Such as the great of yore, Canova is to-day.

[Illustration: COR MAGNI CANOVAE.]

He was, in great part, self-taught. In one of his early letters, he
says, "I laboured for a mere pittance, but it was sufficient. It was
the fruit of my own resolution; and, as I then flattered myself, the
foretaste of more honourable rewards--for I never thought of wealth."
He wrought for four years in a small ground cell in a monastery. From
his great mind originated the founding of the study of art upon the
study of nature. His enthusiasm was perfectly delightful: he made it a
rule never to pass a day without making some progress, or to retire to
rest till he had produced some design. His brother sculptors, hackneyed
in the trammels of assumed principles, for a time ridiculed his works,
till, at length, in the year 1800, his merits hecame fully recognised;
from which time till his death, in 1822, he stood unrivalled amidst the
honours of an admiring world.

[10] Childe Harold, canto 4, st. lvi.

[11] Duppa--Observations on the Continent.

[12] Childe Harold, canto 4, st. xxxi, xxxii.

[13] Notes to Childe Harold, ibid.--See Engraving of Petrach's
House at Arqua, _Mirror_, vol. xvii, p. 1.

* * * * *

THE PUBLIC JOURNALS.

* * * * *

THE HOME OF LOVE.

"They sin who tell us Love can die.
With Life all other Passions fly,
All others are but Vanity;--

* * * * *

"But Love is indestructible.
Its holy flame for ever burneth,
From Heaven it came, to Heaven returneth;
Too oft on earth a troubled guest,
At times deceived, at times oppressed,
It here is tried and purified,
And hath in Heaven its perfect rest."--SOUTHEY.

Thou movest in visions, Love!--Around thy way,
E'en through this World's rough path and changeful day,
For ever floats a gleam,
Not from the realms of Moonlight or the Morn,
But thine own Soul's illumined chambers born--
The colouring of a dream!

Love, shall I read thy dream?--Oh! is it not
All of some sheltering, wood-embosomed spot--
A Bower for thee and thine?
Yes! lone and lonely is that Home; yet there
Something of Heaven in the transparent air
Makes every flower divine.

Something that mellows and that glorifies
Bends o'er it ever from the tender skies,
As o'er some Blessed Isle;
E'e