A POET'S BAZAAR.

EVERYTHING in this book pleases us better than the quaint and in- appropriate title. The author, we suppose, intended to signify that he has erected a light, picturesque edifice, through which you may saunter pleasantly and amuse yourself with inspecting the odds and ends and particoloured wares he has there hung up to view—gatherings made in a tour from Denmark overland to Italy, Greece, Constantinople, and home again by way of the Danube. But the image is not a happy one : it suggests an assortment of showy gimcracks, ostentatiously displayed ; whereas the most remarkable characteristic of the book is its freedom from anything that reminds us of manufacturing processes, or the artifices of the craftsman and salesman. It does not seem to have been com- posed, but extemporized ; and probably could the author's thoughts have at once projected themselves into print as they arose at sundry points of his journey, the result would have been much such a work as that now before us. This is what constitutes its originality and its charm, for every line bears the distinct impress of the writer's individual nature. Thus we enjoy a double pleasure as we read : scenes, objects, and social traits, already known to us by personal experience or reiterated description, are beheld under new aspects, and illustrated by fresh associations ; and in contemplating these, we trace out by their reflected light the mental lineaments of the amiable and gifted narrator. The genius of Andersen is above all things cordial and kindly, winning on our love rather than commanding our admiration. He has many superiors in intellectual strength, in depth, and range of thought; and he is often amenable to the stern critic's censure ; but who can refuse to sympathize with his warm, ingenuous nature, his delicate but healthful sensibility, his quiet, happy humour ? Who that remembers his own boyish days can resist the sway of Andersen's creative fancy, as it ranges with childlike confidence through the whole realm of real and visionary existence? It is highly charm- teristie of the man, that among his most successful efforts are his "Tales and Stories," written for children. Some of them are exquisitely beau- tiful : one, in particular, " The Ugly Little Duck," is not surpassed by anything of its kind we have ever seen. It is a most ingenious and de- lightful apologue, whispering hope to callow and unrecognized genius and worth, and typifying its author's own fortunes, his early privations, and the renown of his riper years. Genius, penury, and childhood, are fa- miliar and favourite themes for Andersen : in the present volumes we have them all three in

THE BRONZE HOG ; A STORY.

In the city of Florence, not far from Piazza del Granduca, runs a little cross- street, I think it is called Porta Roam: in this street, before a sort of bazaar where they sell vegetables, stands a well-wrought bronze figure of a hog. The clear, fresh water bubbles out of the month of the animal, which has become dark green from age; the snout alone shines as if it were polished bright; and it is so, by the many hundred children and lazzaroni who take hold of it with their hands, and put their mouths to the animal's to drink. It is a complete picture, to see that well-formed animal embraced by a pretty, half-naked boy, who puts his sweet little month to its snout.

Every one that visits Florence will easily find the place; you need only ask the first beggar you see about the Bronze Hog, and he will tell you.

It was a late winter evening, the mountains were covered with snow; but it was moonlight, and moonlight in Italy gives a light which is just as good as the best light of a dark winter day in the North; nay, it is better, for the sun shines, the air elevates, whilst in the -North that cold, grey leaden roof presses us down to the earth, the cold, wet earth, which will hereafter press our coffin.

Yonder, in the Duke's palace-garden, where a thousand roses bloom in the win- ter-time, a little ragged boy had sat the whole day long, under the pine-tree's roof. He was a boy that might be the image of Italy—so pretty, so laugh', and yet so suffering ! He was hungry and thirsty; no one had given him a fart and when it became dark, and the garden was to be closed, the porter chased him away. He stood long on the bridge over the Arno, dreaming and looking at the stars as they glistened in the water, between him and the noble marble bridge, Della Triniti.

He bent his steps towards the Bronze Hog, knelt half down, threw his arms around its neck, placed his little mouth to its shining snout, and drank a deep draught of the fresh water. Close by lay salad-leaves and a few chestnuts: these were his supper. There was not a human being in the street; he was quite alone. He sat down on the swine's back, leaned forward, so that his little curled head rested on that of the animal, and, before he himself knew it, was asleep. It was midnight; the bronze figure moved; he heard it say quite distinctly, " Hold fast, little boy, for now I run !" and away it ran with him: it was a laughable ride.

The first place they came to was Piazza del Granduca; and the bronze horse which bore the statue of the Duke neighed aloud; the variegated arms on the old Council-hall shone like transparent paintings; and Michael Angelo's David swung his sling. It was a strange life that moved. The bronze groups, with Perseus, and the Rape of the Sabina, were but too living: a death-shriek from them passed over that magnificent but solitary place.

The Bronze Hog stopped by the Palazzo degli Uffizi, in the arcade, where the nobility assemble during the pleasures of the Carnival.

" Hold fast," said the animal, " hold fast! for we are now going up the stairs." The little boy said not a word: he half trembled, he was half happy.

They entered a long gallery; he knew it well, for he had been there before. The walls were covered with paintings; here stood statues and busts; everything was in the brightest light, just as if it were day; but it was most splendid whims the door to one of the side-rooms opened. The little fellow remembered the spleu- dour here; yet this night everything was in its most beauteous lustre.

The glorious statues and painted figures in the gallery are filled with the breath of life—the Venus de Medici, the Gladiators, the Grinder, Titian's Venus, &c.

" From saloon to saloon what splendour, what beauty! and the little boy saw it all. The Bronze Hog went step by step through all this magnificence and glory. But one sight superseded the rest—one image alone fixed itself in his thoughts; it was caused by the glad, happy children who were there on the wails: the little boy had once nodded to them by daylight. " Many, certainly, have wandered carelessly past this picture; and yet it en- closes a treasure of poesy: it is Christ who descends into the nether world; but it is not the tortured we see around him—no, they tell of hope and immortality. An solo Bronzini, the Florentine, painted this picture. The expression of the children's certainty that they are going to heaven is excellent: two little ones embrace each other; one child stretches its hand out to another below, and points to himself as if he said, I am going to heaven.' All the elders stand uncertain, hoping, or bending in humble prayer to the Lord Jesus. Tl;f3 boy looked longer at this picture than at any other: the Bronze Hog stood still before it; a gentle sigh was heard; did it come from the painting, or from the animal's breast? The boy extended his hands towards the smiling chil- dren; then the animal started off with him, away, through the open front hall. " Thanks and blessings on thee, thou sweet animal ! said the little boy, and patted the Bronze Hog; who, with an amiable grunt, sprang down the stairs with

They stand before the church of Santa Croce.

" A strange ray of light sheamed forth from a monument in the left aisle; a thousand moving stars formed, as it were, a glory around it. A device displayed itself on the tomb; a red ladder on a blue ground--it appeared to glow like fore. It was the grave of Galileo: it is a simple monument; but the red ladder on the blue ground is a significant device; it is as if it belonged to art alone, for here the way goes always upwards, on a glowing ladder, but to heaven. All the prophets of genius go to heaven, like the prophet Elias."

In the morning, the boy wakes, and finds himself still seated on the Bronze Hog, which stood in its usual place. He returns to his wretched home, whence his abandoned mother had sent him out to beg. Having no money to give her, he is cruelly beaten; a neighbour interposes to protect him ; the two women fight; the boy escapes in the confusion, and wanders to the church of Santa Croce, where he cries himself to sleep by Michael Angelo's grave. An elderly citizen takes pity on the forlorn little fellow, and receives him into his family ; which consists of himself, his wife, and a little white Bolognese dog, clipped so close that one could see its rosy red skin. His mother readily consents to part with him ; and he at once becomes a favourite with the old woman and the pet dog. " He is a sweet child,' said she. What a fine glover we can make of him— just as you were; and he has such fine pliant fingers. Madonna has destined him to be a glover.' " And so the boy remained there in the house; and the woman herself taught him to sew. He lived well, he slept well, he became lively, and he began to tease Bellissima—so the little dog was called: the woman threatened him with her finger, and chid him, and was angry; and it went to the boy's heart, as he sat thoughtfully in his little chamber. It looked out to the street; and they dried

skins there; thick iron bars were before the windows. He could not sleep, the Bronze Hog was in his thoughts; and he suddenly heard something outside- ' Plask, plask !' Yes, it was certainly the Hog. He sprang to the window; but there was nothing to be seen, it was past."

In the morning, he is ordered to carry the colour-box of a young • painter, the glover's neighbour ; and he enters the well-known gallery. A passionate longing to become a painter takes hold on him; the glove- making goes on but badly, and he steals away one starlight night to con-

• tabulate with his friend the Bronze Hog. His reverie is interrupted by , Bellissima, who, shocking to relate, had followed him without being dressed, as the old mother called it ! The dog was never allowed to go . out in the winter-time without being clad in a little jacket of sheep-skin, tied with red ribands and hung with bells. And now Bellissima was naked in the night-air i • what would be the consequence ? Terrified at the thought, the boy kissed the Bronze Hog, snatched up the shivering dog, and ran off with it in his bosom. But before he could reach home, he was stopped by gendarmes ; who, thinking he had stolen the animal, carried it away to the guard-house.

" Here was sorrow and trouble! He knew not whether he should spring into the Arno, or go home and confess all. They would certainly kill him, he thought. But I would willingly be killed ! I will die, and then I shall go to Jesus and Madonna'; and he went home with the thought of being killed. - " The door was locked; he could not reach the knocker: there was no one in the street, but there was a loose stone; he took it up and hammered away at the door. 'Who is that?' cried a voice from within.

"' It is me 1' said he. Bellissima is lost I.—let me in, and kill me !'

" They were so frightened, particularly Signora, for poor Bellissima. She looked directly to the wall where the dog's vestment always hung, and the little sheep- skin was there.

" Bellissima in the guard-house !' she cried, quite aloud; you wicked child ! How did you get him out I He will be frozen to death ! That delicate animal among the coarse soldiers !' " The old man was obliged to be off directly. The wife wailed, and the boy cried. All the people in the house mustered together, the painter too; he took the boy between his knees, questioned him, and by bits and scraps he got the whole story about the Bronze Hog and the gallery—it was not easy to understand. The painter, however, consoled the little fellow, and spoke kindly to the old wo- man; but she was not satisfied before father ' came with Bellissima, who had _ been amongst the soldiers. There was such joy; and the painter patted the poor boy, and gave him a handful of pictures. . " Oh, they were splendid pieces, comic heads ! but, above all, there was the Bronze Hog itself to the life. Oh, nothing could be more glorious ! With a few • strokes, it stood there on paper and even the house behind it was shown. " Oh, how I wish I could draw and paint! then I could obtain the whole world for myself.'

" The first leisure moment that the little fellow had next day, he seized the pencil, and on the white ride of one of the pictures he attempted to copy the draw- ing of the Bronze Hog; and he succeeded. A little crooked, a little up and down, one leg thick and another thin, but yet it was not to be misunderstood; he himself exulted over it. The pencil would not go just as straight as it should do, he could perceive; but next day there stood another Bronze Hog by the side of the first, and it was a hundred times better; the third was so good that every one might know it. " But the glove-making went badly on, the town errands went on slowly; for the 93'ronze Hog had taught him that all *tares could be drawn on paper, and the city of Florence is a whole picture-book, if one will but hum the leaves over. On .the Piazza della Trinita, there stands a slender pillar, and on the top of this 'stands the Goddess of Justice, with her eyes bound and the scales in her hand.

" She soon stood on the paper, and it was the glover's little boy who had placed her there. The collection of pictures increased; but evegthing in it was as yet - but still-life; when one day Bellissima hopped about before him Stand still,' said he; 'you shall be beautiful, and be amongst my pictures!' but Bellissima would not stand still, so he must be bound; his head and tail were fastened; he 'barked and jumped: the string must be tightened—when in came Signora!

" You wicked boy—the poor animal! was all that she could say; and she pushed the boy aside, kicked him with her foot, and turned him out of her house; he, the most ungrateful rascal, the naughtiest child; and, crying, she kissed her little half-strangled Bellissima.

" Just then the painter came up the stairs, and—here is the point on which the story turns.

" In the year 1834, there was an exhibition in the Academia della Arte in Flo- rence; two paintings placed by the side of each other drew a number of spectators to them. The smallest painting represented a merry little boy, who sat drawing;

he had for his model a tittle, white, nicely-clipped pug-dog, but the animal would not stand still, and was therefore hound fast with packthread, and that both by the head and tail: there was life and truth in it that must appeal to every one.

The painter was,. as they said, a young Florentine who had been found in the streets when a little boy. He had been brought up by an old glover, and had

taught himself drawing. A painter, now famous, had discovered this talent; the boy having been chased away because he had bound his mistress's favourite, the little pug-dog and made it his model. " The glover's boy had become a great painter. This picture proved it; but it was particularly shown in the larger one by its side. Here was but a single figure, a ragged but beautiful boy, who sat and slept in the street; he lamed up against the Bronze Hog in the street Porta Rossa. All the spectators knew the place. The child's arm rested on the swine's head; the little boy slept soundly, And the lamp by the image of the Madonna cast a strong effective light on the child's pale sweet face. It was a magnificent picture: a large gilt frame en- circled it and on the corner of the frame hung a laurel wreath; but between the grin leaves, a black riband entwined itself, from which a long crape veil hung down.

" The young artist was just then dead !"