The invisible Lloyd may continue to keep a record of the inaudible speakings of ships at sea for ages to come, for aught we can see. Day and Martin's blacking would be nothing particular without the name; Day may be dead, and Martin dead, and yet both live in the small stonebottles. And so it is with Lloyd. He lives after his death; lives not only in England, but abroad; for there is an Austrian Lloyd's, founded for much the same purpose as the one in England, and borrowing the very name. Bentley's Miscellany. DAVID THE SCULPTOR. BY THEODORE KARCHER. whereas NQ gives the information "fire ister; and some captains are too oldcould be extinguished with immediate fashioned to take easily to the system; aid." Let us suppose that two ships but this foolishness is gradually disapmeet at sea. One hoists up four flags in pearing. a conspicuous position on one of the masts; the flags being arranged in a vertical row, to read downwards. The signalman in the other ship notices that the uppermost flag is that particular one in shape, color, and device which represents the letter M, and that the other three represent W, D, and R respectively. He thus gets at the fact that the ship's signal is M W DR; and by referring to the Code-book he finds this to correspond with the number 20,202, the official number of the ship Lamplighter, a number that belongs to no other ship whatever. As far as a sea-telescope can render the flags distinct, so far does this power extend of ascertaining a ship's name, and at the same time her port and tonnage, and other items also entered in the Register. The ship Lamplighter in a similar way ascertains the name of the other ship; and then they proceed with their gossip, each telling the other whence she came and whither she is going, and giving and receiving information useful to both. There is, of course, a good deal of hauling up and down of flags in reference to this gossip; but this is routine-work, requiring only patience and attention. One ship may want to buy some bread, or to borrow an anchor of the other, or to send a letter-bag by her, or to ask whether there are any belligerent cruisers about, or whether any storms have been encountered; the flags and the Code-book enable the one vessel to make, and the other to interpret, the necessary signals for these purposes. The Codebook contains nearly 20,000 words, phrases, and sentences, each with its flagsignal; whereby the conversational power of ships at sea is really something considerable all added to the 40,000 or 50,000 signals for the names of ships. Slight differences in the flags distinguish men-of-war and troop or transport ships rom merchant vessels; and there is a system for bringing foreign ships under the same arrangement, whenever governments and owners are willing to do In the early part of last year, the inhabitants of Paris witnessed a remarkable funeral procession passing along the Boulevards. Men of every rank and every profession, politicians and artists, members of the Institut de France and simple mechanics, followed the hearse which carried to the grave the mortal remains of a great sculptor and a good citizen, David (d'Angers). The students who lined the streets, recognizing among the mourners the venerable old poet Béranger, cheered him enthusiastically, and the silence which is generally observed on such solemn occasions by the French people, was soon broken by the cries of "Vive la liberté! vive Béranger!" But the young patriots were arrested, and several of them sentenced to fines and imprisonment. This public emotion will be easily ac counted for if we remember that in David (d'Angers) the art of sculpture had lost one of its chiefs on the Continent, and the republican party a man who had faithfully belonged to it from his childhood to the end of his life. During a career of sixty-seven years, he had completed more than one hundred busts and five hundred medallions; and produced, among other chefs-d'œuvre, the statue of Guttenberg at Strasbourg, the statues of General Bonchamps, Corneille, Cuvier, and Jefferson, the triumphal arch at Mar seilles, and the fronton of the Panthéon at Paris. of his beloved child, and of Professor Delusse, the father could no longer withhold his approbation. But alas! that was all it was in his power to give; and young David set out for the metropolis with little more than two pounds in his pocket. Our object is not so much to dwell here on the artistical merits of that great man, as to give the true story of his life. It has been our good fortune to draw it from private sources, from near relations of the late sculptor, and we thought it to He was then eighteen years old. It be a very instructive tale, for it will would be impossible to retrace the inprove once more that every high aim tense sufferings he underwent at that may be obtained in the world by a cer- period of his life. He worked assidutain amount of energy and perseverance. ously at the triumphal arch of the CarDavid's father was a not altogether un-rousel, and earned tenpence a day. Durworthy sculptor in wood, and had been left an orphan when still a mere child. A distant relative, a rather indifferent carver, had undertaken to teach him his own profession; but the intelligent boy soon discovered that his master's knowledge was not very profound, and spent all his leisure hours in peeping through the windows of distinguished artists. One of the most illustrious remarked this persevering attention, and addressing one day abruptly the poor youth, who looked steadfastly at him, said, "You seem to be much pleased with my work, my child; shall I teach you to do the same?" The young Louis accepted with enthusiasm, and left his parent a few days afterwards. But his new master was a gambler and a drunkard, and the honest young man, fearing the contagion of a bad example, wisely determined to leave Paris. In the course of his travels he came to Angers, and married there the daughter of a cabinet-maker. ing the evening and part of the night he studied the pictures of the French master, Nicolas Poussin, for he had not as yet made his choice between sculpture and painting, for which latter art he retained a great taste. When sleep at last overcame him, he took a momentary rest on what he called his bed: this was simply an old carved door, upon which he stretched a cloth. He thought he would sleep less upon this rude couch, and his body was much bruised. suffered also very often from hunger. We have before us the following touching note, in his own handwriting: He father was too poor to help me, and my "Nobody took an interest in me; my mother could only exhort me to be patient. I believe this indifference towards me had its source in my excessive timidity and my pride, which caused me to dissimulate my sad position. One of my friends, a pupil of Roland, brought from time to time a loaf of bread. I have, during eighteen months, eaten nothing but bread, on Sundays excepted." The revolution of 1789 broke out, calling all the children of France to arms In another note he says: "When I for the defence of the territory and the studied in order to win the prize of new principles of liberty. Louis David Rome, I lived in the Rue des Cordiers, willingly obeyed the solemn appeal of his near the Sorbonne. My room was close country, and fought against the Chouans under the roof, and in the story beneath of La Vendée. When, after many troubles me lived a government employé, who and hardships he returned to his hearth, gave each Sunday a dinner to his friends. he found himself reduced to dire pover- I can not express what were my feelings ty, and knowing by his own sad experi- when I heard the clattering sound of the ence how many impediments are thrown plates, poor forlorn youth, who ate nothin the way of an artist, he desired his ing but bread, and drank but water-aoson, Pierre-Jean, the subject of this no-companied by many a bitter tear. Then, tice, to embrace a more lucrative profession. But the latter had inherited his father's love of art, and when yet a mere child spent the whole of his time in carving wood or drawing figures. The young sculptor wanted to go to Paris, and at last, subjugated by the earnest entreaties NEW SERIES-VOL. II., No. 6. with the mobility of happy youthfulness, the magic word of Rome carried me far away from the employé and his society, and I took my refuge among the great men of Plutarch, or the charming pages of Paul and Virginia and of Atala. When the advancing night fell heavily 45 and almost as little to their food. They slept without bedding on the floor of their prison, the boards raised in part to furnish a sort of pillow. With the proceeds of their noisy beggary from occasjonal visitors they purchased spirits-at a tap-room within the jail; and the ear was constantly outraged by frightfully revolting language. Though military sentinels were placed at intervals, even the governor entered their part of the prison with misgiving and reluctance. "Things had, however, changed for the better, when I accompanied Mrs. Fry to Newgate. She had been at her work -and not in vain-during five years. My companion was the Rev. Robert Walsh, one of the most dear and valued friends of my girlhood-of my womanhood also. His children and his grandchildren are of my best and most beloved friends to-day.* Friend,' pictured her well: 'I thought of her as of some grand woman out of the Old Testament-as Deborah judging Israel under the palm-tree.' "When in repose, there was an almost unapproachable dignity in Mrs. Fry. Her tall figure; the lofty manner in which her head was placed on its womanly pedestal; her regal form, and the calmness of her firm, yet sweet voice, without an effort on her part, commanded attention. You felt her power the moment you entered her presence; but when she read and expounded the Scripture, and above all, when she prayed, the grandeur of the woman became the fervor of the saint. In person she was not unlike Amelia Opie, though obviously of a 'stronger' nature, and, though by no means unfeminine, more masculine in form. "When I passed with her and Dr. Walsh, and a lady whose name I have "But of Elizabeth Fry, I do not re- forgotten, into the dreaded prison, and member how it came about; yet I can heard the loud gratings of the rattling see myself now clasping her hand between keys in the locks, and the withdrawing mine, and entreating to be taken with and drawing of the bolts, and felt the her-once, only once; and I can recall gloom and damp of the walls, and heard the light and beauty that illumined her my friends speak with bated breath, and features the gentle smile and look of then saw the door open, and a number of kindness-as she moved back the hair women-marked by the trail of the serfrom my moist eyes, and said, 'Thy mother will trust thee with me and thy friend the doctor. Her heart is urged to this for good; do not check the natural impulse of thy child, friend,' addressing my dear mother; better for thy future in her, to hear her pleading to visit those with whom the Lord is dealing in His mercy, than for thy sanction to visit scenes of pleasures, where there can be gathered no fruit for hereafter.' I felt the words as a reproof; for only the night before, I had seen the elder Kean play Macbeth. It was the first time I had been at a Theatre, and the consequent excitement had kept me awake all night. Her words made me thoughtful. I remember removing the rosette from my bonnet, and putting on my gravest col ored dress, to accompany Elizabeth Fry to Newgate. pent'-I should have been glad to have been anywhere but where I was. Wilt thou go back, young friend?' whispered a kind voice. I looked up to her sweet face, and laying my hand in hers, felt strengthened in her strength. A Bible was on the table, and a chair and hassock were beside it; but before she read or prayed, Mrs. Fry went to each individually. Not one word of reproof fell from her to any, though several were loud in their complaints against one particular woman, who really looked like a fiend. She took that woman apart, reasoned with her, soothed her, laid her hand on her shoulder, and the hard, stubborn, cruel (for I learned afterwards how cruel she had been) nature relented, and tears coursed each other down her cheeks She promises to behave better,' she said, and thou wilt not taunt her, but help her to be good. And He will help her who bears with us all! She had an almost miraculous gift of reading the inner nature of all with whom she came in contact. She seemed to show a peculiar interest in each; while each felt as if the mission was specially to her. I shall never forget the wild scream of delight of a young creature, who fell at her feet, to whom she had said, 'I have seen thy child. One of the women told the girl that if she was not quiet, she could not remain for the prayer. I remember even now how she clenched her hands on her bosom, to still its heavings, and how she kept in her sobs, while her bright glittering eyes followed every movement of Mrs. Fry, when she added, Thy child is well, and has cut two teeth, and thy mother seems so fond of her!' "This preparation for prayer and teaching occupied fifteen or twenty minutes, and eager and even noisy as some of those poor women had previously been, when Mrs. Fry sat down and opened THE BIBLE, the only sound that was heard was the suppressed sobs of the girl to whom Mrs. Fry had spoken of her child. There was something very appalling in the instantaneous silence of these dangerous women, subdued in a moment into the stillness which so frequently precedes a thunder-storm. The calm and silvery tones of the reader's earnest voice fell like oil on troubled waters. Gradually the expressions of the various faces changed into what may be called reverential attention. Her prayer I remember thinking very short, but comprehensive; its entreaties were so earnest, so anxious, so fervent, that few were there whose moistened eyes did not bear testimony to its influence. She seemed to know and feel every individual case, to share every individual sorrow, and to have a ready balm for every separate wound. I can see the radiance of her face through the long lapse of years, and recall the winningness' of her voice, so clear and penetrating, yet so tender. When she paused-remaining silent awhile-and then rose to withdraw, the women did not crowd towards her, as on her first entrance, but continued hushed, and gathered together; indeed, several were too overpowered for words, but gazed on her as if she were an angel, and -was she not? "It was my privilege to repeat my visit. The second was but a repetition of the first-a few new faces, and some of the old ones gone! among them the girl whose child Mrs. Fry had taken un 1 der her own care. The mother had been sent over seas- -for a crime that would now be atoned for by a few weeks' incarceration. "Amid the admirably performed duties of domestic life, followed, as yearss advanced, by trials that the world calld bitter,' that holy woman never wavereh from her holy Mission; removing witd marvelous patience the chains of min as well as of body, that weighed so heavily upon the human race, and teaching the liberty that only the Christian appreciates, values, or enjoys." Our most interesting intercourse with Amelia Opie occurred in Paris, in February, 1831, not long after the so-called "three glorious days." We had met and chatted with her at the receptions of the Baron Cuvier, where, among the philosophers, she was staid and stately. And the Baron Cuvier is a rare memory. His thick and somewhat stubbed form; his massive head containing the largest quantity of brain ever allotted to a single human being; his broad and high forehead; his features far more German than French; his manner sedate almost to severity: such is the picture I recall of the marvelous man, the parent of many great men who have opened to us the portals of New Worlds.* But one memorable evening we had the honor of passing in the Salons of General Lafayette-the venerable soldier whose singular career of glory was then drawing to a close. The occasion was eventful: there were present many young Poles. The fatal struggle was then commencing in Poland; they were on the eve of departure, and had come to bid the aged hero adieu, and receive his blessing. It was touching in the extreme to see the old man kissing the cheek of each young soldier as he advanced, place a hand upon his head, and give the blessing that was asked for. Suddenly we were somewhat startled * These lines, descriptive of Cuvier, were written by Mrs. Opie, after his death : ""Twas sweet that voice of melody to hear, Distinct, sonorous, stealing on the ear; by a buzz and an audible whisper; we could only make out the words Soeur de Charité, and walking with formal state up the room, we saw Amelia Opie, leaning on the arm of a somewhat celebrated Irishman (O'Gorman Mahon), six feet high, and large in proportion, with peculiarities of dress that enhanced the contrast between him and his companion. She was habited as usual in her plain grey silk, and Quaker cap, "fastened beneath her chin with whimpers which had small crimped frills." No wonder such a vision of simplicity and purity should have startled gay Parisian dames, few or none of whom had the least idea of the nature of the costume; but the good old General selected her from a host of worshipers, and seemed jealous lest a rival should steal the fascinating Quaker from his side. To Lafayette and his family, Mrs. Opie was greatly attached. She described him as "a delightful, loveable man," "a handsome, blooming man of seventy," "humble, simple, and blushing at his own praises ;" and in allusion to her appearance at one of his "receptions," she writes: "I sighed when I looked at my simple Quaker dress, considered whether I had any business there, and slunk into a corner." But that was when the general "received" in state at the Etat Major of the Garde Nationale, and not when she was "at home" with him and his family at the Grange." It was at this time she sate to the sculptor David for the medal I have engraved. David was a small, undignified man, much pock-marked. He was to the last a fierce republican; as fierce, though not as ruthless, as his relative and namesake, the painter. I saw much of him during several after visits to Paris. Mrs. Opie occupied an entresol in the Hotel de la Paix, and a servant, with something of the appearance of a sobereddown soldier in dress and deportment, waited in the anteroom of the Quaker dame to announce her visitors. Singularly enough, Mrs. Opie was never more at home than in Paris, where her dress, in the streets, as well as at the various reunions, attracted much attention and curiosity, the Parisians believing she be-longed to some religious order akin to the Sisters of Charity. The last time Mrs. Opie visited London was to see the Great Exhibition in 1851. There she was wheeled about in a garden chair. She retained much of her original freshness of form and mind, and was cheerful and "chatty." In the brief conversation I had with her, surrounded as she was by friends who loved, and strangers who venerated her, she recalled our pleasant intercourse in Paris, murmuring more than once, "How many of them have gone before!" In the autumn of that year I chanced to be in Norwich, and there my last visit to her was paid at her residence in the Castle Meadow. The house exists no longer, but a picture of it has been preserved by her friend, Lucy Brightwell, and I have engraved it; plain house though it was, and fitly so, its memory is hallowed. The room was hung with portraits, principally of her own drawing;* flowers she was never without. She was delighted with its cheerful outlook, and described it as a "pleasant cradle for reposing age." From her windows she saw "noble trees, the castle turrets," and "the woods and rising grounds of Thorpe." She was thankful that lines had fallen to her in pleasant places." There, venerated and loved, she dwelt from 1848 to her death. the She was at that time very lame, yet the courtesy of her nature was manifested in an effort to rise and give me a cordial welcome, chatting pleasantly and cheerfully of gone-by people and times. She described her dwelling in a letter written to Mrs. Hall, dated 8th Month, 4, 1851: "I am glad Mr. Hall liked my residence. I had long wished for it. The view is a constant delight to me. My rooms are rather too small, but my sitting-rooms and chamber being en suite, they suit a lame body as I now am; and below I have three parlors, two kitchens, and a pretty little garden-for a which commands Norwich and the adjacent country; but this is thrown away on me—I have seen it, and that is enough. The noble trees, flowery shrubs, and fine acacias, round the castle keep, into which I am daily look town. I have a second floor and an attic "It was her custom, from a very early period, to take profile liknesses, in pencil, of those who visited her; several hundreds of these sketches were preserved in books and folios." |