This snowy robe, in unison with thine,

Nature will doff to-morrow, and the whole

Of this white waste in spring-like freshness shine.

If love be strong, then all adversity

Will melt like snow, and life the greener be.

CHARLOTTE F. BATES.

SOME RECOLLECTIONS OF HIRAM POWERS.

There are—or were—many at Florence whose recollections of Hiram Powers stretch over the best part of a quarter of a century; and there are few men of whom it could with equal truth and accuracy be said that such recollections are wholly pleasant in their character to the survivors and honorable to the subject of them. He was in truth universally respected by people of all classes, and by Americans and English, as well as Italians, in the city of his adoption, and personally liked and esteemed by all who had the good fortune to be among his friends. Recollections such as these are, I say, the property of very many at Florence. But there is no one in that city—there was during his life no one in that city, not even she who during a long life was a companion, friend, partner and helpmeet in every sense admirable for him—whose recollections went back to so early a period as mine did.

When I came to Florence with my mother in 1841, intending to make a home there for a few years, we found, with some surprise and much pleasure, Hiram Powers, with a wife and children, settled there as a sculptor. It was long since, in the course of the changes and chances of life, we had lost sight of him, but the meeting was none the less pleasurable to, I think I may say, both parties. It was at Cincinnati in 1829 that my mother and myself first knew him. My mother, who had long been an acquaintance of General La Fayette, became thus the intimate friend of his ward, Frances Wright. Fascinated by the talent, the brilliancy and the singular eloquence of that remarkable and highly-gifted woman, and at the same time anxious to find a career for one of her sons (not the well-known author of the present day, but another brother, long since dead), whose wishes and proclivities adapted him for a life of more activity and adventure than that of one of our home-abiding professions, my mother was persuaded by her to join her in a scheme which at that time was engaging all her singularly large powers of energy and enthusiasm, the object of which was to found at New Harmony—I think, though I am not sure whether Frances Wright's colony was not another, separate from that of New Harmony—an establishment which was in some way or other to contribute to the emancipation of the slaves, mainly, I imagine, by showing that under proper management they were not unfitted for freedom. The fate of that philanthropic scheme is too well known to make it necessary for me to rehearse the story of it here, imperfectly known to me as it is. The upshot was, that my mother and brother were induced to go to Cincinnati and attempt other plans, the final result of which was also a failure. I had had no share in these Transatlantic projects, being at the time a scholar at Winchester in the college of William of Wykeham. But between quitting Winchester, at the age of eighteen, and going to Oxford, I had a period of liberty of nearly a twelvemonth, the greater part of which I devoted to accompanying my father on a visit to Cincinnati. And there I became acquainted with Powers, a very few years only my senior, whom I found already the valued friend of my mother and brother.

He was at that time—I well remember the look of him—a tall, lanky, but remarkably handsome lad, somewhat awkward in person, but with a calm but at the same time intellectually expressive beauty of feature which marked him as one of Nature's noblemen. His eyes were the most noticeable point about him. They were magnificent—large, clear, well-opened, and expressive of calm thought and the working of the intellect rather than of shrewdness or passion. His manner, I remember, was marked by an exceeding simpleness, and a sort of innocent and dignified straightforwardness which much impressed me. Altogether, my acquaintance with him was a contribution of a new sort to the education of my mind. I had passed eight years in the acquisition of those things which an English "gentleman's education" is supposed to offer. These things (in the year 1829) consisted in a very fair knowledge of Latin and Greek. Unquestionably, the eight years which I had spent in learning those languages had brought with them other advantages and other teachings of an altogether priceless sort. But what they professedly had taught me, what I then considered as the net result of my eight years at school, was a competent knowledge of Latin and Greek, and nothing else. Now, here was a young man of my own age, or little more, about whose idiosyncrasy there was something especially simpatico to me, as the Italians say—who knew nothing whatever of the only things which I knew, but knew a whole world of things of which I was profoundly ignorant. I was (of course) full of prejudices also—ecclesiastical prejudices, class prejudices, political prejudices, caste prejudices—all of which were as unintelligible to my new friend as they would have been to a red Indian. He was singularly free from prejudice of any kind—a sort of original, blank-paper mind, on which nothing had been written save what he had consciously written there himself as the result of his own observations of life. I knew other young Americans, and perceived and could have pointed out characteristics which distinguished them. But Powers was not like them. He seemed to me a sort of Adam, a fresh, new and original man, unclassable and unjudgable by any of the formulas or prejudices which served me as means of appreciating men. Despite all this—perhaps because of all this—we soon became great friends. I very shortly discovered that he was wholly and entirely truthful. His "yes" was yes, his "no" was no; and not only that, but what is much rarer still, his "five" or "six" was not five and a quarter or six and a half, but five or six. I remember in him then what I recognized after many, many years in later life, and what is often so amusing a characteristic in simple, upright and truthful minds—the notion that on occasion he could be deep enough to outwit the cunning of the unscrupulous, whereas his loyal unsuspiciousness of evil was such that he might have been cheated by the first shallow rogue who chose to exercise his vulpine craft against him.