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DION BOUCICAULT.

The portrait of Kean by Helen Faucit, Lady Martin, is the best that has come down to us. She met him once on the Green at Richmond when she was a child, and he a broken-down old man. "I was startled, frightened at what I saw," she wrote "a small pale man with a fur cap, and wrapped in a fur cloak. He looked to me as if come from the grave. A stray lock of very dark hair crossed his forehead, under which shone eyes which looked dark, and yet bright as lamps. So large were they, so piercing, so absorbing, I could see no other features. . . . Oh, what a voice was that which spoke! It seemed to come from far away-a long, long way behind him. After the first salutation, it said, 'Who is this little one? When my sister had explained, the face smiled; I was reassured by the smile, and the face looked less terrible."

John McCullough was a man of strong and attractive personality, if not a great actor; he had many admirers in his profession and many friends out of it. The cloak

which Forrest dropped fell upon his shoulders, and in such parts as Virginius, Damon, and the Brutus of John Howard Payne, it was nobly worn. He was as modest, as simple, and as manly in character as are the characters he represented on the stage. Unhappily mental disease preceded McCullough's death, and during the last few years of his life those who loved him best prayed for the rest which is here shown on his face. The post-mortem examination revealed a brain of unusual size, and of very high development. The death-mask was made by Mr. H. H. Kitson, of Boston.

Dion Boucicault, worn by age, died in the city of New York in the early autumn of 1890. He was one of the most remarkably versatile men of the century. He was a fairly good actor, an excellent stage-manager, an ingenious stage-machinist, an admirable judge of plays, and of the capacities of the men about him, the most entertaining of companions, of quick wit, of restless personality, and the author and adapter, perhaps, of more dramatic productions, good and bad, than any man who ever lived. The cast of

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QUEEN LOUISE OF PRUSSIA.

the head of Boucicault was made the day after his death by Mr. Jonathan Scott Hartley, of New York.

Of the mask of Lawrence Barrett I can hardly trust myself to speak here, or yet. My personal friendship for him was so intimate, my affection so strong, and his taking away so recent, that I can look upon the cast of his dead face only as I

looked at the dead face itself a few months ago, and grieve for what I have lost. Mr. William Winter, who knew and loved Barrett well and long, has spoken of his stately head, silvered during the last few years of his life with graying hair, of his

dark eyes deeply sunken and glowing with intense light, of his thin visage paled with study and with pain, of his form of grace, and of his voice of sonorous eloquence and solemn music, one of the few great voices of this present dramatic generation in its compass, variety, and sweetness. His head was a grand head; his face beautiful in its spirit, its bravery, and its strength. As the Rev. John A. Chadwick finely said of him in the Christian Register, "The noblest part he ever acted was the part of Lawrence Barrett-an honest, brave, and kindly gentleman."

The only feminine heads in the collection graced once the shoulders of a pair of queens, a Queen of Prussia and a Queen of Song. The beautiful Louise of Prussia, mother of the first Emperor William of Germany, lies in the family mausoleum of Charlottenburg, and the cast of her dead face, with that of Frederick the Great and of others of their distinguished countrymen and country women, is preserved in the Museum of Berlin. Her last illness was severe and painful, but her

MADAME MALIBRAN.

attendants have left on record the fact that in her rare intervals of relief from suffering "she was very tranquil, and lay looking like an angel"; that "the countenance was beautiful in death, particularly brow; and that the calm expression of the mouth told that the struggle was forever past."

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In The Memoirs of Malibran, by the Countess de Merlin, is the emphatic statement that out of respect to the wishes of M. de Beriot, the husband of Malibran, no posthumous sketch or cast of her face of any kind was taken. M. Edmund Cottinet, however, in a private note to Mrs. Clara Bell, writes: "When Madame Malibran died I was very young, but I remember distinctly hearing my mother told that Beriot, the husband of her friend, had taken her mask, and that it had helped him to execute the crowned bust of the great singer which now decorates the private cabinet of her son. His bust, nevertheless, is not a good likeness, nor is it agreeable. But it is a touching proof of the love of the widower. Is it not wonderful that simply by the force of this love a musician should have been transformed into a sculptor? This was M. Beriot's only work in this line of art." Later, M. Cottinet, having seen a photograph of the mask, writes: "It is she! The first moment I saw it I recognized it, with feelings of profound emotion and tender pity. It is she with her slightly African type, containing, perhaps, a little negro blood (her father, Garcia, being of Spanish-Moorish descent). It is she as death found her, her face ruined by that terrible fall from her horse.... It is undoubtedly the mask from which her husband made the bust, which did not seem to be as charming as she was. Mr. Hutton may be perfectly satisfied that he possesses an authentic cast."

The head of Schiller has lain as uneasily since his death as if he had worn a crown, or, like Cromwell, had rejected one. The story of its posthumous wanderings is very grewsome. It is told at length by Emil Palleske in his Life of Schiller, and at greater length by Mr. Andrew Hamilton. The poet left a widow and family almost friendless and almost penniless; his brother-in-law Wolzogen was absent, and Goethe lay very ill. A cast of his head was taken by Klauer; and his body, hurriedly put into a plain deal coffin of the cheapest kind, was buried in a public vault, with nothing to designate whose

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MENDELSSOHN.

one years later, as was the custom of the place, this public vault was emptied, and the bones it contained were scattered to make room for a new collection. Friends of Schiller, after great and unpleasant labor, gathered together twenty-three of these dishonored skulls, from which they selected as Schiller's that one "which differed enormously from all the rest in size and shape"; they compared it with Klauer's cast, and accepted its identity. It was then deposited, with no little ceremony, in the hollow pedestal containing Dannecker's colossal bust of Schiller, in the Grand Ducal Library at Weimar. Goethe, however, desiring to recover more of the mortal part of his friend, had the head removed again, and fitted to the rest of the bones of the body. These bones were deposited also in the library, and the head put back in its pedestal. In 1827, at the suggestion of Louis of Bavaria, the head and the trunk were reunited, and placed in a vault which the Grand Duke had built for himself and for his own family; and there, by the side of Goethe,

who joined him in 1832, Schiller still rests.

Palleske, describing Schiller's death, says, "Suddenly an electric shock seemed to vibrate through him, the most perfect peace lit up his countenance, his features were those of one calmly sleeping." And this is the impression this death-mask gives.

Carlyle in one of his flashlight pictures thus photographed Schiller-the negative was found in the commonplace-book of the late Lord Houghton-"He was a man with long red hair, aquiline nose, hollow cheeks, and covered with snuff."

Beethoven's bones seem to have been disturbed but twice. His grave, in the Währing Cemetery at Vienna, having become almost uninhabitable from long neglect, he was reburied in the same spot in 1863; and in 1888 he was removed entirely to the Central Cemetery of Vienna, at Summering.

Beethoven's head is described by those who knew him in life as having been uncommonly large. His forehead was high and expanded. His eyes, when he laughed, seemed to sink into his head, although they were distended to an unusual degree when one of his musical ideas took possession of his mind. His mouth was well formed; his under lip protruded a little; his nose was rather broad. According to one authority "his skull [at the time of the first exhumation] was discovered to be very compact throughout, and about an inch thick"; according to another authority it was "a small skull and might have been supposed to belong to a man of restricted intellect, rather than to a genius like the great master." His left ear-shell, it is said, is preserved in the cabinet of curiosities of a harmonious family in England. The mask of his dead face is one of the few casts of notable men to be found in the Museum of the British Phrenological Association in Ludgate Circus, London. It reposes, in plaster, in that institution, by the side of the cast of the

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head of Richard Brinsley Sheridan. Mr. George Scharf, of the National Portrait Gallery in London, is of the opinion that this mask of Beethoven was taken from the living face of the great musician.

Perhaps the best pen-picture of Mendelssohn in existence is that taken by Bayard Taylor, who wrote that "his eyes were dark, lustrous, and unfathomable. They were black, but without the usual opaqueness of black eyes; shining not with a surface light, but with a pure serene planetary flame. His brow, white and unwrinkled, was high, and nobly arched, with great breadth at the temples, and strongly resembling that of Poe. His nose had the Jewish prominence, without its usual coarseness: I remember particularly that the nostrils were as finely cut and as flexible as an Arab's. The lips were thin and rather long, but with an expression of undescribable sweetness in their delicate curves. His face was a long oval in form, and the complexion pale, but not pallid. As I looked upon him I said to myself 'The Prophet David!"

Lampadius, in his Life of Mendelssohn, says of his death: "His features

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MARAT.

MIRABEAU.

soon assumed an almost glorified expression. So much he looked like one in sleep that some of his friends thought that it could not be death, an illusion which is often given to the eye of love. His friends Bendemann and Hübner took a cast of his features as he lay."

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It was discovered only a few months ago that the bones of Mirabeau had again gone astray They were carried in great pomp to the Pantheon in 1791; and were depantheonized by order of the National Convention," with those of Marat, a year or two later. Marat's body was thrown into a common sewer in the Rue Montmartre; that of Mirabeau was placed, with no pomp whatever, in the cemetery of Saint-Marcel, the criminals' buryingground, where, now that it is wanted once more, this time for honorable disposal, it cannot be found. Mirabeau's is the face of a man perfectly satisfied with his own achievements, and with his own personal appearance. He believed, and he was courageous enough to say, that pure physical beauty in man could only exist in a face which was pitted with small-pox, his own being so marked! And he looks here as if his last thought in life had been one of profound admiration for himself. An eye-witness of his funeral said to one of his biographers

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