which all were satisfied to praise, without wishing to enjoy.

"Her sympathising parents consulted the Oracle, which decreed, that Psyche should be exposed on the point of a rock, dressed in funeral robes; that she should have no mortal for her husband, but a ferocious and terrific monster, who, flying in the air, desolates the earth, and makes the heavens tremble.

"Psyche, exhausted, tremblingly gave herself up to grief and to complaint; when a zephyr suddenly lifted her with his soft breath on his light wings into a valley, where he laid her down on a green bank, enamelled with flowers. There she slept. What was her astonishment, when she awoke, to find herself in a palace ornamented with as much taste as magnificence; and above all, when, without perceiving any person, she heard voices congratulate her, and supplicate for her commands! The palace resounds with celestial music; the most delicate viands, and the most exquisite wines are served up by invisible hands; delicious paintings enchant her eyes; she breathes a balmy air; all her senses are charmed at once, and every moment they are struck by changeful novelties.

"Night came, and the beautiful Psyche yielded to the softness of repose. Scarcely had she dosed, when a voice, far softer and more melodious than all the voices she had heard, whispered in her ear. A secret trouble agitates her; she is ignorant of what she fears. A thousand thoughts distract her tender imagination. But her husband is with her! He embraces her unseen. She is his wife; but her invisible husband disappears with the day.

Meanwhile the unhappy parents of Psyche were perishing with grief. Her sisters each day wept at the foot of the rock on which she had been exposed. With lamenting cries, they filled the-surrounding vallies. The distant echoes multiplied their accents, and the winds floated them to the ear of Psyche. Her affectionate heart palpitated with domestic sympathies; she dwelt on the thoughts of home, and sighed to console them. The brilliant enchantments, that flattered her self-love and her senses, never reached her heart; and the caresses of an invisible husband did not compensate for the severity of her solitude. She requested once more to embrace her sisters. Her husband instantly rejected her entreaty, (which, however, he had anticipated), and warned her of the fatal consequences; but, overcome by her beauty, her tears, and her caresses, he at length consented; on condition, however, that if her sisters indiscreetly inquired who her husband was, she would not acquaint them of his strict command, that she should never attempt either to see, or to know him. Psyche promised every thing; and the same Zephyr that had transported her to this delicious abode, conveyed on its wings her two sisters.

"After having embraced each other a hundred times, Psyche displayed to them the amazing beauties of her enchant

ing residence. Dazzled by such magnifi cence, they ask who was the husband, or rather the god, who assembled in one spot such charms of nature, and such splendours of art? Psyche, faithful to her promise, answers, that he was a beautiful youth, whose cheek was scarcely shadowed by its down; but, fearful to betray her secret, she sends her sisters back to her family with rich gifts.

"They returned in a few days, but with sentiments of a different colour from those they had just felt. To the sisterly affection of longing to embrace Psyche, and the rapture of having found her, now succeeded all the madness of envy, and the desire of her ruin. They feigned, at first, to participate in her felicity and her pleasures; afterwards, they again urged her to tell them the name, and describe the person of her husband; and the prudent, but forgetful Psyche, who had quite lost the recollection of her former account, painted him with quite different features.

"Convinced now that she had never seen her husband, they pretend to compassionate her destiny. They wish, as they declare, that it was allowed them to be silent; but their duty and their tenderness compel them to warn her of a danger that menaced her tranquillity. They recall to her mind the frightful prediction of the Oracle. This unknown husband was, no doubt, some horrid monster, to whose ferocity she would one day assuredly become the victim. The alarmed and trembling Psyche abandons herself entirely to the counsels of her perfidious sisters, who engage to bring her a lamp and a dagger; and advise her to seize that moment of time when the monster would be asleep, to pierce him with her poniard. Alas! the too credulous Psyche accepts these fatal gifts.

"At the fall of the night, the husband arrives, caresses his beloved wife, and sleeps. Then Psyche, softly sliding from his encircling arms, and taking in one hand the lamp she had concealed, and in the other holding the poniard, advances, approaches; but-O heavens! what is her surprise, when, by the light of the lamp, which, as if kindled by magic, suddenly burst into a wavering splendour, she perceives Love himself, reposing in the most charming attitude! Pale, trembling, and dismayed, she directs the steel she had pointed at the god to her own bosom; but the poniard falls from her hand. While she contemplates the lovely object before her, she regains her strength, and the more she examines the heavenly boy, the more beautiful he appears, and with a softer influence the enchantment steals over her senses. She beholds a head adorned with flowing and resplendent tresses, diffusing celestial odours; some fall carelessly in curls, on cheeks more beautifully blushing than the rose; while others float on a neck whiter than milk. On his shoulders are white wings, whose tender and delicate down, tremulously alive, is brilliant as the flowers yet humid with morning dew. His body was smooth

and elegant; the proud perfection of Venus! At the foot of the bed lay his bow, his quiver, and his arrows; and the curions Psyche, unwearied, touches_and re-touches his propitious weapons. From the quiver she draws out one of the arrows, and, with the tip of her finger touching the point to try its sharpness, her trembling hand pierces the flesh, and small drops of rosy blood are sprinkled on her skin. At that instant she felt the wound in her heart: there it was not slight! Deliciously enamoured, she gazes on the face of Love with insatiable eyes; she breathes the warmest kisses; and trembles, lest he should awake.

"While she yields to the rapture of her sonl, ardent and lost, from the lamp (as if it longed to touch the beautiful body its light so sweetly tinted) a drop of boiling oil falls on the right shoulder of the god. Love awakes, shrieks, and flies away. The unhappy Psyche catches his foot, and clings to the volatile god till her strength is exhausted, and hopelessly she falls on the green margin of a river.

"Love suspends his flight for a moment. He loiters above a cypress, and, in a voice more in sorrow than in auger, reproaches his mistress for her unfaithful credulity, her unjust fears, and, above all, for her inhuman design. Having said this, the soft luxurious boy waves his wings, and flies. Psyche, with eyes dim with tears, traces his course for a moment; but in the midst of the sky the god melts into a shadow, and the shadow into air. The desolated Psyche, urged on by despair, seeks to precipitate herself into the stream; but the waters, feeling the influence of Love, who rules all the elements, gently swell to receive the beauteous maid, and softly float her to their flowery margin. There Pan receives her, consoles her, and

exhorts her to soften the anger of Love by

her tears and her prayers.

"Wandering from clime to clime, every where seeking for her husband, and finding him no where, ever-suppliant and ever-rejected, the wife of Love can discover no asylum on the earth. In the height of her misery, she still hoped her misfortunes would soon terminate; but that most unhappy maid knew not then of the afflictions the anger of Venus still

reserved for her.

"The mother of Love now discovered

that, instead of having punished the mortal

against whom she was incensed, her son had made her his wife. In the first moments of her rage, she would have disarmed her son, broken his arrows, and extinguished his torch. Beauty itself (soft as beauty is when adulated,) is cruel, vindictive, and unforgiving, when contemned. She condemns Psyche to the most afflictive torments, and subjects her to the most cruel trials. All nature sym

pathises with the sufferings of Psyche. When men and gods abandon her, the inanimate creation is represented as endowed with sympathetic affections. She passes into the depths of hell, and there Eur. Mag. Vol. 82.

executes the terrible command of the vindictive power. At length Love, who trembles for her fate, and shudders lest she should perish under so many persecutions, flies to Jupiter, tells him his adventures with her, talks with all his tenderness of affection-and who can talk like Love? -paints the scenes of her persecutionand who can paint so lively?-describes the softness, the charms, the innocence of his mistress, and solemnly adjures the Father of Creation to ordain, that he may be for ever united to Psyche, by the indissoluble bonds of a celestial marriage. Jupiter assembles a synod of the divinities. They feel the inquietudes, and approve the vows of Love. To calm the halfforgiving Venus, Psyche is admitted to the rank of a divinity, that Love may not be united to a simple mortal. The celestial assembly applaud the union of Love and Psyche, and from their marriage is born a daughter, whom they name Divine Plea

The point of time, which Mr. Westmacott has chosen, is during the return of Psyche from executing one of the difficult and perilous tasks required of her by the offended and Having had a

wrathful Venus.

casket delivered to her by the goddess, Psyche is commanded to descend to the infernal shades, and to little of her beauty. Despairing of request Proserpine to send Venus a success in her mission, the unhappy Psyche is on the point of precipitating herself from the top of a high tower, in order to put an end to her heard, dissuading her from her rash miseries; when a voice is suddenly design, and pointing out the means by which she may discover the gloomy cave of Dis, satisfy the avarice of Charon, appease the fury of Cerberus, propitiate Proserpine, atchieve the object of her errand, and regain Olympus in safety. Having, by following this friendly advice, accomplished her embassy, and having received from Proserpine the casket, filled with charms, Psyche is on her way back, when, notwithstanding a strict injunction that has been laid upon her not to open the casket, she is tempted by curiosity to do so. "What!" says she," shall I, the carrier of this divine beauty, not steal the smallest portion, to render me more bewitching in the eyes of my lover?" The result is melancholy. On unclosing the casket, no beauty appears; but a Stygian sleep, which, being thus liberated, invades

I ..

the senses of Psyche; and, issuing in a dense soporiferous cloud, spreads itself all over her, until she falls down; and lies like a corpse, without motion. From this, her last danger, she is, however, eventually rescued by Cupid.

Mr. Westmacott has represented Psyche at the critical moment of opening the fatal casket. Evidently sensible of the risk she incurs by indulging her curiosity, and yet unable to resist the powerful temptation, operated upon at once by an eager expectation of delight, and by the apprehension of punishment for her disobedience; she is casting a fearful look behind, while her delicate fingers are introducing themselves beneath the lid of the casket. From her shoulders bud a pair of butterfly's wings, emblematic of the soul's surviving the chrysalis or worm, and thus finely indicative of the future state of man. A slight drapery, partially sustained by a narrow zone, falls in small and graceful folds over the left knee and leg; and gives purity, repose, stability, and variety to the figure.

Our engraving, we flatter ourselves, affords a very competent notion of the general composition; but it is impossible by any mode of communication to convey to those, who have not had an opportunity of seeing this exquisite result of genius and long-cultivated taste, the tender and delicious sentiment that pervades the whole. It exhibits indeed the perfection of female delicacy, grace, and beauty;

"Timid, as the wintry flower, That, whiter than the snow it blooms

among,

Droops its fair bead, submissive to the power

Of every angry blast which sweeps along."

If, amidst so much excellence, we might venture, with great hesitation and deference, to hint at what appears to us to be a blemish, (but which, if so, may easily be removed) we would confess that we object to the materials, gold and ivory, of which the casket is composed. We are aware that Mr. Westmacott can quote high and ancient authority for this introduction of other substances than pure marble; but we own that we have always thought homoge

neity a quality of sculpture essential to its elevated character. Any thing which disturbs that character, any thing which approximates sculpture in the slightest degree to painting, with respect to the means to which the latter has recourse for the production of its effects, is, in our humble judgment, so much degradation. In the present instance, the casket, (which is richly adorned with small highly-finished, and undoubtedly appropriate carvings of sleeping loves) certainly seems to us, in consequence of the difference of its colour and character, to attract the attention too immediately, and to injure the simplicity and unity of the general impression.

It

a

But this is a trifle. The work possesses merits which would outweigh a thousand such cavils. is a statue on which Mr. Westmacott may securely rest his fame as sculptor; for its production must have necessarily required, not only the long and skilful study of one of the loveliest forms in nature which the previleged eye of an artist ever contemplated, but the rare, the inestimable power of arresting the fine and fleeting graces of expression, and of combining them in a faithful and permanent memorial. We understand that a thousand guineas is the liberal but well-deserved price paid for this chef d'oeuvre by his Grace the Duke of Bedford; whose taste in the fine arts is well known; and who was so much charmed with "Psyche," even when she had just began to emerge from the rude block, as immediately to determine on giving her a distinguished place in his Grace's magnificent gallery at Woburn Abbey.

The Houseless Traveller. This interesting groupe is also from the accomplished chissel of Mr. Westmacott. It is of a character entirely different from the work to which we have just been calling the attention of our readers; but it is highly valuable, not only for its intrinsic excellence, but as affording an additional proof of the justice of that opinion, which has of late years been slowly gaining ground; the applicability of sculpture to modern and familiar subjects. The Houseless Traveller is intended" to illustrate the benevolence of a lady, whose house was an asylum to

necessitous travellers;" and it represents "a distressed mother with her infant, who, in place of the accustomed hospitality she had sought, finds the tomb of her benefactress." -There is a pathos in the countenance and general air of the unhappy mother that goes at once to the heart. The disposition of the limbs of the child which reposes unconsciously in its parent's lap, and more especially the position of the hands, are full of infantine grace and beauty. Some objections have been made by contemporary critics to the texture of the cloak that wraps and unites a considerable part of this affecting groupe. To us, however, it seems decidedly advantageous; imparting delicacy to the flesh, and richness and depth to the general effect. As long as the material remains the same, the sculptor áppears to us to be perfectly justified in leaving or producing whatever surface may best suit his purpose, or satisfy his taste.

Satan overcome by St. Michael. I. FLAXMAN, R. A. It is delightful to find such a veteran in the arts, as Mr. Flaxman, possessing so much energy as must have been requisite for the production of this very striking composition. The figures are of heroic dimensions. St. Michael, bestriding his conquered antagonist, into whom he seems about to plunge his uplited spear, is an admirable model of strength and dignity. The expression of his features, and of his whole figure, is that of conscious and imperturbable superiority; to which the rage and malignity of the fallen angel, the writhing of his monstrous form, and the convulsive clinch with which he grasps the earth that has received him, affords an admirable contrast.

Statue in marble of Eve at the Fountain. E. H. BAILY, R. A.

"I laid me down On the green bank, to look into the clear

Smooth lake, that to me seemed another sky.

As I bent down to look, just opposite
A shape within the watery gleam
appear'd,
Bending to look on me: I started back."

Mr. Baily, who has for some time been a sculptor of great promise, has here produced a work of very

considerable beauty and merit. The graceful ease of Eve's recumbent posture, and the air of mingled surprise and admiration, with which she starts back from the view of her own reflected form, are charmingly imagined. Great flexibility is imparted to the flesh; and the extremities, especially the feet, are finished with peculiar delicacy and care.

Bust of his Majesty. F. CHANTREY, R. A. There is considerable dignity in this bust of the King. The muscles of the neck are very finely, and we understand very faithfully pronounced. We are, however so much accustomed to the most striking and characteristic resemblances from Mr. Chantrey's masterly hand, that we own we are a little disappointed in the likeness of His Majesty.

Bust of the Right Hon. G. Tierney, M. P. W. BEHNES. Who that attentively contemplates this excellent portrait of the Right Honourable member for Knaresborough, but must acknowledge the truth of the science of physiognomy? An entire stranger to the character of the original would instantly remark the unsparing detection of error and abuse which that shaggy eyebrow, and the glance of that piercing eye unequivocally indicate; as well as the ironical and sarcastic tendencies, broken however and mellowed by kindlier feelings, which play in the undulating muscles surrounding that apparently ever-varying mouth! It is life itself.

Bust of C. Ellison, Esq. M. P. T. GIBSON. A carefully finished bust; chiefly, however, remarkable as being the work of a young English sculptor, who had resided for some years at Rome; and who, we are happy to learn, is distinguishing himself there in a manner calculated to uphold the character of British genius, which Sir T. Lawrence, the extraordinary but ill-fated Harlowe, and others of our countrymen have recently established on the conti

nent.

Our limits will not allow us to enter into any further circumstantial details; and we must therefore deny ourselves the pleasure of noticing several other meritorious performances, which do great credit to the talents of the artists by whom they have been produced.

THAT splendid effort of musical genius, Mozart's opera of "Don Giovanni," was revived on the 27th of June, for the benefit of Madame Ronzi de Begnis; and the fulness of the house at once evinced the classic taste of the public, and testified their just appreciation of the talents of Madame de Begnis. When this opera was revived after its long slumber by Mr. Ayrton, the principal characters, Zerlina and Don Giovanni, were respectively played by that exquisite singer, Madame Fodor, and by that equally excellent actor, Ambrogetti. The first of these characters is now sustained by Signora Camporese, whose fine science is not quite so well adapted to the juvenile gaiety and simple pathos, which ought to be the expression of Zerlina's vocal effusions of artless passion. Don Giovanni was sustained by Signor Zucchelli, and we should have been more pleased with his performance, had we not been in the habit for five succeeding years of seeing it so admirably played by Ambrogetti, whose many excellencies were so powerfully blended in this character as to make it completely his own. It is not, therefore, quite fair to examine Zucchelli by a standard, in favour of which our judg ment and our feelings have been so strongly prepossessed; and, judging him by any ordinary standard of histrionic merit, we should not hesitate to bestow upon him a high degree of praise. The accuracy of judgment, the strength of feeling, the gentlemanly humour, the elegant

His

gaiety, and the fervid, yet courtly gallantry which Ambrogetti infused into his representation of Don Giovanni, are vividly impressed upon our memories; but to these Zucchelli laid few pretensions. He was the genteel and gay libertine, but had less of passion and strength of delineation in his performance. voice and skill as a singer are immeasurably superior to Ambrogetti's, but if he gave the science and melody of the musician better, he certainly gave the sense of the poet worse than Ambrogetti; and, in spite of Ambrogetti's inferior voice, we must say that the feeling which he threw into his songs often charmed us more than the syren tones of Zucchelli. We particularly felt this in the song of "Fin ch'han dal vino," and in the final scene of the supper, where Ambrogetti, as if from his heart, used to pour forth those beautiful notes of " Sosten e gloria d'umanità.” We regret the loss of that excellent actor and singer, Naldi, although latterly his Leparello began to evince à decay of his physical powers. This opera has been repeated with encreased success. A new ballet," Le Petit Caperon Rouge," has been brought out, the sole intention of which, we suppose, is to exhibit the surprising powers of Monsieur Paul-this is at least the only merit it can pretend to. Mesdames Noblet and Mercandotti have, during the month, been in the full exercise of their at once elegant and surprising powers as heroines of the ballet.

At a public meeting of the proprietors of this Theatre, held in the saloon, Mr. Oakley, auditor, reported that the income of the theatre had been regularly paid by Mr. Elliston, whom he mentioned to them with great commendation. He also stated that Mr. Elliston had not only paid their rent of 10,2001. but, in conse

quence of the extra nights on which the theatre had been opened, they had now in the hands of their bankers the sum of 1,1001. for the free renters; so that he had actually paid, during the last season, 11,3001. When they came to reflect upon the previous circumstances of the concern, they could not but consider this