in that fair land. One reason why the most famous portraits of the old masters, such as the Fornarina of Raphael and La Bella of Titian, are so life-like, and inspire so deep a sense of their authenticity, is doubtless that the originals were objects of affection, and familiar by constant association and sympathy, to the minds of the artists. This idea is unfolded in one of Webster's plays, where the advantage of a portrait taken without a formal sitting is displayed with much quaintness and beauty :

"Must you have my picture?

You will enjoin me to a strange punishment.
With what a compelled force a woman sits
While she is drawing! I have noted divers
Either to feign a smile, or suck in their lips,
To have a little mouth; ruffle the cheeks
To have the dimple seen; and so disorder
The face with affectation, at next sitting

It has not been the same; I have known others
Have lost the entire fashion of their face

In half an hour's sitting,-in hot weather,
The painting on their face has been so mellow,
They have left the poor man harder work by half
To mend the copy he wrought by; but indeed,
If ever I should have mine drawn to the life,

I would have a painter steal at such a time

I were devoutly kneeling at my prayers;

There is then a heavenly beauty in't, the soul
Moves in the superficies."

Though the mere tyros in the field of letters and of art, those who pursue these liberal aims without either the genius that hallows, or the disinterestedness that redeems them, are not worthy of encouragement-let respect await the artist whose life and conversation multiply the best fruits of his profession

whose precept and example are effective, although nature may have endowed him with but a limited practical skill. There is a vast difference between a mere pretender and one whose ability is actual, but confined. A man with the soul of an artist is a valuable member of society, although his eye for color may be imperfect, or his drawing occasionally careless. There is, in truth, no more touching spectacle than is presented by a human being whose emotions are vivid, but whose expression is fettered; in whose mind is the conception which his hand struggles in vain to embody, or his lips to utter. It is a contest between matter and spirit which angels might pity. It is this very struggle on a broad scale which it is the great purpose of all art and all literature to relieve. "It is in me, and it shall come out," said Sheridan, after his first failure as an orator. And the trial of Warren Hastings brought it out. If we could analyse the pleasure derived from the poet and painter, I suppose it would partake much of the character of relief. A great tragedy unburdens the heart. In fancy we pour forth the love, and partake of the sacrifice. And so art gratifies the imagination by reflecting its pictures. The lovely landscape, the faithful portrait, the good historical composition, repeat with more or less authenticity, the story that fancy and memory have long held in a less defined shape. The rude figures on old tapestry, the miniature illustrations of ancient missals, the arabesques that decorate the walls of the Alhambra, are so many early efforts to the same end. The inventive designer, the gifted sculptor, the exquisite vocalist, are ministers of humanity, ordained by Heaven. The very attempt to fulfil such high service, so it be made in all truthfulness, is worthy of honor. And where it is partially fulfilled there is occasion for gratitude. Hence I cannot but regard the worthy members of such profes

sions with peculiar interest. They have stepped aside from the common thoroughfare to cultivate the flowers by the way-side. They have left the great loom of common industry, to weave "such stuff as dreams are made of." Their office is to keep alive in human hearts, a sense of the grand in combination, the symmetrical in form, the beautiful in color, the touching in sound, the interesting in aspect, of all outward things. They illustrate even to the senses, that truth which is so often forgotten-that man does not live by bread alone. As the sunlight is gorgeously reflected by the clouds, they tint even the tearful gloom of mortal destiny with the warm hues of beauty. Artists instruct and refine the senses. With images of gracewith smiles of tenderness-with figures of noble proportionswith tones of celestial melody, they teach the careless heart to distinguish and rejoice in the richest attractions of the world. He who has pondered over the landscapes of Salvator will thenceforth pierce the tangled woodlands with a keener glance, and mark a ship's hulk upon the stocks with unwonted interest. John of Bologna's Mercury will reveal to him the poetry of motion, and the Niobe or the statue of Lorenzo, in the Medici Chapel, make him aware how greatly mere attitude can express the eloquence of grief. The vocalism of a prima donna will unveil the poetical labyrinths of sound. Claude will make him sensible of masses of golden haze before unobserved, and long scintillations of sunlight gleaming across the western sky. The neck and hair of woman will be better appreciated after studying Guido; and the characteristic in physiognomy become more striking, from familiarity with the portraits of Vandyke. Hogarth, in the humble walk he adopted, not only successfully satirized the vices and follies of London, but gave the common people no small insight into the humorous scenes of their sphere; and

Gainsborough attracted attention to many a feature of rustic beauty. Pasta, Catalani, and Malibran have opened a new world in music to countless souls, and Mrs. Wood produced an era in the musical taste of our land. The artist thus instructs our vision and hearing. But his teachings end not here. From his portraitures of martyrdoms, of the heroic in human history, of the beautiful in human destiny, whether pencilled or sung, he breathes into the soul new self-respect, and moral refinement. We look at the Magdalen prostrate upon the earth, pressing back the luxuriant hair from her lovely temples, her melancholy eyes bent downward, and the lesson of repentance, the blessedness of "loving much," sinks at once into the heart. We muse upon Raphael's Holy Family, and realize anew the sanctity of maternal affections. We commune with the long, silent line of portraits-the gifted and the powerful of the earth, and read, at a glance, the most stirring chronicles of war and genius, of effort and suffering, of glory and death. We drink in the tender harmony of Bellini, and the fountains of sentiment are renewed.

The golden age of Art and Artists, the splendid era that dawned early in the fifteenth century, is one of the most romantic episodes in human history. The magnificent scale of princely patronage, the brilliant succession of unsurpassed productions, and the trials and triumphs of artists that signalize that epoch, place it in the very sunshine of poetry. There is something in the long lives of those eminent men toiling to illustrate the annals of faith, pursuing the beautiful, under the banner of religion, that gives an air of primeval happiness to human toil, and robs the original curse of its bitterness. The lives of the old masters partake of the ideal character of their creations. Scarcely one of their biographies is devoid of adventurous inte

rest or pathetic incident.

Can we not discover in the tone of their works, somewhat of their experience and character ? As the poet's effusions are often unintentionally tinged with his moral peculiarities, is there not a certain identity of spirit between the old artists and their works? Leonardo supped with peasants and related humorous stories to make them laugh, that he might study the expression of rustic delight; by writing, conversation, and personal instruction, he promoted that most important revolution, the reconciliation of nicety of finish with nobleness of design and unity of color; and having thus prepared the way for a higher and more perfect school of art, expired in the embrace of a king. The thought of his efforts as a reformer, and the precursor of the great prophets of art, imparts a grateful sentiment to the mind of the spectator who dwells upon his Nun in the Pitti-palace, the Herodias of the Tribune, and the Last Supper at Milan. In the variety of expression displayed in the various heads and attitudes of this last work, we recognise the effect of Leonardo's studies from nature. It is singular that the chief monument to his fame should, of all his works, have met with the greatest vicissitudes. The feet were cut off to enlarge the refectory, upon the walls of which it is painted, and a door has been made through the finest part. It is with a melancholy feeling, that the traveller gazes upon its dim and corroded hues, and vainly strives to trace the clear outlines of a work made familiar by so many engravings. From Leonardo's precision of ideas, the strictness of taste that marked his personal habits, and his attachment to principles of art, something even of the mathematician is recognised in his works. It might be argued from his pictures, that he was no sloven and was fond of rules. Titian's long career of triumph and prosperity was cheerful and rich as the hues of his canvas, dream-like as his