and Steffens, sits a Oh! how deeply did that "Monsieur" then silent spectator; we find it in the corner sound in his mind, as he has often said behind the great stove chamber at home since! it sounded far more powerfully than which contrasts strangely with the appearany title that kings could give him; he ne-ance of the well dressed men who come to ver afterwards forgot it. visit him. We see it, but bound with a In a small house in Aabeuraa-the street cord, behind the door of the amateur comwhere Holberg lets his poor poets dwell-pany's theatre, where Thorwaldsen retires lived Albert Thorwaldsen with his parents, and divided his time between the study of art and assisting his father. The Academy's lesser gold medal was then the prize to be obtained for sculpture. Our artist was now twenty years of age; his friends knew his abilities better than himself, and they compelled him to enter on the task. The subject proposed was, "Heliodorus driven out of the temple." We are now in Charlottenburgh :* but the little chamber in which Thorwaldsen lately sat to make his sketch is empty, and he, chased by the demons of fear and distrust, hastens down the narrow back-stairs with the intention not to return. Nothing is accidental in the life of a great genius; an apparent insignificance is a God's guiding finger. Thorwaldsen was to complete his task. Who is it that stops him on the dark stairs? One of the professors just comes that way, speaks to him, questions, admonishes him. He returns, and in four hours the sketch is finished, and the gold medal won. This was on the 15th of August, 1791. Count Ditlew de Reventlow,† minister of State, saw the young artist's work, and became his protector; he placed his * An old palace now used as the academy of art. + Father of the present Danish ambassador in Lon after delivering the two reptiles he has to make in the "Barber of Seville ;"—it is his dear dog. It just belongs to this time, it belongs to his life's triumphal procession; he has loved it, he has remembered it in many a work; it was his faithful companion, his dear comrade. All his friends will have one of its whelps, for once when one of Albert's creditors became too violent, it flew with fury at the severe dun. Thorwaldsen has made it immortal in marble; yet he has not done so with his first love, that which otherwise transforms itself into an imperishable Daphne leaf in a poet's breast. We know a chapter in that history. It was in the spring of 1796 that Thorwaldsen intended to commence his wanderings in the world by passing over the Alps to Rome; but he fell ill, and after his recovery was depressed in mind. War was then raging in Germany; and his friends advised him to go by the royal frigate, Thetis, which was just about to sail for the Mediterranean. He had then a betrothed bride: he took an honest, open-hearted farewell of her, and said, "Now that I am going on my travels, you shall not be bound to me. If you keep true to me, and I to you, until we meet again some years hence, then we will be united." They separated,—and they met again many, many years after captain was on shore there, the ship was driven, by a storm, from its moorings, and carried out again to sea, when it had to undergo a fresh quarantine at Malta; after which it was found to be in such a state that it was obliged to be keel-hauled. Thorwaldsen, therefore, left his countrymen at Malta, from which place he went in an open boat to Palermo, whence it was that the packet now brought him to Naples. wards, shortly before his death, she as a then followed the long quarantine at Malta widow, he as Europe's eternally young-then a tour to Tripoli, in order to quell artist. When Thorwaldsen's corpse was the disturbance that had arisen with reborne through the streets of Copenhagen spect to Danish vessels; and, whilst the with royal magnificence; when the streets were filled with thousands of spectators in mourning; there sat an old woman, of the class of citizens, at an open window ;--it was she. The first farewell was here called to mind by the last. The first farewellyes, that was a festal day! The cannons sounded a farewell from the frigate Thetis. See how the sails sweep before the wind; the water foams in the wake of the ship as it passes the wood-grown coast, and the towers of Copenhagen disappear in the distance. Albert stands by the prow; the waves dash against the image of Thetis, that which he himself once carved with life-like features. He looks forward; he has now begun his Argonautic expedition, in search of art's golden fleece in Colchis-Rome. But at home, in the little parlor in Aabeuraa, there stands the inconsolable mother lamenting her lost son, whom she shall see no more, no more press to her heart. One of Albert's dearest friends is also there; he has brought her a little box of ducats from the departed traveller; but she shakes her head, and cries aloud: "I want nothing in this world but my child, who will now perish in the wild ocean!" And she takes her boy's old black silk waistcoat from the closet, imprints a thousand kisses on it, and sheds many heavy tears for Albert, her beloved Albert.* A whole year passes; towards the end of February, 1797, we stand on the Malo at Naples. The packet from Palermo arrives, and with it Turks, Greeks, Maltese, and people of all nations; amongst them is a pale, sickly Scandinavian: he assists the porter to carry his own luggage, shakes his head at the other's garrulity, for he does not understand the language! Of what use is it that the sun shines so warm and bright on all around-there is no sunshine in his mind; it is sickly, it is depressed by homesickness. Thus has Albert Thorwaldsen at length entered Italy's continent, after having been cast about like an Ulysses. The frigate Thetis was obliged to cruise in the North Sea, to guard the Norwegian coasts against English privateers; it was in September that it first passed through the British Channel, and arrived in October at Algiers, where the plague had broken out; The Thetis sailed from Copenhagen on the 20th of May, 1796. Not a single fellow-countryman did he meet here. The language he did not understand. Anxious and discouraged he wandered about the harbor the whole of the following day, to see if there were not amongst the many foreign flags, the white cross on a red ground; but no, there was not one Danish vessel. Had there been one there, he would then have returned to Denmark. Sick at heart, he burst into tears. The old Neapolitan woman with whom he lodged for a few days saw him weep, and thought :-"It is certainly love that depresses him,-love, love for one in his cold barbarian land!" and she wept too, and thought, perhaps, of her own first love; for the rose-bush can be fresh and green with youth within, although it is harvesttime, and it stands leafless without, yet bearing its buds. "What has that voyage led to? Why does that womanly imp come back?" These were the words with which he would have been greeted at home; and this he felt in that struggling moment. A sort of shamefulness struck deep in his soft mind, and with this feeling he hastened to take a place with a vetturino for Rome, where he arrived on the 8th of March, 1797,-a day that was afterwards celebrated by his friends in Copenhagen as his birthday, before they knew the day on which he was born; the 8th of March was the day on which Thorwaldsen was born in Rome for his immortal art. A portrait-figure stands now before us; it is that of a Dane, the learned and severe Zoega, to whom the young artist is specially recommended,-but who only sees in him a common talent; whose words are only those of censure, and whose eye sees only a servile imitation of the antique in his works. Strictly honest in his judgment, according to his own ideas, is this man, who should be Thorwaldsen's guide. |